Tower of Thorns (27 page)

Brother Fergal gives me a good long look. “Excellent,” he says in a voice that sweeps away the blood and the brains and the burning pages, for now at least. “I'm sure Father Tomas will want the thatching done first. Our most precious books have been stored away in the building that houses our infirmary, where they can be kept safe and dry. Over there.” He points. “But our scholarly brethren want things back the way they were. They prefer to work in the scriptorium, which they tell me is the only place with adequate light, and which in addition feels like home to them, since it has always housed St. Olcan's scribes and illuminators. If you can render the place weatherproof again, you will be every scholar's friend.”

“Might make a start today,” I say, thinking I'd be no friend to them if they knew my story. “Clear out what's in there. Then strip off the old thatch—looks too moldy to leave underneath. Start straightaway, better chance of finishing in time. That's if the weather stays dry. If it does rain, I could work on the wall. Only if you want.”

He smiles again. “I feel certain Father Tomas will say yes to the wall. But I should ask him. Thank you, Grim. Do I have your name correct?”

I nod,
yes
.

“I will not pry. But if you want to talk, to lay your burdens down for a while, please seek me out. I and my two helpers—novices of this order—are often in the garden. I could at the very least provide a listening ear. Are you of the Christian faith?”

No good answer to that. Not one I can give to a nice fellow like this and still be truthful. “These days, I've got no faith,” I say. Which is true, as far as it goes.

“God forgives sinners,” Brother Fergal says quietly. “Our Lord Jesus Christ embraces all humankind—the weak, the strong, the bad, the good, the sheep that stay with the flock and those who wander and lose themselves. Those who know their path, and those who are yet to find it. You might give some thought to that.” He gets up. “Now,” he says, brisker, “if you'll come with me, I will introduce you to a few of my brethren, and you can cast an expert eye over the thatching materials. I'm sure we can find you a tall novice as an assistant. Someone eager to learn.” He pauses. “We can accommodate you here while you're doing the work. That would save you the daily walk. And the meals are very good.”

It comes to me that I've just promised, more or less, to be here all day, every day, from now until midsummer. Do that and I can't look after Blackthorn properly. But I've given my word. “Suits me better to stay at Lady Geiléis's,” I tell him. “I'll come up early. Put in a good day's work, don't worry. Only I have to be there. For a bit each day, at least.” I shut my mouth. Already said more than I meant to.

Brother Fergal has a little frown on his face, but he doesn't ask awkward questions. “If that suits you, Grim,” is all he says.

Lot of good things about monks. They don't pry; they don't hammer their beliefs into you. They listen. They have answers when you want them. They tell fine stories. Of course they want you to become a Christian. Only natural. For most folk that come to a monastery, that's what it's all about. Even for me, the first time. Breaks my heart, remembering that. Such hope. A new dawn, that's what I thought. And for a while, that's what I got. Never been so happy. Then, in an eyeblink, or that's how it felt, it was all gone. They gave me something precious: open arms, a safe home, work for my hands, learning. Brothers. Family. And I failed them. I lost them. I lost everything.

“Right, then,” I say, swallowing tears. “Show us these reeds.”

Geiléis

A
t last Grim was out of the way, and likely to stay so. The job at St. Olcan's would keep him so busy he'd have no time to poke his nose into anything. A man like him wouldn't try to winkle out secrets. He'd do his job and keep himself to himself, and even if he did discover anything, he'd lack the wits to understand its importance. Besides, he'd be on the roof all day. Up there, a man was unlikely to get into conversation with scholars.

As for Blackthorn, she'd be busy enough for the next six days, with her ritual preparations. If she did insist on riding out to see the local folk herself, there would be no harm in it. Nobody would talk. The curse ensured that none of them remembered.

The healer was an odd creature. Angry, prickly, full of a crackling energy that was almost frightening. Stubborn. Disrespectful of authority. There was no doubt Blackthorn considered herself Geiléis's equal, even perhaps her superior. It was hard not to find that offensive. It was a struggle to swallow her first response, hold her tongue, exercise patience.

Geiléis paced her bedchamber, mulling it over. The fact was, the very qualities of Blackthorn's that so annoyed her—notably, sheer bloody-mindedness—might be what fitted the woman for this task. She
really might be the right one. The one who would not decide, on Midsummer Eve, that she'd changed her mind about going through with it. The one who would wield her ax like a warrior and cut through the thorns, not looking back. The one who would climb the tower out of a fierce will to get the task done. The one who, on reaching the chamber at the top, would perform the deed, unflinching. Who would not be too frightened to act. Not be too weak. Not be overcome by pangs of conscience. Not enrage him, get herself hurt and become incapable of action. Not run screaming back down the steps and have to be dealt with. Blackthorn had qualities none of the others had had. If there had been a woman like her the first time, they might have been spared the years of torment, the years of weeping, the long years of telling the story over and over.

