Blade of Fortriu, Page 2

  It was interesting, Ana thought, how deftly Tuala managed to avoid discussion of any special abilities her son might exhibit, and indeed, of her own talents in certain branches of the magical arts. As queen, she seemed determined to avoid those matters, as if they might be in some way dangerous. Ana knew Tuala’s power at scrying; it had become the stuff of legend at Banmerren, the school for wise women. And there was a very strange tale of a time when Tuala had run away, and what had befallen both her and Bridei in the forest of Pitnochie, a tale neither of them had ever told in full. Still, one must abide by the queen’s wishes. If she wanted to be ordinary, if she preferred her son to be unexceptional, one must pretend, outwardly at least, that this was so.

  Ferada shifted a little on the bench. “Father plans to seek permission to dissolve his marriage,” she said grimly. “We don’t know if Mother is still alive, or where she is, only that she traveled beyond the borders of Fortriu. Father has good grounds to do this. I understand it’s the king’s druid who makes such decisions. I think Broichan will allow it.”

  “And?” Ana prompted.

  “Father wishes to remarry. The widow’s name is Brethana; she’s quite young. I like her, inasmuch as a girl can like her father’s second wife. The boys don’t care one way or another. At that age their own activities are all that matters in the world. Once Father marries, there’ll be nothing to keep me at Raven’s Well.”

  There was a pause, during which Tuala and Ana exchanged a meaningful glance.

  “You know,” Tuala said, “I feel quite certain the next thing Ferada wants to tell us has nothing to do with suitors and marriages. I see a certain look on her face.”

  “Mm,” Ana mused, “the look she always used to get just before coming out with something outrageous.”

  “I’m not sure if I should tell you yet,” Ferada said. “I need to talk to Fola.”

  “Fola! You mean you’re going to return to Banmerren and become a wise woman?” Tuala’s tone expressed the incredulity Ana felt; whatever their friend’s abilities, and these were many, Ferada had never seemed destined for a future in the service of the goddess.

  Ferada’s cheeks reddened. “I am going to Banmerren. Or, if Fola comes for the assembly, I will speak to her here at White Hill. And no, of course I’m not planning to become a priestess. I have a proposition for Fola. It troubles me that so many young women of noble blood receive, at best, half an education, and more commonly none at all save in the domestic arts. I know Fola provides places for them at Banmerren, as she did for Ana and me. But what’s offered is lacking in structure and depth; no sooner does a student start to get interested than she’s whisked off back home, or to court to be paraded before the men, or into some fellow’s bed to have his heirs put in her belly. Don’t look like that, Tuala; I know your own experience has been somewhat different but, believe me, for most girls it’s a brutal and arbitrary business. If there was a place where young women could stay just a little longer, learn a little more, gain some wisdom before they are thrust out into that world of men, I think we might equip them better to stand up for themselves and play a real part in affairs. So that’s what I want to do. Start a school; or rather, expand the one Fola has already to include a whole branch for girls who are not to become priestesses, but live their lives in the world. I plan to ask Fola if she will let me organize it; let me be in charge of it. I have done quite well with Uric and Bedo. And I learn quickly. What do you think?”

  Tuala was smiling. “A bold idea, entirely typical of you, Ferada,” she said. “I’d be surprised if Fola were not interested. What about your father?”

  “He’s not entirely comfortable with it, but his new marriage is foremost in his mind. Besides, he owes me. I’ve done a good job of managing his household and the boys; I’ve given five years to it.”

  “You will encounter some opposition, that is certain,” said Tuala. “Broichan is unlikely to support such an idea; he does not believe in education for women, save for those destined to serve the goddess. Many of the men will think it unnecessary, a waste of time. Some will consider it dangerous. Not all men are as open-minded as your father, who always encouraged you to express your opinions.”

  “What of your own marriage?” Ana asked. “How would you achieve this plan if you had a husband and family to look after? Surely you don’t intend to sacrifice that—”

  “Sacrifice?” Ferada’s tone was scathing. “Oh, Ana. Can’t you entertain the possibility that a woman might reach deeper fulfillment in her life without a man?”

