There was no time for hate. No time for fear. After a while, I found that there were some tasks I could do in the dark, and I stopped sleeping. There was no time for rest. I finished the front of the last shirt, and began to weave the back. Outside, the season was well advanced, and early leaves were blown across my tiny patch of sky. I judged that it was close to Meán Fómhair, and that I had been imprisoned here for three moons. In my mind I saw the late roses in full bloom, the berries fat and glossy on bramble and currant bush, bees busy among swathes of lavender. I thought, the apples will be ripening. He said…but I would not let myself finish the thought, for there was no time for foolish hope. Spin. Weave. Sew. One foot before the other. And again. On and on into the dark.
Almost every day, Richard came. Sometimes it was only for a few moments, but more often he was in expansive mood, wanting to talk. Now that he had me, as he thought, in the palm of his hand, he grew less cautious. For after all, I could hardly repeat what I heard, could I, even supposing I had the opportunity, which was unlikely. And so, piece by piece, as if solving a puzzle in small steps, I began to learn another side of the story.
“So, here we are again. Can’t say you’re looking well, my dear, that would be stretching the imagination just a little far. Feeding you enough, are they? Just enough. I want you kept alive, until the hearing. Justice must be seen to be done, after all. Unfortunate that Father Stephen has been delayed so long. Busy man. But he’ll be here, never fear. Mind you, if it’s too long, we’ll go ahead without him. Hugh’s weak. Besotted, that’s the word. Can’t risk waiting till he gets back. Even after this, even after you run out to satisfy your itch with another man, and sell his secrets under his nose, the boy can’t be relied onto do the right thing. No, it must be soon, and public. Decisive. Final. That’s what people expect, and that’s what I’ll give them. Something spectacular with fire, I think. That way, we get rid of the sorceress and her spells in one dizzying, dazzling display of heat and light. Orgasmic. Blissful. I shall so enjoy myself.”
My hands plied their steady trade; I made myself breathe slowly. But something must have showed on my face.
“I was tempted,” he said, leaning back against the wall, the stool tilted on two legs. “Sorely tempted. This handiwork is very important to you, isn’t it? What would you have done for me, to get it back? Would you have…” his next remarks I will not repeat here, for they were scarce fit for the lowest of drunken gatherings. “Might have tried that. But my sister forestalled me. Following her dear Hugh’s orders. Unbelievable. After I told her what your people did to Simon. Well, there’s a sort of perverse enjoyment in watching you hurt yourself, little whore. Why do you do it? Does it excite you? Do you crave pain, to satisfy you? You married the wrong man, daughter of Erin. He would never have been enough for you. Besides,” and his tone changed, “he was promised. He chose to forget that, but I do not forget. I know the way it should be. The way it will be, when you are—disposed of. Hugh will wed Elaine. Harrowfield will wed Northwoods, and in one grand gesture the largest and richest estate in Northumbria will be established. Easy, so easy. And think what holding that much power does to a man. At one stroke, he takes all pieces on the board. That satisfies him in a way no woman ever could. Who will his neighbors turn to for protection? Who will they trust to train their fighting men and purchase their arms? Who will they pay, to ensure good will?” He was grinning, stretching his arms expansively behind his head. “Believe me, girl, a man that scents such power lets nothing stand in his way. Nothing.”
Is this Hugh of Harrowfield we speak of here? I could not prevent my brows rising in scornful disbelief.
“Hugh is malleable. Cares only for his trees and his cattle and his tidy little life. Elaine, she’s like me. Must have her own way. Problem was, what she wanted didn’t suit my plans, didn’t suit at all. Everything was smooth as silk until she started to grow up, thirteen, fourteen, used to getting what she wanted, no need to say no up till then. New pony, deerhound, jewels, finery. But she broke the rules. Fell for the wrong brother.”
Elaine and Simon? That was a possibility I had never thought of. But it explained much. It explained, in particular, her manner toward Red, for I could see now that she had indeed treated him like a brother. Poor Elaine. One of them was dead, and the other had married me. She had not deserved to lose them both.
