Читать книгу Daughter of the Forest - Juliet Marillier - Страница 8

Some broken things you can’t mend. Some you have to put together very slowly, piece by fragile piece, waiting until the last bit of work is strong enough before you try the next. It takes a lot of patience.

It was thus with Simon. Finbar’s visit had set us back a good deal, and I had first to repair that damage before starting again on the long process of healing. Simon had made a bargain with me, and it seemed he was a man of his word. Therefore, though he was often in the blackest state of mind, with little will for survival in his damaged body, he would always grit his teeth and follow my orders.

Six or seven days went by, and we moved on with painful slowness. Night time was the worst. Because Simon would not tolerate Father Brien’s help, it was I who must attend his every need, though the good Father assisted me as subtly as he could by making sure cloths and salves were close at hand, by keeping linen fresh and providing food and drink, as if by magic, whenever I might find myself free to partake of it. Nonetheless, I was tired, with a bone-deep weariness I had never known before. I used the goldenwood as sparingly as I could. With its help, Simon slept for a short span before the nightmares began, and I learned to fall asleep the instant he did, since for me too this was the only time of respite.

There was a pattern of sorts to these nights. Simon would cry out, and I would wake with a start to find him sitting bolt upright, hands over his face, shivering and gasping. He never told me what he saw, but I could imagine. Then I would light a candle, and I would pass him a cloth to wipe the sweat from his body, while the dog retreated to the doorway, whining anxiously. I ran through many songs and stories during those dark times, and my throat became dry and sore with talking. Some of it Simon heard, and some of it ran past him like leaves in the wind. When the fear was at its worst he let me put my arms around him and sing lullabies, and stroke his hair as if he were a frightened child. At length he would fall asleep again, and exhaustion would overwhelm me, sitting by his bed, so that I slept where I was, my head on the pallet, my hand in his. Such spells were brief. He might wake four, five times in one night; the temptation to dose him with something powerful enough to give us all a whole night’s rest was strong, but I knew his path to recovery lay in cleansing the body and learning to live with the fear. For the memories would be with him always, in one guise or another.

He wouldn’t let Father Brien near him. It was I, only I who must do it all, wake in an instant, soothe and comfort, keep wounds cleaned and dressed, be there to deal with Simon’s every need. That was hard, but it was our agreement. Still, at night Father Brien never left us alone. He would sit in the outer chamber, a candle by his side, waiting until the blessing of sleep should come again. His silent presence was reassuring, for I found the demons of night a formidable challenge.

There were times when I hated Simon, though I could not have said why. I suppose I knew that after this, things would never be quite the same for me. And, after all, I was not yet thirteen, and my mind still strayed to how nice it would be to be home, riding ponies with Padriac or planting out crocus bulbs for spring flowering. I had a longing to work in my little garden, so quiet and orderly, full of fresh scents and healthy, growing things.

After eight or nine such nights, Father Brien and I were looking like ghosts, wan and drained. Then there was a day when the sun came out early, and the air was a little warmer, and I made Simon get up and walk outside, further than usual, so that we were high enough to see over the trees and glimpse the silver of the lake water cradled in the deep grey-green shadows of the forest.

‘Our home is down there,’ I told him, ‘quite near the lake shore, but it’s hidden by the trees. On this side, the forest goes right down to the water’s edge. On our side, there are rocks in the water, and you can lie on them and watch the fish. And there are paths through the forest, each different from the last.’

‘It would be easy to get lost.’

‘We don’t,’ I said. ‘But it happens, when people don’t know the way.’ I thought about this for the first time. How was it that we always did know the way?

Simon leaned back against the trunk of a leafless ash tree, shutting his eyes. ‘I have a story for you,’ he said, surprising me greatly. ‘I don’t have your skill in telling, but it’s simple enough.’

‘All right,’ I said cautiously, not knowing what to expect.

‘There were two brothers,’ said Simon, and his voice was flat and expressionless. ‘They were like enough in looks, and strength, and intelligence; but the one had a few years’ advantage over the other. Funny, what a difference a few years can make. Their father died; and because of those few years, the elder brother inherited the whole estate. And the other? Just a little parcel of land nobody wanted, that’s all he got. The elder was loved by all; he had those few years to establish his claim on their hearts, and gain their loyalty, and he did so with never a thought to his brother. And the younger? Somehow although he was just as good, and strong, and talented as his brother, nobody ever seemed to know it.

‘The elder was a leader, and his men looked up to him and respected him. He was a man incapable of error, and he commanded total loyalty wherever he went, without effort. The younger? He did his best; but it was never quite good enough.’ Simon fell into silence, as if unwilling to go on.

‘So what happened?’ I asked eventually.

Simon stretched his mouth into what might have passed for a grin, if not for the coldness of his blue eyes. ‘The younger got a chance to prove himself. To do something that everyone, even his brother, couldn’t fail to recognise. After that, he thought, I will be like him, just as good as him, better even. He took the chance, and failed.’

‘And then what?’

‘I don’t know, little witch. This story doesn’t seem to have an ending. How would you finish it?’ He lowered himself to the ground cautiously.

I moved over to make room for him on a fallen branch. Linn was in her element, snuffling around in the autumn leaves, darting here and there, running back to check on us from time to time then bounding off after a new scent.

I chose my words with care. ‘It has the makings of a learning tale, though they usually have three brothers, not just the two. I think the younger brother would head off into the world to seek his fortune, and leave his big brother behind. On the way he’d meet three people, or creatures – it’s usually three.’

‘You have an answer for everything,’ said Simon bleakly. ‘Tell me the rest.’

‘Well, you could end the story in a few different ways,’ I said, warming to the task. ‘Let’s say the little brother meets an old woman. He’s hungry, and he only has one oat cake, but he gives it to her. She thanks him, and he goes on. Maybe next he sees a rabbit caught in a snare; and he frees it.’

‘He’d more likely skin it and have it for his supper,’ said Simon. ‘Especially after the oat cake.’

‘But this rabbit looks at him with such beautiful green eyes,’ I said. ‘He has to let her go. Lastly he meets a giant. The giant challenges him to a fight with staves. The young man agrees, feeling he has nothing to lose. They fight for a while, and he gets in a few good blows before the giant knocks him out cold. When he comes to, the giant thanks him politely for a decent bout; of all the travellers that have passed that way, he’s the first who has dared to stop and give the giant a bit of amusement. After that, the giant comes along with him, as a sort of bodyguard.’

‘Convenient,’ said Simon. ‘What next?’

‘There would be a castle, and a lady in it,’ I said, gathering a handful of fallen leaves and berries and absently starting to weave them together. ‘He’d see her from a way off, maybe riding by in all her finery as he and his giant friend are trudging along the road, and the instant he sees her, he loves her and he wants her for his own. But there’s a problem. To win her, he has to accomplish a task.’

‘Or maybe three.’

I nodded. ‘That’s more common. And here’s where his good deeds in the past help him. Perhaps he needs to clean out a huge stable before sunrise, and the old woman turns up with a magic broom and does it in a flash. Then maybe fetching some object, a golden ball, from a deep narrow place, the bottom of a long tunnel under the ground. The rabbit could do that. The last would be a feat of strength, and that’s where the giant comes in. So our hero wins the lady, and lives happily ever after.’

‘What about his brother?’

‘Him? Well, you see, by the time the younger brother has finished all his adventures, and won the lady’s heart, he’s forgotten all about his big brother and how jealous he was. He’s got his own life.’

‘I don’t like this ending,’ said Simon. ‘Try another.’

I thought for a bit. ‘What if he went to war, and came back to find his brother had died, and all the lands were his?’

Simon laughed, and I didn’t like the harshness of it. ‘How do you think he would feel about that?’

‘Confused, I should think. He gets his heart’s desire, which is to take his brother’s place. But for ever more, he thinks about those years he wasted, envying his brother instead of getting to know him.’

‘His brother wasn’t interested,’ said Simon flatly, and I thought I’d come too close to the mark. I concentrated on the wreath I was weaving. Leaves of russet, deepest brown, golden yellow. Some were already fragile, the last trace of summer slipping away from their skeletal bodies. Berries red as blood. He watched me.

‘Sorcha,’ he said after a while, and it was the first time he’d used my name instead of ‘witch’ or ‘girl’ or something worse. ‘How can you believe in these tales? Giants, and faeries, and monsters. They are a child’s fantasies.’

‘Some may be true, and some not,’ I said, threading a long pointed leaf under, and through, and around itself. ‘Does it matter?’

He got up, and I heard the change in his breathing as he swallowed a gasp of pain; silence meant control.

‘Nothing in life is like your stories,’ he said. ‘You dwell in your own little world here; you can have no idea of what exists outside it. I wish –’ he broke off.

‘Wish what?’ I asked when he did not go on.

‘I would almost wish that you should never discover it,’ he said with his back turned to me.

‘Don’t you think I have begun to?’ I stood up, the little wreath in one hand. ‘I have seen what they did to you. I have listened to you crying for help. And you have told me yourself such stories of cruelty that I must believe them true. You have hardly thought to spare me.’

‘You shut that world out, with your tales.’

‘Not entirely,’ I said as we began the slow walk back. ‘Not for you, or for myself. The tales make it a bit easier, that’s all. But you will have to talk about it eventually, if you are to heal and return home.’

Father Brien had given him a strong stick of ash, and he used it to help him walk; he was still painfully hesitant, but he moved along now without my support. Here, the path was thickly covered with fallen leaves, and the tangled network of bare branches let cold light through to touch them with gold and silver. Linn was ecstatic, digging and sniffing here and there. A bird called; another answered.

‘Will I ever be able to sleep again?’ he asked suddenly, taking me by surprise. My answer was guarded; I had seen those taken by the Fair Folk, how their madness never quite left them by night or day, how the whirl of memories in their heads gave them no peace.

‘It might take a long time,’ I said gently. ‘You have made some progress; but I cannot lie to you. Such damage does not heal easily. You may be your own best helper, if you choose the right path.’