  Ana felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “I—” she began.

  “I’m sorry,” Ferada said in a different tone. “I’ve upset you; I didn’t mean to. It’s been so long since I was able to speak openly, and my head is so full of ideas. I want to teach. I want to make a difference. I want to be sure I don’t waste my life.”

  “I don’t intend to waste mine,” Ana said, unable to ignore the implication.

  “Then you must hope whatever suitor Bridei has in mind for you is a paragon of male virtue,” Ferada said. “Tuala, will you speak to Bridei about my intentions? His support for the general idea of it would help me immensely.”

  “Of course,” Tuala said. “And you should ask him yourself, as well. I feel certain he will approve. He admires you, Ferada.”

  Ferada fell unaccountably silent, and at that moment the baby began to squirm, drawing several deep breaths that seemed to presage a storm of some kind.

  “We should go in,” Tuala said, rising and hitching the child expertly to her hip. “He’s getting hungry; it must be all that walking. You’re good with him, Ana.”

  “I like it,” said Ana. “Seeing him grow; watching all the little changes.”

  “All very well when it’s someone else’s,” Ferada observed, “and you can give it back when it yells or dirties itself or gets a fit of the midnight terrors. Count yourselves lucky you don’t have five or six of them milling around your ankles. If they’d married us off when they first started speaking of suitors, we’d each have a brood by now.”

  “I’d love another child,” Tuala said with a smile. “If the Shining One blesses me with a daughter, Ferada, I’ll be sure to send her to you for her education.”

  “That’s if Fola doesn’t get in first,” Ferada said.

  THE KING’S COURT at White Hill was built on the site of an ancient fortress fashioned of stone laced with fired wood. Traces of those walls still remained deep in the undergrowth that clad the steep slopes of the hill. Here and there under the shade of tall pines a crumbling fragment of shaped stone would suggest a rampart, a wellhead, a stretch of paved way; the stream that made its circuitous course down the flanks of White Hill flowed into basins and pools both natural and constructed. The place was considered impregnable. The steep pitch of the hill itself, the sheer, strongly built fortress walls, the views allowed by strategic gaps in the screening cover of the trees gave the occupants great advantage in defense. From here, one could see both northward to the ocean and southward to the changeable waters of Serpent Lake and the dark hills of the Great Glen. The natural supply of fresh water and the broad expanse of level ground at the summit of White Hill, now covered with the halls and dwellings, the gardens and workshops of Bridei’s establishment, all within the massive new walls, would allow the occupants to withstand a siege for as long as it took for attackers to tire of it, or for reinforcements to arrive.

  To the east, along the coast, lay the old defensive fort of Caer Pridne, which had housed the royal court of Fortriu under Bridei’s predecessor and many other kings before him. Bridei had been young when he came to the throne, but possessed of a powerful will for change. At one and twenty, two years into his reign, he had completed the construction of White Hill and shifted his headquarters there, breaking with tradition. The first celebration in his new court was his marriage to Tuala, then barely sixteen years of age. Other changes followed. The most risky was Bridei’s decision to alter the practice of a certain rit
ual that marked the year’s descent into the dark. The last time that had been attempted, the offended god had exacted a terrible retribution. But the chieftains and elders accepted Bridei’s decision. It was known that both he and his druid, Broichan, enacted personal rites in place of the old observance, and that these were demanding in nature. Folk did not ask for details. Their trust in their new young king was strong indeed. There was a quality in the man that swept others along, a passionate dedication and blazing energy, tempered by caution, subtlety, and cleverness. After all, Bridei had grown up as Broichan’s foster son, and Broichan was a powerful mage, chief adviser to both the old king and the new.

