Dreamer's Pool (4 page)

3

~ORAN~

‘Y
ou disappoint me,’ my mother said.

Such directness was typical of her. My father was more likely to show his opinion of me by lifting his brows and tightening his lips. This occurred, for instance, when I failed to show adequate enthusiasm for such activities as hunting, hawking and combat practice. I had learned to acquit myself adequately at all three; I was no fool. A future king of Dalriada must be as capable at blood sports as he was at, say, strategic thinking.

My parents had never understood my passion for poetry, my love of lore, my fondness for observing birds and animals about their natural activities, and my corresponding distaste for the business of impaling them on arrows or skewering them with spears. They saw this as a weakness in me, an unfitness for the destiny that lay before me, a destiny that was mine whether I liked it or not, since, inadequate as I might be, I was the only son they had.

‘At two-and-twenty, you might at the very least attempt to show some interest in the matter,’ Mother went on. ‘Your manner hints at something . . . not quite right. Something . . . amiss.’

‘With respect, Mother,’ I said, though my patience was wearing thin, this being a subject we had edged around many times in the past, ‘if you mean what I think you mean, you are in error. I understand the need to father an heir, and when the right woman comes along, I will marry and procreate as you wish. If you find fault with my demeanour, it is not because I hanker after some young man, Donagan for instance, but because the notion of a strategic marriage fills me with unease. The thought that so significant a matter could be decided on the basis of a formal letter from Father to some ruler in a distant kingdom, and that I might not see my bride in the flesh before she arrives for the betrothal . . . it feels deeply wrong to me.’ In the ancient tales, marriages made for purposes of power and alliance often went awry. The stories that stirred me were those of lovers who met by chance and knew at first sight that they were made for each other. A man like me might wait a lifetime for such a story.

‘You speak like a green girl of thirteen, Oran, not a grown man. Sometimes I despair of you.’

‘I know, Mother.’

‘At eighteen, Lady Flidais is perhaps a little older than is quite ideal, but in view of her pedigree we can overlook that. And there are obvious advantages to your father of an alliance with Cadhan. His holdings may be small, but his connections are beyond reproach. I met Flidais once, when she was a child of six or seven; a charming, well-behaved little thing. Her father’s letter suggests she has retained those qualities. Cadhan describes her as exceptionally comely, accomplished in the domestic arts and of a sweet and gentle temperament, which I must say sounds rather suited to your tastes, Oran.’

‘I have read the letter, Mother.’

‘So?’

I suppressed a sigh. ‘Such a missive is written for one purpose only, to persuade the recipient that the woman in question is a paragon of all the virtues and has a face and figure to rival those of ancient goddesses. It’s hardly likely to say the girl is short and dumpy with pimples, and bone lazy to boot. Or that she doesn’t much care for the idea of marrying a man whom she’s never clapped eyes on. Even if that is the truth.’

‘There’s a picture.’

‘So Father mentioned. Are you suggesting a picture cannot lie just as effectively as a letter?’

‘Oran, you would madden the most patient of mothers! At least look at it.’

She reached across the table and laid the little wooden oval in front of me. Since I could hardly screw my eyes shut like a three-year-old refusing to eat his mashed turnips, I looked.

The tiny painting had been executed with great skill. Such images frequently have something of a sameness, as if the artist can conjure only one face and varies it with changes in the style of the hair, the clothing, the background. But the girl depicted here was very much herself. Her hair was worn loose, flowing down over her shoulders in waves as dark as a crow’s wing. Her eyes were a deep blue and gazed directly from the portrait, giving me an uncanny sense that she could see me. The letter had said
sweet and gentle
; this heart-shaped face with its small, straight nose and not-quite-smiling mouth suggested the description might not, after all, be a lie. On the girl’s lap was a tiny white dog, a delicate thing with spindly legs and large ears; she held it with some tenderness. The artist had chosen to show the two of them against a background of oak leaves.

‘A pretty thing,’ observed my mother. I was not sure if she meant the portrait or the girl herself. I only knew that now I held the painting in my hand I did not want to give it back to her. ‘You know, of course, that once you marry you’ll have your own household; no new bride wants to be under the eye of her mother-in-law. You’ll move to Winterfalls. That should be pleasing even to you.’

I opened my mouth to say she should stop making assumptions, then shut it again. At some point I would have to give in. My parents were right: I did have to sire a son and heir, and at two-and-twenty I was past the age when a man was expected to get on with such things. What chance was there, really, that I would find the one woman who was my perfect complement, my other half, my long-dreamed-of true love? My mother had told me often enough that I had my head in the clouds. To be a dreamer at the age of ten was acceptable. At fifteen one might almost get away with it. In a man of two-and-twenty it was starting to verge on risible.

And this girl, this woman in the picture . . . There was something about her, something that went far beyond the obvious beauty, the tender pose, the artful execution of the image. Unless the artist was an exceptional dissembler, the subject of his work was a rare creature.

‘All your father is asking,’ Mother said, evidently taking my silence for a mulish refusal to listen to her wisdom, ‘is that he may reply to Lord Cadhan’s letter telling him you are interested.’

‘No,’ I said, rising to my feet. Before she could say anything I added, ‘I’ll write the letter, and it won’t be to Lord Cadhan, it will be to his daughter. As for being interested, I’ll wait until she replies before I decide that.’

I had the satisfaction of seeing my mother completely lost for words. I poured her a cup of mead from the jug on the table. Only after she had gulped down several mouthfuls did she find her voice again.

