"Heart's Blood" - читать интересную книгу автора (Marillier Juliet)

I walked through the afternoon and into the dusk. I walked on the road and, when I heard a body of horsemen approaching in the fading light, down beside it, under the cover of trees. I could not see the riders well, but as they passed I heard the jingle of metal and voices speaking a tongue unfamiliar to me. Reinforcements for the besieging army, perhaps. How could Anluan prevail against so many? I set my jaw and walked on. It grew dark. I followed the paler ribbon of the earth road; on either side, in the gloom, there might have been anything. Sudden steep rises; abrupt, perilous drops. Cattle, sheep, monsters. Old stories swirled in my mind, full of the menace of what lurked in the shadows beyond the light of hearth fires. I kept on walking. I would get there in time. I must get there in time.Why would the mirror show me what it had chosen to show, if only to draw me back to Whistling Tor after Anluan was dead?

When my feet ached and my back hurt, when the layers of damp clothing and the chill night air had begun to leach away my courage, when I could no longer pretend that I need not rest, I sank down in the shelter of a crumbling stone wall.The moment I stopped moving my knees began to shake. My head was dizzy. My fingers were so cramped I struggled to unfasten my bag. The clouds had thinned, and there was a suggestion of moonlight. I ate some bread and cheese from the package I’d been given and drank some water from my flask. It was too dark to tell if I was on the right track. It was too dark to read my birch-bark map.

I packed the remains of the food into the bag, my hands touching the edge of the mirror as I did so. “Now would be a good time to show me something useful,” I muttered.“A lamp, for instance, or a candle; something to light my way.” But I did not draw it out. That last vision was strong in my mind: Anluan’s gray face, his limp form; my bending, sorrowful figure holding him; and Muirne standing in the doorway with that odd, impassive look on her face. That look made my skin crawl. It was as if she had no understanding of right or wrong . . .

In a moment of insight it came to me. Aislinn. Aislinn in the obsidian mirror, watching as Nechtan performed his acts of torture. Aislinn who had learned so much from the man who had taken her under his wing: to help him in his work, to keep meticulous records, to gather and prepare the materials for ritual magic, to set aside the suffering of human and animal if that suffering could provide vital knowledge. Aislinn, whose face I had never seen, for those visions had shown her hands scrubbing, her form bending over the table, her fall of wheaten hair, but never the features that no doubt had gazed on her patron with nothing but admiration as he had taught her how to set aside her conscience.

My heart raced. Could it be? Could Aislinn have come back after death to join the host that she and Nechtan had unleashed with their flawed experiment? After that fateful All Hallows, the girl had vanished completely from Nechtan’s writings. I could not remember a single reference to her after the description of their preparations: the herbs, the wreath, the white gown, the incantation. Where had she gone? Had she perhaps thought better of the path down which Nechtan was leading her, and moved away from Whistling Tor? Or did she linger still? Muirne. Oh, God, Muirne who was as devoted to Anluan as Aislinn had been to Nechtan, Muirne who had been companion to each chieftain in turn . . . Images teased at me: Muirne adjusting cups on a shelf so they were perfectly aligned. Aislinn clearing away the debris of torture, fastidious, detached. Muirne’s veil, covering every strand of her hair—if she removed that covering, would a cascade of golden locks tumble over her shoulders and down her back? Aislinn and Muirne. It could be. And if it was, that meant Muirne had a talent nobody at Whistling Tor knew about. She could read.

The moon made a gradual appearance, revealing a landscape in many shades of gray, the path winding on, stony hillsides to either side, pale forms that might have been rocks or sheep. I must go on.The new blisters stinging my feet must wait for attention until I reached Whistling Tor. Anluan needed me. He might even now be lying sick, wounded, despairing. And if my suspicion about Muirne was right, I didn’t want her anywhere near him.

I came down a small hill and saw in the distance a bigger rise, dark on dark, with what might perhaps be a high wall at the top. Nearly there. And now, here was a side road. I took out my map and squinted at it in the moonlight.Yes, there was a grove of oaks nearby, and a single tall pine to the north. I must get off the main track here and go by this lesser way, still wide enough to accommodate a cart or a troop of mounted men-at-arms, but not well traveled. It was the way I had first come here, when I had been running so hard from my demons that I had ventured where no person in her right mind would go.When I reached the marker stone I would be following in my own footsteps.

Before I got close, the mist began to rise. In shreds and ribbons, in twisting tendrils that wrapped themselves around me as I passed, it crept up to obscure the way, turning a moonlit track into a deceptive tapestry of shifting patterns. Curse this place! Even the elements conspired to keep folk out.The memory of that day in the library returned: the blinding clouds of smoke, the panic, the struggle for breath. I willed it away. If I stayed on the edge of the track I could keep going, finding my way step by step.

Time passed; my progress was painfully slow. I held to the side where the marker stone for Whistling Tor had been and prayed that I had not gone past it unknowing. Sounds came to me through the curtains of mist, the call of an owl, something creaking, a shiver in the undergrowth as a small creature passed nearby. And then, not so very far off, I heard men’s voices, foreign voices, and a sliding, metallic noise, perhaps a weapon being stealthily drawn. Somewhere ahead of me I could see a glow, as of a cooking fire. I took two steps forward and blundered into the marker stone, cursing as I bruised my knees.A moment later, someone shouted what was unmistakably a challenge, and there came the sound of booted feet approaching.

Nowhere to hide; only the mist to conceal me. If I fled blindly off the path I would soon come to grief. If I stood here I’d be taken by the Normans. I slid the bag off my back, ripped open the fastening, grabbed the mirror. Help me. Help me now. I stared into the polished surface, seeking I knew not what. Quick!