Simon’s body was healing. He had been young, and strong, and resilient, and he was winning the fight against the damage and invasions of that night and the evil humours that had followed. After a time he began to walk without the stick, and he exchanged his first few words with Father Brien, almost without noticing. I greeted each small victory with joy. A kind word, an attempt to do something new for himself, a spontaneous smile, each was a priceless gift. Once the healing process took hold, it gathered speed, and I began to believe we might eventually be able to send him back to his own folk.

It was clear, however, that he could not yet leave our care. Late autumn weather was closing in and the nights were longer and colder. And Simon could not yet shake the demons that beset him during the times of darkness. Over and over, his torturers visited and tormented him, and he fought them, or fled from them, or gave himself up to their mercies. One night I got a black eye out of it, when he rose from his bed half-asleep and tried to escape out into the night. Between us, Father Brien and I stopped him, but I caught the full force of his arm across my face. In the morning he would not believe that he had done this. Another time he caught me off guard, waking before I did, suddenly and in terror, but silent for once; and he had the knife in his hand and turned in on himself before I was aware of it. How I moved fast enough I’ll never know, but I grabbed his wrist and hung on, and screamed for Father Brien, and the two of us tried to calm him, while he wept and raved and begged us to kill him and let that be an end of it. And slowly, slowly I spoke to him and sang to him until he grew quiet and almost slept, but not quite. He had stopped talking, but his eyes spoke to me, and their message was plain. He understood too well what the future would be for him, and he asked me why I would not end his pain. What right had I to refuse this?

I had told him many tales. But I could not tell him why I believed he must live and grow well and move on. If he scoffed at the tales of Culhan and the old heroes, the sagas of the folk from the west, if he found the stories of the little folk and the tree people odd, though I myself had seen their work with my own eyes, how could I expect him to believe his destiny and mine were somehow linked in what the Forest Lady had told me? He would never believe that I had seen her myself, there in the clearing in her cloak of midnight and the jewels bright in her hair. Simon was of another folk entirely, a practical, earth-bound people who could credit only the evidence of their own eyes. And yet, if ever I met a person who needed to let the magic and the mystery of the old ways flow through his spirit, it was him. I used it to heal him whether he knew it or not, but without his own faith in himself it could go only so far. Until he could be convinced of a reason to live, we could not safely let him go, even if his body was well enough mended, for he would not last even the first night without us.

I tried to talk of this with him, but he shut me out whenever I drew close to his home, or his family, or whatever it was that drove him. At first he was, I think, adhering strictly to his soldier’s training, which had held him silent under torture and which was born of the feud between our peoples. I was the enemy; I should know nothing of him that might give me the advantage, or put his kind at risk. However, those nights of torment, which we endured together whether we wished it or not, changed both of us. Towards the end he recognised me, somehow, as part of his world, and at the same time he knew I was neither of the one side nor the other in this long struggle. With my herbs and my stories, I was to Simon some strange, alien kind of being, but slowly he began to trust me just a little, despite himself.

Father Brien was making plans as best he could. Time was passing and still the night terrors persisted. Wet weather had come on, and I could not keep up Simon’s walks; he was restless now, confined to the cave even by daytime, and he vented his frustrations on me by arguing every point. Why must he eat and drink when I told him – what was the use? And, frequently, why did I not go home and play with my dolls, instead of experimenting on him? Why should I bother mending his outdoor clothes, when he would never be fit to do other than lie around being tormented by a crazy girl and a pious old fool? After a while he was driving both of us mad, but at least Father Brien had the luxury of retreating to the cottage to write or meditate. I had made a promise to Simon and I was stuck with him.

I was trying to sew, and kept my eyes on my work as Simon paced around me.

‘What are you doing anyway?’ he demanded, looking more closely at the over-tunic I had in my hands. ‘What is that?’

I showed him. ‘You will hardly notice it,’ I said. ‘But it will help to protect you. The rowan tree is one of the most sacred; such a cross is sewn into all my brothers’ garments, when they go to war.’ The red thread with which I had bound the tiny rowan cross showed like a drop of blood against the cream wool of the lining. I bit off the thread and folded the tunic, and it was like any other garment.

‘I’m not going to war,’ said Simon. ‘I’m hardly fit for it any more. And maybe wasn’t then,’ he added in a lower voice, turning away from me.

I placed needles and thread carefully back in their box. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I – nothing,’ he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, and looking at the floor. I sat still, waiting. After a while he looked up, and his face was white.

‘The problem is,’ he said with difficulty, ‘the problem is not knowing. Not knowing if I – if I was strong enough.’

‘Strong enough for what?’ But I could guess.

‘The problem is – I can’t remember. Not all of it.’ He was shivering now as the memories came flooding back, not in the unthinking visitations of night but by full, waking daylight. ‘Not all of it. I’m pretty sure I held out. I held out a long time, I know it, because they were angry, they were so angry –’

‘It’s all right, Simon,’ I said, moving over quickly to kneel beside him and take both his hands. ‘You can tell me.’ He clutched my hands painfully, like a lifeline.

‘But at the end, when they – when they –’ he closed his eyes, his face contorted with remembered pain. ‘Then I – I don’t know if I – I might have –’ He seemed unable to complete this thought, as if finding the words was beyond his endurance.

‘You think you may have told them something you shouldn’t have, something secret?’

He nodded miserably. ‘I told you he failed. Betrayed his trust, gave up his own men to the enemy. How could he go back, after that?’ He wrenched his hands out of my grasp. ‘Who would befriend him, after such a deed? He’d better have died.’

‘You don’t know for sure,’ I said carefully. ‘I believe you – he –’

‘His brother,’ said Simon. ‘You remember the story? His brother waits for the troop to come back, but they do not. He waits for a little longer, and then he sends out a scout to look for them. It’s a long way, across the water. He finds the place where they were camped. But they are all dead; limbs hacked, sightless eyes open for the crows to feed on. Betrayed by one of their own. After that, his brother curses him, that he should never return home to those he has failed so utterly. But to the younger brother, this is nothing new. He was never wanted; he might have known the pattern of his life could never change. His brother is the hero of every tale; but he is doomed to failure.’

‘Nonsense!’ I retorted, and I was so angry with him I grabbed hold of his shoulders and gave him a good shake. ‘The end of the story is of your making, nobody else’s. You can do with it as you choose. There are as many paths open to your hero as branches on a great tree. They are wonderful, and terrible, and plain and twisted. They touch and part and intermingle, and you can follow them whatever way you will. Look at me, Simon.’

He blinked at me once, twice; the candlelight showed his eyes a soft blue, morning sky colour. And cold with self-loathing.

‘I believe in you,’ I said quietly. ‘You are a brave man, and a true one; and I know in my heart that you kept your secrets that night. I trust you better than you trust yourself. You could have hurt me many times, and Father Brien as well, but you did not. There is a future for you. Don’t throw my gift of healing back in my face, Simon. We have come this far; let us go on.’

He sat there for a long time in silence; so long that I had time to tidy up, and fetch water, and ready the cloths and salves for the dressing of his wounds. Finally he spoke.

‘You make it hard to say no.’

‘You made a promise,’ I said. ‘Remember? You cannot say no.’

‘How long must I do your bidding?’ he asked, half joking. ‘Years?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ve been keeping my big brothers in line since I was pretty small. You just might have to get used to it. Until you are well, at least.’ And we began, again, the cruel task of washing, and salving, and bandaging.

As it grew dark outside I told the tale of a warrior queen who had men after her like flies, but she never kept one for long; and Simon, who had heard it several times before, offered a dry commentary on the more unsavoury parts of the action. And eventually the job was over, the linen cleared away, and Father Brien came with soup and elderflower wine. There was a sort of peace around the three of us that night as we sat quietly by the fire with our simple meal; and later, Simon fell asleep like a child, cheek pillowed on one hand.

‘I’ll have to leave you for the day tomorrow,’ said Father Brien. ‘I need to call at the village to the west, for one of my brothers will be there awaiting papers from me; and we need supplies. I won’t ask if you can manage without me, for you have done so all along. But I will make sure to be back by nightfall. I will not have you left alone after dark.’

‘He is doing well,’ I said. ‘Another moon or two, and he may be ready to go on – but where?’

‘I’ll set that in train tomorrow,’ said Father Brien. ‘The brothers in the west will take him, I think. He can stay there a while, and when he is ready they will conduct him safely to his home, wherever that is.’

‘How?’

‘It can be arranged. But you are right; he cannot go while he is a risk to himself. And he cannot ride; by the time you suggest, he may perhaps be able to withstand the jolting of a cart. I will know more tomorrow night.’

True to his word, he was off at dawn the next day, taking advantage of a lull in the persistent rain. Simon and I had slept better, for he had woken only twice, and there was a little more colour in his cheeks. We watched from the doorway as the cart trundled away under the trees.

The morning was peaceful. There was a fine drizzle, on and off, and in between low slanting sunlight, as if the day could not make up its mind to be foul or fair. I tied back my hair and got to work preparing salves from dried lavender. I measured oil and beeswax; Simon watched me. Later, we shared some green apples and a rather hard bannock. Our supplies were indeed in need of replenishment. I wondered if there might be enough flour left for me to bake a few rolls.

Linn heard it before we did. Her ears pricked, she growled deep in her throat. I stared at her; there was no sound from outside. Then, an instant later, the silent message flashed into my mind with an urgent clarity.

Hide him, Sorcha. Now, quickly.

No time to question. I grabbed Simon by the arm.

‘Someone’s coming,’ I said, ‘get over to the cottage, quickly. Go in and bar the door.’

‘But –’

‘Don’t argue. Do as I say. And keep out of sight! Do it, Simon!’

He stared at me for a moment; my face must have been white, for Finbar’s message had the ring of extreme urgency. Linn barked once, twice, then she was out the door and down the track, tail streaming like a banner behind her.

‘Hurry!’ I half-dragged the unwilling Simon across the clearing to the cottage and shoved him inside. And now we could both hear it – the drum of hoofbeats, more than one horseman approaching fast up the track. ‘Stay out of sight! You’ll be safe here until they’ve gone.’

