Dreamer's Pool (24 page)

‘I don’t see how I can stay.’ Donagan’s tone was odd; he bent down to scratch Bramble behind the ears, perhaps so he need not meet my eye.

‘Tell me why. Speak honestly, as you used to.’

He did look at me then, and I knew him well enough to see that he was as deeply unhappy as I was. ‘Best if I don’t, Oran.’

I grasped for an explanation. ‘Is it because you see no future for yourself if you stay with me? No wife and children of your own, because you will always be at my beck and call?’

‘Of course not, Oran, that’s ridiculous! Have you forgotten that my mother and father both serve in your parents’ household, and have done since before I was born? Half your retainers here are married folk with families.’

‘What, then?’ If he brought up the subject of my nocturnal activities with Flidais, I was not sure what I would say. I had asked my friend to be honest. To be completely honest myself would be to expose Flidais’s behaviour, and that felt . . . dishonourable. If I had said no to her from the first, I would have been on stronger ground.

‘I can’t talk about it. Not here.’ Donagan glanced around the chamber. Nobody else was there, but he was right, this was not the ideal place for a private conversation.

My instincts told me not to suggest we talk in my bedchamber. ‘Then put down your bag, to reassure me that you’re not going to bolt until we’ve talked about this, and come out walking with me. We’ll find somewhere far from prying eyes and listening ears, and you can explain yourself. I can’t just let you go.’

He didn’t want to come with me, I could see it. But he put down his bag and we went outside. Bramble danced around us, and I wished I could experience the same uncomplicated joy a dog feels at something as simple as a walk with a friend. If I managed to persuade Donagan to stay, I would never, ever take him for granted again.

Neither of us said a word until we reached the burial ground, the spot where I had found Bramble on the day she ran away. There we sat down on a bench, side by side, and the little dog hunkered down by my feet, content to rest after her second long walk for the morning.

‘I thought you were riding to Silverlake today,’ Donagan said.

‘Flidais has a headache.’ I drew a deep breath. ‘The visit to Winterfalls village did not go entirely to plan. I won’t take her with me again until . . .’ Until what? Until she turned into a different woman, the one I’d once imagined I would be marrying? ‘It is much easier when you are with me,’ I said. ‘If I have perhaps forgotten to thank you for all you do, that does not mean . . .’

‘Oran,’ said my friend, ‘I will not lie to you. I was disturbed when you made the decision to move me to the men’s quarters. More than disturbed. Perplexed. Hurt. I had perhaps come to expect too much, since you have always treated me more as friend than servant. But –’

‘Wait a moment.
I
made the decision that you were not to sleep in the antechamber any longer? No such thing – you moved of your own volition. One day there, the next day gone. And suddenly not a friend anymore. Suddenly as cool as if you despised me.’

No response from Donagan; he had his elbows on his knees and was looking with apparent fascination at a beetle crawling across a leaf.

‘Donagan? I gave no order for you to move out of the antechamber.’

He gave me a sideways look. ‘An order came from Lady Flidais, through one of her women. Saying that I was to remove myself and my belongings to the men’s quarters and leave the antechamber empty. I did question it. I was told the arrangement would provide better privacy, in view of your impending marriage.’

‘You should have spoken to me,’ I said, stunned. She’d got him out of the way so she could continue to steal into my bedchamber. I could think of no other reason. And she must have known I wouldn’t like it, or surely she would have consulted me first. ‘Why didn’t you tell me straight away? Surely you know me well enough to realise I would never do this.’ Gods, Donagan probably imagined we were still disporting together on a nightly basis.

‘Before Lady Flidais came here,’ Donagan said quietly, ‘I thought I knew you very well indeed. Now I’m not sure I know you at all.’

His words were like a blow. I looked down at my hands, unable to speak. Bramble leaned against my leg, and at her touch I felt tears start in my eyes.

‘You’re betrothed, Oran,’ Donagan said. ‘As good as hand-fasted. I can’t do my job with Lady Flidais here. I want to help you. I don’t want to leave you. But I can’t stand by and watch her destroy the man I knew; the man who was my friend. And now,’ he rose to his feet, ‘I’ve said it, and I should go.’

‘Wait,’ I said, struggling for calm. ‘Please.’

He stood there, not looking at me but gazing out over the fields of Winterfalls. I saw in his expression that he did not truly wish to go away. I fought for words to convey what I was feeling.

‘You must think me very weak,’ I said, ‘if you believe that. You must think me unfit to be the prince of Dalriada; unfit to lead.’

