‘Who are you, and what is your purpose here?’ demanded my father. ‘Speak now, for silence will bring you no good, that I promise. We have no welcome but death for your kind, for we know of but one intention you can have in our lands. Who sent you here?’
The young man drew himself up, jerking contemptuously on the ropes that tied his hands tight behind his back. He spat with stunning accuracy at Father’s feet. Instantly, one captor tightened the rope, twisting his arms harder, and the other used the full force of a gauntleted fist across the prisoner’s face, leaving a red weal on mouth and cheek. Resentment and fury blazed from the young man’s eyes, but he set his lips grimly and remained silent. Father rose to his feet.
‘This exhibition is no sight for ladies, and has no place in this hall of celebration,’ he said. ‘It is, perhaps, time to retire.’ He swept a dismissing glance around the hall, managing somehow to thank and farewell his guests in an instant. ‘Men, hold yourselves in readiness for an early departure. It seems our venture can no longer wait for full moon. Meanwhile, we shall see what this unwelcome visitor has to tell us; let my captains come to me, and all others depart. My guests, I regret this untimely end to our feast.’
The household, in an instant, snapped back into campaign mode. Servants appeared; flasks, goblets and platters disappeared. Eilis and her ladies made a swift departure to their quarters, with Seamus not long after, and soon there were left just Father and a handful of his most trusted men. Somewhere in the midst of it all, the captive was dragged out, still silent in his blazing rage. If instructions were given to his guards, I missed them.
And in the darkened hall, Finbar and myself, one on each side, blending into the shadows as both of us knew well how to do. I could not explain why I stayed, but the pattern was already forming that would shape our destinies, had I but known it.
‘… already here, so close; this means they have intelligence enough of our positions to pose a real threat to …’
‘… eradicate them, but quickly, before the information …’
‘It’s imperative that he talks.’ This was Father, his voice authoritative. ‘Tell them that. And it must be tonight, for speed is essential in this exercise. We move out at dawn. Tell your men to sleep while they can, then check all for readiness.’ He turned to one of the older men. ‘You will supervise the interrogation. And make sure he’s kept alive. Such a captive could prove valuable as a hostage, after he’s served his purpose. Clearly this is no ordinary foot soldier. He may even be kin to Northwoods. Tell them to tread carefully.’
The man nodded assent and left the hall, and the others returned to their planning. I felt a little sorry for Liam – only just engaged, and he was off campaigning already. Maybe life was like that if you were a man, but it did seem rather unfair.
‘Sorcha!’ A whisper behind me almost made me cry out and reveal my hiding place. Finbar tugged at my sleeve, drawing me silently outside into the courtyard.
‘Don’t creep up on me like that!’ I hissed. His fingers on my lips silenced me quickly, and not until we were around the corner and he had checked carefully that nobody was within earshot did he speak.
‘I need you to help me,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t want to ask you, but I can’t do this alone.’
‘Do what?’ My interest was caught immediately, even though I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.
‘We can’t do much now,’ he said, ‘but we might get him away by morning, if you can give me what I need.’
‘What?’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Poison,’ said Finbar. He was leading me quickly through the archway to the gardens. Both of us had the ability to move fast and silently over any sort of terrain. It came of growing up half wild. We had, in fact, a variety of unusual skills.
Once we were in the stillroom, and both outer and inner doors bolted, I made Finbar sit down and explain. He didn’t want to; his face had that stubborn expression it sometimes took on when the truth was painful or hurtful, but had to be told. One thing neither of us ever learned was the skill of lying.
‘You’ll have to explain,’ I said. ‘You can’t just say poison and then stop. Anyway, I can tell what you’re thinking. I’m twelve and a half now, Finbar; I’m old enough to be trusted.’
‘I do trust you, Sorcha. It’s not that. It’s just that if you help me now, you’ll be at risk, and besides, it’s …’ He was twisting the end of his hair with his fingers again. He shut his words off, but I was tuned to his thoughts, and for a moment he forgot to shield them. In the darkness of the quiet room I caught a terrifying glimpse of a glowing brazier, and mangled, burning flesh, and I heard a man screaming. I wrenched myself back, shaking. Our eyes met in the horror of our shared vision.
