She knows tonight’s the night. But if she’s thinking about it, she’s better at acting than I am. Maybe she has Father’s gift of deception. I can barely keep my hands from flying all around. I can barely keep my tongue from shrieking.
We pass the milking yard and the sweet-sour scent lures me. I want to go in there and stand between brindled cows. They’re nothing like pigs. They bump against each other, completely docile. After an initial glance at you, they hardly seem to know you’re there. It’s like you disappear.
A blessèd thought.
“It’s time,” whispers Mother, as we come through the kitchen door. “Time to hide.”
“Where are we to go?” I ask.
“I already told you.”
“All you said was a safe place. You keep putting me off. What safe place?”
“It’s not far. I’ll give you directions when you’re on the horse”
“I want to know now.”
“Hush, Melkorka. You really do need to learn when to hush.” Mother looks around warily and I realize she’s afraid we might be overheard. “Here” She holds up tattered, somewhat dirty tunics made of coarse nettle. Peasant clothes. “Change. And hurry about it.”
“They’re shabby.” I draw back, wrinkling my nose. “And they smell. I wouldn’t be caught dead in such things.”
“Exactly.” Mother shakes the larger tunic in front of my face. “Even if people look you straight in the eyes, they won’t recognize princesses in this garb.”
My cheeks flame. Of course. But those rags repulse me.
Brigid grabs the smaller tunic in a flash. “It will be like a game, Mel. Come on.”
I want to slap her for being the first to obey, for acting so cheerful. I have to bite my tongue not to say something nasty as we change clothes.
Mother pulls us by the hand out through the fort gate and behind a thick bush. A fat mare waits there. She’s not one of ours.
Mother undoes the ribbons from Brigid’s hair, then ruffles up both our heads, so we look messy. She kicks at the dirt till the wet underneath shows. “Here.” She smears the cakey mud across Brigid’s nose. “That’s enough for you. But Melkorka, you need a lot. You’ve become a beauty. And right now, beauty is your enemy. Go on.”
Mother called me a beauty. And when Father was talking to that messenger the other day, he called me beautiful. I warm inside. But how can I? I shouldn’t be lingering on such words in this moment, not now.
I hurry to take a handful of mud and draw it down one temple and across my cheek and chin. I won’t be sluggish anymore. I’ll be quicker than Brigid. I’m the older one, after all.
Mother nods approvingly. “Like that, on this nag, no one will ever guess who you are.” She makes a cup of her linked hands. “Put a foot in here and climb up.”
“I haven’t been on horseback in years, Mother.”
“It’s easy,” says Brigid.
“That’s why you’ll ride in front,” says Mother. “You’ll control the beast, Brigid. And there won’t be much controlling to do. This mare’s gentle. But she can go fast if you need her to.”
“My tunic will ride up,” I say. “My legs will show”
“Which is fine for a boy. You’ll be safer as boys—two peasant boys. No one will bother you.” Mother cups her hands insistently before me.
I take the lift, and up, I’m on the horse. It seems high, I swallow and look down and swallow again.
In a flash, Brigid’s in front of me. “Give me the reins, Mother.”
Mother unties the reins from the hitching pole and hands them to Brigid. Then she slops a blob of mud on my exposed knee and runs it down to my ankle. She hesitates at my shoe.
“Please let us keep our shoes, Mother.” I won’t go barefoot like a slave. “Please.”
“Go out the south gate and take the fork that leads to the coast.”
I circle my arms around Brigid’s waist. “But that’s the direction of Dublin.”
“Exactly. If Vikings come looking tonight, they’ll expect you to have fled inland. To the monastery. Or north. Any direction but toward Dublin.”
“Where should we stop?” asks Brigid.
“The convent,” I say quickly, gratified to know something Brigid doesn’t. Once Mother said south, it was obvious. “That’s right, Mother, no?”
