Читать книгу Son of the Shadows - Juliet Marillier - Страница 9

I kept a brave face, but under it I was petrified with fear. I, the girl who wanted nothing more than to stay at home and tend her herb patch, I, the girl who loved above all to exchange tales with her family of an evening after supper, instructing fierce strangers on how to hack off a dying man’s limb and cauterise the wound with hot iron. I, the daughter of Sevenwaters, alone in the lair of the Painted Man and his band of feral killers; for it had become blindingly clear to me that these must be the very outlaws Eamonn had told of. I, Liadan, making bargains with a man who – what was it Eamonn had said? That he carried out his missions without pride or commitment? I wasn’t sure, now, that this description was accurate. I thought both qualities were present, though not perhaps in the way Eamonn would have defined them. The man was singularly unpleasant, there was no doubting that. But why had he agreed to what I proposed, if he thought me so misguided?

I pondered this as I told Dog to make ready a brazier just outside, and to keep the heat up. And to get a broad dagger ready; red hot, if he could. Gull fetched the other things that were needed. In particular, a small bowl of warm water and a very sharp knife with a toothed edge. Snake brought more lanterns and stood them around the rock shelter. Meanwhile I sat by the smith, Evan, and tried to talk to him. He slipped in and out of awareness, one moment speaking nonsense in his fever, then suddenly back with us, staring up at me in a blend of hope and terror. I tried to tell him, during these brief lucid moments, what would happen.

‘… your arm is beyond saving … to save your life, we must cut off your arm … I will put you to sleep, as well as I can, but you’ll probably still feel it. It will be very bad for a while … try to keep still. Trust me. I know what I’m doing …’ There was no telling if he understood me, or believed me. I wasn’t sure if I believed myself. Outside, there were sounds of quiet, orderly activity. Horses being attended to. Buckets clanking. Weapons being sharpened. Not much talk.

‘We’re ready,’ said Gull.

I had taken a small sponge from the deepest corner of my pack, and this had been soaking in the little bowl for a time, not too long. Gull sniffed.

‘That takes me back a long way. Reminds me of my mother’s potions. Pretty strong stuff. Mulberry, henbane; juice of hops; mandrake? Now where would a good little lass like you learn how to make up a draught like that? As soon kill a man as cure him, that would.’

‘That’s why we need the vinegar,’ I told him, eyeing him curiously. Did a man with no past have a mother? ‘The herbs are dried into the sponge. Very useful when you’re on the road. You know a bit about these things, then?’

‘Most of it I’ve long forgotten. It’s women’s work.’

‘It could be useful to learn it again. For men who take such risks, it seems you have few resources to deal with your injuries.’

‘It doesn’t happen much,’ said Dog. ‘We’re the best. Mostly, we come out untouched. This, this was an accident, pure and simple.’

‘His own fault,’ agreed Gull. ‘Besides, you heard the Chief. We’ve got our way of dealing with it. No passengers in this team.’

I shivered. ‘You have done this yourselves? Slit a man’s throat, sooner than try to save him?’

Dog narrowed his yellow eyes at me. ‘Different world. Couldn’t expect you to understand. No place in the team, if you’re hurt so bad you can’t do your work. No place to go outside the team. Chief’s right. Ask any of us. All of us. Put us in Evan’s place, and we’d be begging for the knife.’

I thought about this as I coaxed the smith to swallow a few drops squeezed from the little sponge.

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s part of the code, whatever that is. But then, why did you try to save this man’s life against your chief’s orders? Why not just finish it, as he would have done?’

They seemed reluctant to answer. I pressed the sponge in my hand, and a little more of the highly toxic mixture dribbled into Evan’s mouth. His eyelids closed. At last Gull spoke in an undertone.

‘Different, you see. Evan’s a smith, not a fighter. Got a trade. Got a chance of a life outside, once he saves enough to take himself away. Right away, it’d have to be; Armorica, Gaul, across the sea. He’s got a woman, waiting for him in Britain; he can up and go, as soon as he has the silver for bribes to secure safe passage. There’s a price on his head, like all of us. Still, he’s got that hope.’

‘Couldn’t tell the Chief that,’ said Snake in a murmur. ‘It was hard enough work, begging a couple of days for him. Hope you can do miracles, healer girl. You’ll need one.’

‘My name’s Liadan,’ I said without thinking. ‘You can call me that, it’ll be easier for all of us. Now, we’d better get started. Who’s doing the cutting?’

Gull looked at Dog, and Snake looked at Dog, and Dog eyed the lethal, toothed knife.

‘Looks like it’ll have to be me,’ he said.

‘Size and strength aren’t all of it,’ I cautioned. ‘You’ll need very good control as well. The cut must be neat and quick. And he’ll scream. This potion may be strong, but it’s not as strong as that.’

‘I’ll do it.’

Nobody had heard the Chief coming. It seemed that, good as his men were, he was better. I hoped he had not been listening for long. His cold grey eyes swept once around the area, and then he stalked over and helped himself to the knife. Dog wore an expression of acute relief.

‘You don’t escape so lightly,’ I told him. ‘You seem to be the biggest, so you’d better hold onto his shoulders. Keep your hands well away from where the – from where this man is cutting. You two, take his legs. He may look unconscious, but he’ll feel the pain of this, and its aftermath. When I tell you, you must use all your weight to hold him.’

They moved into position, well drilled in obeying orders.

‘Have you ever done this before?’ I asked the man with the knife.

‘Precisely this, no. You are about to instruct me, no doubt.’

I made a quick decision not to lose my temper, however arrogant his manner.

‘I’ll take you through it step by step. When we start, you must do as I tell you straight away. It will be much easier if you give me a name to use. I will not call you Chief.’

‘Use what you will,’ he said, brows raised. ‘We have no names here, save those you have heard.’

‘There are tales about a man named Bran,’ I said. ‘That name means raven. I will use that. Is the dagger heated? You must fetch it quickly when I tell you, Dog.’

‘It’s ready.’

‘Very well. Now, Bran, you see this point near the shoulder, where the bone is still whole?’

The man whom I had named after a legendary voyager gave a nod, his face tight lipped with disapproval.

‘You must cut here, to finish cleanly. Don’t let your knife slip down to this point, for the wound has no hope of healing if we leave fragments within. Concentrate on your job. Let the others hold him. I will cut back the flesh first with my small knife … where is my small knife?’

Gull reached down and extracted it from where he had stuck it in his boot.

‘Thank you. I’ll start now.’

I wondered, later, how I could possibly have stayed in control. How I managed to sound calm and capable when my heart was racing at three times its usual pace, and my body was breaking out in a cold sweat, and I was filled with fear. Fear of failure. Fear of the consequences of failure, not just for the hapless Evan, but for myself as well. Nobody had spelled out exactly what would happen if I got this wrong, but I could imagine.

The first part was not so bad. Cut neatly through the layers, peel back the skin, as far as the place where somebody had tied a narrow, extremely tight strip of linen around the arm, just below the shoulder. My hands were soon red to the wrists. So far, so good. The smith twitched and trembled, but did not wake.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Now you cut, Bran. Straight across here. Dog, hold tight. Keep him still. This must be quick.’

Perhaps the best assistant, at such times, is a man who has no understanding of human feelings. A man who can cut living bone as neatly and decisively as he would a plank of wood. A man whose face shows nothing as his victim jerks and thrashes suddenly, straining against the well-muscled arms that hold him, and lets out a shuddering moan straight from the depths of the gut.

