Tower of Thorns (30 page)

“There were no jeweled covers in the box,” said Flannan. “Only the sheets of parchment. A few scraps of gold leaf on some of the others, but nothing worth stealing.”

“Thing is,” said Grim, “some fellows, some monks, they mightn't see it that way. This hidey-hole, it could be for one man's precious
things. Precious just to him, I mean. He might have done the writing or the pictures. Set the story down, whatever it is. Could be the work that earned a scribe his job. The picture that showed what was in his heart, hidden away. The story everyone loved to hear, back when he was young.”

There was a silence.

“But what would I know?” he muttered, looking down at his hands.

“Master Flannan,” said Geiléis, “you said this document was old. How old?” There was an edge to her voice; she was desperate, I imagined, for this parchment to contain what she needed: a step-by-step guide to getting the monster out of the tower. Unlikely, in my opinion. But if it was the original tale, it would at least explain why the creature was there in the first place. I had always believed that was the key to driving it away.

“It's difficult to judge,” Flannan said, “but the state of the parchment, the fading of the ink and, above all, the style of script suggest more than a hundred years. It may be closer to two hundred. Its very age makes this a valuable piece, even before we start to consider the contents. It was no wonder Brother Ríordán was reluctant to let it out of his sight. If you want to see it in person, Lady Geiléis, I believe you'll need to come up to St. Olcan's. And even then, it might not be possible. Ríordán might refuse to let the document leave the temporary scriptorium.”

Which, of course, would be out-of-bounds to women. “Since it's in code, there's no value in any of us seeing the original,” I said. “What we need is your deciphered, translated version, as soon as possible. But there is something you could do to help, Geiléis.”

She looked at me, brows lifted. A little muscle twitched in her jaw.

“You have some influence with Father Tomas, I think? You could pay him a visit and mention how useful it would be for Flannan to have access to this particular document for a few days so he can make a copy. I imagine Father Tomas can overrule the head archivist. You
might remind him of the favor you're doing St. Olcan's by letting them have Grim's services while he is a guest in your household. Rethatching a roof is no small task.”

Geiléis narrowed her eyes at me. I stared straight back. “You are a devious woman, Blackthorn,” she said.

“I prefer the term strategic thinker. We're running out of time. We all need to work together. If you imagine I'll be happy to hack my way through the thorn hedge that killed one of your men and wounded another, then climb the tower on my own not knowing what sort of creature I'll find when I reach the top or exactly what I'm supposed to do with it, you most certainly underestimate my good judgment. Let's find out what's in this document, and do so quickly. And while Flannan's deciphering it, and Grim's continuing his very generous work for the monks, I . . .”
I'll be going out into the forest on my own to seek out the little folk and hunt for ogham messages.
“I'll go out as planned to invite the community to the cleansing ritual. We must go ahead with that regardless of this new discovery. After all, the document may prove to be no help at all. Or Flannan may fail to decipher it in time.”

“I'll do my best,” he said with a smile. “I'm confident that I can make some sense of it.”

“Come and tell us the moment you've worked it out,” I said. “I'd like to see your transcription of the original as well as the translation, if you can manage that.” Not that I knew more than a smidgen of Gaulish, but I might spot something he would miss; I'd helped Cass more with his work than anyone knew. “Were there illustrated capitals? Any other decoration?”

“A border. Faded almost to nothing. I'll have a good look tomorrow. I hope I'm right about what this is.”

“Indeed,” said Geiléis. Her voice sounded odd. I glanced at her and was struck by the tight set of her shoulders and the way her fingers were knotted together. Worried, perhaps, that Flannan could not do it by midsummer. Horrified at the thought of having to wait another whole year. Senach moved to pour a cup of ale and set it beside her. She
gathered herself visibly. “Thank you, Senach. We're not doing justice to this fine meal; we should eat. Master Flannan, you'd best stay here tonight. It is too late for a walk back up to St. Olcan's. You'll want to make an early start on the manuscript, of course. But I imagine that will depend on persuading Brother Ríordán to give you the key.”

