“I can walk,” she answered.
16
The hall of the macPhee was large and well-fortified, for these were border lands close to the Picts. The unscarred fields about it were a testimony to the strength of the chieftain. All was neat and well-kept, though seared by the drought. The gates were open and the
warriors led the party through.
A tall redheaded woman was in the yard. She was barefoot and a child with the same flaming red hair clung to her skirts. She turned and frowned at the sight of the curadhs.
“Was the hunting so good that you returned within the hour?” she cried in a piercing voice. Then she saw Doireann and the Culdee and looked amazed.
“You do not need to tell me what has happened,” she shouted.
She came to them in a long-strided walk and took Doireann’s hand.
“It is the daughter of Muireach macDumhnull, is it not? Ah, the tales the bards tell of you! So you are not a myth then, but real! Well, you are welcome in my hall, and all that is in it is yours. Flann, son of Conn of the Ui Cinnsealaigh! It is good to see one of the Clanna Rury in this wild place.”
Her eyes swept him.
“Have you renounced your vows? I thought you were a Culdee monk. You do not remember me, but my father the bishop of Druiminn knew you well when you were at Kells.”
Her gaze passed on to the Pict with the child in his arms.
“We have been hard-pressed by this accursed drought and the raids of the Picts from across the loch, but the best that is to be had will be spread for you. And we will be the first to hear the gossip you will tell us, and the full story of your adventures.”
“My greetings, noblewoman,” Flann was finally able to say. “I remember your father the bishop of Druiminn well, the fine and honorable man that he is. We place ourselves under your protection.”
“As well you might, as well you might,” she agreed. “You look terrible.” Doireann could barely understand what was happening. From the way
Flann addressed her, she gathered this tall woman with the loud voice was the chieftainess, the macPhee. She stared at the redheaded child, a boy of perhaps seven years. The woman noticed it.
“This is my son Cumhal, the youngest of my seven sons. You will meet them all. They are consumed with admiration for the woman who has set the highlands in an uproar from sea to sea. You must tell me how you have such power over men, for I have searched for a husband since the death of the macPhee without success.”
“I cannot believe this,” Flann said quickly. “The love of beauty has died among the Scots if they dare overlook you. It must be that the chieftainess is hard to please and daunts the bravest by her virtues.”
Doireann stared at him openmouthed. The redheaded woman eyed him shrewdly, then poked him in the chest with her finger and burst out laughing. “Oh, the Irish tongue!” she cried. “It is dulled by nothing on this earth.
Call me beautiful again, for I love the sound of it.”
“Alas, I fear flattery does not deceive the macPhee even if there is truth in it,” Flann offered.
“You are a coward and dare nothing!” the woman shrieked. She poked him again and they laughed.
Would they stand there forever laughing and gabbling like idiots? Doireann raged. Her knees were buckling under her with fatigue.
Two more redheads joined them, young men in plaids.
“Here are my eldest,” the woman said. “Niall Roy and Liamh. They seem struck dumb. A miracle it is, for their tongues usually flap without ceasing.”
“No miracle,” one of them said, grinning. “The chieftainess always outshouts us.”
“If we are dumb it is because of beauty such as this,” the other said, staring forthrightly at Doireann.
“Come with us,” Liamh said, taking her arm. “Our voices shall not be drowned out then, but we shall have opportunity to bring you ale and tell you your eyes are like battle flags and your body more beautiful than any Irish queen’s and that we are willing to die for you.”
“Stop, you fools,” their mother cried. “Where are you taking her?” “Away from Comac Neish who stands glowering,” they answered.
“Bring her back,” the chieftainess shouted. “Can’t you see she is dying of weariness? You are all mad.”
She went to Doireann and put her arm about her.
“I will take you to the women’s hall where you will bathe and be rested. We will talk then.” She crooked her finger imperiously at Barra. “Give me the child.”
She took Ian into her arms and gave him a searching look.
