Bound

9. I Fear He Be Right

4

I Fear He Be Right

The thin mist of rain had strengthened into a steady downpour as Thomas hurried back to the workshop with the bag of herbs in his hand.

When he stepped in, Nona was tending to his father, placing a wet cloth on his forehead. But beside her, the human woman sat upright, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

Thomas froze as he saw her, his stomach knotting.

Nona looked up at him. “Thomas,” she said, her gaze darting between him and the woman.

Thomas held out the bag. “Here are the herbs.”

She rose and took them from him. “Thank you.” She hesitated. “I must make a draught and more of the poultice your father will need. But I will stay if you like.”

He looked at her, seeing the dark shadows under her eyes that spoke to her weariness. “No. Go do what you have to do. Then rest. Send Hilda over with it all once it’s ready.”

She nodded, her face troubled. “Your father is still feverish. The Healing did not work as well as I hoped. He is not yet out of danger.” She looked quickly at the woman, who bent over her husband, holding his hand, then looked back at Thomas. “Be kind to her.” She spoke in a low voice so that only he could hear. “She is a Sensitive and knows the ways of the Fey. But think you, be careful what you say. She is newly wakened from her dreams.”

Thomas pressed his lips together but nodded.

Nona put a hand on his arm. “Watch your father carefully. Keep him as cool as you can. Fetch me if he wakens.”

Thomas nodded again. “Thank you. For—” he waved at his father, his words failing him.

“As to that, I am a Healer. This is what I do.” Despite her dismissal, Thomas saw a faint blush on her cheeks as she turned back to the woman. “This is Master Thomas, your husband’s son whom we spoke of. I must go to prepare more medicine. You are safe with Thomas, never fear.” She grabbed her cloak from the hook by the door and, with a last warning look at Thomas, exited the workshop, closing the door behind her.

He hung up his cloak and then faced the woman once again, a reluctance to approach her freezing his feet to the floor. Silence fell, broken only by the soft patter of rain.

“Thomas,” she said, her gaze travelling over him, wonder touching her face. “By all the saints, I would know ye anywhere. Ye be much like him, so ye are.” She spoke with an Irish accent that made the Anglic words sound lyrical. A faint tremor marred her words. She clutched the blanket to her and lapsed into silence.

Be kind to her. Nona’s admonition echoed in his head, and he took a deep breath, trying to calm his roiling emotions. He forced himself to move, stepping into the workshop and crouching beside his father.

Matthew’s face was pale and sweaty, and as Thomas touched his forehead, he felt the heat of him.

The woman knelt on the other side of her husband. “The Lady says his wound is healing, but I saw the worry in her eyes.” Her warm hazel eyes filled with tears as she looked at Matthew, stroking his hair. “Will he die, do ye think?”

The question sent a pang through him. “I don’t know.” He can’t. Please, God.

She looked at him, stricken. Rioting auburn curls reached down past her shoulders, red highlights shimmering in the candlelight. She had a long nose and a wide mouth, with a small scar on the chin. The impression of strength of character in her face was reinforced when she looked up at him and her eyes met his directly. She was beautiful, he recognized. He clamped down the flash of anger at the thought. None of this is her fault, he reminded himself, but he couldn’t help feeling as if it were.

Her gaze roved over her husband again, pain flashing across her face. “I see the shadow on him, but mayhap that is just the echo of my dream…” Her voice faded, and she drew in a breath and looked up at him again, sitting back on her heels. “I am Fidelma, your father’s wife.” She spoke firmly, her eyes steady on his, although he could see a faint pulse beating rapidly in her throat.

As much as the words stung, Thomas had to admire her courage. At least she was not going to beat around the bush.

She wiped the tears from her eyes and stood. “Come, sit by the fire. We will talk while your father sleeps. ’Tis a good thing, for I think we have things to say that neither of us would have him hear.” She walked to the fire, bending to scoop out some of the briw that simmered on the hearth. She looked back at him expectantly, holding out the wooden bowl.

He was hungry, and she was right. Best to get this over with. He stepped past his father and took the bowl, sitting down on a stool. She handed him some fresh bread to scoop it out with and sat down on another stool that she dragged from the table.

The stew was hot and tasty, fragrant with onion and carrots. He was grateful that the food gave him an excuse not to speak. He had no idea what to say.

“Matthew has spoken of ye so often that it is like a dream that ye be here now,” Fidelma said, breaking the silence. “He has prayed for ye often, too, so he has.”

He put the bowl down, his appetite gone. “Has he.”

“Aye. He told me ye might come. He prayed that ye would.”

Thomas felt his face flush. “I never knew him to pray before. I learned to do that on my own, after he left. After we thought he’d died.”

She flinched, but her chin rose. “Aye, and that’s a tale to tell, so it is. But ’tis his tale to tell, not mine.” She paused and took a breath. “This is difficult, to be sure. But know this. I love yer da, and he loves me. He and I made vows before God, which only He can set aside. ’Tis a truth that wounds ye, but ’tis true nonetheless.”

Anger flared and he stood, his fists clenching. “And what about the vows he made to my mother? Don’t they count?” The words came out before he could stop them, his voice harsh.

Alarm flooded her face as she jumped up, the stool clattering behind her. One hand stretched out to ward against him as she took a step back. Her gaze roved over him, and she crossed herself. “God in Heaven, but I fear he be right.” Her voice was low, throbbing with fear.

“Who?” But he had half an idea whom she meant. He took a breath, putting his hands up with the palms facing her. “Look. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. This is…difficult.” He heaved a breath. “What are you talking about?”

Fidelma took a breath and wrapped her arms around her middle, her eyes haunted. “I wilna speak his name, though it burned through my dreams like a flame that beckoned me, were I a moth. For if I speak it, he has told me that he will hear, and come with the Hounds to collect me. And may the saints preserve me, for there is half my heart that wishes for it.”

“You have to resist. He will destroy you!” He understood that sweet, twisted longing. It had haunted him after his encounter with the demons and still echoed through his dreams, sometimes.

“Oh, aye,” she said shakily. She closed her eyes and crossed herself again quickly. When she opened her eyes, some of the fear had faded, replaced by resolve. She picked up the stool and sat down again. “Sit down, then. I will speak of this only once, for I fear the telling of it will bring his Hounds on me, bayin’ for me blood. Listen well, for I wilna say it again.”

Thomas sat down at the workbench, his stomach queasy in anticipation.