Flannan grinned. “It will.”

“You can walk up with Grim in the morning,” I suggested. “That would be early enough for anyone.”

“And I will make my own visit later,” said Geiléis, eyeing me. “To have a word with Father Tomas. Not to make bargains or interfere in any way with the workings of the monastery. Simply to point out that this document may be the key to ridding the district of the creature. Which would, of course, open St. Olcan's once more to scholarly visits year-round.”

“Good strategic thinking,” I said. Which was as close as I was prepared to go toward a thank-you. “Flannan, did you tell the brothers where you were going?”

“I did, so nobody will be sending out search parties. I just hope Ríordán hasn't hidden the document away in some spot known only to himself.”

•   •   •

“Grim?”

“Mm?”

“I can tell something's wrong. Badly wrong, I mean, not only an upset stomach and a headache and being tired out. If you want to talk about it, I promise I'll shut up and just listen. And don't say it's nothing and you're fine, because I can see it's not and you're anything but.”

I waited in the darkness awhile, lying still under my blankets.
Wondering about a lot of things. Hoping he would be ready to talk. I hated to see that wounded look on his face.

“Thanks. But no. Sometime, maybe. Not now.”

“If you're sure.”

The only response I got was a grunt as he turned over to face the wall.

“Just don't wait as long as I did,” I said, more to myself than to him.

This time there was only silence.

Grim

M
anage not to bring up my breakfast. An effort. Could have done without Flannan's company—nothing against the fellow, but it's hard enough to make myself go up there at all, without having to pretend nothing's wrong. No easier than yesterday. Makes no difference that I know I can do it now, go to that place and put in a day's work without losing control of myself. Makes no difference that Brother Fergal's been kind to me. Makes it worse, in a way. Brings back the past, sharp as a knife. Hard to look at him without seeing that day all over again, only it's not St. Erc's I see, but St. Olcan's with blood and brains spattered everywhere, and a cat with its head crushed to nothing. Fergal and his helpers sprawled dead between the bean rows. The chapel silent, the bells still. Broken men everywhere. Bits of men. I can still feel them in my arms, feel the weight of them, smell the blood. Trying to put them together as best I could. Face running with snot and tears. Howling like a whipped dog. Howling like that thing in the tower's doing. Flannan's trying to talk to me, over the noise it makes. I'm answering in grunts, when I answer at all. Man must think I'm an oaf. Nothing new in that.

Halfway there, sunk in my thoughts, I nearly miss it. Moves again, quick as quick, and I spot it. Ripple halts, ears pricked, whole body
quivering. All set to give chase, only Flannan says,
Ripple, wait
, and she holds still by his side, whining under her breath.

“What was that?” Flannan stares into the shadows under the trees. “Look, there it is again! Under the oak, there!”

“Shh!” I hiss. Want to say I've seen nothing, but too late now. Anyway, he's Blackthorn's friend. No reason to lie. “Don't point—you'll scare him away. And hold on to the dog.”

“Scare
him
? Who?”

“Shh.” I squat down closer to the wee man's level, though still a bit too high up, and call out to him, not too loud. “Greetings to you! Fine morning.” Wouldn't show himself if he didn't want to talk to me, I'm guessing. Must've taken courage, with Ripple there.

Little fellow doesn't come any closer. Stands right by the tree, like he's pretending to be part of it.

“Greetings, Grim,” he says. “Friend all mended. We thank you again.”

“Friend—you mean the fellow that was trapped? All better? Glad to hear that. You must have good healers.”

“Crafty folk. Wood-crafty. Message for you. For your friend.”

I look sideways at Flannan, who's standing there with his mouth open, staring. But the wee fellow doesn't mean him.

“For your healer. Midsummer Eve soon. Tell her, true love's tears. Do not forget.”

“True love's tears.” Odd sort of message. “Is that an herb?” Got a feeling I've heard of it somewhere. Blackthorn'll know.

“Remember,” says the small one. “Important.”

“I will. Thanks.”

