I’m rising to leave when I decide to ask one more question.
“You mention my father has been unwell. I’ve only spoken with him once since I arrived here. What is wrong with him?” I wait for the same answer Seanan gave me.
“You haven’t spoken with Master Seanan?” asks Fiachna.
“I’d prefer to hear your answer,” I say.
“Your father keeps himself to himself these days. We take our instructions from Master Seanan. I cannot give you an expert opinion. I gather Lord Scannal does not wish to consult Brother Petrán, though he has done so quite often in the past over less significant ailments. It’s unfortunate. But your father is his own man and will not be pushed.”
“I see.” But I don’t. Not fully. This doesn’t add up. “Thank you for being so honest, Master Fiachna. I hope the leg mends quickly, and I wish you safe for whatever comes next, whether it is at Oakhill or elsewhere.”
“Alas, I cannot rise to bid you farewell in the manner most appropriate.” His tone tells me Fiachna is wearing a wry smile. “But it’s good to see you, lad, even under such circumstances. I’ll be in hopes that you regain your sight, if only so you can see that your half uncial is not as bad as you remember. As for me, Father Eláir always has room for one or two lay brethren, and if a man can turn his hand to illuminated capitals, so much the better. Farewell to you for now, Master Dau. And you, young man.”
As Corb and I walk back out, my mind is teeming with questions. I knew Seanan was ruthless. I knew he cared nothing for the feelings of others. I knew he was ambitious. But to take over my father’s responsibilities almost completely? If that is necessary, Father must be seriously ill, perhaps dying. And yet he’s refused the aid of a physician. It makes no sense. What am I not understanding? What am I missing?
29
LIOBHAN
The musicians are rehearsing outside, taking advantage of the good weather. They’ve settled themselves on a level patch of grass to the eastern side of the house, the drummer and harper sitting on stools, the piper and whistle player standing. An audience of household workers has been drawn by the sweet sounds. Seems Lord Scannal is sparing no expense in his effort to impress this girl, or more likely her father. Dau, Corb, and I come to a halt at the back of the small crowd as the band launches into “Over Fox Hill,” a tune I know like the palm of my hand.
I can’t keep still. The music thrums through my body, setting my feet tapping. The fellow with the small-pipes is taking the main melody, with the whistle player joining in for the refrains. When I play this piece I add different embellishments every time the refrain comes around. It keeps me and my bandmates on our toes. This band has a woman on the whistle; she’s doing a good job, but her approach is rather workmanlike. I wonder if I’m too showy? No doubt Seanan would think so if he ever heard me playing.
When the musicians reach the end of the jig, we all applaud. “More!” someone shouts, predictably. They run through a few songs. Each of them takes a turn singing; they’re adequate for the job, and the woman has a nice pure tone, but there’s nobody outstanding there. Nobody like Brocc. When they play “High Days of Summer” they invite their audience to join in the chorus, which is a soaring melody full of heart, expressing the poet’s longing to return to his home valley where he met the love of his life many years before. So we sing, and the sound fills me with the same deep yearning for home. It’s good to set my voice free. There’ll be no more singing in the evenings until they send us back to the stables. I’m happy that Corb and Dau are joining in now. Both of them can hold a tune, though Dau has the better voice, rough-edged but true. I wish he’d sing more often.
We reach the end of the final refrain and the musicians put down their instruments. Seems the rehearsal is over. I become aware that quite a few people are looking at me, including the piper and the bodhrán player, and I understand rather late that I’ve made an error. For a little, I forgot that here at Oakhill I’m not a musician in front of an audience, I’m only one step up from a slave. I should be invisible. Inaudible. But I’ll be damned if I sing in an apologetic whisper.
The band members are in intense discussion now, their voices lowered. I have a feeling we should move on, but we can’t, because folk are coming over to greet Dau with bows or curtsies, to comment on how well he looks, and to wish him their best. I realize that most of his father’s people have barely seen Dau since we came to Oakhill. We’ve been living in a much smaller world, that of the stables and the practice yard. Why am I so surprised that people want to be kind?
