Tempted to ask Domnall if I can do some shifts on guard, just to keep me busy. But I don’t ask him. Lady Geiléis is still here waiting for the druid. I see her pacing around the place, wound up tight as a bowstring. Something tells me, Don’t get too busy. Blackthorn might need you. But a lot of the time I feel out of place, like an extra finger or toe that’s not wanted.

At night, when we’re back in our quarters, she’s not so keen to talk as she was. Her mind’s away, off somewhere else. In the past, most likely. Know that feeling. Know it better than I want to, the dark things that never go away, the sunny, precious things that go all too soon. With him here, there’s talk of Christian houses of prayer he’s visited, scholarly monks he’s learned from. When I hear that, I’m straight back to that day I’d like to wipe away forever. The day of blood and death. The day when I wasn’t strong enough. That’s one story I’ll be keeping all to myself.

9

Blackthorn

After our argument, Flannan stopped talking about Laois and Mathuin and the failed plot. We spoke instead about the distant past: our shared childhood. Or we chatted about this and that—the court musicians, the passing season. He told me about his work and the discoveries he was making in the royal collection of books and manuscripts. The prince and Lady Flidais both liked him—no surprise, since he was a friendly, open-minded sort of man, and loved scholarship—and there was plenty to keep him occupied in Cahercorcan’s extensive library.

He offered no apology for upsetting me. He did not retract his words about my lack of courage, or my failure to be true to myself or to the memory of Cass or whatever it was he’d meant. And, not wanting to find myself cursing and throwing crockery again, I acted as if that difficult conversation had never happened. I did not forget it. His words had stung hard.

Time passed and although Lady Geiléis was still at court, waiting, I began to believe things would go according to plan after all. The king would return from the south, we would go back to Winterfalls, and with my help Lady Flidais would deliver a healthy baby. Flannan would travel on to his next monastery, and Lady Geiléis would head home for midsummer, with or without the druid.

More fool me. My life and Grim’s were never going to follow a straight path. Fate loved to spring surprises on us. Mostly unwelcome ones.

I was in the stillroom, dressing a knife wound suffered by one of the men-at-arms during combat practice. Another man hovered, anxious for the friend whom he had accidentally wounded.

“It will heal cleanly,” I told them. “Twelve days. Don’t pick at the stitches, don’t be tempted to take them out yourself, and under no circumstances try to use your arm for anything more than wielding your spoon at supper time, understand? If your master-at-arms raises any objections, tell him to come and talk to me.”