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Chapter Two

It’s quite tricky making a tincture of celandine. The method is simple enough; it’s getting the quantities just right that’s the problem. My mother showed me how to do it both ways, with fresh leaves and dry, her small, capable hands grinding the dried leaves with mortar and pestle while I shredded the newly gathered ones, placing them in a shallow bowl, covering them barely with a little of the precious brew which was the same Conor had used to bring down the blessing of Brighid on our fields this growing season. I followed her instructions, glad I was not one of those who suffered a painful swelling of the skin when working with this particular herb. My mother’s hands were smooth and pale, for all her daily labours in the stillroom, and delicately made. The only adornment she wore was the ring her husband had crafted for her, many long years ago. Today she was clad in an ancient gown that had once been blue, and her long hair was tied back with a plain strip of linen. This gown, this ring, these hands each had their own tale, and my mind was on them as I prepared my bowl of steeping herbs.

‘Good,’ said Mother, watching me. ‘I want you to learn this well, and be able to apply it with other materials as aptly. This tincture will ease most maladies of the stomach, but it is strong. Use it on your patient but once, or you may do more harm than good. Now lay the muslin cloth over your bowl, and put it away carefully. That’s it. One and twenty nights let it rest, and then strain it and store it in the dark, corked tight. Such a tincture will keep well for many moons. This will see you through the winter.’

‘Why don’t you sit down for a while, Mother?’ The pot was boiling on the small fire; I took down two earthenware cups, opened jars of dried leaves.

‘You’re spoiling me, Liadan,’ she said, smiling, but she did sit down, a slight figure in her old working dress. The sun streamed in the window behind her, showing me how pale she was. In the strong light, you could see the traces of faded embroidery at the neckline and hem of her gown. Ivy leaves, little flowers, here and there a tiny winged insect. I poured hot water carefully into each cup.

‘Is this a new mixture?’

‘It is,’ I said, beginning to clean and tidy away the knives and bowls and implements we had used. ‘See if you can tell me what’s in it.’ The smell of the herbal infusion was spreading through the cool, dry air of the stillroom.

Mother sniffed delicately. ‘There’s all-heal – the dried flowers, that must be; there’s figwort in it, maybe a touch of St John’s wort as well, and – goldenwood?’

I found a jar of our best honey, and spooned a little into each cup. ‘You certainly haven’t lost your touch,’ I said. ‘You needn’t worry. I know how to gather that herb, and how to use it.’

‘A powerful combination, daughter.’

I glanced at her, and she looked straight back.

‘You know, don’t you?’ she said softly.

I nodded, unable to speak. I placed a cup of the healing tea on the stone sill beside her, and my own near me where I worked.

‘Your choice of herbs is very apt. But it is too late for such cures to do more than provide a brief respite. You know this too.’ She took a sip of the tea, screwed up her face, and gave a little smile. ‘It’s a bitter brew.’

‘Bitter indeed,’ I said, sipping my own tea, which was plain peppermint. I managed to keep my voice under control, just.

‘I can see we have taught you well, Liadan,’ said my mother, regarding me closely. ‘You have my skill with healing and your father’s gift for love. He gathers all around him under his protective shade, like a great forest tree. I see the same strength in you, daughter.’

This time, I did not risk speaking.

‘It will be hard for him,’ she went on. ‘Very hard. He is not one of us, not truly, though we forget it sometimes. He does not understand that this is not a true parting, but simply a moving on, a changing.’

‘The wheel turns, and returns,’ I said.

Mother smiled again. She had put the tea down almost untouched. ‘There’s a bit of Conor in you as well,’ she said. ‘Sit down awhile, Liadan. I have something to tell you.’

‘You too?’ I managed a watery grin.

‘Yes, your father told me about Eamonn.’

‘And what did you think?’

A little frown creased her brow. ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘I can’t advise you. But – but I would say, don’t be in too much of a hurry. You’ll be needed here for a while.’

I didn’t ask her why. ‘Have you told Father?’ I asked finally.

Mother gave a sigh. ‘No. He will not ask me, since he knows I will answer with the truth. I don’t need to put it into words. Not for Red. His knowledge is there in the touch of his hand, in his hastening home from ploughing, in the way he sits by the bed, thinking me asleep, and holds my hand, looking into the darkness. He knows.’

