The Well of Shades (11 page)

The river was running high and fast. The footbridge had lost
a span in the center, where the flow was at its most turbulent around the uprights. The gap was perhaps two long strides; a fit man could leap across if he liked risks, but a cautious one knew that would be the rash display of a fool. Two men stood on the far side of the gap, one holding a coil of rope.

Faolan advanced as far as the last upright before the planks ended in a sudden jagged edge.
“Need help?” he called.

“Can’t get timbers until tomorrow,” one of them shouted. “Putting a rope across for now, if we can. Keep it together until we can do a proper job.”

It was a simple enough matter, then, to make himself
useful, since the presence of a man on the near side to catch and secure the rope was essential to the process. On Faolan’s advice they doubled the line, tying it to handrail
and upright so that, if a man were especially keen to cross, he might essay the gap by edging his feet along the lower rope while gripping the upper. Faolan had no intention of doing so. His knots had been sound, but he didn’t trust the ancient timbers.

“You coming over?” called one of the men, narrowing his eyes at Faolan across the angry water.

“No hurry. I’ll wait till you get some boards
across. Anywhere to shelter near here?”

“Try the old ferryman’s hut, upriver under the willows. At least you’ll be dry. What’s your name and where are you bound?”

Faolan pretended not to have heard the question. “Thank you. I’ll give you a hand with the boards in the morning,” he said.

“Hey!” shouted the second man. “You wouldn’t be a kinsman of the brithem from Fiddler’s Crossing, would you?
Conor Uí Néill? You’ve a look of a man who lived in these parts, long ago.”

Faolan turned his head away so they could not see his expression. “Never heard of him,” he said, working hard to make his tone casual. “I’ll be off to find this hut, then.” He strode off quickly before they could probe further.

Before he reached the ferryman’s hut sudden weariness, coupled with the news the man at the
bridge had fortuitously given him, began to take a toll. His leg was aching again and his mind was flooded with an uncomfortable mixture of profound relief and unwelcome memories. There was time to return to the crossroads and make a start up the northward track. He had calculated carefully, his profession being one in which a man cannot afford errors. He could be on his way to Derry before dusk,
and put both Fiddler’s Crossing and Deord’s kinsfolk behind him. He would never have to tell a living soul that the brithem, Conor Uí Néill, was his
father, and that the darkest story in these parts was his own. He could leave, reassured by the news that his father still lived, without having to stand before him and see the desolation etched on his features. But suddenly the crossroads seemed
a long way off, and the prospect of sleeping in a hut, where perhaps he could make fire and dry himself out, sounded remarkably appealing. Besides, he’d promised to give a hand with the bridge. Faolan turned his steps upriver toward the stand of willows.

The trees had their feet in the water, and he was relieved to find that the low building of stone and darkened thatch was set up a rise, above
what he hoped was the flood point. There was nobody home, nor had there been for a while, for the place had not a stick of furniture. It was dry, and there was a jumble of wood by the hearth, enough to keep him going overnight. A search of an outhouse disturbed a colony of rats. Faolan found a pile of sacks, a bucket, and a blackened cook pot.

After the last two nights, it was luxurious. He got
the fire crackling and heated water. He had half the bannock left; this he steeped in the water to make a kind of soup, which he drank standing by the fire, looking out through the window and along toward the bridge as dusk crept across the fields. His ears were filled with the rushing of the river, but at least he’d see if anyone approached that way. The sound of the water made him edgy. It put
him in mind of a place called Breaking Ford, where he had almost drowned. Ana had saved him. Ana… He saw her standing by a window, the sunlight on her pale features, her shimmering fall of hair touched to gold, her body graceful in the embroidered gown… her wedding gown… Thanks to his own efforts, Ana hadn’t married that beast Alpin. But she would marry Drustan, a man in every way suitable and deserving.

He sipped at the bread-and-water brew, trying to banish Ana from his mind. She was a princess; he was a bodyguard, a spy, a killer. She had never been for him.
His mind understood this all too well. It was a pity his heart was having such trouble accepting it.