‘Sweet Christ,’ breathed Snake, leaning his weight across the smith’s legs to keep him down. The horrible sawing noise went steadily on. The cut was as straight as a sword edge. By my side, Dog had his massive forearms planted one on the patient’s left arm, one across the upper chest.

‘Careful, Dog,’ I said. ‘He still needs to breathe.’

‘I think he’s coming to.’ Gull’s hands pressed heavily down on Evan’s right side. ‘Having trouble holding him still. Can’t you give him some more of the …?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s had as much as he can safely take. We’re nearly done.’ There was a truly horrible sound as the last shard of bone was severed, and the mangled remains of the limb fell to the ground. Across the pallet from me, Bran looked up. There was blood on him to the elbows, and his shirt front was spattered with crimson. I detected no change at all in his expression. His brows rose in silent question.

‘Fetch the dagger from the fire.’ Díancécht help me, I must do this part myself. I knew what would happen, and summoned my will. Bran walked outside and returned with the weapon in his hand, hilt wrapped in a cloth, blade glowing as bright as a sword half-forged. His eyes asked another question.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Give it to me. This part is my work. Untie the last binding there. There’ll be blood. Then come round and help Dog hold him down. He’ll scream. Hold on tight. Keep him still.’

The binding came off, and there was a flow of blood, but less than I expected. That was not a good sign, for it might signify the flesh was already dying. Without a word I moved to the other side, and Bran took my place, ready to hold the smith as soon as he moved.

‘Now,’ I said, and touched the red-hot iron to the open wound. There was an unpleasant sizzling sound, and a sickening smell of roast meat. The smith screamed. It was a hideous banshee scream such as you might hear again and again in your dreams, for years after. His whole body convulsed in agony, chest heaving, limbs thrashing, head and shoulders kept still only by the efforts of both Dog and Bran who forced him down, muscles bulging. Big, ugly Dog was as white as a wraith.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ muttered Snake.

‘Sorry, not finished,’ I said, blinking back tears, and I touched the dagger to the wound again, moving it firmly so the whole area would be sealed. Forced myself to keep it there long enough, as another shuddering scream filled the air of the small shelter. Took the hot iron away, finally, and stood there as the smith’s voice died down to a wheezing, gasping whimper. The four men relaxed their grip and straightened up slowly. I didn’t seem to be able to move. After a bit, Gull took the dagger from my hands and went outside with it, and Dog began quietly picking things up off the ground and dropping them into a bucket, and Snake took the little cup of vinegar and, at a nod from me, began to sponge it, a few drops at a time, between Evan’s swollen lips.

‘I’m not going to ask where you learned that,’ Bran commented. ‘Are you happy you put him through this? Still convinced you’re right?’

I looked up at him. His severe features with their strange half-pattern blurred before my eyes, the feathered markings moving and twisting in the lamplight. I was aware, suddenly, of how weary I was.

‘I stand by my decision,’ I said faintly. ‘The time you have set me is too short. But I know I’m right.’

‘You may not be so sure, after six days in this camp,’ he said ominously. ‘When you’ve seen a little more of the real world, you will learn that everyone is expendable. There are no exceptions, be it skilful smith or hardened warrior or little healer girl. You suffer and die, and are soon forgotten. Life goes on regardless.’

I swallowed. The rock walls were moving around me.

‘There will be people looking for me,’ I whispered. ‘My uncle, my brother, my … they will be searching for me by now, and they have resources.’

‘They will not find you.’ His tone allowed for no doubt.

‘What about the escort that travelled with me?’ I was clutching at straws now, for I suspected they were all dead. ‘They cannot be far away. Someone must have seen what happened – someone will follow –’

My voice trailed away, and I put out a hand for balance as my vision filled with spinning stars.

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled foolishly as if excusing myself from polite company. Suddenly there was a very firm grip on my arm, and I was propelled to the wooden stool and pushed unceremoniously onto it.

‘Snake. Leave that for now. He’s still breathing, he’ll keep. Fetch the girl clean clothes, if you can find anything small enough. A blanket, water for washing. Go down to the fire, get yourself food, and bring some for her when you come back. She’s little enough use at her best; she’ll be none at all if we let her starve.’ He turned back to me. ‘First rule of combat. Only the most battle-tested can function well on little food and less sleep. That comes only with long practice. You want to do your job properly, then prepare for it properly.’

I was far too tired to argue.

‘You’ll get two guards tonight. One for outside, one to watch him while you sleep. Don’t let it make you complacent. You chose this task yourself, and you’re on your own after tonight.’

At last he was leaving. I closed my eyes, swaying with exhaustion where I sat. The smith lay quiet, for now.

‘Oh, and one more thing.’

My eyes snapped open.

‘This will have earned you a certain – respect. Amongst the men. Make sure you don’t let it develop into anything more. Any of them that breaks the code will face the severest penalty. You’ll have enough on your conscience, without that as well.’

‘What would a man like you know about conscience?’ I muttered as he turned on his heel and walked away. If he heard me, he gave no sign of it.

It was a strange time. There are tales of men and women taken by the Fair Folk of a moonlight night in the woods, who journey into the Otherworld and experience a life so different that, on return, they scarcely know which is real and which a dream. The Painted Man and his motley bunch of followers were about as far from the visionary beings of the Otherworld as was imaginable, but still I felt removed utterly from my normal life; and although it may be hard to believe, while I dwelt there in the hidden encampment I did not spend much time thinking of my home, or my parents, or even of how my sister Niamh was faring, all alone and sharing a stranger’s bed. There were moments when I grew chill with fear, remembering Eamonn’s tale. I recognised that my situation was perilous indeed. The guards Liam had sent with me had almost certainly been despatched with ruthless efficiency. That was the way these men went about things. As for the code, it might protect me and it might not. In the end, my survival probably depended on whether the smith lived or died. But my father told me once that fear is no winner of battles. I rolled up my sleeves and told myself I had no time for fits of the vapours. A man’s life was in the balance. Besides, I had something to prove and was determined to do it.

That first night and day they guarded me so closely it was like having a large, well-armed shadow always a step behind. I even had to remind them that women do have some bodily needs best attended to in private. We then developed a compromise, whereby I could at least be out of sight briefly, provided I did not take too long and came straight back to where Dog, or Gull, or Snake would be waiting, weapon in hand. Nobody needed to point out to me the utter futility of any attempt to escape. They brought me food and water, they brought me a bucket so I could wash myself. Clad in someone’s old undershirt, which came down well below my knees, and a roomy sort of tunic with useful pockets here and there, I braided my hair severely down my back, out of the way, and got on with what had to be done. Carefully measured draughts for the pain; mixtures to be burned on the brazier, encouraging the ill humours to leave the body. Dressings for the ugly burn. Compresses for the brow. Much of the time I would simply sit by the pallet, holding Evan’s hand in mine, talking quietly or singing little songs, as to a feverish child.

On the second night I was allowed out as far as the cooking fire. Dog walked by me through the encampment, where many small temporary shelters were dotted between the trees and bushes, until we came to a cleared area where a hot, smokeless fire burned neatly between stones. Around it a number of men sat, stood or leaned, scooping up their food from the small vessels most travellers carry somewhere in their packs. There was a smell of stewed rabbit. I was hungry enough not to be too particular, and accepted a bowl shoved into my hands. It was quiet, save for the buzz of night crickets and the faint murmur of a bird as it fell asleep in the branches above.