“But she's here now,” Geiléis muttered to herself. “She's here and she'll do it and this will all be over.” How things would be afterward, she could not quite imagine. In truth, she did not want to think beyond the morning of Midsummer Eve, when the thorns would part to let the healer through. In this tale, happy endings seemed impossible.

Why weren't Blackthorn and Onchú back yet? Dusk was close and still they had not returned from their expedition to the ritual ground. The delay could mean nothing good. Had they been led astray riding through the forest? Would they be found at dawn, sodden and lifeless on the riverbank? Could the little folk have broken the rules and made themselves known to Blackthorn? Surely not. The price of disobedience was too high.

There was nothing she could do but wait, and go on with the story. Tell of the time when they were happy. It was so hard to believe those long-ago lovers had ever been happy. Geiléis lit her candle and climbed the stairs. The creature's voice was quieter now; he knew the approach of dusk heralded a respite. She told herself that hush meant he was eagerly awaiting the tale. Perhaps, against the odds, he really could hear it. Perhaps it kept him going from one day of agony to the next. He had heard it more times than anyone could count. She had told it in
as many different forms as she could devise. She had told it so often that one telling blurred into another, and sometimes the story made little sense. But the rudiments were always there: the girl wandering in the woods, the man in the tower, the rescue, the days of happiness. Then the cost of that brief happiness, a higher cost than anyone could have believed possible. A cruel price to pay. A punishment so long that its end often seemed beyond her reach. Had that brief time of joy really been worth so many years of sorrow?

“Of course it was,” Geiléis murmured with her gaze fixed on the Tower of Thorns, where someone would soon reach out to close the shutters. The setting sun touched the tower gently, turning it gold as a ring, rose-pink as a young girl's blush, blue as the wing of a butterfly. “If not, why would I still be here? Let me tell you how fine that time was. It was like the first blossoming of spring flowers; it was like sweet honey from the hive; it was as precious as the first whispered words of love. Oh, that time was as wonderful as all those things and more . . .”

Brión's recovery was slow. The physician recommended that he not be moved until he was fully restored to health, and neither the young man nor his kinsfolk raised any objection. He stayed on at the home of Lily's parents, where folk fed him a special diet and fussed over him, while the physician tried bloodletting and the application of leeches. Brión's illness, declared this learned man, was an ague brought on by his two days and two nights wandering lost in the chill and damp of the forest. They gave him possets and wrapped him in warmed cloths.

Lily behaved impeccably, though she longed to see the man she had first known as Ash. She yearned to hold his hand, to comfort him and whisper tender words. But she held back, hoping her mother might start to forget her foolish escapade in the woods. In time, her patience bore fruit. Brión told Lily's mother that what he wanted most was someone to tell him stories or read to him; lying in bed all day was difficult for a young man who loved riding and hunting. Was there
perhaps someone of his own age, or near his age, in the house who might be prepared to visit him and perform this service?

Lily was the only highborn and well-educated person in the household who was anywhere near Brión's age. When asked if she would help, she managed to conceal her delight. “Very well, if you wish,” was her response to her mother, who had suggested Lily might sit with the invalid twice daily for an hour, always in the presence of Muiríol or one of the other handmaids.

Now Muiríol, having received a gift from her mistress so generous that very soon she and her young man could be wed, was happy to do whatever Lily asked of her. She was ready to slip out of the sickroom for at least half of the appointed time. She waited within sight of the closed door. Should anyone happen to come by, she would say she was fetching a draft for Brión or a warm shawl for Lily. Who would challenge that?

Those snatched hours, or half hours, became the most precious time in the world. Young as they were, the lovers behaved as nobly born folk are supposed to behave; their passion was balanced by restraint. So there were soft kisses; tender touches; sweet whispered words. There were blushes; there was stammering; there was poetry. And if, after many days had passed, the passion threatened to outweigh the restraint, time always intervened. Half an hour was not very long at all; not with one's mother in the same house with an ear out for trouble.

