Now Brendan reached into the case at his own belt and drew out a small and slender torque, clearly intended for a woman’s slim neck. It was made of thin gold rods twisted together and shaped into a circle, but left open a little at the ends. Capping the ends were the heads of sea dragons, those ancient and powerful creatures that none had ever seen but that were well known from the many stories still told about them.
It was a smaller and finer version of Brendan’s own torque.
Muriel stared down at the three shining objects before her. “What is this, Brendan?” she whispered, though she knew very well what it meant.
In answer, he lifted the flat leather case from his belt and carefully poured out the contents on the wooden flat in front of Muriel. In a moment the brooch and the armband and the torque were lost beneath a heap of shining gold and bronze and copper objects—the same rings and brooches and armbands and beads that Brendan had shown to her upon his arrival, just before he had been taken prisoner once more.
He stood up and turned to the king and queen. “This lady, Muriel, is the one who has my life. Were it not for her, I would have been claimed by the storm and banished forever to the depths of the sea. She gave me my life…and now I would like to give it to her, if she will have it.”
Muriel sat very still. Brendan reached down to her and very gently took her hand, then raised her up to stand beside him. “Lady Muriel…I want to offer you both my love and my life. Will you return to Dun Bochna with me, there to be my bride?”
She started to speak, but her breath was coming fast in this warm, close room, and staring into his blue and brown eyes she could say nothing.
Now she must make her decision. Now he had offered precious gold and bronze to the king as her bride contract, and offered to her three of the most beautiful golden pieces she had ever imagined.
Brendan had returned for her, as he promised he would, and given her gifts that only a prince—or a king—could give. If she turned away from him here, in front of all the people of her tribe, she would never have a chance to change her mind at some later time. He would have no choice but to return home with his offer of marriage publicly refused, and Muriel knew that he could never make her another.
“Muriel,” he said again. “Will you come with me and become my wife, become my queen?”
King Murrough stood up, his gold cup in hand. “What say you, Lady Muriel?”
“I say…” she began in a whisper, but her voice caught. She was aware of the silence in the hall, and the suspense, and the many eyes staring at her. And she was also aware, across the firepit, of the shocked and disapproving face of Alvy. Do not, do not! He is not a king yet! Do not!
Still looking into one blue eye and one brown eye, still feeling the warmth of his skin and breath, Muriel heard herself whisper, “I say…that I will go with you to Dun Bochna, and I will be your wife.”
Brendan grinned and leaned forward to give her the gentlest of kisses.
“Drink to Brendan, tanist of Dun Bochna, and his bride, the Lady Muriel!” shouted the king.
“Brendan and Muriel!” cried the assembled guests, and this time she returned her lover’s kiss.
Seven days later, Muriel rode a small bay mare through the late spring afternoon with Brendan at her side on his prancing gray. Behind them rumbled a four-wheeled wooden wagon pulled by a team of large black oxen, with two servants walking alongside with long switches to keep the slow animals moving.
The wagon was piled high with boxes and leather bags holding the many bride gifts that the people of Dun Farraige had given to Muriel: plates and cups of gold, wooden buckets for water, sealskin furs and black cowhides, woven woolen cloaks, many linen and woolen gowns, soft folded boots and leather belts, golden brooches and bracelets, bronze cauldrons, an assortment of iron household utensils, stuffed leather pillows, and even a dismantled loom.
At the front of the wagon sat a druid, Bercan, whose task it would be to make the final delicate negotiations of the marriage contract. And high atop the wagonload of treasure rode Alvy, balancing herself among the furs and pots, as though she had appointed herself its guardian and must prevent its falling at every bump and jiggle.
Following the wagon was a bawling herd of black cattle. This was the rest of Muriel’s wealth, given to her along with the household goods as wedding gifts from her sisters and their husbands. Behind the cattle rode Killian and Darragh, along with five warrior men dispatched by King Murrough to accompany them, all working to keep the cattle together and moving along the path to Brendan’s fortress home.
Muriel rocked along with her mount’s easy strides, comfortable on the padded leather saddle, her feet dangling at the horse’s sides. It seemed to her that her day—her life—could not get any happier than this. She was on her way to be married to a handsome young man who would one day be a king, a man who loved her, and she was going to his home with a magnificent dowry of cattle and goods.
She had all she could ever wish for, all she would ever need. It all seemed so perfect…perhaps too perfect.
Muriel tried not to hear the small voice at the back of her mind that kept on whispering, He is not a king yet… He is not a king yet…
On the evening of the second day of the journey, the group made a comfortable camp beneath the willow trees not far from a stream. The hobbled horses grazed among the cattle on the rippling grass, the animals closely watched by the two servants. Soon the cows and the bay and the gray and the chestnut horses all faded into hazy shadows as darkness fell.
Muriel sat on a leather cushion beside her loaded wagon. In front of her, a fire crackled nicely in the stone-ringed pit that Brendan had built. On the other side of the flames Alvy tended to the newly killed hare cooking in a small bronze cauldron hanging by a chain from the iron tripod.