Within the metal something stirred. Before I could see what it was, a tall form loomed up, a man clad in the garment of woven metal rings that was the Norman form of armor, with a helm on his head and a spear held ready to thrust. He shouted something, and two more warriors appeared through the mist behind him. I stood there immobile, writing box on my back, mirror in my hand, staring at them. Tossing his spear to one of the others, the first man stepped up and grabbed my arm, hard enough to bruise me.The mirror fell to the ground. Bile rose in my throat; my heart knocked in terror. I would not scream. The more attention I drew, the harder it would be to get away.

The three of them were having a conversation, the gist of which was clear: It’s only a woman. Should we let her go her own way? No, take her down there. This couldn’t happen. It mustn’t happen. Find out that I was connected to Anluan and these Normans could use me to force his capitulation. Let them do that and I’d be making a mockery of his sacrifice in sending me away. I’d be the one responsible for his downfall.

“Let me go!” I said sharply, trying to seize the initiative. “You can’t do this! Release me right now!”

The fellow responded by tightening his grip on me. One of the others had a look in his eye that made my stomach clench with unease.They might take me to their leader and interrogate me. Or they might decide they’d like a little quick entertainment with no questions asked. The mist would provide perfect concealment.

“Let go of me!” I snarled, pulling against my captor’s hold, and one of the others cuffed me across the mouth, hard enough to rattle the teeth in my jaw. He hurled a comment at me, and they began to drag me off the road.Through the thickening vapor I caught glimpses of tents and tethered horses, neat stacks of bags that might hold supplies, poles stuck into the ground that might be for flags or pennants. Faint glows here and there suggested there was more than one fire. This was an encampment of many warriors, a substantial besieging force.Whether it encircled the Tor fully, there was no telling.At the very least, I suspected there would be guards posted at strategic points all the way around, preventing Anluan’s forces from breaking out.

We were heading for a larger tent, more of a pavilion, within which a light still burned. One of the men went ahead, stepping up to the bigger tent, calling out to someone within. A spy. A spy in the camp. Will you question her? Four more strides and I’d be inside the place, completely at their mercy. I had to do something.

I sank my teeth into my captor’s hand. He cursed, his grip slackening momentarily, and I turned to bolt into the mist and out of sight. One of the others reached to grab me, and then there came a strange sound, a clattering, a rattling, an eldritch whinnying.The men froze, their faces paling, as the sound became a shape and out of the obscuring curtain came a tall horse, a creature all bones, its lips stretched in a hideous grin, and on its back a red-eyed rider in a monk’s robe, his head a skull, his smile fearsome as death itself. My companions scattered in all directions as horse and rider came up beside me and halted. I balanced my writing box with one hand and reached up with the other. Eichri bent, hooked an arm around me and lifted me to the saddle before him as if I were no heavier than a child.We backed up a little.

“Hold tight, Caitrin,” the monk said, and wrapped his bony arm around me.The skeleton horse bunched itself up, then launched itself in a mighty leap. I screwed my eyes shut. I did not dare to look until I felt the uncanny steed come to ground.We were on the other side of the Norman lines.The horse raced ahead along the path and up the hill into the forest. “Did they harm you?” Eichri asked.

Slowly my heart returned to its usual rhythm. “A bruise or two, that’s all,” I said. “How did you know to come?”

“We saw you in a mirror. All right? Not going too fast for you?”

It was like racing on a pile of sticks, precarious and uncomfortable. Never mind that; I was safe. I was home. Now I must ask the question. “Eichri, is Anluan still alive?”

“Alive? Very much so.You’ve come back right in the middle of things. We have a surprise for the poxy gray shirts in the morning. At first light we’ll be down on them with everything we have. My old friend Rioghan made the battle plan, and a good one it seems to be, though the fellow won’t admit as much until it’s all over and the Normans are gone from Anluan’s land.”

Holy Saint Patrick, I had arrived on the very day of the battle. “He’ll be angry,” I said. “Anluan. He didn’t want me here. But . . .” I was becoming aware that we were no longer alone. As the horse made its way up the hill path in a shivering dance of bones, figures were appearing from under the trees, men, women and children, watching us pass. I saw the look in their eyes, proud, vindicated, full of hope and excitement, and I heard their shadowy voices. She’s back.The lady’s back. It’s her, come home again.

“Angry?” Eichri queried. “If he’s angry, I’ll eat my sandals. Of course, you didn’t see him when I told him you were down at the foot of the hill. He would have rushed off to fetch you himself, straight through the Norman camp, if Rioghan hadn’t made him see sense.”

“Oh.” As we clattered into the courtyard followed by a whispering crowd of spectral folk, my heart soared.

“Been a few changes since you left,” Eichri said, as his formidable mount halted.The monk swung down, then reached to lift me to the ground.

A few changes.That was somewhat of an understatement.There were people everywhere, not just the fighting men of the host, but men from the settlement, ordinary men who were working alongside the uncanny inhabitants of Whistling Tor. There was Cathaír, still in his bloody shirt, looking my way in wonder as he helped a young fellow, perhaps a farmhand, to string a bow.There were Eichri’s clerical colleagues, going in and out of the east tower, where the chapel was, with piles of folded cloths, basins and bottles.The chapel had become an infirmary; they anticipated casualties of war. There was Tomas’s wife, Orna, crossing the courtyard with a ghostly woman by her side.The moon illuminated this nocturnal activity. A single torch burned outside the main entry to the house. Despite the unusually large number of folk about, there was a hush over the place.

“I can hardly believe this,” I said, looking one way then another. “To get them all working together . . . to break down so many barriers . . . How has he done it, Eichri?”