  There had been whispers in the early days. Broichan was not well liked; many feared his power and distrusted the esoteric nature of his knowledge. Some had said that having Broichan’s foster son as king would be just the same as having the druid himself on the throne. Was not this his carefully created puppet, set up to conduct the affairs of Fortriu to Broichan’s plan? From the first day of his kingship it was clear Bridei had a mind of his own and intended to make his decisions independently. He formed a council composed of a clever balance of the older, more experienced men and those younger chieftains who were prepared to countenance new ideas and consider calculated risks. He weighed druids against war leaders, scholars against men of action. On occasion he included women in his group of advisers: not only the senior priestess, Fola, who ran the establishment where girls were trained in the service of the Shining One, but also the old king’s widow, Rhian of Powys, and sometimes his own wife, Tuala.

  While the decisions were largely made at White Hill, Bridei maintained strongholds elsewhere. Caer Pridne still housed a garrison, stables, training yards, and an armory. Raven’s Well in the southwest and Thorn Bend in the southeast were strategic outposts under the leadership of influential chieftains loyal to the king. All knew Bridei’s plan was to strengthen Fortriu sufficiently and then move against the Gaels. All knew the time was drawing ever closer. Exactly when was a matter for the laying of wagers.

  The day after Faolan’s return to White Hill, Ana was called to the royal apartments. Derelei was out in the garden with the nursemaid; within the chamber Bridei and Tuala used for informal meetings, the king and queen were sitting quietly, waiting for her. Their serious faces alarmed Ana. She had a fair idea of what was coming, but she had expected Bridei, at least, to present the news as positive. The little white dog, Ban, who was Bridei’s constant companion, arose from his place beneath the king’s chair, stance alert, then, seeing a friend, settled once more. Moving forward into the chamber, Ana saw that there was a fourth person present. Faolan, Bridei’s assassin, Bridei’s spy, Bridei’s right-hand man, was leaning against the wall by the narrow window, his form in shadow. His eyes traveled over her as she went to sit by the table. Ana saw in his face, not the open admiration that other men offered her, but a cool assessment: plainly, the Gael was calculating her value as marketable goods.

  “You know why we have called you, I imagine?” Bridei said as Tuala poured mead.

  Ana was suddenly tense with nerves. She gave a tight nod. These were her friends. She dined with them every day. She played with their son. Nonetheless, Bridei had such power over her future that, for a moment, she was afraid. “I understand Faolan has news of this Caitt chieftain, Alpin,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “He has, perhaps, shown an interest in marriage?”

  A brief silence. Evidently her guess was wrong.

  “We find ourselves in rather a difficult situation,” Bridei said, “and, as a result, we’re about to ask for your help, Ana. What we need you to do is difficult. Awkward. It will mean great change for you.”

  Ana had no idea what he meant.

  “We’ve called you here now, just the four of us, so that we can give you this news in private and allow you some time for consideration,” Bridei went on. “There’s to be a formal council this evening, at which our decision must be made on this matter. Faolan’s news has made this urgent. Critical.”

  “Bridei,” Tuala said, “I’m sure Ana would prefer it if you just set everything out for her. This is a great deal to ask. She needs all the facts.”

  Faolan cleared his throat.

  “You know, of course,” Bridei said, “of the great venture we plan against the Gaels in the near future. Gods willing, our old foes will be swept from the shores of Priteni lands once and for all, and their Christian faith with them. In this endeavor we need whatever allies we can get. Circinn has been invited to an assembly before full summer, as you’ll be aware. We have high hopes of securing Drust the Boar’s cooperation this time, for all he let the missionaries of the cross into his own kingdom. I also intend to set in place what alliances I can with the northern realms of the Priteni.”

  “My kin in the Light Isles?” Perhaps, against all expectations, he was sending her home.

  “I’ve sent a request to your cousin for armed men. The message also sought his formal consent to my bestowing your hand in a particular quarter.”

  “I see.”

  “Ana”—Bridei’s tone was kind—“you’ve known this was coming for a long time. You are in your nineteenth year now, well past the age when you might have expected to be wed.”

  “Just tell her, Bridei,” said Tuala with uncharacteristic sharpness.

