“Very well. Airtre, I now perform judgment. If the assailant still lived, I would charge him with criminal injury for the wounds he visited upon your wife. As the wounds were not severe or life-threatening, his fine would be reduced. As the attack did not take place in the abbey proper, his fine would be reduced. He would be charged to pay you, as the victim’s husband, and the midach a fine of three chickens each for the damage caused.”
“However, the assailant did not survive. While you did commit grievous injury upon the fir midboth musician, it is apparent you acted in defense of the injury said musician visited upon your wife. As per the testimony, she might have lost her own life to his assault. I, therefore, cannot charge you with the murder of the assailant. As the musician had no family and no status, I can levy no fines upon them for the injury done to your wife, nor do I charge you any fine for his death.”
He rapped his staff on the ground three times in conclusion of the formal trial.
Three chickens. Is that what her sanity cost? Three chickens? Three cursed fowl running in circles in her madness-ridden mind.
A hand on her back made her flinch away. She spun around to find Airtre. “Thank you, Étaín.”
Étaín had stopped crying after her testimony, but it all came rushing out again at her husband’s kind words. Such words came so seldom, it felt like an epiphany that her entire marriage hadn’t been for naught. He held her awkwardly while the other monks filtered out. Eventually, the entire church emptied but for them. Her sobs rebounded against the stones, hollow and ethereal.
For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she found solace in her husband’s arms.
Someone cleared their throat, and Étaín lifted her damp face from Airtre’s shoulder to see Bressel standing in the doorway. “It’s best if you take her back home, Airtre. She’s done her duty.”
* * *
The days which followed became a mixed blessing. Airtre acted kindly, more solicitous than he had been for many winters. In fact, possibly not since their first season of marriage, when their relationship had been new and sweet. He offered to pick up Maelan from his lessons so she needn’t face leaving the roundhouse, and take Maelan out in the evenings, so she had time alone with her mending or other chores. He even brought her supplies from the market, though they weren’t what she needed to cook her planned meals. Still, while impractical, the foods he brought would invariably be of good value; rye, barley, sweet chestnuts, celery, apples, dried fish, and hazelnuts. This time he brought home strawberries and rhubarb. Despite the indulgence, Airtre loved strawberries and rhubarb.
Determined to make his favorite pie in gratitude, she needed one more item.
After pulling her cloak around her shoulders, she headed into the village. Not the abbey this time, but the small village which had sprung up outside the walls. Secular merchants clustered there for market days.
While many monasteries kept bees, Cluain Mhic Nóis did not. She needed honey, and one merchant in town carried the sweetener. Étaín kept none on hand, for it cost dearly and wasn’t a luxury Airtre normally approved of. However, she wished to thank him for his solicitude during her recovery. A pie needed honey.
It had been several moons since she’d walked the village alleys. A dirty pile of rags made her flinch, but this beggar was only a small girl and no threat to her. As she passed, she noticed the tanner had a new lad working for him, and the spice merchant had some new selections. She steeled herself from the temptation of working with new herbs and kept on her mission.
The trader didn’t only deal in honey. He had other things to sell, items not made locally. He had grapes and wine from the continent, olive oil, even exotic herbs like saffron. Honey may have been the least exotic of his wares, but it remained expensive. Few people kept domestic beehives made of wicker, so most people collected honey in the wild, a hazardous duty.
Étaín stopped at his stall in the market and examined his offerings. She noticed a woman standing next to her. She glanced politely over and realized the woman wore clothing in outlandish colors. Forcing herself not to stare, she glimpsed the riot of cloth and shawls. Her hair had been dressed in many braids, a strange headdress holding it all together. She looked exotic and foreign and at the same time, dangerous and intriguing.
In a silky, sultry voice, the woman said, “You must be the sweet Étaín. How fitting you are buying honey. Do you bathe in it each night?”
Étaín turned to the woman. “I beg your pardon. Have we met?”
Several shawls had been tied in knots around her hips and shoulders, some with gold fringe or coins. Her jewelry glittered gaudy and sparkling in the bright sunlight. She stood in a languid pose, hand on one hip.