And he's gone, just like that. Quick as a snap of the fingers, before I remember the whistle they gave me. Would have liked to ask about that, what it's for, what rules there might be about using it. Too late now.

“Best walk on,” I say. “Want to make an early start. Keep hold of Ripple's collar for a bit.”

Flannan's just staring at me. Dumbstruck, that's the word.

“Fey folk,” I say. “In the woods around here. Seen them a couple of times. Harmless.” How much should I tell? Not too much, that's for certain. “Blackthorn knows. But not Lady Geiléis. Blackthorn said not to tell her, or anyone.”

“Astonishing.” He shakes his head. Looks as if he's testing to see if he's lost his wits. “Incredible. I have never seen . . . I did not imagine . . .”

“That they're real? Might not be. Might be the curse putting ideas in our heads. Making us see what isn't there.” Making us doubt our own minds. Making us lose our good judgment. Seems best to keep this bit to myself. “Don't know why you're so surprised. Scholar and all. You must know hundreds of tales. And the tales are full of wee folk.”

“The work I do doesn't require belief,” says Flannan, “only accuracy and a capable hand with the pen. I did not expect beings from ancient lore to step out of the woods and engage me in conversation. Allow me to be a little surprised, Grim.”

“Not up to me, is it?”

“Did you hear what he said? Midsummer Eve. So they know Lady Geiléis wants Blackthorn to do something that day. Did Blackthorn tell them? Did you?”

Trying to remember if I was like that, first time I saw the fey. So excited I was near jumping out of my skin. Don't think so. With me, it was more of a slow wonder. Like a warmth spreading through. “The fey know all sorts of things,” I say. “Chances are they know the old story, the one that's in your document. But they don't always tell.”

“Couldn't they be made to tell?”

I give him a straight look. “If that's the way you like going about things, then maybe.”

“Why hasn't Lady Geiléis asked them? She must know about them.”

“We should be getting on.”

“Why, Grim?” Flannan was insistent.

“You'd need to ask her. Lady Geiléis. Thing is, though, if you do that, she'll know we've seen the wee folk. Talked to them. We promised them we wouldn't tell.”

“But—”

“Speak to Lady Geiléis about this and you'll make Blackthorn very, very angry. You wouldn't want that, would you?”

He runs out of words, which suits me perfectly. We walk on together, and the only sound is the sad voice of the monster. Didn't have my ears stopped before, but I get the plugs out now and stuff them in; Flannan does the same. Damps the sound quite a bit. Helps, too, if I try to think about something good, block out the bad stuff. So, no thinking about what happened at St. Erc's. Nor in Mathuin's lockup. Nor early on, before St. Erc's. No thinking of the red coming down and making me do bad things. No remembering the names folk have called me. Names don't matter. Instead, I think about Blackthorn strapping up a farmer's leg; I think of her by the fire, her hair as red as the crackling flames, her hands stretched out for warmth. She's telling a story; it turns her face soft. I think about the night I was in the woods, all wet and shivering and hating myself, and how she yelled at me to stop being stupid and come up to dry off. How she let me come with her all the way to Winterfalls. How she stopped me from making an end of things, that night at Dreamer's Pool when I thought she'd lied about being my friend. I think about her standing in a mess of broken crockery, beside herself with fury, and me talking quiet to her, calming her down. And the time she tried to run away south on her own, back to Laois to have
it out with Mathuin, and how she listened when I told her she was wrong. How she came home. Think about the name that does matter:
friend
.

And before I know it, we're at St. Olcan's, where the bells are ringing for Prime.

“I'll leave you now,” Flannan says once we're in the gate. Ripple's off across the garden already, and for once he doesn't call her back. “I will observe the Hour with the others before I start the day's work.”

“Fine with me,” I say, though he's telling me, not asking. I'd like him to come and let me know if he finds out anything. Don't ask, though. Chances are I'll be up on the roof, and he's hardly going to shout the news out so I can hear. “Good luck.”