‘But what about –’

‘Shut the door! Quickly!’ Hoping he would have the sense to obey me, I left him and ran back to the cave, my feet squelching across the two sets of prints in the mud.

I threw myself inside, heart pounding, and only just in time, for there were voices, and the hoofbeats and barking mingled, and three men rode into the clearing: Finbar first, his face tight with anxiety, and two soldiers in field armour, with swords at their sides – my brother Liam, tall and grim; and Cormack, looking impressively grown up.

The dog was beside herself, and as Cormack slid down from his horse her barking reached a pitch of ecstasy. She jumped up, planting her forefeet on his chest, and licked his face with little sounds of delight. Cormack grinned, scratching her behind the ears. But the faces of the others bore no trace of good humour.

Finbar’s eyes were questioning as he approached the cave entrance where I stood. Where is he? But there was no time to respond.

‘Come in,’ I said hospitably. ‘Father Brien is away to the village; the cottage is locked up. I’m surprised to see you all – is Father then returned so soon?’ I was quite pleased with this speech – unfortunately my hands were shaking with nerves, and I thrust them into the pockets of my apron.

‘We have news, Sorcha,’ said Liam, stooping to come in, and removing his wet cloak at the same time. Over the field armour he still wore his battle tunic, with the symbol of Sevenwaters on the breast. Two torcs interlocked; the outer world, and the inner. This world and the Otherworld. For in the life of the lake and the forest the two were inextricably entwined. ‘You must come home with us straight away,’ he went on. ‘There are changes afoot, and Father requires your presence. He was displeased to learn that you had stayed here so long, whatever the need of your skills in herbalism.’

‘Father?’ I asked sceptically. ‘I’m surprised he showed the least interest in my whereabouts. Hasn’t he better things to occupy his attention?’

Cormack was talking to the dog, getting her to calm down, bringing her inside. Her whole body wriggled and she gave small whines of excitement, as if she could barely contain herself.

‘He made no objection to your spending some time learning from Father Brien,’ said Finbar pointedly, ‘or sharing your skills with him. He has your marriage prospects in mind, maybe – it is a useful craft for a woman. But now –’ he broke off, and I detected a note of deep unease in his voice.

‘Now what?’ There was something none of them was telling me.

Liam picked up a beeswax candle from the table, rolling it between his fingers. Cormack sat down on the edge of the bed, and the dog jumped up beside him, sniffing at the bedding. I watched her; she had her eyes on the doorway, expectant. Was there anything here that might give us away – a pair of boots, a bloodstained bandage? There had been so little time. I looked up at Finbar; something more than the risk that Simon would be found was troubling him.

‘Father has returned,’ said Liam heavily, ‘and with an intended bride. She comes from northern parts, and he will wed her a few days hence. It was sudden, and unexpected. He wants all his children there for the wedding feast.’

‘A bride?’ After what Father Brien had told us, this seemed nigh-on impossible.

‘It’s true,’ said Cormack. ‘Who’d have thought he had it in him? What’s more, she’s young, beautiful and charming with it. New lease of life for the old man. You should see Diarmid. Follows her around all day making calf’s-eyes.’

Liam frowned at him. ‘It is not so simple,’ he said. ‘We know next to nothing about this woman, the lady Oonagh is her name, save that he met her when we were quartered with Lord Eamonn of the Marshes, and she was a guest in that house. Of her own folk she has said little, I believe – or he has chosen not to share it with us.’

‘I can’t believe that he would marry again,’ I said, relief that they had not come for Simon mixed with shocked incredulity, ‘he is so – so –’

‘Impervious?’ said Finbar. ‘Not to her. She is – different; as glittering and dangerous as some exotic snake. You will know when you see her, why he has done this.’

‘Conor doesn’t like her,’ said Cormack.

Liam stood up. ‘We must return, Sorcha,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry Father Brien was from home, for I had hoped to speak with him in private of these matters. No doubt Father will send for him again, to perform the ceremony. Meanwhile the house is in uproar, and you are needed. Fetch your things now; you can ride down behind me.’

Leave now, straight away? Leave Simon alone, without even saying goodbye, without telling him what was happening? I sent a desperate message to Finbar. I can’t leave now, not like this, he’s not ready yet, at least let me –

‘You go on ahead, Liam,’ said Finbar. ‘I’ll help Sorcha pack up, and she can come with me.’

‘Are you sure?’ Liam was keen to go, already donning his cloak. ‘Don’t be too long, then. There is much to be done. Come on, Cormack, that foolish hound of yours will doubtless be glad to be away home.’

But she was not. The two of them swung up into the saddle, and at first she circled Cormack’s horse, all enthusiasm. But when they rode off down the track, the finality of it struck her suddenly and she paused, then padded back up towards us. She looked around her, sniffing, hesitating. The rain began to come down heavily.

‘Linn! Come!’ Cormack called her, his horse held in check just where the path entered the forest. ‘Come!’

She turned and walked slowly towards him; stopped and looked back again.

‘Go on, Linn,’ I said, fighting back tears for her, for me, for Simon. ‘Go home!’

Cormack whistled, and this time she went to him, but the keenness was gone from her step. They disappeared under the trees.

‘Be quick,’ said Finbar. ‘Where are your things? I’ll pack, you talk to him, then we’re going.’ I did not ask him when I would be able to come back; there was a dreadful finality about all of it. Silently I indicated my bundle, my cloak, my small pots and jars; then I fled back through the rain to the cottage door; but it was barred from inside. True to his word, he had done as I asked.

‘Simon!’ I yelled over the roar of the downpour. ‘It’s me, let me in!’

There must have been enough urgency in my voice to conquer his distrust, for the bolts were drawn and the door opened quickly. He had the knife in his hand, but he made no move to touch me, instead retreating to the far end of the room as I stumbled in and slammed the door behind me.

There was no way to do this kindly.

‘I have to go, now, straight away. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to be this way. But my brothers are waiting.’

He stared at me blankly.

‘It’s too soon, I know, but I have no choice. Father Brien will be back tonight, he will look after you as well as I could –’ I was babbling, my distress obvious. Simon put the knife down on the table. His voice was a mere shadow of a sound.

‘You promised,’ he said.

I could not look at him.

‘There is no choice,’ I said again, and this time tears began to spill, and I brushed them angrily away. This was helping neither of us. But I could see the long nights ahead for him, and I dared not look up to see the emptiness returning to his eyes.

There was silence, and he did not move, and after a while Finbar called from outside, ‘Sorcha! Are you ready?’

Simon’s hand grabbed for the knife, and quick as a flash mine shot out and caught him by the wrist.

‘I cannot keep my promise,’ I said shakily, ‘but I hold you to yours. Hold on for today; then let Father Brien help you. Finish the story the way I would have you do it. You owe me this, if no more. I trust you, Simon. Don’t fail me.’

I released his wrist and he took up the knife, raising it close to my face so that I was forced to look up. The cornflower-blue eyes gazed straight into mine, and there was a wildness in them that told me his nightmare was right there in front of him. His face was chalk white.

‘Don’t leave me,’ he whispered like a small child afraid of the dark.

‘I must.’ It was the hardest thing I had ever said.

‘Sorcha!’ Finbar called again.

There was a quick movement of the blade, and Simon held a long, curling strand of my hair in his fingers. With the other hand he offered me the knife, hilt first.

‘Here,’ he said. Then he turned his back on me, waiting. And I opened the door and went out into the rain.

The lady Oonagh. I felt her presence before ever I saw her. I sensed it in Finbar’s silence as we rode home under a thunderous sky. I knew it from the cold wind that whipped tree branches into prostrate surrender as we passed, from the churning turbulence of the lake waters, from the scream of a gull harried on its flight by needles of frozen sleet. I felt it in the heaviness of my own heart, every step of the way. She was there and her hand was on all of us. I knew there was danger. But this foreknowledge did nothing to prepare me.

Finbar deposited me in the courtyard and took himself off to the stables to tend to the horse, for this was a task the boys always did themselves. It was good to be home at last. I longed to slip away quietly to my own quarters, or to the kitchen – some hot water, a fire and dry clothes were all I really wanted right then, and time on my own. But the doors were flung open and in an instant there I was in the great hall, my cloak dripping onto the floor and my boots leaving a trail of mud prints, and though my father was there, all I could see was her, the bride, the lady Oonagh.

She was fair. Cormack had been right. Her hair was a curtain of dark fire, and her skin the white of new milk. It was the eyes that gave her away. When she glanced at my father, all merry sweetness, they were innocent and loving. But gaze right into their mulberry depths, as I did, and you would quail at what you saw there. Their message to me was plain: I am here now. There can be no place for you.

Her voice tinkled like bells. ‘Your daughter, Colum? Oh, how sweet! And what is your name, my dear?’ I stared at her mutely as the steam began to rise from my clothing.

‘Sorcha, you are not fit to be seen!’ said Father curtly, and in fact he was right. ‘You shame me, appearing before your mother in such a state of dishevelment. Be off, tidy yourself, and then return here. You do me no credit.’

I looked at him. Mother?

The lady Oonagh broke the awkward silence with a peal of laughter. ‘Oh, nonsense, Colum, you are too hard on the child! See, you have hurt her feelings! Come, my dear, let us take off this wet cloak, and you must warm yourself by the fire. Where on earth have you been? Colum, I cannot believe you let her go off by herself like this – she could catch her death of cold. That’s better, little one – why, you’re shivering. Later we’ll have a talk, just you and me – I have brought some pretty things with me, and it will be such fun picking out something lovely for you to wear at the wedding feast. Green, I think. I fear your wardrobe has been sadly neglected.’ She ran an appraising eye over my homespun gown, my well-worn overtunic which bore many old stains: tincture of elderberry, rosemary oil. And blood.

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words refused to form themselves, and instead I felt a great weariness overwhelm me. My mouth stretched into a huge yawn and my legs turned to jelly under me.

‘Sorcha!’ Father reprimanded. ‘This is too much! Can you not –’ But she overruled him again, all solicitude.

