‘Old enough to die for a cause,’ said my brother, and I could feel how tight stretched he was, how his determination to make things right drove him. If Finbar could have changed the world by sheer effort of will, he would have done it.
‘What do you want me to do? Put this Briton to sleep?’ By the dim light of the candle I was scanning my shelves; the packet I wanted was well concealed.
‘He held his tongue. And will continue to do so, if I read him right. That will cost him dearly. Briton or no, he deserves his chance at freedom,’ said Finbar soberly. ‘Your draught can buy that for him. There’s no way to save him the pain; we’re too late for that.’
‘What pain?’ Maybe I knew the answer to my own question, but my mind refused to put together the clues I’d been given, refused to accept the unacceptable.
‘The draught is for his guards.’ Finbar spoke reluctantly. Plainly, he wished me to know as little as possible. ‘Just make it up; I’ll do the rest.’
My hands found the packet almost automatically: nightshade, used in moderation and well mixed with certain other herbs, would produce a sound slumber with few ill effects. The trick lay in getting the dose just right; too much, and your victim would never wake. I stood still, the dried berries on the stone slab before me.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Finbar. ‘Why are you still holding back? Sorcha, I need to know you will do this. And I must go. There are other matters to attend to.’
He was already on his feet, eager to leave, his mind starting to map out the next part of his strategy.
‘What will they do to him, Finbar?’ Surely not – surely not what I had seen, in that flash of vision that had sickened me so.
‘You heard Father. He said, keep him alive. Let me worry about it, Sorcha. Just make up the draught. Please.’
‘But how could Father –’
‘It becomes easy,’ Finbar said. ‘It’s in the training; the ability to see your enemy as something other than a real man. He is a lesser breed, defined by his beliefs – you learn to do with him what you will, and bend him to your purpose.’ He sensed my horror. ‘It’s all right, Sorcha,’ he said. ‘We can save this one, you and I. Just do as I ask, and leave the rest to me.’
‘What are you going to do? And what if Father finds out?’
‘Too many questions! We don’t have much time left – can’t you just do it?’
I turned to face him, arms folded around myself. Truth to tell, I was shivering, and not just from cold.
‘I know you don’t lie, Finbar. I have no choice but to believe what you’ve told me. But I’ve never poisoned anyone before. I’m a healer.’
I looked up at his silent face, the wide, mobile mouth, the clear grey eyes which always seemed intent on a future path that held no uncertainty whatever.
‘It happens,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s part of war. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they keep silent. Often they die. Just occasionally they escape.’
‘You’d better go and get on with it, then,’ I said in a voice that sounded like somebody else’s. My hands sought a sharp knife and began automatically to slice and chop the ingredients of my sleeping draught. Henbane. Witch’s bonnet. The small blue fungi some call devil spawn. Nightshade, not too much. ‘Go on, Finbar.’
‘Thanks.’ There was a flash of that smile, the generous smile that lit up his whole face. ‘We make a good team. A foolproof team. How can we fail?’
He hugged me for a moment, just long enough for me to feel the tension of his body, the rapid beat of his heart. Then he was gone, slipping away into the shadows as silent as a cat.
It was a long night. Awareness that the slightest error could make me a murderer kept me alert, and before daybreak the sleeping draught was ready, corked safely in a small stone bottle convenient to conceal in the palm of the hand, and the stillroom was immaculately clean, every trace of my activity gone. Finbar came for me as the sound of jingling harnesses and hurrying, booted feet increased out of doors.
‘I think you’d better do this part as well,’ he whispered. ‘They’ll be less likely to notice you.’ I remembered, vaguely, that he was supposed to be joining the campaign this time – had not Father decreed that it would be so? Then I was too busy to think, slipping silently to the kitchens on my brother’s whispered instructions, edging behind and between servants and men at arms who were snatching a last bite to eat, preparing ration packs, filling wine and water bottles. Fat Janis, Finbar had said, go to where Fat Janis has her iron pot on the stove. If they’ve been working at night, she’ll take them mulled ale first thing in the morning. Her special brew. They say it has some interesting side effects. She carries it over to them herself; and maybe gets favours in return. What sort of favours? I’d asked him. Never mind, said Finbar. Just make sure she doesn’t see you.
There were a couple of things I was good at. One was potions and poisons, and another was being quiet and staying unseen when it suited me. It was no trouble adding the draught to the mulled ale; Janis turned her back for an instant, laughing at some wisecrack by the tallest man at arms as he crammed a last piece of sausage in his mouth and made for the door, buckling his sword belt as he went. I was finished and gone before she turned back, and she never saw me. Easy, I thought as I slipped towards the door. Must have been fifteen people there, and not one of them spotted me. I was nearly outside when something made me look back. Straight across the kitchen, meeting my startled eyes full on, was my brother Conor. He stood in the far corner of the room, half in shadow, a list of some sort in one hand and a quill poised in the other. His assistant, back turned, was packing stores into a saddle bag. I was frozen in shock: from where he stood, my brother must have seen everything. How could I not have noticed him before? Paralysed between the instinct to bolt for cover, and the anticipated call to account for myself, I hesitated on the threshold. And Conor dropped his gaze to his writing and continued his list as if I had been invisible. I was too relieved to worry about a possible explanation, and fled like a startled rabbit, trembling with nerves. Finbar was nowhere to be seen. I made for the safest bolt-hole I could think of, the ancient stable building where my youngest brother, Padriac, kept his menagerie of waifs and strays. There I found a warm corner amongst the well seasoned straw, and the elderly donkey who had prior claim shifted grudgingly, making room for me against her broad back. Hungry, cold, confused and exhausted, I found escape, for the time being, in sleep.
Our story cannot be told without some mention of Father Brien. I said he was a hermit, and that he would exchange a little learning for a loaf or a bag of apples. That was true; but there was a lot more to Father Brien than met the eye. It was said he’d once been a fighting man, and had more than a few Viking skulls to his credit; it was said that he’d come from over the water, all the way from Armorica, to put his skills with pen and ink to work in the Christian house of prayer at Kells; but he’d been living alone a long time, and he was old, fifty at least, a small, spare, grey-haired man whose face had the calm acceptance of one whose spirit has remained whole through a lifetime of trials.
A trip to Father Brien’s was an adventure in itself. He lived up on the hillside south of the lake, and we took our time getting there, because that was part of the fun. There was the bit where you crossed the stream on a rope, swinging wildly between the great oaks. Cormack fell in once; fortunately, it was summer. There was the part where you had to scramble up a rock chimney, which took its toll on knees and elbows, not to speak of the holes it made in your clothing. There were elaborate games of hide and seek. In fact, you could get there in half the time on a cart track, but our way was better. Sometimes Father Brien was from home, his hearth cold, his floor swept bare and clean. According to Finbar, who somehow knew these things, the holy father would climb right to the top of Ogma’s Peak, a fair way for an old man, and stand