AS THE JOURNEY wore
on they all became progressively dirtier, wearier, quieter: even Creisa. There was no opportunity for clothing to be washed, and scant facility for personal ablutions. For Ana, who was accustomed to bathing in warm water with reasonable frequency and to other folk bearing her tunics, skirts, and smallclothes away for regular cleaning, the days were spent in an uncomfortable awareness of the layer
of dirt and sweat clogging her skin, the itches and crawling sensations, the mud stains around the hem of her skirt, and, worst of all, the lank, greasy texture of her long hair; the only way to wear it now was plaited tightly and coiled atop her head, fastened with pins, for she could not bear the touch of it against her neck.
They stopped late one afternoon close to a deep forest pool set among
rocks, and Ana was seized with the urge to bathe. Creisa was all for stripping off and plunging right in. Faolan would not allow it. When Ana tried to argue, he cut her off sharply.
“It may be springtime, but the water’s cold. What if you came down with an ague? We can’t take that risk. Besides, this would leave us vulnerable. If we were attacked while the two of you were disporting yourselves,
we’d be at a disadvantage. The men have enough to attend to. Don’t make their job any harder.”
“The men could do with a bath themselves,” Creisa muttered in a mutinous tone.
“Disporting?”
Ana echoed. “All I want to do is get clean. What sort of impression do you think I’ll make if I walk into Briar Wood looking like this, not to mention the smell?”
Faolan’s mouth twitched; he controlled it
before it became a smile. “I imagine you have a set of clean clothing in reserve, somewhere in that bundle that’s weighing down the packhorse,” he said. “Since we’re unlikely to encounter washerwomen between here and Briar Wood, and since we have still many days’ travel ahead of us, I suggest you wait until we’re nearly there. At that point, ask me again. You’re right, of course; this is a commercial
enterprise, a fact I was in danger of forgetting. As leader, I’m responsible for delivering the goods in prime condition.”
Creisa giggled. Anger made Ana’s cheeks hot; the man’s rudeness and her own frustration made her want to scream at him like a fishwife and spit in his supercilious face. To her horror, her voice came out wobbly and pathetic, as if she were on the verge of tears. “There’s
no need to be so unpleasant about it. I have tried not to make things any harder for you. This didn’t seem too much to ask.”
There was a brief silence while Faolan regarded her, his dark eyes assessing, and she did her best to meet his gaze steadily. As usual, she could glean no idea of what he was thinking. Her own face, she suspected, was flushed, filthy, and in no way evocative of new roses.
“I’m sorry,” Faolan said tightly and, turning on his heel, moved away to busy himself elsewhere. Ana stared after him. An apology was the last response she had expected.
“We could do it anyway, my lady,” Creisa whispered. “Don’t know about you, but I’d endure a tongue-lashing from that long-faced Gael for the sake of clean hair and a chance to wash my smallclothes. I could rinse a few things
out, hang them over a bush—”
“We must do as he says.” Bad manners or not, there was no doubt in Ana’s mind that Faolan was an expert and reliable leader, and that they must trust him to know what was best. “All the same, I do have another change of undergarments in my big bag, the one on the packhorse. I may even be able to find something for you, if you have none for yourself. Let us at least
wash out our smallclothes; we’ll dry them where we can. Perhaps by the fire …”
Creisa exploded in a new fit of giggles. “That’ll give the men something to think about, my lady. I’ll fetch your bag and we can see what’s what.”
“And Creisa?”
“Yes, my lady?”
“Please don’t refer to Faolan as a long-faced Gael. It may be the truth, but it sounds less than respectful. Just because he has forgotten
his manners, there’s no need for us to do the same.”
Creisa’s white teeth flashed in a charming grin. “Yes, my lady.”
They managed to wriggle out of shifts and drawers while keeping reasonably covered. Faolan must have had a word to the men, for they remained up the hill making camp, out of sight save for a guard with his back turned. The two women washed their faces, their arms, waded in up
to their knees, came as close to bathing as was possible without quite disobeying Faolan’s orders.