Donagan sighed. ‘I think your nature has caused you to make an error. Unfortunately that error has led you into a situation that will be with you for the rest of your life. Believe me, Oran, if I could think of any way out of this, if I believed I could help you, I would stay. But you’re betrothed to the lady. More than that, you . . .’ He did not say it:
You have bedded her already, more than once.
‘Your actions have not always met the standards I know you set for yourself,’ he said instead. ‘I cannot remain in your service.’

‘Where were you planning to go?’

He shrugged. ‘Does that matter? Away from here. To visit my parents, perhaps. But I will not stay at Cahercorcan, since you and Lady Flidais will be often there.’

No way out. A shiver ran through me; I gathered up Bramble and held her close. ‘I know this is my fault,’ I said, failing to keep my voice steady. ‘I believed in a dream; I have learned that doing so is foolish. I would say to you, perhaps she can change, perhaps we can reach a compromise, perhaps, given time, this will not seem so difficult.’ I drew an uneven breath. ‘But . . . Donagan, don’t dismiss this as another fancy, please . . . I think there’s something wrong. Something about Flidais. I cannot say what, exactly, but . . . if she had not come here with her own folk, if she did not so closely resemble her portrait, I would have said the woman who put her hand in mine and promised to marry me is not Flidais of Cloud Hill at all. She seems reluctant to engage in real conversation with me. She shows little interest in the pastimes we discussed in our letters. Bramble, whom she described with such tenderness, is frightened of her. And . . . when we are in each other’s company, her speech and her actions are sometimes . . . odd. Inappropriate. Something is amiss. I feel it in my bones.’

‘A prince does not wed for love, Oran. You know that quite well. Yes, you made an error in believing the woman of the portrait was some perfect ideal, the one true love you had waited for. But you knew, surely, that such a marriage is essentially a pairing of strangers, a man and woman suited to each other only by birth and breeding. Such marriages are made because leaders need to form strategic alliances, not because they want their sons and daughters to be happy. You might consider yourself fortunate that Lady Flidais is young, comely, and apparently healthy, despite the headaches.’

‘And yet you say you cannot live in the same household as my future wife.’

‘She and I would be enemies. We would be constantly at odds over your welfare. I am a servant; Lady Flidais will one day be queen. That means I must go.’

Even he did not understand. Even my closest friend dismissed the idea that there was something deeply wrong, something that went far beyond a lack of compatibility between my betrothed and me.

‘I’m not the only member of your household to experience difficulties,’ Donagan said. ‘Your mind has been otherwise occupied, I believe. I understand you gave Lady Flidais free rein to order the household. Folk have found her manner . . . a little difficult.’

‘Folk. What folk? And what do you mean, difficult?’

‘Aedan. Brid. Fíona. Lady Flidais can be somewhat abrupt. Her approach to domestic matters is not in tune with what we have all come to expect from you.’

‘But why didn’t anyone tell me this? None of them has said a word.’

‘Of course not. The lady is your newly betrothed; to complain about her would be to offend you deeply, and your trusted retainers view you not only with respect but with a certain fondness, having known you since you were a child.’

How had I missed this? Had I indeed been so wrapped up in my own concerns that I had not noticed such a degree of unrest? It seemed so. I had been blinded, not only by confusion and disappointment but also, I was forced to admit, by the raging desire my lady was able to arouse in me. Yes, even under such appallingly risky conditions as this morning’s.

‘Donagan,’ I said, ‘I have two open councils to conduct before the hand-fasting. Will you stay until the second of those, at least? I would greatly appreciate your support and advice, even if you believe you can no longer be my friend. If you choose to walk away once the second council has taken place, then I will accept your decision. ’

He smiled. ‘Oran,’ he said, ‘I will always be your friend. Whatever happens. Even if I leave and we never see each other again.’

‘Please, Donagan. Sleep in the antechamber or in the men’s quarters, whichever you prefer. Keep your distance from Lady Flidais if that makes it easier. But please stay to see me through the councils. And . . .’

He waited while I struggled to find the right words.

‘I believe I’m right. This goes deeper than the obvious. It must. There must be a way out.’

‘Unless you mean to accuse the lady publicly of not meeting up to your expectations, I can’t think what that way out could be. Oran, you would show strength by accepting this and making the best you can of it. You were born to kingship. You cannot let this disappointment prevent you from being the leader you should be. Then you would indeed be seen as weak, not only by me, but by your household, your community and, in time, your kingdom.’

What was there to say? I had asked him to be honest.