  “I’d planned to investigate the chieftain we had in mind for you, Alpin of Briar Wood, more thoroughly before approaching him,” Bridei said. “Thus far, Umbrig is the only Caitt chieftain to pledge support against the Gaels. The Caitt are a strange breed, full of pride and aggression. Alpin is probably the most powerful, and he’s also the hardest to get to, his territory being both remote and situated in the middle of an impenetrable forest. Messages travel slowly.”

  Ana thought hard. “Don’t the Caitt usually stay outside other people’s disputes?” she asked. “They crossed to the Light Isles from time to time in their war boats; I can remember them at my cousin’s court. He used to buy them off with gifts.”

  “They are of our own kind,” Tuala put in. “They share the same blood and the same tongue as the Priteni everywhere, in Fortriu, Circinn, or the Light Isles. And if Umbrig can pledge warriors, so could Alpin. That could make all the difference.”

  Ana waited. She felt she might be missing something.

  “Faolan,” said Bridei, “tell the lady Ana what you have discovered; at least, that part of it we agreed is safe to tell.”

  Faolan folded his arms and stared into the middle distance. He was an unexceptional-looking man, of average height and wiry build, the sort of man who can blend into any crowd. His only distinguishing feature was the lack of facial tattoos which, since he was plainly neither druid nor scholar, marked him out as not of Priteni blood. Ana wondered if, as a spy, he worked assiduously on being instantly forgettable.

  “I heard talk of a second territory,” he said. “On the west coast, with a sheltered anchorage. If this information is accurate, the place is ideally placed for access by sea to the Dalriadan territories. That’s the first piece of information, and it means we’re not likely to be the only player trying to woo this Caitt leader with incentives.”

  An incentive. She had never been called that before. “And the second piece of information?” she asked him coolly.

  “You understand,” Faolan said, “that you cannot be privy to all the details; in the wrong hands, information can be dangerous.”

  Ana was outraged. “I may be a hostage,” she said in her most queenly tone, “but I can be relied on to be unswervingly loyal to Bridei. I don’t much care for your implication.”

  Faolan looked through her. “The strongest man’s loyalty can break under torture,” he said flatly. “You’ll be told what you need to know, no more. Alpin is a powerful player, far more so than we realized. I heard that he may be on the verge of agreeing to an alliance with Gabhran of Dalriada. We have to move swiftly. We cannot afford to have that western anchorage in Gaelic hands, or Alpin’s pri
vate army ranged against us in battle. It’s simple enough.”

  “I see.” Ana struggled for calm. “So you plan to offer him a royal bride?” she asked Bridei. “To render this powerful player still more powerful by offering him the opportunity to father a king?”

  “Alpin is wealthy,” Bridei said. “He has land, men, cattle, silver. We can’t tempt him with any of the usual things. Our leverage rests on two facts we’ve gleaned from Faolan’s investigations. One, Alpin craves respectability and status. Past history has rendered him less than well regarded by the other Caitt chieftains, such as Umbrig, for all his natural son is fostered out iri that household. Two—”

  “He isn’t married,” Ana said.

  “Exactly. He is a widower with no legitimate children. You see what an opportunity this is.”

  “Bridei understands how difficult this is for you, Ana.” Tuala’s small, clear voice was apologetic. “Although you have been anticipating this for so long, that makes it no less daunting to face the reality, I know. Please ask any questions you like; I imagine it will be far easier to do so now, informally, than at tonight’s council.”

  Ana swallowed. “Why a council?” she asked. “Is not this Bridei’s decision?” One thing was certain; her own choices did not come into it at all.

  “My advisers and war leaders need to hear Faolan’s news at first hand,” the king said. “It’s significant.”

  It seemed to Ana that all of them were holding something back. “There’s more, isn’t there?” she said, looking from Tuala’s big, troubled eyes to Bridei’s honest blue ones to Faolan’s dark, closed-off stare. “What?”

  “Time,” Faolan said. “There’s no time. You need to go now. That’s what it amounts to.”

  Ana stared at him.