“Cooperation. Planning. Sheer persistence. We’ve all helped him. He sent Magnus to talk to Brión straightaway, soon after you left. It turned out the local chieftains were far more worried about the Norman threat than they were about the host. Everyone had come to believe Anluan had no will to lead. When opinions were sought, they’d become used to leaving him out. Once they learned things had changed, we worked on persuading them that the host was under control now.”

The host did seem to be under control. The quiet cooperation I saw between living villagers and spectral folk made my spine tingle. “Is it true?” I asked. “Does he really have control even beyond the hill? What about the frenzy?”

“We’ve been working on that,” Eichri said. “Rioghan’s taught them ways to keep strong; so has Magnus. Of course, it hasn’t been fully tested.”

My heart sank.At dawn they would head out to confront the Norman army.The risk did not bear thinking about. “Where is Anluan?” I asked. It was the only thing that mattered right now.

“In his own quarters; he’s waiting for you there. Caitrin, you won’t have a lot of time alone. We attack before dawn. Anluan’s got work to do. And he needs rest, too. He’ll carry a heavy burden once the host leaves the hill.” Perhaps I looked surprised, for Eichri added, “Rioghan’s plan has half of the host moving down beyond the boundary to manifest within the Norman lines. Anluan must go down there with them. If the frenzy comes upon our fighting forces, he’s the only one who can hold them together. Don’t look like that, Caitrin. You have a little time. Gearróg’s on guard; he’ll make sure nobody interrupts you.”

As we walked towards the south tower and Anluan’s private quarters, my mind was full of the dark vision: Anluan lying on his pallet, I grieving, and Muirne ...What if I walked in that door and Anluan was stretched out stone dead? “Where is Muirne?” I asked.

“She’ll be here somewhere.We haven’t seen so much of her since the folk from the settlement came up the hill, when we knew the Normans were on the way. I’ve spotted her once or twice, up in the north tower or in Irial’s garden. And she’s been in the library. Doesn’t come to meals anymore, since the household suddenly expanded. And Magnus isn’t here.”

I looked at Eichri, astonished. Surely the loyal Magnus would not desert Anluan at such a time of crisis. “What happened?”

“All part of the plan.Anluan can tell you. If this goes as expected, we’ll be seeing Magnus again in the morning. That woman, Orna, has been doing the cooking, with a whole bevy of assistants. Olcan’s looking after the farm.” We were nearly at the tower. “Ah, look at that,” Eichri said as a small form hurtled towards me. I knelt and caught her, feeling her ice-cold arms around my neck. I stroked her wispy white hair. She was clinging, crying. “I’m back now,” I murmured. “It’s all right. But I have to talk to Anluan.You wait here with Gearróg. I’ll see you soon.” I rose to my feet and met the eyes of the man who had saved me from the fire; the man who had called me Anluan’s dearest treasure. He stood in guard position outside the door to the south tower, spear in hand.

“I kept my word,” Gearróg said. “I kept him safe for you.”

“And I kept mine. I’m home.”

Gearróg was a man of few words. “You’d best go in, then,” he said. “Not so long until first light.” After a moment, he added, “Found your sister, did you?”

It seemed typical that he would remember such a thing. He was the kind of man who would never put himself first.

“I did, and she’s . . .” The door of the south tower opened, and there stood Anluan, hair a river of flame across his shoulders, one hand against the doorframe, the other holding a lantern whose warm glow spilled forth, making a path for my weary feet, lighting the way home. Anluan’s face was white as winter. But his smile was all summer.

The rest of the world disappeared. He reached out his hand; I took it and was drawn inside. Anluan set the lantern down and closed the door behind us, sliding the bolt across.Then we were in each other’s arms, words tumbling out of us, none of it making much sense, for there was a tide rising that swept away all reason. I had not thought that I might be putting my sister’s words of advice into practice so soon, but all of a sudden it seemed to me I should perhaps be trying to recall them.

“You need rest, refreshment,” muttered Anluan, releasing me and stepping back. “You’re hurt, your feet—”

“It’s nothing.” I sat down and discarded the boots, wincing. “But my clothes are wet. And I lost my bag when Eichri came to fetch me.” Thank God I had kept Anluan’s book in the pouch at my belt. “Can you give me something to wear? We have so little time, I don’t want to go out and ask—”

Anluan said nothing at all. He moved to take a garment from the untidy heap that lay atop his storage chest, but did not give it to me. Instead, he stood with it in his hands, three paces away from where I sat on the edge of the bed.

I can do this, I told myself. I love him. He loves me. He wants me. I can do it. Then I stood up and, one by one, removed each article of clothing. I kept my eyes on his, watching him watch, seeing the changes in his face as cloak, shawl, bodice, skirt, stockings, fell each in its turn to the floor. I knew my cheeks were red as ripe apples, but I cared nothing for that. All that mattered was the look on Anluan’s face, and the throbbing excitement building in my body. I slipped my fine lawn shift over my head; dropped it slowly. I stood facing him, clothed only in the fall of my hair. “It’s not exactly warm in here,” I said. “Eichri told me you need rest before the morning.Will you lie down with me awhile?”

Anluan had not moved. “Caitrin—” he said, then cleared his throat. “Caitrin, I will disappoint you—I can’t—”

“You couldn’t disappoint me,” I said, pulling back the blanket and lying down on the bed as my heart performed a wild dance of terrified excitement. “Don’t even think of that. If rest is what you need, then rest beside me and keep me warm. I’ve missed you more than I can put into words, Anluan. I want to hold you close.”

