‘Do not lose sight of the wisdom that is all around you. The rising of the sun, each day’s new hope; the moon gliding above, watchful and mysterious, reminding us of the tides within. The flight of birds; the quick grace of the running deer; the affection of a loyal hound. You have grown up in the understanding of these things. The wonder that resides in them also exists in a promise between husband and wife. A betrothal is the beginning of a new story; it is a compact of hope and possibility. All marriages have their difficulties, no doubt of that. But the bond between husband and wife is precious beyond jewels.’

Before Flidais came to Winterfalls, I had believed this wholeheartedly. My vision of true love had been a little unrealistic, no doubt. As for married life . . . I had seen that it was sometimes difficult – my parents had had their fallings-out, though those were mostly short-lived and always well concealed from the public eye. Of course, my mother and father were past the age when physical passion might be expected to play much part in their lives – they often seemed more like old friends than husband and wife. Among common people, I had seen that marriage could be a fine thing. In my household there were several married couples, some with children; entire families had grown up at Winterfalls. I had seen trust, friendship and tenderness there, as well as an enjoyment in working side by side. It was not a grand passion like that of Diarmid and Grainne, or of Deirdre and Naoise, but that was just as well, since both tales ended tragically.

‘Prince Oran?’

‘Thank you for your wisdom, Master Oisin. I’d best be on my way; the night is chilly.’

He opened the cottage door. ‘Ah. The fire still burns under its blanket of ash, and the house is warm. Sure you won’t come in awhile?’

‘Thank you, no.’ If I went in, if I sat down and he continued to coax answers from me in his gentle, understanding way, I would disgrace myself by shedding tears. A sorry specimen indeed. ‘I’ll bid you good night.’

‘Good night, my lord. May the gods walk with you and your lady.’

17 Blackthorn

17

~BLACKTHORN~

The betrothal ritual was over, thank the gods, and most of the guests were gone from the prince’s house, which meant folk had started talking about other things. Which was just as well, since I’d had a hard time not snapping at them. If I’d heard about that cake once, I’d heard a thousand times.

I came home from a visit to one of the farms – a fellow with a scythe wound to the leg; he’d been lucky not to bleed to death – to find Grim sitting at the table shelling beans into a pot. I hung up my cloak and set the basket down.