Now here comes the piper, straight toward us, and I can’t avoid him. Curse it! Dau’s speaking with an older man, a gardener by the looks of his hands, and Corb is by his side.
The piper is a slight person with curly hair, sharp features, and bright blue eyes. He looks as if he’s stepped out of some fanciful tale. His smile reveals a pair of charming dimples. I bet he’s popular with the female members of his audience.
“Greetings!” His manner is equally charming. “I’m Cian. Lovely singing voice you have. Have I heard you play somewhere before?”
“My name’s Liobhan.” I think fast. Does it matter if he knows who I am? “I did belong to a band once, a couple of years ago. With my brother. We don’t play together anymore. I miss it, that’s the truth. How long will you be here?”
“We’ve been hired for seven nights, perhaps a little longer. Been on the road awhile, just wanted to air ourselves out, so to speak, though we’re not required for entertainment until tomorrow night.” He gives me an appraising look. “You live here? Fancy a turn with our band? We’re short of a strong singer at present.”
I clear my throat. Look at the ground. Silently curse fate for making it impossible to say yes. “The way things are here,” I say in an undertone, “I can’t. I’m a—I’m a very lowly kind of servant and it’s not even worth my while asking. But it’s been good to sing along.” I have tears in my eyes. I pretend they aren’t there. “If you’re practicing some other time, I’d love to come and listen.”
Dau has extricated himself and walked over to stand beside me. “This is Master Dau,” I say, “Lord Scannal’s youngest son. Dau, this is Cian, who was playing the pipes.”
“Welcome to Oakhill,” Dau says, sounding like the nobleman he was born to be. “I don’t believe there’s been much music here for a while—I’ve only recently returned after a long absence. I hope you’ll be well accommodated. Ask Iarla to give you a space to practice, if he hasn’t already done so. Outside is all very well in fine weather, but you’ll need to store your instruments safely.”
“Thank you, Master Dau. I wish you could persuade the young lady to join us. Her voice is remarkable.”
“She’s handy on the whistle, too,” Dau says. “You should hear her version of ‘Artagan’s Leap.’ If anything is remarkable, that is. Like something from another world.” A pause, during which I just manage not to kick him. “But Liobhan’s right, there are reasons why she could not join in your performances.”
“Ah well, we can live in hope,” says Cian smoothly, and takes his time to introduce the other members of the band to Dau. Dau explains that he is blind, thus relieving me and Corb of that duty, and talks with each of them in turn. I stand there feeling awkward until he bids them a courteous farewell and turns away. As we head toward our quarters I say not a word. But what I’m thinking is, You’re the one Sárnait should be marrying. You’re the one who should be the next chieftain of Oakhill.
* * *
* * *
The next day Lord Ross and his party arrive. Corb sees them ride in and comes back to report to us. Lord Ross, his son Cormac, and his daughter Sárnait are accompanied by a larger body of men-at-arms than the fellows in the stables expected, and they have a councilor and a lawman with them as well as several ladies. Seems Ross is serious about this possible betrothal, which makes me wonder how much he’s seen of Seanan ov
er all the years since Lord Scannal’s sons were boys growing up and Cormac was something of a friend to the hapless young Dau. But then, Seanan is expert at putting on his best face. That face may be the only one these visitors have ever seen.
We’ve got through one supper in the great hall. Even without the complication of important visitors it was bad enough: Dau seated at the high table next to Seanan, with Naithí on his other side, and Corb standing behind him looking less than relaxed. I was in a corner with serving folk and stable hands, so it was easy enough to keep my head down. I did watch Dau. He talked to Naithí; between him and Seanan was an invisible wall. Lord Scannal looked unwell. His skin had a gray hue to it and his manner struck me as odd. Distracted. He played with his knife rather than using it to cut his meat. He stared into the distance as if not seeing what was right before him. When his servingman, standing behind, bent forward to speak to him or offer any kind of assistance, Lord Scannal waved him away. He hardly spoke a word and he hardly ate anything. Seanan spoke to his father quite often, perhaps encouraging him to drink his mead or to sample the fruit-laden pudding. The attention looked kindly. If Seanan keeps his performance up, he may well convince Lord Ross that he’d make a worthy son-in-law.