I shivered. ‘What was it you were going to tell me?’

‘Something I have never shared with anyone. But I think now is the time to pass it on. You’ve been troubled lately, I’ve seen it in your eyes. Not just – not just this, but something more.’

I held my cup between my palms, warming them. ‘I get – sometimes I get the strangest feeling. As if suddenly everything goes cold, and – and there’s a voice …’

‘Go on.’

‘I see – I feel as if something terrible is coming. I look at someone and sense a – a sort of doom over them. Conor knows. He told me not to feel guilty. I didn’t find that particularly helpful.’

Mother nodded. ‘My brother was about your age when he first felt it. Finbar, I mean. Conor remembers that. It is a painful skill, one few would wish for themselves.’

‘What is it?’ I asked, shivering. ‘Is it the Sight? Then why don’t I go into convulsions, and scream and then go limp, like Biddy O’Neill down at the Crossing? She’s got the Sight, she foretold the great floods two winters ago, and the death of that man whose cart went over the edge at Fergal’s Bluff. This is – different.’

‘Different but the same. The way it takes you depends on your own strength and your own gifts. And what you see can also mislead you. Finbar often saw true, and he felt the guilt of not being able to prevent the things from happening. But what his visions meant was by no means easy to interpret. It’s a cruel gift, Liadan. With it comes another, which you have not yet had cause to develop.’

‘What’s that?’ I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Wasn’t one such gift, if gift it could be called, more than enough?

‘I can’t explain it, not fully. He used it on me, once. He and I – he and I shared the same bond you have with Sean, a closeness that lets you speak mind to mind; that tunes you to the other’s inmost self. Finbar had greater skill than I; those last days, he became adept at keeping me out. There were times when I think he dreaded to let down his guard; he had a wound deep to the spirit, and he would not share it, not even with me. But he had the other skill as well; the ability to use the power of his mind for healing. When I was – when I was hurt, and thought the world would never be right again, he – he touched me with his mind, he blocked out the bad things, he held my thoughts with his own, until the night was over. Later, he used this same skill on my father, whose mind was deeply damaged by the work of the sorceress, the lady Oonagh. She kept Father dancing to her will for three long years, while my brothers were under the enchantment. And Lord Colum was not a weak man; he wrestled with his own guilt and shame, and yet he could not deny her. When we returned home at last he scarcely knew us. Bringing him back to himself took many patient days and nights. There is a heavy price for the use of this healing power. Afterwards, Finbar was – drained. Scarce himself. He was like a man who has undergone the fiercest ordeals of body and spirit. Only the strongest may withstand this.’

I looked at her with a question in my eyes.

‘You are strong, Liadan. I cannot tell you if and when you may be called to use this gift. Perhaps never. It’s best you know, at least. He would be able to tell you more.’

‘He? You mean – Finbar?’ Now we were on fragile ground indeed.

Mother turned to look out of the window. ‘It grew again so beautifully,’ she said. ‘The little oak Red planted for me, that will one day be tall and noble. The lilac; the healing herbs. The sorceress could not destroy us. Together, we were too strong for her.’ She looked back at me. ‘The magic is powerful in you, Liadan. And there is one more thing in your favour.’

‘What’s that?’ I asked. Her words were both fascinating and terrifying.

‘He showed me once. Finbar. I came close to asking him what the future would hold for me. He showed me a moment of time. There was Niamh, dancing along a forest path with her hair like golden fire. A child with a gift for happiness. And Sean, running, running to catch up with her. I saw my children, and Red’s. And – and there was another child. A child who was – shut out. On the edge, so that I could never quite see. But that child was not you, daughter. Of that I am certain. Had it been you, I would have known, the moment you were born and laid in my arms.’

‘But – but why wasn’t I there? Sean and I are of an age. Why would I not be in your vision too?’

‘I saw the same vision earlier,’ said my mother slowly. ‘When I – but both times, you were not there. Only that other child, closed off from the picture. I believe you are somehow outside the pattern, Liadan. If this is so, it could give you great power. Dangerous power. It could allow you to – change things. In these visions, it was not foretold that Sean’s birth would bring forth a second child. That sets you apart. I have believed, for a long time, that the Fair Folk guide our steps. That they work their great plans through us. But you are not in their scheme. Perhaps you hold some sort of key.’