‘My poor girl, what have you been up to?’ Her arm around me was an icy fetter. ‘Come now, you must rest – time enough for talk later. Your brother can see you to your room, for you are dead on your feet – Diarmid, my dear?’

And it was only then I realised my second brother had been there all the time, in the shadows behind the lady Oonagh’s chair. He came forward, eager to assist, his dimples showing as he gave her a sidelong look, then took my arm to escort me away. She glanced at him under her lashes.

Diarmid babbled on at me all the way to my bedchamber. How wonderful she was, how vibrant and youthful, how amazing it was that such a beauteous creature had agreed to marry Father who was, after all, getting on in years and not so virile any more.

‘Perhaps wealth and power had something to do with it.’ I ventured to interrupt the flow of my brother’s words.

‘Now, now, Sorcha,’ Diarmid chided me as we made our way up the broad stone steps. ‘Do I detect a note of jealousy here? You weren’t happy about Liam’s betrothal, I recall. Perhaps you prefer to be the only lady of the house, is that it?’

I turned on him angrily. ‘Do you know me so little? At least Eilis is – is harmless. This woman is dangerous; I don’t know why she is here, but she will destroy our family if we let her. You are beguiled by her, as Father is. You don’t see her – you see some sort of – of ideal, a phantom.’

Diarmid laughed at me. ‘What would you know? You’re only a child. And besides, you have barely met her. She’s a wonderful woman, little sister. Perhaps now she is here, you can learn to grow up a lady.’

I stared at him, deeply wounded by his words. Already the pattern of our existence was beginning to break up around me. We had teased one another endlessly, had joked and quarrelled as brothers and sisters do. But we had never been cruel to one another. The fact that he couldn’t see it just made it worse. And I could not talk to him, for he no longer heard me. We reached my room, and Diarmid was quickly gone, all eagerness to attend again on his new-found goddess.

I dismissed the serving woman who was hovering, and undressed myself. A fire had been lit, and I sat before it with a blanket around me and stared into the flames. Despite my exhaustion, sleep was slow to come, for my mind was crowded with thoughts and images. Perhaps I was being foolish, maybe she was just a well meaning gentlewoman who had fallen for our father’s so-called charms. But something felt wrong. I thought of what Cormack had said. Conor doesn’t like her. I had seen the message in the lady Oonagh’s eyes, for all her honeyed words to me. There was something deeply unsettling about Diarmid’s fawning admiration, and my father’s readiness to be overruled by his lady. And the way servants were scurrying about nervously, as if afraid of taking a wrong step.

And what of Simon? It was still afternoon; he would be waiting alone for Father Brien’s return. No teller of tales to fill his silent day, to blot out his visions. No friend to banter with, not even the loyal dog, unquestioning companion in the darkest times. I imagined him watching as the sun moved overhead and down below the trees, waiting for the sound of cartwheels up the track. At least he would not be alone after nightfall.

Finally I lay down and slept. The fire burned away to embers, but my candle flickered on, so that when I woke suddenly some time later, the room was alive with shadows. For a few moments I was back in the cave, and I jumped up wide-eyed, ready to confront the nightmare. But this time there was no screaming; the stone walls were heavily silent, the unicorn and owl on my single tapestry moved slightly in the draught. I lay down again, but Simon was in my thoughts, perhaps even then wrestling with his demons, and I told an old story, silently in my head, until I fell asleep once more.

It was to be many nights before I broke this pattern: the abrupt waking, the pounding heart, the slow realisation of where I was and the overwhelming sense that I had abandoned him. I never slept more than a brief span without waking, and my tiredness added to my confusion and distress by day. For Liam had been right. Changes were afoot, whether we wished them or not.

I disliked most the change in Diarmid, who had fallen well and truly under the lady Oonagh’s spell. He would hear no ill of her, and danced attendance on her all day long, or at least, as long as she would let him. It was impossible to carry on a sensible conversation with him. He was, I said to Finbar, like one mazed by the little folk. ‘No,’ said Finbar, ‘not that; but close enough. This is more like the enchantment that comes over a man when he sees the queen under the hill, and yearns for her, though he can never have her without she wills it. She can keep a man dangling this way for a long time, till his face loses its youth and his step its quickness.’

‘I have heard such tales,’ I said. ‘She would spit him out like a piece of apple skin, the moment he lost his flavour.’

Cormack and Padriac avoided problems by keeping out of her way. When asked after, one would be always out riding, or at target practice, and the other busy in the barn or out in the fields somewhere. Finbar gave no excuses for his absence. He simply wasn’t there. Lady Oonagh did have a tendency to summon us whenever it suited her, and though her manner was unfailingly cordial and sweet, it was made quite clear that disobedience was frowned upon. Father enforced this rule for her, as indeed he seemed to follow her every bidding. With him, though, she trod more carefully than with hapless, smiling Diarmid. Whatever he was, Lord Colum was not a weak man, and after all, they were not married yet.

There were but a few days left until the wedding. Seamus Redbeard and his daughter were coming; I overheard Liam changing the sleeping arrangements to place Eilis and her waiting woman as far as possible from the lady Oonagh’s chamber. Instead of looking pleased that he’d be seeing his betrothed again so soon, my eldest brother was grim and silent. He made several attempts to speak to Father in private, but Oonagh with her tinkling laugh dismissed them, and Father declared gruffly that anything Liam had to say could be said before my lady, for there were no secrets between them.

I wanted to talk to Conor, but he was busy. Much of the ordering of preparations fell to him, and he had little time to spare between the supervision of the kitchen, the airing of linen, the last minute sprucing up of stables and yard. I caught up with him briefly the second evening between supper and bedtime, in a dim corner of the great stairs. It was a good vantage point without much echo, and for once there was nobody else around. I looked at my brother afresh, imagining him in a druid’s white robes, his glossy brown hair plaited and tied with coloured cord in the fashion of the wise ones. He had a serenity of gaze, a far-seeing look that you never saw on his twin’s face, for Cormack was a man of action who lived for the moment.

‘I’m sending for Father Brien, Sorcha,’ he said gravely. ‘Do you think he will come?’

I nodded. ‘If it’s just for the day, for the wedding ceremony, then he will come. Who are you sending?’

He looked at me, reading the unspoken question in my eyes. ‘I suppose it will have to be Finbar, if I can find him. There is certainly no possibility of your going back, Sorcha. She is watching you closely. You must take great care.’

‘You feel it too then?’ I was suddenly cold, looking up into my brother’s pale face.

He was calm as always, but his unease was palpable. He nodded.

‘She watches those of us who are the greatest threat, and she reads us accurately. Diarmid and Cormack are nothing to her, poor innocents, and she sees no threat in Padriac, young as he is. But you, and Finbar, and myself – we have enough strength, perhaps, to resist her if we stand together. That makes her uncomfortable.’

‘Liam?’

Conor sighed. ‘She tried her charms on him too, make no doubt of it. She discovered soon enough that he was cut from different cloth. Liam fights her in his own way. If he could gain Father’s ear, he might speak a word of warning and be heeded. But he, too, has his weak point. I do not like the way this is heading, Sorcha. I wish you had been able to stay away.’

‘So do I,’ I said, thinking of the work I had abandoned. Still, at least Father Brien would be coming, and could give me news.

‘Sorcha.’

I looked up at Conor again. He must have been struggling with himself – not sure how much to tell me, lest he should frighten me.

‘What?’

‘You must be very watchful,’ he said slowly. ‘They will wed, I have no doubt of it. Whether or not we speak to Father alone before that day, the result can hardly be different now. What could we say? Lady Oonagh sets not a foot wrong; our fears are based on fantasy, he would tell us, on the wish to resist change, on ignorance. For once she has hold of you, you no longer see her true self. She clothes herself in a mist of glamour; the weak and the vulnerable have no chance.’

‘And after they are married?’

Conor’s lips became a thin line. ‘Perhaps then we will see something of the truth. Believe me, if I could send you away before then, I would do so. But Father is still head of this household, and such a request, so close to his wedding day, would seem passing strange. I will look out for you as best I can, and so will Liam; but you must be careful. As for Finbar …’

‘Who is she, Conor? What is she?’ In my newfound knowledge of Conor, I thought he could answer my question if anyone could.

‘I can’t say. Nor can I be sure of her reasons for doing this. We have no choice but to wait, hard as that may be. There may be some pattern to this so large, so complex that only time will make it clear. But it is too late to prevent the marriage. Now off you go, little owl – you look as if some sleep would do you good. How was he?’

I knew what he was talking about, despite the sudden change of tack.

‘He was mending well enough, until I was forced to leave. Could even that have been part of her plan?’

‘She could hardly have known of it. Best not to add that to your worries. It sounds as if you have done some good; perhaps now he can heal himself, with Father Brien’s help. And there are others who can guide him to safety. Maybe it’s time to let go, and tend to yourself. Go on, off to bed with you.’

The next day there was a bit of sun, weakly filtering between the ever-present clouds, and I set to work in my garden, determined to make up to it for the way I had neglected it. I tied my hair up with a strip of cloth, put on an old sacking apron and armed myself with knife and spade. Overgrown lavender and sprawling wormwood got a good trimming; weeds were rooted out and paths swept clear. As I worked steadily on, my mind slowly began to lose the confusion of fears and worries that plagued it, and the task in hand became all that mattered.

At length it was tolerably tidy, and I fetched the assortment of bulbs I’d lifted last season to dry out for re-planting. Daffodils in the biggest basket; then crocuses, iris, lilies of five different kinds. Some, too, that would grow as well in the wild reaches of the forest as in my sheltered beds: pigs-ears, faery chimes, and the slender pale bulbs of mind’s-ease. Throw a handful of its leaves on your camp fire at night, and you would sleep so well you would never awaken.

