Captive Heart

by Erin O'Quinn

  And that was the first time in my memory that Liam had used the future tense of any verb. Yes, it was time for us to consider what lay ahead, as well as the present road before us.

  * * * *

  Michael and I stood before a pile of shining wood and a long, polished pole wrought from hard oak. “Ye see the first stage of Uncail Eóghan’s chariot. Brigid tells me the old hÉireannaigh, in the old traditions, called it a ‘carpat.’ But Owen’s will not be a war chariot.”

  So it was to be a “chariot”—a vehicle for conquering heroes—and not an invalid’s chair. Something stirred in my heart, and I laid my hand on Michael’s arm. “Michael, I know before you complete it, this will be perfect for Owen and Moc, too.”

  “Aye, lass, I hope so. The body needs to ride independent of the wheels. That is the difficult part. Me uncle needs to sit in comfort, even over the rocky terrain of the promontory.”

  “Um, Michael, I know you may be wondering why I am back so soon.”

  His eyes crinkled in amusement. “What? Just because ye stayed away for seven months? Then ye visit two days out of three?”

  “Yes, well, I have news to tell you, both good and bad. Can we find a place to sit awhile?”

  I followed him inside the finished round-house. He sat on the stairsteps leading to my future bedchamber, and I sat on the stairs below. “Start at the beginning, Caylith.”

  And so I did. “Mother stopped by right after Liam and I visited you two days ago…”

  I told him the whole story—about the man Mama had seen, her brief story of her confinement, my own retracing of her anguished journey. I recounted my visit with Owen and my conversation with Murdoch about going on a booley. He sat with his elbows across his splayed legs, his head down, as I talked.

  “This is where you enter the story, Michael.”

  He lifted his head, his eyes troubled. “I? An’ how can I possibly fit into this sad tale?”

  “Murdoch thinks you may be the man to take over the brugh construction on the bay while he seeks the island.”

  “An’ how did he possibly think of me, young lady?”

  “Perhaps because I told him I know of the perfect man to take over while he is gone. One who could not just oversee the building, but one who could create a homestead fit for a very king.”

  “Caylith, me friend. I told ye I could finish your new home in two or three months. If I go to the bay, I know not when ye and Liam—and the child—may have a shelter.”

  “It is worth the wait, Michael. If we could find the savages who—who did what they did, I would be glad to wait as long as it may take. Even if my growing child—or my large husband—has to sleep in the hay haggard.”

  Michael laughed, a short, bark-like sound that almost startled me. “That will not happen, colleen. I am already several steps ahead of ye.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “First, the ox carts have already left for the sand dunes. I expect them back in a week, perhaps a few days more. In the meantime, I have arranged to have a large kiln brought here to the site. As soon as the sand arrives, I will show me best lads how to make an’ pour the sand, how to fire it, and how to fit the frames into the window holes. So while I am gone, the most important work can go ahead—as soon as we put in the windows, we worry not about the rain ruining the flooring once it is put down.”

  “All this you have done in a day?”

  “All this what, Cay? I have given a few orders, I have set plans in motion. Even today, me crew will be working on frames for the window glass, so we can set them in easy once the glass has hardened.”

  “And you already have half a chariot.”

  “No,” he smiled. “Just a pile of wood, a chara. The hard part is yet to come. I will need an expert smith right away.”

  “I know such a man—the very man who trades Latin teaching with Brigid at the school.”

  Michael rose from his place on the stairs, and I stood, too. “Ye know a man who beats metal at a forge yet recites Latin, too?”

  I turned and walked down the stairs, Michael following me. Now it was my turn to surprise him. “One of my very oldest friends. Luke Smith from Vilton, my old villa town. Luke can fashion almost anything you can conceive.”

  “I would need nothing more than rims for wheels, four wheel hubs, reinforcement rings for the body—”

  I waved my hand, not interested in the specifics of cart building. “Do you want me to introduce you to Luke?”

  “I do, lass. Right now, if ye please.”

