Captive Heart

by Erin O'Quinn

  Silver Weaver had been looking at us, but then he, too, turned his eyes to the sky. I could only guess that he was hiding a deep grief, not letting us look into his face. I thought of the ghastly, gristle-like scars on my mother’s wrists, and I clenched my teeth so hard that my jaw ached.

  After a few minutes, he spoke again, very quietly. “All together, there were fifteen women. Their ages are hard to guess. Black Knife and I later decided that half the women were age fourteen to twenty. The others, eight of them, were perhaps twenty to forty. We could not tell you if they were sick or well. But I swear to you that none of them would be able to walk on their own more than a few feet. And none would be able to mount a horse.

  “As soon as ’Walker returned, we left, crouching behind rocks, and none of us ever saw the freebooters again. The next time we see them, they will be at the danger end of our short swords, I promise you.”

  He sat suddenly, relieved to speak the end of his story. A very long silence followed, as each of us ran the details through our minds. I tried not to put my mother in the place of those anguished women, but as much as I struggled to forget Silver Weaver’s words, I could not shut the image from my mind.

  No wonder Mama could not speak of her captivity. She had somehow been able to turn her eyes and thoughts inward to a place inside herself where no evil could penetrate. She had somehow been able to withstand the pain and the shame. Her words came back to me, spoken months ago when she told me of her brief time with Owen Sweeney.

  I heard the tale once of a woman held in bondage, brought before her captor. Her eyes had not known tears for so long that she had forgotten how to cry. Her body had been ravaged by so many drunken savages that she willed it to become shriveled and old, and therefore passed over by predatory eyes.

  She had not even been able to use the word I when she alluded to her captivity. I bowed my head, not able to look at anyone or to speak. I felt Liam’s reassuring arm around my shoulder, and I silently thanked him for his quiet strength.

  The silence lengthened. At last Liam spoke. “I am sorry I said…no punishment. Those men belong in hell.”

  My head was still bowed, so I was surprised when I heard the next voice. “The women will heal, I promise you. And all of you will heal, too. Please bow your heads and join me in prayer.”

  I let Brother Jericho’s words flow over me like the sea-washed cool light through my glass windows.

  “Dearest Father, bring your healing hand to rest upon the brow of our beloved sisters and wives and mothers. May your almighty spirit enter their souls and bring them to inner peace. And may our own souls find a measure of peace in the wellspring of joy that flows from you, our heavenly Father. Amen.”

  The rumble of our answer seemed to represent the very wellspring that Jericho spoke of.

  Amen.

  Chapter 20:

  The Trek Begins

  Two days into our journey, and yet we were no more than twenty miles out of Derry. I sighed with my customary impatience. Instead of a light infantry conducting a swift foray, we seemed to be plodding along like my cousin Milos’s siege-mentality sluggards who would wait months between skirmishes, growing rusty from inaction.

  The day we started out—was it only two days ago?—I had counted thirty-two people in our caravan. The most noticeable and fearsome of us were the mighty Glaed Keepers, former Saxon mercenaries who had sworn their allegiance to me a few years back in Britannia after the famous taking of Ravenscar. To a man they were burly and long mustached, fair haired and jocular. Their knowledge of my own Briton tongue was limited, and they fared little better in Gaelic. Still, they were not loved for their ability to converse but for their valor and for their dedication to helping those less fortunate.

  We had decided to recruit ten of the shaggy-browed warriors, even though our marine spies had reported back that there were twelve freebooters to overcome. The same afternoon they returned, Thom and his fellow spies had sat with a group of us at his own teach while we discussed tactics. The Glaed Keepers sported in the field outside, drinking heady red wine from very large wineskins.

  I thought back on that afternoon now, as we plodded along our southern path that would later take us north. We were crowded almost cheek to jowl inside his and Brindl’s tiny house.

  “I think,” Thom had said slowly, “there may be several more freebooters away from the island on a—an evil mission. By the time we get there, we may find ourselves with twice the resistance. What do you think?” He was straining forward on his bench toward a room full of rapt listeners, his eyes falling on each of us as he spoke like a born leader.