Creisa would not let Ana launder the smallclothes; she performed the task herself, pounding the soft linen with a smooth, round stone, working her fingers along the cloth, rinsing with such vigor that she did a good job of drenching both herself and Ana into the bargain. Ana sat on a flat stone,
watching Creisa work her magic on the sweatsoaked garments. At length the small, biting insects that inhabit such places in spring and summer began to swarm, droning, around the women’s exposed flesh, and it was time to retreat.
In the newly made encampment, a meal had been prepared and someone had strung a piece of rope between bushes in readiness for drying ladies’ apparel. Creisa draped shifts
and more intimate garments over the line without a shred of embamassment. The men tried hard not to look at them. Ana supposed it must be usual on such long journeys for men-at-arms to wear the same set of clothing day in, day out, and think nothing of it. She wondered if Faolan had ever traveled with women before. Indeed, she wondered if he understood anything at all about them. He must have
had a mother once, maybe sisters. A wife? A sweetheart? Perhaps he had left her behind when he turned against his own. When he decided to become a traitor. It was almost impossible to imagine him with a family. Ana pictured a tiny Faolan, the size of Bridei’s little son Derelei to whom she had sung her lullabies; whose hands she had held secure as he learned to walk. Faolan would not have let anyone
hold his hands. He would have learned to walk all by himself.
TUALA HAD BEEN giving instructions for the refurbishment of White Hill’s guest quarters; she had called in the formidable Mara, Broichan’s housekeeper from Pitnochie, to oversee preparations for the anticipated influx of visitors. With the assembly now close, it was important to get things right. Some royal wives would have
placed the preparation of accommodation, provisions, and entertainment for such an event before all else. But Tuala knew her own principal duty was to be there as a support and sounding board for Bridei. He was strong, capable, possessed of a remarkable maturity of outlook for a man of his years. But he had his vulnerabilities; Tuala, who had known and loved him all her life, was aware of every
one of those. She had promised she would always be there for him, and Tuala never broke her promises. Next in importance was her son, Derelei. Because the royal succession came through the female line, Derelei would never be king, but he must still be raised in love and wisdom, balance and judgment, as any child deserves. He came second only because, for now, there were others who could provide what
he needed. Derelei was universally adored in the king’s household. The women vied for the opportunity to play with him and tend to his small needs; the men made a pet of him, and often it was difficult for Tuala to get her son to herself so she could talk to him, sing to him, whisper secrets, or simply sit quiet with the child in her arms, pondering the wonder of this new blessing the gods had
granted her.
It so nearly hadn’t happened, her and Bridei. She’d been on the point of stepping, or flying, beyond the margin into a world without pain or sorrow. If she had not hesitated a moment, if Bridei had not called out to her, she would have traveled there and remained immortal. That was what they had told her, the Otherworld folk who had shadowed her steps and whispered in her ears all
through the dark days and troubled nights of that difficult time. She would have lived forever. She would have left Bridei on his own. And there would have been no Derelei.
It was unthinkable now. In the event, Bridei had come for her, had saved her, and matters had taken their true, god-ordained course. The Shining One was content with their choices, Tuala thought. Derelei had made his arrival
into the world on a night of full moon, which seemed entirely apt, since this goddess had taken a particular interest in Tuala’s life from the very start.
As for Bridei, he had made a strong beginning as king of Fortriu. Already, only five years into his reign, he was massing his forces against the Gaels. Who would have thought it would be so soon? The Flamekeeper, too, must be happy. As god
of men, of courage, of virtuous struggle, he must indeed see his own earthly embodiment in this strong young leader whose bright eyes and forthright words kindled the spark of inspiration in every man’s heart.
