Tower of Thorns (31 page)

Tadhg is a talker too. I don't mention that. He's good at his work, doesn't waste time, and he's ready to learn. Don't mind listening. He might even say something useful.

“Finished? We should get back to work.”

He doesn't answer, because there's a sound of raised voices from somewhere near the gate, and one of them's a woman's. Geiléis. I can tell even from over here that she's angry. Seems wrong to listen in. But Blackthorn and me are at Bann to solve a mystery. That means doing some things we wouldn't naturally do. So I'm listening hard and remembering so I can tell Blackthorn later, but at the same time I'm putting cups and bowls back on the tray and moving the ladder round so we can get to the next bit of roof. Old thatch should be all stripped away and the beams cleaned up today. Brothers have got the reeds tied
in bundles, so they're all ready to go up. The spars from the old roof are oak, and mostly good to use again. And there's a fellow here, one of the monks, who's said he'll make replacements for the worn-out ones. Means I don't have to carve them myself, which is good. Would have taken time we don't have.

“I need to see it!” Think that's what Geiléis is shouting. Whoever she's talking to—Father Tomas, must be—answers in a deep, quiet voice. Could be saying anything. Monks don't shout. Only when . . . No, won't think about that.

“Careful!” I say, keeping a close eye on Tadhg. “Remember what I said—move slow, two hands and two feet on the beams whenever you can. Not a job you can rush. Unless you want a fast trip down and a few broken bones. Move like a spider.”

He's more careful, then. A quick learner. Pity I can't stay after midsummer, in a way. If I had longer, I could teach him to do the job properly. Other things I could do here too. The walls. The garden. The pigeons. But no. First there's Blackthorn. Second there's the past. Third there's God. Don't believe in him anymore, and if I did I'd hate him for letting bad things happen and not stopping them. Meaning there's no place for me here, or in any house of prayer. All very well for Brother Fergal to say God forgives sinners, and Our Lord embraces those who have lost their way, by which he means me, plain as plain. But who could forgive him, God I mean, for standing by watching while Norsemen hacked a bunch of monks to death? Boys, old men, scholars, gardeners, peaceable folk? Not content with that, they butchered the livestock too. Not for the pot. Just for the pleasure of killing. If God's so all-powerful, why would he just look on?

Worst thing is, in a way I understand why they did it. The red. Those fighters, those raiders, I saw their faces. Saw their crazy eyes. They didn't see me, they didn't see an old white-haired scholar and a cat, they didn't see a sacristan and an infirmarian and a scribe; they had the red filling up their heads and coursing through their veins and pumping in their hearts, and it didn't go away until they'd killed or
maimed every living thing in the place. Except me. And they must have thought I was dead, or they'd have stuck an ax in my head as a parting gift.

“This is quite unsatisfactory!” shouts Lady Geiléis, not sounding much like a lady. “All I am asking of you . . .” Her voice goes quieter, so I can't hear the rest. Sounds as if she didn't stick to what Blackthorn told her to say last night. And sounds as if Father Tomas isn't afraid to say no to her. Don't know why she'd push to see this document, if she can't read it. Could be I'm wrong. Could be she's upset about something different.

Tadhg is perched on the beams with a hard brush in his hand, looking at me. “Lady sounds cross,” he says.

“None of our business. Right, we'll clean off this end; then we'll go down and give the inside a good sweeping. I don't leave a mess behind for other folk to clean up. Weather seems set fair for a bit. But what if rain came? What would you do?”

“Me?”

“What would a fellow do if he was halfway through a thatching job?”

“Oh. If it's reeds, you'd want to get something up over the work you'd done, keep it dry before you put on the next layer. And maybe cover up the rest of the roof too.”

“What with?”

“Hempen cloth? Maybe oiled?”

“Good. Might need to ask the brothers about that. Doubt if they'd have an old sail. But maybe they've got something we can use. Be a miracle if it doesn't rain from now till midsummer.”

“Why midsummer?” Tadhg asks.

Ah. Walked right into that. “That's when Blackthorn and me have to go back home. So unless you fancy finishing the job on your own, that's when we need to get it done by.”

Can't hear Geiléis anymore, only the monster, and birds singing, and Brother Fergal and his helpers talking down in the garden. The
two novices are crouched down weeding, and Fergal's harvesting runner beans and explaining something to the others as he moves along the row. Quiet spot, this. Good place. This'd be the sort of place where you could start thinking God was real. You could believe he did open his arms to everyone, like Fergal said.

“Grim?”

“What?”

“This is a lot of roof. And you said three layers.”

“All the more reason to work harder. Not just you—both of us. And yes, it'll be three layers. At least. If the old thatch hadn't been so moldy, we could have just put the new on top. But that wouldn't have been a proper job.”

Not long after, from my high perch, I see Flannan walking across to the infirmary. A bit later I catch sight of Geiléis with Donncha, going down the track home. Can't see her face. From the way she's walking I'd guess she's angry, upset. Seems Father Tomas didn't say yes to what she wanted—maybe to see the manuscript herself. Which is a surprise. Would've thought a lady like her could twist men around her little finger. Even monks.

Geiléis

A
rmorica. Brother Gwenneg. She had all but forgotten him. He was long dead by now, along with the brethren whose number he had traveled so far to join. Brother Gwenneg had been kind to her that night, when she'd returned, weeping, to find all the doors to her home wide-open and banging in the wind. When, soon after, she'd discovered her family, their servants and retainers, all wrapped in a sleep like death, as if this were some ancient tale. She had run all the way to St. Olcan's for help, with only the moonlight to guide her steps. Gwenneg and three other monks had come back with her, bearing lanterns. That was when she'd discovered this was no magical trance. All those she had loved, all those who had loved her, were stone dead. All but one, and he was beyond her reach. Lily's punishment, the long ordeal set down in the curse, was just beginning.

