Tower of Thorns (39 page)

“One thing I do understand: that once Blackthorn hears the terms of the curse in full, she will no longer be a suitable candidate to undertake the task. It specifies that the woman should be willing. Who would be willing, knowing what the document contains?”

“I say again, what is your price?”

“And if I have no price?” asked the scholar.

“Then I will be obliged to take action.” Her hand moved to the knife at her belt: an additional precaution, in case the scholar proved to be more warrior than he appeared. “Action I would prefer to avoid.”

“At this point I should remind you that I did mention to Brother Ríordán, up at the monastery, that I had managed to work out the code. I have not discussed the contents of the document with him. Not yet, at least. I have left a complete transcription locked away in the scriptorium at St. Olcan's, in my personal box. Should I disappear under odd circumstances, I feel certain the monks would go through all my papers looking for clues. Sooner or later. Possibly before midsummer. But possibly not. That is a risk you would have to take. Then, of course, there's Blackthorn. She would be somewhat surprised if I
vanished without explanation. And as you know, she likes to get her teeth into a good mystery.”

Geiléis worked on her breathing. So close, oh, so very close! “I very much hope that you will not disappear, Master Flannan. Such a devious mind would be a great loss to the future of scholarship. I do not ask you to tell any lies. By all means share the tale with Blackthorn and Grim tonight, as they expect. I will be present. Both you and I will behave as if this meeting had not happened.”

“And?”

“The sad story of Lily and her Ash will surely touch Blackthorn's heart. She may seem hard on the surface, all bitterness and anger. But she is not devoid of compassion, nor of courage. Master Flannan, I do not ask much of you. Only that you omit the last line of the curse. So little; only a few words. Will you do that?”

Flannan gazed at her; he was somber now. “And what of the aftermath?” he asked.

“I can give you silver,” she said. “Land, if you wish. Opportunities a man of your background could not dream of.”

“You would kill for this,” said Flannan. “Without hesitation, without compunction. I suppose there is a man with a weapon waiting just outside that door.”

“More than one. I would do anything to break the curse. Anything. If you give me no other choice, I will have you removed, yes. But only if there is no alternative.”

“Happily, it will not be necessary to take such drastic action. But do not forget that I possess the ability to spoil your plan with as few as eight or nine words, spoken in the right ear. Remember that if I am harmed, the monks will read my translation and the story will become common knowledge. If that occurs before Midsummer Eve, you will lose this chance. Perhaps you will lose any chance at all.”

Folk would forget, of course. In another fifty years, Blackthorn, Grim, Flannan, the brethren of St. Olcan's would all be gone. But she would still be here, and Ash would still be in the tower, screaming his
pain. She couldn't fail again. She would break in pieces. “What do you want from me?”

Flannan smiled. “Even less than you want from me, Lady Geiléis. Oddly enough, it seems we have a common purpose. What I require is this: firstly, that you do not divulge the last lines of the curse to anyone. Secondly, that you do not speak of this meeting with a living soul. Blackthorn in particular.”

“And?” This could not be all. The man must surely have some devious purpose. Would he dare try to trick her, with armed guards at the door? She found it hard to breathe.

“No more than that. If you can promise me your silence, I will ensure the document is destroyed. But not until Midsummer Day.”

“By Midsummer Day,” said Geiléis, her mouth twisting, “none of it will matter anymore.”

•   •   •

Her men-at-arms did not even need to draw their weapons. Instead, they stood aside to let Dau lead the visitor through to the dining chamber, where Flannan was provided with food and drink while he waited for Blackthorn's return. The remainder of the afternoon passed, and it was nearly dusk. Geiléis called Senach to keep watch outside her bedchamber door, then climbed the steps to the high window. The sky was all clouds; rain had fallen over the forest and the air was cool and damp. She hugged her shawl around her. His cries were dying down now; the long day was almost over. Only three more to endure. Only three, and then . . .