“We haven’t met formally, no. Still, I’ve heard much about you from your dear husband.”
Ice stabbed through Étaín’s heart. “Airtre? How do you know Airtre?”
The woman laughed, a seductive, rolling chuckle which caressed and enticed. “Of course, I know Airtre. He visits regularly, did you not realize? Oh, I understand, he’s probably keeping me a secret.”
The woman put one elegant finger on her full lips in an exaggerated gesture. Étaín wanted to scratch the knowing smile from the woman’s face. She set her mouth in a prim line. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The laugh surrounded her again, and Étaín’s heat rose. “You needn’t take it so personally, you poor woman. Your husband simply… uses my services. It’s nothing sinful. Sometimes he brings his friend.”
Étaín felt certain her face burned bright red. She turned to the merchant, who had a half-smirk on his own face, and purchased a small pot of honey. With stiff steps, she marched away from the merchant alley, her mind in turmoil.
Who had the woman been? Airtre must be too pious to bed someone out of wedlock. True, he hadn’t bedded her since she had apparently grown too old to bear children, but his need had never been so great, to begin with. He preferred celibacy and asceticism.
The snippet of conversation she’d heard between Airtre and Bressel came back to her. This must be the hedge-witch they’d been speaking of, the woman who helped him contact his dead brother.
Étaín halted and turned, though she had already walked well out of view of the market. What did this woman want? She must be a charlatan of some sort, having somehow convinced Airtre she had magical powers. Hadn’t Bressel discussed such a thing with Airtre while Étaín lay ill?
What if she really had powers? Étaín had magic, why shouldn’t this woman? But she’d reeked of arrogance and showmanship. Those with true magic kept it quiet, lest the priests decide it is the work of the devil, and lather a mob against such practitioners. This woman obviously had no such concerns.
Who might Étaín ask about the woman? The woman mentioned a friend. Likely Bressel, who wouldn’t help Étaín with any information. He’d laugh at her and tell her not to worry her silly head over men’s matters. Maybe Odhar or Cadhla had heard of her. She must ask them the next time she visited the abbey.
Her head whirled with worry and questions as she walked home.
Once back to her roundhouse, she mixed and kneaded the dough and set it to rest. She chopped the fruit finely and lit the hearth so they could simmer in the honey. Just as she chopped the last stalk of rhubarb, someone knocked.
With a glance out the window, she judged the time to be early afternoon already. Who could be here? Maelan should be at fight practice, and Airtre would be at the hostelry.
After wiping the sticky, red juice from her hands, she opened the door. Odhar stood with a quizzical look on his face. “Maelan never showed to lessons today. Is he ill?”
Cold ice rushed through Étaín’s blood. Maelan had gone to the abbey early this morning with Airtre. It meant he had several hours of idle time until his lessons with Odhar, but he’d worked hard early to finish his work on the farm so he could go with his grandfather.
Étaín backed up to the bench along the wall an
d sat heavily. Her imagination ran rapidly through all the things which might have happened to her grandson in a few short hours. The walls of the roundhouse spun, making her woozy. Odhar sat next to her on the bench, his hand steadying her shoulder. “Have a care, Étaín. You look fragile. We’ll find Maelan. Likely he’s just gone off to play a game with another child, or has got into some minor mischief, as boys are wont to do.”
While his words dampened her dread, they didn’t eliminate it. However, it allowed her to pull herself together for the walk to the abbey. She moved the pot from the hearth before checking the stable and other roundhouses on the farm, in the off-chance Maelan hid at home. Odhar yipped as her hare hopped out and darted across their path.
The walk to the abbey became full of desperate beauty. She didn’t want to watch the grace of the raven flitting overhead or the brilliant blooms near her feet. However, she craved distraction from her own wild imagination. At least it remained light and not black night as when Airtre had gone missing. The night that beggar man came for her. She shuddered and shoved the memory and the horror firmly away.