“A convent will protect you from Irish criminals, but not Vikings. Vikings see a convent as an opportunity. No, stay on the coastal path till you get south of Carlingford Lough. Then turn inland. Soon you’ll come to a ringfort. It’s large. The chief and his wife, Michael and Brenda, they’ll take you in.”
“So they know we’re coming?” I ask.
“No. No one knows. I couldn’t take the risk of a messenger.”
“What if we don’t make it that far?” I ask.
“You will.”
“What if we don’t?”
“You will.”
“What if Michael and Brenda have left or been overthrown? What then?”
“You’ll use your good sense, Melkorka. You’ll present yourselves as lost boys and beg for charity.”
“What if they aren’t charitable sorts?”
Mother gives a mirthless smile. She hands me a small cloth pouch on a string. “Hang it around your neck inside your clothes. Your gold teething ring from when you were a baby is in there, Melkorka. Any nobleman will realize it’s worth several years’ lodging and food for both of you. And anyone who isn’t a fool will recognize it as belonging to the first child of a truly wealthy king. It’s worth generations of loyalty. You’ll be taken in”
Mother holds another pouch up to me now, this one large. “There’s plenty to eat as you travel to that welcoming ringfort. Stay there till you hear it’s safe to come home.”
And what if we don’t hear that? What if we hear that Downpatrick has been burned to the ground? But I won’t ask that with Brigid listening. She’s only eight.
If the worst happens, I’ll think of the right thing to do. Because I’ll have to. Brigid depends on me.
“And Melkorka, don’t show your teething ring till you know you can trust someone. And don’t reveal who you are to anyone.”
“Not even Michael and Brenda?”
“No one.” She grabs my arm. “Immalle—together—whatever you do, stay together.” All along she’s acted solid, in control. But now her lips give her away. They tremble.
The skin on my arms pimples like gooseflesh. We might never see Mother again. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” chirps Brigid.
“Immalle” says Mother.
“Immalle. I promise, Mother.”
“Go fast. God speed you with my love.”
Brigid turns the mare with mastery that doesn’t surprise me. But then she pulls the horse to a stop. “Where will you be?” she calls back to Mother.
“Right here. Don’t you worry. Vikings don’t want anything to do with an old woman like me.” She waves. “Go now. As fast as you can.”
“You’re not old,” says Brigid.
It’s true. But I hope Brigid is saying it just to please Mother. I hope she doesn’t realize Mother is in danger.
“Let’s go,” I say in her ear.
We ride out the town gate, take the left fork, trot along the coast.
It’s a sunny afternoon. It has no right being so clear and lovely when anything could happen, anything terrible. The ground is dry and easy underfoot. The mare goes quickly. This part of Ulster is hardly populated. Once we pass the convent, there won’t be any settlements before Carlingford Lough. So we have to make it there. Did Mother judge the distance right?
But she must have, for it seems like hardly any time at all has passed when we’re already circling the east side of the Mourne Mountains. The lough is just beyond them. Downpatrick has mountains around it, with good pastures in the middle. Father says it’s like a miniature version of all Eire, which is ringed by mountains, with a bowl-shaped plain in the center. I like that idea. That
means the people of our kingdom are as Irish as Irish get.
“I’m hungry,” says Brigid.
I don’t want to stop yet. There isn’t that much day-light left. “Don’t you think we should go a while more?”
“No.” Her voice is like a rod striking metal. I can hear the worry.
Night will make everything so much more difficult. But we can’t be that far from the lough now. And Brigid is eight. “You’re right,” I say reasonably. “We’ll be able to ride faster once our stomachs are full. Let’s find a place among the trees to picnic.”
We slide off the horse before I realize that I don’t know how we’ll climb back up again. My heart skips a beat. But I’ll figure it out. Like Mother said. Later.
I look through the trees and choose an oak to tie the mare to. In the food pouch is cloth filled with millsén, a cooked cheese made of sweet sheep curds. It’s flavored with honey.
Brigid purses her lips and points. “What’s this?”
A large hunk of rye bread is folded in another swath of cloth.