‘If you believe it will help,’ Donagan said more gently, ‘then I will stay until the second council is over. I’ll give you what support I can. And then I’ll go.’

I rose to my feet. ‘Thank you,’ I said, but my heart was heavy. I could be strong. I could be a leader. In time, I could be a king. It seemed I could not also be happy.

And yet, as we walked back to the house, my old friend and I, with the little dog stopping here and there to investigate an exciting smell or an enticing rustle in the undergrowth, I found I had not lost my belief that something more was at play here, something beyond the obvious explanation.
You are a fool, Oran
, I told myself.
Even after this, even after everything, still you are ruled by your dreams. But your dreams cannot help you.

20

~BLACKTHORN~

G
rim came in with the second kerchief in his hands, still wet from the wash.

‘You know your letters,’ he said. ‘What does this say?’

He spread the square of red linen out on the table, and I saw that, unlike mine, this kerchief was a lovers’ token. Within the trailing leaf-and-flower border, the maker had embroidered a little heart, and on either side of it a letter.
A loves N.

‘This is the letter A,’ I told Grim, putting my finger on it to show him. ‘That stands for someone’s name – Aine, for instance, or Aedan. And this is N for Niall, or Niamh, or Ness.’ I felt suddenly cold, though I was not sure why. ‘The heart means love. This is something a man might give his sweetheart. Who makes these kerchiefs, Grim? Do lots of folk have them?’ Apart from the heart and the letters, this one was twin to my own; the same hand might have embroidered both.

‘Bought the other one from the travellers. Their women make a lot of pretty things. I haven’t seen anyone around here wearing one. Except for you.’ He narrowed his eyes at me. ‘You all right? You’re looking a bit peaky. Gone white all of a sudden.’

‘You said you found this on the cart when you returned it to Scannal’s. Can you remember where you’d been that day?’

Grim got up to put the kettle on. ‘Hard to forget. Funny sort of day. Took a load of flour over to Silverlake. That baker, you’ll have heard of him. Branoc. Fellow couldn’t wait to see the last of me. Why?’

‘Could this kerchief have got on the cart in Silverlake?’

‘Things don’t get on carts by themselves.’ Grim set two cups on the table, beside the red kerchief. ‘I stopped in the village for directions, talked to a woman. Couple of children had a ride on the horse.’

‘So any of them might have dropped it?’

‘Think I’d have seen, if they did. Anyway, it wasn’t on top of the load, it was underneath.’

‘You’re saying it was on the cart before you loaded up? It could belong to someone at Scannal’s?’

Grim dropped a generous pinch of dried peppermint leaves into each cup. ‘Nah. I’d have seen it.’ He poured hot water onto the herbs, releasing a sweet, healing smell. He found the honey jar and set it on the table, with a spoon. ‘Why are you asking?’

‘Because I prefer my stories to have an ending, and this one doesn’t. Not yet, anyway. Something’s bothering me about this kerchief and how you came by it.’

Grim straightened. After a moment he said, ‘You saying I stole it?’

‘Would I be shocked by that? I’ve stolen before when I had to, and worse than a kerchief from a traveller’s market. I’m not saying that at all. It’s more a . . . a feeling. Something out of place. Tell me everything you did that day, Grim. From picking up the cart at Scannal’s to bringing it back again.’

He gave me the story: how he’d harnessed up the two big horses, loaded on his bags of flour, driven the cart to Silverlake village. The woman who’d given him directions had invited him to drop in on the way home. Then he’d gone up the hill to the baker’s, which had a house and a barn with big doors and a loft.

‘I backed the cart in, so the load was just outside the doors. You sure you want to hear all this? Can’t think why.’

‘Go on. Where was Branoc while you were doing this?’

‘Standing there in the yard with his eye on me. I offered to carry the bags up, thinking he’d want them high and dry in the loft, and he said he’d do that himself later. I was glad enough; saved me the extra work. Looked narrow, not easy to get the load up there. Branoc took the ladder away to make more room down below. Then I –’

‘Wait. He took the ladder away?’

‘Mm-hm. Here, drink your tea, you look like you’re seeing ghosts. I unloaded the sacks, stacked them on the floor.’

‘With Branoc still watching?’

‘He’d gone off by then. When I finished I went back out. Most folk give me a bite to eat after a long trip, but I didn’t like the feel of the place. Decided to take the cart down by the lake to have my bread and cheese. Branoc came back over, I asked him for Scannal’s payment, he went off to get it. He paid me, I left.’ He stared into his cup for a moment. ‘One more thing. Rats.’

‘Rats?’