  “Then perhaps you could stop by and visit Owen afterwards. You and he can talk about what he wants for his brugh.”

  He looked at me with wonder. “Ye have thought about this, colleen? This is not just a fleeting plan on your part?”

  “It is as fleeting as my dream of pilgrims in currachs. Come, my friend. Let us ride to Luke’s forge.”

  Michael rode his dappled gelding Breac—dark brown, its haunches dusted with light red freckles like Magpie’s snub nose. I had not ridden to the site, so I walked alongside Michael and his horse as far as my own hay haggard where the horses were tethered. Soon, astride Macha, I was cantering the well-worn horse path that led to Luke’s holdings and the church beyond and to the enclaves beyond that. Michael rode at my side.

  Luke, not satisfied with the clay-and-wattle buildings of most of the pilgrims, had built his own home. A consummate craftsman, he had made it of pine and larch. It was not elaborate—just a small rectangular building under a spreading oak—but it blended into the surrounding forest as though it were meant to be part of nature’s wonders.

  We followed the sight of billowing smoke to Luke’s large forge. As early as it was, Luke was already busy, just beginning to make a large fire. I set up a shout, and Luke emerged from the smith’s shanty dressed in his leather apron.

  It was unusual to see my friend without sweat streaming down his face and neck and his dark hair not tousled and stiff with his work. He walked out into the clear, warm morning, raising his arm and hand to me in greeting.

  “Hello! Cay, ’tis a joy to see you.”

  His wide, crooked grin made me smile, too. We hugged each other and I introduced Michael. Then we stood outside the forge for a few minutes exchanging pleasantries.

  “Um, Luke, Michael has need right away for some metalwork. Let me say first that the work will directly benefit my own family—Liam and Michael’s family—and it will bring us a step nearer to finding the men who torched our villa three years ago. So in a way, it will benefit me and Mama, too, and our old friend Brindl.”

  Luke’s eyes were as wide as his vanishing grin. “Truly? You have a way of finding those murdering barbarians? Can you tell me about it, Cay?”

  “I can, Luke, and I will. Just not today. It is more important for you and Michael to talk about what he needs.”

  “I trust you, Caylith. Anything I can do for you and your family, I will do with a glad heart.”

  “Gentlemen, I leave you to talk. Michael, please tell Brigid that I will come by to see her tomorrow, after you and she have talked about these new plans.”

  I leapt astride my impatient mare and left Michael and Luke squatting together. Michael had begun to speak earnestly, drawing in the dirt with a stick.

  There were two other people I felt I needed to talk with—Mama, first, so I could overcome her reluctance for me to help her and then Brindl, whose young life, like my own, had been torn asunder by the torches of the murdering barbarians.

  * * * *

  Mama was not ready for my visit.

  Of course, her home was spotless, and the windows, unshuttered in the fine weather, let the morning light stream in and reflect off the shining floors. She was fully dressed, today in a white, gauzelike gúna drawn at the waist with a length of doubled lace. And she had already drunk at least one cup of tea. I saw the remnants of breakfast and two trenchers on one of her large tables. Obviously, Glaed had already left for the bally trench where he worked alongsi
de Liam each day except the Sabbath.

  “Um, Caylith. You look pretty, darling. I–is there something you need? Has the baby begun to move?”

  If I was dressed in anything even faintly feminine, Mama always made a point of complimenting me. Even knowing the positive results of my several adventures, she still quailed at my rough clothing and arsenal of weapons.

  “May I sit down, Mama?”

  “Darling, of course you may. Do you like sun-petal tea? Of course you do. Give me a moment.” Her hands fluttered over the fire grate, and I was surprised to see her so uncomfortable in my presence.

  We sat for a while talking about a barely begun child, about my own unbridled spirit even as an infant. Then I bluntly stated the words I thought she was dreading.

  “Mama, I have set the wheels in motion to find the barbarian captors.”

  Her cup hesitated on the way to her mouth and she carefully, slowly set it on the table in front of us. “Caylith, I asked you not to interfere in this. It is intensely personal.”