Now the visitors are here and I must curb my wish to sing and dance and my deep desire to give Master Seanan the beating he deserves. I must behave like the little mouse I once pretended to be when in the company of a frightened child. Only I’m damned if I’ll stay in our quarters all day, and with so many folk in the house it’s impossible to go out and in without being seen. I may be good at walking softly and keeping to the shadows, but a tall, strongly built woman with bright red hair is never going to blend in with her surroundings. As I’m thinking this and getting into my working clothes I imagine my brother making up a silly song about a woman like me finding the perfect spot to hide: a forest in autumn, among the tall, russet-leaved trees. I miss Brocc. I wonder if it’s really possible to walk all the way to Eirne’s realm through that forest we can see from here, or whether there are mountains and lakes and chasms between us and that place, not to speak of hostile territories. Dau and I might die before we ever reached the portal. And I’d have to guide him all the way.
Dau has woken with a headache. He hasn’t even tried to get out of bed, and it’s plain he’s not well enough to go to breakfast in the hall. I send Corb off to fetch us some provisions. Dau is ashen pale, lying back on the pillow and trying to keep his breathing steady.
“We need more of the draft,” I tell him as I boil the kettle on our little hearth. “I’ll brave the stillroom later, since they’ve given me permission. I have enough of the dry mix to make you a cupful for now.”
“A pox on the draft,” Dau mutters. “It’ll send me to sleep all day. What’s the point in that?”
“The point is it takes away the pain.” I keep my voice calm and level. “And then you can do the things you need to do. And keep yourself under good control while you’re doing them.”
He falls silent while I get on with making the draft. I brew a peppermint tea for me and Corb as well. I’ve made sure we have cups and a jug here, as well as the kettle and the strainer. It’s not until I carry Dau’s cup over to him that he speaks again.
“Would you marry a man because you thought he needed looking after?”
I nearly drop the cup and its contents. With extreme care, I set it down on the stool beside the bed. “Same answer as I gave you last time. Not if that was the only reason. And not if the man was grumpy and uncooperative.”
“Not the same question as last time.” Dau manages a smile, though his face still has that white, pinched look.
“I noticed. In fact I have no plans to marry anyone, now or in the future. Swan Island doesn’t exactly make allowances for it. That’s cool enough to drink. You want me to hold the cup for you?”
He doesn’t, but his hands are shaking. I have to hold the thing and tilt it so he can take one sip at a time. Not long ago this would have made Dau angry. Now, he lets me do it.
“Your brother’s situation must be playing on your mind,” I say after a bit. “Or you wouldn’t be talking of marriages. I don’t imagine Sárnait will see her intended husband as someone who will ever need looking after. More as a man who will look after her.”
“Hah!”
“Careful, you’ll spill it. I share your opinion on that issue. So drink the draft, rest until your head feels better, then go and do something about it. Calmly. It’s a mission. Keep that in mind, hard as it is at times.”
He drinks. After a while he says, “I’ve heard folk say that Brigid and Archu were once a couple. Never made it official, but I suppose they found opportunities where they could.”
I’m silenced, trying to imagine those two hard-bitten warriors as loving companions or even as passionate bedmates. There are married couples on the island, several of them. Eimear, who plays the whistle, is married to one of the younger warriors. But none of those couples is made up of two fighters.
“But they’re not lovers now,” I say, not quite making it a question. Brigid and Archu are certainly old and true friends. But if there’s anything else, I’ve seen no sign of it.
“The only way to find out would be to ask them and risk a clip around the ear,” says Dau.
“None of our business anyway.”
There’s another silence. It’s not the right time for that conversation, the one we need to have at some point. Perhaps it will never be the right time.
“Liobhan—” Dau begins, but I don’t find out what he was about to say because at that moment Corb returns bearing a laden tray.
“Master Cormac sends his regards, and so does the young lady,” Corb says with some delicacy as he sets out various foodstuffs on our small table.