It was too much to take in. Still, I could not but believe her, for my mother always told the truth, no more and no less.

‘Then what about the third child in the vision?’ I asked. ‘The child on the margin, in the shadows?’

‘I cannot tell who that was. Only – it was a child who had given up all hope. That is a terrible thing. Why I was shown this, there is no telling. In time, perhaps you will find out.’

I shivered again. ‘I’m not sure that I want to.’

Mother smiled and got up. ‘These things have a habit of finding you, whether you like it or not,’ she said. ‘Conor was right. There’s no point in feeling guilty, or worrying about what may come. Put one foot before the other, and follow your path. That’s all we can do.’

‘Hmm.’ I glanced at her. It sounded as if my own particular path might be rather more complicated than I would have wished. I didn’t ask for much. The security and peace of Sevenwaters, the chance to use my craft well, and be warmed by the love of my family. I wasn’t sure if I had it in me to do more than that. I could not see myself as one who might influence the course of destiny. How Sean would laugh at this notion, if I told him.

The season wore on, and Eamonn did not come back. The druids left us again, walking silent-footed into the forest at dusk. Niamh became unusually quiet, and took to sitting up on the roof slates, gazing out over the trees and humming softly to herself. Often, when I looked for her to help with a piece of sewing or the preparation of fruit for drying, she was nowhere to be found. In the evenings, she never wanted to talk any more, but lay on her bed smiling secretly, until her eyelids dropped over her beautiful eyes and she slept like a child. I slept less easily myself. We heard conflicting reports from the north. Eamonn was fighting on two fronts. He had advanced into his neighbour’s territory. He had retreated to his inner wall. The raiders were Norsemen, come back to harry a shore we had long thought safe. They had settlements far south, at the mouth of a great river, and they sought to expand their holding up along the coast, and even into the heart of our own lands. They were not Norsemen at all, but Britons. They were neither; but some more foreign breed, men who wore their identity on their skin in a secret, coded pattern. Men with faces like strange birds, and great fierce cats, and stag and boar; men who attacked in silence, and killed without mercy. One had a face as black as the night sky. Not even men, perhaps, but Otherworld warriors. Their weapons were as odd as their appearance: cunning pipes through which a dart with poison tip might be launched into the air; tiny metal balls studded with spikes, that travelled fast and bit hard. Clever use of a length of fine cord. No sword or spear, no honest weapons.

We did not know which of these stories to believe, though Sean and Liam favoured the theory about Norsemen as the most likely. After all, such invaders were best placed for a quick strike and retreat, for at sea they were as yet unmatched, employing both oar and sail to move faster than the wind over the water. Maybe their ornate helmets had given rise to the strange tales. And yet, said Liam, the Norsemen fought unsubtly, with broadsword, mace and axe. Nor were they known for their prowess in wooded terrain, preferring to keep their hold on the coastal margins rather than venture inland. The theory did not fit quite as neatly as one might have wished.

Eventually around the time when day and night were of equal length and Father was busy with planting, Eamonn sent for help, and Liam despatched a force of thirty well-armed men off to the north. Sean would have liked to go, and so, I think, would my uncle himself. But as it was, something stayed them both. There was Aisling, still dwelling in our house where she would be out of harm’s way, and anxious for her brother’s safety. That was enough to keep Sean at home, for now. And Liam said it was too risky, with the threat not fully understood, for either of them to be in the front line along with both Eamonn and his grandfather. They would wait until they got a report from Eamonn himself, or from Seamus. That would be fact and not fancy. Then would be time to decide whether to take further action.