  “Would Brindl think it only your affair, Mama? Remember—she lost Bert and his parents, too.”

  She hung her head. I was almost sorry for my curt words, but I had to make her see that it was not just her story. It was a story also shared by Brindl, and by me, too. “And I, Mama. I lost my dear mother. Even Father Patrick thought you were no more than smoldering bones in the courtyard. And I grieved for you every day until the day you stood in my arms at Sweeney’s shieling. So yes—it is intensely personal.”

  She raised her head to speak, but I spoke first. “Before you say anything, Mama, let me tell you that Liam feels the same way you do. The only way he will agree is if the men can be taken to Father Patrick for punishment. He thinks it is a matter for the Lord’s mercy to decide, not for the courts of men.”

  And then I sat back and let her think about my words. She sipped her tea for a few minutes, and finally she spoke. Leaning toward me, her hazel eyes regarded me with a deep fire.

  “Caylith—my darling, fierce, loving daughter. I knew deep down that you would never let it go. Perhaps I told you my story even knowing that you would seize it as—as a drowning man seizes a lifeline. Perhaps deep down, where I see it not, I also want these…captors to pay somehow for their deeds. Do you truly think you can take them from their island, and free their victims, and see that they are brought to Father Patrick? Is this even possible? Without harm to yourself?”

  “I think so, Mama. And I think you do not need to know any details—only the final sentence of our own Father Patrick.”

  “Then do what you need to do. I love you very much.” She sank back in her high-backed bench, her eyes closed, and I knew it was time to leave.

  “One more thing, Mama.” I bent over her suddenly frail-looking body. “I may need to take about ten Glaed Keepers. I want you and Glaed to know that.”

  She nodded without speaking or opening her eyes. I kissed her smooth, pliant cheek and then I left, closing the door very quietly behind me.

  Chapter 12:

  Like Old Times

  Brindl and Thom lived about three miles from our home, on a stretch of land close to the Foyle that they had turned into a kind of training ground. Where I would have a garden, my young friends had implanted a series of loops and circles and other boundaries marked in rocks, all used for their martial endeavors. Where I would have a pasture, Brindl and Thom had a full-sized hurling field. Brindl had begun to talk about starting a school to teach local children how to play at camán, or hurling, a game we used to call “field sticks.” My marvelous friends now excelled at the game and even dreamed that their field would someday be the site of local and regional contests.

  When I rode up to the house, I saw that Brindl was already practicing some form of training exercise, jumping over and through a series of small circles she had made with a long rope. I dismounted and watched her finish what I thought was one full set of intricate steps, and then I shouted her name.

  Brindl looked up at me, her gold-flecked eyes dancing, her sun-dappled hair hardly out of place. “Cay!” She stood in a training tunic almost as tattered as my own, and I waited outside the ropes for her to approach me. I had learned not to step all over her carefully laid-out, arcane twisting of tarred sisal. Giving me a quick hug, she eyed my light wool léine with a quirk of her eyebrow. “Not training today, I see.”

  “Not today, you scamp. I have…things to do.”

  “And I am one of your ‘things’ today, is that it?”

  “Yes, Brindl, you are. Can we go someplace and sit awhile?”

  It was rare that Brindl invited me—or anyone—into the little clay house where she and Thom had been living since their marriage almost one year ago. Brindl was gregarious and friendly, but Thom was reserved, almost to the point of somber muteness. I had hoped that their marriage would draw him out a bit. But so far, at least, he seemed even more shy and modest. Thus visitors were rare at the Stout residence, and I felt honored to be ushered inside.

  “Caylith, please sit anywhere at all. I will reheat our breakfast tea, and we can visit together like old times.”

  I sat on a low bench covered with a colorful piece of woven wool. “That seems fitting, for we are now old married ladies,” I reminded her. Instead of laughing, I was surprised to see her blush a little.

  “Yes, hardly seventeen and already old,” she said, standing rock still, forgetting her mission of serving tea.