“What is she like?” I can’t help asking. “Sárnait, I mean.”
“Not for me to say.”
“Oh, come on, Corb. You’re not a servant here, you’re one of us.” This from Dau, who wouldn’t have dreamed of saying such a thing scant weeks ago.
Corb turns pink in the cheeks. “Small. Very pretty, with long fair hair. Friendly. Courteous. A real lady.”
Far too good for Seanan, I think. But we knew that already.
“And Cormac?” asks Dau. “I haven’t seen him since we were children.”
“Fine-looking man. Very polite, same as her. They said they’d brought you a gift, but they didn’t say what it was. I told them you were indisposed. And I explained to Iarla.”
“Thank you, Corb. We’d best eat. There’s porridge, Dau, and oaten bread, and some soft cheese. And berries in honey. What would you like?”
Dau passes me his empty cup and lies back against the pillows. “Nothing right now. You two have it.”
We save him some bread and cheese, but eat the rest. When we’re done I head off to the stillroom. I suspect the headaches will persist until Dau has dealt with the issue of his brother’s betrothal and the visitors are gone. I need to be sure I have an adequate supply of the dry mix so I can make up his draft every day while they’re here, if that’s what he needs. And since he’s going to be resting this morning and Corb can stay with him, now is the time. As I walk over I think of different answers to that question about marriage. Would I marry a man because I thought he needed looking after? Most certainly not, if that was my only reason. You marry someone because you love them and they love you. You marry someone so that you can look after each other. Be equal partners. You marry someone because neither of you can imagine the future without the other. Like my parents. Though, from what little they’ve told me, it took them quite a while to learn all that. I can’t imagine them without each other. They’re like two startlingly different parts of one remarkable whole. We’re so lucky, Galen and Brocc and me. So, so lucky. And I suppose that’s another part of marrying someone: to make children together. Not part of the future I p
lan for myself. There’s no way it could be made to fit.
In the stillroom I find my ingredients then record everything in Brother Petrán’s book. This time I have a better look. All the entries I see have initials against them, mostly ones I can match with the folk I know use the place: Martán, Petrán, Pól, Miach. There’s a scrawly one that might be A; but then, there may be other monks who help here. As far as I know, Miach and I are the only folk from the household who use the place.
Dau hates the taste of his draft. There’s a fungus that would give it a better flavor without lessening its efficacy. I look along the shelf where dried mushrooms and toadstools are kept, and as I reach for the jar that holds what I want, I notice a paring knife balanced across another jar, the one labeled devil’s-foot. Someone’s been careless; there are still traces of the black fungus clinging to the blade. I make sure the jar is properly closed, then clean the knife, wondering who could have been so careless. Devil’s-foot is not a substance you leave lying around. I’m about to check the book again when Brother Martán, the apothecary, comes in and we bid each other a polite good morning. I should tell him about the devil’s-foot. But I hesitate. What if it was Miach and I get her in trouble? What if Martán takes offense at the implied criticism? I might get myself banned from the stillroom.
The apothecary fetches his basket, already full from an early morning harvest, and begins to unload and sort the contents. He’s got some plants there that I’m fairly sure don’t grow in this garden, and I consider how easily the monks come and go through the gates. Pity that doesn’t apply to me. I could make up something a lot better for Dau if I could wander in the woods to find a few of my mother’s more obscure choices. I could use fresh wild-picked herbs. Never mind that.
Dau’s odd questions about marriage are still on my mind when I start chopping and grinding my materials to the required fine powder. They’re bothering me far more than they deserve to. I find myself wielding my knife and then my pestle with more speed and violence than is strictly necessary. From time to time Brother Martán glances over at me with brows raised. Too bad. I’ve promised not to draw attention to myself while the visitors are at Oakhill. So I can’t still my wayward thoughts in the way I usually would: by going for a run or working my way through our exercise routine or climbing a tree. Cutting things up with a very sharp knife is the way my mother calms herself when she’s wrestling with a problem. If it works for her, it should work for me.
A Dance with Fate Page 28