‘Your father would have to read the letter. He would need to approve it.’

‘No. It will be for no eyes but hers.’

‘I see.’ Mother’s face showed a peculiar blend of shock and hope.

‘However, I have no objection to Father writing a covering letter to Lord Cadhan; I’ll seal my own missive and give it to his scribe to enclose.’ I paused to draw breath; assessed that look on her face again and decided to press this rare advantage. ‘When Flidais’s reply comes, we’ll discuss the matter further. A condition of my agreeing to marry would be that I move to Winterfalls as soon as the decision is made. The hand-fasting would take place there.’ In my own home, on my own ground. Winterfalls, near Dreamer’s Wood, was surrounded by forest and lake. It was a place of birds and creatures, peace and tranquillity. My heart began to race. My mind soared into a realm of dreams. This was foolish indeed; both letter and portrait were probably lies. Well, my letter would be all truth, and I’d see what Flidais made of that.

Two turnings of the moon passed before my father received Lord Cadhan’s reply; spring was turning to summer. Enclosed was a sealed message bearing this inscription:
To Prince Oran of Dalriada. Personal and Private.
I took it away to my apartments unopened. My heart was beating with such violence I wondered what would happen if these negotiations did bear fruit, and I came face to face with the woman of the portrait. I would, perhaps, drop dead from sheer excitement, proving to be the ultimate disappointment as a son.

Only once the door was closed and bolted behind me did I break the seal and read the words within.

I do not know how to address you,
she wrote
, since we have never met. You have the advantage of a picture – I have seen the artist’s rendition of my features, and I believe it to be true to life – but I know only that you are two-and-twenty years of age and in excellent health. I would have written a formal letter of the kind my father’s scribe has taught me to construct, but that would be an inadequate response to the beautiful words you sent me. My mother wanted to open your sealed message. It was only the words
Personal and Private
that prevented her from doing so. As it was, she sat beside me while I read it, which did rather diminish the pleasure. Later, I took your letter out of doors and read it again in the shade of my favourite oak tree, with only my little dog Bramble for company. (There is a story to Bramble’s name – don’t you find there are stories everywhere if you look for them? – but I will save that for another time.)

It is odd that my mother, who believes me old enough to travel far from home, marry an unknown prince and in time, perhaps not so very much time, bear his children, was concerned that a sealed letter might contain material shocking to my tender disposition! I assured her that your missive included nothing of the kind. It was, I said to her, full of courtesy and goodwill. I did not mention the poem. That is between you and me.

What you wrote was lovely. I read it over to Bramble several times and she agrees. I would like to write my own poem in return but I confess to feeling somewhat shy about it. Perhaps next time. Will you write to me again before a final decision is made about the marriage?

I liked the description of Winterfalls. There is a forest near here where I love to walk, just me and my maid with Bramble. My little dog is very well trained and knows not to bark or run about after the wild creatures. Shy deer live there, and scampering squirrels, and frogs in the hidden ponds. I think you would like the place, Prince Oran. Perhaps Winterfalls is something similar. I hope so.

My father is writing a reply to your father. From what little he tells me, I gather we are at the stage of ‘considering’ the proposition. Do you sometimes feel as I do, as if you were a commodity to be traded? If my whole future were not in the balance, that might make me laugh.

I hope you will write again soon.

Flidais of Cloud Hill

Your letter warmed my heart,
I wrote
. Please take all the time you need to make up your mind. My father is so delighted that I am at last prepared to consider marriage that he will be easily persuaded to wait a little before things are quite settled. I hasten to assure you that I have no objection to the general idea of being a husband and father; only that I have read too many old tales, and they have made me wary. I wanted to wait for the right woman. I wanted to be quite sure each of us could make the other perfectly happy, not only while we were young and hale, but through all the years of our lives.

I believe that in you I may have found that woman. I believe – you will think me foolish – I knew it the moment I saw your picture. Too many old tales, indeed. That is what my mother would say. But I spoke to Donagan, who is my body servant and friend, the brother I never had, and he said I had been wise to wait. He reminded me that I love wild creatures and am fascinated by their ways, and suggested that trusting my instincts would serve me well. So perhaps I am not so foolish.

Should agreement be reached on our marriage, I understand I would ride to Cloud Hill for the betrothal and stay on awhile. This, dear Flidais, would allow you ample opportunity to show me your forest with its scampering squirrels. I do not at present have a dog of my own – my beloved old hound, Grey, died last autumn, and thus far I have not had the heart to replace him. Perhaps you would allow me to share Bramble. If you do me the honour of agreeing to be my wife, we might in time acquire another small dog as companion for her. Were you going to tell me Bramble’s story?

I will tell you a secret,
she wrote
. Bramble is not the kind of purebred dog people expect a lady like me to own. I found her in the woods one day, entangled in blackberry bushes, her poor skin covered in bleeding scratches. She was crying most piteously. It took me and my maid some considerable time to extricate her. While we worked, Bramble was so patient and good, despite her fear. She knew that at last she had found friends in a dark world. So she was rescued and given a new name, and she has been my constant companion ever since. You will laugh at me, but I have wondered if Bramble came from the realm of the fey. Sometimes her eyes take on a particular look, as if she is gazing right out of our world and into a place I cannot see. Do you believe what some folk say, that the fey still walk the land of Erin, but only show themselves when they choose? Or do you think me foolish for giving credence to any such idea? My maid says I am fanciful, but she likes it when I tell her stories of those ancient times.