by Erin O'Quinn
“Elain? Why, that means ‘Fawn’ in the language of my father’s father. Too far back to know, never much asked.”
“Are you also from Rib Chester, Elain?”
“Close by, miss. We call our land Cumbria. Full of lakes it is. A lovely spot.” Her eyes seemed far away, and I hesitated to ask her about her family. Had she been taken with others, with perhaps her own family and friends? I quickly decided that no—if her family had been captives, she would be with them, not riding alone. Or she would be grieving their loss. I decided to wait until the shock of her recent past had worn off a bit.
“I, um, I am wondering about a stranger, a visitor who may have come to the island,” I started, knowing that she had already been asked and loath to bring it up again.
“I have put my thought to it,” she told me. “At first I could not remember that at all. But now, here I be, free under the blue skies for a few days, and my brain is coming back. Ie, I do remember such a man.”
When I heard the word ie, like “yea,” I felt a sudden excitement well up into my throat, and my heart began to thud inside my chest. “Tell me, Elain,” I said. “Just give me your impressions.”
“He was…large. Like the savages. But he had heavy, droopy jaws, with rolls of skin on his neck. He was dressed like—like any plain man, in a kind of long shirt. Boots, no belt.”
“Those are good clues,” I told her with an encouraging pat on her arm. “Can you tell me more?”
“He was there in our hut to look over the…the goods. I already knew that I was too old and my companion was too sick. They kept us apart from the others—like they knew they would not be rid of us so easy. I remember the man scowled and spat on the ground. The savage said something to him, and I thought he said, ‘Curse us.’ But no—it would not have been my own language. Those savages spoke only a guttural tongue I could not understand. So mayhap he said, ‘Ursus,’ or ‘Pursus,’ like a name.”
“Like the Latin word for ‘bear’? Can you remember?”
“Latin I know not,” she said, tossing back her hair. “I speak my own tongue.”
“You speak like a gifted orator, Elain. Your words may be the ones that bring him to justice.”
“And truly?” she replied, smiling at last. “Then ye make me a happy woman.”
“Tell me about your companion,” I said. “Was she the lady lying on the blanket yonder?”
“Ie. So sick, I wondered often why she did not just turn her face to the wall and give up. That would ha’ been better than lying in ropes, giving in to—what we all faced. I always tried to help her eat and help her—um, any way I could.”
“Did you arrive together?”
“She was lying in the little boat when they threw me almost on top of her. Even then, she could not speak—or she did not want to, for she was sick and terrified, too. I think she came from Cumbria, like the rest of us. But maybe from the island. ”
“The island?”
“We call it ‘Howger,’ but we sow our own fields, miss. I never ventured there.”
“So she speaks our tongue, or perhaps Welsh,” I said almost to myself.
“Young miss, I want to help, but hard to remember. And so tired. Could you ask later?”
I slowed my pace, waiting for Brother Jericho to catch up to me. I felt the excitement that always came with unraveling a mystery, and the next step was to talk with the monk. When he and I were walking and riding at the same speed, I looked up at him as he rode uneasily on the back of Clíona. “Brother, how fare you?”
“Very well, Caylith. I see you have fire in your eyes. Speak.”
“Oh! Well, I guess I will just say it right out. Do you know of a large man—a very large man—in our church who may call himself ‘Ursus’? Or a word similar?”
“Ah, yes, I do. How could that man’s name be on your lips? He is one of our most dedicated churchgoers, one who does not wish to show himself, in modesty of his own generosity.”
“What kind of generosity, Jericho?”
“He has given of his wealth, in cattle and other livestock. He has given of his hired men, with hours of their work. He has given of himself, in prayer and praise giving. Truly a Christian worthy of the name.”
“And if I told you his name was on the lips of one of the captive women? His name and his description?”
He looked at me with something close to alarm in his normally calm eyes. “If what you say is true, Caylith, if she speaks such words of condemnation, then she must swear it in a moot court. For he is an upstanding citizen of our bally, and he cannot stand accused without a fair hearing.”