“Once she set her heart on it, wouldn’t let go of the notion,” Richard went on. “Had to tell her, finally. You can’t. No. Simple as that. She didn’t like it. But I’m her father. Hugh’s a milksop, doesn’t have that killer streak, that bit of meanness a man needs in him to survive, to get on. Runs a pretty farm, I’ll give him that. But he’s weak. Suitable. You’d understand that better than most, slut. Bent him to your own will easily enough, didn’t you? If he couldn’t withstand that, how well do you think he’d deal with Richard of Northwoods? So, he marries my daughter, and the whole valley is mine. If she’d taken the younger brother, that would have been quite another matter. Hopeless. For one thing, he wouldn’t inherit, not unless…besides, he was too wild. Unpredictable. Unstable, you could almost say. Not at all a safe option. No, it’s better this way. Or was, before you came into the picture…”
He sat forward suddenly, the wooden stool thumping down heavily on the stone floor.
“You know, I thought Hugh brought you here for information. That was how it looked. You were holding something he needed. He was waiting for you to talk. Cat and mouse game. I could understand that. But my nephew’s never shown the slightest interest in that sort of strategy. Never lifted a finger to help in the campaigns, never made the smallest contribution to the cause. Couldn’t care less. So why would he involve himself now, I wondered? Had to be about his brother. Young Simon. Somehow, you were tied up in that. Had something you could tell him. Seemed to me, back then, that you could talk if you chose to. Not much wrong there, I thought. There were times when I saw you, about to speak, opening your little mouth and then choking back the words.”
I wound the thread onto the spindle, feeling the fibers sharp against my fingers, knowing my hands were becoming raw and stinking again, from lack of light, from filth and neglect and abuse.
“But then there was the unfortunate accident. It happens. Rocks fall, people get hurt. Freak of nature. They told me you didn’t utter a sound, no call for help, no screams, nothing. Can’t believe you wouldn’t cry out. No girl has that sort of control. Had to come to the conclusion the malady’s real. You genuinely can’t talk. Mute. Dumb. Silent as the grave. Adds a certain spice to the current situation. Means I can chat away to my heart’s content, bare the secrets of my soul, and you can’t tell them a thing. Not a thing. Be a shame, though, not to hear you screaming when the fire licks your ankles, and catches your gown, and turns that soft white flesh into an overcooked slab of meat. I’d have enjoyed hearing that. Oh well, can’t have it both ways.”
When he was gone, I allowed myself to cry, just for a little. I allowed myself to stare up at the window, where rain was coming down sideways, and a cool breeze gusted in fitfully, and I let myself think, if he were here, he would kill you. It was just as well he was not here. If he were here, he would face a choice that would break him. Better that he did not return, until after…. But I was frightened. Frightened to die, frightened of the fire. Terrified that I was working too slowly, that I would not be ready in time…I did not weep for long. The little voice was there all the time now. Spin. Weave. Sew. I worked on, and the half-made shirt, which was the last of six, was stained with blood from my hands, and filth from the room, and it was wet with my tears. He who wore this garment would wear my love, my pain and my terror. These things would set him free.
I can remember one good moment in those dark times. I had become used to my guards. I did not know their names, but there was one older man whom I had seen with Ben earlier. He did not come often, and when he did his distaste for the dirty, lightless cell and the duty he must perform was evident in his expression. Ther
e was one day when he brought the bucket, and threw it in the corner as usual, and then he took a little package from his pocket and slipped it furtively into my basket.
“Chin up, lass,” he muttered, and then he was gone, the heavy door slamming to behind him. In the little parcel was fresh, good bread with grains in it, and a small around of cheese, and a handful of blackberries. I made it last, knowing my stomach might reject such fare after so long a time of hunger. I shared the crumbs of bread and cheese with the rats, thinking they might as well have a little enjoyment. After that I did not see this guard again, but his kindness warmed me. And I still remember the wonderful taste of that food, the mellow ripeness of the cheese, the tart juicy berries, the bread with its smell of open fields. Every mouthful.
