I know what I’d like to say. But I can’t say it. If I want a place on Swan Island, and if I don’t want anything to interfere with getting Brocc back and finding the wretched harp, I must tread, not with warrior boots, but with delicate dancing slippers. ‘You’ll recall that my uncle was not present at the hearing yesterday morning, as he was away from court. He was still away when the hearing finished. I went to our practice room down by the stables, as Master Brondus thought it best that I keep out of everyone’s way for a while. But . . . I discovered that our harpist, Donal, had not been at the nemetons overnight, but had travelled in the other direction. Donal had mentioned following a lead, something to do with an old story that might provide some clues. I was concerned for his safety, and I had an idea where he might be headed.’
‘And where was that?’ Bress is quick as a flash.
There’s a rule for spies: if you have to tell a lie, make it as close to the truth as possible. That way, folk are more likely to believe you. ‘Along the hill road and into the forest.’
A silence follows this. It feels full of things unsaid.
‘Nobody lives up there,’ says Brondus.
I glance at Archu. If I mention Mistress Juniper, will the regent send armed guards to interrogate her? Burn down her cottage?
‘That is not quite accurate.’ Brother Farannán has a beautiful voice, deep and dark. ‘There is the herbalist. The wise woman. Brother Faelan speaks of the tales she used to tell him before he joined the Order.’
On the tabletop, Lord Cathra’s hand clenches tight. His gaze moves to Farannán, then quickly away. It seems the high bard has somehow overstepped the mark.
‘May I speak, my lord?’ asks Archu.
‘If you have something useful to add.’ Cathra really is displeased; his voice is cold.
‘I heard from some other travellers, a farrier and his assistant, that they were aided by this person when the lad was thrown from his horse not far from the wise woman’s cottage. She tended to his injuries and sheltered him overnight. If Donal was looking for a particular tale, that seems a likely place to start, since it seems this woman is a storyteller.’
Brother Marcán smiles. It is not the smile of a happy man. I remind myself that the Harp of Kings went missing while in the keeping of the druids. As their leader, he might be deemed responsible. ‘Since your harpist has been visiting the nemetons almost daily,’ he says, ‘surely that would be the ideal place to start. What can a local healer know that is unknown to a whole community of learned brethren such as ours?’
I have an answer for that. I rewrite it in my mind before I speak. ‘I know very little about druids, Brother Marcán. I do know that much of the lore you memorise is secret. A local healer, as you call her, will have different sources of material. Tales passed down from mother to daughter. Tales from . . . unusual places. Tales that have grown so many variations over the years that a wise woman may know one and a druid may know another, and the only thing they have in common might be . . .’
‘A harp?’ Farannán’s voice is soft as a floating feather.
A harp, I think. Or a promise of peace. Or both. And I’ll wager you know a whole lot more about this than you’re prepared to say.
‘So,’ says Master Bress, ‘you left court and went up to the forest looking for your fellow musician. I will not ask who let you out the gate – that matter can be dealt with later. Where did you go then, and what did you do?’
Now the hard part. ‘I walked past the storyteller’s house and on for some distance into the forest. I thought I might find Donal in the company of some reclusive folk who might have some useful information for him. After some time I did find him, safe and well.’
‘Wait,’ says Master Bress. ‘Folk? What folk?’
I count silently to five. ‘I should say, before we go any further, that I am bound by a solemn promise not to speak about certain matters, though once midsummer is past I may be free to explain. I can tell you only that we – Donal and I – were told the harp could be found and returned in time. But only just in time. Donal will not come back to court until Midsummer Eve.’
The sedate gathering breaks into chaos. I’m not shouting, and nor is Archu. But just about everyone else is. Lord Cathra is pointing a finger at Brother Marcán and yelling, ‘I see your hand in this! I did from the first!’ Master Bress is hurling insults at me, and also at Archu who, it seems, is to blame for the fact that I am young and stupid and not to be relied on. And female. Brother Farannán is on his feet and heading for the door.
Brondus raises both hands. ‘My lords, brethren, desist, I beg you. Our problem will not be solved this way. Be seated again, please. My lord? Brother Farannán? Thank you. It is not Mistress Ciara’s fault that we find ourselves in this predicament. May I remind you that she has just told us all may yet be well? This is good news.’
‘What I understand,’ says the regent, ‘is that I hired this team to find the instrument with speed and discretion, and that whatever Ciara may have told us, she has provided no real evidence of progress, and nor has Master Art. There is so little time. How likely is it that the harp will be back in our hands by Midsummer Day?’
‘I’m not lying, my lord.’ I can’t help it if my tone is icy. ‘If I told falsehoods about something so important, you would be justified in doubting me. I came here as part of the team you hired. I’m doing my job. If you want the harp back in time, you’ll have to trust me, that’s unless someone else is in a position to find it for you within the next few days. Please believe that if I give you any more details we’ll be denied the opportunity to bring the instrument back.’
Farannán is looking at me hard now. ‘How is it, I wonder,’ he murmurs, ‘that whoever has the harp can possibly know if you break this promise of silence?’