Padriac had fashioned me a little tool of birch wood, for making the planting holes. As I moved around the garden, digging, setting each bulb in its place with care, smoothing the rich soil back over them, tucking them in for the winter, I recalled Conor’s words to us on the day Padriac had offered to make this for me. Don’t cut the live wood, he’d said. Find a limb that wind or lightning has taken from the tree, or a birch that has fallen in a great storm. Cut your wood from that if you can. If you must cut new wood, be sure to give due warning. The forest’s gifts should not be taken without a by-your-leave. All of us knew this lesson. There would be a quick word, and whether it was to the tree herself or to some spirit that dwelt within, probably made no difference. And sometimes, a small gift was left – nothing of great cost, but always something of significance to the giver – a favourite stone, a special feather, a shining bead of glass. The forest was always generous in her favours to the seven of us, and we never forgot it.

It made sense, now, that Conor had been the one to teach us this lesson.

I had almost finished; I knelt to plant the last few crocuses amongst mossy rocks which would shelter them, later, from the chilly breezes of spring. Crocuses are early risers. The door from the stillroom swung open with a creak.

‘My lady?’ It was a very young maidservant, nervous and ill at ease. ‘The lady Oonagh wants you, please. Straight away, she said.’ She bobbed an apology for a curtsy, and fled.

I had been almost happy. Now, as I knelt there with my hands covered in soil and my hair tumbling down, my heart grew cold again, even in the centre of my own quiet place. I could not shut her out, not even here.

I walked back between the lavender beds. They had bloomed well this year, and remnant flower spikes still released a memory of summer into the air as I brushed past them. Inside, I scrubbed my hands, but the nails were still black. I tidied my hair as best I could and hung the apron on a peg. Well, that would have to do. There were limits to the amount of trouble I would take for the lady Oonagh.

She’d been given the best chamber, one whose narrow windows gave a view of the lake and caught the afternoon sun. She was waiting for me, standing demure by the bed, with rolls of cloth and laces and ribbons strewn around her. Her auburn hair outshone the brightest of these adornments, trapping the light in its dark tendrils. She was alone.

‘Sorcha, my dear! What took you so long?’ It was a gentle enough reprimand. I advanced cautiously across the stone floor.

‘I was working in my garden, my lady,’ I said. ‘I did not expect to be called.’

‘Hmm,’ she said, and her gaze travelled over me from tousled head to muddy feet. ‘And you nearly thirteen years old. It comes of growing up in a houseful of boys, I suppose. But we’re going to change all that, my dear. How disappointed your mother would have been, to see you so wild, and on the very threshold of womanhood. It’s as well she is not here to see how your upbringing has been neglected.’

I was deeply affronted. ‘She would not have been disappointed!’ I said angrily. ‘Our mother loved us, she trusted us. She told my brothers to look after me, and they have. Maybe I’m not your idea of a lady, but –’

She interrupted me with her cascade of laughter, and her arm around my shoulders. I tensed under her touch.

‘Oh, my dear,’ she purred, ‘you’re so young. Of course you defend your brothers; and I expect they did the best job they could. But they’re only boys, after all, and there’s nothing like a woman’s touch, don’t you agree? And it’s never too late to start. We have a year or two, before we must think of a betrothal for you; time enough. Your father wants a good match for you, Sorcha. We must polish your manners, and your appearance, before then.’

I pulled away from her. ‘Why should I be polished and improved like goods for sale? I might not even want to marry! And besides, I have many skills, I can read and write and play the flute and harp. Why should I change to please some man? If he doesn’t like me the way I am, then he can get some other girl for his wife.’

She laughed again, but there was an edge to it, and a sharpness in her glance.

‘Not afraid to speak your mind, are you? A trait you share with certain of your brothers, I notice. Well, we shall talk more of this later. I hope you will learn to trust me, Sorcha.’

I was silent.

Oonagh went over to the bed, where a profusion of cloth was tumbled. She lifted a corner of gauzy green stuff.

‘I thought, this one, for the wedding. There’s an excellent seamstress in the village, I hear, who’ll make it up for you in a day. Come here, my dear.’

I was powerless to refuse. She placed me before a mirror I had never seen before. Its still surface was circled with twining creatures. Their red jewel eyes were on me as I looked at my reflection. Small, skinny, pale. Untidy mop of dark curls, roughly tied back. Neat nose, wide mouth, defiant green eyes. My version of the family face had not the far-seeing serenity of Conor’s or the pale intensity of Finbar’s. It was softer than Liam’s and more fine-boned than Padriac’s. The dimples that made Cormack’s and Diarmid’s smiles so charming were lacking from my thin cheeks. Nonetheless, I saw my brothers’ images as I gazed on my own.

The lady Oonagh had taken up a bone hairbrush, and as I stood there she undid the crude tie that kept my curls off my face, and began to brush out the tangles. I clenched my fists and remained still. Something in the steady motion of the brush, and the way her eyes watched me in the polished bronze of the mirror, sent a chill deep through me. A tiny voice was alive inside me, a little warmth; I focused on the words. You will find a way, daughter of the forest. Your feet will walk a straight path.

‘You have pretty hair,’ she said. The brush moved rhythmically. ‘Unkempt, but pretty. You should let me cut it for you. Just a little tidy up – it will sit better under a veil that way. Oh! What has happened here?’ Her predatory fingers fluffed the short ends over my brow, where Simon’s knife had shorn away a curl.

‘I –’ I was manufacturing an excuse in my head when my eyes met hers in the mirror. Her face was cold, so cold she seemed not quite human. The brush fell to the ground; her fingers still twined in my hair, and it was as if she could see into me, could read my thoughts, knew exactly what I had been doing. I shrank away from her.

It was only a moment. Then she smiled, and her eyes changed again. But I had seen, and she had seen. We recognised that we were enemies. Whatever she was, whatever she wanted, my heart quailed at it. And yet I believe she was taken aback by the strength she saw in me.

‘I’ll show you how we’ll dress your hair for the wedding,’ she said as if nothing had happened. ‘Plaited at the sides, and drawn up at the back –’

‘No,’ I said, backing away, wrenching my hair from her grasp. ‘That is, no thank you. I’ll dress it myself, or Eilis will. And I will find something to wear –’ I glanced longingly at the door.

‘I am your mother now, Sorcha,’ Oonagh said with a chilling finality. ‘Your father expects you to obey me. Your upbringing is in my charge from now on, and you will learn to do as you are told. So, you will wear the green. The woman will come tomorrow to fit your gown. Meantime, try to keep yourself clean. There are servants here to dig up carrots and turn the dungheap – henceforth your time will be better spent.’

I fled; but knew I could not escape her will. I would wear green for the wedding, like it or no, and I would stand by with my brothers and watch the lord Colum wed a – what was she? A witch woman? A sorceress like the ones in the old tales, with a fair face and an evil heart? There was a power about her, that was certain, but she was never one of Them. The Lady of the Forest, whom I believed I had seen in her cloak of blue, inspired more awe – but she was benign, though terrible. I thought Oonagh was of another kind, at once less powerful but more dangerous.

I stood in front of the mirror in my green gown, as she plaited ribbons into my hair and grilled me about my brothers. Again the strange creatures fixed their ruby eyes on me and I answered despite myself.

‘Six brothers,’ she murmured. ‘What a lucky girl you are, growing up in a houseful of fine men! No wonder you are unlike other girls of your age. The little Eilis, for instance. Sweet girl. Fine head of hair. She’ll breed well, and lose her bloom soon enough.’ She dismissed poor Eilis with a flick of the fingers as she knotted the green ribbon and twisted the end tight. ‘Your brother could have done better. Much better. Serious boy, isn’t he? So intense.’

‘He loves her!’ I blurted out unwisely, rushing to Liam’s defence without thinking. I may once have resented his love for Eilis, but I would not stand by and listen to this woman criticising my brother’s choice. ‘How can you do better than wed for love?’

This sally was greeted with cascades of laughter; even the dour maidservant smiled at my naivety.

‘How indeed?’ said Oonagh lightly, fitting a short veil over my plaited and woven hair. The figure in the mirror was unrecognisable, a pale, distant girl with shadowy eyes, her elegant dress at odds with her haunted expression. ‘Oh, that looks much better, Sorcha. See how it softens the line of the cheek? I may yet be proud of you, my dear. Now tell me, it seems twins run in the family – and yet I have never seen a pair more different in character than young Cormack and Conor. Like peas in a pod, physically, of course. You are all alike, with your long faces and wide eyes. Cormack is a charming boy, and your father tells me he is shaping up to be a promising fighter. His twin is very – reserved. In some ways, almost like an old man.’

I made no comment. The maidservant was rolling up ribbons, her lips thin. Behind me, the seamstress from the village still worked on the fall of the skirt. It was a graceful gown; some other girl might have worn it with pride.

‘Conor disapproves of me, I think,’ said Oonagh. ‘He seems to throw himself into the affairs of the household with a single-mindedness unusual in one so young. Do you think perhaps he is jealous that his twin shines so? Does he really wish to be a warrior and excel in his father’s eyes?’

I stared at her. She saw so much, and yet so little. ‘Conor? Hardly. He follows a path of his own choice, always.’

‘And what is that path, Sorcha? Does a virile young man really wish for a life as a scribe, as a manager of his father’s household? A glorified steward? What boy wouldn’t rather ride and fight, and live his life to the full?’

Her eyes met mine in the mirror; and the bronze creatures gained power from her gaze, and fixed their baleful glare on me. I was unable to stay silent.

‘There is an inner life,’ I whispered. ‘What you see is Conor’s surface, a tiny part of what is there. You’ll never know Conor if you only look at what he does. You need to find out what he is.’

There was a short silence, broken only by the rustle of Oonagh’s gown as she moved about behind me.

‘Interesting. You’re an odd girl, Sorcha. Sometimes you seem such a child, and then you’ll come out with something that makes you sound like an old crone.’

‘I – can I go now? Is this done?’ I was suddenly wretched. What else would she make me say? Why could I not control my tongue before her? Her last words had reminded me of Simon, and I could not allow her to tap into my thoughts of him, for if she learnt the truth she would not hesitate to tell Father, and then it would not just be Simon, but Finbar, and I, and Conor as well that would be at risk.

It seemed the fitting was over. The seamstress began to undo the pins, one by one. There were a lot of pins.

