happen.’
‘Indeed,’ said Finbar. ‘Maybe, when he saw how easily he could be taken again, he chose this way, Sorcha. There is a breed of man that would rather die than be captive. And he was as pig-headed a fellow as I ever saw.’
‘But he promised,’ I said rather childishly, choking back tears. ‘How could he come so far, and then throw it all away?’ I could not forget that I had broken my own promise. Now I knew how it felt.
Conor put a comforting arm around me. ‘What exactly did he promise you, little owl?’
I hiccupped. ‘To live, if he could.’
‘You cannot know if he has broken this promise or not,’ Conor said. ‘Probably you will never know. Hard though it is, you must put this behind you, for there is no way you can help your Briton now. Rest easy that you did for him all you could, and think of tomorrow, for we all have other tests and trials ahead of us.’
‘Your brother speaks the truth,’ said Father Brien. ‘We have no choice but to move on. There is a marriage to perform; it gives me no great pleasure to do so, but I am bidden by your father and have no grounds to refuse him. Will he speak with me alone, do you think?’
‘You can try,’ said Conor. ‘The last thing he wants just now is good advice, but coming from you it may be less unwelcome. Both Liam and myself have sought to speak with him privately, and have been refused.’
‘What’s the point?’ put in Finbar. ‘He’s doomed. You may as well seek to turn back the great tides of the west, or halt the stars in their dance, as step in his way on this. The lady Oonagh has him in her thrall, body and soul. I never thought to see him weakened so; and yet, strangely, I am not surprised. For nigh on thirteen years he has purged himself of any human feeling, has shut out any warmth of spirit. No wonder, then, that he was easy prey for such as her.’ His tone was bitter.
‘You judge him too harshly,’ said Father Brien, scrutinizing my brother’s face. ‘His decision is unwise, certainly, but he has made it with good intentions. For surely he sees his new bride as a guide and mentor for his younger children, someone to harness their unbridled ways and bring a little warmth to their lives. He is not unaware of his shortcomings as a father. If he cannot reach out to you himself, perhaps he believes that she can.’
Finbar laughed. ‘It’s clear you have not yet met the lady Oonagh, Father.’
‘I have learnt of her, from Conor and from your oldest brother, who greeted me on my arrival. I know what you face here, believe me, and I pray for you all. It is a tragedy, indeed, that your father is blind to her true character. I merely seek to prevent you from judging him too hastily. Again.’
‘So you will at least speak with him?’
‘I’ll try.’ Father Brien got up slowly. ‘Perhaps we may find him alone now. Conor, will you accompany me? Oh, and by the way –’ he fumbled in a deep pocket of his robe, taking something out. ‘Your friend did not vanish entirely without token, Sorcha. He left this behind where I would surely find it. I can only deduce it was meant for you. Its meaning is not clear to me.’
He placed the small object in my hand, and the two of them left quietly. Finbar watched me in silence as I turned it this way and that, trying to read its message. The little block of birch wood was, I thought, from Father Brien’s special stock, kept dry for the making of holy beads and other items of a more secret nature. It had been smoothed and shaped until it lay comfortably in a small hand such as mine. The carving was surely not the work of one afternoon; it was precise and intricate, showing a degree of skill that surprised me. I could not make out its meaning. There was a circle, and within it a little tree. By the shape I thought it was an oak. At its foot, there were two waving lines, a river perhaps? Wordlessly I passed it to Finbar, who studied it in silence.
‘Why does a Briton leave such a token?’ he said finally. ‘Does he seek to place you at risk, should it be found? What could his purpose be? I have no doubt it reveals his identity, in some way unknown to us. You should destroy it.’
I snatched the little token back from him. ‘I will not.’
Finbar regarded me levelly. ‘Don’t get sentimental, Sorcha. This is war, remember – and you and I have broken the rules well and truly. We may have saved this boy’s life, and we may not. But don’t expect him to thank us for it. Campaigners don’t leave tracks behind them unless they want to be found. Or unless there is an ambush ready.’
‘I will keep it safe,’ I said. ‘I can hide it. And I know the risks.’
‘I’m not sure you do, Sorcha,’ said my brother. ‘The lady Oonagh is waiting, just waiting, to find any weak spot. Then, like the wolf at night, she’ll move in for the kill. You’re not very good at hiding your feelings, or at concealing the truth. She would have no mercy on you; and Father, once she told him, would exact full retribution from us both. And think what would happen to Conor, if his part in this were known. I regret ever telling you the full story. You’d have been better just to help me on that night and never know any more.’
This brotherly remark was hardly worth commenting on. Besides, my mind was on other things.
‘He can’t survive, can he?’ I said bluntly.
‘You know his chances better than I do,’ said Finbar, frowning. ‘A fit man, in these conditions, with the wherewithal to make a fire and hunt game, might make his way across country and keep out of sight. You’d need to know where you were going.’
‘It’s just such a waste!’ I could not really express how I felt, but Finbar read my thoughts clearly enough – he was always good at getting past any shield I might try to put up.
‘Let go of it, Sorcha,’ he said. ‘Father Brien was right, there’s nothing any of us can do. If he’s gone, he’s gone. I suppose his chances of making his way to safety were never great.’
‘So why do it? Why take such a risk?’
‘Wouldn’t you rather die free?’ he said.
I spent some time on my own in the stillroom, mostly just thinking, the slight weight of Simon’s carving a constant reminder of my bad news; it was well enough concealed in the small bag I wore at my belt, though a safer hiding place would be needed soon. I made up an elderberry salve, and swept the floor. Later, I went out, deciding that after all I was hungry. Fat Janis’ honeycake had not gone very far. Supper was not an attractive prospect, for on this important day the whole family would be expected to put in an appearance. Maybe a miracle would happen, and Father Brien would persuade my father to put off the wedding. Maybe.
Outside my door, crouched in a corner of the draughty passageway, was Linn. I almost missed her, for she was cowering in the shadows, but my ears caught her faint whimper.
‘What is it, Linn? What’s wrong?’ I looked closer, and gasped at the great oozing weal that cut across her face from above one eye to the corner of her mouth. Her teeth gleamed through a gashed, bloody lip.
I coaxed her out; she was shivering and flinched even from my friendly touch, but I kept talking quietly, and stroking her gently, and eventually I got her over to the old stables where Padriac greeted me with the shocked outrage I expected. Muttering about certain people and why they shouldn’t be allowed near animals, and what he’d do to them when he found out who they were, my youngest brother neatly cleaned and stitched the wound while I held poor Linn still and talked to her of green fields and bones. Padriac was very efficient, but it still took a long time. After he was finished, the dog heaved a great sigh, drank half a bowl of water and settled down in the straw next to the donkey.
It was dusk now and I reminded Padriac that we’d better clean ourselves up for supper; the lady Oonagh frowned on lateness. As we turned to go, there was Cormack, standing back in the shadows, his face linen-white.
‘How long have you been there?’ I asked, surprised.
‘She’s well enough,’ said Padriac, and there was a strange edge to his voice. ‘Why don’t