Tower of Thorns (29 page)

“The scholar, Master Flannan, has come down from St. Olcan's, and he has brought some news that may be unwelcome to you.”

“What news? Should I be speaking to Master Flannan in person?”

“You are the best judge of that, my lady. Master Flannan is talking to Mistress Blackthorn. Telling her and Grim of a secret store of manuscripts that was uncovered when the contents of the scriptorium were removed in preparation for the roof repairs. They thought they'd got everything out, but these were cunningly concealed, and were only discovered today. Master Flannan believes one of the documents may concern the . . . the history of the Tower of Thorns.”

She was as cold as ice. It was that night all over again, and the chill embrace of a fey wind.
Oh, foolish human girl!

“I suppose it's too much to hope that Master Flannan has brought
this document with him,” she said. She would burn it. Tear it in small pieces and scatter it to the winds. Drown it deep.

“I did ask, my lady. He said it's locked in a chest at St. Olcan's, along with all the most precious manuscripts in the collection. This particular document is written in a strange tongue and will be difficult to translate. Master Flannan is not sure of the meaning. But he said it does seem to relate to the tower.”

What could she say? Senach knew her mind. If she ordered Master Flannan's immediate removal from Bann, he would ensure it happened, one way or another. If she required that the removal be permanent, that too would be attended to without question. She could not ask her folk to steal and destroy the document; it was in the possession of the monastery. Young Lily, Lily-before, might have believed the Christian God stretched a hand over the brethren, shielding them from harm. Geiléis put no credence in gods of any kind. But Father Tomas had been kind to her. He had been generous, and she had come to rely on him, as she had on his predecessors. If not for their protection, she'd likely have been thrown off her land long ago, one way or another. It would make choice pickings for the Tirconnell chieftains.

And it wasn't only that. Blackthorn was astute. If Blackthorn got suspicious—and what more likely to arouse suspicion than a raid on the monastery and the disappearance of the very document they all wanted to know about?—then Geiléis might lose her chance to break the curse. Likewise, Blackthorn would most certainly ask questions if her friend the scholar suddenly vanished on the brink of sharing his great find.

“I'll come and speak to them,” she said. “I'll need you to be present, Senach. Watch them closely. I cannot imagine what this document is. Perhaps it is harmless. Perhaps Master Flannan is wrong about its contents. I do not see how a written record could exist. Nobody knows. Except for us, and the little folk . . . Could they have told? Would they dare?”

“That seems unlikely, my lady. They are bound by the curse, as we are.”

“Even so . . . it may be necessary to remind them. I will speak to Onchú. In the unlikely event that Master Flannan is right about the document, we must keep its contents from Blackthorn. Should she learn the full story before midsummer, our precious chance is lost. That cannot be allowed to happen.”

“I understand, my lady.”

Blackthorn

D
usk had fallen before we got back to Geiléis's house. Overall, the outing had been a success. Onchú and Rian had escorted me to a spot that was just as Geiléis had described it: level, grassy and well sheltered yet allowing a good view of the tower. It might not be perfect for a ritual, but it would serve well enough. The two guards had offered to take me out to the nearest settlement tomorrow to spread the word, if I was up to another ride. Between the throbbing headache and the aching back I suspected I'd be fit for nothing but lying in bed feeling sorry for myself, but I said yes anyway. If these folk had anything useful to say, I needed to hear it as soon as possible.

We rode into the courtyard just as Grim arrived back from St. Olcan's in the company of Flannan, with Ripple following like a gray shadow. It was almost dark. Unless Geiléis had invited Flannan to supper, he must have something particular to tell us. Hadn't I ordered him to stay away until the ritual?

Grim was unusually quiet, even by his standards. He looked wrung out, exhausted. And sick, the same as this morning. Seemed a day of work at the monastery had not settled his stomach.

“You all right?” I asked while Flannan was speaking to Senach, who had come to the door to welcome us.

Grim answered with a grunt that might have meant yes or no. Not sick, I thought; or not in the ordinary meaning of the word. Something different. Something I should have recognized earlier.

“We can talk if you want,” I said under my breath. “When you're ready.”

“Nothing to tell.” Grim rolled his shoulders, eased his back. “You?”

“Found a spot for the ritual. And . . .” Morrigan save me, had that encounter with the tiny woman been only this morning? “Something else too. I'll tell you later.” Flannan was coming over. He wore a broad smile. “I didn't expect to see you so soon,” I said to him.