‘I’ve seen very little of your youngest brother,’ said Oonagh, smiling. She had retreated to perch on the end of the bed, swinging one foot slightly. In her white dress with her hair falling about her shoulders, she seemed about sixteen years old. Until you looked into her eyes. ‘Always away off doing things, is Padriac. You’d almost think he was trying to avoid me. What is it keeps him away from crack of dawn till after supper time?’

This seemed safe enough.

‘He loves creatures, and mending things,’ I said. The seamstress eased the bodice down. It was cold in the chamber, despite the fire. ‘He keeps them in the old barn. If there’s ever a bird whose wing is broken, or a hound suffers an injury, Padriac will fix it. And he can build just about anything.’

‘Mm,’ she said. ‘So, another one who will not grow up a warrior.’ Her tone was cool.

‘My brothers are all adept with sword and bow,’ I said defensively. ‘They may not all choose Father’s path, but they are not lacking in the skills of war.’

‘Even Finbar?’

The eyes of the creatures glowed. I stared back at them and, gathering up every scrap of will, kept my mouth firmly shut. She was behind me again, suddenly, and the hairbrush was in her hand. She waited as the maidservant began, grimly, to unfasten the network of green ribbons that tamed my hair.

‘You are reluctant to speak. But how can I be a good mother to these boys, if I do not know them?’ She sighed expressively, her face sweetly rueful. ‘I’m afraid Colum has favoured some of his sons and neglected others. I detect a very frosty atmosphere where young Finbar is concerned. What can he have done, to earn such censure? Is it simply a reluctance to participate in warlike pursuits? Or has he never really forgiven his mother for dying and leaving him alone?’

‘That’s not fair!’ I stood up and whirled around to face her, wrenching my hair from the servant’s grasp. I was oblivious to the pain. ‘Mother didn’t choose to die! Of course he misses her – we all do, nothing can ever fill the space she left. But we’re not alone, we never have been, we’ve got each other. Can’t you understand that? We are friends, and family, and part of each other, like leaves on the same branch, or pools in the same stream. The same life flows in us all. Talking of jealousy is just silly.’

‘Sit down, dear.’ Oonagh’s voice was quite calm; she did not react to my outburst. ‘You spring to your brother’s defence – that is natural, as you have had no other companionship, all these years. What grounds have you for comparison, so narrow is your little world? Not surprising, then, that you cannot see his limitations.’

I managed to escape, finally, but there was no way of blotting out her words, and I wondered again what it was she wanted from me, from us. I felt a strong desire to have all my brothers with me, to touch them and talk with them, to feel their strength and comforting sameness. So I looked for them; but Cormack was engaged in a bout with staves, grinning fiercely as he challenged Donal to find a way past his whirling weapon and fancy footwork. And Padriac was fully occupied with some contraption he was building. A raven perched on a rail above him, turning her head this way and that as his fingers went about their delicate task. ‘What is it?’ I asked my youngest brother, eyeing the intricate folding framework of fine wooden slats and stretched linen.

‘Not quite a wing, not quite a sail,’ muttered Padriac as his deft fingers fastened another tiny joint. ‘With this, a small boat will travel very fast over the water; even in the lightest of winds. See how the panels turn, when I tighten this thread?’ Indeed, it was ingenious; and I told him so. I patted the old donkey, and peered into the stalls, where a litter of brindled kittens nestled in a corner of the warm straw. The raven followed me, still limping a little from her injury (attacked by other birds, Padriac thought, but she was mending well). She gave the kittens a wide berth.

There was a long walk, straight between willows, and hedged by a late-flowering plant whose childhood name was angel-eyes, because its round blue blossoms seemed to echo the colour of a spring sky. It was alive with blooms, but the heavens today were leaden; no angels would smile on this wedding. Down by the lake, Liam walked with Eilis. He held his cloak around her shoulders with his arm, careless as to who might be watching, and his head was bent as he spoke to her solemnly. Eilis had her face turned up to his, and she looked at him as if to shut out the rest of the world. For a moment, I felt a dark foreboding, a shadow over the two of them that spread its chill towards me. Then they were gone under the trees, and I went on towards the house.

There was much activity around the kitchen, with carts coming to and fro, and barrels of ale and sides of meat being hefted on shoulders and stowed away. Smells of baking and roasting drifted in the cold air, and horses stamped and snorted. Linn greeted me at the door, snuffling her wet nose into my hand, but she did not go in. It was then that I noticed, among the carts drawn up on the stones, a familiar vehicle of plain, serviceable kind, in whose shafts an old horse waited patiently for his turn to be unbridled and led away to warm stable and rest. And this was odd. Why would Father Brien be here now, with still a night to go before the wedding? I had been sure he would come down early in the morning and travel back before nightfall, for how could he leave Simon alone after dark?

I went in, but none of my brothers was there, and Fat Janis chased me straight out again, saying she had quite enough to worry about, what with all the fancy baking and the men coming in and helping themselves, without young ’uns underfoot. As she propelled me through the door, she slipped a warm honeycake into my hand with a wink.

I found them eventually back where I’d started, in my own herb garden. It was probably the most private place there was, with its high stone walls and its single door into the stillroom; barring the roof top, that is, but only Finbar and I went up there. Father Brien was on the mossy stone seat, and Conor was leaning next to him, speaking earnestly, while Finbar sat cross-legged on the grass. As I creaked the stillroom door open wider, they fell silent and all three turned their heads in unison to look at me. It was as if they had been waiting for me, and there was clearly something very wrong. ‘What is it?’ I said, ‘what’s the matter?’ My two brothers looked at Father Brien, and he sighed and got up, taking my hands when I ran up to him.

‘You won’t be happy with this news, Sorcha,’ he said gravely. ‘I wish I had better for you.’

‘What?’ I demanded, not allowing myself to think.

‘Your patient is gone,’ Father Brien said bluntly. ‘The day I was away, I made haste to return by sundown, as we planned. When I reached home, the place was in darkness. At first I feared the worst for the two of you; but I could see your belongings were taken, and no apparent harm done, and the dog had neither remained nor, it seemed, come to any ill. I knew Linn would not have let you be taken without blood being shed. It was plain the horses whose hooves had marked the ground belonged to your brothers.’

‘But Simon – I left him safe – he said he would wait for you –’

‘There was no sign of him, child,’ said Father Brien gently. ‘His outer garments were gone, and his ashen staff; though it seemed he took neither food nor water, nor a cloak against the cold, and he left his boots behind. I can hazard a guess at his intentions.’

For he cared not if he lived or died. But he had promised me.

‘Didn’t you even look for him? Why didn’t you send for us?’ I was beset with visions of Simon alone in the forest at night, surrounded by his personal demons, slowly weakening with pain and cold. Perhaps already he lay still and silent under the great oaks, with the mosses creeping over his lifeless body.

‘Hush, daughter. Of course I searched; but he is a warrior, and though hampered by his injuries, knows how to disappear when he will. And how could I send for you or your brothers? I thought it most likely that he had been taken prisoner again, and brought back here by whoever came to fetch you. I have learnt from Finbar that this nearly did happen.’

‘Indeed,’ said Finbar. ‘Maybe, when he saw how easily he could be taken again, he chose this way, Sorcha. There is a breed of man that would rather die than be captive. And he was as pig-headed a fellow as I ever saw.’

‘But he promised,’ I said rather childishly, choking back tears. ‘How could he come so far, and then throw it all away?’ I could not forget that I had broken my own promise. Now I knew how it felt.

Conor put a comforting arm around me. ‘What exactly did he promise you, little owl?’

I hiccupped. ‘To live, if he could.’

‘You cannot know if he has broken this promise or not,’ Conor said. ‘Probably you will never know. Hard though it is, you must put this behind you, for there is no way you can help your Briton now. Rest easy that you did for him all you could, and think of tomorrow, for we all have other tests and trials ahead of us.’

‘Your brother speaks the truth,’ said Father Brien. ‘We have no choice but to move on. There is a marriage to perform; it gives me no great pleasure to do so, but I am bidden by your father and have no grounds to refuse him. Will he speak with me alone, do you think?’

‘You can try,’ said Conor. ‘The last thing he wants just now is good advice, but coming from you it may be less unwelcome. Both Liam and myself have sought to speak with him privately, and have been refused.’

‘What’s the point?’ put in Finbar. ‘He’s doomed. You may as well seek to turn back the great tides of the west, or halt the stars in their dance, as step in his way on this. The lady Oonagh has him in her thrall, body and soul. I never thought to see him weakened so; and yet, strangely, I am not surprised. For nigh on thirteen years he has purged himself of any human feeling, has shut out any warmth of spirit. No wonder, then, that he was easy prey for such as her.’ His tone was bitter.

‘You judge him too harshly,’ said Father Brien, scrutinizing my brother’s face. ‘His decision is unwise, certainly, but he has made it with good intentions. For surely he sees his new bride as a guide and mentor for his younger children, someone to harness their unbridled ways and bring a little warmth to their lives. He is not unaware of his shortcomings as a father. If he cannot reach out to you himself, perhaps he believes that she can.’

Finbar laughed. ‘It’s clear you have not yet met the lady Oonagh, Father.’

‘I have learnt of her, from Conor and from your oldest brother, who greeted me on my arrival. I know what you face here, believe me, and I pray for you all. It is a tragedy, indeed, that your father is blind to her true character. I merely seek to prevent you from judging him too hastily. Again.’

‘So you will at least speak with him?’

‘I’ll try.’ Father Brien got up slowly. ‘Perhaps we may find him alone now. Conor, will you accompany me? Oh, and by the way –’ he fumbled in a deep pocket of his robe, taking something out. ‘Your friend did not vanish entirely without token, Sorcha. He left this behind where I would surely find it. I can only deduce it was meant for you. Its meaning is not clear to me.’

