Son of the Shadows (57 page)

I scowled at him. "Must a man kill and maim to earn your respect?"

He regarded me levelly. "A man, or a woman, must at least be able to make sound decisions and abide by them. If a man has responsibilities, he should not relinquish them on a whim. If he chooses the path of lands, and family, and community, then he must shoulder that burden for life, not toss it aside to follow any woman who dazzles him in passing."

I sighed. "I wish you could have met my mother. You'd have only needed to speak with her once to change your opinion entirely. As for my father, he made a difficult choice when he came here to be with her. He did not shirk responsibility; he simply changed one burden, as you put it, for another. She needed him, Bran. She needed him as . . ." My voice cracked, and I held back the words.

As I need you

. I

would not say it.

We sat silent for a while, and then he said, "I cannot stay long. I must see your brother, for my mission is but half completed. Are there other women nearby, or are you quite alone here?"

"We're unlikely to be disturbed. Why do you ask?"

"I—I told myself I would exercise restraint when at last I saw you again, but I—"

His words were lost because suddenly our arms were around each other, and our bodies were pressed close, and the tide of pent-up desire flooded through us, for it could be held back no longer. And it was very sweet indeed to feel the hardness of his body against me and the urgent touch of his hands through the damp fabric of my shift. All faded, but those sensations. It was as if there were no man, no woman here on the shore beneath the willows, no Bran, no Liadan, simply two halves of something broken that must now, at last, inevitably be made whole again. I sighed and pulled him more tightly against me. He whispered something and moved subtly, and
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I gasped. Then there was a wailing from the other side of the little cove, and a cawing from the branch above, and we both went very still. The wailing increased, and we moved apart and rose, and I walked over to pick up my son in my arms as Bran stood motionless on the grass, his face very pale.

"Sorry," I said, ridiculously. "They can't wait for their dinner at this age." For my son was hungry, and cross, and there was no choice but to sit there in full view, and pull down my shift and put him to the breast. The wailing ceased instantly as he began to suckle, and the raven held its tongue, perched there above us. Fiacha had not warned me of Bran's arrival. That was a strange lapse for such an effective watchdog.

Bran did not move. He was staring, his eyes shocked, his expression again remote, a mask.

"Clearly, you wasted no time," he observed. "Why did you not mention this before? What game were you playing?"

Memories of another such conversation came flooding back painfully, and tears of hurt and outrage pricked my eyes.

"What do you mean, I wasted no time?" I whispered angrily.

"My informants usually do better. Nobody thought to tell me you were wed and with a child. I was a fool to come back here."

I was torn between insane laughter and affronted tears. How could a man with a reputation for success in the most difficult mission be so unbelievably stupid?

"I thought you came to see my brother," I said shakily.

"That was true enough. I did not lie to you. But I also thought—I also hoped—clearly my judgment was faulty. That you would ever—I cannot believe that I allowed myself to be taken in so a second time."

"Indeed," I said, "your judgment has gone sadly awry if you would believe such a thing of me.

Then I

would be no better than some creature of the roadside who gives herself to any man for the asking."

Despite himself, he had moved close again, and squatted down nearby, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of the infant feeding.

"I suppose they found you a suitable mate, as they did for your sister," he said bleakly. "At least you did not wed that man, Eamonn Dubh. I keep a close watch on him; that, at least, I would have known. What chieftain's son did your family select for you, Liadan? Did you find, once you lay with me, that you had a taste for it and could wait no longer for the marriage bed?"

"If it were not for the child, your face would bear the mark of my hand for that," I said, moving my son to the other breast. "Clearly, you have not yet learned to trust."

"How could I, after this?" he muttered.

"Your prejudices blind you to the truth," I said as calmly as I could. "Have you asked yourself why I am still here at Sevenwaters instead of with my husband?"

"I would not hazard a guess," he said bleakly. "Your family appears to follow a set of rules all its own."

