Tower of Thorns (17 page)

“Good morning.” Flannan sounded in excellent cheer. “I hope you slept well.”

I grimaced. “Could have been better. You?”

“Best night's rest I've had in a while. I daresay tonight will be less comfortable; monasteries are generally somewhat austere in their accommodations. Come, sit here. The steward said we're not to wait for Lady Geiléis. She'll be breakfasting in her own quarters.”

The men were hungry and ate well. I drank some ale and made myself consume a bowl of porridge, though I was strung too tight to enjoy it. The servant had slipped silently away. But even with the three of us alone together, I found it hard to sustain anything like a normal conversation. I was relieved when the steward, Senach, came in to ask whether we needed anything.

“The breakfast is very good, thank you.” I forced a smile. “Might I borrow a basket? I plan to gather some herbs this morning. And we'd
like a kettle and some cups for our bedchamber. Grim and I don't sleep well; it's useful for us to be able to make a brew when we need it.”

“You need only ring the bell, Mistress Blackthorn, and one of our folk will bring you whatever brew you wish, no matter how late the hour.”

“What, wake folk in the night to wait on me? I don't think so, generous as the offer is. Just the things I've asked for, Senach, nothing more.” Plainly this fellow didn't understand that boiling the water, tending the fire, chopping the herbs, all helped to settle restless minds and quiet tormenting voices in the night. No obliging servant could replace that.

“Of course, Mistress Blackthorn. Consider it done. As for going out to gather herbs, you should wait until Lady Geiléis has risen. I believe she may advise against wandering into the woods. She has told you, I expect, that folk often go astray in these parts. And there is the . . .” He glanced toward the shuttered windows, beyond which the monster's wails could be heard, faint but distinct.

“Keep the shutters closed all day, do you?” asked Grim.

“Only when we have visitors to the house,” said Senach. “Those who live here are accustomed to the sound.”

“Open them if you want,” I said. “We're here to investigate Lady Geiléis's problem, after all. We can't do that very well if folk are constantly shielding us from its influence.”

Senach regarded me gravely. “I would require Lady Geiléis's permission for that. Let us wait for her. I am sure she will wish you to take an escort.” He turned to Flannan. “Speaking of escorts, Master Flannan, yours will be here soon. With your permission, I'll send someone to pack up your belongings.”

“No!” Flannan got abruptly to his feet, then checked himself. “That is, I have very little with me, and I prefer to pack for myself. My writing materials, you understand—they are somewhat delicate, and I'm happier if nobody else handles them.”

Senach managed, with the slightest lift of the brows, to convey that
he thought this about as ridiculous as guests wanting to brew their own tea in the middle of the night. “As you wish, Master Flannan. When the monk arrives, I will let you know. Meanwhile, please ring the bell if there is anything you require.” And he was gone.

“Odd old place,” muttered Grim.

“No odder than any house where serving folk tend to grand lords and ladies,” I said. Though that was not entirely true; Winterfalls was different. Prince Oran conducted the business of his household in an unusual spirit of equality. He treated his serving people, and his community, with a friendly respect that belied his status as crown prince of Dalriada. He let everyone have a say, yet when it came to the hard decisions, he was not afraid to make them. A pity there weren't more like him. When his time came, he would make an interesting king.

“We might walk part of the way to St. Olcan's with you,” I said to Flannan. “Surely Geiléis won't object if we have a monk as escort. Grim and I can come back through the woods, gather an herb or two and have a look around on the way.”

“So, not quite breaking the rules?” Flannan flashed a grin.

“They're not my rules. We'll be fine if we exercise common sense. Stick to the path. Stay together. Head for home if anything odd happens. And don't let the screaming get to us.”

“I'd best go and pack up my things,” Flannan said. “I don't quite trust that fellow to leave well alone, and I suppose the monkish escort will be here any moment. I'll leave you to your breakfast.”

When Flannan was gone, Grim put down his spoon and looked across the table at me.