And then we stopped talking, and I helped Anluan to take off his own clothing so we could lie skin to skin, and very soon the two of us warmed each other very well, but we did not rest. Maraid’s wise words were in the back of my mind somewhere, helping me as my hands showed his where to touch, as my mouth grew bolder and his followed the example. I made my body accommodate his, finding ways to move and hold, to slide and twine, within the boundaries of what his weaker limbs could do. Once or twice it was awkward, a little; but not so awkward that it made him draw back, fearful of failure.We had already moved past that point, and when at last our bodies came together, it was like the vision in the mirror of might-have-been, lovely, powerful, overwhelming, a giving and receiving, a meeting and parting, a congress that was both desperate and tender, until a wave of sensation crashed over us and left us drained and spent, hearts hammering, bodies entwined.

It was some time before either of us spoke. I lay tucked against his side, his arm around me, my head against his shoulder. My body touched his in a hundred, a thousand points of skin against skin; I felt each one of them. I never wanted to move from this spot.

“By all the saints,” murmured Anluan.There was a note of utter wonder in his voice. “I feel as if I could do anything. Anything.”

“You can,” I said. “I always knew that.” I did not ask him why he had believed this was a thing he could not do. If he wanted to tell me, in time he would.

“Caitrin?”

“Mm?”

“Will you stay this time? Stay and be my wife?”

For a moment my heart was too full to let me speak.“I’d be honored,” I whispered.“I never want to leave you again.” And it came to me that this had not, in fact, been like the vision in the mirror, where Anluan had seen a perfect version of himself making love to me.That had been a fantasy, an embodiment of what could not be.This had been real: real in its flaws and uncertainties, real in its small triumphs, real in its compromises and understanding. “Anluan, will you forgive me for what I said to you the night we quarreled? I didn’t mean it. It hurt so much that you didn’t want me, I think a sort of madness must have come over me . . .”

“Shh,” he said, touching his fingers to my lips. “There’s no need to speak of that. Besides, I was as cruel as you. I banished you in the unkindest way possible. If I had allowed myself to soften, I could not have spoken the words. I feared for your safety.” His cheeks flushed.“That was not the only reason. I suppose you know that I have just surprised myself somewhat. Caitrin, I longed to keep you by my side; I longed to have you in my bed. But I did not believe I could ever be . . . adequate.”

“I have little experience in these matters,” I said, blushing in my turn. “But it seemed to me you were a great deal more than adequate. Anluan, I read your little book over and over.When I left here, I thought you didn’t love me; not as I loved you.The book told me how wrong I was.”

“How could you not know?” His voice was full of wonderment.“You changed me utterly.You were like a . . . like a bright, wonderful bloom in a garden full of weeds. Like a graceful capital on a page of plain script, a letter decorated with the deepest, finest colors in all Erin. Like a flame, Caitrin. Like a song.”

I held these words to me as we lay there together, at rest but not asleep. Beyond the closed door of the south tower the full moon crossed the sky and the night wore on towards dawn. So little time. And then he must march out to a battle so uneven, so unpredictable that the thought of it made my heart clench tight with fear. I said nothing of this. Anluan’s newfound belief in himself might be his best weapon.

Inevitably, there came a tap on the door.

“My lord?” Gearróg’s voice. “There’s food and drink here. Orna brought it over. Rioghan said I should wake you; you need something before you march out.”

Anluan sighed. “Thank you, Gearróg,” he called.

“I’m hungry,” I said, realizing it was rather a long time since that uncomfortable meal eaten by the roadside. “I’ll fetch it, shall I?”

“Not like that.” Anluan regarded me from the bed as I wriggled out to stand stark naked in the center of the room.“Put the shirt on, at least. Even so, you’ll shock that devoted guard of yours. He’s done a fine job, Caitrin. Rewarded your trust a hundredfold. I’ve asked him to stay with you when we go down the hill today.”

At the door, I took the tray from Gearróg. There was a smile on his blunt features. Orna had assembled a tasty meal for two, some kind of cold roast meat, slabs of dark bread, eggs cooked with herbs.A little jug held ale. It seemed to me the whole household must be awake, and doubtless the whole household had worked out what Anluan and I were doing alone together in his chamber, but I did not really care. The Tor was full of hope tonight. Hearts were high. I had found the treasure I had believed lost forever, and a little embarrassment was neither here nor there.

I poured two cups of ale, then passed one to Anluan, who was sitting up on the bed with the blanket across his lap. I was cold in the borrowed shirt. I moved to the storage chest, rummaging through the heap of garments for a tunic or cloak. Later I would see if any of the clothing I had left was still in the house.

A sound from behind me, like a faint cough or clearing of the throat; then a thud as something fell to the floor. I turned. Anluan had dropped the cup. He had both hands at his throat and his face was gray.

“What?” I was by his side, my heart pounding. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He tried to speak, but he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He gestured frantically, trying to convey some message to me, but I could not understand what he meant. As I reached to support him he fell back onto the bed, his eyes rolling up.

“Gearróg!” I screamed. Oh, God, it was true, it had happened after all. I had asked too much of him, drained his energy . . .There had been something wrong that he hadn’t told me, some illness . . .

Gearróg burst in, uttered an oath, then strode back outside to yell for help. As I fought for calm, laying a hand on Anluan’s chest to feel if his heart was still beating, putting my fingers to his neck in the place where the blood pulsed, the chamber filled up with people: Olcan, Eichri, Orna and Tomas. And just after them, Rioghan, who took one look and said, “Dear God, it’s Irial all over again.”

“What—” I began, outraged that anyone would believe Anluan, beloved Anluan who had held me and lain with me and made magic with me, might want to kill himself. Then I realized what he meant. The cup. The sudden collapse. The blue-gray pallor, the loss of speech, the labored breathing . . .“He’s been poisoned,” I said.“The ale—that was all he took—who prepared this tray?” Do something. Save him, now, now! screamed my inner voice, edging me closer to complete panic.

