Dreamer's Pool (44 page)

‘What if Prince Oran’s told the truth,’ he said, ‘and Lady Flidais has spun you a story?’

‘Why would she concoct a tale like that? If she wanted my help to conceive a son, why didn’t she ask when I first moved in there?’

‘Got a few things to tell you. Will you listen, at least?’

‘All right, but make it quick.’

He told me a story about Donagan, how the fellow had confided in him by night, saying the prince was not very worldly-wise, which Grim took to mean that Oran was inexperienced with women. How Donagan wanted to help the prince, but couldn’t because of something that had happened between them.

‘Mm-hm,’ I said. Donagan was the most loyal servant the prince had; of course he would stick up for him. ‘They said – at least, Mhairi said – that Donagan knew about it all along. Had to, because he used to sleep in the antechamber next to Oran’s bedroom.’

‘Used to,’ said Grim. ‘But moved out by choice. Now sleeps in the men’s quarters.’

‘That proves nothing except that he didn’t like what Oran was doing.’

‘Another thing. The men were talking, and they said Ciar, the girl who was drowned, was . . . ready with her favours. Liked a bit of fun.’

‘Men’s talk. It means nothing except that they have no respect for women.’

Grim shuffled his feet. ‘What I said. About being angry. You’re letting it get in the way. You need to listen.’

‘I don’t
need
to do anything but pick up my bag and walk away.’

‘Going to rain soon.’

‘All the more reason to get on with this. Anything else to tell me?’

‘Only something I heard today, from one of the brewery lads.’ A story came out, an unsavoury little tale, about Flidais and the prince on a day when they’d gone into the village to talk to the people there. It was deeply implausible. ‘I was thinking,’ Grim went on. ‘When the prince talked to us about Flidais being different from what he expected. He seemed to think there might be something uncanny about it. This sounds crazy, but – could they have sort of – changed over? Ciar and Flidais? When they were in the water, I mean?’

‘I’d been thinking along the same lines,’ I said. ‘And what you’ve just told me adds weight to that theory. But, if it’s true, if this is a transformation, maid to mistress and mistress to maid, it means the real Flidais is dead. There’s no happy ending to this. Besides, why would the false Flidais – if she is false – tell that story about the prince assaulting her? Nobody was casting suspicion on her. If she was holding out for the hand-fasting, hoping nobody would guess there was something wrong before she was safely wed, all she had to do was keep on pretending.’ Even as I spoke, I remembered that Prince Oran had asked me to spy on Flidais; that I had sat among those women writing in my little book and trying to pick up clues. Flidais had seen me watching her. She and Mhairi had been unsettled by my questions. She had known I doubted her. She had probably known the prince doubted her, especially after he and Master Oisin told that story about a pool, and magic, and a transformation. So she had taken steps, not only to convince me she was no liar, but to make sure I did not do Oran’s bidding any longer. She had persuaded me neatly that she was no pretender, but a real princess and a future queen. ‘A pox on it,’ I muttered. It was becoming apparent that I’d got this badly wrong. I’d acted as no wise woman ever should, letting the weight of things past blind me to the truth. When Flidais had told me her story, I’d been so incensed on her behalf that I’d thrown logic out the window. And if it hadn’t been for Grim, I’d have headed on south without ever realising what I’d done.

‘Not like you to give up,’ said Grim.

‘What if I told you I don’t care? What if I picked up my bag and headed off right now?’

‘Then I’d say you’d forgotten to check the sky. Be pouring soon.’

‘But if I did? Would you still try to help the prince? Solve the puzzle on your own?’

He looked at me in silence for a bit. In the blockish face, the small eyes were sad. ‘Nah. Couldn’t. Do what I did before. Pick up my own bag and follow after. You can’t stand up to Mathuin on your own.’

‘Then you’re a fool,’ I said. Black Crow save me, the man was pig-headed. I remembered the night when he’d got soaking wet and lingered on the fringes of my camp like a huge forlorn ghost. My eyes were prickling. Were these tears? Impossible.

‘Bonehead,’ Grim said, nodding.

Curse it! I turned away, scrubbed my cheeks, said, ‘Too late to head back for Winterfalls now, even with this borrowed horse of yours. And there’s an old woman in this camp who knows a story about Dreamer’s Pool. We’d best ask these folk if we can stay here overnight, go back in the morning.’

‘Mm-hm.’ Not a word of
I told you so
. ‘Horse’ll be fine. I left him with the others, couple of lads keeping an eye on him. Couldn’t believe it. Conmael just snapped his fingers, and there Storm was.’

I’d have to ask some time. ‘Conmael. He was at the cottage?’