Once he had deemed it too late for passersby to see the firelight and decide to bother him for one thing or another, Faolan lay down to
sleep. He was carrying a fair supply of silver, hidden here and there, and while he was more than capable of defending it and himself, he didn’t especially want to draw attention in these parts by maiming or killing anyone foolish enough to try to rob him. He slept with his head on his pack and a knife in his hand; the weapon left behind with Eile had been only one of several. The sacks did little
to improve the comfort of the earthen floor, but the fire eased his bones.

What woke him, he wasn’t sure: the moonlight seeping in now the rain had cleared, or the harsh cry of a night bird, or some sense developed over his years of needing always to be one step ahead of trouble. He rose in silence, knife at the ready, and made for the window, standing to one side as he scanned the shadowy landscape
beyond the willows. Nothing stirred; all he could hear was the restless voice of the river. Unease still gripped him for all that. Something… something wrong, something there that shouldn’t be. He peered out again, looking toward the broken bridge, and this time he thought maybe there was movement down there, a darker form against the sward. Probably only sheep or cattle wandering by the riverbank.
He’d be wise to stick to the shelter he’d been lucky enough to secure. If he ventured out he’d likely come face to face with some farmer’s prize bull. Best lie low, for all kinds of reasons.

There it was again, a slight movement, too quick for cattle. And a figure, down by the bridge. Faolan’s scalp prickled. None of his business; no reason to interfere. Common sense said do nothing at all. A
deeper instinct made him stick the knife in his belt, put on his boots and cloak, and set out cautiously along the riverside path toward the bridge.

He could see where the ferry used to go. There was a
tumbledown jetty, now all but submerged, and a couple of frayed ropes. Faolan was glad of the moon. One false step here and a man would be over the bank and carried away by the river before he
had time to catch his breath. He was past the willows now, where they stood in the shallows like draggle-haired water nymphs, and passing over more even ground. Ahead loomed the shadowy form of the damaged bridge, rising from waters which, under the moonlight, resembled a boiling cauldron.

A sudden sound: barking, high, hoarse, a hysterical warning. A moment later he saw the figure again, hooded
and cloaked and apparently bearing a burden on its back, edging out onto the bridge, step by slow step. Someone was trying to cross over.

“Stop!” Faolan shouted. “Stop! The bridge is down!” but the person kept going, one hand on the flimsy railing, the other stretched out for balance. The fellow must see soon, surely; must recognize that at a certain point the timbers gave way to no more than
a flimsy pair of ropes, a foolhardy crossing even by daylight, unthinkable by night. “Stop!” Faolan yelled, breaking into a sprint, but he knew he would not be heard. The noise of the river swallowed his voice. He ran, heart in his mouth. As he neared the bridge the person got to the place where Faolan had tied the rope earlier, and halted, clutching the rail with both hands. Thank all that was holy,
the reckless fellow had seen the break in time and would retreat now. Faolan supposed he’d have to offer to share his place of shelter and the warmth of his fire.

The dog barked again, and now he could see it, a skinny gray thing, its eyes fixed on the figure hesitating by the ropes. Faolan swore.
That
dog. He knew it. As it turned its frantic eyes on him, he saw the person on the bridge put
both hands on the upper rope and step out onto the lower, wobbling violently. He—
she
—was trying to cross.

Faolan launched himself across the bridge, uttering a prayer to any deity that might be prepared to listen.
Let
me reach her in time, let her keep hold, let this wretched apology for a bridge not crumble under my feet…
He reached the splintered edge; managed not to look down. Eile was a little
way out on the ropes, just too far for him to stretch out an arm and haul her bodily to safety. His heart went cold. Haul
them.
She had that child, Saraid, on her back, fastened with a band of cloth.

Quick, but not too quick, and not too loud. Startle her and she’d fall. Set foot on the rope himself and his weight would likely have the same result.

“Eile,” he said, pitching his voice just loud
enough for her to hear over the water, “I’m here. Faolan, remember? Come back. I have shelter and a fire. Bring Saraid back. If you want to cross, I’ll take you tomorrow.”

She froze. He had no idea what she would do; obey him and retreat—let that be so—or try to go on, or maybe let go and fall. She and the child would both be lost then; the river would sweep them out of sight before he could
so much as regain the bank.

