Dreamer's Pool (31 page)

‘You sure you don’t want it dealt with quietly, my lord?’ Grim’s voice was dark. ‘Blackthorn and me and young Emer, we came here for Ness, to speak up for her, since there was nobody else. What kinsfolk would do for her, we’ll do. Just say the word.’

The prince gave a crooked smile. ‘Let Branoc out, and you’ll make sure that before he gets further than Dreamer’s Wood he’ll be dead and buried? I think not. That would rest ill on my conscience, and perhaps on yours, in time. We must make a wiser choice.’

The two of us sat there staring at him, not saying a word. What was he getting at? How could there be a wiser choice than making sure that vile creature never set his hands on another innocent young girl again?

Master Tassach spoke up. ‘In the matter of the fire, it is for you to recommend the penalty, since that offence was against the two of you. If you stand in place of Ness’s kinsfolk, then you also have a part to play in deciding the punishment for Branoc’s crimes against her.’

‘Execution,’ said Grim. ‘Official execution.’

‘Reparations,’ I said, my mind on the hundred silver pieces that had been mentioned. ‘A fine, large enough to allow Ness to build her life again. I do not know if Branoc owned the bakery, but if he did, it could be sold. The mill, too. And . . .’

‘And her father’s money should be given back to her,’ said Prince Oran. ‘I agree on all those points, save for execution. Cannot even a man capable of such base acts learn to mend his ways?’

He meant he’d throw the offender into the lockup and leave him there to muse over his crimes as he mouldered away and went half-crazy. Like Strangler and Frog Spawn and the others. Like us.

I must have turned white, for suddenly all eyes were on me, and everyone looked concerned. Donagan put a hand on my arm.

‘Mistress Blackthorn, are you unwell?’

Gods! This was a choice to make anyone sick. It was a dilemma to test the wisest of sages. Branoc had performed acts of great evil – all the more heinous because he did not seem to understand they were wrong. He had shown himself to be without a conscience. But how could I condemn him – how could I condemn anyone – to incarceration in a place like Mathuin’s lockup? Yet if I did not agree to imprisonment, and Prince Oran would not countenance execution, did that mean Branoc’s only punishment would be the payment of a fine? That would leave him free to molest more young women, to wreck more innocent lives. He’d head away to another region, establish his bakery anew, and go straight back to his hideous ways. We could not let that happen.

‘Mistress Blackthorn?’

‘Give her some time!’ snarled Grim, who was doubtless having the same problem I was. It was a pity Prince Oran did not fancy the idea of unofficial execution. In Branoc’s case, that solution seemed to me both tidy and just.

I must pull myself together; I must not become that woman who had collapsed and wept out there in front of the whole community. I straightened my shoulders and took a few deep breaths. ‘Master Cael, Master Tassach,’ I said, ‘under the law, are those the only options? Incarceration or a fine, or perhaps both?’

‘And if it’s incarceration,’ said Grim, ‘where would you be locking him up?’

‘Not here at Winterfalls,’ Prince Oran said. ‘I don’t have the facilities to hold a prisoner securely for longer than a few days, and I don’t plan to change that. He’d have to go to Cahercorcan.’

He didn’t say whether the prison there was dank and filthy and cruel, and we didn’t ask.

‘As for the other question,’ said Master Cael, ‘if there were kinsfolk, and if they were not satisfied with the payment of the fine, they could demand that the offender serve a period as a bondsman. He would not be a prisoner, but he would be required to remain at a certain place, in the household of one of those kin, and work for the good of the family and community.’

‘Branoc’s skills as a baker would allow him to make a worthwhile contribution,’ put in Master Tassach. ‘But as Ness is without surviving kin, an arrangement of that kind could not be put in place.’

In the delicate silence that followed, it came to me that they were going to ask
us
to take responsibility for Branoc – hadn’t we just said we were acting in place of Ness’s kin? If they asked me to do it, my vow to Conmael meant I’d have to say yes. And things would fall apart, because I’d be obliged to keep Branoc alive while Grim would want to kill him.

‘Master Cael,’ said Donagan, ‘after what has happened – a series of events that has shocked the whole community – Branoc has become a target for folk’s wrath. His continuing presence in the Winterfalls area, even after the payment of a substantial fine, would be a thorn in the flesh, a constant disturbance.’