  It was hard to believe that this was the same Thom I had known for more than three years—the silent, diffident lad always the first to blush and the last to speak. As though the recent spy mission had unloosed the man within, a kind of self-contained, confident manner emerged more with each passing hour. I saw that Brindl was gazing at him with a new spark in her gold-flecked eyes, and that she let him talk, never once interrupting.

  He was sitting at his own table with his fellow marine spies, and they clearly had appointed themselves the head—the brain—of our operation. That was a duty usually assigned to me, or a duty I used to seize with gusto. But now I was relieved to sit in the shadows and let others do the planning. My burgeoning motherhood had become the inner focus of my thoughts, along with a brooding guilt about my mother and uneasy reflections on Murdoch.

  Black Knife sat with his legs splayed, leaning back on a high-backed bench. “In a way, we failed in our mission. We should have located the enemy’s currachs. If there were but a few, we would know for a fact that more were on the way. Now, I think we will have to send another advance party to the island before we all descend like locusts.”

  “I disagree, my friend.” Silver Weaver spoke quietly, and yet his voice carried a kind of conviction that made people listen carefully. “Whether there be eight or eighteen, we have the numbers we need to overcome them. Our main concern will be the women—getting them off the island, into currachs, and somehow back to Derry. And all without further harm to them.”

  I remembered looking around the small teach. There were several people there I did not know, mostly Forest Wardens whom I had never met, and who I had somehow never noticed on the thoroughfares or in the church in our bally. There were six of them, three men and three women, noticeable now because of their green- and brown-hued clothing but not by any remarkable body size or warrior-like bearing.

  I remembered back some years ago when my former armsman Fletcher, himself a trainer of Forest Wardens, had talked about the storied Wardens. Their duty—to protect the Hinterland from invading enemies. Their dress—no uniform, only a small, inconspicuous likeness of an owl somewhere on their clothing, so that only fellow Wardens would know each other in a crowd. Their strength—the ability to become part of the terrain itself and to strike without warning.

  One of them, a tall, dark-haired woman, had stood proudly that day. Her prominent nose and full lips reminded me strongly of my friend Andreas, who had been born in faraway Athens. “They call me Akantha,” she said. “My name in Greek means ‘thorn,’ and I hope the bastards will feel that thorn very soon.” She patted a Breitsax, her broad knife, in a sheath at her waist.

  “The point I wish to make is this. If there are more pirates on their way to the island, they will be bringing more captives. We must keep level heads and plan for that possibility.”

  Before she could sit, another woman rose gracefully to her feet and stood next to her. She stood lightly, almost on the balls of her feet, seeming to move even while standing still. Her light brown hair, short as Persimmon’s, swirled like drips of honey around her ears.

  “You have snared my own fugitive thoughts, ’Kantha. I would know how we will bring back fifteen or more women, all made weak with prolonged captivity and wounded by depravity. My name, by the way, is Mari Forster.” She leveled her warm brown eyes on me. “Caylith, I was born in Woodcamp, and
I know about you by reputation. I left several years ago, before the, ah, unfortunate fires that took your villa. We share many of the same friends, and it is a pleasure to meet you at last.”

  She and Akantha sat back down, and I felt I should answer her question, for it should be a prime concern to all of us. Without getting up, I answered, raising my voice to make myself understood by everyone in the room. “And I am pleased to meet you. First, and most important, we have caregivers. Quince and Persimmon are experienced and compassionate, and they will teach all of us how to comfort and care for our wards. Also, I think the reputation of the Glaed Keepers should be enough to forestall many of your concerns.

  “Next, I have a, um, a certain reputation myself, a certain experience with the healing arts. I have already prepared a store of ingredients to make comfort teas, poultices, infusions, and just about any kind of gruit that may help the captives.

  “And last, Liam’s cousin Michael has constructed the makings of what I call ‘queen chairs.’ Let me explain. When we brought an elderly, sick woman back from Limavady several months ago, Michael invented a kind of conveyance that is attached by pliable beams to a pair of horses and from the beams to a heavy tarred cloth that sits between the horses and allows a wounded person to ride comfortably. I know I have not described it well, but you will see. The only drawback to queen chairs is that the horses have to walk very slowly, and experienced riders need to keep them in constant tandem. But I believe they will work.”