“This one does not look like a Pict nor yet a Scot, does he? Come, I know you are tired.”
Still speechless, Doireann followed her across the yard.
The women’s hall was empty. A freckle-faced serving girl came in answer to the tall woman’s shout and fetched a basin of hot water and combs. The chieftainess gave the baby to her and she carried him out.
Doireann undid her hair and the beads and tassels with it. She put the hot water to her face at once and it revived her.
“Forgive me, Chieftainess,” she managed to say. “I could not speak before, but Meant no discourtesy. This kindness was too much.”
“Certainly, certainly,” the woman agreed. She put her hand on the girl’s forehead. “I see that you are tired. But you do not have fever. I suspected it, seeing your eyes so bright and that you are so thin. The child is still nursing, is he? All your strength has gone into him.”
“He will need me,” Doireann said suddenly. “I must feed him before I rest.” “Be easy,” the woman told her. “I have sent him to Una, for she has a child his age and milk enough for two. Leave him with her for a while or you will have the milk fever such as I had with my third, and be very sick.”
“Where is he?” Doireann cried. “He needs me!”
“Oh, be still,” the other told her impatiently. “After Una has fed him she will put him down with the other children in the spinning room. It is time he put the earth under his legs. I suspect that you have carried him about all the time, is it not so? Would you have his legs wither away?”
Doireann sank down on the bed, exhausted.
“My name is Moire,” the woman said. She took the comb and loosened the girl’s hair. “I know why you fear for him, but there is no need for you to be anxious here. No harm will come to him, I promise you. If you keep him with you now you will have little rest. And, by the look of you, there is little in you to nourish him. The men would not think of this. They assume that you can walk and sleep in the heat and the dust and feel nothing. I will not betray you.”
Doireann could not protest.
“Will you let me comb your hair now? It will be my pleasure.”
She talked on, the comb between her teeth, as she unwound the braids. “Outlandish, this,” she muttered. “Pictish style, heh? I dislike the Picts and
all they do. They have been the curse of my life with their raiding and murdering.” She cocked her head. “I had thought you would be younger. I was very young when I bore my first child. Fourteen summers I was when the macPhee took me from my father’s house. The next year I was still so small and narrow that I screamed and rolled for three days before I could bring forth my son. He nearly tore me to pieces and the midwives hung over me croaking that I would surely die. I bore the others easily enough. Well, most of them. But you were a grown woman when you had your child and perhaps that is why you did not perish in the hands of Calum macDumhnull.”
Doireann started. The woman looked at her sharply.
“Oh, we have heard. Conor himself, the bard of the macPhees, brought the tale from the conclave of the singers at Ainmire. You shall meet him later. A fine old man, a bard in the old style of the druids, who keeps the history and teaches the boys and does my visiting in the clans for me.” She dug about under the bed and brought forth a box. “So Calum macDumhnull is red-headed too, eh? It is the mark of the devil.”
She handed Doireann a short aras
aid and a silver belt. “This should fit you.” Her eyes missed no detail as Doireann discarded the Pictish dress and slipped into the other.
“Well, the child has not marked you,” Moire commented. “I can see the stories are true enough. The Gael cannot resist a beautiful woman, especially when both love and disaster follow her. Calum macDumhnull is a fool. He and his brother, the Red Foxes they are called, are accused of betraying their blood oaths to their kin and being traitors to the king. It is said they plotted with the Northmen until Alpin sent Comac Neish to find them out. And the Viking chief! I have heard he is mad with love for you and has been in a great frenzy since you were taken from him. Did you know his warriors fell upon Lewis in the dead of winter, out of a storm of all the mad things, and took the grain and the stores and killed the women and the children? This athach, this giant, cried that he would deal with the Scots as they had dealt with his wife and child!”
Doireann pulled away from the woman, but there was no stopping her.