“Jericho, I hope what you say is not due to his wealth. That he has not bought himself a pious witness to his good name.”
And for the first time ever, I saw anger in the monk’s face, the righteous anger of being accused of simony, or dealing in pardons. “I thought we were friends, young lady,” he said stiffly. “I see that you trust me not.”
“And neither do you trust me, Jericho,” I replied hotly. “For you sound as though I had made up this accusation. It came from the mouth of one of our rescued women. Did she invent such a name? She knows not a word of Latin, and she has no reason to lie. Perhaps you need to listen to her story.”
I almost ran forward, pulling Macha’s rein impatiently, wanting to shun Brother Jericho’s sanctimonious attitude. He had sorely disappointed me, and it would take me awhile, I knew, to cool my simmering anger. I walked for a while, letting the situation whirl about in my brain, trying to come up with ways of testing Elain’s words. Brindl was walking about twenty feet in front of me, talking to one of the women on a queen chair, and I hurried to walk abreast of her.
“Um, Brindl, do you have a moment to speak?”
Soon we were walking together, our heads close like the coconspirators of our reckless youth, and Brindl was tremulous with excitement.
“…makes sense, Caylie! This man is not stupid. He would surely try to ingratiate himself with our clergy, using his wealth and influence. We must not blame the monk. He sees what stands before him—a modest man who offers up his wealth to the poor, like the scriptures tell us all to do.”
“So how can we be sure, Brin?”
“Do you not see it? Do I have to tell you again, my friend? We have a spy in our midst who can discover the truth right away. All we need to do is send him ahead. By the time we get home, Thom will tell us his name, where he lives, his daily habits—everything we need to know to curse him or condone him.”
“You would have Thom leave again? This mission may be more dangerous than the last, Brindl. For this man Ursus has much at stake and much to hide.”
“Why do we not ask him?” she asked with a sad little smile. I could see that Brindl, in wanting to keep Thom happy, also had to stifle her own fears for his safety. And it would be this way from now on.
“Yes, and we will include Liam in our making of plans. I am still learning how to share danger with my husband, Brindie. I must not leave him out again—ever.”
Later that evening, halfway home, Liam and I sat close to Thom and Brindl as we gathered around our comforting fire. Thom, of course, had been eager to leave right away.
“Black Knife and I will depart with the dawn,” he told us, his arm around Brindl. “This is a mission for two men—one to watch while the other sleeps. We need to keep this man Ursus always in sight.” He turned to Brindl. “We can be in Derry within two days. I expect you home in four days’ time. I will be there, or I will find a way to leave word for you inside our teach.”
I saw that Brindl said little, and I thought I knew why. She did not want to give away her hidden dread, her notion that each mission could be the last. Now she only nodded, slowly eating supper, while our companions’ voices hummed and laughed around us.
Liam had listened to the revelations about the “ox-cart man,” as I still thought of him. Mama had described him as being large as a very ox, but I had not pressed her for a better description, and now
I wish I had. But I was certain that Mama’s ox-man and Elain’s Ursus were one and the same.
Tonight Liam did not repudiate me, even by a look, for running headlong again into danger. Now he simply put his hand out to Thom and said quietly, “I wish ye all good fortune, lad. ’Tis not an easy task, to track one who may be…bear, or worse.”
Only then did I sense the fear that crouched somewhere deep inside him, his fear for me and his child.
“Thank you, Liam. But I know there is little to worry about.” I did not know whether he said it to quiet Brindl’s fears or his own. “When you all wake in the morning, I shall be gone. I wish you a safe trip, too. Brindl will get word to you as soon as possible.”
He rose, and Brindl stood as he did. They walked together into the shadows.
* * * *
The next morning, after an early start, I was leading Macha again near Liath’s queen chair. “Weaver,” I said, gazing up at his tall, slender form as he rode, being careful not to fall out of step with his companion Black Knife.