Around every bend and in every dark shadow, Étaín searched for her grandson. Each roundhouse they passed could be shielding him from view. Each hillock might be his playground.
Once at the abbey, Odhar found Cadhla and Airtre. With a minimum explanation, they split up within the abbey walls, searching for him in each of the buildings.
Étaín first searched the small square stone chapels. She searched Teampull Chiaráin, where the founder of the abbey had been buried. This building could easily be eliminated as a hiding spot. She quickly searched the other temple with the round-headed window.
Airtre had searched the hostelry and the hospice, while Odhar took the Scriptorium and monk’s living quarters. Cadhla searched the cathedral and the craftsman’s quarters. At one point, she saw Airtre frown and rush out of the gates. More than an hour later he returned, head hung low in defeat.
They met and split up again to look into other nooks and crannies.
After two hours of fruitless searching, they gathered to compare their search. Étaín’s dread rose as the sun grew orange on the horizon.
Odhar placed a gentle hand on her arm, entreaty in his eyes. “We’ll find him, Étaín. Can I escort you home before it gets dark? I can’t imagine you’re comfortable being out in the night.”
Airtre frowned and slapped his hand away. “I’ll escort my wife home, monk. You keep looking for my grandson. Cadhla, will you look, as well? And fetch Bressel; he can assist.”
Étaín didn’t want to return to the empty roundhouse. However, she convinced herself that, if the child had wandered into the woods and found his way home, there should be someone waiting for him.
“Come, wife. It will be warm and safe at home.”
Safe for her, perhaps, for now. She prayed it would be safe for Maelan and soon.
Once Airtre had left again to continue the search, she stoked the peat fire until it glowed in red and orange patterns on the hearth. The homey aroma cleared her head, and she walked outside. She found the moon, and though it remained a sliver, she prayed for Maelan’s safety and discovery.
She put all her energy into the plea. First, she called upon God the Savior, the Virgin Mary, and all the saints. Then she prayed to the older gods, those of the hearth, the home, and the family. She prayed to Brigid, goddess of healing. She prayed to Áine, goddess of love and fertility, mother of all. She prayed to Étaín, the goddess for whom she’d been named. Étaín’s lore told of transformations and many lifetimes.
Deep into the night, Airtre finally returned. He didn’t have Maelan with him. He said no words, but the defeated slump of his shoulders spoke his failure.
She didn’t sleep that night.
As soon as the dawn peeked above the horizon, Étaín rushed back to the abbey, convinced her grandson remained in the walls. Her dreams had been full of wild, dreadful imaginings, of Maelan stuck in a building underground, buried alive in some construction accident. She had no idea why she was convinced he remained within the abbey grounds. The men had thoroughly searched each building within the walls. However, she felt it in her bones to be true.
The morning dew grew thick on the grass, and her shoes became soaked by the time she reached the bridge. Bressel saw her enter the gates and stopped her. “Still no word on the lad? He didn’t come home last night?”
She shook her head.
“Very well. I’ll help you search again. Perhaps he came back in during the night.”
Grateful, she nodded and headed for one of the smaller chapels.
Not three minutes later, Bressel’s triumphant cry rung through the yard, and she rushed out to see what he found. A rumpled and sleepy-looking Maelan walked next to him, exiting the cathedral.
She ran to her grandson and gripped him so tightly he squeaked.
“Maelan, if you ever run off like that and stay out all night—”
“Grandmother! Please, let me breathe!”
Étaín eased up on her grip but still held the child at arms’ length. “And just where have you been all the night long? We all searched for you for hours! Your grandfather stayed out until almost Matins.”
Maelan looked down at his feet. “I stayed in the cathedral, Grandmother.”
“We looked in the cathedral! We did, didn’t we?” She glanced at Bressel.
The man nodded. “Cadhla did, I’m certain of it. He said the boy couldn’t be found inside.”
“I hid under the altar.”
Étaín drew in her breath, aghast at the blasphemy. “Maelan! How dare you defile the altar thus!”