‘Here,’ said Dog. He handed me a small spoon crafted of bone. It was none too clean. There were many eyes turned on me in the half-darkness.

‘Thank you,’ I said, realising I had been accorded a rare privilege. The others used their fingers to eat, or maybe a hunk of hard bread. There was no laughter and little talk. Perhaps my presence stifled their conversation. Even when ale was poured, and cups passed, there was scarcely a sound. I finished my food, declined a second helping. Somebody offered me a cup of ale, and I took it.

‘Did a good job,’ someone said curtly.

‘Nice piece of work,’ agreed another. ‘Not easy. Seen it botched before. Man can bleed to death quicker than a – that’s to say, it’s a job that has to be done right.’

‘Thank you,’ I said gravely. I looked up at the circle of faces from where I sat on the bank near the fire. All of them kept a margin of three, four paces away from me. I wondered if this, too, were part of the code. They were a strangely assorted group, their bizarre polyglot speech indicating a multitude of origins, and a long time spent together. Of them all, I thought, perhaps but two or three had their birthplace here in Erin. ‘I had help,’ I added. ‘I could not have performed such a task alone.’

One very tall man was studying me closely, a frown creasing his features.

‘Still,’ he said after a while, ‘wouldn’t have been done at all, but for you. Right?’

I glanced around quickly, not wishing to get anyone into trouble. ‘Maybe,’ I said, offhand.

‘Got a chance now, hasn’t he?’ the very tall man asked, leaning forward, long skinny arms folded on bony knees. There was an expectant pause.

‘A chance, yes,’ I said carefully. ‘No more. I’ll do my best for him.’

There were a few nods. Then somebody made a subtle little sound, halfway between a hiss and a whistle, and suddenly they were all looking anywhere but at me.

‘Here, Chief.’ A bowl was passed, a full cup.

‘It’s very quiet here,’ I observed after a little while. ‘Do you not sing songs, or tell tales of an evening after supper?’

Somebody gave a snort, instantly suppressed.

‘Tales?’ Dog was perplexed, scratching the bald side of his head. ‘We don’t know any tales.’

‘You mean, like giants and monsters and mermaids?’ asked the very tall, lanky fellow. I thought I detected a little spark of something in his eye.

‘Those, and others,’ I said encouragingly. ‘There are also tales of heroes, and of great battles, and of voyages to distant and amazing lands. Many tales.’

‘You know some of these tales?’ asked the tall man.

‘Shut your mouth, Spider,’ someone hissed under his breath.

‘Enough to tell a new one each night of the year, and have some left over,’ I said. ‘Would you like me to tell you one?’

There was a long pause, during which the men exchanged glances and shuffled their feet.

‘You’re here to do a job, not provide free entertainment.’ There was no need for me to look up, to know who spoke. ‘These men are not children.’ Interesting; when this man addressed me, he used plain Irish, fluent and almost unaccented.

‘Is telling a tale against the code?’ I asked quietly.

‘What about this Bran character?’ Gull put in with no little courage. ‘I’ll wager there’s a tale or two about him. I’d like to hear one of those.’

‘That is a very grand tale, to be told over many nights,’ I said. ‘I will not be here long enough to finish it. But there are plenty of others.’

‘Go on, Chief,’ said Gull. ‘It’s harmless enough.’

‘Why don’t I start,’ I said, ‘and if you feel my words are a danger, you can stop me when you choose. That seems fair.’

‘Does it?’

Well, he hadn’t said no, and there was an air of hushed expectancy amongst the strange band gathered around the fire. So I started anyway.

‘For a band of fighters such as yourselves,’ I said, ‘what could be apter than a tale of the greatest of all warriors, Cú Chulainn, champion of Ulster? His story, too, is a long one made up of many tales. But I will tell of the way he learned his skill, and honed it so that no man could master him on the field, be he the greatest battle hero of his tribe. This Cú Chulainn, you understand, was no ordinary man. There were rumours, and maybe there was some truth behind them. Rumours that he was a child of Lugh, the sun god, by a mortal woman. Nobody seemed quite sure, but one thing was for certain: when Cú Chulainn was about to fight, a change would come over him. They called it riastradh, the battle frenzy. His whole body would shake and grow hot, his face red as fire, his heart beating like a great drum in his breast, his hair standing on end and glowing with sparks. It was as if his father, the sun god, did indeed inspire him at such times, for to his enemies it appeared a fierce and terrible light played around him as he approached them, sword in hand. And after the battle was won, they say it took three barrels of icy river water to cool him down. When they plunged him into the first, it burst its bands and split apart. The water in the second boiled over; the third steamed and steamed until the heat was out of him, and Cú Chulainn was himself again.

‘Now this great warrior had exceptional skills, even as a boy. He could leap like a salmon, and swim like an otter. He could run swifter than the deer and see in the dark as a cat does. But there came a time when he sought to improve his art, with the aim of winning a lovely lady called Emer. When he asked her father for Emer’s hand, the old man suggested he was not yet proved as a warrior and should seek further tuition from the best. As for the lady, she’d have taken him then and there, for who could resist such a fine specimen of manhood? But she was a good girl, and followed her father’s bidding. So Cú Chulainn asked and he asked, and at length he learned that the best teacher of the arts of war was a woman, Scáthach, a strange creature who lived on a tiny island off the coast of Alba.’

‘A woman?’ someone echoed scornfully. ‘How could that be?’

‘Ah, well, this was no ordinary woman, as our hero soon found out for himself. When he came to the wild shore of Alba, and looked across the raging waters to the island where she lived with her warrior women, he saw that there could be a difficulty before he even set foot there. For the only way across was by means of a high, narrow bridge, just wide enough for one man to walk on it. And the instant he set his foot upon its span, the bridge began to shake and flex and bounce up and down, all along its considerable length, so that anyone foolish enough to venture further along it would straight away be tossed down onto the knife-sharp rocks, or into the boiling surf.’

‘Why didn’t he use a boat?’ asked Spider with a perplexed frown.

‘Didn’t you hear what Liadan said?’ Gull responded with derision. ‘Raging waters? Boiling surf? No boat could have crossed that sea, I’ll wager.’

‘Indeed not,’ I said, smiling at him. ‘Many had tried, and all of them perished, swallowed up by the sea or by the huge, long-toothed creatures that dwelt therein. Well, what was Cú Chulainn to do? He was not the sort of man to give up, and he wanted Emer with a longing that filled every corner of his body. He measured the distance across the bridge with his keen eye, and then he drew in his breath and let it out, and drew it in again, and the riastradh came on him until his heart threatened to burst out of his chest, and every vein in his skin swelled and stood out like a hempen cord stretched tight. Then Cú Chulainn gathered himself and made a mighty leap, as of a salmon breaching a great waterfall, and he landed lightly in the very centre of the shaking bridge, neatly on the ball of his left foot. The bridge bounced and buckled, trying to throw him off, but he was too quick, leaping again, such a leap that when his foot touched ground he was on the shore of Scáthach’s island.

‘Up on the ramparts of Scáthach’s dwelling, which was a fortified tower of solid granite, the warrior woman stood with her daughter, watching.

‘“Looks a likely fellow,” she muttered. “Knows a few tricks already. I could teach him well.”

