kind of pride. But I choose this path instead. Or it is chosen for me.’
‘So where’s the boy then? Did he get away?’
As I have said, Finbar and I had two ways of talking. One was with words, like everyone else. The second was for us alone; it was a silent skill, the transfer of image or thought or feeling straight from one mind to the other. He used it now, showing me Father Brien’s cart, loaded with bundles and boxes, making its slow way along the rutted track to the hermit’s cave. I felt wincing pain at each jolt of the cart, though Father Brien held the old horse to a stately walk. A wheel rim got stuck; the good Father’s young helper jumped down to lever it back onto the track. There was a spring in this young man’s step that revealed him as my brother even while the hood concealed his face, for Finbar always walked thus, with a bouncing stride and his toes out. Then an image of the two of them, outside the cave, lifting one long bundle with special care from the cart. A gleam of gold amidst the stained wrappings. That was all; the shutters closed.
‘He was in no state to go any further,’ said Finbar flatly. ‘But he’s in good hands. That’s all you need to know – no,’ as I made to interrupt, ‘I won’t have you involved any more. I’ve put enough people at risk already. It’s finished, for you at least.’
And that, indeed, was all I could get out of him that night. He was becoming alarmingly adept at closing his mind to me, and neither by pleading nor by trying to read him at an unguarded moment could I learn any more. However, his prediction proved to be entirely wrong.
There followed a quieter time. With Father and the older boys away, we fell back into our old routine, although the guard had increased around the keep and the enclosure. Conor controlled the household affairs with calm competence, arbitrating when two cottagers came to blows over an errant flock of geese, overseeing the autumn brewing and baking, the culling of yearling calves, the salting of meat for winter. For Finbar, Padriac and me it was a good time. Donal still put the boys through their paces with sword and bow, and they still spent time with Conor, following more learned pursuits. I usually slipped into these lessons, thinking a little scholarship would do me no harm, and that I might pick up something interesting. Each of us could read and write thanks to Father Brien’s kindness and patience. It was not until much later that I realised how unusual this was, for most households were lucky if they had a scribe who knew sufficient of basic letters to set down a simple inventory. For more complex tasks, such as drawing up contracts between neighbours, one must seek out a monk, or a druid, according to one’s own persuasion. Druids were hard to find, and harder still to pin down. We owed a great deal to Father Brien’s openness of mind. We knew the runes, and we could reckon, and make a map, and had a fine repertoire of tales both old and new. In addition, we could sing, and play the whistle, and some of us the small harp. We’d had a bard once, that wintered over; that was a while ago, but he taught us the rudiments, and we had an instrument that had been Mother’s, a fine little harp with carvings of birds on it. Padriac, with his genius for finding out and fixing, replaced the broken pegs and restrung it, and we played it in an upper room, where Father couldn’t hear us. Without asking, we knew this reminder of her would be unwelcome.
Padriac’s owl got better, and was eager to be gone. Padriac had waited until the wing was quite mended, and then one day at dusk we went out into the forest to set her free. There was a grin of pure delight on my brother’s face as he released her from his glove for the last time and watched her spread wide those great grey-white wings and spiral up, up, into the tree tops. I did not tell him I had seen the tears in his eyes.
Finbar was quiet. I felt he had plans, but he chose not to share them with me. Instead, between his bouts of archery and horsemanship, his scribing and reckoning, he went for long solitary walks, or could be found sitting in his favourite tree, or up on the roof deep in impenetrable thought. I left him alone; when he wanted to talk, I’d be there. I busied myself with the gathering of berries and leaves, the distillery and decoction, the drying and crushing and storing away, in preparation for winter’s ills.
I have spoken of the keep where my family lived, a stark stone tower set deep in the forest, its walls pierced here and there by narrow window slits. Its courtyard, its hedges, its kitchen garden did little to soften the grim profile. But there was more to Sevenwaters than this. Without our walled fields, our thatched barns to house herd and flock over winter, our gardens with their rows of carrots, parsnips and beans, our mill and our strawrope granaries, we could not have survived in such isolation. So, while we felled as few trees as we could, and then only with the deepest respect, the forest had been cleared behind the keep and for some distance to the north, to make room for farm and small settlement. There was no need for ditch or wall here, to keep out marauders. There was no need for escape tunnel or secret chamber, although we did make use of caves to store our butter and cheese against the winter, when the cows would not give milk. Here and there, at other points in the vast expanse of forest, several small settlements existed, all within my Father’s túath. They paid tribute, and received protection. All were people of Sevenwaters, whose fathers and grandfathers had dwelt there before them. They might venture out beyond the boundaries sometimes, to a market perhaps or to ride with my father’s campaigns, when the services of a good smith or farrier were required. That was all right, for they were forest folk and knew the way. But no stranger ever came in without an escort and a blindfold. Those foolish enough to try, simply disappeared. The forest protected her own better than any fortress wall.
The folk of our own settlement, those that worked Lord Colum’s home farm and tended his beasts, had their small dwellings on the edge of the open ground, where a stream splashed down to turn the mill wheel. Every day I would make my way along the track to these cottages to tend to the sick. The crossbred wolfhound, Linn, was my constant companion, for on Cormack’s departure she had attached herself to me, padding along quietly behind me wherever I went. At any possible threat, a voice raised in anger, a pig crossing the track in search of acorns, she would place herself on an instant between me and the danger, growling fiercely. Autumn was advancing fast, and the weather had turned bleak. Rain ran down the thatch, turning the path into a quagmire. Conor had overseen some repairs on the most ancient of the cottages, a precarious structure of wattle and clay, and Old Tom, who lived there with his tribe of children and grandchildren, had come out to wring my hand with gratitude when I passed by earlier.
‘Sure and the hand of the goddess herself rests on your brother,’ he half-sobbed, ‘and on you too, girl. One of the wise ones, like his father might have been, that’s young Conor. Not a drip in the place, and the peat all cut and dried for hard times.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, intrigued. ‘Wise ones? What wise ones?’
But he was already shuffling back inside, eager no doubt to warm his stiff joints by the little turf fire whose smoke curled up through the chimney opening.
I called on a young woman recently delivered, with much difficulty, of twin daughters. I had assisted the village women through the long night of this birth, and was keeping a close eye on the mother, making sure she took the herbal teas I had provided to tighten the womb and bring in the milk. I chose a bad time to make my departure, for the clouds opened as I was half way home, drenching me to the skin and quickly coating my feet in liquid mud. I struggled on; the rumble of thunder deafened me to the squeak of cart wheels approaching, and suddenly there was Father Brien alongside me, an old sack over his head and shoulders. The horse stood stolid in the rain, ears back.
‘Jump on,’ shouted the Father over the din of the storm, and stretched out a hand to haul me up onto the seat beside him.
‘Thanks,’ I managed. There wasn’t much point in talking against the roaring of the elements, so I sat quietly and pulled my cloak closer about me. There was a place where the track passed briefly into a grove of old pines, whose lower branches had been trimmed away. Once we reached this semi-shelter, Father Brien slowed the horse right down; the needled canopy filtered the worst of the rain off us, and the noise faded to a dull, distant rumbling.
‘I need your help, Sorcha,’ said Father Brien, relaxing his hold on the reins and letting the old horse lower his head to search for something to graze on.
I looked at him, taken aback. ‘You came down here