  Thom’s dark eyes were flitting around the room, watching the faces of his guests. “I am gratified by what Akantha and Mari have said. It reveals your deep compassion and your ability to think deeply, beyond the moment. We would like to hear from the rest of you. Could you stand and tell us a bit about yourself?”

  The third woman stood. Her hair was ash blonde, arranged in braids on the top of her head. Her eyes were an attractive mix of brown and gray, and deep dimples rode at the sides of her mouth. Here was a woman used to smiling and, I thought, making others smile. “Coinín. Pronounced ‘ko-neen,’ thank you very much, Coinín Coyle. And yes, I am an Éireannach as well as a Forest Warden. Long story. Not interesting. Call on me if you need a swift arrow in a gullet or an even swifter Kurzsax.”

  I looked at her belt and saw a gleaming short knife, its handle engraved with inlaid silver, and I could well believe that she knew how to handle a weapon.

  Next, all three of the remaining Forest Wardens stood—two tall men and one breath-catching, handsome dwarf. “Roebuck,” said the first man, brushing back a lanky swatch of deep red-brown hair from his eyes “Not much of a talker. Talk to the trees and the wolves and the deer. Glad to be here.” I saw a short axe fixed to his belt, and it looked somehow natural against his long, leather-clad leg.

  The next man, as tall as Liam, grinned at his companion. “I make up for my friend Roe’s shortness of speech. My name is Archer, and, in a word—I am. I hail from the north of your own country, Caylith, not so far from the Saxon shore.” In my mind’s eye, I saw his six-foot frame and long, blond hair poised against the crumbling wall of Hadrian, or atop a lonely watchtower on the strands of Britannia, an arrow nocked and ready in his bow.

  “May I say that I am equally awed by your reputation and your beauty. And may your husband worry not, for I am joyfully married. If you need no archer, I am also your man with a short sword or even a Breitsax—a broad knife.”

  The dwarf, seeming even shorter next to his lanky companions, lifted his smooth face and surveyed everyone in the room. “Falcon Feather,” he said, and I was hardly surprised, for Jay’s clan members seemed to spring from everywhere. His bearing somehow reminded me of a pine forest filled with sharp-eyed, graceful birds. His eyes, quiet yet lively, glittered like a peregrine’s.

  “My talents are few,” Falcon said quietly. “They lay mostly in the element of surprise. Who would expect a man under five feet to fight like one twice his size? May I take this opportunity in public to thank you, Caylith, for what you have done for my family—for all the dwarf clans. If they were warriors, they would be here, too.” He brushed his gold-in-brown hair back from his forehead, letting it fall again in cascades around his temples. I could see that here was a man with talents far exceeding his own modest description, even though he wore no weapon I could see.

  Then all three of them sat, as if on cue, and I noticed that everyone was smiling, charmed by our new companions.

  Luke stood then, running one hand through his dark hair so that it stood on end. I thought I had never seen Luke without his telltale cowlicks, and a small spot inside me glowed like an ember as I thought about his many acts of kindness to me and my friends.

  “Luke Smith, ah, blacksmith. Sometime teacher of Latin. And, Mari—I am a former resident of Vilton, and I remember you well. You left Woodcamp before I had the nerve to introduce myself, so let this suffice.” He looked around the room, drawing his brows down in fierce concentration. “Until this morning, I was not sure I would be on this trip. Now that I have heard what the scouting party has to say, I am committed to helping. I have little to offer this group of martial experts, unless it be a harness repair, a retempering of a dull sword, or even a good tale or two. Thank you for accepting me.” When he sat, he settled down next to Quince.

  Next, Liam stood, uncertain of what to say. “Me name is Liam O’Neill. I know only Luke an’ Thom, the lovely warrior Brindl, an’ me beautiful wife Caitlín. Me bata speaks for me.” He rested his right hand on the knobby hilt of his burnished shillelagh, and a ripple of laughter ran around the room.