“What?” I said, unable to sound less than snappish. I was tired. I didn't especially want to say good-bye to Flannan, even if he wouldn't be far away. And I didn't want the complication I could see was coming. Grim looked uneasy. Almost unwell. “You disagree with the plan?”

“No need to go to the monastery. You want to find herbs, you want
to have a closer look at the tower, we should go the other way. Toward the river.”

“It'll be useful to know the way to St. Olcan's,” I said. “We'll be wanting to talk to everyone in the district, monks included. Someone must know more about the monster and how it came to be here. Monks know a lot of old stories.” He really was pale. “Are you all right? You look terrible.”

The door opened, and in came a youngish man with the part-shaven head of a Christian cleric. His homespun habit, his rope sandals and the wooden cross at his belt completed the picture. “Oh,” he said, looking around the chamber. “My apologies; I was looking for Master Flannan, the scholar.”

Since, as far as I knew, the fellow had never seen Flannan before, this was a backhanded insult to Grim. “Gone to pack up his belongings,” I said. “You're the escort, I presume?” If he could be rude, I could be ruder.

“So sorry—my name is Dufach. Yes, sent by Father Tomas to accompany Master Flannan to our foundation at St. Olcan's. And you are . . . ?”

“Blackthorn. A healer. A wise woman.” Just to make it quite clear. If Father Tomas's community was going to object to me, best get it over quickly. “This is Grim. We're friends of Flannan's. But we'll be staying here with Lady Geiléis.”

The monk gave a nod. The expression on his face told me he had no idea what to make of us. Perhaps Lady Geiléis had few visitors. Though if what she had told us was correct, St. Olcan's must see many linger within its scholarly walls. Or must have done, before the monster came.

“Are your devotions much disturbed by this creature at the ford?” I asked him. “I know you are a little farther away, but its voice is loud. Lady Geiléis has told us of a curse . . .”

Dufach was about to reply when Grim got up abruptly, mumbled something, and bolted out of the chamber. “Excuse me,” I said, and
followed him; I knew those signs all too well. He wasn't in the hallway. He wasn't in our bedchamber. I went outside to find him doubled over in the yard near the privy, bringing up his breakfast with some violence.

I drew water from the well; filled the cup that stood on the rim and brought it to him. “Should've told me you were feeling sick.”

“Be fine in a bit. Nothing wrong with me.” He straightened, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, accepted the water and drank. He was shivering.

“I'm a better judge of that than you are. If you were my patient I'd order you back to bed. You look appalling.” I surveyed him as I would any person showing signs of illness. “Though not quite as bad as you did before. Sometimes all it takes is to empty your stomach.”

“Waste of a good breakfast.” He drank again, then went to refill the cup. “I'm all right.”

“We'll see. Sit down awhile. That came on rather suddenly.”

“I'll be fine. I said so.”

There was no arguing with Grim on this sort of thing. There was no leaving him behind if he believed he should be with me. So I went off to collect a basket from the kitchen, and a few provisions in case we got hungry while gathering herbs, and when Flannan reappeared with his belongings the four of us set off together: the scholar and the monk, the so-called wise woman and . . . If this were an old tale, what name would I give Grim? The bodyguard? The companion? The protector, the keeper? The friend? He was all of those and more.

It seemed that one bout of vomiting had rid his stomach of whatever had disturbed it. But he still looked pale, and there was a tightness about his features. I'd seen Flannan eat the same breakfast as Grim, but he had not been visited by the same sudden sickness. Whatever had caused it, it was not the food.

The path to St. Olcan's led up a rise, under a fine stand of old oaks. We passed under an arching canopy of green. Ripple danced along beside us, making short forays from the path when interesting smells drew her attention. It would have been a lovely walk, had it not been for the creature's voice, ringing through the woods, piteous and terrible in its sorrow. The sound not only assaulted the ears, it crept into the very bones.

As he walked, Brother Dufach recited a prayer under his breath; at least, I assumed it was a prayer. My knowledge of Latin was limited to what I needed as an herbalist and healer. Since I had given up believing in gods of any kind, I would not use prayer to distract me from that dreadful voice, not even a form of prayer that had once had meaning for me. And it might seem insulting to the monk if I suggested we tell a story. The look on Grim's face was worrying me. It was bringing back memories I had no wish to revisit.