‘“Wouldn’t mind teaching him a few tricks myself,” said the daughter, who had something quite different in mind.’

There was a ripple of laughter. Unused to stories these men might be, but it seemed they knew how to enjoy one. As for me, I was warming to my task and wondered, fleetingly, what Niamh would say if she could see me now. I took up the tale again.

‘“Well then,” said the mother, “if you want him, take him. Three days, you can have, to teach him the arts of love. Then he’s mine.”

‘So it was Scáthach’s daughter who went down to welcome the hero, and very welcome indeed did she make him, so that after three days there was little he did not know of the needs of a woman and how to please her. Lucky Emer. Then it was the mother’s turn, and when his lessons began, Cú Chulainn soon realised Scáthach was indeed the best of teachers. She taught him for a year and a day, and it was from her he learned his battle leap, with which he could fly high above a spear flung through the air by his adversary. He learned to shave a man with quick strokes of the sword, a skill with little practical use, maybe, but sure to drive terror into an enemy.’

Dog ran a hand nervously over the bald side of his scalp.

‘Cú Chulainn could cut away the ground under the enemy’s feet, his sword moving so quick you could scarce see it. He could jump lightly onto his adversary’s shield. He learned to manoeuvre a chariot with knives on its wheels, so that his opponents would not know what hit them, until they lay dying on the field of battle. He learned, as well, the art of juggling, which he could do as cleverly with sharp knives or flaming torches as he could with the leather juggling balls. While he was on that island Cú Chulainn lay with a warrior woman, Aoife, and she bore him a son, Conlai, and that began another tale, a tale of great sadness. But Cú Chulainn himself returned home, after a year and a day, and again sought the hand of the lovely Emer.’

‘And?’ said Gull impatiently when I paused. It was late. The fire had died to a glow, and a network of stars had spread across the dark sky. The moon was waning.

‘Well, Emer’s father, Fogall, had never expected the young man to return. He had been hoping Scáthach would finish him off, if the bridge and the sea didn’t. So Cú Chulainn met with armed resistance. But he had not studied with the best in the world for nothing. With his small band of warriors, each of them carefully picked, he routed Fogall’s forces with little effort. Fogall himself he pursued to the very edge of the cliffs, and fought there man to man. Soon enough Fogall, completely outclassed, fell to his death on the stones far below. Then Cú Chulainn took the fair Emer as his bride, and much joy they had in each other.’

‘I’ll bet he taught her a thing or two,’ said somebody in an undertone.

‘Enough.’ Bran stepped around from behind me, his voice commanding instant silence amongst the men. ‘The tale is ended. Those men on relief watch, be off with you. The rest, to your beds. Don’t expect a repeat performance.’

They went with never a word. I wondered how it would feel, to be so in fear of a man that you never questioned his orders. There could be little satisfaction in such an existence.

‘You, back to work.’

It took a moment or two before I realised Bran was speaking to me.

‘What am I supposed to say to that? Yes, Chief?’ I got up. Dog was close behind me, a constant shadow.

‘What about keeping your mouth shut and doing as you’re told? That would be easier for all of us.’

I shot him a glance of dislike. ‘I am not answerable to you,’ I said. ‘I’ll do the job I’m here to do. That’s all. I will not be ordered about like one of your men. If they choose to follow you like terrified slaves, that’s their business. But I cannot work if I must go in fear and be always restricted. And you said yourself, be properly prepared, so you can do your job effectively. Something like that.’

He did not answer for a while. Something I had said had clearly touched a nerve, although that strange face, summer and winter, scarcely moved a muscle.

‘It will help, too, if you use my name,’ I added severely. ‘My name is Liadan.’

‘These tales,’ said Bran absently, as if his mind were on something else entirely. ‘They are dangerous. They make men dream of what they cannot have. Of what they can never be. They make men question who they are, and what they may aspire to. For my men, there can be no such tales.’

For a moment, I could not speak.

‘Oh, come on, Chief,’ protested Dog unwisely. ‘What about Cú Chulainn and his son, Conlai? A tale of great sadness, that’s what she said. What about mermaids and monsters and giants?’

‘You talk like an infant.’ Bran’s tone was dismissive. ‘This is a troop of hardened men, with no time for such trivial nonsense.’

‘Perhaps you should make time,’ I said, determined to get my point across. ‘If what you want is to achieve a victory, what better to inspire your men than a hero tale, some tale of a battle against great odds, won by skill and courage? If your men are weary or downhearted, what more fit to cheer them than a foolish tale – say, the story of the wee man Iubdan and the plate of porridge, or the farmer who got three wishes and squandered them all? What better to give them hope than a tale of love?’

‘You take a risk, talking of love. Are you so innocent, or so stupid, that you cannot imagine what effect such words will have, in this company of men? Or perhaps that’s what you want. You could take your pick. A new one every night. Two, maybe.’

I felt myself grow pale.

‘You show the man you are, when you insult me thus,’ I said very quietly.

‘And what sort of a man is that?’

‘A man with no sense of right or wrong. A man who cannot laugh, and who rules by fear. A – a man with no respect for women. There are those who would seek a terrible vengeance, if they heard you speak to me thus.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘And on what do you base this judgement?’ he asked eventually. ‘You have spent but the briefest time in my company. Already you believe me some kind of monster. You are indeed quick to assess a man’s character.’

‘As are you to judge a woman,’ I said straight away.

‘I need not know you, to recognise what you are,’ he said bleakly. ‘Your kind are all the same. Catch a man in your net, draw him in, deprive him of his will and his judgement. It happens so subtly he is lost before ever he recognises the danger. Then others are dragged in after him, and the pattern of darkness stretches wider and wider, so that even the innocent have no escape.’ He stopped abruptly, clearly regretting his words.

‘You,’ he said to Dog, who had been listening open-mouthed. ‘Take her back to her charge, then go to your bed. Gull will stand guard tonight.’

‘I could do it, Chief. I’m good for another watch –’

‘Gull will stand guard.’

‘Yes, Chief.’

That was the second day. The smith, Evan, held his ground, though I was not happy with the way his body trembled and shivered, or the heat of his brow which could not be relieved, however much I sponged him with cool water in which I had steeped wild endive and five-leaf. A certain competition developed amongst my three assistants. All were eager to help with nursing duties and, though they lacked skill, I welcomed their strength in lifting and turning the patient.

Bran’s men seemed always busy, rehearsing combat, tending to horses or harness, cleaning and sharpening weapons. Eamonn had been wrong on one count. They used the conventional armoury of sword, spear, bow and dagger, as well as a wide range of other devices whose names and functions I had no wish to learn. The camp was self-contained and highly organised. I was amazed, on the third morning, to find my gown and shift neatly folded on the rocks outside my shelter, washed and dried and almost as good as new. There was evidently at least one capable cook there, and no shortage of efficient hunters to provide a supply of fresh meat for the pot. Where the carrots and turnips came from, I did not ask.

Time was short. Six days, until they moved on. The smith was in pain, and needed the soporific herbs to control it. Still, if he were to be ready to go on without me, he must know the truth. There were times when he looked down at what lay where his strong arm had once joined his powerful shoulder. But his fevered eyes showed no real recognition, as I spoke to him of what had happened, and of how things would be.

I walked through the camp on the third day with Snake close by me. My borrowed clothes were in need of washing, for they were now in their turn stained with my patient’s blood, and here and there with draughts he kept in his stomach no longer than the count of ten before he retched them up again.