"That's good, coming from you." A pox on the man; he scarcely deserved to be told the truth.

How could he misread me so badly?

"You'd better tell me, Liadan. Who is he? Who is your husband?"

I took a deep breath. "I have remained here because I have no husband. Not that there was a lack of offers. I did indeed have the opportunity to wed, and I turned it down. I would not give your son another man's name."

There was complete silence, save for the small sounds the child made as he sucked and swallowed. He had become an efficient feeder and soon enough he had drunk his fill and wriggled out of my arms to go off exploring again. He crawled erratically over to Bran, planting
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a little starfish hand on the long, patterned fingers, examining them with apparent fascination.

"What did you say?" Bran was sitting extremely still, as if he feared to move at all, lest the world should come crashing down around him.

"I think you heard me. He is yours, Bran. I told you once I would have no other man but you, and I have never lied to you nor ever will."

"How can you be sure?"

"Since I have lain with but one man, and that only for the one night, it seems to me there is no doubt whatever. Or have you forgotten what passed between us?"

"No, Liadan." He moved his fingers just a little on the grass, and Johnny sat down suddenly, with a small sound of surprise. He gazed up at his father, his gray eyes reflecting the fascinated apprehension of

Bran's. "I have not forgotten. Such a night, and such a morning, remain graven deep, no matter what follows. But this—this I cannot believe. I must be dreaming. It is surely some fantasy of the imagination."

"It did not feel much like a fantasy while I was giving birth to him," I said dryly.

He looked at me, mouth set very grim indeed. "Why didn't you tell me? How could you not tell me?"

"I came close to it, when I saw you at Sidhe Dubh. But that was not the time; and besides, it seems to me you already bear more than your share of burdens. I hesitated to add another. And yet, I did want you there. I wanted you there so much, to share that moment of joy when our son came into the world."

There was another silence. Johnny tired of the hand and crawled away onto the sandy shore. Bran watched him, and there was a look in his eyes that made my heart turn over. But when he spoke at last, his voice was under firm control.

"You know what I am. You know the life I lead. I am not a fit man to be a father or a husband.

As you said yourself, I have no trade but killing. I would not see my son become another such as myself. He is better off without me, and so are you. I cannot hope to understand your kinsfolk; but I know that whatever your father's failings, your brother is a good man, well able to protect and provide for you. This should be farewell for us, Liadan. I cannot become the man you need.

I am—tainted, deficient. Best that this child never knows who his father was."

I could hardly speak. "So you would replay the story of Cu Chulainn and Conlai, is that it?"

"A tale of great sadness," he said softly. "It seems to me that is exactly what this is."

The two of us sat quietly, watching the baby as he propelled himself across the sand with a determination not always matched by his control of his limbs. He would wobble on hands and knees and topple sideways, and haul himself up again.

"I was wrong, I see that," Bran observed after a while, "when I called this a burden. It is no burden, but a priceless gift. Such a gift should not be squandered on a man like myself."

"Ah," I said softly, "but gifts come unsought. Each of us accepted one the night we lay together.

Your son does not judge you, nor do I. To him you are a clean page, where anything might be written from this day on. As for me, I have never asked you to change. You are what you are. I have strong hands, Bran.

Through the blackest night, I have kept watch for you. At dark of the moon, my candle has burned to light your path. You may choose to reject this gift, but I will not let go so easily. I carry you in my heart, whether you wish it or no."

He nodded. "I knew that, without understanding. There were times when I believed I saw you, there in

the darkness. But I dismissed it as a weakness of the mind. Liadan, you should not tie yourself
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thus. You deserve better, much better: a life of honor and purpose; a man you can walk beside without shame. My world is one of danger and flight, of shadows and concealment. That will not change. I would not inflict such an existence on you, or on the—or on my son."

"If you cannot see a future in which we are together, then why did you come to see me?" I asked him straight out. "Why not simply do your business with Sean and leave as secretly as you came?