‘What sort of poison?’ I asked unsteadily, my hands fumbling for tinder to light a candle.
‘Not to kill. A draught strong enough to send a man to sleep for the morning. Enough of it to doctor four men; and tasting fair, so they will take it in a tankard of ale and not know different. And I need it before sunrise, Sorcha. They take their breakfast early, and the guard changes before mid-morning. It’s little enough time. You know how to make such a potion?’
In the dark, I nodded reluctantly. We two need not see each other, save in the mind’s eye, to reach an understanding.
‘You’re going to have to tell me,’ I said slowly. ‘Tell me what this is for. It’s him, isn’t it? That prisoner?’
The candle flared and I shielded it with my hand. It was very late now, well past midnight, but outside there were subdued sounds of activity, horses being moved, weapons sharpened, stores loaded; they were preparing already for a dawn departure.
‘You saw him,’ said Finbar with quiet intensity. ‘He’s only a boy.’
‘He was older than you,’ I couldn’t resist pointing out. ‘Sixteen at least, I thought.’
‘Old enough to die for a cause,’ said my brother, and I could feel how tight stretched he was, how his determination to make things right drove him. If Finbar could have changed the world by sheer effort of will, he would have done it.
‘What do you want me to do? Put this Briton to sleep?’ By the dim light of the candle I was scanning my shelves; the packet I wanted was well concealed.
‘He held his tongue. And will continue to do so, if I read him right. That will cost him dearly. Briton or no, he deserves his chance at freedom,’ said Finbar soberly. ‘Your draught can buy that for him. There’s no way to save him the pain; we’re too late for that.’
‘What pain?’ Maybe I knew the answer to my own question, but my mind refused to put together the clues I’d been given, refused to accept the unacceptable.
‘The draught is for his guards.’ Finbar spoke reluctantly. Plainly, he wished me to know as little as possible. ‘Just make it up; I’ll do the rest.’
My hands found the packet almost automatically: nightshade, used in moderation and well mixed with certain other herbs, would produce a sound slumber with few ill effects. The trick lay in getting the dose just right; too much, and your victim would never wake. I stood still, the dried berries on the stone slab before me.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Finbar. ‘Why are you still holding back? Sorcha, I need to know you will do this. And I must go. There are other matters to attend to.’
He was already on his feet, eager to leave, his mind starting to map out the next part of his strategy.
‘What will they do to him, Finbar?’ Surely not – surely not what I had seen, in that flash of vision that had sickened me so.
‘You heard Father. He said, keep him alive. Let me worry about it, Sorcha. Just make up the draught. Please.’
‘But how could Father –’
‘It becomes easy,’ Finbar said. ‘It’s in the training; the ability to see your enemy as something other than a real man. He is a lesser breed, defined by his beliefs – you learn to do with him what you will, and bend him to your purpose.’ He sensed my horror. ‘It’s all right, Sorcha,’ he said. ‘We can save this one, you and I. Just do as I ask, and leave the rest to me.’
‘What are you going to do? And what if Father finds out?’
‘Too many questions! We don’t have much time left – can’t you just do it?’
I turned to face him, arms folded around myself. Truth to tell, I was shivering, and not just from cold.
‘I know you don’t lie, Finbar. I have no choice but to believe what you’ve told me. But I’ve never poisoned anyone before. I’m a healer.’
I looked up at his silent face, the wide, mobile mouth, the clear grey eyes which always seemed intent on a future path that held no uncertainty whatever.
‘It happens,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s part of war. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they keep silent. Often they die. Just occasionally they escape.’
‘You’d better go and get on with it, then,’ I said in a voice that sounded like somebody else’s. My hands sought a sharp knife and began automatically to slice and chop the ingredients of my sleeping draught. Henbane. Witch’s bonnet. The small blue fungi some call devil spawn. Nightshade, not too much. ‘Go on, Finbar.’
‘Thanks.’ There was a flash of that smile, the generous smile that lit up his whole face. ‘We make a good team. A foolproof team. How can we fail?’
He hugged me for a moment, just long enough for me to feel the tension of his body, the rapid beat of his heart. Then he was gone, slipping away into the shadows as silent as a cat.
