I sat down, thinking of what we had shared, she and I, and how little it had meant. Why had I acquiesced that night when she slipped into my bed? Why had I let her lead the way with barely a word of protest? Desire was a perilous thing; on those two fevered nights, I had allowed my body to overrule my mind. Oh, yes, I had put up arguments to justify my weakness to myself, but one ugly truth remained: I could have refused her. I could have pushed her back into her own quarters and bolted the door after her. Flidais would hardly have chosen to make a fuss, knowing that if she did so the whole household would be alerted to her behaviour. Responsibility for what had happened rested squarely on my shoulders.

I poured mead from the jug, but did not drink. I did not like the man who had done that. He was weak, foolish, short-sighted. And I did not like the man I was today: cold, heartless, a bully. Donagan’s words had been a scourge to my heart, that day when he had told me he was leaving. I can’t stand by and watch her destroy the man I knew; the man who was my friend. But it wasn’t Flidais who was destroying that man; I was doing a fine job of that all by myself.

30 Blackthorn

30

~BLACKTHORN~

Somewhat to my horror, I was informed by Donagan that I would be sitting at Prince Oran’s table for supper while the visiting druid, Master Oisin, was at Winterfalls. The prince thought, perhaps, that I would keep this druid entertained with conversation on arcane topics. Or maybe this was Oran’s way of reminding me that time was passing, and that thus far I had reported nothing to him. As if I needed reminding – getting the information I needed from Flidais’s women felt like trying to prise a particularly obstinate winkle from its shell. The conversations in the sewing room told me little, save that Lady Flidais had no respect for those below her own station. Even with her handmaids, she was often snappish and out of sorts. Mhairi was the only one she seemed to trust; they were a tight pair. I tried to be unobtrusive, but among the Winterfalls women I stuck out like a nettle in a patch of wildflowers. Me with my flame-red hair, as short as a man’s, and my workaday clothing, not to speak of my demeanour – it was no wonder I made no friends. I could not hide how much being in their presence irked me. And even when I was trying to be pleasant Flidais’s women were wary of me.