He poked his toe in the gravel of the courtyard. “I needed to think, Grandmother. To pray. I didn’t want anyone to interrupt me. You would have taken me home when it got dark, and I needed the whole night!”
She had to admit, she would have spoken exactly so. Étaín would never have allowed the child, barely eleven winters old, to remain in the cathedral through the night. Although she became relieved, he stayed in the cathedral, and not out in the woods or lying in a ditch somewhere, injured or dead. The relief didn’t match her worry, though. Not yet.
Étaín shook his shoulders. “And what was so important, so dire, you had to defy both your grandfather and me?”
He wouldn’t answer, still sliding his foot over the gravel. The sound grated on Étaín’s nerves, but she resisted the urge to grab his foot to make him stop.
Bressel grabbed Maelan’s shoulders and shook him. “Did you hear your grandmother’s question? Answer her, boy!”
“I… I had to ask God’s forgiveness.”
Étaín became suddenly concerned over what Maelan had done that he had the need to ask forgiveness from God. Surely he numbered too few winters to have committed any grievous sin.
Bressel shook him again. “For what, boy?” Maelan’s head flopped around so violently, Étaín knocked Bressel’s hands away.
She knelt, so her face became level with his and kept her voice gentle. “For what, Maelan?”
“For being mean. I acted mean to someone, and if I’m not forgiven, God won’t love me, and I’ll burn forever in hell and never see heaven or my mother or my father and my immortal soul will perish!”
Étaín sat hard on the chilly flagstones. He’d been mean to someone. Did he mean the pagan boy Airtre had praised him for pestering? Or another child?
Bressel threw his hands up in disgust. “For this, you stayed in the cathedral all night? Your grandfather became worried sick after you. We stayed up half the night searching the entire abbey. Are you daft, boy? Just confess your sin and do your penance, and you’ll be fine. I’ll go find your grandfather to tell him you aren’t lying dead in a field somewhere.” He made a rude noise and stalked away. Several passing monks looked at him, apparently startled by the sudden movement.
Though he’d spoken the words with anger, Bressel had covered most everything Étaín needed to say to Maelan. Instead, she hu
gged him tightly, this time without causing him to squeak. When she finished, she looked him in the eyes. “Are you quite well, Maelan? Did your night in the church help salve your soul at all?”
He nodded. “I felt comfort in the silence, Grandmother.”
His meek answer warmed her heart. “That’s a good thing. The silence can often be our friend. It allows us to converse with ourselves when the noise of the day often prevents that. Tell me, Maelan, who did you act mean to? What did you do to them?”
He frowned, looking down again. He pushed a small pebble around with his toe before answering. “The pagan boy, Ita. The one I’d teased and pushed before. I got into an argument with him about God, but Odhar heard us this time. He sat us both down, and we talked about God, and the other gods, and how you can believe in both.”
She blinked, amazed at the change in his demeanor about it. “And did you understand what Odhar meant?”
He shook his head. “Not really, no. It made word sense, but it didn’t seem true in my heart. You always said to be true to my heart, Grandmother. So I went to the church and asked God.”
It seemed a simple enough solution for any God-fearing child, and her heart burst with pride.
“Did God give you an answer?”
“I don’t know. I talked to myself a lot. Did God talk through me?”
She smiled. “I can’t answer that, child. Perhaps one of the monks can. Would you like to go talk to Odhar about what you discovered in your vigil?”
“I would like that.”
She rose, holding tightly to her grandson’s hand as they walked over to the lesson roundhouse.
Odhar sat there, reading one of the precious bound books he kept on a small, high shelf. When they entered, he grinned. “Ah, you found him! Excellent. Where did you go, Maelan, to give us such a scare for so long?”
Étaín answered for her grandson. “He stayed in the cathedral, asking God if he’d been bad to be mean to the pagan child.”
The monk stepped to Maelan and lifted the child’s chin up, searching his eyes. After a few moments, he nodded. “It seems the night has done your soul some good, at any rate.”
Misfortune of Time: Druid's Brooch Series, #6 Page 11