It was a long night. Awareness that the slightest error could make me a murderer kept me alert, and before daybreak the sleeping draught was ready, corked safely in a small stone bottle convenient to conceal in the palm of the hand, and the stillroom was immaculately clean, every trace of my activity gone. Finbar came for me as the sound of jingling harnesses and hurrying, booted feet increased out of doors.
‘I think you’d better do this part as well,’ he whispered. ‘They’ll be less likely to notice you.’ I remembered, vaguely, that he was supposed to be joining the campaign this time – had not Father decreed that it would be so? Then I was too busy to think, slipping silently to the kitchens on my brother’s whispered instructions, edging behind and between servants and men at arms who were snatching a last bite to eat, preparing ration packs, filling wine and water bottles. Fat Janis, Finbar had said, go to where Fat Janis has her iron pot on the stove. If they’ve been working at night, she’ll take them mulled ale first thing in the morning. Her special brew. They say it has some interesting side effects. She carries it over to them herself; and maybe gets favours in return. What sort of favours? I’d asked him. Never mind, said Finbar. Just make sure she doesn’t see you.
There were a couple of things I was good at. One was potions and poisons, and another was being quiet and staying unseen when it suited me. It was no trouble adding the draught to the mulled ale; Janis turned her back for an instant, laughing at some wisecrack by the tallest man at arms as he crammed a last piece of sausage in his mouth and made for the door, buckling his sword belt as he went. I was finished and gone before she turned back, and she never saw me. Easy, I thought as I slipped towards the door. Must have been fifteen people there, and not one of them spotted me. I was nearly outside when something made me look back. Straight across the kitchen, meeting my startled eyes full on, was my brother Conor. He stood in the far corner of the room, half in shadow, a list of some sort in one hand and a quill poised in the other. His assistant, back turned, was packing stores into a saddle bag. I was frozen in shock: from where he stood, my brother must have seen everything. How could I not have noticed him before? Paralysed between the instinct to bolt for cover, and the anticipated call to account for myself, I hesitated on the threshold. And Conor dropped his gaze to his writing and continued his list as if I had been invisible. I was too relieved to worry about a possible explanation, and fled like a startled rabbit, trembling with nerves. Finbar was nowhere to be seen. I made for the safest bolt-hole I could think of, the ancient stable building where my youngest brother, Padriac, kept his menagerie of waifs and strays. There I found a warm corner amongst the well seasoned straw, and the elderly donkey who had prior claim shifted grudgingly, making room for me against her broad back. Hungry, cold, confused and exhausted, I found escape, for the time being, in sleep.
Our story cannot be told without some mention of Father Brien. I said he was a hermit, and that he would exchange a little learning for a loaf or a bag of apples. That was true; but there was a lot more to Father Brien than met the eye. It was said he’d once been a fighting man, and had more than a few Viking skulls to his credit; it was said that he’d come from over the water, all the way from Armorica, to put his skills with pen and ink to work in the Christian house of prayer at Kells; but he’d been living alone a long time, and he was old, fifty at least, a small, spare, grey-haired man whose face had the calm acceptance of one whose spirit has remained whole through a lifetime of trials.
A trip to Father Brien’s was an adventure in itself. He lived up on the hillside south of the lake, and we took our time getting there, because that was part of the fun. There was the bit where you crossed the stream on a rope, swinging wildly between the great oaks. Cormack fell in once; fortunately, it was summer. There was the part where you had to scramble up a rock chimney, which took its toll on knees and elbows, not to speak of the holes it made in your clothing. There were elaborate games of hide and seek. In fact, you could get there in half the time on a cart track, but our way was better. Sometimes Father Brien was from home, his hearth cold, his floor swept bare and clean. According to Finbar, who somehow knew these things, the holy father would climb right to the top of Ogma’s Peak, a fair way for an old man, and stand there still as a stone, looking out eastwards to the sea and beyond it, towards the land of the Britons; or away to the Islands. You could not see the Islands from this vantage point; but ask any man or woman where they were, and you would see their finger point with complete confidence to the east, and a little south. It was as if they had a map imprinted on their spirit, that neither time nor distance could erase.
