Son of the Shadows (34 page)

"Oh, Eamonn. What good is it to either of us for me to answer that question? It's all changed.

Everything is changed. Now go, please. There's no point in talking anymore. It's happened; no shedding of blood can alter it."

"I'll need time." This, too, surprised me. "Time to come to terms with this."

"So will others," I said wryly. "There are many I have yet to tell. I must ask you again not to speak of this, until . . ."

"Of course I will not. Always, you have had my deepest respect, and you have it still." He gave a stiff little half bow, turned on his heel, and, finally, was gone.

There was a strange supper, full of glances and gestures and unspoken words. Niamh wore a demure gown in a soft, gold-colored fabric, high necked, long sleeved, and she sat mute by her husband as he debated strategies with Liam. She ate little. My mother was absent; my father abstracted. From time to time I caught him watching Niamh and watching Fionn, and there was a grimness in his face that echoed my own thoughts. For once I was not hungry. I had crossed only my first bridge. As for Eamonn, he had been obliged to put in an appearance, as my father had, because an absence might have caused offense.

He drank his wine, and the cup was refilled, and he drank again. A platter of food was set before him and taken away untouched. There were dark thoughts in his eyes.

Next day dawned fair. I was up early, and dressed warmly in an outdoor gown with the gray coat over the top, an inelegant but practical combination. The water in the little bowl was bracingly cold. I went out to find my father. Most of our lambs were born in spring, but some ewes dropped lambs in autumn, and

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when the season was harsh that could be a problem, Iubdan was up in the top pastures, checking his stock with an ancient shepherd and a couple of young lads who acted as the old man's eyes and hands.

There was a very new lamb, upright but tottering, and they were debating whether to take the ewe down to the barn to try to save her or to put her out of her misery then and there.

"Give her a chance at least," I said, coming up behind them. "That young one might be your prize breeding ram in a couple of years. Give her a day or two."

"Dunno. Not rightly." The old man scratched his chin, which bore a sparse bristling of white hairs.

"Wasting your time, maybe."

"Give her a day or two," I said again, as the ewe rolled her guileless eyes at me. Iubdan got up from where he had been squatting beside the stricken animal. "You lads take her down to the barn. You know what to do."

"Aye, we do. Take the skin off the lamb that died, and rub it on this one and try him with the other ewe.

Like as not she'll take him as her own." The lad was eager to demonstrate his knowledge.

"Well, get on with it then," said my father, grinning.

"Father, can you spare a little time?"

"Of course, sweetheart. What is it?"

The three of them, young and old, maneuvered the ewe onto a board and set off down the hill toward the barn. The gnarled old shepherd followed the two lads, with the tiny lamb borne precariously in his arms.

"What's troubling you, Daughter? Is it about Niamh?"

"I'm worried about her, yes. But I've other matters to talk about just now. Very serious matters, Father, that can't wait. You'll be—you'll be more than displeased, I'm afraid."

"Come, sit down here, Liadan. This sounds weighty. It takes a lot to displease me; you know that."

We sat side by side on the drystone wall. From here, the lower reaches of the forest spread down to surround the grim fortress walls of Sevenwaters. The keep was softened by the myriad branches of oak and beech, rowan and birch. Leaves were turning, and the crisp air was clear save for the rising plumes of wood smoke from early cooking fires.

"It'll be a fair morning," said Iubdan.

"The ewe," I blurted out, starting in the middle, "you let her have a couple of days. You could have killed her. Why?"

He thought for a moment. "I'd follow the old man's judgment, normally. He's been a shepherd since before I was born. I did it because you bid me. Maybe the ewe will die, and maybe she won't. Why do you ask?"

"When—when I was away, I killed a man. I-I slit his throat with my knife, and he died. I've never done that before."

My father said not a word. He waited for me to go on.

"It was the only thing to do, you understand? He was dying, he had been left to die, he was in terrible agony, I could not do otherwise. You said once you hoped I would never have to use those skills you

taught me, with knife and bow and staff. Well, I have used them now, and I do not feel the better for it.