“Good morning, my friend,” he said. His eyes briefly swept me and then back to the terrain ahead.
“I have named our lady ‘Liath,’ for her eyes,” I told him as I smoothed her flaxen hair back from her face.
“Truly, Cay?” Now he was looking down at her with flashing eyes, and I suddenly knew that he was smitten with this beautiful, wounded woman.
“She is from a land called Cumbria and possibly an island called ‘Howger,’ close to the Sea of Éire. If I ask Archer to talk with you, do you think you might puzzle it out together? He comes from that part of Britannia.”
“Absolutely! Will you ask him to ride near us?”
“I will,” I promised. I decided that Weaver, the trained spy, could unravel the mystery of Liath. If anyone could discover her identity, it would be Silver Weaver.
I fell back, walking Macha carefully. Her own belly had begun to swell a little with NimbleFoot’s seed, and I realized that I had one more delicate female to add to my list. I needed to make sure she ate well and rested more, and I resolved not to ride her at all. If I became tired, I would ask Liam to put me astride a packhorse.
“Blessings of the Sabbath, my friend.” It was the voice of Brother Jericho behind me, and I turned to him gratefully.
He was walking, leading Clíona by her reins, and I saw a certain halting slowness in his walk and a sadness in his wide, brown eyes. “Oh, Brother Jericho, thank you. I had forgotten today was the Sabbath, of course. I find myself in need of your blessing, for my heart is full of remorse.”
“Why, Caylith?”
“For my harsh words to you, Jericho. I was wrong. It was not fair of me to speak those words to you. You are a warm and loving man who would never do—what I said. I am very sorry.”
“I think we both spoke out of love, dear Caylith. I am not blind and deaf to your feelings about these defiled women. I know you want justice for them and for your mother. And it will come. The Lord will shower justice upon the wicked as well as the good. Will you please believe that?”
“Do you mind if I–ah, if I hurry that justice along a bit, O Brother?”
I had never been able to hide anything from Jericho, who knew me by now better than most. I saw the fire return to his placid eyes. “What mischief are you planning?”
“No mischief, Jericho,” I said truthfully. “I merely want to know for certain whether one of our good citizens may be wolf in disguise.”
“Or a bear?” he asked with a small smile.
“I promise you—I will not accuse him publicly without steel-jawed proof.”
“And I trust you, Caylith. I will ask no more questions. Let me speak a small blessing and move on.” He put one hand lightly on my wind-tangled hair.
“Dearest Lord, show us the way, lead us with the clear light that flows from your purest divine heart. Shed that light now, we beseech you, before the path of your child Caylith. Show her a road bathed in the light of truth and understanding. Amen.”
I slowed down and watched him move on. “Amen,” I said at last to his retreating back. “Dear God, show me that road.” In that moment, I did not even think of asking Father Patrick to speak on my behalf. The Lord alone would have to reveal the road, and I would have to proceed with care.
Chapter 29:
For the Women
Liam, Bunny, and I stood with Flann O’Connell near the lakeshore. The wind, always with us, seemed much more subdued now that we were only a score of miles from home. And yet still it lifted Flann’s thick red hair and played with the skirt of my reddish-brown deerskin tunic, as though somehow reluctant to bid us farewell.
“Liam, me lad, ’tis hard to leave. We have only just met. But ’tis time to return to Ballyconnell, as I promised me father.”
Liam was clasping his cousin’s hand and arm, loath to let him go. “Ye come an’ see us, Flann? Soon?”
“You must,” I told him. “Our new brugh will provide you more than enough room. Our baby will be born only a few months from now. I want you there for the christening. And Father Patrick will want to meet you, I know.”
Bunny, I saw, was quailing from receiving any more hearty cheek kisses. Cowering behind Liam, she joined in. “Yes, O cousin. Please come soon. You and I both need to meet our new kinsmen Torin and Michael.”
He favored us with his sideways grin. “No more redheads besides Cate and me, I hope.”