When we reached the bank of the stream, we found the tall man, Spider, and another whom they called Otter wrestling on the grass. Otter was winning, for in such a sport, height gives little advantage if your opponent is swift and clever. There was a big splash, and there was Spider sprawled in the water, looking very put out. Otter wiped his hands on his leather trousers. The upper part of his body was naked, and he bore a complex pattern on the chest, of many links forming a twisting circle.

‘Morning, Snake. Morning, lady. Here, you oaf. Get up. Need to put in a bit more practice, you do.’ Otter reached out an arm and hauled the embarrassed Spider out of the water.

‘Fools,’ commented Snake mildly. ‘Don’t let the Chief catch you mucking about.’

I unrolled my bundle and began to rub the stained cloth on the smooth stones in the shallows.

‘Better go back up to camp, or wherever you’re meant to be,’ Snake went on. ‘Chief wouldn’t be happy to see you talking to the lady here.’

‘All right for you,’ mumbled Spider, clearly put out to be seen thus, dripping wet and defeated. ‘How did you score permanent guard duty then?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Why are you all so frightened of him?’ I asked, pausing in my labours to look up at the three of them. It was a pity there was no soapwort growing nearby. I must ask how they had got my gown so clean.

‘Frightened?’ Spider was perplexed.

Snake frowned. ‘You’ve got it wrong,’ he said. ‘Chief’s a man to respect, not to fear.’

‘What?’ I sat back on my heels, amazed. ‘When all of you fall silent at his least word? When he threatens the direst punishment if you transgress some code which no doubt he himself invented? When you are somehow bound to him in a brotherhood from which it seems you can never escape? What is that but a rule of fear?’

‘Ssh,’ said Snake, alarmed. ‘Keep your voice down.’

‘See?’ I challenged, but more quietly. ‘You dare not even speak of these things openly, lest he should hear and punish you.’

‘That’s true enough,’ said Spider, settling his long ungainly form on the rocks near me, but still that careful three or four paces away. ‘He knows how to set rules, and enforce them. But it’s fair. The code’s there to protect us. From each other. From ourselves. Everyone understands that. If we break it, that’s our choice, and we take the consequences.’

‘But what holds you here, if not fear of him?’ I asked, perplexed. ‘What sort of a life is it, killing for money, never able to go out into the real world, never able to – to love, to see your children thrive, to watch a tree you planted grow to shade your cottage, or fight in a battle where right is on your side? It is no life.’

‘Don’t suppose you could understand,’ said Snake diffidently.

‘Try me,’ I said.

‘Without the Chief,’ it was Otter who spoke, ‘we’d be nothing. Nothing. Dead, imprisoned or worse. Scum of the earth, every one of us. You can’t say this is no life. He’s given us a life.’

‘Otter’s right,’ said Snake. ‘Ask Dog. Ask him his story, get him to show you the scars on his hands.’

‘We’re the men nobody had a use for,’ said Spider. ‘The Chief made us useful; gave us a place and a purpose.’

‘What about Gull?’ Snake went on. ‘Comes from foreign parts, Gull does, some place far off, hot as hellfire and all over sand. Land of black people, like himself. Anyway, somebody had really put him through it. Saw his people hacked to death right before his eyes. Wife, children, old folks. All he wanted was to die. Chief got him out, talked him round. Tough job. Now Gull’s the best we’ve got, barring the Chief himself.’

I had completely forgotten my washing, and it was in danger of floating away. Snake reached past me to grab it, put it into my hands, moved back three, four paces.

‘Every man here has a story,’ said Otter. ‘But we try to forget. No past, no future, just today. Easier. We’ve all been cast out. Not one of us can go back; except perhaps the smith. This is our existence, here in these woods, or out there on a job, knowing we can be the best at what we do. It’s our identity: the band of the Painted Man. He commands a good price, and shares what he gets. Me, I’d sooner be here working for him than in the uniform of some jumped-up lordling’s private army.’

‘Who’d have you?’ chuckled Snake. ‘Too full of funny tricks, you are. You’d be in trouble before you had the chance to hear your first order.’

‘I’ll take his orders any day,’ replied Otter seriously. ‘The Chief saved my life. But life’s cheap enough. I owe him something far more valuable. My self-respect.’

‘But …’ I was totally confused. I began to wring the garments out. ‘But … I don’t understand. Can’t you see that what you do is – monstrous? Evil? Killing without scruples, for money? How can you call that a trade, as if it were no different from – from breeding pigs, or building boats?’

‘You grow pigs to eat ’em,’ put in Otter. ‘Not much difference really.’

‘Oh!’ It was like arguing with a stone wall. ‘We’re talking of men here, not of animals bred for the pot. Doesn’t it bother you, to have no livelihood but killing? Killing where and how your Chief determines, wherever he can command the best price? One day you may take your instructions from a Briton, the next a lord from Connacht or a Pictish chief. There’s no meaning to it.’

‘Couldn’t take one side or another,’ said Spider, apparently surprised. ‘Not on a permanent basis, you understand. All sorts, we are. Saxon, Pict, Southerner, and some like Gull from places you can’t even say the name of. Mixed bag, that’s us.’

‘But that doesn’t mean you – oh!’ I gave up in frustration.

‘What about Cú Chulainn?’ asked Snake. This was unexpected. ‘He killed his ladyfriend’s father. I wonder what she thought of that? His men killed her father’s army. What for? So he could have a woman, satisfy his lust. So he could show he was the strongest. How different is that from killing for payment? Not so different, I’d say.’

For now, I had run out of answers. Besides, it was time to go back. Dog could not be left in charge of the smith for too long, given his limited nursing skills.

But when we came close to the shelter, the quiet voice I heard was not Dog’s. I motioned Snake to silence.

‘… a man, his name you need not know … from Lundenwic in Wessex across to Gaul … can arrange for you to travel on to … no, don’t mention that, it will be taken care of …’

‘Chief.’ Evan’s reply was weak, but he sounded as if he understood. So he was awake, and his mind was clear again, for now. Snake had retreated further down the bank and busied himself with something or other. I waited, remaining just out of sight, my curiosity getting the better of me.

‘What held you back?’ Evan asked. ‘When you saw what was left of me – what stopped you?’

There was a brief pause.

‘I won’t lie to you, Evan,’ Bran said quietly. ‘I would have done it. And I am not persuaded, thus far, that this is right.’

Again a silence. The smith was growing tired.

‘Bossy little wench, isn’t she?’ he said eventually, summoning a ghost of a chuckle. ‘Likes to take charge. Talked me through it. Couldn’t tell if I was waking or sleeping half the time, but I heard her all right. Told me straight, she did. Arm’s off, she said. Not the end of the world, she said. Told me what I could do without it. Put a few ideas into my head, stuff I’d never have dreamed of. Ask me yesterday, I’d have cursed you for not finishing it then and there. Now, I’m not so sure.’

‘You’d better rest,’ Bran said. ‘Or I’ll be accused of subverting her plans, I’ve no doubt.’

‘Got a mind of her own, that one. Just your type, Chief. Easy on the eye, too.’

It was a little while before Bran answered this. When he did, the warmth had left his voice. ‘You know me better than that, smith.’

‘Uh-huh.’

He was coming out. Suddenly, I was busy spreading out the wet garments to dry on the hawthorn bushes nearby. He halted in the entrance.

‘Where’s Dog?’ I asked without turning.