And yet, at the time, it was the only choice."

Iubdan nodded. "Was this what you had to tell me?"

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"Only part of it." My throat was suddenly constricted. "There was another man whom I tried to heal. Like the ewe. I insisted on keeping him alive, and he suffered; and in the end he died anyway. I made the wrong choice, but at the time I was so sure."

My father nodded again. "You do what you must. Not every choice can be right. And you cannot be sure yours was wrong. Your mother would say, forces outside yourself have a hand in these things. You are an able healer; if anyone could have saved this fellow, it would have been you. There may have been another reason why this man's life was prolonged."

I said nothing.

"You know," said Iubdan conversationally, "if there's anything I've learned from living among the folk of

Erin all these years, it's that a story's not likely to have just two of anything in it. It's always three.

Three wishes; three dragons. Three men."

I drew a deep breath. "Father, you told me not so long ago that, when it was time for me to wed, I might make my own choice. Do you remember that?"

He waited a moment before he spoke. "This is not what I expected." The sun was climbing higher;

morning light turned his hair to the exact red-gold shade of Niamh's. Autumn red; oak-leaf red.

"But yes, of course I remember."

"I ..." I could not force the words out. "Father, I ..."

"You have met some man you fancy? Perhaps the ancient, ugly pauper whose trustworthy character we once discussed?" He was smiling, but the blue eyes were questioning, intent on my face.

"I must tell it straight, Father, though it will hurt you, and that grieves me. I am expecting a child. I cannot name the child's father, and I will not marry him or any other. No wrong was done to me, no ill deed.

This man is—he is the one I would choose above all others. But I will bear and raise my child alone, for this man will not come to Sevenwaters. I have told Mother and Eamonn. Now I tell you, and I am afraid because—because above all, I do not want to lose your respect. If you lost your faith in me, I might begin to doubt myself. And I cannot afford to do so. I need all my strength for this."

Unlike Eamonn, my father sat still while he absorbed the news. He looked out over the wide reaches of the forest, his expression giving nothing away. He did not ask me to repeat myself.

He did not pace up and down. Finally he asked me, "What did your mother say?"

"That she treasured the child as I do. That she would be here to deliver him with her own hands in spring."

"I see," he said, and there was a grimness in his voice, and a set about his jaw, that told me he was working hard to hold back anger. "I think you must tell me. I think you must give me this man's name.

Niamh's ill-chosen lover at least had the courage to face me and account for himself. Yours, it seems, simply takes what pleases him and moves onto the next opportunity."

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. "You cheapen what was between us," I said, alarmed to be arguing with my father, whom I respected more than anyone in the world. "This was no—no casual liaison, no careless coupling—It was—"

"Remind me, how long was it you were away?" Father asked.

"Stop it! This is all wrong! Oh, what is happening to us that all of us hurt each other and cannot listen anymore!"

There was a little silence, and then he spoke again, very softly.

"Very well," he said. "I have seen the result of Niamh's error, how it has changed her, and that makes me more than uneasy. I will hear you out. Perhaps the man's name is not so important, it
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is his actions I find hard to understand. You said he would not come to Sevenwaters. Why not?

What man would not follow such a woman and seek to keep her as his wife? What man would not wish to know his own son? Unless he is already married, or otherwise unworthy of you. But your judgment is seldom faulty, Daughter."

"He—he did ask me to stay with him, and I said no. There's Mother; I needed to come home.

Then, later, he ... when he found out who I was, he was all too eager to be rid of me." Tears were close, suddenly.

"I don't like the sound of this at all. Was a reason given?"

I hadn't planned to tell him. But it came out anyway. "Something a long way back. When you left Harrowfield. Some sort of wrong he said was done. He said—he said you took away his birthright.

Something like that. Father, you must tell nobody of this, you understand?"

He was frowning. "That's a long time ago. Of what years is this man of yours?"