Grim shuffled his feet again; looked away over the lake. ‘I saw the kerchief, knew what it meant. Couldn’t hold everything in, shouted a bit, his name and an oath or two. The fey, they’ve got magic at their fingertips. They can do whatever they want. Made me angry. He should have stopped you.’

‘Nothing would have stopped me. Not even threats of seven years turning to eight or nine. Not even the possibility that Conmael could get me thrown back in Mathuin’s lockup. I’ve already broken my promise.’

‘Don’t know about that. Yelled his name and there he was, right next to me. Came out of nowhere. Knew you were gone without being told. And knew where you’d be, though I didn’t believe him. Told him I didn’t have a hope of catching up on foot, and he conjured up the horse. Don’t trust the fellow, don’t know what his game is, but this time around he was useful.’

‘Grim. Thanks. For coming after me.’ It was hard to get the words out. ‘And sorry.’

‘Just doing my job.’ His tone was gruff. ‘One thing you could do for me, if you want.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Think of something to tell Scannal tomorrow about his horse.’

36

~GRIM~

A
bhan’s folk make us welcome. Food, drink, a spot by the fire. The old woman’s been sleeping. Don’t expect her to come out, but after supper she does, and the folk settle her on a pile of bedding, with Emer on one side and me on the other. Good ale, roast meat, music too – a whistle, a bodhran, a fiddle, a little harp. Some of the lads and lasses dance. The rain holds off, only a drop here and there. Feels like the place knows there’s a party and doesn’t want to spoil it.

I can breathe again. No need to race off south. She’s coming home. Going to sort it all out. I hope. She doesn’t like being wrong; doesn’t like folk to tell her so. Doesn’t like being stopped in her tracks. Mathuin, his crime, burning her man and her little one, that’s so vile I can hardly think about it. But her man, Cass, he wouldn’t want her taking Mathuin on all by herself. If he was here, he’d tell her getting herself killed won’t bring him and Brennan back. All it’ll do is give Mathuin another victory. Not something I can tell her. Deep down, she knows. But sometimes, when the past catches up, you just can’t stop yourself.

The old woman tells the story, and an odd one it is. A couple of fellows take a herd of pigs into Dreamer’s Wood to forage. This is before the time when folk know the place is dangerous. Before they know strange things can happen there if a body isn’t watchful. So, while the pigs roam about, the two fellows stop by the pool to eat their bread and cheese. It’s a warm day and they start to feel sleepy. One of them says what a pretty spot it is, sun coming down between the leaves, dragonflies over the water, birds calling up above. The other one says
Yes, isn’t it?
Then there’s a great crashing and smashing on the bank above the water, and in falls their prize boar, that was going to make their fortune someday. It’s gone in deep, and it hasn’t come up.

I’ll go in
, says the first man.
No, I’ll go in, I’m a better swimmer
, says his brother.
You stay here and make sure none of the others follow.
He jumps in and swims out to the spot where the boar has sunk without a trace, and he dives down to find it. The first brother waits and waits, pacing along the bank and back again, thinking they’re drowned, his brother and the pig both. Then up they pop, the two of them, swim back to the shore and scramble out in a spot where the bank’s lower.

Seems like a happy ending for all concerned. But no; something’s wrong. The brother who went in the water can’t talk anymore. Opens his mouth and all that comes out is grunting sounds. And the pig’s scared out of its wits, standing on the shore shivering and shaking. Some of the sows wander over to take a look, sniff the boar and back off quick. The first brother has to lead his brother home by the arm, the fellow’s so confused. And the swine are acting terrified, jumping around and squealing. None of them wants to be anywhere near the boar.

By the time the old lady gets to this part of the story, Blackthorn and me are eating up every word. Just as well most of these folk won’t know the tale of how Ciar drowned in Dreamer’s Pool, or they might be putting two and two together the way we are. Emer knows; we’ll have to warn her not to talk.

Well, the tale goes, everyone thinks the second brother has lost his wits. They think falling into Dreamer’s Pool has turned him crazy. Nobody thinks much about the pig. A pig’s a pig, after all. Seems the boar can’t do what he’s supposed to do with the sows anymore. But he can provide a midwinter feast for the whole village. So he’s put in a sty by himself and fattened up.

Villagers think it’s a bit odd the way the first brother goes and talks to the boar every day, as if it was his best friend. Even odder the way the boar seems to be listening. Seems both brothers had their wits addled that day. Word goes around that nobody’s to set foot in Dreamer’s Pool. The water’s cursed. A fey place.

One day, around dusk, the first brother takes the second brother, the half-wit, by the hand and leads him out to the sty where the boar’s being kept. He opens the gate and lets the pig out, and the three of them walk all the way to Dreamer’s Wood. The moon’s full and by the time they get there the pool’s shining with a strange light, so you can almost see the magic.