I see my chance to redeem myself for all the complaining I did to Mother. “Don’t be a brat. It’s better than most peasants get. I like the taste.” I take a giant bite.
Brigid grabs the bread from me and tears into it. She chews big. “We’re peasant boys.”
“For a while at least.”
She grins.
That’s when we hear it, both of us at the same moment.
Brigid’s grin disappears.
I rush to the mare and pull her body radial to the tree trunk and behind it, so that no one in the ship that’s passing can see her. I lace my fingers like Mother did and give Brigid a boost onto the mare’s back.
“If they see us,” I say, “if it looks like they’re stopping, I’ll hand you the reins and you ride inland as fast as you can to the first ringfort you come to.”
“I won’t go without you. Mother said immalle—together.”
“Don’t be stupid, Brigid. I don’t know how to get back up.”
“Don’t you be stupid, Mel. Climb the bloody tree.”
There’s a branch at just about the right level. “And I thought big sisters take care of little ones,” I say with false lightness.
“Sisters take care of each other.”
We peek out from behind the tree, Brigid on the horse and me in front of them, and watch the Viking ship pass in the placid waters. They’re singing. They’ll be at Downpatrick before dark, the rate they’re going. But they’re singing. Maybe the very thought of the women ahead made them start the festivities early. Maybe they’re already drunk. Oh, Lord, let them be drunk.
I feel something light on my head, and I realize it’s Brigid’s palm. I put my own hand up on top of hers, and I swallow.
The ship passes without noticing us. Thank the Lord for the good forests of Eire.
Brigid slips to the ground again and I divide up the sweet-curd cheese.
Brigid puts her left hand on the dirt and lets a beetle crawl over it, while she chews lazily.
The bread smells so pleasant, and Brigid looks so peaceful, I want to stay a while. But dusk is upon us.
“We should hurry if we want to get there before nightfall”
I untie the horse and give Brigid a boost up. Then I hand her the reins.
I climb the tree, careful not to break branches. Between Brigid’s good maneuvering of the mare and the cooperation of the branches, I manage to wind up behind her.
Dusk brings a chill. I wrap my arms tighter around Brigid’s waist.
The forest recedes a little from the coast. We trot through brambles and ferns and burdock and thistles. They give way now to evergreens that sigh in the light wind. The tangy smell prickles my nose. The earth is hard-packed here, not soft, like in Downpatrick. The path is windswept. We can go a little faster. We travel in silence, each sealed inside our heads.
But it isn’t silent really. The noise of the horse’s hooves covers any noise we might have heard from the sea. So when the boat appears beside us, I’m so shocked, I clamp my teeth down and bite my tongue.
A man on the deck waves to us. He waves and waves as they pass.
“What should we do?” asks Brigid in horror.
“Nothing. It’s too late to hide.”
The boat came from behind; it travels from the north. So it was already almost past when we saw it.
This is a different kind of boat, though. Like the first ship, it’s long and narrow, with oar holes down both sides. But there are two masts for the square sails. And there’s a half deck with a cabin on it. Plus there’s no dragon head on the prow.
“It’s all right,” I say. “They’re not Vikings. Look how different the boat is. It’s all right.”
“But we didn’t see them,” says Brigid. “They saw us first, Mel.”
“I know.”
Brigid’s middle expands within my arms. She’s breathing extra deep. “We’ve not good at this.”
“We’ll get better,” I say. “I’ll look back over my shoulder. You look forward. We won’t be taken by surprise next time.”
“I don’t want a next time.” Her voice rises in a whine.
“Calm down, Brigid.”
“No. I want to stop.”
“What do you mean? Where?”
“Anywhere. I don’t want to stay on this path.”
She’s right. The path is too visible from the sea. It’s far more dangerous than I had realized. The alternatives are dangerous too, though.
“If we leave the path, we risk getting lost. We might not find Carlingford Lough. We might not find the ringfort Mother told us to go to.”