"Not so old. Around Eamonn's age, maybe younger."

"And he's a Briton?" There was a question in his tone, but I did not reply, for I was not prepared to admit

I did not know the answer. "He could have been little more than an infant when I left Harrowfield,"

Father went on. "This cannot be right, surely."

"You've never talked about that time. Was there anything—did anything happen that might explain what he said? Was any ill done to a child? There is some past evil that bears heavily on him."

Iubdan shook his head. "There were children there, of course, in the household, in the villages, on the farms. But I left my estate in good hands. I made sure all was safe and ordered before I came here. My people were well protected, their future as secure as any can be in these troubled times. Perhaps if I

could speak with him . . ."

"No," I said. "That's not possible."

"Are you ashamed of him? Or of me?"

"Oh, no, Father. Don't even think that. He cannot come here. He lives a life of—of danger and flight.

There is no room in such a life for me or for his child. Best if I just get on with this by myself."

"But you would not marry Eamonn."

"If I cannot have this man, I will have no other."

"Did you tell Niamh?"

"How could I tell her? You've seen how it is with her. She's hardly spoken to me since she came home."

We got up and began to walk slowly down the hill toward the barn. We were silent for a while and then

he said, "Since Niamh's return, I seem unable to reach her, Liadan. She will not see her mother, who longs so much to salve the wounds that were inflicted when Niamh was denied her lover. It is as if another woman has returned in our daughter's place, as if something has turned that shining girl into the merest shadow of herself. I have lost one daughter, and your mother walks a dark pathway. I don't wish to lose you as well."

I slipped my arm around his. "I always intended to stay here. You know that."

"Yes. My little daughter, so skilled in all the domestic arts, always happiest with her own people around her. You are the heart of the household, Liadan. But are you sure this is still all you want?"

I did not reply. My father and I did not lie to each other.

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"What if this man turned up on your doorstep tomorrow and asked you to go with him? How would you answer him?"

If he turned up on my doorstep tomorrow while Eamonn is still here, he'd be lucky to get away with his neck intact

. "I don't know. I don't know what I would do."

We had come out beneath the tree line and could see the whitewashed walls of the barn before us.

"I have a proposal for you, which we'll follow if your mother agrees." Father might have been outlining a plan for building a wall or setting out an orchard. But his eyes were less than tranquil.

"When Aisling goes home, you will accompany her to Sidhe Dubh and stay there while Eamonn is at Tara. Take Niamh with you and make it your task to find out what is amiss with her. I sense a wrong there greater than we know of, something deep and wounding. I have done my best to reach her, but she sees me as her enemy and will not talk to me. It is hard enough for your mother to bear her own weakness and pain without the daily hurt of seeing her daughter thus and being shut out from helping. Your mother said if Niamh will talk to anyone, it will be to you. I'm asking you to do this for me. Just until Fionn returns for her, and then you must come home. You will not wish to linger at Eamonn's house once he comes back. You say you have told him this news already. That must have been hard for both of you. Eamonn is a proud man; he does not suffer losses easily."

"It was horrible."

My father slipped an arm around my shoulders. "Well, then, what do you say?"

"If this is what you wish, I will go." My heart sank at the prospect. I was not sure I wanted to know what was behind Niamh's beautiful, blank eyes. I knew I did not want to visit Eamonn's home, even in his absence.

"You will do this for me and for your mother. In return, I will provide protection for you and for my grandchild. I will make sure Liam knows of this before he leaves for Tara. I will tell Sean and Conor."

"Mother said she would—"

"I will do it. And I will do it in such a way that no questions are asked and no demands made of you.

You are my daughter. You and your infant will be safe here at Sevenwaters for as long as you choose to stay."

"Oh, Father." I put my arms around him and hugged him.

"I will not see you fall into despair, as Niamh has. I, too, broke the rules to have what I wanted, Liadan. I

have never forgotten what I left behind when I came here. But I have never believed, not for a single