How’s he going to do it? Doesn’t want to set foot in the water himself, somehow has to get the two of them in. The boar understands what he wants; it wades in straight away, then swims to deep water, a big speckled bulk in the moonlight. But the second brother, he doesn’t want to go in. Scared stiff. Plants his feet on the shore and pulls away from his brother as hard as he can, once he sees what’s happening.

First brother goes in up to his ankles, praying that he won’t be changed. Calls his brother the way he used to call the boar.
Hoooo-piggy-piggy! Hooooo-piggy-piggy!

Second brother shivers and shakes. Tight as a bowstring in his brother’s grip. Won’t go in.

First brother’s got a secret weapon. He fishes it out of his pocket. Throws it out into the pool, into the deep water. Lump of fresh cheese. His boar would do anything for cheese.

Second brother runs forward, snorting. He’s in to his ankles, his knees, his hips. He’s diving under, he’s gone.

First brother backs up onto the shore, checking his feet to make sure they haven’t turned into trotters or something worse. Waits with his heart in his mouth. Nobody’s told him this will work. It’s just the only thing he can think of to set this right. You can’t eat your own brother for the midwinter feast.

Long wait. He’s thinking they’ve both drowned, and he’ll get charged with murder, when there’s a thrashing and a splashing out there and ah! There’s the boar swimming back to shore and oh! There’s the second brother coming after, gasping out,
Morrigan’s curse, it’s freezing in here!

The boar gets out first, shakes himself, rolls around in the dirt a bit, snuffles and grunts as pigs do. The brother comes next, and the first thing he does is hug his brother and say
Thank you, Brother, thank you! Oh gods, I’m never setting foot in this place again as long as I live!

First brother gets out the rest of the cheese from his pocket and gives it to the boar, and they all walk home. He doesn’t put the boar back in the fattening sty, but out in the field with the sows, who greet him like a long lost hero. By the next day, that boar’s doing what he’s supposed to do with the ladies, and folk start talking about roasting a sheep for the midwinter feast. As for the second brother’s sudden return to himself, everyone welcomes it, but nobody talks about it. The brothers don’t tell the whole story to many. Only the local wise woman, and their mother, and later their wives. But after that day, folk go carefully in Dreamer’s Wood. And they make sure they never set foot – or trotter – in the water of Dreamer’s Pool.

It’s a good tale, if odd, and the old lady tells it well. Has to stop and cough now and then, and folk wait for her to take a drink and collect herself. Sounds too poorly to be out of bed. But it’s plain she wants to be here by the fire, family all around, sharing the story. Comes to me that if I was dying, this is how I’d like to go. Love, music, family, tales. Not much chance of that.

Blackthorn’s been looking at me on and off during the story, and me at her, both of us trying to work out if it’s any help to us. Later on, when the travelling folk are abed and the fire’s died down, we talk about it. They’ve moved things around to make space for us in a cart. Given us blankets. Rain’s come at last, so we can’t sleep beside the fire.

‘Looks as if our theory’s right,’ Blackthorn says. ‘Maid and mistress changing bodies when they went into Dreamer’s Pool.’

‘Why would she tell that story right now? Isn’t that a bit odd?’

‘I asked her to tell it. When she said she knew the last wise woman, the one before me. I knew there was an old tale about the pool, something about pigs, but nobody else remembered it. Grim, this isn’t much help. Maybe it shows that Ciar and Flidais switched over. But one of them drowned. Taking Flidais for a nice little swim in Dreamer’s Pool can’t bring the dead girl back. As for odd, this is no odder than Conmael telling you I’d be at Silverlake. How could he know what I’d do?’

‘Knows you better than you think. That’d be my guess. Knew you’d want to see Ness again before you left. And Emer.’

Too dark to see Blackthorn’s face, but I bet she’s grimacing at that. ‘I’m not the good person you think I am, Grim. I’m a messy tangle of doubt and hate and anger and bitterness. If Conmael thinks he can make me into something different, he doesn’t know me at all.’

I don’t say anything. She’s got it wrong. But no point telling her that. She won’t believe me.

‘Grim?’

‘Mm?’

‘We need a plan. It’s not long until full moon and the prince’s council. And after that they’ll be riding off to their wedding and it will be too late. But pushing Flidais into Dreamer’s Pool isn’t going to achieve anything, even supposing we could convince her to go back over there. What do we do? Tell the prince the story we heard tonight and say we can’t do anything more? Tell him Flidais and Mhairi lied to me? Confront Flidais with what we suspect? None of those will do any good. Maybe we should suggest he marries her anyway, since the woman of his dreams is dead.’

