‘Come in and sit,’ she told him. ‘May I offer you a drink? Ale, uisge, or a calming tisane.’
‘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.’