‘Not far. I will remain until he returns.’

‘You don’t need to,’ I said. ‘Snake is still here. One guard is plenty. I can be trusted not to desert my charge. I would not have agreed to this task if I had intended to turn and run at the earliest opportunity.’

I looked up at him. He was regarding me gravely, and I thought, not for the first time, about his strange two-in-one features. The intricately detailed pattern on the right side gave his eye a look of menace, his nostril an arrogant flare, his mouth a severe, reined-in tightness. And yet, if you took the other side in isolation, the skin was fair, the nose neat and straight, the eye a steady, clear grey like lake water on a winter morning. Only the mouth was the same, hard and ungiving. He was like two men in one body. I was staring again. I made myself look away.

‘Trust?’ he said. ‘That word is meaningless.’

‘Suit yourself,’ I said, and made to go back inside the shelter.

‘Not yet,’ said Bran. ‘You heard, I suppose? Heard the smith talking?’

‘Some of it. I am pleased to hear him lucid. He seems to be improving.’

‘Mm.’ He did not sound convinced. ‘Thanks to you, he sees some hope of a future. You have painted this for him with your words, I imagine, as you did last night for my men. A rosy new beginning, full of love, life and sunlight. You do this, and yet you dare to judge us.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked quietly. ‘I told him only the truth. I did not hide the facts, nor falsify the extent of his injury, and how it would limit him. As I told you before, his life need not be over. There are many things he can do.’

‘False hopes,’ he said bleakly, frowning as he kicked the earth with the toe of his boot. ‘It is no life for an active man. In your soft way you are more cruel than the assassin who takes his victim quickly and efficiently. That prey does not suffer long. Yours may spend a lifetime learning that things can never be the same again.’

‘I have not told him it will be the same. Good, but different, I said. And I have spoken of the need to be strong, strong in mind and will rather than body. The need to fight against despair. You judge me unfairly. I have been honest with him.’

‘You can hardly speak of judgement,’ Bran said. ‘You think me some kind of monster, that is clear.’

I regarded him levelly. ‘No man is a monster,’ I said. ‘Men do monstrous things, that is certain. And I have not judged quickly, as you do. I knew of you before I was rudely snatched and brought here against my will. As you are doubtless aware, your reputation goes before you.’

‘What did you hear, and from whom?’

I was already regretting my words. ‘This and that, around the household,’ I said cautiously. ‘Rumours of killings, seemingly at random, carried out in a way that was both effective and – and eccentric. Tales of a band of mercenaries for hire, who would do anything if you paid them well enough, and who did not let paltry considerations such as loyalty, honour or justice stand in the way of their work. Men with the appearance of wild beasts, or of creatures from the Otherworld. Led by a shadowy chief they called the Painted Man. You’ll hear these tales in many parts.’

‘And what household was this, in which such rumours came to your ears?’

I did not reply.

‘Answer my question,’ he said, still softly. ‘It’s time you told me who you are, and where you come from. My men were strangely vague in their account of how they found you, and who accompanied you on the road. I still await an adequate explanation from them.’

I remained silent, my eyes steady as I looked back at him.

‘Answer me, curse you!’

‘Are you going to hit me this time?’ I enquired, not raising my voice.

‘Don’t tempt me. What is your name?’

‘I thought we had no names here.’

‘You do not belong here, and cannot,’ Bran snapped. ‘I can extract this information from you if I must. It will be easier for both of us if you simply tell me. I am amazed you do not realise the danger of your current situation. Perhaps you are a little slow in the wits.’

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Fair trade. I’ll tell you my name and where I come from, if you tell me yours – the real one, I mean – and where you were born. Your origins were in Britain, I would guess, though you speak our tongue with fluency. But no mother gives her son the name Chief.’

There was a brief silence. Then he said, ‘You tread on perilous ground.’

‘Let me remind you,’ I replied, my heart thumping, ‘I am not here of my own will. There will be those of my household out searching, and they are both well armed and skilful. You think I would jeopardise their efforts to find me by telling you who they are and whence they come? Slow in the wits I may be, but not that slow. I have told you my name is Liadan, and that must be enough for you, until you give me yours.’

‘I cannot imagine why anyone would take the trouble of searching for you,’ he said in frustration. ‘Does not your habit of biting back, like a meddlesome terrier, make your folk soon weary of your company?’

‘Indeed no,’ I told him sweetly. ‘At home I am known as a quiet, dutiful girl. Well mannered, industrious, obedient. I think you must bring out the worst in me.’

‘Mm,’ he said. ‘Quiet, dutiful. I doubt it. It requires too great a leap of the imagination. More likely, true to your kind, you lie when it suits you. To such a teller of tales, that should come easily.’

‘You insult me,’ I said, keeping my voice calm with increasing difficulty. ‘I would have preferred a blow to the cheek. Tales are not lies, nor are they truths, but something in between. They can be as true or as false as the listener chooses to make them, or the teller wants him to believe. It is a sign of the tight circle you draw around yourself, to keep others out, that you cannot understand this. I do not lie easily, nor would I do so for so superficial a reason.’

He glared at me, grey eyes icy. At least I had sparked some sort of reaction.

‘By God, woman, you work an issue threadbare with your twisted logic!’ he said impatiently. ‘Enough of this. We’ve work to do.’

‘Indeed,’ I said quietly, and I turned and went in to my charge, and did not look back.

Evan was holding on; talking sense, and sleeping more naturally. I made sure nobody saw how greatly this surprised me. Gull was on watch that evening, and I asked him how the sick man was to be moved in safety when the time came, but he was evasive in his answers. Then I sent him outside for a while, so that I could wash and ready myself for the evening meal. The smith was nearly asleep, eyes narrowed to slits, breath calm enough after the painful changing of his dressing. He had taken a little broth.

‘This is rather awkward,’ I told him. ‘Shut your eyes, and turn your head away, and don’t move till I tell you.’

‘Still as the grave,’ he whispered with a certain irony, and closed his eyes.

I stripped off quickly, shivering as I sponged my body with water from the bucket, and used the sliver of coarse soap Dog had found for me. As I rinsed myself off again I felt the goosebumps rise, summer or no. I turned to grab the coarse towel, with the aim of dressing as swiftly as I could, and found myself looking straight into Evan’s deepset brown eyes as he lay prone on his pallet, staring for all he was worth and grinning from ear to ear.

‘Shame on you!’ I exclaimed as a blush crept across my naked body. There was nothing for it but to dry off sketchily and struggle as fast as I could into my smallclothes, shift and gown, glad that I could reach the back fastenings without assistance. ‘A grown man like you, acting like a – an ill-bred youth who spies on the girls. Didn’t I tell you –’

‘No offence, lass,’ said Evan, the grin relaxing to a smile that gave his blunt features a surprising sweetness. ‘Quite beyond me, not to look. And a pleasing eyeful it was, may I say.’

‘No, you may not say,’ I snapped, but I had forgiven him already. ‘Don’t do it again, you understand? It’s bad enough being the only woman here, without …’

He was suddenly serious.

‘These men would never harm you, lass,’ he said gently. ‘They’re not barbarians that rape and spoil for the thrill of it. If they want a woman, they’ve no need to force one. Plenty of willing takers, and not all put a price on it, believe me. Besides, they know they can’t touch you.’

‘Because of what he said? The Chief?’