“Sionnach prepared the food,” Orna said. She kept glancing sideways, as if the close presence of uncanny folk still made her nervous.“Tomas got the ale for us and I brought the tray across to Gearróg. I was halfway back to the house when I heard you scream. It’s the same food and drink all of us had for supper, and nobody else is sick.”

A silence, though everyone was busy, Olcan supporting Anluan, Eichri at the door giving terse instructions to Gearróg, Orna dabbing a damp cloth to the stricken man’s brow. Anluan’s breathing was shallow and uneven. His skin was a corpse’s, all shadows.

“Did anyone else come into the kitchen when Sionnach was preparing the food?”

“Who else would be there in the middle of the night?” Orna frowned. “Oh, that strange creature did come by; the girl in the veil. Slipped in and out in that way she has, gives me the creeps. She was only there for a moment.”

A moment was long enough. Long enough to put a drop of poison in a jug. Long enough to kill a man.“There must be an antidote—we just have to work out what the poison is—who knows about herbs?”

“Only Magnus,” Rioghan said. “And he’s not here. Besides, if it’s the same thing that killed Irial, we never found out what it was. Nobody knew.”

I wanted to scream, to rend my garments and wail like a madwoman. I summoned the same chill purpose that had helped me once before, when I had walked into the house to confront Ita and Cillian. “Someone does know,” I said. “Find Muirne. Bring her here right now. This is her doing.” Aislinn was expert in herb lore. Aislinn knew all about potions. She loved Anluan, but perhaps she hated him too; hated him for loving me, hated him for changing everything on the hill. Maybe she hadn’t cared which of us drank first. “Hurry,” I said, but Rioghan was already gone.

“Caitrin.” Eichri spoke quietly. “If it’s the same thing Irial took, we don’t have very long. An hour, maybe. We can’t wait for Muirne, even if you’re right.” I heard in his voice that he could not believe Muirne would turn on the object of her lifelong devotion. “We must do something now or we’ll lose him while they’re still trying to find her.”

“Irial,” I said, as a new idea came to me. If Muirne was prepared to kill her beloved Anluan out of jealousy, might she not have done the same thing to Irial, to whom it seemed she had been as devoted a companion? “Irial would have known the antidote. He wrote notes on everything he discovered; he’ll have recorded every plant that grew on the Tor, I’m sure of it. It will be in one of those little books. He’ll have written down the symptoms, every detail—we need to find the poison first, and he should have noted the antidote underneath.” An hour. A little less than an hour.And I was the only one in the house who could read, apart from her. If there had been a better scholar among them, perhaps Irial could have been saved.

I took Anluan’s limp hand and brought it to my lips. He seemed already gone, but I had felt the blood still moving in his veins, weakly; I had felt the halting heartbeat. To release his hand and walk away was a little death. “I’m going to the library,” I said over my shoulder. “I need a safe lantern and a man to guard each door. If anyone finds Muirne, I want to see her straightaway. Gearróg, don’t let her anywhere near Anluan.”

I ran across the courtyard in my bare feet, with Gearróg’s cloak slung over the borrowed shirt.The news was spreading fast. By the time I reached Irial’s garden, folk of the host and folk from the settlement were gathering in huddled groups, faces somber. Cathaír came running into Irial’s garden before I entered the house, a lantern in one hand, a long dagger in the other.

“I’ll take this door, my lady. Broc’s on the other, with the dog. Let me open up for you.” He pushed the library door and it swung open; the inner bolt had not been fastened. “Where do you want this light?”

“On the shelf, here in the corner. If Muirne comes into the garden, call me straightaway. She has the answer, I’m certain of it.”

“Muirne?” Cathaír sounded less dubious than Eichri. “She did come in here a lot, while you were gone. Dusted shelves. Moved things about. Looked at the books.”

My heart was as cold as the grave. I swept an armful of Irial’s notebooks from their shelf and set them on a nearby table. Fumbling in my haste, I began to turn pages, not taking time to read anything fully, for there was no time—stay alive, please, please—but scanning them for words that might jump out at me: sudden onset, breathing, speech, gray-blue, poison, antidote . . .

One book, two books, three . . . There were poisons here, but not the one I wanted. There was blue-gray, but that was only the description of a leaf. My hands were sweating with fear; my body was clammy. My heart was knocking about in my breast. My stomach had tied itself in knots. Irial’s spidery writing blurred before my eyes. Five books, seven, nine . . .

“Any good?” Cathaír had stepped inside the door.When I glanced up, pain lanced through my neck. I had barely moved for . . . how long? Too long.

“I can’t find it!” My voice cracked. “I can’t find anything! And it’s not just finding it, it’s making the cure and giving it to him, and I’m running out of time!” I seized another book, started to flick through the pages, knew I was close to losing the ability to understand the words before me.

“My lady,” Cathaír said, his tone diffident, “they’re saying you think Muirne did this. Gave Lord Anluan the poison.”

“That’s what I think, yes.That she can read.That she knows plants and their uses.That she gave it to him, and that she’s hiding so I can’t make her tell me the antidote before he dies.” Herb of grace; comfrey; wormwood. Meadowsweet, mugwort, thyme. This was useless, useless. I should go back and hold him, cradle him. At least I would be there to say goodbye.

“It’s just that . . .” Cathaír hesitated.

“Go on.”

“If it’s her, Muirne, you might want to look in the stillroom—you know, that little place next to the garden wall. That’s where she goes at night. Irial used to do his work in there, his brewing and concoction. Since he died, nobody’s gone in; nobody but her.And she loves those little books, the ones you have there.Those are the ones she looks at when she comes to the library. Holds them against her heart as if they were children.”

