'The tisane would be pleasant,' he said, removing his sword belt and cloak.
'Would you like it sweetened?' she called from the kitchen.
'Aye, lady. I have a sweet tooth.'
She returned with a mug and passed it to him. Then she sat opposite him. 'Bane is your cousin. Why would you need my help to speak to a member of your own family?'
'My father dislikes him, and, though I have not met Bane, I wondered if he would refuse my request because of the bad blood between them.'
'Put your mind at ease, Finnigal. Bane would never see children go hungry because of his quarrel with Fiallach.'
'It sounds as if you like him.'
'Indeed I do. His treatment by his own family has been shameful.' She saw his face harden. 'Reserve your judgment until you have met him, Finnigal.'
'I do not judge him,' the young man told her. 'I do not know him. The Lady Meria says he is – as his name shows – accursed. Ill fortune will follow any who seek his company. She says the blood of a bastard is thin, and that, at heart, all bastards are treacherous and mean-spirited.'
'Ah well, I bow to her judgment,' said Vorna coldly. 'She knows more about mean-spiritedness than any person I have ever met.'
Finnigal rose. 'I did not come here to listen to slanders against the king's mother,' he said. 'Will you aid me with Bane?'
'No. You will not need me. Treat him with respect and he will agree to your request. Be warned though, young man – if you offer him any discourtesy you will pay for it dearly.'
'I was raised to offer courtesy to all people,' said Finnigal.
'Then you will have no problem with Bane,' she said.
Finnigal offered a slight bow, strapped on his sword belt, looped his cloak over his shoulders, and left the house.
Vorna sat quietly, seeking an inner calm, which continued to evade her.
Gwenheffyr had always been reserved, a quiet child who had grown into a shy woman. Her gentle nature radiated harmony, and no-one had ever known her to raise her voice in anger. As a child she had been often ill, and on three occasions had come close to death. 'She will not be long-lived,' some said. 'She is too delicate.'
Slim and small, her dark hair emphasizing the paleness of her features, Gwen was seen as a fragile creature. It had surprised all who knew her that she had given birth to three lusty babes.
She sat now at Ruathain's bedside, little Orrin beside her. Her youngest child, Badraig, was asleep in his cot close by. 'Why doesn't he get better?' asked Orrin, peering at Ruathain's face, eerily pale in the lantern light, and damp with sweat.
'I am sure that he will… soon,' said Gwen, putting her arm round Orrin and kissing his head.
Orrin took hold of Ruathain's skeletal hand, and began twisting the white gold and moonstone ring on his brother's finger. 'It will fall off soon,' said the boy.
Gwen nodded, and tears began to form. She took a deep breath. 'Time for you to sleep, little man,' she said.
'I'm not tired, Mam,' argued Orrin.
'Then just lie down for a little while, then come out and join us by the hearth,' said Gwen, leading Orrin to the second bed. The little boy climbed onto the bed and slid his legs under the covers.
'I won't sleep,' he said.
Then I'll see you soon by the fire,' she told him, leaning down and kissing his cheek. Rising from the bedside she took a last look at Ruathain, and walked out of the room. Meria was sitting by the fire, a white shawl around her shoulders. Gwen moved past her to the door and pulled on a pair of shoes. Then she took a cloak from the peg by the door.
'Where are you going?' asked Meria.
'I thought', said Gwen softly, 'that I would ask Vorna to tend Ruathain.'
Meria glanced up, her features hard. 'To what point?' she asked. 'Her son has great talent as a healer – far greater than hers. If he could not heal the boy, then calling upon her would be a waste of time.'
'Even so…'
'And she is no friend to our family,' snapped Meria. 'I would not wish to see her invited to my home. Let us speak no more of it.'
Gwen sighed, replaced the cloak on its peg and moved to the chair opposite. For a while she looked into the fire, thinking of how strong and healthy Ruathain had been before this dreadful illness. Sadness swept over her. 'I think he is going to die,' she said, tears in her eyes. 'Vorna might know of some remedy…'
'I said we will speak no more of it!'
Gwen sat very quietly, Meria's anger causing her to tremble. She had always hated raised voices and argument. Closing her eyes she thought of Bran, and wondered how such a warm and compassionate soul could have sprung from a harsh and unfeeling woman like Meria. Gwen wished she could have known Bran's father, the first Ruathain. Men still spoke of him with fondness, and talked of his love of family and his affinity with children. Meria had never once hugged Gwen's sons, or shown any genuine affection towards them. It was a mystery to Gwen. Opening her eyes she glanced across at Meria. The older woman seemed to be dozing. Gwen rose from the chair and moved back into the bedroom.
Orrin was fast asleep, his thumb in his mouth. Ruathain was lying very still, his skin gleaming in the lantern light. She stroked his brow. The skin was hot, but he seemed more comfortable. Gwen sat down beside him, holding his hand.
She was still there two hours later when his breathing grew more shallow. Suddenly his eyes opened. He looked at Gwen and gave a smile. She felt him squeeze her fingers.
Then he died.
Bane could not sleep. Throwing back the covers he climbed from his bed, pulled on a knee-length tunic of pale grey wool, and walked out into the main room. The fire was almost dead and he blew it to life, adding fresh fuel. The events of the day would not leave him. Riding into Lorca's camp had been an act of almost suicidal stupidity, and he was angry with himself. Had it not been for the crippled warrior Grale, he would now be dead, his body dumped in the forest, food for foxes and worms.
From the back bedroom he could hear Gryffe snoring. The sound was somehow comforting, although, in a way he could not quite fathom, it left Bane feeling isolated and alone. He sat quietly, feeling the heat of the fire wash over him. Truth to tell, he missed Rage and Telors. All the while he had been in Stone he had thought of the mountains and forests of Caer Druagh with a fondness covered by the warmth of the word home. Yet now he was here the same warmth touched him when he remembered Rage. It was as if contentment was always somewhere else, floating before him like a wraith, ever beckoning, never found.
He heard the gentle creak of a bedboard and then the soft padding of feet upon the rugs of the floor. Bane glanced up to see plump Iswain move into the room, carefully and quietly pulling shut the bedroom door behind her.
She walked over to him. 'Shall I fetch you something to eat?' she said, keeping her voice low.
Looking into her round and friendly face he met her gaze. Her dark eyes seemed sorrowful in the firelight. 'Are you all right?' he asked her.
'Aye, I am fine. I could prepare a tisane.'
'No. I need nothing.'
They sat in silence for a little while, Iswain taking up the iron poker and prodding at the burning logs.
'Talk to me,' he said softly. 'What is troubling you?'
She took a deep breath, and seemed about to speak. But then she shook her head. 'Everything is all right now. My man is asleep in his bed. There is food in the larder, and no enemies close by. Who can ask for more than that?'
True,' he told her.
'Gryffe says that the next time a druid passes we will Walk the Tree. He says that when the summer is here he