•   •   •

. . . Midsummer Eve, and the sun rose over the forest of Bann, bright with hope. There had been rain, but this day was clear, a day of promise and of new beginnings. When it was time, the wise woman armed herself with a sharp ax, and for good measure a knife at her belt. She
did not go alone to the tower; Lily herself accompanied her, along with two faithful guards.

The river was low; unusually so, considering the rain. They waded over without difficulty, and halted at the foot of the tower. Blackthorn hacked at the thorns with her ax, and they fell apart under its blade as if they were straw, leaving a pathway straight to the tower door. The woman climbed the steps with courage and purpose. There she was in the high chamber, and there he was. The monster. And then . . .

•   •   •

She could not imagine it; could not see it clear. Her mind shrank from it. But . . . but somehow she would be in the doorway watching. She would witness the breaking of the curse. How could she not?

•   •   •

Then the deed was done, and at last, at long last Ash was restored to himself. Lily ran to him. She wrapped her arms around him—he was so thin, so pale—and whispered his name. His lips moved against her hair; his fingers brushed her cheek, as gentle as a butterfly's wing. “My love,” he said, and his voice was no longer a monster's, but a man's. “My faithful love.” The long nightmare was over.

•   •   •

“I will give you the best wedding gift anyone could dream of,” she said, as the voice from the tower fell silent. “A happy ending.”

Blackthorn

E
verything conspired to slow my progress that afternoon. That was how it seemed, anyway. It rained, not a light summer shower but a downpour that came in drenching sheets, turning the tracks to mud and rendering the steeper stretches slippery and perilous. Donncha led me on a winding course that seemed often to loop back on itself. I asked him if he was sure he'd chosen the most efficient route, and he answered that he was following a path that would get us to our destination in the wet without damage either to ourselves or to the horses. The alternative, he pointed out, was to abandon the visit and try again tomorrow. There was no arguing with that.

The tracks were overgrown; there was little sign that horses or men used them. There was no indication that pigs had been brought into the woods to forage, or that local folk came here to gather mushrooms or berries or to fish in the various streams and pools. Fat fungi clustered in the shade of the oaks; medicinal herbs were abundant, but I had no time to gather them. I thought I spotted the elusive true love's tears, a plant of modest proportions, easy to overlook. But useful; especially useful if the local people had an ongoing need for headache remedies. It was almost invisible beneath a tangle of more aggressive growers. Dead trees lay where they had fallen in winter storms, with neither limbs nor
bark stripped away. Where did these folk get their firewood? Did the curse prevent them from harvesting anything at all in this abundant woodland? Even here, where distance made the monster's voice less penetrating, did the curse keep them at bay?

No sign of the little folk today, though I kept my eye out for them. Not that I could do anything if I spotted one; Donncha's presence ruled that out. We rode on through the forest, and eventually out of it onto grazing fields tenanted by a few scrawny cattle. The undulations of the land made it difficult to see far ahead, but there was a dwelling or two scattered about, and smoke rising. The ride had taken us quite some distance south. We had bypassed St. Olcan's entirely, though I had heard the bells as we rode.

“How much farther?” I asked. An hour's ride each way, Senach had said. It felt to me as if at least an hour had passed already.

“Not far.”

“Show me.”

Donncha reined in his horse; I did the same. “The path leads across those hills”—he pointed to the southeast—“and then through a wooded area. There's a stream where we can water the horses. From there it is only a short distance to the place I have in mind.”

It seemed too late to complain that the trip was going to take all afternoon; much longer than I'd been told. I could hardly ask to turn around and head back right now. My life being what it was—full of bad surprises—that would probably mean I lost the one real chance I had to gather some useful information. “You do understand that I need to be back when Flannan comes this evening?”

“Senach told me, Mistress Blackthorn. Shall we head on?”