‘My lord,’ I said, glancing at Grim, ‘we don’t favour a long period of incarceration.’

‘But you can’t set him free,’ said Grim. ‘Doesn’t matter if you make him pay a king’s ransom. Let him go anywhere in these parts and if I don’t kill the wretch someone else will.’

‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ said the prince. ‘Master Cael, Master Tassach, I wonder if there is another solution available to us under the law. Ness is one of my people. I am responsible for this region and all the folk who live and work in it. Is it not within my authority to make Branoc a bondsman to my own family, and send him to Cahercorcan to work out his time in my father’s household? Not in incarceration,’ he added, looking at Grim and me, ‘but under the very strict supervision that is possible at my father’s court. Branoc is an expert baker; his creations are in high demand. He could most certainly be put to work there. I would, of course, provide the king with full details of his offences, and appropriate measures would be put in place to ensure he could not repeat them.’

‘And he would be far enough away to deter anyone here from taking the law into their own hands,’ put in Donagan.

A silence, while all of us looked at the lawmen. It was a good solution, a just one. A clever one. I hoped it was possible.

‘Very astute of you, my lord,’ said Master Tassach. ‘In cases of debt-bondage such an arrangement is common, and it is within the accepted interpretation of the law for a wrong-doer to work out the time required in the service of a king or chieftain in lieu of the victim’s kin, most certainly. But that would not apply in this case. Branoc has the resources to pay even a heavy fine – not only the hundred silver pieces he had on his person when captured, but the value of the bakery buildings and equipment. Those assets, along with the mill, would be sufficient to provide quite handsomely for Ness’s future; they would more than meet the law’s requirement for sick-maintenance even if her recovery is slow.’

We sat in silence, looking at one another.

‘Thing is,’ put in Grim, ‘the hundred silver pieces aren’t his. They’re the miller’s life savings, that Ness was supposed to have stolen.’

‘And the mill doesn’t come into it,’ I said. ‘That was Ernan’s too. And now Ness’s.’

Master Cael gave a slow smile. He would, I thought, make a formidable enemy. ‘Indeed. Branoc might argue that the silver was his, of course. But I doubt he could make a convincing case, under the circumstances.’

‘So, if I understand you correctly, Master Tassach,’ said Prince Oran, ‘should I wish to place this man in debt-bondage, I would need to impose a fine that was higher than the value of his current assets. Significantly higher, if we wish him to serve a lengthy period.’ He lifted his brows at me as if to seek my approval.
My
approval. That of a . . . what was it Branoc had called me? A witch, a meddler, a bringer of trouble. Other things too, insults that had stung more than they should have.

‘It’s not up to me to determine the penalty, my lord,’ I said. ‘But Branoc has shown himself to have no regard for women, and scant respect for the community that sustains him. Such a man would take a long time to mend his ways. Years, I would think.’ Could this be true? Was the prince of Dalriada really taking heed of our arguments, mine and Grim’s, in dispensing justice on such a serious matter?

It seemed he was. ‘Very well. With your agreement, Master Tassach, Master Cael, I will set the fine at five hundred silver pieces. The sale of the bakery might realise perhaps a quarter of that amount. In addition, I will set a condition on Branoc’s release when he has worked off the remainder of the debt. An expert assessment will be conducted to determine whether he has learned his lesson; I will not allow his release into the community unless I am sure he will not reoffend.’

‘Had Branoc not taken it into his head to confess to the offence of burning the cottage,’ said Master Tassach with a grimace, ‘I’d have been in a position to argue for a lower fine or a shorter period of service. As it is, I have no alternative but to agree to your terms. They seem perfectly appropriate.’

‘I’m satisfied with the decision,’ said Master Cael.

We sat in silence for a few moments. Then the prince said, ‘Donagan, will you call in the scribe? Let’s have this in writing before we return to open council.’

I wanted to congratulate Prince Oran on not being like other men of power; to thank all of them for seeing the truth of this matter and reaching a just resolution. They did not realise, perhaps, how unusual that was. It was hard to find the words. He was the future king of Dalriada. I was a witch and a meddler. And not so long ago, I had been that wretched creature in Mathuin’s lockup.

‘Should we leave now, my lord?’ I asked.