“I hear this Northman chief is possessed of a demon and even his own war band is afraid of him. They call him The Bear and worship him. And Calum macDumhnull now, he has driven his brother the captain of the dun half-mad with his constant raging and ranting of his love for you. He says he will kill you now, as none may have you but himself.”
“I will kill him first!” Doireann cried. Moire threw the comb into the basin.
“Yes, that is more like it,” she said quietly. “Now you are not sullen and wireless.” She paused. “I do not envy you. The macPhee was a strong man and many times when I angered him I felt his blows so that the mark was on me for days as a reminder. But he was a bull in bed and kept me full of his sons and docile while he lived. I loved him and he was needful of me in many ways, great and small. I have his sons now, it is true, but it is a cold and lonely bed in which I lie.”
She stood up.
“Sleep. If I have talked of things you would forget, then dismiss it. It is my way. You will see, I am your friend.”
Doireann slept deeply and long. She awoke once with a great fear and felt for the child beside her. Then she remembered that he was in good hands and fell back into sleep again.
It was dark when she finally roused herself. The fire in the women’s hall was lit and the girls were feeding the children. A fat woman brought Ian to her. He had porridge on his mouth and waved a chicken bone happily. The woman would not let her take him, dirty as he was, but sent a younger girl to urge her to dress, as the nobles were already at table.
The young serving maid fussed over Doireann shyly, arranging her hair and bringing carmine to stain her lips. She put the silver circlet on Doireann’s brow. It was heavy, and after a while it would give her a headache, but it set the defiant stamp of her notoriety upon her. She nodded approval to the copper mirror held up to her, and the glittering-eyed woman who nodded back from the polished surface was beautiful indeed, and a stranger.
The serving maid lit her way to the hall of the macPhee with a torch. It was a house in the old style, an enormous round hut with thatched roof supported by an interior circle of posts. The chieftain’s table was put in a circle with the rest of the tables and not elevated on a dais as in the later custom.
It was noisy inside, and dimly lit with earthenware oil lamps. A sea of faces greeted her.
Moire in a green robe and a plaid pinned at the shoulder came to welcome her. The woman of the afternoon, with her bare feet and flowing red hair, was now a noble figure, every inch the proud chieftainess. Her hair matched the copper spears lining the walls, and though she had grown sons at the table her body was erect and high-bosomed and she commanded all her bold good looks.
She made the formal speech of welcome and then, taking Doireann’s arm, muttered into her ear, telling her the names of the notables present. Doireann caught little of it above the din. Only the old man, the bard Conor, stuck in her mind. His gaze was as unwavering as a lizard’s. Doireann gave him a low bow of respect for his position and age.
She took a seat at the chieftainess’s right hand, and the four oldest sons pressed about her, jostling each other on the bench.
“Whatever my mother has told you of me,” Niall Roy said, “do not believe it. She is an old woman and her tongue rolls on like the rivers of the glen, without sense or forethought.”
His mother heard him.
“I will clap you on your disrespectful head,” she cried amiably. She looked across the table at Comac Neish. “I have not seen my thirty-fifth year, for all I am mother to these big louts.”
The old bard Conor put down his cup of ale.
“The offspring of the macPhee are but moons revolving about the brilliance of the sun,” he remarked sententiously.
Doireann appraised the old man. He looked dangerous. So did the Irish captain beside him, this Comac Neish, the Ard-Ri’s man. But in a different way. The warrior had a wild face, the face of a man who would put himself above the rest with his daring or else die for it.
She deftly removed Niall Roy’s hand from her knee. A woman could easily wonder how it would be to be loved by the Irish captain. She permitted her thoughts to dwell on this for a moment and found herself blushing. She smiled to herself. She guessed that at least it would not be dull.
She looked for Flann and found him at the end of the table, sitting silent and moody.
“Where is Barra, the Pict?” she asked of Liamh. He waved an arm.
“Oh, there are some Picts about in the hall and he is among them. But you need not worry. Here at the high table I will serve you myself.” He jumped up. “What is it you wish? I will bring you Niall Roy’s heart on a platter if you say it!”