“I found something.” Flannan's eyes were alight with excitement. “A document—it could be exactly what you're looking for. I'm almost sure what's set down there is the story of this monster and the Tower of Thorns. I found it in the—”

“Supper is almost ready.” Senach was courteous, as always. I was in no doubt, however, that he had interrupted the conversation on purpose. “There's hot water available in your quarters, Mistress Blackthorn; you might like to refresh yourselves before we gather for the meal. Master Flannan, I'm sure Lady Geiléis will want to be present when you share the news of this discovery. Meanwhile you may also wish to avail yourself of our home comforts. I don't imagine they provide hot baths at St. Olcan's.”

We were neatly separated. Dau took Flannan off to the men's quarters while Grim and I went to our own chamber. There was a screen now, of Grim's making; it had a spray of flowers painted on one side and a fearsome hound on the other. The artwork lacked the refinement of, say, an illuminated capital. But there was pleasing life in the images. Another of Grim's surprising talents. I wondered often what he had been before; what manner of life he had led. Being stuck with me was a waste of what he had to give, even if it was his choice. If I chose to go
south with Flannan, I'd be setting Grim free. When I thought of it that way, it felt like less of a betrayal.

I had first bath. Scrubbed off the sweat and grime of the ride; tried to scrub away my misgivings along with them. On the other side of the screen, there was a heavy silence.

“I met one of them this morning,” I said as I dried myself off and got back into my clothes. “The wee folk. A healer, out gathering herbs just like me. When I tried to talk to her she wouldn't answer. Seemed to be telling me she was forbidden to speak to me. But she gave me a message anyway.” I told him about the ogham letters and what I'd guessed they meant. “When she heard Onchú coming she ran away. She was scared of him.”

“But not scared of you,” Grim said. “Stopped to listen, didn't she? And to give you a clue.”

“A clue to what? That's what I can't work out.”

“
Our king is captive in the thorn
. If it's the king of the wee folk, who'd want to lock him up? Could it be like that story with the clurichauns, two tribes of them at war? Maybe there's a whole other part to this. Something Geiléis doesn't know anything about.”

The silence drew out as we considered this possibility. We changed places; he bathed, I got everything ready for a brew, though I would not make it until after supper.

“Grim, what was Flannan talking about? What is this manuscript?”

For a while I heard only splashing sounds. “Scholars' business,” he said eventually, and there was a darkness in his voice.

When it became obvious that he was not going to elaborate, I said, “It sounds as if it may be our business too. And Geiléis's. That's if Flannan is right about what the manuscript contains. Who knows? It might even tell us about the wee folk and this captive king of theirs. Were you there when they found it? How is it that nobody knows what's in it?”

“Not for me to say. Only . . .”

“Only what?”

“Meddling. Not right, is it? Some of these old fellows, the old monks, their books are like their children, the ones they never had. Not right to mess around, just take things when you want.”

“What are you talking about? Did Flannan take something he wasn't supposed to? Has he brought the manuscript here to show us?”

“Wanted to. Brothers wouldn't let him. Only found those old documents today, when we were clearing out the far end of the scriptorium. All hidden away. In a secret part of the wall. Brothers were as surprised as I was.” I heard him stepping out of the small bath; saw him stand to dry himself. The screen was not tall enough to conceal fully a man of his height.

“
You
found it?”

“Mm-hm. Old oak box with a heavy lock. They got me to open it up. Lot of excitement. Not just the manuscript your friend was talking about, but quite a few others too. They called him—Flannan—to ask him what he thought they were. Written in some odd tongue, that's what they were saying. Flannan had a look, started reading the one he was talking about, but it was hard even for a scholar. Told them he wanted to show it to Lady Geiléis right away. They said no, the documents were too old and precious. They had to go back in the box. Locked up again, taken over to the infirmary.” He moved the screen away. He was fully dressed, with his damp hair sticking up on end. It had grown since we left court. Time was passing all too quickly.

“The infirmary? Why?”

“Scriptorium's been damp, with the roof and all. Most stuff was already over in the infirmary. Now it's all there. Right conditions for the manuscripts, that's what they said. Not in with the sick folk, of course. Out the back, in an old part. Space for the writing tables and suchlike. But the scholars want their scriptorium back. Better light.
Roof's going to keep me busy till midsummer. Hope that's all right with you.”

I looked at him closely. “You don't really want to do it, do you? This thatching job?”

“They need it done. I know how to do it. Told them I'd help. Rather be here, true. But not up to me, is it?”