The monks of St. Olcan's had become her friends. They'd provided for her until she'd been able to claw together a household—she'd been determined to stay at Bann, in her own house. Ten of her father's men-at-arms, under the leadership of Onchú, had been over the border in Tirconnell the night it had happened. On return, all had chosen to stay on at Bann. Seven of the household servants had been given leave to attend a wedding in the south—the bride was Senach's sister—and
to stay overnight for the celebrations. They too had chosen loyalty over freedom, even knowing the truth.

The brothers had suggested it might be more appropriate for her, young as she was and all alone, to live with kinsmen or in the household of a neighboring chieftain. She'd been firm in her refusal. She hadn't told them about the curse. She hadn't offered any theories about what had happened. Everyone had understood, without quite saying so, that only the fey could wreak such a catastrophe. When, in early summer of that year, it had become evident that there was someone in the tower, and that the someone or something liked to scream from dawn until dusk, folk had not said much at all. The curse had been powerful indeed. Strong enough to last as long as it took. Clever enough to ensure nobody noticed that the Lady of Bann still walked the forest paths twenty years later, and fifty years later, and eighty years later and a hundred. That she was still young and lovely, with golden hair streaming down her back and a complexion like peaches and cream. That over all that time she had aged no more than another sixteen years. Her name varied with the generations, of course. She referred to her mother, her grandmother, her forebears, her ancestors. And if her household servants, too, did not seem to grow old, nobody made comment.

The presence in the tower screamed through all the days of that first summer, and through all the days of the second, the summer in which he might be released, if only she could meet the terms of the curse. But Lily found nobody to attempt the task; she could not imagine that any woman would agree to do it. There was only one she could ask, one of her own. But that, in the end, was to no avail. So, on the second Midsummer Eve of the curse, Lily found herself on the island, attempting to hack a way through the bristling barrier, although the terms of the curse were clear: this was not a task for her to undertake. Her two guards were terribly wounded saving her from the thorns; one later died from his injuries. A hideous day, still vivid in the survivors' minds. The scars had not faded, even after so long.

When autumn came, Bann fell quiet; folk thought the creature was gone. Around the tower, the thorns grew taller and taller, forming a guardian hedge only a fool would dare approach. Even when all was silent, folk stayed away.

She did not make the story known, save to the trusted folk who served her. Only at dusk did she tell the tale, in a whisper, to fulfill the requirement set out in the curse. If the truth had become known in the community, she would never have found a woman prepared to attempt the task. Only . . . only she
had
told, just once, in those early days when she'd been young and terrified and full of a sadness that had threatened to break her. She'd told her confidant, her kind friend of the merry eyes and charming Armorican accent: Brother Gwenneg. Made him swear never to tell anyone. Had he sworn? It was so long ago. Surely he had given his word. Yet the wretch had written it down, or so it seemed. Written it and hidden it away, to be unearthed at the worst time, just when at last, at last she had found someone who might perform the task in a willing spirit, unafraid. On Midsummer Eve, two hundred years would have passed since the curse was pronounced. Four times she'd tried and failed; four times the district of Bann had endured two summers of screaming, for the curse offered a chance only once in fifty years. One summer to prepare; the next summer to try her luck. It was remarkable how the magic endured; astonishing how the local folk forgot so quickly, over and over. This time she must succeed. But how? How could she make sure Blackthorn did not learn the contents of Brother Gwenneg's wretched manuscript? How could she silence Flannan without making Blackthorn suspicious? How, how . . .

“Perhaps this document is not what you imagine, my lady,” said Donncha, who had accompanied her to St. Olcan's and now walked beside her on the homeward journey. “It may be something quite harmless. Or Master Flannan may fail in the translation.”

“Maybe, maybe. And maybe not. I cannot believe I was such a fool as to confide the whole story.”

“You were young, my lady.”

“Yes, young and stupid. I should not have relied on a promise. It seems even monks break their word. I don't know what to do, Donncha. We are so close to success. A hair's breadth away from it. I need the right woman to win the day. But the right woman is observant. She sees beyond the obvious. That sort of person is very hard to trick. I do not believe she has any weak point.”

Donncha said nothing. They walked on.

“There's Grim, of course. She's fonder of him than she knows. Grim might fall ill or meet with an accident. Nothing too serious, but serious enough to distract her for a while. Perhaps to keep her busy nursing him, so her attention will be divided.”

“Yes, my lady. But Master Flannan—”

“Will still come straight here as soon as he manages to decode the manuscript, yes. Senach will intercept him. He will be directed to speak to me first. At which point I will find out what the manuscript contains and, if necessary, take immediate steps to silence him. He might be bought off; every man has his price.”

“Yes, my lady.” A pause. “You wish Grim to be incapacitated? A broken leg? That might be hard to do discreetly. He's a big man.”

“Nothing so drastic, or Blackthorn will suspect foul play. Let us leave Grim for now. The job at St. Olcan's keeps him conveniently out of the way. But you should have a plan in place for later. Grim might well insist on being close to Blackthorn on Midsummer Eve, even if this job at the monastery isn't finished. We'll need a reliable means of ensuring he is not present when she goes to the tower. Talk to Onchú and work something out.”

“Yes, my lady.”

They walked on a distance in silence. “My lady?”

“What is it, Donncha?”

“If it works . . . if Mistress Blackthorn succeeds in the task . . . what will become of us? The rest of us?”

She had considered this, of course. Over and over she had tried to think it through. But there was no good answer. “I suppose, in one way or another, we will all be set free,” she told him.