‘Up in the loft. Heard them scuttling around. Mentioned it to Branoc, joking-like, and he took offence.’

Rats. Black Crow save me. ‘Grim,’ I asked carefully, ‘this loft, the one Branoc didn’t want you to climb up to – did it have any kind of opening? I don’t mean where the ladder came down, but toward the front of the barn. A window, a trapdoor, a crack in the boards.’

Grim stared at me. ‘You mean up above where the cart was? But . . .’

‘Was there anything?’

He frowned in concentration. ‘Might’ve been a window at the front. It’s a high barn, there’d be quite a bit of room up there. You saying . . . ?’

‘That the kerchief might have come down from that window onto the cart, and you might not have seen it until you got back to Scannal’s. That’s possible, isn’t it?’

Grim frowned into his brew. ‘Could be. But why? Who’d be up there, and why would they drop a kerchief? If they wanted me to look up, why not just call out?’

‘Perhaps they were afraid Branoc might hear.’ The chill sensation was being replaced by a terrible anger. A miller, a miller’s daughter, a baker. By all the gods, I hoped I was wrong about this. ‘When folk are truly frightened, when they’re cowed and beaten down, asking for help can be almost impossible. You and I know that, Grim.’

‘You’re saying the rats weren’t rats at all,’ Grim said in a shocked whisper. ‘The fellow’s got something else up there.’

‘Some
one
.’ I wished I had asked Emer what the traveller boy’s name was. Aedan. Art. Aillil. ‘Grim, there’s a girl missing from Silverlake. The miller’s daughter, Ness, a friend of young Emer’s. It’s commonly believed she ran away with her sweetheart, one of the travellers, and took her father’s life savings with her. That same night the miller was killed in a nasty accident, which folk put down to him being upset and careless. Emer swears her friend wouldn’t do what they say she did. But nobody will believe her.’

‘Except you.’

‘I wish I didn’t, Grim. But I think N is for Ness, and A is for whatever the traveller lad’s name is, and Branoc may have someone in his loft who needs rescuing fast. Tell me, how quickly could you fetch us a horse and cart?’

He gave a shocked whistle. ‘Not today. And maybe not tomorrow. Couple of horses, I could manage. Why would you need a cart?’

‘If that girl’s been up there all this time, who knows what state she’ll be in? Possibly unable to walk, almost certainly not up to riding, even as far as Silverlake village.’

‘We can’t go in with a cart,’ Grim said. ‘That’d be sure to make Branoc suspicious. Be different if I had a delivery to make, but he’s got all the flour he needs for a while.’

‘Ah. You may not have an excuse to go up there, but I do.’ I pointed to the pot of salve Emer and I had made. ‘Branoc sent a message asking for a remedy, something for strained arms and shoulders. I could just send it with a boy. Or I could deliver it myself, along with an offer to massage away the pain.’

‘Too risky. Let me take it.’

‘This needs the two of us, Grim. And I want to do it today. If I’m right, and Branoc has got the girl, I don’t want her to spend another night as his prisoner. Let’s get her out of there.’

‘We could tell the prince or that man of his,’ Grim said. ‘Ask him if he’ll send folk to see if it’s true. They could get the girl back home quicker than we could, and they could send men-at-arms to deal with Branoc.’

‘Only one problem there, apart from the fact that I’ve good cause not to trust princes and the like, especially where women in trouble are concerned. Emer said everyone refused to believe her when she told them Ness wouldn’t have run away, and that was despite her being Ness’s closest friend and a sensible girl. Our tale sounds far-fetched; it sounds like we’ve put together bits and pieces that might mean nothing at all. I can’t see Prince Oran being in a hurry to send folk storming over to Silverlake on the evidence we’ve got. If there was time, I’d walk over to Winterfalls and ask Emer if Ness’s sweetheart has a name beginning with A; I’d ask if the lad ever gave Ness a red kerchief. I’d ask if Branoc the baker wanted Ness for himself, and if she turned him down. But that would take time. It would mean leaving this until tomorrow, and I’m not going to do that; I can’t. Anyway, what if I’m wrong? What if we gather a whole army of folk and descend on Branoc’s barn, and it turns out what’s up there is rats after all?’

‘Mm. And if he heard folk coming and guessed why, he might panic and hurt the girl. He might do anything. It’s an odd story, miller crushing himself with his own grindstone. Sounds too freakish to be true. Maybe it never was true. Maybe the miller was murdered.’

‘Not so much of a bonehead after all, are you? So, if you can get the horses and get them quickly, here’s what we’ll do.’