He placed the small object in my hand, and the two of them left quietly. Finbar watched me in silence as I turned it this way and that, trying to read its message. The little block of birch wood was, I thought, from Father Brien’s special stock, kept dry for the making of holy beads and other items of a more secret nature. It had been smoothed and shaped until it lay comfortably in a small hand such as mine. The carving was surely not the work of one afternoon; it was precise and intricate, showing a degree of skill that surprised me. I could not make out its meaning. There was a circle, and within it a little tree. By the shape I thought it was an oak. At its foot, there were two waving lines, a river perhaps? Wordlessly I passed it to Finbar, who studied it in silence.

‘Why does a Briton leave such a token?’ he said finally. ‘Does he seek to place you at risk, should it be found? What could his purpose be? I have no doubt it reveals his identity, in some way unknown to us. You should destroy it.’

I snatched the little token back from him. ‘I will not.’

Finbar regarded me levelly. ‘Don’t get sentimental, Sorcha. This is war, remember – and you and I have broken the rules well and truly. We may have saved this boy’s life, and we may not. But don’t expect him to thank us for it. Campaigners don’t leave tracks behind them unless they want to be found. Or unless there is an ambush ready.’

‘I will keep it safe,’ I said. ‘I can hide it. And I know the risks.’

‘I’m not sure you do, Sorcha,’ said my brother. ‘The lady Oonagh is waiting, just waiting, to find any weak spot. Then, like the wolf at night, she’ll move in for the kill. You’re not very good at hiding your feelings, or at concealing the truth. She would have no mercy on you; and Father, once she told him, would exact full retribution from us both. And think what would happen to Conor, if his part in this were known. I regret ever telling you the full story. You’d have been better just to help me on that night and never know any more.’

This brotherly remark was hardly worth commenting on. Besides, my mind was on other things.

‘He can’t survive, can he?’ I said bluntly.

‘You know his chances better than I do,’ said Finbar, frowning. ‘A fit man, in these conditions, with the wherewithal to make a fire and hunt game, might make his way across country and keep out of sight. You’d need to know where you were going.’

‘It’s just such a waste!’ I could not really express how I felt, but Finbar read my thoughts clearly enough – he was always good at getting past any shield I might try to put up.

‘Let go of it, Sorcha,’ he said. ‘Father Brien was right, there’s nothing any of us can do. If he’s gone, he’s gone. I suppose his chances of making his way to safety were never great.’

‘So why do it? Why take such a risk?’

‘Wouldn’t you rather die free?’ he said.

I spent some time on my own in the stillroom, mostly just thinking, the slight weight of Simon’s carving a constant reminder of my bad news; it was well enough concealed in the small bag I wore at my belt, though a safer hiding place would be needed soon. I made up an elderberry salve, and swept the floor. Later, I went out, deciding that after all I was hungry. Fat Janis’ honeycake had not gone very far. Supper was not an attractive prospect, for on this important day the whole family would be expected to put in an appearance. Maybe a miracle would happen, and Father Brien would persuade my father to put off the wedding. Maybe.

Outside my door, crouched in a corner of the draughty passageway, was Linn. I almost missed her, for she was cowering in the shadows, but my ears caught her faint whimper.

‘What is it, Linn? What’s wrong?’ I looked closer, and gasped at the great oozing weal that cut across her face from above one eye to the corner of her mouth. Her teeth gleamed through a gashed, bloody lip.

I coaxed her out; she was shivering and flinched even from my friendly touch, but I kept talking quietly, and stroking her gently, and eventually I got her over to the old stables where Padriac greeted me with the shocked outrage I expected. Muttering about certain people and why they shouldn’t be allowed near animals, and what he’d do to them when he found out who they were, my youngest brother neatly cleaned and stitched the wound while I held poor Linn still and talked to her of green fields and bones. Padriac was very efficient, but it still took a long time. After he was finished, the dog heaved a great sigh, drank half a bowl of water and settled down in the straw next to the donkey.

It was dusk now and I reminded Padriac that we’d better clean ourselves up for supper; the lady Oonagh frowned on lateness. As we turned to go, there was Cormack, standing back in the shadows, his face linen-white.

‘How long have you been there?’ I asked, surprised.

‘She’s well enough,’ said Padriac, and there was a strange edge to his voice. ‘Why don’t you pat your dog, let her know you’re here to see her? Why don’t you do that, brother?’

There was an awkward silence, and then ‘I can’t,’ said Cormack in a strained voice.

I looked from one of them to the other.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked, bewildered.

‘Ask him,’ said Padriac furiously. ‘Ask him why he won’t come in and touch his own dog. The guilt’s written on his face, plain to see. This is his handiwork. Forgive me if I don’t stay to chat.’ And he was gone, brushing past his elder brother as if he were not there.

‘Can this be true?’ I said, horrified and incredulous. ‘Did you do this, Cormack?’ Surely Padriac was wrong. It was Cormack who had saved this dog from drowning, Cormack who had raised her from a small pup, Cormack whose steps she followed with slavish devotion. My brothers might show little mercy to their enemies on the field, but they would never wilfully hurt a creature in their charge.

I stared mutely as Cormack made his way over to the stalls and stood looking down at his damaged hound. He held his arms around himself as if unable to get warm, and when I moved closer I could see that his cheeks were wet.

‘You did do it,’ I whispered. ‘Cormack, how could you? She is a good dog, faithful and true, and sweet-tempered. What possessed you to hurt her?’

He would not look at me. ‘I don’t know,’ he said finally, his voice thick with tears. ‘I was in the yard, practising, and she ran up behind me and I – I don’t know what got into me, I just let fly with my staff. It was almost as if someone else was doing it.’

I opened my mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

‘It wasn’t as if she were even in the way, Sorcha. Just – just suddenly, I was angry and I hit her.’

‘Speak to her,’ I said. ‘She forgives you, look.’

Hearing his voice Linn had raised her damaged head from the straw, and her long tail was thumping weakly. The donkey grumbled in its sleep.

‘I can’t,’ said Cormack bleakly. ‘How do I know I won’t do it again? I’m not fit for any company, man’s or beast’s.’

‘You did a cruel thing,’ I said slowly. ‘There’s no undoing it. You are just lucky that your brother had the skill to mend this damage. But she needs your love, as well, to get better. A dog does not judge you. She loves you, no matter what you do.’

Linn gave a whine.

‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Pat her, talk to her. Then she can sleep easy.’

‘But what if –’

‘You won’t do it again,’ I said grimly. ‘Trust yourself, Cormack.’

He knelt down, finally, and put out a tentative hand to stroke her neck, never taking his eyes off that ghastly, disfiguring wound. Linn turned her head with some difficulty, and licked his hand. That was how I left them.

I move reluctantly towards a part of our story that is difficult to tell; though not the most difficult. So, we had supper, and Cormack was not there, and neither was Finbar. Father commented on this and was greeted with a wall of silence by his remaining children. Father Brien sat quietly near the foot of the table. He ate sparingly, and excused himself early. Eilis kept glancing nervously at the lady Oonagh, like a frightened animal. Liam held her hand under the table, but his face was like stone. Nobody needed to tell me that Father Brien’s talk to Father hadn’t changed anything.

Then it was late at night, and most of the household was asleep. As the only girl, I had the luxury of my own chamber for sleeping, and that was where my brothers gathered. We were all there but Diarmid, though Cormack’s eyes were red, and he would not sit by his youngest brother. Finbar had appeared from nowhere, like a shadow. We lit seven white candles, and burned juniper berries, and sat there in silence for a while thinking of our mother and trying to share what strength we had. There had been no chance to visit the birch tree together, so we communed with her as best we could. The fire was down to embers, the candles threw a steady light on solemn faces and linked hands.

At such times, we spoke if words came to us, but were content to draw strength from one another’s touch, and from our shared thoughts. Not that all of us could communicate mind to mind, as Finbar and I did. That was a skill reserved for few, and how we came by it is a mystery. But still, the seven of us were well tuned to one another, and could feel without words the pain and joy and fear of our siblings. That night, we felt Diarmid’s absence like the loss of a limb, for we were united in our sense of impending doom, and our network of protection was incomplete without him. Nobody would hazard a guess at his whereabouts.

Liam shifted slightly, and a candle flickered, sending shadows dancing high on the walls.

‘We draw our strength from the great oaks of the forest,’ he said quietly. ‘As they take their nourishment from the soil, and from the rains that feed the soil, so we find our courage in the pattern of living things around us. They stand through storm and tempest, they grow and renew themselves. Like a grove of young oaks, we remain strong.’

Conor, who was seated on his left, took over.

‘The light of these candles is but the reflection of a greater light. It shines from the islands beyond the western sea. It gleams in the dew and on the lake, in the stars of the night sky, in every reflection of the spirit world. This light is always in our hearts, guiding our way. And should any of us lose the light, there will be brother or sister to guide him, for the seven of us are as one.’

It was Cormack’s turn next, but he was silent for so long I thought he had decided not to speak. At last he blurted out, ‘I did a bad thing today. So bad I should not be here. Tell them, Sorcha. Tell them, Padriac. It has already begun, the shame, the spoiling. I don’t think I can do this any more; I’m not fit for it.’

Liam and Conor and Finbar looked at him. Padriac opened his mouth, but I got in first. ‘He hurt his dog,’ I said. ‘Hurt her quite badly, and for nothing. She’ll recover, thanks to Padriac’s skill. He blames himself; wrongly, I think.’

‘How wrongly?’ blazed Padriac. ‘He did it, he said as much himself.’

‘What he said was, it was almost as if someone else was doing it,’ I said. ‘What if someone else was doing it?’

‘You mean –’

‘I’ve felt it myself,’ I went on miserably. ‘Looking into her mirror. She did it somehow, by brushing my hair, with her mind, with her voice. She tried to take away my will, to make me say and do things I didn’t want to. And she was very strong. I could not quite keep her out.’

‘She was there,’ said Cormack slowly, incredulously. ‘On the steps, at the practice yard. She was with Father, watching me. She was there. Could she have – but no, surely not.’

‘But why?’ asked Padriac angrily. ‘Why should she wish to do such a thing? There’s no reason to it, it’s just a piece of petty trickery. She’s marrying him, hasn’t she got what she wants already? And Linn is innocent. Would she cause her suffering for nothing?’