“You don't have to do what I tell you, Grim. There's no doubt it will be useful to have you at St. Olcan's, especially if you get close to some of the monks and they decide to confide in you. But you look . . . you look unwell. Disturbed. I wish you'd tell me what's wrong.”

“Head hurts a bit, that's all. No surprises there. Thing in the tower must have a monster headache from its own screaming.” He waited for the space of a breath. “Tip out this water in the yard?”

“Leave it for Senach's people to deal with. We're guests here, and we're both tired. We'd better make an appearance for supper and find out what's in this mysterious manuscript. I hope it is the story of the monster. That would mean we could stop looking for answers that don't want to be found, and get on with doing whatever has to be done.”

“Mm-hm.”

At supper, Flannan was aglow with scholarly excitement. It reminded me of old times, when he and Cass would get into fierce debate over some obscure point of scholarship, often late into the night. For all my reservations, it was hard not to be caught up in his enthusiasm. We heard the tale of how the old box had been discovered within the wall—somewhat belatedly, he acknowledged Grim's part in that—and how the monks had asked him, Flannan, to take a look at one document in particular.

“Brother Ríordán is the head archivist,” he told us. “He's a respected scholar, and most particular about the preservation of the collection, which contains many rare items. The moment he set eyes on this document he was intrigued; firstly because it was extremely old,
and secondly because it was in a tongue unknown to him. He thought I might recognize the language. I'm familiar with many, but I had never seen this one before. It seemed somewhere between Latin and Gaulish—Armorican, perhaps?—but scrambled in some way, almost as if the writer had applied a code. The title of the document included the word
Bann
, and another word I interpreted as
tower
.”

Was I the only one who heard Geiléis suck in a shocked breath when he said
Armorican
? What did that mean to her? Two spots of red had appeared on her cheeks; she put a hand up to her face, as if to shield her expression.

“That's not much.” I regretted this as soon as I'd said it; Flannan was so proud of the discovery. “It's interesting, of course, especially when we have so little to go on. But it might be a discussion of local landmarks, or a guide for finding the way between monasteries, perhaps intended for wandering scholars to copy and take away with them.”

“Nah,” put in Grim. “Code, isn't it? Why would you bother with a code for something like that?”

“I believe I can decipher and translate the document, given time,” said Flannan, as if we had not spoken. “Brother Ríordán is zealous in his desire to protect his treasures at all costs; I am not sure he will be happy about my working from the original. The script is very small and rather untidy, but the document is not especially long. I'm hoping he'll allow me to make a quick copy, verbatim, then work from that, so he can keep the old document in safe storage.”

“How long will this copying take?” asked Geiléis. “And the translation? The information will be useless to us after Midsummer Eve.”

I glanced at her. Her cheeks were still flushed. “There's always next midsummer,” I said. “If the creature is still in the tower then, I imagine you'd want to try again.”

Geiléis made a gesture, a quick, dismissive sweep of the hand. Then she seemed to think better of it. “Of course, Mistress Blackthorn.” The
tone was placatory. “Master Flannan, how long before you can bring us a full translation?”

“One day for the copying. I'll do it in wax, not with pen and ink. The translation—it depends how quickly I can work out the code. Once that's done, I'll render the text into its plain form and then attempt to translate it. The result may be as much informed guesswork as anything. I'll do the best I can. There don't seem to be any Armorican brethren at St. Olcan's. If indeed that is what the tongue is. I assume this was written by a monk in times long ago.”

“Written and set away in secret,” I said. “Extremely secret. First the coding, then sealing it in a box and hiding it in the wall. I wonder why anyone would do that? It seems rather excessive.”

“Raids.” Grim's tone was like the brush of a cold hand. All eyes turned toward him. “Norsemen,” he said. “Common target, houses of prayer like St. Olcan's. Silverware to steal. And books.”

“Books? What, the Norsemen like to have a good read between their acts of violence?”

“For the covers,” Grim said flatly. “Set with a fortune in jewels, some of them. Rip the boards off, prize out the stones, throw the pages on the fire.” He seemed about to say more, but fell abruptly silent, staring into his ale cup. His hands were clenched around it; the knuckles showed white. This had brought back the past; that was written all over him. This manuscript, or perhaps the monastery in general, had awoken something deeply painful. And I wouldn't be able to ask him about it later, not straight-out. The unspoken agreement between us would forbid it. I willed him to stay strong, even as my heart bled for him. I knew how he felt: as if the layer of protection he had set around his memory had been flayed off, exposing the wound beneath.