•   •   •

The rain ceased and the sun came out as we rode across the fields. We reached our destination around midafternoon. First impressions of the place were unpromising. The dwelling was so run-down it was hard to believe anyone lived there. I could imagine Grim looking it over and
making a long list in his mind of what needed doing: mend the broken shutters, fix the crumbling walls, dig over the neglected vegetable patch. Then he would roll up his sleeves and get on with it. There was a trough half-full of greenish, foul-smelling water, from which we could not let our horses drink. The door was closed.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked my companion as he tethered the horses. “There's no sign of life.” Not even a solitary duck or chicken.

Before he could answer, the door crept open an inch, two inches, and in the narrow gap I glimpsed a pale face, a pair of shadowed eyes.

“This is the place,” Donncha said. He unfastened his saddlebag and took out the bundle Dau had packed. My saddlebag held the two loaves of fresh bread, wrapped in a cloth.

“This household has suffered more than most from the effects of the curse,” said Donncha as I got the bread out. “The folk here may not be able to help you a great deal. But I believe you will be able to help them.”

Before I could utter a word, he called out, “Friend, Ana! It's Donncha. I've brought someone to talk to you. A wise woman; a healer.” The change in his tone was remarkable. It might have been a different man speaking, no authoritative guard but a far gentler soul.

The door opened just a little wider. I heard a thin wailing from within; the cry of a sick child. Joined, almost immediately, by an old man's voice, calling in querulous tones, “Ana! Where are you?”

The woman retreated into the house, leaving the door open. I followed Donncha as he went in.

Someone had tried to maintain order here; that was plain. An attempt had been made to sweep the hearth, but the fire was down to ashes and the wood basket held only a scattering of twigs and dead leaves. From a sagging length of cord tied between the rafters hung an assortment of worn garments: a woman's, a man's, a child's. Dishes that might have been from breakfast were stacked at one end of the
table, still bearing smears of what looked to be porridge. The house was cold. It felt damp, and there was a smell of mold.

The wailing continued; not the distant voice of the monster, but that of a child in the next room. The woman—young, thin, harried—turned from me to Donncha to the inner door as if pulled in all directions at once. “Sorry . . . sorry. The baby's poorly. I've nothing to offer you—”

“Ana!” The old man's voice this time, louder. “I need the privy!”

Donncha was unpacking his bag onto the table. Cheese, honey cake, dried fruits, a little sack that might contain flour, the remains of a leg of mutton. We had had roast mutton for last night's supper. “Go on, Ana,” he said. “I'll fetch you in some wood and we'll get the kettle on.”

She disappeared into the other room. Donncha took himself outside, and fairly soon there was the sound of an ax splitting wood. I rolled up my sleeves and set to work. There could be no hot water until we got the fire going, but I removed the dishes to a bench, then gave the table a wipe down. Took the drying garments outside and hung them over a bush in the sun, glad that the earlier downpour had ceased. Discovered that there was very little food in the house—no surprise.

Donncha came back with an armful of wood and a bucket of water. The infant was still crying; it seemed the beleaguered Ana had put the old man's needs before her baby's. I was about to knock on the inner door and offer assistance when Donncha said, “Mistress Blackthorn, do your wise woman's skills stretch to lighting a fire very quickly?”

“They do,” I said. “But maybe I should . . .” I jerked my head toward the inner door, behind which the baby's wails had become hiccupping gasps. If Ana did not tend to it soon, I would march right in there and do it myself. Not that I could feed the child. Nor had I seen a goat or sheep outside, or any other means of providing fresh milk.

“You look after the fire; I'll deal with that.” Donncha surprised me again by walking over to the inner door, tapping gently, then going in. “I'll get your grandfather back into bed,” I heard him say. “You look after the boy.”

Soon all was quiet. Remarkably quiet. We had come far enough from the ford to render the creature's cries almost inaudible. It was startling what a difference it made, not to have that sound constantly nagging at one's ears. I felt that at long last I could breathe again.