I’m thinking hard. ‘You could ask Conmael,’ I say. ‘Since he seems to know all sorts of things he shouldn’t know. He might have the answer, if there is one.’

‘A pox on Conmael,’ says Blackthorn, so quiet the rain nearly swallows it. ‘We’re solving this ourselves. We need to talk to someone who was there that day, when Ciar was drowned.’

‘You were there.’

‘Not at first. By the time I reached the pool she was lying dead on the shore. I want to know exactly how it happened. We’re missing something, and it’s not pigs and cheese.’

‘Couldn’t you ask Flidais’s ladies? Not Mhairi, the other ones?’

I remembered them weeping and wailing over Ciar’s body. ‘I don’t think they’d be very helpful. Besides, there’s always the chance one of them would tell Flidais or Mhairi that I’d been asking questions again.’

‘The guards,’ I say. ‘Lady Flidais’s men-at-arms. Not the friendliest bunch, but I know them now. Think I could get one of them to tell me the tale. Young Eoin, he talks about it sometimes. Scared him. He’s the one went into the water to fish Ciar out that day. Probably lucky he came out a man and not a newt or a frog.’ Morrigan’s britches, the more I think about this, the odder it gets.

‘That’s your job for tomorrow, then,’ Blackthorn says. ‘The start of a plan. Ask him, but don’t be too eager, we don’t want word to get back to Flidais that we’re poking around again.’

‘And your job?’

‘Convincing the lady that I still believe her lies. Playing for time, until you bring me an answer.’

Next morning we take Storm back to Scannal’s. I tell the miller I found his horse wandering over Silverlake way, and it was too late to bring him home safely. Scannal’s a bit surprised, as you’d expect, but he seems all right with it.

Turns out I can’t talk to Eoin that day, or the one after, because Domnall’s organised some kind of training to keep the lads from Cloud Hill busy, and they don’t come in from that until supper time. Can’t talk about it after supper in the men’s quarters. Too many of them around, no privacy, can’t take him aside without drawing attention. And then I’m on duty.

Stroke of luck on the third day. I’m working at the cottage, slapping limewash on the inside walls of the lean-to, when Eoin and Seanan – that’s the fellow whose skull I nearly broke for him – turn up asking if I want help. Seems Domnall’s given them the day off. Every time something useful happens now, I ask myself if Conmael’s behind it. Stupid. Luck, that’s all this is.

Seanan takes over the limewash, and I go outside with Eoin to start on a new drain. Planning to do most of the digging myself, and get him talking while I work. We mark out the spot with sticks and twine, fetch a couple of spades from the outhouse. Ground’s sodden. It’ll be a muddy job.

We chat about the training they’ve been doing with Domnall. It’s tired the men out but they’re happier. Keeping busy suits them. We talk about the weather, which is dry today, so far at least. Eoin says he’s noticed some big trees are down in the wood, must’ve fallen on that night of wind and heavy rain. He says it looks as if they might stay where they lie, if what he’s heard about Dreamer’s Wood is right. So, easy as easy, we get around to what I want him to talk about.

‘Why’s that?’ I ask.

He leans on his spade, takes a quick look over his shoulder, up toward the wood. ‘Nobody likes the place. Don’t know how you can live so close. There’s a strange feeling about it. As if anything might jump out and grab a fellow.’

‘Mm,’ I say, digging my spade in. ‘There’s a few old tales about the wood. That pool, too. Must’ve been hard for you when the girl – what was her name, Ciar? – had her accident. Heard you tried to save her. Bit of a hero.’

‘Just doing my job. Trying to keep the womenfolk safe. I can’t understand how she drowned so quick. Soon as we saw she was in trouble, I went straight in. And I swim fast. But she was gone by the time I reached her.’

‘Did your best.’ I wait a bit, then say, ‘Seems odd, Lady Flidais wanting to go swimming. Nearly at Winterfalls and all.’

‘Lady Flidais is not your usual sort of lady. Gets these odd ideas sometimes. Folk at Cloud Hill are used to it. For all her fancies, she’s a good lass, kind and thoughtful. Or was.’

I keep on digging.

‘Funny, she never said thank you. For me trying to save Ciar. Not a word. Not like her at all, she used to make a point of thanking us for every little thing, knew all our names and our wives’ names and how many children we have and where we all come from. Sweet girl, not what you’d think a chieftain’s daughter would be like. What happened that day – it’s sort of soured her. She doesn’t seem to care anymore.’ His cheeks go pink. He gives me a sideways look. ‘Shouldn’t have said that. Disrespectful. But . . . it can be hard here. The fellows are restless, you’ll have seen it. Worried about Lord Cadhan, wanting to get home. And not happy with . . . you know.’