I noticed, though, that they spoke long and seriously in the evenings, and studied their maps. Iubdan, too. My father might have sworn not to take up arms, not if the enemy might be his own kind, but Liam was enough of a strategist to recognise and make use of the skill his sister’s husband had with charts, and with the planning of offence and defence. I heard him remark that it was a pity Padriac had never come back, the last time he sailed off in search of new lands and fresh adventures. Now there was a man who knew how to build a boat and handle it better than any Norseman. There was a man who could think up ten different solutions to any problem. But it was three years now since Liam had last laid eyes on his youngest brother. Nobody held out much hope of a safe return, after so long. I remembered this uncle quite well. Who could forget him? He’d be home awhile, full of wonderful tales, and then off again on some new quest. He was tanned brown as a nut, with his hair plaited down his back, and he wore three rings in the one ear, and he had a strange many-coloured bird that sat on his shoulder and asked you politely if you wanted a roll in the hay, dear? I knew my mother no more believed him dead than she did Finbar. I wondered if she knew. I wondered if I would know, if Sean went away to battle and perished on the point of some stranger’s sword. Would I feel it in my own heart, that moment when the blood slows in the veins, and the breath stops, and a film covers the eyes as they gaze sightless into the wide expanse of the sky?

It was never my intention to spy on Niamh. What my sister did with her spare time was her own affair. I was concerned, that was all. She was so unlike herself, the way she retreated into silence, and spent so much time alone. Even Aisling commented on it, kindly.

‘Niamh seems very quiet,’ she remarked one afternoon as the two of us went up to the fields behind the house to pick wild endive for brewing. In some households it was thought inappropriate for the lord’s daughters to touch such menial work, and it would be left to those who served the family. It had never been so at Sevenwaters, not in my memory at least. Here, everyone worked. True, Janis and her women handled the heavier tasks, hefting the huge iron stew pot, cleaning floors, killing chickens. But both Niamh and I had our daily routine, and our seasonal tasks, and knew how to perform them capably. In this we followed our parents’ example, for Sorcha would spend her whole day between stillroom and village, tending to the sick, and my father, who had once been lord of Harrowfield, was not reluctant to set his own hand to the plough if the occasion demanded it. Niamh and I would make good wives, well able to order the domestic side of our husbands’ households. After all, how can you be a good mistress if you have no understanding of the work your folk must undertake? Just how Niamh did manage to acquire her skills I am not sure, since she never stayed long at one task. But she was a clever girl, and if she forgot something it did not take her long to charm Janis or me or someone else into helping her.

However, she was not here for the endive. Aisling picked carefully, stopping now and then to push her unruly bright curls back into the binding they sought to escape. Now the days were warmer, she was getting a light dusting of freckles on her nose.

‘Be sure you leave enough to make seed,’ I cautioned.

‘Yes, Mother,’ chuckled Aisling as she added a few more of the golden blooms to her willow basket. She was always willing to help with such tasks. Maybe she thought she was preparing herself to be the right sort of wife for Sean. I could have told her that side of it wouldn’t matter a bit, not to him. My brother’s mind was made up already.

‘But seriously, Liadan, do you think Niamh is all right? I wondered if – well, I wondered it was to do with Eamonn.’

‘Eamonn?’ I echoed rather stupidly.

‘Well,’ said Aisling thoughtfully, ‘he has been away a while now, and none of us knows what’s been happening. I’m not sure how things are between the two of them, but I did think she might be worried. I know I am.’

I gave her a reassuring hug. ‘I’m sure you need not be. If anyone knows how to look after himself, it’s Eamonn. Any day now we’ll see your brother riding up to the door as large as life, and no doubt victorious with it.’ And I’ll bet a silver piece to an old bobbin, I said to myself, that whatever is bothering my sister, it’s not him. I doubt if she’s given him a moment’s thought since he went away. He’s probably been in my thoughts more than he has hers.

We finished our picking, and we brewed the spring wine with honey and jasmine to counter the bitterness of the endive, and we put it away to work in darkness, and still there was no sign of Niamh. Aisling and I went upstairs and washed our hands and faces, and combed and braided each other’s hair, and took off our coarse working aprons. It was nearly time for supper, and outside a cool dusk was brushing across the sky, turning it to violet and faded grey. Then at last I saw her from my narrow window, running across the field from the margin of the forest, with a quick look to the right, and to the left, to see whose curious eyes might be watching her. She disappeared from view. Not long after, there she was at the door, gasping for breath, skirts still held up in one hand, her cheeks flushed scarlet. I looked at her, and Aisling looked at her, and neither of us said a word.