“Eile? You’re only a few steps out. Just back up a bit and I can reach you. This isn’t safe at night.” That was one way to put it; rotting timbers, suspect uprights, and only moonlight for guidance. She was utterly mad.

Eile stood there, wobbling a little on the lower rope, hands clutched around the upper. “I’m scared.” Her voice was a child’s.

Don’t look down
, Faolan
ordered himself.
Just remember, it’s not Breaking Ford.
“I’m coming to get you,” he called. “The rope’s going to move when I step on. Hold on firmly. Ready? Here I come, then.”
Deord
, he thought,
I never dreamed how hard it would be to repay your generosity. I wish you’d taught your daughter common sense.
He edged out, and Eile struggled for balance as the rope took his weight. Reaching her, he
maneuvered until he was behind her, his feet on either side of hers, his hands gripping the rope and his body shielding both Eile and the silent child she carried. Gods, if he were a little girl in the middle of this he’d be caterwauling
in sheer fright. Saraid made not a sound; in the moonlight he saw her pale, small face, her big eyes. Eile was breathing in gasps. Her slight frame was rigid
with terror. He could not conceive of how, or why, she had started across the rope.

The river coursed angrily below their feet. “Now,” Faolan said, making his voice as calm and assured as he could, “we go back step by step together. Four should do it. Think of that fire; think of being warm and dry. Ready? One… two…”

The moment they were back on the bridge Eile wrenched herself away from him
and made for the bank.

“Careful,” called Faolan after her. “You could still fall in. Wait for me.”

The dog danced about, jumping up frantically as Eile stepped off the bridge. The girl put out a hand to support herself against the nearest upright. Faolan knew how she felt; his own legs were like jelly. He could hear her breathing, harsh and uneven, as if she were beyond tears. What was behind
this he did not know. It was a lunatic escapade, reckless enough if the girl herself had tried it, beyond foolish with a small cousin in tow. Her aunt would be horrified. What had Eile been thinking of?

“We’re all right now.” Eile was trying for an assertive tone, but he could see her shaking. He wished the child would make some sound. Her silence unnerved him.

“Can’t say the same for myself,”
he said. “Come on. Time enough for questions later. I’ve no food left but, as I said, there’s a fire. Follow me. Can you manage?” He eyed the child, a substantial weight, surely, for a little thing like Eile to carry.

“We were managing fine!” Eile retorted instantly.

Faolan refrained from comment. He just hoped she wouldn’t decide to bolt into the night before he found out what she was playing
at. Changed her mind about the priory, he supposed, and decided to follow him. But then, why Saraid? The child belonged back at Cloud Hill with her parents. His heart sank. He’d have to take the two of
them home in the morning, or send Eile on to the nuns and return the little girl to her mother and father.
Thanks, Deord. I don’t suppose you realized how limited my talents are as a nursemaid.

Inside the cottage, he bent first to stir up the fire and lay on more wood. When he rose, he saw that Eile had not moved. She stood as if frozen, arms clutched around herself, the child still in its sling on her back.

“Here, let me,” he said, moving to untie the cloth that held Saraid.

“Don’t touch her!” snarled Eile. Suddenly, the point of a knife was just before his face; she was certainly
quick.

Faolan took a step back, raising his hands, palms open. He looked at her; looked again at the knife, his knife that he had left behind. The blade showed dull red in the firelight. Eile’s hand, clutching the hilt, was shaking as if palsied. Silent tears began to spill from her eyes, making tracks on cheeks grimed with the dust of the journey. From her back, a tiny, polite voice was heard
to say, “Down, please?”

“I won’t hurt her, or you,” Faolan said quietly. “Let me untie her for you. You’re both cold and tired. Sit by the fire, rest and recover.” He reached very slowly to unfasten the sling, and this time Eile let him, lowering the weapon to stand shivering as he released Saraid. The child was cramped; she hobbled to the sacks and subsided to a crouch like a little wild animal.
In her hands she held a shapeless rag doll, not much more than a small bag of old cloth with dark wool eyes. Saraid hugged it tight.

“Give me the knife, Eile,” he said. “You don’t need it now. I’m your father’s friend. I will protect you.”