“Just a bit longer now; it’s nearly ready,” Alvy called, then held out a wooden bowl. “Oh, Muriel—would you walk down to the stream and see if you can find a bit of watercress to go with the meat? Take this and fill it, if you can, and there will be a fine meal for all of you.”
Muriel quickly stood up. “Of course I will,” she said, smiling, reaching for the bowl.
“Oh, but it’s dark down there. Go with Brendan; have him take a torch for you.”
“I’ll ask him.” But as she turned to call his name, Brendan stepped out of the darkness carrying a long, heavy stick of wood with a grease-soaked scrap of old linen wrapped around it. He touched it to the flames, glancing up at Muriel as he held it. “You wished for a torch, my lady?” he asked.
“I did,” she said, coming over to rest her hand on his arm. “And some watercress as well.”
“Then come with me, and you shall have both,” he said, raising the smoldering stick and blowing on it so that a little flame took hold. Arm in arm, Brendan and Muriel walked into the darkness of the trees, toward the sound of the cool running stream.
Chapter Nine
Brendan went first, holding the faintly glowing torch out ahead of them and picking his way down the nearly imperceptible path. Muriel followed closely, using the flickering light of the torch and the pale, distant glow of the stars and waning crescent moon to find her way, though the light of the stars and moon was equally wavering as the high clouds flew across them.
As she walked, Muriel stepped on a twig. It cracked in the darkness and caused a sudden rustling in the bushes somewhere off to one side of the path.
Both she and Brendan stopped. Brendan raised his torch and peered into the darkness, in the direction of the sound, but after waiting many moments they heard only the breeze high in the trees and the soft rushing of the stream far ahead in the darkness.
“Just an animal of some sort,” said her betrothed, continuing on. “Most likely otters or hares, frightened of you and your snapping twigs.”
Muriel smiled, watching his strong shoulders as he walked ahead of her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not well accustomed to the forests. I’ve spent all my life at the edg
e of the sea, and that’s where I am most at home.”
She saw him glance back. “And in just a few nights your home will once again be by the sea, at Dun Bochna. I hope that you will come to love the place as much as I do.”
Muriel stepped close to him as they walked, feeling the strength of his body as he led the way down the ever steeper path. “I already do, Brendan. It is your home, and so I—”
There was another rustling and a small crash in the bushes, this time on the other side of the trail.
Brendan halted so abruptly that Muriel found herself pressed up against his back. He dropped one arm and braced her with it. “Stay still,” he commanded.
“I stepped on no twig this time,” she whispered.
“I know. Stay still.”
Again they listened, and again there was nothing. “A deer, come down for water and startled by the sight of us.” Brendan started off again, holding the torch a little higher and moving it from side to side. “The watercress must be quite good here. It’s a popular place we’ve come across.”
They continued on, this time with only the quiet night and the sound of the soft wind in the leaves of the trees to accompany them. When they reached the edge of the cold running stream, Muriel gathered her skirts and crouched down beside the water to search for the cress while Brendan stood guard with the little torch.
In the faint and wavering light, she worked as quickly as possible to pick the clumps of wet, shiny green leaves, careful to leave the fine white roots so that more would grow. “Brendan, please hold the torch steady! I cannot see—”
The light almost vanished entirely as he whirled around. “Brendan!” she cried, and instantly he reached down to pull her close beside him. Her wooden bowl tumbled to the muddy bank of the stream, spilling out its contents as it fell.
“Shhh,” he told her. “We are surrounded.”
Brendan pulled his iron sword and stood waiting with his guttering torch in one hand and his blade in the other. Muriel stayed very still. She tried to look past the glare of the flickering little flame into the darkness that lay heavy on the trees and bushes around them, but she could see nothing.
Then came a steady rustling of leaves and breaking of twigs. First it was to one side; then it was to the other; then it was in front of them—and Muriel pressed close to Brendan as a line of people moved out of the dark forest to stand in front of them.
She took a step back, nearly stumbling into the water, waiting for Brendan to go on the attack…but he did not. He stayed very still as the little group of people took one step toward them, and then another.
Brendan held his torch high and moved it left and right. Muriel caught her breath as she was finally able to see what it was that had been following them.
She had been expecting to see warriors, most likely the men of Odhran’s kingdom come to take their cattle and rob them of their goods and force them all back to Dun Camas as prisoners. But these people staring back at them were not warriors.
Muriel saw pale and staring faces half-hidden behind the bushes and the branches of the trees, the faces of people dressed in plain, dark wool so old that it was hardly more than rags. Their tunics were tied around them with old pieces of coarse rope, and their boots were simply old scraps of leather and wool held together with the same worn rope—those who had boots at all.
They carried no weapons that she could see; not even the smallest dagger. Counting carefully, Muriel saw that perhaps seven of them were men, with four women and three children.
These people were not warriors. They looked like nothing more than the lowest slaves.
Brendan lowered his sword. Muriel moved out from behind him and stood close by his side. “Who are you?” she asked, trying to keep her voice as gentle as she could. “Why do you follow us?”
One of the men found the courage to move forward a few steps, pushing aside the thickly growing bushes to stand on the path in front of Brendan and Muriel.