The prince took an assessing look at me. ‘Sit here awhile if you will; have something to eat and drink. It will take a little time to prepare the document. That’s a big crowd of folk out there, all of them doubtless talking at once, and I imagine you’d rather not be in the middle of it. Where is young Emer?’

‘Her brother’s looking after her. Thank you, my lord.’ Right now, it wasn’t so difficult to speak politely. ‘And thank you for your wise judgement.’

‘Ah, well,’ said the prince, and for some reason he sounded sad. ‘We all played a part in that.’

25

~ORAN~

I
t was nearly dusk, and the household was quiet at last. The council was over and the folk of the district had headed home. Tomorrow the lawmen would ride back to Cahercorcan. With them would go a message to my father on the matter of Branoc. Within a few days I would send the prisoner himself, appropriately guarded. Having that man in my house was like harbouring vermin; I could not wait to see him gone.

I made my way up the track toward the burial ground. There was time to get there and back before nightfall, though if Bramble kept stopping to investigate interesting smells under bushes, we might be running all the way home.

‘Come, Bramble!’

She trotted after me, tail held high, eyes bright: a different dog from the frightened, aggressive creature Flidais had brought into my house. Perhaps, when it was time for Aunt Sochla to go home, I should suggest she take Bramble with her. That would be kinder. And my aunt’s household always had room for one more.

‘But I would miss you,’ I said as the two of us climbed the rise, heading toward the little copse. ‘Who else would listen to my ramblings with such forbearance?’ Donagan could no longer be asked to do so. I felt very much alone.

Today should have been a triumph. The matter of Branoc had been troubling me; I had doubted my own ability to deal with it wisely and fairly. But everyone except Branoc himself had seemed well satisfied with both judgement and sentence. ‘Perhaps,’ I said to the little dog, ‘it’s the nature of his crime. In such a terrible matter, there can be no real resolution. Yes, he was found guilty, and he will pay a penalty. But what payment could truly compensate for what he did? He’s blighted the life of that young woman. All very well to haul a man up before a council and sentence him to debt-bondage. Tidy him away, as it were. But the young woman he wronged can’t be tidied away. She shouldn’t be, Bramble. The whole community should be brought to account for the way they misjudged her.’

Bramble had nothing to say on the matter, but as she looked up at me I imagined I saw understanding in her eyes.

I had said this, of course. I had made a statement at the council about the way we had all failed Ness, and how we needed to make sure such a thing never happened again. And folk had nodded and murmured and apparently agreed. ‘But the truth is,’ I told Bramble, ‘time passes, and people forget. And before we know it, another innocent is wronged, and another brave person steps up to tell folk something has gone awry, and we don’t listen. We don’t act until it’s almost too late. Humankind can be sorely lacking in wisdom and compassion, Bramble. Indeed, we can be blind fools.’

We reached the burial ground. Dusk was near and the air was bitterly cold. When I sat down on the bench, Bramble pressed close to my ankles, shivering. I scooped her up and held her in my arms, under my cloak.

The day had wearied me, and I found myself dreading the prospect of supper and the need to pretend before the guests that there was nothing amiss between Flidais and me. Her comments at the council, on the matter of Ness’s character, had only served to deepen my unease about the future. ‘She’ll be queen one day, Bramble. These folk look up to her. Or should. But I’m starting to wonder if she’ll ever be worthy of that. I don’t know if she has it in her to change.’

You are a coward
, some part of me said.
If that is what you truly believe, go and tell Flidais so. Tell her outright that her statements disturb you, that they are not in tune with the way you want to rule your people. Tell her that if she cannot change, you will not wed her. If you go ahead without taking any action, what follows will be on your own head.

‘I can’t,’ I murmured. ‘You know all the arguments, Bramble. Haven’t I been over them a hundred times? I should never have trusted in my dreams. Come, we’d best be going back while we can still see the path before our feet.’

But when I looked down, I saw that Bramble had fallen asleep on my knee, quickly and completely, as if she had not a care in the world. I did not want to rise and disturb her. She looked so perfect, her small form curled neatly save for one paw that was up against my chest as if to ensure I would not go away and leave her. As I sat holding her, with the light fading around me, I was reminded of the portrait. I remembered how I had felt on the day my mother had first shown it to me; it had been as if all my hopes for the future were contained in that one scrap of painted wood. At first glance I had been transported into a world of ancient story, a world where true love won out against all odds, a realm in which dreams and magic were as real as growing crops or settling disputes over drains. What had made it so remarkable? What had touched me to the core?