For all that, a question remained unanswered for Tuala, worrying at her. She had never found out who she really was. Her Otherworld visitors had not enlightened her as to who, precisely,
had decided to abandon her, as an infant, on Broichan’s doorstep at Pitnochie in the middle of winter. And she wanted to know. Certainly, she had made a decision not to employ her magical talents of scrying and transformation, of conversation with the creatures of the forest, of conjuring light and shadow. When such sources of information had provided answers in the past, they had often been cryptic,
difficult ones, more like further questions. That did not mean she felt no urge to employ her arts; but she would not use them. She knew how perilous a path a woman of the Good Folk trod as queen of Fortriu. There would always be those who sought to undermine Bridei’s authority, and she was determined they would not employ her as a tool. That did not stop her from needing the truth, a truth
her son, in his turn, would want to hear when he was grown.
Tuala did not speak of this, not even to Bridei. She whispered it in her prayers sometimes, thinking the Shining One might help her, for this goddess had ever looked on her with kindness. So far the Shining One had provided no revelations. As for the two strange beings who had teased and cajoled Tuala, bullied and tested her, the girl
Gossamer with her fey eyes and floating garments and the youth Woodbine of the nut-brown skin and ivy-wreathing locks, they had never come back. As soon as Tuala had made her choice to be human, to live in this world, the two of them had vanished as if they had never been. At times, Tuala wondered if the whole strange sequence of events had been a kind of crazy dream.
It was early afternoon,
and Derelei would be in the garden playing in the care of one of the young serving women. Instructions complete, Mara had more or less shooed Tuala away, as if she were five years old again and a queen only in her own imagination. Mara had changed little since the early days; she preferred to be in sole charge and did her job with dour efficiency. Mara was quite undaunted by the responsibility of
a royal household many times bigger than the one she managed at Pitnochie. Already she had folk scampering in all directions to fetch fresh rushes, scour floors, brush down high cobwebs, and hang blankets to air.
Tuala walked through the hallways of White Hill, past the closed door of the room where Bridei was in consultation with his chieftains. They were preparing for the arrival of the delegation
from the southern kingdom of Circinn, always a challenge and, under the current delicate circumstances, this time a particular test. She made her way out along a flagged path between patches of grass and beds of gray-leaved herbs, wormwood, chamomile, lavender. There were stone benches here, positioned to catch the afternoon sunshine, and little figures of gods and creatures were set about
pools and in niches in the stone wall that surrounded the garden, sheltering it from the fierce northerly winds. It was a place of repose. Ana had liked it; she had spent many happy times here chatting to Tuala, playing with Derelei, doing her delicate embroidery. Tuala missed her. She wondered how far Ana had traveled on her journey by now, and what she was making of it. Perhaps they were already
at Briar Wood. Maybe Alpin would be a kind man, a man like Bridei. Ana had wept when she said good-bye, despite her obvious efforts at control. For all her understanding of duty, she had been sad and frightened. Tuala knew how that felt. She wished with all her heart that it had not been necessary to do it so quickly; so cruelly. But it was necessary. It was vital. Alpin must be won over before
Bridei’s forces went into action against the Gaels of Dalriada. And, contrary to the word that was being put about, that would not be happening next spring. The council would not be at Gathering, but at the feast of Rising, when spring turned to summer. The men of Fortriu would move in autumn, two seasons earlier than their enemies anticipated. They would surge westward in great numbers; by the time
Gabhran of Dalriada received word of their advance, it would be too late for the Gaels to mount a strong counteraction, too late for Gabhran to summon his kinsmen from Ulaid and Tirconnell to back up his own armies. This time, the Gaels would be defeated. They would be driven out of Fortriu. Even if Circinn refused to aid him, Bridei would make it so.
They should have told Ana, Tuala thought.
Not to do so was to act as if this royal bride were too foolish to keep her mouth shut on matters of strategic importance. Not only that, it made the decision to dispatch Ana to the lands of the Caitt seem cruel and unnecessary. What bride wants to confront her intended husband before he has agreed to wed her? That is to court humiliation. What young woman wishes to marry a man about whom she knows
nothing beyond the fact that there is a question in his past? An arranged marriage was one thing; this went far beyond that.