  After he sat, there were only Brother Jericho, Brindl, and the twins left to speak. The Glaed Keepers had elected to stay outside, for the crowded room was not nearly big enough to accommodate their size and their spirit.

  Quince and Persimmon stood up together. “My name is Quince,” the long-haired twin said. “I am happy to tell Akantha and Mari that my sister and I know a thing or two about caregiving. Once we have the captives safe, we will tell you and show you what to do.”

  Persimmon tossed her light blonde hair, an attractive gesture I thought she was quite unaware of. “Persimmon. Call me Simmi. Former acrobat and dancer, now dedicated to helping the less fortunate. Happy to join this group, hope you will all become my friends.”

  Brindl, like me, was loath to heave herself onto her feet, and she merely sat quietly on the floor next to Thom’s bench. “My name is Brindl, and I am most recently a marine by training and even somewhat of a bataireacht—a shillelagh fighter—thanks to my friends Liam and Caylith. You will no doubt have noticed that I am quite pregnant, but my skills are not yet diminished. Only my feet’s ability to haul my weight into a standing position.” She grinned and everyone laughed with her. Thom rested one hand on her slender shoulder, and only a blind man would not see the adoration in his eyes.

  Last, it was Brother Jericho’s turn to speak. “I know all of you,” he began, and his calm eyes surveyed every individual. “A few of you have not been to our church. But I know you from your hard work on the construction of our school and other buildings in Derry. I think no finer group of people could be gathered to perform a deed worthy of the Good Samaritan that Jesus spoke of. Bless you all. Oh—and my name is Brother Jericho. Please come to me anytime, for any reason.”

  Now, two days later, I looked back on the little assembly and felt some of my annoyance and impatience drain away. What did I expect—that we would run like slender fawns through the forest land, swim like dolphins through the lakes and rivers, fly like owls, hunting in the darkness? I sat astride Macha, my spirited mare, who now was walking gracefully, even through the brush-laden ravines. Liam, trying not to seem too protective, rode near me, often guiding his horse to my side to ask if I needed a draught of water or a rest.

  He was riding Fintan, the palomino stallion that belonged to Murdoch. I could see that horse and rider were well matched, even more than his own gelding Angus, who had come to him quite by chance when we were visiting
Michael last year on the Lough Neagh. The steady wind lifted the palomino’s white mane and ruffled his tail as he set his sure hooves between scattered rocks or bogland, through creeks or in forest copses, wherever Liam guided him.

  The Forest Wardens were riding easily and silently all around me, seeming to be part centaurs, as though being astride a horse were part of their everyday routine.

  When I turned around and strained to look, I could see Brother Jericho astride my other mare Clíona, keeping up the rear with a string of packhorses and a small group of marines. Without seeing the expression on his face, I could not tell whether he had applied the healing paste I had given him to put on his saddle sores. I grinned in spite of myself, knowing how Jericho staunchly refused to be free of annoying blisters when, after all, his lord had suffered the nails of the crucifix. I had learned from long experience that if I did not ask the monk, he might apply the paste and say nothing at all.

  In the vanguard of our caravan rode the three marines, along with Brindl, and right behind them walked our ten stalwart Saxons. They, along with a handful of marines, were bearing six currachs that we had bought from a small fishermen’s bally on the shores of the Swilly. The Glaed Keepers would all be walking on the way back, too, no doubt carrying some of the women and guarding our prisoners.

  Near me rode Luke and the twins. Quince rode NimbleFoot. Persimmon, a more sure rider, rode Angus. It had taken Luke a while to coax Quince onto NimbleFoot’s back. As small as the pony was, Quince was still apprehensive. Now, on her second day of riding, she still seemed a bit uneasy, even though NimbleFoot kept his rider in much finer balance than any of the horses afforded their own riders.

  I guided Macha to where they rode. “Ladies, how are you doing? Luke?”

  “Um, fine, Cay,” said Luke, his eyes on Quince. “We were thinking that tonight we might ask you for a bit of, ah, your special paste.”