Flidais’s beauty had certainly played a part. But Flidais in the flesh was every bit as lovely as her painted image. The portrait was an excellent likeness. I desired my betrothed; that had been well and truly proven. But I could never love her as I had loved the woman in the portrait. I recalled the curve of her wrist as she supported the little dog; the graceful, tender position of her fingers against Bramble’s neck. The look of devotion in the dog’s eyes as she gazed up at her mistress. Most of all, the expression on Flidais’s face. I had seen sweetness, honesty, perhaps a little shyness. I had seen a dreamer like myself; I had seen a young woman who understood hope and magic and beauty. Surely no painter was clever enough to build so many lies into a portrait. When the image was created, neither the artist nor the subject had known anything about my character. There could have been no reason to work into that depiction everything that would most touch my heart.

The letters were a different matter, since Flidais had not written to me until she had received the first of my own missives. It was possible they had been crafted especially to please me. A skilful scribe might have conjured them from the excess of tender feelings I had been all too ready to pour out onto the page. But there had been that last missive, sent from a different household, with a different scribe. Besides, there was such poetic truth in the letters that they were hard to disbelieve. Or had been, before I consigned them to the fire.

The clouds parted to reveal the full moon, pale and perfect in the darkening sky. A shiver went through me, far deeper than simple cold. At such a moment, sitting by the graves of the departed, I found it easy to believe in spirits, in ghosts, in the magical and wondrous. It was easy to become, again, the man who had set such trust in ancient tales of love.
I wish . . . I wish . . .

In my arms, Bramble stirred and the spell was broken. I got up and walked toward home. How dared I spend even a moment feeling sorry for myself? My misfortune was nothing alongside what had happened to young Ness. What sort of leader was I, to be so wrapped up in my own concerns? I remembered, somewhat to my shame, the time of waiting for Flidais to arrive. I had fussed about all manner of things. I could recall pressing Donagan on the matter of a woman’s confinement and what manner of assistance Flidais might prefer should we be blessed with a child. A child! The thought of her bearing my children, raising them and teaching them to think as she did made me feel sick. But she would. If I let matters take their natural course, she most certainly would.

I made my way down toward the house, cradling Bramble in my arms. Moonlight lay across the roof; lantern light shone out between the shutters. A pair of torches burned outside the entry. It must be close to supper time. I was glad the two lawmen had not yet departed; they and Aunt Sochla would be able to maintain a reasonable conversation while we ate.

I headed for the women’s quarters, thinking to pass Bramble over to one of the attendants. Against the odds, the little dog was still sleeping. I wandered into the garden I had made for Flidais, beyond the door of her reading room. I had chosen each plant with care, using what I had learned from my lady’s letters. I had supervised everything from the curve of the path to the shape of the pond to the choice of stones for the wall, a barrier designed to make the place safe for Bramble. I stood there quietly for a little, knowing I must go indoors before folk came looking for me, yet finding myself unable to move on. In this tranquil spot the dream still lived. It was present in the warmth of the dog in my arms; in the perfection of the garden; in the aching of my wounded heart.

Deep down, I knew something was wrong. Something more than a woman whose letters had not given a true picture of her character. Something more than an arranged marriage whose parties had proved to be ill-matched. Something a great deal stranger. And if I did not examine it, if I did not search as hard as I could for answers, how could I expect a future based on truth, honesty and courage? If I gave up now, I had surely never been worthy of the dream.

I could not deal with this myself. But how could I expect anyone else to investigate a matter that was so private? Besides, the problem was . . . nebulous. When I’d tried to explain it to Donagan, even he had expressed the view that I was imagining things.

But . . . after today, after the council, it seemed maybe there was someone who could help. Someone good at solving puzzles, someone brave enough to tackle the most baffling mystery. Someone wise enough not to dismiss the truth of old tales.

‘She might refuse, of course,’ I murmured to Bramble. ‘She might think me a complete fool, and I suspect she would not hesitate to say so to my face. But I can ask.’ Somewhere inside me there awoke a tiny, flickering flame of hope.