I was out in Irial’s garden before he had finished speaking.The door to the low stone outbuilding was bolted, as always.That would be no barrier to Muirne. She could probably walk through walls. “I need you to open this for me,” I said. “Quickly. And I need you to help me search. It’ll be a small book like those others.” Irial’s sad margin notes had been numbered up to five hundred and ninety-four. But he had outlived his wife by two years, and that was more than seven hundred days. Unless he had stopped writing them, unless he had lost the will to write at all, somewhere there was another journal.

Cathaír set his boot to the stillroom door. The timbers parted, the chain fell loose, the bolt came tumbling out of the stone wall. I peered into the dim interior.“Hold up the lantern,” I said, stepping inside.There was a wrong feeling about the place, something I could not quite identify. I had expected old, musty things, tools stored and forgotten or the crumbling remnants of Irial’s long-ago botanical work. But the stillroom was perfectly tidy. A millet broom stood in a corner; a duster hung on a wall. Candles were ranked on a shelf. There was a workbench with crucibles and jars, some holding objects I could not identify.A mortar and pestle stood beside a rack of knives and other implements that gleamed darkly in the lantern light. Bunches of herbs hung from the roof. At one end of the immaculate room was a pallet, and on it lay a small lidded box.

No books in sight. “She must have it here somewhere,” I muttered. “Look everywhere, Cathaír. It’s here, I know it. Here but hidden.” I grabbed the blanket that lay bunched at the end of the pallet, the only untidy note in the whole room. I shook it out; nothing there. I reached down the back of the bed. Nothing at all. I crouched to look underneath, while Cathaír worked his way along the shelves, picking things up and setting them down. A bundle of rags lay on the floor, under the bed; I drew them out. Familiar somehow, but what were they?

“Baby!” The little voice spoke from the doorway, and a moment later the ghost girl was crouched beside me, gathering up the pathetic heap, trying to hold the pieces together, pieces that were white, like Róise’s face, and violet, like the little veil I had made to cover the doll’s ruined hair, and brown, like the skirt that had been shredded and destroyed in the quiet of my bedchamber. Threads of woollen hair; tattered fragments of a smiling mouth embroidered with love.The child stood clutching her violated treasure to her breast. “All right now, baby,” she whispered.

Cathaír squatted down beside the girl, and while his eyes were as wild and shifting as always, there was something gentle in his manner. “Little sister,” he said, “have you come in here before?”

“Mm,” she murmured, but did not look at him. Her head was bent over her ruined baby.

“Is there a book here?” the young warrior asked.“Does the lady in the veil have a special book hidden away?”

A silence.

“Please,” I said, trying to keep my voice as calm and kindly as Cathaír’s, though a scream was welling up in me. “If you know where it is, please show us.”

A little hand rose; a finger pointed to the box on the bed. It was much too small to hold a book, even a tiny one, and my heart sank anew, but I lifted it and unfastened the catch. I opened the lid to see my mother’s embroidered kerchief, folded precisely. Under this was a strange assortment of little items: a strip of bright weaving in shades of violet and purple; a decorative buckle from a lady’s shoe; a striking cloak-fastener of silver and amber. She’s kept a trophy from each of us, I thought. From each of those she hated and thought to kill. From each who took a beloved chieftain from her.

“What’s that at the bottom?” Cathaír asked.

“It’s a key.” A thin thread of hope at last. “What does this open?”

The child shrank into herself, perhaps frightened by my desperation.

“Please,” I said more quietly.“Please help me. Lord Anluan is very sick; we have to save him. Do you know what the key is for?” I lifted the embroidered kerchief and spread it out on the bed. “You can put the baby in this and wrap her up safely.”

The child placed her pile of scraps in the middle of the kerchief and watched while I tied the corners together, two and two, making a neat bundle. “The mirror,” she murmured.

“Mirror?” There was an odd note in Cathaír’s voice, and when I looked up I saw him put a hand to his brow as if in pain. “What mirror?”

Abruptly, the girl began to cry. “My head hurts,” she whispered, picking up the kerchief bundle and holding it against her breast.

Not this; not now, oh please . . . “Hold fast, Cathaír,” I said. “I need you. We must find this book.” From outside, in the garden, came sounds of folk cursing, wailing, shouting.

The young warrior staggered, thrust out a hand, gripped the bench and straightened. He pursed his lips and whistled a few desperate notes: Stand up and fight . . . men of the hill . . .

“That mirror,” sobbed the ghost child, and pointed.

It was old, corroded, revealing nothing at all save the crusted debris of long neglect. It stood against the wall at the back of the workbench, screened by a row of jars. As I moved them aside their contents stirred in an unsettling semblance of life. I lifted the ancient mirror away and there, behind it, was a wooden hatch with a keyhole.

“Dauntless in courage . . . united in will,” sang Cathaír, and other voices joined in from outside the stillroom, men’s deep tones, women’s higher ones. “Swing your swords proudly, hold your heads high . . .”

I turned the key; I opened the door.

“Books,” said Cathaír, breaking off his song. “Here, let me shine the light for you.”

Two books, one the same as Irial’s notebooks, the other even smaller. I opened up the first on the workbench and saw the familiar spidery script and delicately rendered illustrations. “This is it,” I said, slipping the other book into a pocket of Gearróg’s cloak. Quickly, quickly . . .I began to turn the pages. Some kind of journal entry, not related to herbs at all; a poultice for earache in children; a discussion of various herbs that might be used to alleviate grief . . .

I found it about halfway through. The poison brewed with precise quantities of dragon-claw berries, ground and steeped in a strong mead, then strained through gauze and left to stand for seven days. The onset is rapid, Irial had written. First comes a graying of the skin, followed by shortness of breath, loss of speech, then unconsciousness leading to death in little more than an hour.The antidote is . . .