“Perhaps the child,” I told him, and I fondly reached up toward his face, memorizing the weathered lines around his eyes and the ironic expression his mouth wore. “Farewell, and God speed your return to us.”
He took my hand and bowed, giving it a small kiss. I turned and left, walking back to our campfire. I disliked farewells, and this one was harder than most. Flann had proved himself a loving kinsman, a worthy warrior, and a steadfast friend.
We were now a normal two days’ ride from Derry—but I had to reckon on four or even five more days, for we must not force the convalescing women to move faster than half our normal speed. I sighed, eager to fly like a swan.
The day was young, the sun only now rising shyly from the waters of the Swilly, a rose-cheeked maiden fresh from the bath. I squatted at our fire, drinking my daily gruit, eyeing the large cauldron that had begun to steam slightly. Every morning and night without fail, the recovering women drank varying portions of my herbal comfort teas, and—whether or not it was partly due to my healing potions—all of them had begun to show remarkable improvement. Even Liath, the mysterious gray-eyed blonde, was sitting now and eating regularly, and yet she still spoke not one word, even to her old companion Elain, who had begun to visit her several times a day.
Weaver seemed to be always at her side, except when Simmi or I took her to a stream for bathing or took care of her other personal needs. I thought he would have taken over those duties, too, if we had asked. But for the sake of propriety, he refrained from volunteering.
Father Jericho had convinced us that the returning women should be temporarily placed in the school itself. It was large enough to accommodate them, he argued. It already contained several privacy screens. It was centrally located, so that caregivers could easily travel there and back from their own homes.
My only misgiving was that Ursus might possibly get wind of them if they were so close to the church. Would he take fright and run? Would the women’s presence there allow him the time to fabricate a plausible explanation for being on Tory Island? Would he plot somehow to harm them before they could be witness against him? My mind roiled with dire predictions, and last night I had shared my thoughts with Liam and Brindl.
“We can…guard over them,” Liam said in a dubious tone of voice.
“And the Latin classes can be moved to the church for a while,” Brindl offered, “until Ursus is caught or found innocent. Let no one be allowed in to see the women without a sign from one of us.”
“All too complicated,” I had told them. “The ideal would be if Ursus were not even
there when we arrive. If only we could let them convalesce in the open, with no fear of more evildoers…”
The problem had certainly not resolved itself by this morning, and I sighed again as I sipped my comfort tea. Liam joined me. I reached out to hold his hand, telling him without words how much I loved him. And then we heard a most improbable voice.
“Liam. Caylith. We are returned.”
I almost dropped my tea as I awkwardly clambered to my feet. “Walker! And Black Knife! Why are you back so soon?”
Thom was standing with his arms around Brindl, who was grinning widely. Black Knife squatted near the fire, reaching for the cauldron of gruit. “May I?” he asked. Before I could even answer, he was pouring himself a cup of curative tea.
The story unfolded quickly. Thom and Black Knife had flown like midnight owls, taking less than two days to reach Derry. Once there, after only a few hours of solicitous questioning, they learned that the man Ursus owned a large homestead a few miles east of the river. Setting up a silent, invisible sentry, they took turns watching the door to his central brugh and the road to his front door.
They learned that Ursus employed a score of men to tend his livestock and his fields, and those men were quartered in four large, rectangular, clay-and-wattle structures some distance from the main dwelling. The marines had taken the time to meet and talk with the hired hands, who openly talked about the large man who employed them. He paid them in living quarters and meals, and he allowed each man to own two milk cows. They described him as a brooding, quiet man, jolly only when talking to strangers.
The most important information was news they had only just learned, and it had brought them back swiftly to find us. Ursus was planning a trip north on Friday, three days from now. He had ordered an empty ox cart delivered to his brugh, to arrive sometime the day before. This was a regular habit, they had found. Each time that Ursus ordered up the cart, he left the following day and was gone for about a week. And each time he returned, he came back on horseback only, without a cart. He traveled always north and always alone, driving the ox cart, his gray gelding tethered to the back of the cart.