‘Well, yes, he did tell them hands off, so I’m informed. But he could have saved his breath. Anyone with eyes in his head can see that you’re a woman for the marriage bed, not a quickie by the road, if you’ll pardon me. Got a man back home, have you?’

‘Not exactly,’ I said, unsure of the best answer to this.

‘What’s that mean? Either you have or you haven’t. Husband? Sweetheart?’

‘I have a – suitor, I suppose you’d call him. But I have not agreed to marry. Not yet.’

Evan gave a long sigh as I tucked the blanket firmly around him, and smoothed the makeshift bolster.

‘Poor lad,’ he said sleepily. ‘Don’t make him wait too long.’

‘Next time I tell you to close your eyes, keep them closed,’ I said severely.

He mumbled something and settled to rest, still with the hint of a grin on his face.

That night I told stories to make them laugh. Funny stories. Silly stories. Iubdan and the plate of porridge. He got his own back on the big folk, make no doubt of it. The tale of the man who got three wishes from the Fair Folk, so that he could have had health, wealth and happiness. Poor fool, all he ended up with was a sausage. By the end of it, the men were roaring with laughter and begging for another one. All but the Chief, of course. I ignored him as best I could.

‘One more,’ I said. ‘Only one. And now it is time to grow sober again, and ponder on the frailty of all creatures. I told you last night of one of our great heroes, Cú Chulainn of Ulster. You will recall how he lay with the warrior woman Aoife, and how she bore him a son long after he was gone from those shores. Not that he left her entirely without token. He gave her a little gold ring for her smallest finger, before he went off to wed his sweetheart Emer.’

‘Big of him,’ somebody commented drily.

‘Aoife was used to it. She was her own woman, and strong, and she’d little time for the selfish ways of men. She bore her child one day, and the next she was back out of doors swinging her battleaxe around her head. She named the boy Conlai, and as you can imagine, he grew up expert in all the arts of combat, so that there were few could match him in the field. When he was twelve years old, his mother, the warrior woman, gave him the little gold ring to wear on a chain around his neck, and she told him his father’s name.’

‘Not a good idea?’ hazarded Snake.

‘That depends. A boy needs to know who his father is. And who is to say this tale would not have had the same ending, had Aoife kept this knowledge from the boy? It was Cú Chulainn’s blood that ran in his veins, whether he bore the name or not. He was a youth destined to be a warrior, to take risks, full of his father’s impetuous courage.

‘She held him back as long as she could, but there came a day when Conlai was fourteen years old, and thought himself a man, and he set forth to find his father and show him the fine son he had made. Aoife had misgivings, and sought to protect the boy. He’d need to be careful, she reasoned, not to let on he was the offspring of the greatest hero Ulster had ever known. At least, not until he came to his father’s hall. He’d be safe there; but on the way, he might well meet those whose sons or brothers or fathers had fallen foul of Cú Chulainn, and who was to say they might not take their vengeance on the father by killing the son? So she said to Conlai, tell no single warrior your name. Promise me. And he promised, for she was his mother. So, unwittingly, did she seal his doom, who sought only to keep him safe.’

There was utter silence, save for a little breeze stirring the shadowy trees above us. It was dark of the moon.

‘Across the sea from Alba, across the land of Erin came Conlai, all the way to Ulster, and at last to the home of his father, the great hero Cú Chulainn. He was a tall, strong boy, and in his helm and battle raiment none could tell him from a seasoned warrior. He rode up to the gates and raised his sword in challenge; and out came Conall, foster brother of Cú Chulainn, in answer.

‘“What name have you, bold upstart?” shouted Conall. “Tell me so that I may know whose son lies vanquished at my feet, when this duel is over!”

‘But Conlai answered not a word, for he kept his promise to his mother. A short, sharp fight ensued, watched with interest by Cú Chulainn and his warriors from the ramparts high above. And it was not the challenger who lay defeated at the end of it.’

Then I told how the lad vanquished each man who went forth with sword or staff or dagger, until Cú Chulainn himself determined to meet the challenge, for he liked the set of the young man’s shoulders, and the neatness of his footwork, seeing something of himself in it, no doubt.

‘“I will go down and take on this fellow myself,” he said. “He seems a worthy opponent, if somewhat arrogant. We shall see what he makes of Cú Chulainn’s battlecraft. If he can withstand me until the sun sinks beyond those elms there, I will welcome him to my house and to my band of warriors, should he be so inclined.”

‘Down he went, and out before the gates, and he told the lad who he was and what he intended. Father, whispered Conlai to himself, but he said not a word, for he had promised his mother, and he would not break his oath. Cú Chulainn was offended that the challenger had not the courtesy to give his name, and so he started the encounter already angered, which is never good.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the men. I was watching Bran; I could not avoid it, for he sat quite near me, face lit by the fire into which he gazed, his expression very odd indeed. There was something about this story that had caught his attention where the others had not, and had I not known the kind of man he was, I would have said I saw something akin to fear in his expression. Must be a trick of the light, I told myself, and went on.

‘Well, that was a combat such as you see but rarely: the hardened, experienced swordsman against the quick, impetuous youth. They fought with sword and dagger, circling, to and fro, round and about, ducking and weaving, leaping and twisting so that at times it was hard to see which of them was which. One of the men watching from above commented that in stature, the two men were as like as peas in a pod. The sun sank lower and lower, and touched the tip of the tallest elm. Cú Chulainn thought of calling it a day, for he was, in truth, merely playing with the upstart challenger. His own skills were far superior, and he had always planned to test the other only until the allotted time was up, and then to offer him the hand of friendship.

‘But Conlai, desperate to prove himself, gave a nifty little flick of the sword and lo! there in his hand lay a fiery lock of Cú Chulainn’s hair, neatly cut from his scalp. For a moment, just a moment, battle fury overcame Cú Chulainn, and before he knew what he did, he gave a great roar, and plunged his sword deep into his opponent’s vitals.’

There was a murmur around me; some in my audience had seen this coming, but all felt the sudden weight of such a horror.

‘As soon as he had done this, Cú Chulainn came to himself. He wrenched the sword out, and Conlai’s lifeblood began to spill crimson on the ground. Cú Chulainn’s men came down, and took off the stranger’s helmet, and there he was, just a boy, a youngster whose eyes already darkened with the shadow of death, whose face paled and paled as the sun sank behind the elms. Then Cú Chulainn loosened the boy’s garments, trying to make his end more comfortable. And he saw the little ring hanging on its chain around Conlai’s neck. The ring he had given Aoife, nearly fifteen years before.’

Bran had a hand over his brow, concealing his eyes. Still he stared into the flames. What had I said?

‘He killed his own son,’ somebody whispered.

‘His boy,’ said someone. ‘His own boy.’

‘It was too late,’ I said soberly. ‘Too late to make amends. Too late to say farewell, for at the moment Cú Chulainn recognised what he had done, the last breath of life left his son, and Conlai’s spirit fled from his body.’

‘That’s terrible,’ said Dog in shocked tones.

‘It is a sad story,’ I agreed, wondering if even one of them might relate the tale in any way to their own activities. ‘They say Cú Chulainn carried the boy inside in his own arms, and later buried him with full ceremony. Of how he felt, and what he said, the tale does not tell.’

‘A man could not do such a deed, and put it behind him,’ said Gull very quietly. ‘It would be with him always, whether he wished it or no.’

‘What about his mother?’ asked Dog. ‘What did she have to say about it?’