“Heart’s blood,” I muttered as I ran across the garden with the book in one hand. Folk dodged out of my way—many had been waiting as I searched. “I should have guessed. Curse Muirne! Cathaír, I need someone who can help me brew this.”

I reached the corner where the herb grew. I fell to my knees; Cathaír held up the lantern.The circle of light bathed the soft gray-green leaves of the comfrey bush and showed, beneath it, the dried and withered remnants of the heart’s blood flowers. Only two. One handful of finely chopped petals, Irial had written. As fresh as possible.

“It has to work, this must be enough,” I muttered, reaching across to pluck my pathetic harvest. Around the garden the song rang out, more confident now: “Brothers together, we live and we die!” Rioghan had tutored them well. He had taught them hope in the face of despair.

“I will help you.” It was the wise woman of the host, she with the moon tattoo on her brow. Her features were calm, but I saw pain in her eyes; the frenzy, it seemed, touched each and every one of them.“You need other herbs?”

“Dried flowers of lavender—there’s a bunch hanging in the stillroom. I’ll run ahead to the kitchen.” Back into the library, the quicker way, through the darkened space and out the other door, surprising the old warrior, Broc, who stood roaring out the song with his hands gripped tight as ancient ivy around his spear. Fianchu barking, racing ahead of me as if he knew just what had to be done. Cathaír coming behind me, desperate to keep me safe, fighting the pain.The kitchen full of folk, the fire glowing, Orna’s friend Sionnach lifting a steaming kettle. Orna herself in the doorway, and coming in after her the wise woman, a sheaf of dried lavender in her hands. She had been quick.

“One of you chop this as finely as you can. One of you shred the lavender blooms. Orna, we need . . .”The look on her face halted me.

“He’s still alive,” Orna said quickly. “But we haven’t long. What is it we’re brewing?”

“Life, I hope. It’s an antidote to what I think he was given—simple enough, just these two plants made into a tea.”

“Have you a precise measure for this?” asked the woman of the host. “Heart’s blood is a perilous herb. Give him too much and it will carry him off forever.”

“Two cups of water, just off the boil.” The remedy was burned into my mind; I could see every stroke of Irial’s writing.“One handful of finely chopped heart’s blood petals. Two handfuls of lavender.” I looked at the scant harvest of heart’s blood. “I don’t know if this is enough.” Terror welled up in me. That Anluan should die for want of a single flower . . .

“Half quantities,” said Orna, taking a knife from the bench and coming up to the table. “You can’t expect a man barely conscious to swallow two whole cups of this stuff. It should be enough, don’t you think?” She glanced at the spectral woman.

“It will suffice, I believe.”

“Let’s do this, then. Sionnach, don’t put that kettle back on—didn’t you hear what Caitrin said? Just off the boil.”

“Did Muirne come?” I asked shakily, realizing the task had been taken out of my hands. Orna chopped; the wise woman measured; Sionnach poured the hot water into the jug. Outside the singing went on. I hoped the sound would not carry as far as the Norman encampment, or the surprise attack would be no surprise at all.

“Wretched tune,” muttered Orna, but her tone was good-natured.“I’ll be hearing it in my sleep. I can even hear Tomas singing. Fair enough, I suppose; we’re one and the same now. Men of the hill. And women.”

“She did not come,” the ghostly woman said. “The girl in the veil. If you achieve this, if you cure him, she will fear you more than ever.”

“Fear?” I echoed, started. “Muirne fear me?” But there was no time to ask more. Eichri was at the door.

“They’re saying you found it. The antidote. Is it true?” He sounded desperate; a faint rattling sound told me he was trembling.

“We’re bringing it now,” I said. “He only has to hold on a few moments more.” Dear God, don’t take him from me . . .

“You’d want to make haste,” Eichri said.

The wise woman passed the jug into my hands, carefully. It was so hot I almost dropped it. Orna snatched a cleaning cloth from a peg and helped me wrap it around the jug. “By the time we reach the tower,” she said, “it will be cool enough for him to drink.”

Sionnach had fetched a clean cup. We walked out of the house and across the courtyard, and as we passed the song dwindled and faltered and ceased. Eyes were on us from all around, the stricken eyes of those who still battled the enemy that sought to poison their thoughts; the frightened eyes of ordinary folk whose world had changed forever. I wanted to run, to fly, to be at Anluan’s side this moment, but I held the jug, his salvation within, and I walked as if on eggshells, step by careful step.

At the entry to the south tower, Gearróg stood strong, though I saw the tension in his body and the strain of resistance on his face.The frenzy tried him hard, as before. He was muttering to himself, and as I passed him I heard him say: “God, don’t let Lord Anluan die. They say you’ll listen to a sinner’s prayer. Hear mine tonight, will you? We’re all in the balance here.”

Then I was in the chamber and by Anluan’s bedside. He lay in Olcan’s steady arms, his mouth slightly open, his lids closed, his breath whistling like the wind in reeds. Alive; by all the saints, still alive. My hands were shaking so hard I could not pour the infusion from jug to cup, so Orna did it for me, but I was the one who held the vessel to his lips.

“Anluan,” I said with tears running down my cheeks,“you must drink this. Just a sip is enough to start with. Anluan, please try.” It was plain that he could not hear me.The precious draft would spill from his unconscious mouth to soak into the blankets and be lost.

“Dip the cloth.”The calm voice was that of the wise woman.“Squeeze a little into his mouth. Feed him as you would a motherless babe.”

I soaked up a little of the infusion in the cloth she had given me; brought it carefully up. To waste even a drop might be to lose this battle. Olcan tipped Anluan’s head back slightly and I squeezed the tea into his mouth. Drink it. Drink it.