“I don’t want to go the ringfort,” says Brigid. “I want us to stop now and sleep in the forest. You and me, together. Immalle. And go back home in the morning.”
We can’t go back till it’s safe, I am thinking. But better not to say that. “We don’t have blankets, Brigid. Night is still cold.”
“We have each other.” Her voice screeches almost out of control.
“Listen to me. It’s easy to get lost. We have to stay near the coast. Do you agree?”
“I want to stop.”
“Listen to me. Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then. I agree with you, too. Together we can figure anything out.”
“Immalle” says Brigid.
“Yes, immalle. Well leave the path.”
“And well stop.”
Once we leave the path, we’ll be so slowed down, we’ll never get all the way to Carlingford Lough tonight anyway. “All right.”
CHAPTER SEVEN: STONES
“Du-mem-se—protect me.” It’s a whisper, from Brigid. Is she awake or talking in her sleep? And to whom? But I’m the only one to hear. I sit up and lean over her to listen closely. Her breath is regular; she’s asleep.
I climb out of the corn kiln. It’s full night. The sudden chill sends a shiver down my spine. I realize this kiln has been offering us a fair shelter. No wind comes through at all. I had no idea the temperature had dropped this much in the little while that we’ve been inside.
Every corn farmer has a kiln, of course. Eire’s rain would cause mold and ruin a corn harvest if the farmers didn’t dry it in a kiln before milling. So kilns dot the countryside. But this kiln was abandoned long ago, from the looks of it. And whatever farmstead it served is likewise gone. We’re lucky, I suppose, that it’s still tight, though I can’t wait till this is all over so I can get back home to comfortable sleeping quarters instead of dirty old kilns.
I give the mare a pat. She’s awake, grazing in the black of night. Brigid insisted we weight down her reins with a large rock, so that she’d have almost the full length of the reins to graze. If we’d tied her to a tree, she couldn’t eat as much as she wanted. Especially since the nearest trees are pine with essentially no undergrowth.
I walk to the sea. It’s not more than two hundred paces. I look up the coast. All I see is land and water
meeting stars.
What is happening in Downpatrick now? If there’s fire, I can’t see it from here, no matter how hot it burns, no matter how much smoke it makes; we’re too far.
Dear Lord in heaven, keep my family safe.
When I wake again, I climb out of the dim kiln and lean my forehead against the stone side. I’m weary still, for my sleep was shallow and disturbed.
What happened in Downpatrick last night? Did Father’s plan work? How many died? And who?
The stone digs into my skin. I step away and turn around to look at the world about us.
Early morning dances in a haze over the small lake in front of me. I didn’t even realize there was a lake here last night.
A speckled fish jumps. A lark sings. A wind comes up from the south, soft, with welcome warmth. I feel charmed.
The urge to run grabs me. I want to go fast. But a few steps teach me the nasty fact: I’m sore from yesterday’s ride. Really sore.
I look around for the mare and notice the big rock that held down her reins is turned on its side. Prickles of panic sting my temples.
A cuckoo calls. I swirl around and see on the other side of the lake a peat bog that comes practically clear to the shore. And there’s the mare. Standing at least a foot deep in the bog. The stupid thing wandered in and can’t get out.
I’ve walked in a bog before—I know that awful feeling. You fear you’ll sink forever. Gone, with a mouth full of mud. The mare’s probably as panicked as I was just a moment ago. She doesn’t dare take a step.
The walk around the end of the lake should be quick, but the way I have to walk, legs spread, makes it longer. The mare holds her eyes on me as I approach. I click with the side of my tongue. Men in liveries do that, so it must work.
It doesn’t.
I call to her. I sing. I shout.
I pick up a stone and throw it as hard as I can. It lands beside her with a soft plop. I throw another and another and another. The dumb thing is still too scared to move.
“Hold on, will you?” whispers Brigid, appearing at my side like a fairy child materializing out of the air. She’s rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Go on back to the kiln. I’ll get her”
I walk backward, watching what she does.
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