“It might be more a matter of skill,” Flannan says, more or less to himself, then heads off toward the chapel. Don't expect to see any more of him, at least until my working day's over and I head back to Geiléis's place. And from what he said, he won't have anything to tell until tomorrow or the next day, and only then if he can work out first the code, then the translation from a language he doesn't even know. Way I see it, luck's going to play a big part.

Weather stays fair. Me and the lad they've given me to help, Tadhg, his name is, get on with the job, which today is mostly stripping off the last of the moldy old thatch and cleaning things up, ready for the new. We get sweaty and filthy, and we sneeze a lot, but he's strong and willing and I'm glad to have work for my hands. Manage not to think too hard. Manage not to look at one thing and see another.

Middle of the day, they feed us. Glad nobody makes us go inside and sit down with the monks. That would be too much; couldn't do it. Couple of fellows bring out a tray with bowls of broth, hunks of bread and wedges of cheese, and there's a flask of good ale with it. Goes down a treat. While we eat and drink, I run through the next part with Tadhg, tell him the stages of getting the fresh thatch ready and putting it up. What he'll be doing and what I'll be doing. He's a clever lad,
listens well, asks good questions. Wonder if I was ever like that, eyes bright, mind clean and fresh, ready to take on the world? Or did that get beaten out of me before I even knew it was there?

Good view from up on the roof. Down over the forest one way; glimpse of Lady Geiléis's house between the treetops. Farther off, the Tower of Thorns, though I can't see much of it, only the top with the open window. Howling's not so loud up here; don't need the earplugs. I can almost forget the monster, listen to the bells and the singing and the quiet footsteps instead. The brothers have a bit of a farm, not far off. Cows. Chickens. Couple of sheep, for wool, not for the pot. Good place. I'm all wrong here. Bad luck. Bringer of trouble. Feel as if I should tell them the story, tell them the truth, so they can throw me out if they want. But here I am teaching the lad to thatch a roof, making myself useful, and I can't tell.

Forest spreading out to the west, and a strip of road going through it; that's the Tirconnell side of the river. Road they can't use because the ford's not safe. Farmhouses dotted here and there, patches of cleared ground, a few cattle. Closer at hand there's St. Olcan's own bell tower, and a barn, and at one end of the barn the pigeon loft. They had one at St. Erc's too. My mind shows me broken bodies, feathers everywhere, smears of blood on the stone floor, injured birds thrashing about. I had to pick the poor sods up and wring their necks, one after another. Said a prayer for each one, same as I did for the men. Would have been a miracle if God picked up the meaning, I was crying so hard.
Fly safe to heaven.
Sing with the angels.
Only birds. Still. Brother Galen used to say,
God knows what is in your heart.
That day, my heart was saying,
There is no God.
Said the prayers anyway. Felt like the proper thing.

“You all right?” Tadhg's looking at me, a bite of bread and cheese halfway to his mouth.

“Fine. Thanks.” I apply myself to my own meal. “Thinking of something sad, that's all. Who looks after the pigeons here?”

“Brother Eoan. Only they don't fly out much, not now. Not since we stopped using the ford. See, pigeons always fly back to their home loft. So if you want to exchange messages with, say, a monastery in Tirconnell, you have to get some pigeons that were bred there, and move them here. And they take some of yours in return. Then you can send as many messages as you've got birds, until they've all gone home. Then you start again.”

“Is that so?” I don't tell him I know quite a bit about pigeons, from St. Erc's. “Where did they send them before? Only to Tirconnell?”

“All over. It's a good way for scholars to share their discoveries, or for a monastery to invite visitors. They keep the birds in marked cages, so they know where each one's from and where it will fly when it's set free.”

“Be safe to send them south,” I say. “No need to cross the ford, so you could still bring birds in from there, couldn't you?”

“That's right,” says Tadhg. “There's a few birds from Dalriada in the loft, and some from Ulaid. Farther away, even. Long way to fly, but they can do it. Brother Eoan could tell you all about it. Knows everything about pigeons, that man. Ask him a question and he'll still be talking when the sun's down and everyone else is at supper.”