  “Brindie, I was teasing. You have hardly begun to crack your shell, you little bird.”

  “I sometimes feel old and withered, Cay. I miss the adventures, the not knowing, the unseen peril.”

  “I, on the other hand, do not,” I told her. “The memories are all too vivid.”

  Then, remembering the tea, she put a small cauldron over the flames on the fire grate. “I say you are lying, Caylith of Vilton. No one relishes a good adventure more than you—not even myself.”

  “Perhaps what I am about to tell you will only reinforce your opinion.” I could not help smiling, even though what I was about to tell her was sober as a headstone. While she busied herself at the tea cauldron, I looked around.

  Their little house was mostly that—little. Both Thom and Brindl were, to put it kindly, not large as people go. About the size of brawny ten-year-olds, they did not need a spacious home. Everything was compact—small cabinets and floor chests, small tables and benches, a small fire pit. It reminded me of the little hermitage of our mutual friend James the Mentor in the forest near Harborton—just enough room inside to eat and sleep and change clothing.

  Luke had built their bed as well as Liam’s and mine. But where ours was large and elevated, theirs was small and low to the floor. Still, fashioned of oak inlaid with blackthorn and yew, it was elaborately carved and inset with shells. Yes, it was exactly the bed I would have chosen for my intellectually curious, beauty-loving friend.

  The most distinctive feature of the teach was a large, green flag mounted on one wall between the windows. It bore an emblem worked in red wool that looked like a raised right hand. I wondered idly whether that might be the personal symbol of the high king himself.

  “Brindie, I will remember that hurling match until the day I die.”

  She blushed again, but this time I expected it. That flag had been awarded not to Brindl’s team, but to her and to her alone. It was the distinguished token awarded by King Leary to the hurling champion of all Éire—seaimpín na hÉireann.

  On the last day of the great féis of Tara—the huge fair that was celebrated every third year to mark the beginning of the winter cycle—Brindl and Thom had earned their way onto the hurling team that eventually ended up in the final game. Their long, dedicated training had made them the standouts of the game, and Brindl’s brilliant last swing with the hurling stick had scored the winning point.

  That was not quite two years ago. “I hope you and Thom will return to the next fair, Brindie. You need a matching flag for the other side of the
room.”

  This time she did not turn red. “Yes. Next time the flag will be awarded to Thom.” She said it so matter-of-factly that we both burst into laughter.

  I waited until we were both settled on our benches next to a small table, and then I cleared my throat and began.

  “Ah, Brindie, the story I am about to tell you will bring back some painful memories. I am sorry. But the story must be told. Are you ready to hear it?”

  Brindl was far smarter than I. So when I said “painful memories,” she knew exactly what I was going to say. “The raiders,” she murmured, and she squared back her shoulders. “Bring it on.”

  And so I did. As I talked about Mama’s tortured journey and her stark words about the island captivity, I watched Brindl’s bright eyes close more and more, until she seemed asleep. I recounted her second journey, more than a year later, the one she spent bumping along in a rude bullock wagon full of straw and dung, driven by a large, menacing man she had later seen at church. And when I got to her journey’s end at Ballysweeney, I stopped.

  “Brindl, the story of what happened with Owen Sweeney is a private one. I cannot tell it. But I want you to know that he never once abused Mama. And she holds him completely blameless.”

  Brindl opened her gold-speckled eyes, and I could see the hurt that still had not healed. I could not imagine what it must be like to lose the man you were about to marry. Maybe the pain lasted a lifetime. “Cay, I guessed at the inside story a long time ago, and I agree. It is private. But tell me—why are you recounting this tale at all? Unless you mean to find the culprits somehow?”

  “I have begun to find them, in a way. Well—not I. I have set a hound to sniff out their miserable bums. Someone who can help us find the island where they keep their captives.”

  Now Brindl’s entire aspect changed. She leaned forward on the table, her eyes wide with excitement. “Well? What are you waiting for? Tell me!”