‘She was a woman,’ I said drily. ‘The tale does not concern itself further with her. I suppose she bore her loss, and went on, as women do.’

‘In a way it was her fault,’ somebody offered. ‘If he’d been able to give his name, they’d have welcomed him, instead of fighting.’

‘It was a man’s hand that drove the sword through his body. It was a man’s pride that made Cú Chulainn strike. You cannot blame the mother. She sought but to protect her son, for she knew what men are.’

My words were greeted with silence. At least the tale had made them think. After the earlier jollity, the mood was sombre indeed.

‘You believe I judge you too harshly?’ I asked, getting up.

‘None of us ever killed his own son,’ said Spider, outraged.

‘You have killed another man’s son,’ I said quietly. ‘Every man that falls to your knife, or your hands, or your little loop of cord, is some woman’s sweetheart, some woman’s son. Every one.’

No one said anything. I thought I had offended them. After a while, somebody went around refilling cups with ale, and somebody threw more wood on the fire, but nobody was talking. I was waiting for Bran to speak, maybe to tell me I should shut my mouth and stop upsetting his fine band of warriors. Instead, he got up, turned on his heel, and went off with never a word. I stared after him, but he had disappeared like a shadow under the trees. The night was very dark. Slowly, the men began to talk again amongst themselves, in low voices.

‘Sit down awhile, Liadan,’ said Gull kindly. ‘Have another cup of ale.’

I sat down slowly. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ I whispered, looking beyond the circle. ‘What did I say?’

‘Best left alone,’ mumbled Dog, who had overheard. ‘He’ll be standing guard tonight.’

‘What?’

‘Dark of the moon,’ said Gull. ‘Always takes the watch, those nights. Told us both to get our rest. He’ll have gone up to relieve Snake now. Stands to reason. If he’s going to be awake anyhow, he may as well do it.’

‘Why doesn’t he sleep? You’re not going to tell me he turns into some sort of monster with the quenching of the moon, I hope; half man, half wolf maybe?’

Gull chuckled. ‘Not him. Just doesn’t sleep. Can’t tell you why. Been like that as long as I’ve known him. Six, seven years. Keeps himself awake, until the dawn comes.’

‘Is he afraid to sleep?’

‘Him? Afraid?’ It seemed the very idea was laughable.

Gull walked back up to the shelter with me, and left me there. Bran was inside, his hand on the smith’s brow, speaking quietly. There was one lantern lit, and it spread a golden glow over the rock walls and the man lying on the pallet there. It touched Bran’s patterned features with light and shadow, softening the grim set of the mouth.

‘He’s awake,’ he said as I came in. ‘Is there anything you require help with, before I go outside?’

‘I’ll manage,’ I said. Snake, on my instructions, had prepared a bowl of water with some of the dwindling stock of healing herbs, and I placed this on the stool by the bed.

‘You’re a good lass,’ Evan said weakly. ‘Told you that before, but I will again.’

‘Flattery will get you nowhere,’ I said, unbuttoning his sweat-soaked shirt.

‘Don’t know about that.’ He managed a crooked grin. ‘Not every day I find a fine woman like yourself undressing me. Almost worth losing an arm for, that is.’

‘Get away with you!’ I said, wiping the damp cloth over his body. He had lost flesh alarmingly; I could feel the ribs stark under the skin, and see the deep hollows at the base of the neck. ‘You’re too skinny for my tastes, anyway,’ I told him. ‘Have to fatten you up, I will. You know what that means. More broth, before I let you sleep.’

His eyes were as trusting as those of a faithful hound as I sponged his brow.

‘Bran. Snake will have left the pot of broth to cool by the little brazier. Could you fetch me some in a cup?’

‘Broth,’ said Evan in disgust. ‘Broth! Can’t you give a man a proper meal?’

But in the event, it was hard enough for him to swallow even the mouthful or two he took. And I did have to ask Bran to help me, his arm lifting the smith’s head as I spooned the mixture little by little between his lips. Evan gagged, despite his best efforts.

‘Breathe slowly, as I told you,’ I said quietly. ‘You must try to keep this down. One more spoonful.’

He was soon exhausted. And he had swallowed so little. Beads of sweat were already breaking out on his brow. I would need to burn some aromatic herbs, for there was no way I could get enough of a sleeping draught into him to give any relief. He never spoke of the pain, save in jest, but I knew it was extreme.

‘Could you move the little brazier further in?’

Bran said nothing, but carried out my orders. He watched me in silence as I got what I needed from my pack, and sprinkled the mixture onto the still-glowing coals. There was not much left. But then, three days was not long. I did not allow myself to think beyond that point. The pungent smell rose into the night air. Juniper, pine, hemp leaves. If only I could have got some tea into the man, for a mere half-cup of lavender and birch-leaf infusion can give good relief from pain and bring healing sleep. But I had not the ingredients to make such a brew, nor would Evan have had the energy to swallow it. Besides, it was past midsummer. Birch leaves are only good for this purpose used fresh, and plucked in spring. I wished my mother were there. She would have known what to do. The smith grew quiet, eyes closed to slits, but his breathing was laboured. I wrung out the cloth and began to tidy up.

‘What if Conlai had never learned his father’s name?’ said Bran suddenly from the entrance. ‘What if he had grown up, say, in the family of a farmer, or with holy brothers in a house of prayer? What then?’

I was so surprised I said nothing at all, my hands still working automatically as I emptied the bowl and wiped it out, and unrolled my blanket on the hard earth.

‘You said, it was his father’s blood flowed in his veins, his father’s will to be a warrior that ran deep in him. But his mother trained him in the warlike arts, set him on that path, before ever he knew what Cú Chulainn was. Do you say that, whatever his upbringing, this boy was destined to be another in his father’s mould? Almost, that the manner of his death was set out the moment he was born?’

‘Oh no!’ His words shocked me. ‘To say that is to say we have no choice at all in how our path unfolds. I do not say that. Only, that we are made by our mothers and our fathers, and we bear something of them in our deepest selves, no matter what. If Conlai had grown up as a holy brother, it may have been much longer before his father’s courage and his wild, warlike spirit awoke in him. But he would have found it in himself, one way or another. That was the man he was, and nothing could change it.’

Bran leaned against the rock wall, his figure in shadow.

‘What if …’ he said. ‘The – the essence, the spark, whatever it is, the little part of his father that he bore within him … that could be lost, destroyed, before he knew it was there. It could be … it could be taken from him.’

I felt a strange sort of chill, and the little hairs rose on my neck. It was like a darkness stretching out over me, over the two of us. And images, passing before my eyes so rapidly I could scarcely make them out before they were gone.

… dark, so dark. The door shuts. I cannot breathe. Keep quiet, choke back your tears, not a sound. Pain, cramp like fire. I have to move. I dare not move, they will hear me … where are you? Where are you … where did you go?

I wrenched myself back to the real world, shaking. My heart was hammering.

‘What is it?’ Bran stepped out of the shadows, eyes fixed intently on my face. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ I whispered. ‘Nothing.’ And I turned away, for I did not want to look into his eyes. Whatever the dark vision was, it was from him it had come. Beneath his surface there were deep uncharted waters; realms strange and perilous.

‘You’ll be needing your sleep,’ he said, and when at length I turned around, he was gone. The brazier burned low. I made the lamp dim, but did not quench it, lest the smith should wake and need me. Then I lay down to rest.