The shirt grew. It was surprising how much I could get done if I forgot about the pain, if I slept only when utter exhaustion forced it, if I kept going in light and dark. Whether love or fear drove me hardest, I could not say. But the shirt took shape as day followed day, and night followed sleepless night, as the breezes that blew in my little window took on the scents of autumn. Leaves burning. Fruit boiling in the preserving pan. River mists rising in early morning chill. There were sounds, too. Men unloading root crops to be stored in the barn. It was harvesttime, and I had been at Harrowfield almost a whole year. Women arguing. Cart wheels on the gravel path. One morning, a lone horseman riding out very early. It mattered little. It seemed, now I was locked away, the household had reverted to its peaceful old routine. As if I had never been. For I had seen nobody, since that one visit from Lady Anne; nobody but my guards and Lord Richard. Perhaps I was forgotten.
The waiting could not last forever. There came a day when I heard the sound of well-shod hooves in the courtyard, and jingling harnesses, and men’s voices. And that afternoon, when Richard came, it was to gloat. The bishop’s representative had arrived at last, and it was time for me to account for myself before a formal hearing. That would take place tomorrow, and then…Richard was elated, almost beside himself with glee. I thought, why does he hate his nephew so much? That was what it was all about. The feeling of power excited him, that was certain, but there was a particular gleam in his eye, when he spoke Red’s name, that I thought bordered on madness. He made a mistake, that day. Carried along on the tide of anticipated victory, he said too much.
“Let’s talk about fire.” He watched slit-eyed as I bound the shirt’s hemline with awkward, fumbling movements of needle and thread. Sometimes my fingers grew numb and it was hard to make them obey me. “If you have the right materials, you can do interesting things with fire. You’d be surprised who I learned that from. So would your father, my dear.”
For a moment I froze.
“Ah! Touched a nerve, did I? So we guessed right. She thought it must be you, when I gave a description. Want to hear more?”
I moved the needle under, over, through. Another stitch. And another.
“Won’t tell him that, of course. The learned father. Doesn’t need to know, does he? Your guilt is plain; we need add no more fuel to that fire.” He gave a sort of giggle. It was not a pleasant sound. “Joke in bad taste, sorry. Anyway, as I was saying. Had a very interesting time on my recent trip to your homeland, young woman. Lost a few men; that was unfortunate. Failed to secure the outpost I wanted; that was even more regrettable. But once I have the resources of Harrowfield at my disposal, there’ll be no stopping me. Minor setback. That was all. Put it behind me. The information I got, that’s a different matter.”
He leaned forward, eyes intent.
“Ways to make a hot fire. Ways to make a very special fire that consumes a body, leaving only bare bones behind. I’ve seen it employed. He showed me. One of your own kind; but he’s a man after my own heart. Astute. Battlesmart. Decisive. No false ideals about Eamonn. He’ll trade in what you want, if it suits him. Men. Arms. Information. If you’ve got something he wants, he’ll give.”
I was hard put to it to go on working, and I did not succeed in keeping my face calm. Eamonn. Eamonn of the Marshes? Doing deals with a Briton? I could scarce believe it. Both my father and Seamus Redbeard had considered Eamonn one of their staunchest allies. Hadn’t he been wed to Eilis? Who was playing games now?
“We’re not all like Hugh, you know,” went on Richard studying my expression. “Full of pompous ideals and half-baked do-goodery. If we were all like that, it wouldn’t be just the islands that would be lost. Your kind would be swarming all over us like vermin, and nothing would be safe; it would be the end of the civilized world. Believe me, it’s men like myself that hold the land secure so Hugh can potter about with his chickens and plant his precious oaks.”
I was staring at him now, not even pretending to go on working.
“Made the bargain of my life, this last trip. Told you before about that woman, didn’t I, remarkable woman, didn’t give her name, but she was a friend of Eamonn’s, hand in glove they were, and she’d been particularly interested in you last time we spoke. Told me that story, about the children of Sevenwaters and how they mysteriously disappeared.”
My heart was thumping. Woman? What woman? Surely he could not mean Eilis?
“I made an offer then. Said if you were Colum’s daughter, I’d accept payment for your safe return. Payment in land, preferably. A nice little parcel between the forest and the coast. Colum wouldn’t like that. But they said he’d gone half crazy, looking for the girl. Maybe he was crazy enough to give me what I wanted. It was worth a try.”
I was finding it difficult to breathe.
