‘Strong enough for what?’ But I could guess.
‘The problem is – I can’t remember. Not all of it.’ He was shivering now as the memories came flooding back, not in the unthinking visitations of night but by full, waking daylight. ‘Not all of it. I’m pretty sure I held out. I held out a long time, I know it, because they were angry, they were so angry –’
‘It’s all right, Simon,’ I said, moving over quickly to kneel beside him and take both his hands. ‘You can tell me.’ He clutched my hands painfully, like a lifeline.
‘But at the end, when they – when they –’ he closed his eyes, his face contorted with remembered pain. ‘Then I – I don’t know if I – I might have –’ He seemed unable to complete this thought, as if finding the words was beyond his endurance.
‘You think you may have told them something you shouldn’t have, something secret?’
He nodded miserably. ‘I told you he failed. Betrayed his trust, gave up his own men to the enemy. How could he go back, after that?’ He wrenched his hands out of my grasp. ‘Who would befriend him, after such a deed? He’d better have died.’
‘You don’t know for sure,’ I said carefully. ‘I believe you – he –’
‘His brother,’ said Simon. ‘You remember the story? His brother waits for the troop to come back, but they do not. He waits for a little longer, and then he sends out a scout to look for them. It’s a long way, across the water. He finds the place where they were camped. But they are all dead; limbs hacked, sightless eyes open for the crows to feed on. Betrayed by one of their own. After that, his brother curses him, that he should never return home to those he has failed so utterly. But to the younger brother, this is nothing new. He was never wanted; he might have known the pattern of his life could never change. His brother is the hero of every tale; but he is doomed to failure.’
‘Nonsense!’ I retorted, and I was so angry with him I grabbed hold of his shoulders and gave him a good shake. ‘The end of the story is of your making, nobody else’s. You can do with it as you choose. There are as many paths open to your hero as branches on a great tree. They are wonderful, and terrible, and plain and twisted. They touch and part and intermingle, and you can follow them whatever way you will. Look at me, Simon.’
He blinked at me once, twice; the candlelight showed his eyes a soft blue, morning sky colour. And cold with self-loathing.
‘I believe in you,’ I said quietly. ‘You are a brave man, and a true one; and I know in my heart that you kept your secrets that night. I trust you better than you trust yourself. You could have hurt me many times, and Father Brien as well, but you did not. There is a future for you. Don’t throw my gift of healing back in my face, Simon. We have come this far; let us go on.’
He sat there for a long time in silence; so long that I had time to tidy up, and fetch water, and ready the cloths and salves for the dressing of his wounds. Finally he spoke.
‘You make it hard to say no.’
‘You made a promise,’ I said. ‘Remember? You cannot say no.’
‘How long must I do your bidding?’ he asked, half joking. ‘Years?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ve been keeping my big brothers in line since I was pretty small. You just might have to get used to it. Until you are well, at least.’ And we began, again, the cruel task of washing, and salving, and bandaging.
As it grew dark outside I told the tale of a warrior queen who had men after her like flies, but she never kept one for long; and Simon, who had heard it several times before, offered a dry commentary on the more unsavoury parts of the action. And eventually the job was over, the linen cleared away, and Father Brien came with soup and elderflower wine. There was a sort of peace around the three of us that night as we sat quietly by the fire with our simple meal; and later, Simon fell asleep like a child, cheek pillowed on one hand.
‘I’ll have to leave you for the day tomorrow,’ said Father Brien. ‘I need to call at the village to the west, for one of my brothers will be there awaiting papers from me; and we need supplies. I won’t ask if you can manage without me, for you have done so all along. But I will make sure to be back by nightfall. I will not have you left alone after dark.’
‘He is doing well,’ I said. ‘Another moon or two, and he may be ready to go on – but where?’
‘I’ll set that in train tomorrow,’ said Father Brien. ‘The brothers in the west will take him, I think. He can stay there a while, and when he is ready they will conduct him safely to his home, wherever that is.’
‘How?’
‘It can be arranged. But you are right; he cannot go while he is a risk to himself. And he cannot ride; by the time you suggest, he may perhaps be able to withstand the jolting of a cart. I will know more tomorrow night.’
True to his word, he was off at dawn the next day, taking advantage of a lull in the persistent rain. Simon and I had slept better, for he had woken only twice, and there was a little more colour in his cheeks. We watched from the doorway as the cart trundled away under the trees.
The morning was peaceful. There was a fine drizzle, on and off, and in between low slanting sunlight, as if the day could not make up its mind to be foul or fair. I tied back my hair and got to work preparing salves from dried lavender. I measured oil and beeswax; Simon watched me. Later, we shared some green apples and a rather hard bannock. Our supplies were indeed in need of replenishment. I wondered if there might be enough flour left for me to bake a few rolls.
Linn heard it before we did. Her ears pricked, she growled deep in her throat. I stared at her; there was no sound from outside. Then, an instant later, the silent message flashed into my mind with an urgent clarity.
Hide him, Sorcha. Now, quickly.
No time to question. I grabbed Simon by the arm.
‘Someone’s coming,’ I said, ‘get over to the cottage, quickly. Go in and bar the door.’
‘But –’
‘Don’t argue. Do as I say. And keep out of sight! Do it, Simon!’
He stared at me for a moment; my face must have been white, for Finbar’s message had the ring of extreme urgency. Linn barked once, twice, then she was out the door and down the track, tail streaming like a banner behind her.
‘Hurry!’ I half-dragged the unwilling Simon across the clearing to the cottage and shoved him inside. And now we could both hear it – the drum of hoofbeats, more than one horseman approaching fast up the track. ‘Stay out of sight! You’ll be safe here until they’ve gone.’
‘But what about –’
‘Shut the door! Quickly!’ Hoping he would have the sense to obey me, I left him and ran back to the cave, my feet squelching across the two sets of prints in the mud.
I threw myself inside, heart pounding, and only just in time, for there were voices, and the hoofbeats and barking mingled, and three men rode into the clearing: Finbar first, his face tight with anxiety, and two soldiers in field armour, with swords at their sides – my brother Liam, tall and grim; and Cormack, looking impressively grown up.
The dog was beside herself, and as Cormack slid down from his horse her barking reached a pitch of ecstasy. She jumped up, planting her forefeet on his chest, and licked his face with little sounds of delight. Cormack grinned, scratching her behind the ears. But the faces of the others bore no trace of good humour.
Finbar’s eyes were questioning as he approached the cave entrance where I stood. Where is he? But there was no time to respond.
‘Come in,’ I said hospitably. ‘Father Brien is away to the village; the cottage is locked up.