When the hermit was at home, he was happy to talk to us in his quiet, measured way, and he bartered learning for the necessities of life. He knew many different tongues; his knowledge of herb lore was sound, too, and he could set bones with skill. From him I got many of the rudiments of my craft, but my obsession with the healing properties of plants drove me further, and I surpassed him soon enough in this.
There were times when we helped each other in tending to the sick; he had the strength to wrench a joint back into place, or strap a broken limb; I had the skill to brew a draught or prepare a lotion just right for its purpose. Between us we helped many, and people grew used to me, still a child, peering into their eyes or down their throats, and prescribing some nostrum. My remedies worked, and that was all people really cared about.
There’d been some that were hard to help. When the Fair Folk got to you, there wasn’t much hope. There was a girl once, who’d lost her lover to the queen under the hill. Out courting in the forest at night, silly things, and strayed into a toadstool ring while their thoughts were elsewhere. The queen took him, but not her. All she saw was the red plume of his cap disappearing into a crack in the rocks, and their high voices laughing. When the girl got to us, her mind was half gone, and neither Father Brien’s prayers nor my sleeping draughts gave her much peace. He did his best, treating spellbound lover and mazed wanderer with the same commitment as he gave the cuts and burns of farmer and blacksmith. His hands were strong, his voice gentle, his manner entirely practical. He listened much and said little.
He made no attempt to impose his religion on us, though there was plenty of opportunity. He understood that our household followed the old ways, even if the observance of them had slipped somewhat since the death of our mother. From time to time I heard him discussing with Conor the ways in which the two faiths differed, and what common ground they might have, for he shared Conor’s love of debate. Sometimes I wondered if Father Brien’s tolerant views had been the cause of his departure from the house of prayer at Kells, for it was said that in other parts of Erin the spread of the Christian faith had been hastened with sword and fire, and that now the old beliefs were little more than a memory. Certainly, Father Brien never sought to convert us, but he did like to say a few prayers before each campaign departure, for whatever he thought of my father’s purpose, there could be no harm in sending the men on their way with a blessing.
The clank of metal awoke me. I got groggily to my feet, picking straw out of my hair. The donkey had her nose deep in the feed trough.
‘You missed everything,’ observed Padriac, busily forking fresh straw into the stall. ‘Finbar’s going to be in trouble again. Nowhere to be found, this morning. Father was highly displeased. Took Cormack instead. You should have seen the grin on his face. Cormack, that is, not Father. I’ll eat my hat if I ever see him crack a smile. Anyway, off they went, after the old man said his paternosters and his amens, and now we can get back to normal. Until next time. I wouldn’t want to be Finbar, when Father catches up with him.’
He put his fork away and moved to check on the owl, tethered on a perch in a dark corner of the barn. Her wing was close to mending and he hoped to release her into the wild soon. I admired his persistence and patience, even as I averted my eyes from the live mice he had ready for her meal.
Finbar had disappeared. But it was not unusual for him to go off into the forest, or down to the lake, and nobody commented on his absence. I had no idea where he had gone, and did not raise the subject for fear of drawing attention to myself, or to him and our nocturnal activities. I was worried, too, about my poison, and it was with some relief that I saw the four guards emerge, that first afternoon, to sit in the courtyard clutching their heads, yawning widely and generally looking sorry for themselves. By supper time the word had got around that the prisoner had escaped, slipped away somehow between Colum’s departure and the change of guards, and there were many and varied theories as to how such an unthinkable thing could have happened. A man was despatched after Lord Colum, to give him the bad news.
‘The Briton won’t get far,’ said Donal sourly. ‘Not in the state he was in. Not in this forest. Hardly worth going after him.’
On the second day, Eilis and her retinue left for home, with their own six men and two of ours as escort. The weather was turning; gusts of cool wind whipped the skirts of the ladies and the cloaks of their men at arms, and scudding clouds raced across the sun. Conor, as the eldest son still home and therefore de facto master of the house, bid Eilis a formal farewell and invited her to return when things settled down. Eilis thanked him prettily for the hospitality, though in my eyes it had been somewhat lacking. I wondered how long she’d have to wait to see Liam again, and whether she minded very much. Then I forgot her, for Finbar appeared at supper the next night, as if he’d never been away. Padriac, absorbed in his own pursuits, had hardly noticed his brother’s absence; Conor made no comment. I stared at Finbar across the table, but his thoughts were concealed from me and his eyes were intent on his plate. His hands breaking bread, lifting a goblet, were steady and controlled. I waited restlessly until the meal was over, and Conor stood, signalling permission to leave. I followed Finbar outside, slipping behind him like a smaller shadow, and confronted him in the long walk under the willows.
