‘Did I say I would not help? I don’t recall that. What help do you require?’

I hate the mongrel. Always thought his kind weren’t trustworthy, and he’s done nothing to change my mind. But the day’s slipping away and so is Blackthorn, so I swallow my pride, what there is of it. ‘A horse,’ I say. ‘Strong enough to carry her and me. And if you know how far she’s gone, tell me.’

Happens just like in an old tale. Conmael clicks his fingers, and there’s a horse in the garden. Storm, one of Scannal’s draught horses, with a blanket saddle and a riding harness on.

‘Miller mightn’t be well pleased,’ I say, but I’m already slinging my bag on my back, getting ready to mount and go.

‘She might be far south by now,’ said Conmael. ‘Or not. If I were you I’d take the track toward Silverlake.’

I frown at him. ‘That’s not south, it’s east.’

‘All the same. That is where I would go first.’

I give him a straight look. I’m scared of the fellow, but I speak out anyway. ‘Why don’t you go?’

He smiles, thin-lipped. ‘Oh, she won’t listen to me.’

Can’t even start to work that out. ‘You sure you want what’s best for Blackthorn?’ I ask. Could be he’s tricking me, sending me on a wild goose chase, making sure I don’t catch up with her, even on Storm.

‘If I did not,’ says Conmael, ‘she would be dead, and you would still be in Mathuin’s lockup. Now go.’

35 Blackthorn

35

~BLACKTHORN~

South. Mathuin. Justice. The words were in my mind when I passed by our cottage and thought of Grim, and how I had not told him I was going. I left the red kerchief and kept on walking. I muttered the same words when I reached the crossroads: one track going south toward Laois and my enemy, the other branching off east toward Silverlake. Ness was still there; her recovery had been slow. I chose the southern path and walked on. South. Mathuin. Justice.

I made good progress. The morning was not far advanced when I came up through a beech wood and stopped to drink from my water skin. I hadn’t brought much. Most of my healer’s supplies were still in the prince’s house. My bag contained a change of clothing, the water skin, a couple of bannocks I’d grabbed from the kitchen on the way out. My notebook, which could not be left behind for idle eyes to read. My good knife, my flint, a supply of dry tinder. Rolled on top, a blanket from the prince’s household. I felt no guilt in taking it. With luck, I’d be far on my way before anyone realised I wasn’t coming back.