He looked to be tall and broad-shouldered, and strong in the manner of those subjected to a lifetime of hard work—though a bone-weary exhaustion was evident as well. His face was hidden by a worn woolen hood and by a strip of old leather tied around his head so that it covered his left eye. Staring in tense silence at Brendan, he suddenly reached toward him with one hand, as though Brendan were someone that he knew.
Brendan gripped the hilt of his iron sword. Instantly the man let his hand drop. “We are here to be your slaves,” he said and looked down at the damp earth again.
“Slaves?” Muriel asked, staring hard at the hooded man and trying to make out his face. “It appears that you are already slaves. How is it that you are out here alone in the forest at night, following us like outlaws?”
The man looked up at her then, though she could still see little of his half-covered features. “We are not outlaws.”
“Then why do you hide yourselves and stalk travelers who pass by?” asked Brendan. “Will I have to fight to get past you?”
The hooded man stood very still for a moment, then stepped back into the shadows of the trees. “We fight against no one. We have only come to offer ourselves to you.”
Brendan sheathed his sword and stepped forward to stand right in front of the man, who was nearly as tall as he was. Holding up the torch, he inspected the stranger’s rough clothes, his worn-out boots, the rusted iron collar at his neck and the iron bands around his wrists, and the dirt and grime and sweat that had plainly been with him for a very long time.
“You are Odhran’s slaves,” asserted Brendan.
The man nodded and glanced back into the forest toward his waiting companions. “Escaped from the mountaintop when you and your men came to take the cattle that night. We’ve hidden in the woods since then.”
Muriel took a deep breath. So these were the slaves she had seen in her water mirror on the night of Brendan’s successful cattle raid. She had never given a thought to what might have happened to them, merely assumed that they had gone back to Odhran’s fortress and the endless toil that was their lives.
“We have no slaves at Dun Farraige,” she spoke up. “There are servants, but no slaves. I recall seeing only two men in my life who wore the iron collars and chains of slaves, and they were paying the price as required by the law for crimes they had committed.”
“There are no slaves at Dun Bochna, either,” said Brendan. “So now you must tell us what crimes you have committed, to be forced to serve as slaves for Odhran.”
The tall man raised his chin, though his face remained hidden by the darkness and the hood and the old leather strip. “None of us has ever done any crime—except to be born as rock men, as people of the land. A man like Odhran considers us to be less than the cattle that graze on his mountaintops. He can do whatever he wants with us—work us, chain us, starve us, put us to death. It’s all the same to him.”
“And so you hide in the woods rather than go back to Odhran.” Muriel took a step toward the hooded man.
He turned his head in her direction, and it seemed to her that he smiled, though she could not see his face. “We would rather live alone on the poorest land than go back to Odhran. But we are not hunters. We have no weapons. There are children among us, and we have little in the way of food or shelter.”
“There would be a place for you at Dun Bochna,” said Brendan. “It is my fault that you are alone and starving.”
“Not your fault, Prince Brendan. We are grateful to you for giving us even the smallest chance to live. If you want us…we will go with you to Dun Bochna and work for you there.”
“Come with us if you wish, but it will be as servants, never slaves. The work is hard, but the food is good and has no limit, and the roofs leak only a little and will keep you dry in a bed of soft rushes on most nights.”
“It sounds like a life good enough for a king. If you’ll have us, we’ll be happy to live and work for you.”
“Then come this way.” Brendan raised his torch and started up the narr
ow path with Muriel close after him. Behind her she could hear the hooded man and the others whispering to each other. “We’re going with them!” the mothers told their children. “There will be food! A warm bed in the rushes! We’re going with them! We’re going home!”
A few days later, as the sun shone high in the sky, Muriel and Brendan rode side by side through the gates of Dun Bochna. Following them were a wagonload of goods, a small herd of sleek black cattle, and a ragged group of men and women and children who now had something like hope in their eyes.
Muriel sat up tall on her horse, trying to take it all in. She was well aware that the walls of this fortress were only half circles and that the far end of the place dropped away in a sudden sheer cliff straight down to the sea. She could scarcely imagine such a thing, but was anxious to see it anyway. Like everything else in her new life, it was strange and frightening and wonderful all at once.
The people of the dun began to gather around, anxious to see their tanist and his bride, and to see the rough newcomers they had brought with them. Servants came to take the horses and see to the wagon and the cattle, and as Muriel dismounted she turned to look at the silent group of former slaves.
They had all gathered close together, acutely aware of the many eyes staring at them, and looked at no one. “Just wait here,” Muriel said, with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Someone will come for you soon.”
“Father!”
Muriel turned at the sound of Brendan’s happy voice. She saw him run toward a gray-haired, red-cloaked man walking slowly toward them, his warriors close at hand.
The two men embraced, and Muriel could not help but notice how Brendan towered over his aged, gray-haired father—and how Galvin had a round face and gray eyes, while Brendan had fine-cut features and eyes like no one she had ever seen before…
But she pushed all such thoughts aside as Brendan stepped back from the king and reached out to her. “Muriel, come and meet my father, King Galvin,” he said. “Father, this is the Lady Muriel of Dun Farraige, come home with me to be my bride.”
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