‘What happened? Where were you?’
‘Where do you think?’
‘Taking that boy somewhere, that’s what I think. But where?’
He was quiet for a bit, probably working out how little he could get away with telling me.
‘Somewhere safe. It’s best if you don’t know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Think about it, Sorcha. Even you have put yourself at risk now. If Father, or Liam, found out what we’ve done, they would be … well, angry is an understatement.’
‘All we did was save someone from being hurt,’ I said, knowing there was far more to it than that.
‘They would see it as a betrayal. Stabbing your own kin in the back. Setting free a spy. To them it’s all black and white, Sorcha.’
‘Whose side are you on anyway?’
‘There are no sides, not really. It’s more a case of where you come from. Don’t the Britons come here to seize our lands, learn our secrets, destroy our way of life? To help them is to go against kinship and brotherhood and all that’s sacred. That’s the way most people see it. Maybe it’s the way we should see it.’
After a long time I said, ‘But life is sacred, isn’t it?’
Finbar chuckled. ‘You should have been a brithem, Sorcha. You always find the argument I can’t answer.’
I raised my brows at him. I, with my bare feet and straggly hair, a maker of judgements? I found it hard enough to tell the difference between right and wrong sometimes.
We both fell silent. Finbar leaned back against a tree, resting his head against the rough bark, his eyes closed. His dark figure blended into the shadows as if he were part of them.
‘So why did you do it?’ I asked after a while. He took some time to answer. It was getting cold, and an evening dampness was in the air. I shivered.
‘Here,’ said Finbar, opening his eyes and putting his old jacket around my shoulders. He was still wearing the same shirt he’d had on that night. Was it really only three days ago?
‘It’s as if everything is part of a pattern,’ he said eventually. ‘Almost as if I’d had no choice, as if it was all set out for me, on a sort of map of my life. I think Mother saw what was ahead for all of us, maybe not exactly, but she had an idea of where we were going.’ He touched the amulet that hung always around his neck. ‘And yet, as well as that, it’s all about choices. Wouldn’t it be easier for me to be one of the boys, to earn Father’s love with my sword and bow – I could do it – take my place at his side and defend our lands and our honour? It would be good to have recognition, and fellowship, and some kind of pride. But I choose this path instead. Or it is chosen for me.’
‘So where’s the boy then? Did he get away?’
As I have said, Finbar and I had two ways of talking. One was with words, like everyone else. The second was for us alone; it was a silent skill, the transfer of image or thought or feeling straight from one mind to the other. He used it now, showing me Father Brien’s cart, loaded with bundles and boxes, making its slow way along the rutted track to the hermit’s cave. I felt wincing pain at each jolt of the cart, though Father Brien held the old horse to a stately walk. A wheel rim got stuck; the good Father’s young helper jumped down to lever it back onto the track. There was a spring in this young man’s step that revealed him as my brother even while the hood concealed his face, for Finbar always walked thus, with a bouncing stride and his toes out. Then an image of the two of them, outside the cave, lifting one long bundle with special care from the cart. A gleam of gold amidst the stained wrappings. That was all; the shutters closed.
‘He was in no state to go any further,’ said Finbar flatly. ‘But he’s in good hands. That’s all you need to know – no,’ as I made to interrupt, ‘I won’t have you involved any more. I’ve put enough people at risk already. It’s finished, for you at least.’
And that, indeed, was all I could get out of him that night. He was becoming alarmingly adept at closing his mind to me, and neither by pleading nor by trying to read him at an unguarded moment could I learn any more. However, his prediction proved to be entirely wrong.