He swallowed. I released the breath I had been holding and dipped the cloth again. And again.The chamber was so still I thought I could hear my heart beating. Another few drops; Anluan’s eyelids flickered. He gasped for air, tensed, turned his head.

“Use the cup now,” said the wise woman. “He’ll soon come back to full awareness. Go slowly.”

“Drink, dear one,” I said, laying one hand on Anluan’s neck and tilting the cup against his lips.

He drank; stopped to suck in air; drank again, thirstily. His eyes opened, blue as the sky on the loveliest day of summer and utterly confused. “What . . .” he managed, then ran out of breath.

“Hush, don’t try to talk.” I set down the empty cup, turning my head away so he would not see the tears pouring down my cheeks.“It’s all right, you’re all right now.Take your time.”

“Caitrin—Olcan—what—?”Anluan turned his head one way and the other; he put a hand to his brow, tried to sit up, collapsed back against Olcan’s supporting arm. “What happened to me? Did I dream . . .” A silence, then I felt his hand brush against me where I sat bent over on the edge of the bed. “Caitrin, you’re crying. What . . . what is this?” His voice was a little stronger, and when I turned to look, there was a slight flush of color in his wan cheeks.

“Who’d have imagined it?” said Orna. “Heart’s blood.Thought it was only good for rich folk’s ink. My lord,” she was suddenly shy, her tone diffident, “you’ve been terribly sick. Near death. Caitrin brought you back.”

“Sick?” Anluan frowned, his eyes moving over the empty cup in my hand and the empty jug the wise woman was holding.“But . . .” He cleared his throat. “I dreamed . . . Caitrin, are you really here?”

“Yes,” I said, a blush rising to my face.

“That was real . . . you and I . . .”

The blush deepened; my cheeks were on fire. “It was,” I said. “And so am I. Anluan, you must lie down and rest; you’ve been very ill.”

“No . . .” He was trying to sit up again, his breathing labored. “No, there’s no time for this . . . I must . . . God, I can’t catch my breath . . . Tell me what happened . . .”

I explained it as calmly as I could, while he worked on his breathing, and Olcan supported him until at last he could manage to sit on his own. I said nothing of Muirne, only told him about the poison, and that it was the same one that had killed his father. I explained that we had found the antidote, but not where. I did not speak of the little hoard of trophies I had found.

“Poison,” Anluan said, his tone flat. “Now, on the brink of the battle, poison . . .”

Before I could say anything more, the tall, red-cloaked figure of Rioghan appeared in the doorway with Cathaír behind him. “God be praised,” the councillor breathed, his dark eyes on Anluan. He turned to face the courtyard, and no doubt he wanted to shout in a voice like a war trumpet, but he held his jubilant announcement quiet: “He’s safe! Lord Anluan is well again!”

Well? Hardly that, I thought, clutching Anluan’s hand in mine. I glanced over at Rioghan, guessing what was coming.

“My lord,” Rioghan said, walking in and falling onto one knee beside the bed in courtly fashion,“it’s close to first light.We can’t do this without you.”

“He can’t go now!” I protested. “You can’t ask this of him!” A few heartbeats ago Anluan had been lying there close to death. He looked barely able to stand up on his own. He couldn’t possibly lead an army into battle. “Can’t the venture be delayed until tomorrow?”

“It must be today, Caitrin,” Rioghan said. “The plan is in place. We go down the hill before dawn. Half of our force manifests in the Norman camp and engages them. The other half waits under the concealment of the trees. When we’ve created general chaos in the enemy ranks, Magnus brings in the war bands from Silverlake and Whiteshore, under their own leaders. The Normans are driven back up into the woods and into the waiting trap. It’s too late to withdraw Magnus’s reinforcements now; they’ve ridden out from their own territories to take this risk for us, and we can’t send out a messenger without alerting the enemy. We’re hoping Eichri’s sudden dramatic appearance to rescue you didn’t do that.The mist will have helped; he doesn’t think many saw him. With luck, those who did may still be arguing about whether you really were carried off by a spectral rider or whether they imagined the whole thing. My lord, you have time to put on your battle gear. No more than that. Cathaír and I will help you.”

Anluan rose to his feet. He swayed, then straightened. “I can do this, Caitrin,” he said, setting his jaw.

I struggled to find the strength to match him. “I know you can. I’ll leave you to get ready now.” I glanced around the chamber, where all of them stood quiet: stalwart Olcan; Rioghan with his jaw tight, battling the memory of failure; Eichri in his brown robe; Orna and Sionnach; the woman with the graven moon on her calm brow. Cathaír moved to the storage chest to take out various items of clothing: a leather breast-piece like the one Magnus wore, a helm, a silver-buckled belt.“I’m proud of you, so proud it breaks my heart. Come back safely.” I wanted to kiss Anluan properly, but this was not the time. At this moment, standing there a little crooked and clutching a sheet awkwardly in front of him to conceal his nakedness, he was every bit a chieftain. I stood on tiptoe, put my hands on his shoulders and laid my cheek against his. “I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you, Caitrin.”Anluan’s was no whisper, but a declaration, strong and proud. “Gearróg must stay with you until I return. Several of the men from the settlement will be up here as well, and we have a small force posted atop the wall. Take no risks.” He was shrugging on a shirt Cathaír held ready. “Caitrin, who could have put poison in the cup?”

As Anluan bent over to pull on a pair of trousers, Rioghan caught my eye. He gave the slightest shake of his head, and I swallowed the words I had been about to say. This was not the time to speak of Aislinn, and of what now seemed not suspicion, but reality. “We can talk about it later,” I said. “May God watch over you and shield you from harm.”