By the time Donncha reemerged, followed by Ana with a baby wrapped in a woolen blanket, the fire was crackling, the kettle was boiling and I had the food we had brought set out on the table. We might have to eat it from the chopping board with our fingers, but I did not think anyone would object. Once I'd made a brew, I'd boil more water for washing up. And while I had not expected to spend my afternoon carrying out domestic duties—I didn't even do a lot of those back at Winterfalls; Grim was the house-proud one—perhaps my contribution would bear fruit in the form of information. Not that Ana looked in any state to talk. If ever I'd seen a person desperate for sleep, she was it.

The first thing was to feed her, to get some color back into that pallid face. The most surprising thing about all this was not that Ana seemed to be looking after an infant and a demanding old man by herself, with few resources—I had visited sadder households by far—but that one of Geiléis's perfect, unreadable retainers had suddenly turned into a real man. Evidently Donncha was a frequent visitor here. And Senach knew about it. Or did he? Nobody had said precisely where we were going today or whom we were to visit. I'd only been told it was farther away than before, and that there might or might not be someone who could tell me something useful. That would have covered a whole host of possibilities in the district. So maybe neither Senach nor Geiléis was aware of this rather different side to Donncha. If that was so, he had placed considerable trust in me.

I didn't ask questions at first. I waited until Ana had eaten a good
meal. She was hungry, but still doing her best to keep up appearances; she ate daintily, making the food last. The supplies we'd brought would be enough for several meals for her and her grandfather. Which led me to think that even if Senach was not in on the secret, Dau was. Donncha and I ate a little, to keep Ana company.

“Ana?” came the old man's voice again. “Where are you, girl?” She'd taken him a share of the food before we sat down to our own meal; he had not been forgotten.

“I'll go,” said Donncha, getting up.

“Don't trouble yourself—”

“It's no trouble, Ana. You stay there and have a chat with Mistress Blackthorn.”

But when he had left the room, Ana did not say anything. She looked down at her baby, who lay in her arms, still awake. I could hear his breathing, and I did not much like the sound of it. Perhaps I had come here only to deliver bad news. It happened that way sometimes, and it never got any easier.

“I don't think the little one's quite right, Mistress,” Ana said now, almost apologetic. “It's that wheezy sound, like he can't catch his breath. And he doesn't feed long, though I've got enough milk. It's like he gets tired of trying, but then he cries as if he's still hungry. Maybe there's something you can give him, a tonic? Something to get him strong again.” A pause, during which I listened to the rasp of the child's breath, in, out, in, out. In the other room, Donncha was having a muted conversation with the old man. “He's my only one,” Ana said. “My man's gone.”

I did not ask what that meant. Her man wasn't here to support her; that was all I needed to know. “What is your son's name?” I asked.

“Fursa. Same as his dad. Born on Beltane night. My man never got to see him. They found him hanging from a tree, a few days before the little one was born. Do you want to hold him?”

Finding myself lost for words, I took the baby in my arms. Born at Beltane—so he was not quite two turnings of the moon old. So small.
Surely too small. She'd said she had milk, but she looked half-starved. A child that was too weak to suckle for long was in immediate danger.

He's my only one.
“A beautiful boy,” I said. I could not banish the image of my Brennan at that age, rosy and content. No amount of robust good health could have saved him from Mathuin of Laois. Ana's child would not even live the two years my son had. The blue-gray tinge to his skin was a sure sign of something seriously wrong. Add to that the rasping cry and the small size, and the odds were against him. “I'll just have a listen to his chest, if I may?”

In my bag was a small wooden funnel I used on such occasions. Grim had made it for me, and its mirror-smooth surfaces and rounded edges were a testament to his understanding of the instrument's purpose, not to speak of his woodworking skills. I parted the baby's wrappings and set the narrower end against his scrawny chest, and my ear against the other end. For a while I listened, wondering what to tell Ana. Would I have wanted to know, as a very new mother, that my child would be dead before his second birthday? If I'd known, I could have taken Brennan away, out of harm's reach. I could have saved him. For Ana's child, the harm already lay within his tiny body, and there could be no rescue.