You asked me once to go away with you. Perhaps you have forgotten that. You changed your mind when you learned my name. And yet, you allow my brother to pay you. What is the price for this mission? Why do you work for the son of Sevenwaters when you have rejected the daughter? It makes no sense."

"I suppose," he said wearily, "it is like the net your mother cast over Hugh of Harrowfield, which made him weak with desire so that he abandoned his duty to follow her. I find the merest thought of you makes me do, and say, things that astonish even myself. My need for you warps my judgment. I told you once that telling tales was dangerous because it makes men want what they cannot have. Since I met you, I am tormented by visions of a different existence, one in which I would not be alone. But a man like myself must remain alone. To befriend such a man, to—to commit yourself to such a man is sooner or later a death sentence. You must move on without me, Liadan."

There was a terrible ache in my heart, but I kept my tone light. "Then you think I should have married

Eamonn when he asked me?" I said, brows raised. "He did ask me, several times. Even after the child was born, he wished me to be his wife and was reluctant to accept no for an answer."

"What?" He sprang to his feet in outrage. "That man would have taken my woman and my child for his own? A man whose father was a traitor of the worst kind? By the powers of hell, I should have slit his throat when I had the chance." His tone changed abruptly. "Is he supposed to be eating that?" he queried, looking at the child.

The baby had discovered a fat, squirming insect on the sand, and had managed to grasp it in his small fist.

Now he was conveying the wriggling morsel toward his mouth.

"No, Johnny!" I called, and moved to free the creature from his grip and to divert him quickly with a game of mud pies while the insect made its escape.

Behind us, Bran had gone suddenly quiet. And then he said, "

What did you say

?" and it became clear to me that my mother's intuition had, once again, been exactly right.

"I called my son by his name."

"Why would you choose this name for the child?" His voice was very hesitant.

"He is named for his father, and for his father's father, a man of great integrity," I said quietly, my hands still busy forming a little castle from the damp sand. As soon as I had finished, Johnny reached out his hand and demolished my construction.

"But—how could you know this? This name—this name has been unspoken for so many years that I had almost forgotten it myself." There was a dark pain in his tone that chilled me.

"In the house of Sevenwaters, the name of John has not remained unspoken," I said gravely.

"Your father was my father's dearest friend. They spent their growing years together. My father told me it gave him great joy that his grandson was also John's grandson."

"How could he know this? I do not bear my father's name. Not now. He died. He died before I could

know him, killed in defense of your mother when she came to meddle in the affairs of Harrowfield and entice Lord Hugh away from his responsibilities. Perhaps my father was a good man, as you say. I never had the chance to find out."

I sighed. "Clearly, whoever told you this story had a particular slant on it. Perhaps you were too
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young to see that it might not be the whole truth. Who did tell you this story?"

His features went suddenly blank. "I will not speak of that."

"It might be better for you if you did speak of it," I said carefully. "You could tell me."

"Some things should remain buried. This burden is such that it cannot be shared."

"It is, perhaps, only by sharing it that its weight can be taken from your shoulders."

"I can't, Liadan."

After a while, I said, "I didn't answer your question. I'll tell you a little more of your story, the only part I

do know. You see the small blanket there under the trees, where Johnny was sleeping? Bring it here."

Bran's fingers moved across the surface of the rug I had made, touching one patch and then another.

"This is . . ."

I nodded. "I took the liberty of making some adjustments to your coat, so I could wear it. This blanket holds the hearts of Johnny's family and warms his sleep with their love. My sister Niamh's rose-colored gown; my riding dress; my father's old shirt, stained from his labors on the farm. Your coat that covered me when I slept under the stars. And . . ."

His fingers had stopped and they were touching a patch of faded blue, where ancient embroidery trailed delicately across the fabric, a vine, a leaf, a tiny, winged insect. Then he turned his arm over, and there, graven with needle and inks on the inner wrist, was the selfsame creature, the very first design he had requested when he was nine years old and determined he was a man.