Conor’s mind was on a different track. ‘What did she try to glean from you, Sorcha? What did she want to know?’

‘Just – things. About me, and all of you – she asked about each of you. Little things. But it felt bad, not as if she just wanted to get to know us, but –’ I shivered. ‘I don’t know. As if she would store the information and use it somehow. Use it against us.’

Conor turned back to his twin. ‘You love this dog,’ he said, looking Cormack straight in the eye. ‘She is a part of you. She owes her life to you. You would not hurt her.’

‘But I did hurt her. No matter who made me, who put the thought into my head, it was my hand that struck the blow.’

‘What’s done is done,’ said Conor. ‘You cannot change that. But you can make it better, you know how. Be the dog, feel her pain, feel her sense of betrayal. Feel also her simplicity, her forgiving, her love and trust for you. The two of you will heal together.’ He dropped my hand and took Cormack’s, drawing him into the circle. After a while, Padriac moved in and took his brother’s other hand, and we sat quietly again.

‘We ask for guidance,’ said Finbar. ‘We bear our lights within, and sometimes the path is clear. But often they are dim, and we cannot trust even our own. Spirits of the forest, spirits of the water, ghosts of the air, beings of the deep and secret places, help us in our time of need. For ahead is darkness and confusion.’

His words sent a shiver through me. Had he seen something of our future?

‘I heard a tale once,’ I said, ‘of a hero who came to grief, after long journeys and mighty deeds, when he met a monstrous creature with jaws like iron, and the strength of three giants. The hero was torn limb from limb; and when the monster finished with him, the parts that were left were strewn far and wide. So he had a shin bone that lay in a deep cave where water dripped constantly down the walls; and his hair was blown by the east wind till it tangled in a hazel tree in a far off corner of the land. His skull was used as a drinking bowl for a time, then abandoned in a stream, which bore it to the very shores of the western sea. A wild dog carried off his little finger bones to feed its young. And after a time, there seemed to be nothing left of him. Years went by, and tiny pale toadstools grew where his leg bone lay, and the leaves of the hazel grew around his bright hair. On the sea’s rim, his skull filled with soil, and in it sprouted and flourished the seeds of wild parsley; and through his finger bones, where the pups had left them white and clean, grew spears of crocus. And they say, if ever a traveller plucks the wild parsley, and takes the bark of the hazel tree, and the secret toadstools, and mixes them with crocus from the patch of forest where the hero’s last bones lie, a powerful spell will come to life. The hero will be reborn, not as he was before his destruction, but many times stronger in body and spirit; for he will be filled with the strength of earth, sea and air. I think of the seven of us as the parts of one body. We may be torn asunder, and it may seem as if there is no tomorrow for us. We may each travel our own path, and we may fall and be broken and mend again. But in the end, as surely as the sun and moon make their way across the arch of the heavens, the strength of one is the strength of seven. Don’t forget what our mother said, as she lay dying. We must touch the earth, we must look into the sky and feel the wind. Like pools in the same stream, we must meet and part and meet again. We belong to the flow of the lake and to the deep beating heart of the forest.’

The candles were lower now, and we fell into silence. It was a time of year when spirits were very close, for it was less than two moons to midwinter day, and I could almost catch small voices in the shadows around us. Padriac had not spoken again, but he placed his hand on Cormack’s shoulder briefly, and Cormack nodded. And Conor said to his twin, very quietly, ‘I’ll come back over to the barn with you, for a while.’

‘Thank you,’ said Cormack.

Finbar stayed behind when all the rest had gone. He sat staring into the fire. The mood was sombre. Despite our brave words, we were looking into an abyss.

‘What are you thinking, Finbar?’

‘Something I cannot share.’

I moved closer to the fire, thrusting my hands into my pockets for warmth. The smooth surface of Simon’s carving fitted exactly into my palm.

Tell me. Tell me what you see.

I tried to look into his mind, but there was a barrier there, a dark wall around his thoughts.

I cannot share this. I will not frighten you.

I caught an image of myself as a small child running barefoot through the forest in dappled sunlight.

Are you afraid?

A feeling of intense cold. Water. The whistling of air past the body, the strangest sensation of falling, flight, falling. That much he revealed to me. Then he shut it off abruptly. I cannot share this with you.

‘You cannot close yourself off from the whole world,’ I said aloud, exhausted already from the attempt to break into his mind pictures. ‘How can we help one another, if we have secrets?’

‘Sharing my last secret didn’t help you much,’ he said flatly. ‘Or the Briton. I wonder now how much my efforts to undo my father’s work were worth. You were hurt, and the boy – his fate was little better for my interference. Perhaps I should cease meddling. Perhaps I should accept that our kind are all killers under the skin. If the lady Oonagh wants us as playthings, what’s the real difference?’ He gave a crooked smile.

‘You don’t really believe that, Finbar!’ I was shocked; could he have changed so quickly? ‘Look me in the eye and say it again.’ I took his face between my hands quite firmly. And when I met his gaze, his eyes were as clear and far-seeing as ever.

‘It’s all right, Sorcha,’ he said gently. ‘I have been thinking hard, that’s all. I have not changed my tune so much. But my mind tells me there is a great ill about to befall us; and I wonder if our strength is enough to withstand it. I wish you were safe somewhere, not here in the middle of it all. And I need to rely on my brothers; I must be able to trust them, all of them.’

‘You can trust them,’ I said. ‘You heard what they said. We are all of a mind, and we always will be. Whenever one is in trouble, there will be six to help.’

‘Their business is torture and death. How can they be of a mind with you, or with Conor, or myself?’

‘I can’t answer that. Only – only that, if you believe the tales, it’s in the nature of our people to go to war and to kill, just as it is to sing and play and tell stories. Perhaps they are two halves of the same whole. I know that we seven are of the one family, and that we only have each other. It has to be enough.’

But there had been one brother missing; and when I opened the door for Finbar to go, we saw him, down the long hallway, as he slipped silently from a bedchamber that was not his own. She was concealed behind the door where she stood to bid him farewell, but we saw her white arm stretch out, and her fingers move softly down his cheek, and then Diarmid padded barefoot away, his face as dazzled and unseeing as some lad bewitched by faery folk. Finbar looked at me, and I looked at him; but we never said a word.

So they were married, she in her long gown of deepest russet, and my father looking at her as if there was not a soul in the world but the two of them, while all around them the family, the guests, the men of the garrison, the servants and cottagers muttered and exchanged sideways glances. I stood there in my green gown with my hair in ribbons, and by me my six brothers in a line. It did not seem to me a proper ceremony at all. In the tales, such things were done in the open, under a massive oak, and there would be play acting and mock fighting and riddles, and the druids would come out of the forest to perform the ritual of handfasting. There were none of the ancient ones at my father’s wedding, and no concession to the old ways. Perhaps the lady Oonagh came from a Christian household, but there was no way of telling, for none of her folk were there. Father Brien spoke the words tranquilly, as was his way, but it seemed to me his face was drawn, and his tone remote. As soon as the formalities were over, he packed his cart and left. A feast followed, with a laden board and flowing ale. And the next day things began to happen.

Eilis was taken ill, something she ate, they thought, but it went on too long, and I was called to her. Her face had lost its rosy plumpness, and she was purging and bringing up blood. I sent a boy for Father Brien, but he did not come, so I held her head and talked to her, and walked her up and down the room, and when she was done I made up a mixture for her, and sat by her bedside until she dropped into a fitful doze. Liam hovered outside, and so did Eilis’ father, muttering under his breath.

I stayed with her through the night, and did what I had to. The next day she was weak but seemed a little brighter. She needed rest, and careful nursing. It was something she ate, sure enough. I recognised the symptoms of monkshood poisoning, and I knew it was no accident. The amount must have been precisely calculated, for a person could survive only the very smallest dose of this lethal substance. The intent was mischief, not murder. I could not tell how the root of this herb had made its way into the wedding banquet, and so specifically onto one person’s platter. And I was not about to accuse my new stepmother aloud, though her eyes were on me as Seamus Redbeard took his hasty farewells. A covered litter was made ready, and he bore his daughter away home to Glencarnagh. Liam questioned me intently, with a white rage on his face that I had never seen before; but I cautioned him, reading the lady Oonagh more accurately than he. She knew enough of my skills to realise the source of Eilis’ mysterious illness would not be undetected for long. An accusation was just what she expected, for what better to drive a wedge between father and son? Besides, I told Liam, Eilis would be safe now. She was a strong girl, and I had caught the poison early. Better if she were to return home, for a while at least.

Diarmid had a black eye, and Cormack a nasty gash on his cheek. Perhaps a certain piece of information had not been kept entirely secret after all. In this matter I would not interfere, though I saw Diarmid watching her, watching her, and growing a little thinner and paler every day, like a man who has tasted faery fruit but once, and is eaten up by his craving. My father’s face bore a shadow of the same look, though he went about his business more or less as usual. Oonagh sat at the table, her smile serene, her eyes commanding. People scurried nervously to obey her. Everywhere you turned, it seemed she was there, watching. The men at arms gave her a wide berth.

Then Padriac’s animals began to sicken, and to die. First it was the old donkey, found cold and stiff one morning in her stall. We were sad; but she had lived out her allotted span, more or less, and we accepted her loss with a regretful glance at the empty corner. Next the mother cat disappeared, leaving her nest of kittens behind. Padriac tried to feed them, and I helped, but one by one they pined and weakened and their tiny lives slipped away. I wept as the last one died in my hands, its once bright eyes fading to a filmy grey. Two days later, I found Padriac beating his fist against the barn wall, his knuckles bloody, his eyes swollen with tears. And at his feet, the raven whose damaged leg had almost mended, whose brave plumage had grown glossy and healthy again; but now she lay still, her head twisted back strangely, her eyes fixed sightless on the wide expanse of winter sky. The old barn was empty. Padriac’s wordless grief and anger twisted my insides. He was consumed with fury, and we could not comfort him. For me, there was worse to come. I should have been prepared, but I was not.