“She took the message back to Colum, that first time. Extraordinary woman. Mane of auburn hair, delectable figure, quite enchanting. Eamonn certainly seemed to think so. Wasn’t paying much attention to that pasty little wife of his. Anyway, she was kindness itself. Said she’d convey my offer, and gave me a couple of her own men to escort me back to the coast. Still got them. Sound fellows. Silent, and handy with a knife, or their hands. So, I went back this time expecting a pretty good response from Sevenwaters. I was optimistic. Not only would I get you out of my way, I’d gain an advantage I never hoped for. Colum’s always been the hardest nut to crack. Not one for negotiation, not even with his allies. Position of strength. Everyone’s afraid of him. But this was different, I reasoned. Only daughter, and all that.” I waited while he polished his fingernails and held his hand out, studying them. He was playing with me, savoring every moment.
“Why would a chieftain of Erin sell out to such as me, you wonder? What was in it for Eamonn? He wasn’t letting on, not fully. But he had an interest in you, and in your father. Don’t forget, it was in his house I first heard the tale of Colum’s sons, how they vanished one day with not a trace left behind. Seems I’m not the only one interested in a little—expansion. Colum’s lands may be ripe for the picking, in the very near future. And Eamonn has a few tricks I could use in the field. I have men, and with the resources of Harrowfield I can arm them better than any other band of fighters, on either side of the water. What couldn’t we achieve, between the two of us?”
You’re a fool, I thought. A power-crazed fool. Eamonn is merely playing with you, and so is the lady Oonagh. Once they have what they want, they will discard you like the peel of an onion. In this game, you are the merest beginner. But what did my father say?
“Well, this visit really surprised me,” he said expansively. I’d left the men to get on with it, and traveled as I usually do, very discreetly, to visit my ally on his own territory. Marshlands. Endless peat bogs. Desolate spot. No wonder he wants to expand southward. Still, it’s easy to defend. Anyway, I got there safely. She was visiting again, the redhead, stunning woman. But Colum had knocked back my offer. Daughter or no daughter, he wouldn’t budge. Said if she chose to go and live among foreigners, she was no daughter of his. She’d made her bed and could lie on it. And if I thought he’d even consider giving away his hard-won land for such a feeble reason, I must be even more stupid than the rest of my kind. That hurts, do
esn’t it, witch? Don’t put your hand over your face, you can’t hide that fetching little tear trickling down your cheek. Yes, it looks as if they don’t want you back. Not that I can blame them; you’re hardly the most appealing sight right now. Well, I was pretty disappointed, I can tell you, coming back empty-handed. But then the lady made me a counteroffer. Asked a lot of questions about you first. Had you any allies here, how were you spending your time, what were you telling folks about yourself. So I let her know about Hughie boy, how he was hot for you, but you weren’t playing, not yet; how you’d lost your voice, so you couldn’t tell secrets; how you spent your time wrecking your hands with your witch work. I could tell she didn’t like my answers, but she believed them all right.
“That was when she made the offer. I’d get information, very special information, about Colum’s movements for the autumn and the winter, enough to make taking that bay a certainty. Enough to give me the foothold I needed. In return, all I had to do was remove you from the picture. She even told me how to do it. Oh, she didn’t mind me playing with you first. She understood that’s part of the fun. An irresistible part. But make sure, she said, that the girl burns and her witch’s work burns with her. That’s the only way you can destroy a sorceress. Hot fire. Eamonn had the wherewithal to make it, and he showed me himself. First you buy a nice little cargo of bluestone, ostensibly for dyeing, you understand? Costs more than a few head of your best cattle, that does, but worth it. Well worth it. You grind it down in a mortar, very fine, until you get a powder that looks as harmless as dust. You mix it with an oil of the best quality, fit to anoint a bishop’s brow—amusing piece of irony, that. Then you’re ready for business. It doesn’t take much of your mixture, sprinkled over the faggots, to set up a nice blaze. Colorful, too—the green is especially pretty. It flares. It’s hot. It’s hungry. But Eamonn, he’s not content with that. He prepares his wood in advance, leaves it soaking, eating up the mixture until it’s full to bursting. Then he dries it. You should see that, when the flames lick at it. I brought home an interesting load of small ash logs, last time I paid my friend a visit. I plan to use them in the very near future. That was what the woman told me, after all. Do it soon, she said. Destroy this girl soon. You must do it before…tell me, my dear, how many of these shirts have you made?”
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