She had to laugh.
“Some meat will be enough, and I will take some ale.” “It is done.”
He turned to fetch it but his brother sprang up in front of him. They began to wrestle for the honor of serving her.
“Sit down!” their mother shouted irritably. “Be served like decent people!”
They paid no attention to her. Niall Roy raised his fist and struck his brother a glancing blow on the cheek.
“Be careful there!” Moire shouted. “You are knocking the servants about! Holy Mother Mary, how can I expect to get something to drink with this fighting going on? I notice you are not so anxious to fill your mother’s cup for all that she is sitting with her parched tongue hanging out!”
She glowered at Comac Neish opposite her as though speaking to him. He busied himself with his food. Flann poured some ale from his own cup into hers with a courteous speech. She looked down at it and frowned.
Conor reached across the table and caught Liamh’s tunic. “Sit down, boy,” he thundered, “and obey the macPhee.”
After Liamh had seated himself Conor rose, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and beckoned to a servant. The man brought a gilt harp and reverently laid it on the old bard’s arm. A hush fell.
Conor was gaunt; his white robe hung on him like a shroud, but he wore his wreath of oak leaves imperiously. With a feeling for suspense he allowed the servant to hold a cup of ale to his lips while the others waited.
Doireann bent her head over the joint of meat she held. She had seen these pompous old men before. They were a link with the past when they were one of the high classes of druids and held great power over chieftains and kings. Many were ragged wanderers, now, their positions usurped by monks and clerks. Not many had a position of influence as did this one. But they were still feared, for it was hard to put down the slander and satire they might turn against a person in their songs.
“Now attend me,” the old man cried, and his voice was still resonant and beautiful. “Hear me, ladies and nobles of the land of Alpin, King of Dalriada, clansmen and women of the macPhee, most honored and esteemed chief of the macDubh-Shithe, worthy sons of the illustrious chieftain who was, Congal More of revered memory.”
He ran down the titles and claims of kinship and Doireann paid him scant attention. But when he began
on the blood lines of the guests she was surprised at the power of his memory and the thoroughness of his training. He recited her particular descent without falter and some of the ancient names were strange even to her. Then he passed on to Flann the Culdee. She listened curiously. Flann’s blood was indeed noble and his claims to the powerful Clanna Rury of Ireland impressive. But it was sly of the old man to combine the descent of Comac Neish with it, for the latter was also of the Clanna Rury but a discredited princeling.
The bard returned to her kinship and she was jarred by his words. He had launched forth into a highly colored version of her misfortunes in Cumhainn with relish. The faces at the high table were bland, although she thought the Ard-Ri’s curadhs bent sympathetic looks on her.
The old man made a good tale of it, comparing her to many of the fatal women of the Irish sagas. The woman of Cumhainn, he orated, whose beauty wounded all who looked on her. Much bloodshed and frenzy had her lovelines roused in the hearts of men. The contemplation of her beautiful face, her proud mournful eyes, her troublesome lips and soft rounded arms, would bring madness to the mind of the beholder. A crown of rubies was on her brow although her sandals were torn with wandering. In all who saw her was the desire to possess her, although her love was for no man. Would those who fell under her spell find themselves enslaved by her coldness, her fierce mother-love, her heart of stone? Would this make them only prisoners of her beauty, wandering in her train across the empty land and back until their bodies faded and they were young only in legend?
She wished desperately that there were some way to silence him. These bards still had too much power. Too much confidence that they could say what they pleased. The monks were right. She looked at the faces listening and saw Comac Neish with his chin resting in his hand.
“But there are other tales to be told, and other mouths to tell them,” Conor said. “Great events have taken place in the land of the Picts since the sack of Lindesfarne and we have not heard the story. There sits a man, Flann the Culdee, who has seen these very things. I would like to hear him tell of it.”
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