There followed a quieter time. With Father and the older boys away, we fell back into our old routine, although the guard had increased around the keep and the enclosure. Conor controlled the household affairs with calm competence, arbitrating when two cottagers came to blows over an errant flock of geese, overseeing the autumn brewing and baking, the culling of yearling calves, the salting of meat for winter. For Finbar, Padriac and me it was a good time. Donal still put the boys through their paces with sword and bow, and they still spent time with Conor, following more learned pursuits. I usually slipped into these lessons, thinking a little scholarship would do me no harm, and that I might pick up something interesting. Each of us could read and write thanks to Father Brien’s kindness and patience. It was not until much later that I realised how unusual this was, for most households were lucky if they had a scribe who knew sufficient of basic letters to set down a simple inventory. For more complex tasks, such as drawing up contracts between neighbours, one must seek out a monk, or a druid, according to one’s own persuasion. Druids were hard to find, and harder still to pin down. We owed a great deal to Father Brien’s openness of mind. We knew the runes, and we could reckon, and make a map, and had a fine repertoire of tales both old and new. In addition, we could sing, and play the whistle, and some of us the small harp. We’d had a bard once, that wintered over; that was a while ago, but he taught us the rudiments, and we had an instrument that had been Mother’s, a fine little harp with carvings of birds on it. Padriac, with his genius for finding out and fixing, replaced the broken pegs and restrung it, and we played it in an upper room, where Father couldn’t hear us. Without asking, we knew this reminder of her would be unwelcome.
Padriac’s owl got better, and was eager to be gone. Padriac had waited until the wing was quite mended, and then one day at dusk we went out into the forest to set her free. There was a grin of pure delight on my brother’s face as he released her from his glove for the last time and watched her spread wide those great grey-white wings and spiral up, up, into the tree tops. I did not tell him I had seen the tears in his eyes.
Finbar was quiet. I felt he had plans, but he chose not to share them with me. Instead, between his bouts of archery and horsemanship, his scribing and reckoning, he went for long solitary walks, or could be found sitting in his favourite tree, or up on the roof deep in impenetrable thought. I left him alone; when he wanted to talk, I’d be there. I busied myself with the gathering of berries and leaves, the distillery and decoction, the drying and crushing and storing away, in preparation for winter’s ills.
I have spoken of the keep where my family lived, a stark stone tower set deep in the forest, its walls pierced here and there by narrow window slits. Its courtyard, its hedges, its kitchen garden did little to soften the grim profile. But there was more to Sevenwaters than this. Without our walled fields, our thatched barns to house herd and flock over winter, our gardens with their rows of carrots, parsnips and beans, our mill and our strawrope granaries, we could not have survived in such isolation. So, while we felled as few trees as we could, and then only with the deepest respect, the forest had been cleared behind the keep and for some distance to the north, to make room for farm and small settlement. There was no need for ditch or wall here, to keep out marauders. There was no need for escape tunnel or secret chamber, although we did make use of caves to store our butter and cheese against the winter, when the cows would not give milk. Here and there, at other points in the vast expanse of forest, several small settlements existed, all within my Father’s túath. They paid tribute, and received protection. All were people of Sevenwaters, whose fathers and grandfathers had dwelt there before them. They might venture out beyond the boundaries sometimes, to a market perhaps or to ride with my father’s campaigns, when the services of a good smith or farrier were required. That was all right, for they were forest folk and knew the way. But no stranger ever came in without an escort and a blindfold. Those foolish enough to try, simply disappeared. The forest protected her own better than any fortress wall.
The folk of our own settlement, those that worked Lord Colum’s home farm and tended his beasts, had their small dwellings on the edge of the open ground, where a stream splashed down to turn the mill wheel. Every day I would make my way along the track to these cottages to tend to the sick. The crossbred wolfhound, Linn, was my constant companion, for on Cormack’s departure she had attached herself to me, padding along quietly behind me wherever I went. At any possible threat, a voice raised in anger, a pig crossing the track in search of acorns, she would place herself on an instant between me and the danger, growling fiercely. Autumn was advancing fast, and the weather had turned bleak. Rain ran down the thatch, turning the path into a quagmire. Conor had overseen some repairs on the most ancient of the cottages, a precarious structure of wattle and clay, and Old Tom, who lived there with his tribe of children and grandchildren, had come out to wring my hand with gratitude when I passed by earlier.