We reached the top of the rise.

“Might stop to catch my breath a moment or two,” I said, fishing out the water skin I had brought in my bag. “Drink, Grim?”

He took it; his hand was shaking.

“Go on if you like,” I said to the others, trying to sound offhand. The last thing Grim would want was for me to draw attention to what he would see as weakness. “How much farther is it, Brother Dufach?”

“A mile or so. Down through the beech wood, along by the stream and up over another hill. You'll see a copse of willows by a drystone wall. That is the edge of the monastery land. Then you simply follow the wall around to the gate.” The monk glanced at Grim, who had his back turned to the rest of us. “If you wish to come all the way, we can offer you refreshment before you return to Lady Geiléis's residence. We have a guest area where women can be received.” He paused. “Our establishment is far enough from the ford to render the creature's voice much less troubling. Within our walls it can barely be heard.”

“And that, I imagine, is why you and your brethren, and your animals, are not affected by it in the way others in the district are,” I said,
thinking to give Grim what time he needed to recover himself. “Lady Geiléis told us your cows are still producing healthy calves. And it seems your work continues undisturbed.”

“The power of prayer is great,” said Brother Dufach. “God holds us in his hand. That is not to say this does not try us hard. We did not invite visitors this summer, and will not do so again until the creature is gone. As a result, our work does not progress as it used to. Our scholars are looking forward very much to spending time with you, Master Flannan.” A pause. “Forgive me, Mistress Blackthorn, but I had heard . . . I had heard that Lady Geiléis brought you here to . . . deal with the creature. Is that true?”

“Something like that, Brother Dufach. Though if your God has not managed to rid the district of the scourge, who am I to attempt such a feat? Let's just say I'm here to find out as much as I can about the creature and why it does what it does. Shall we walk on?”

Grim had turned to face me. There was a little more color in his cheeks. Still, he was plainly not himself. Perhaps he'd benefit from a rest at the monastery, time away from the constant crying. It was enough to bring the sunniest of folk to tears.

“How about a tale?” said Grim, working hard to make his voice steady. “Got one for a day like this?”

“A good idea, if Brother Dufach has no objection.” For the life of me I couldn't think of anything appropriate, though I had a rich fund of tales. Any story that came immediately to mind was full of loss, heartbreak, failure. Like my own life.

“Clurichauns,” murmured Grim.

“Clurichauns, very well. You might have to help me.” I glanced from the shivering Grim to Flannan, who wore a puzzled smile, to Brother Dufach. The monk was serene, waiting patiently for us to go on. “And we should keep walking as I tell it. Long ago and far away there lived two tribes of clurichauns . . .”

It felt distinctly odd to tell a tale of Otherworldly matters to a party containing a Christian monk. As we made our way through the woods,
I had the clurichaun tribes fall out over the ownership of a certain pony. “Such a fine creature had never been seen throughout the land of Erin,” I said. “Snowdrop was her name, and such was the dazzling whiteness of her pelt that when she passed by, folk thought the moon herself had come down from the sky to visit the earth in the guise of a creature.

“Each of the clurichaun kings—there were two tribes, the green and the blue—wanted Snowdrop as a gift for his daughter. You'd think, wouldn't you, that they might have got together to discuss the matter and reach some kind of agreement to share the creature. But no; clurichauns being what they are, there was no compromise to be made. There was only one way to settle the matter: war.”

“These clurichauns,” said Brother Dufach, sounding not the least disturbed by the story, only interested, “they are combative in their very nature, then?”

“Did your parents not tell you tales like this when you were a lad?” I asked him. Monks must start their lives as ordinary boys, with ordinary lives. As did, say, druids. Even as I thought this, memories of my own childhood came back, memories I had long ago shut away. I made sure I did not meet Flannan's eye, though I could tell he was looking at me.

“I suppose they did, Mistress Blackthorn, but not quite in the manner you do. You have a gift for bringing the story to life.”