Besides, though Lily was certain Brión loved her—he had not only told her so, but demonstrated it with his eyes, his lips, his hands—she found him oddly reluctant to talk about the future. And although she had been bold in going to the tower, and bold in arranging the captive's rescue, she was not sure she was bold enough to ask a man to marry her. Should not Brión be doing the asking? He must soon be well enough to go home. What if he went, and that was the last she ever saw of him? What if the caresses and words of love were only some kind of game? But then, if she spoke to him of these doubts and
it turned out he'd been planning to propose marriage that very day, or the next day, or the day he was due to leave, she would hurt his feelings terribly. She might never win back his trust. She knew nothing of young men; she had no idea if they thought the way young women did or quite differently. She could hardly ask her mother for advice. And though she was close to Muiríol, it did not seem right to burden a maidservant with such questions. Besides, Muiríol had an easy confidence with young men—not only her sweetheart, but any man she spoke to—that Lily knew she herself would never develop.

After one-and-twenty days of lying in bed or sitting on a padded bench in his quarters, Brión was declared well enough to venture outdoors as far as the kitchen garden. He was not especially keen to go, but allowed himself to be helped along the hallway, through the garden door and out to a bench in the sun. Here, Lily was to do her customary reading. Muiríol came as chaperone, and a gardener, forking dung in a corner, made an uninvited fourth. A little way into the reading, Muiríol wandered over to have a word with the gardener, and Brión addressed Lily in an urgent whisper.

“I need to ask you something, Lily. It's important.”

“Mm?” Was she naïve to expect a proposal of marriage? Or was that reasonable enough under the circumstances?

“Will you run away with me?” Brión whispered. “Far from here. And soon, before they make me go home. Will you?”

Lily was too shocked to say yes or no. His words had made her insides churn with unease. And perhaps just a little disappointment. When she found her voice again, she said, “Run away? But why? And where?”

“Anywhere that isn't here.” Brión had dropped his gaze; he appeared to be studying his hands, clenched together in his lap. “I can't stay here.”

“You'll go home, of course,” Lily said, confused. “As soon as you are well enough. That's what everyone expects.”

“You don't understand.” Still he would not meet her eyes. “You can't understand.”

“Ash,” she said, using the sweet name, the name that was just between the two of them. “Tell me. Tell me what this is. If you love me, you should trust me, even if it's something terrible.” She could not imagine what it might be. He was betrothed already? Married? He had some vile illness nobody had thought to tell her about? None seemed at all likely. “Please,” she added in a whisper. “And if you can't tell me, you should tell someone else, someone who can help.”

“You're saying you won't go with me.” Now Brión looked up at her, and his eyes were bleak. “You don't love me enough to go.”

“That's not fair!” Was this to be their first argument? “You must know that! You ask me to leave everything behind, to leave my family without a word of farewell, to travel away when I don't even know where I'm going, and you expect me to do it without any idea why? I've always thought that if you love someone, you trust them with the truth. If you can't do that, then perhaps . . .” Then perhaps we should not be together. Perhaps we are not right for each other after all. She could not say it. She loved him with all her heart; she knew he was the only one.

“I should go,” Brión said. “I should go away and leave you to get on with your life. I am no good for you, Lily.”

“No,” said Lily. “You should be brave. Running away isn't brave. The brave thing, the hard thing is to tell the truth. To face up to whatever it is.”

Brión glanced across the garden to where Muiríol and the gardener were still engaged in conversation. He looked back toward the house, then over to the outer gate, as if there might be listening ears everywhere. “Not here,” he said. “I can't risk anyone overhearing.”

“Then we'll walk a little way. You're supposed to be walking to get
your strength back.” It had surprised her that he had not wanted to exercise much; indeed, he had seemed reluctant to venture far at all. Now he got to his feet and they walked together, down to the far end of the garden, farther away from the others. The little gate in the outer wall stood open; that would earn the kennel lads a reprimand. “Why don't we go out toward the forest, just for a short while?” Lily suggested, at the same time gesturing to Muiríol across the garden to indicate what she intended. Muiríol was sympathetic; she would turn a blind eye unless there was a real risk involved. “We'll stay close to the gate, of course. But out there, we can talk in private.”

It was most improper, and perhaps unwise as well. Lily slipped her hand through Brión's arm and felt him shivering, deep within. Probably she should send for someone to take him inside, and straight back to bed. But Lily had a greater fear—that the mystery would never be properly explained, and that the man she loved would head off home or, worse still, run away to an unknown destination on his own, and that she would never see him again. That fear was enough to draw her out through the gate, leading her sweetheart with her. And now they were on the greensward, between the outer wall of her father's stronghold and the edge of the forest. The day was fine; the birds were singing; a light breeze tossed little clouds about in the sky. Here and there flowers bloomed in the long grass. Not far away, a stream gurgled into a small pool; frogs sang a croaking chorus. From this spot only the very highest point of the tower could be seen above the dark blanket of the trees. Lily screwed up her eyes, trying to see the window. Were the shutters open or closed?