‘Good, I’m not late.’ She went straight across to the oaken chest, lifted the lid and rummaged for a clean gown. Finding what she wanted, she proceeded to unfasten the one she wore and strip it off, followed by her shift, with never a by-your-leave. Aisling moved tactfully to gaze out the window; I brought my sister the bowl of water and a hairbrush as she wriggled into fresh smallclothes and dragged the gown over her head. She turned her back, and I began to fasten the many small hooks for her. She was still breathing hard, which made my task no easier.

‘She’s decent again, Aisling,’ I said wryly. ‘Perhaps you could take a hand with the hairbrush. It must be nearly supper time.’ Aisling was clever with her fingers, and had a better chance of doing something acceptable with my sister’s wildly dishevelled locks in the little time we had left. She began to wield the brush with calm even strokes.

‘Where on earth have you been, Niamh?’ she asked in amazement. ‘There’s straw in your hair, and leaves, and what are these little blue flowers?’ She brushed away, her face as sweetly innocent as ever.

‘We missed you this afternoon,’ I said levelly, still working on the gown. ‘We made the spring wine without you.’

‘Is there some criticism intended in that?’ said Niamh, twisting this way and that to settle her skirts, and wincing as the brush hit a tangle.

‘It was only a statement, not a question,’ I said. ‘I doubt if your absence was noted by anyone but Aisling and me. This time. And we did fine without you, so you need not feel guilty on that score.’

She gave me a very straight look, but she wasn’t saying anything, not with Aisling there. Aisling saw only the good in people, and had no concept of secrecy or subterfuge. She was as guileless as a sheep, though perhaps the comparison was a little unfair. Simple as she was, the girl was not stupid.

I felt that uneasiness again that night, as we sat at supper, the whole family together. Our meal was a plain one. In part because my mother never touched meat, we ate quite simply, relying mainly on the grain and vegetables of our home farms. Janis had a wide repertoire of tasty soups and good honest breads, and we did well enough. The men would partake of a roasted fowl or two, or a sheep would be slaughtered from time to time, for they worked hard, whether it be in the field of arms or the labour of farm and stable, and they were not always satisfied with a meal of turnips and beans and rye bread. That night, I was pleased to see that Mother was managing a little soup, a scrap or two of bannock. She had grown so thin, the north wind might snatch her away if it took a mind to, and it had never been easy to persuade her to eat. As I watched her, I felt Iubdan’s eyes on me, and I glanced at him and quickly away again, for I could not bear his expression. That look said, this is a long goodbye, yet not time enough. I have no aptitude for this. I cannot learn this. I would hold on, and hold on, until my hands clutch at emptiness.

Niamh sat neat as a cat, drinking her soup, eyes downcast. There was not a hair out of place. The telltale blush was gone, her skin smooth gold in the light of the oil lamps. Opposite her sat Sean, with Aisling beside him, and they whispered together, holding hands under the table. After supper there were no tales, not that night. Instead, the family retired under Liam’s directions to a small, quiet chamber where some privacy might be had, and left the men and women of the household to their songs and ale by the kitchen fires.

‘You’ve had some news,’ my father said as soon as we had seated ourselves. I poured wine from the flask on the table, serving first my mother, then my uncle, my father, Sean and lastly the other two girls.

‘Thank you, Liadan.’ Liam gave me an approving nod. ‘News indeed, which I have kept until now, since it should be Aisling who hears it first. Good news, child,’ he added hastily as Aisling started up in fright, no doubt fearing the worst. ‘Your brother is well, and should be here to collect you before Beltaine. The threat is over for now.’

‘What of the unknown enemy?’ asked Sean eagerly. ‘What news of the battle?’

Liam frowned. ‘Very sketchy. There were some losses. The man who rode here with the message knew little, having got it from another. I know that Eamonn has secured his borders again, but exactly how, and against whom, still seems to be shrouded in mystery. It must wait for his return. I, too, am keen for further knowledge of this. It could influence our entire plan of action concerning the Britons. It would be folly to expect victory in a sea battle against Norsemen.’

‘True,’ said Sean. ‘I would not think of such a venture, unless I had the skills of their own kind on my side. But the Norsemen have no interest in our Islands; if they needed the use of safe anchorage there, they’d have taken them from the Britons long ago. The Islands are too barren for crops, too remote for settlements, a territory long forsaken by all but the Old Ones. The Britons hold them only as a stepping stone to our own lands.’