‘They’ll know.’ He’s high bard of the druids. He must have a pretty good idea of what kind of folk would lay such a promise on me. I hold my head high and look him straight in the eye. Surely he can guess the truth, or some of it. He can’t push me any further without risking the harp. But . . . what if Farannán himself is wrapped up in this? Dagda’s bollocks. Why would the high bard want the harp to disappear? To stop Rodan becoming king? But no harp means no king is accepted. No harp means Breifne plunged into discord. At the very best it means the regency dragging on with Cathra obviously unhappy and unwilling, and Rodan in no fit state to wait calmly until his time comes. The druids can’t have done this, surely. It must have been Eirne’s folk. She said she couldn’t take direct action in the human world, only give things a nudge along. I’m not sure how she could have arranged the disappearance of the harp without breaking that rule. But it does seem she has small folk outside the forest. The spies she mentioned. Her people aren’t all behind that wall. Perhaps an opportunity came up and they seized it.
Now she’s keeping to the rules and using humankind to do her work in the outside world. Humankind in this case being Brocc and me. She doesn’t trust these men of power – I have a certain sympathy with that attitude – and the ancient law means she can’t come here and tell them how she wants things to change. So she’s delaying the harp’s return until the last moment to stop them from meddling. To stop them from disrupting whatever it is she wants to happen on Midsummer Day. I don’t see how anything can happen except the ritual going ahead as planned and Rodan becoming king. Which would mean we completed our mission successfully. But she must have something else in mind, or the whole thing is pointless.
‘Ciara?’
Seems I’ve missed a question. I don’t care. I have questions of my own. ‘Brother Farannán, there’s something I don’t understand. I know Donal was privileged to be allowed into the nemetons to work with some of your own young musicians. But . . . if both you and Brother Marcán knew the real reason he was there, why didn’t you make it easier for him to speak to some of the senior druids? Or to obtain answers about the practi
cal arrangements for the harp? We still don’t know how it was taken away. You could have shown Donal the keeping place yourself, in your capacity as high bard. It would have been possible, surely, to do this without arousing the suspicion of your brethren.’ They’re all showing varying degrees of horror as they stare at me, so I go on quickly before someone can shut me up. ‘If this matter is so vital, why has nobody been prepared to talk? My refusal to tell you certain things is seen as an affront. Yet everyone seems to accept that you can do exactly the same.’
Nobody speaks. Dau’s words echo in my mind. Hold yourself tall. Tell the truth. ‘My silence can bring the harp back,’ I say. ‘What is the purpose of your silence?’
Farannán subjects me to a long stare. I have no idea what he is thinking. The chamber is alive with tension, but still nobody speaks. ‘You told us you had made a promise not to reveal certain matters,’ the high bard says eventually. His tone is commendably even. ‘One might say my promise was the same. The vows we make when we enter the Order include certain strictures. What we may say; where we may go; what information we may share and with whom. You are a good thinker, for a woman. I’m sure you can put the pieces of this puzzle together without my assistance.’
‘Time, time,’ mutters Lord Cathra. ‘There is no time! If we take no action before Midsummer Eve and find ourselves without the harp, what then? You expect me to walk out in front of a great crowd, with the heir to the throne by my side, and explain politely that the ritual cannot go ahead?’
The powerful men look at one another as if wondering who is going to produce a solution less ridiculous than mine.
‘No, my lord,’ says Master Brondus. ‘But it would be wise to prepare for that eventuality, while continuing to hope matters will fall out as Ciara has suggested. If my memory serves me correctly, the Harp of Kings is not an instrument of particularly striking design. With due respect to our brethren here, might we not ensure that we have a harp of similar appearance ready? Five and twenty years have passed since this ritual last took place. Most of those present at the ceremony will not have seen the Harp of Kings before, and those who have may not remember its appearance well.’ He glances at me. ‘Donal’s harp makes a fine sound, and it’s about the same size. It could be used, if none of the druids is willing to supply an instrument.’
‘You would base this solemn ritual on a falsehood,’ says Brother Marcán. His tone is flat with disbelief.
‘It’s that or find an excuse to delay it a year,’ says Brondus. ‘We all know some folk wouldn’t be best pleased by that. And we’d face the same problem next midsummer, if the harp is not found by then.’
Lord Cathra puts his head in his hands. The two druids confer in whispers. Archu looks at me, one eyebrow up. I’m not saying a thing. I’m going back up there on Midsummer Eve, with or without anyone’s permission. I’m going to bring my brother home. They can lock me up and throw away the key; I’ll find a way to do it. If my instincts are right, we’ll bring the Harp of Kings back with us. And if I’ve said too much, spoken my mind in a way Ciara wouldn’t, too bad. It was time someone brought them to their senses.
‘My lord?’ Brondus puts a hand on the regent’s arm. The kindness of this gesture reassures me.
Lord Cathra lifts his head. ‘I will not delay this another year. That would be seen as a sign of weakness. What if Tassach interpreted that as an invitation to make a claim after all? I gave
a promise to King Aengus on his deathbed, and I will honour that promise. His son will have the throne of Breifne.’
This stirring statement is greeted by a strange silence, during which nobody quite meets anyone else’s eye. Folk are tactfully not mentioning how incapable the son in question is of governing his own behaviour, let alone a kingdom. But it’s more than that. What am I missing?
‘A noble sentiment, my lord,’ murmurs Master Bress. ‘If not entirely in compliance with the legal framework that applies to the selection of kings. Still, Tassach could have made a claim this year and chose not to do so.’
‘If he’d wanted the throne for himself,’ puts in Brondus, ‘he would have acted three years ago, when circumstances left Prince Rodan as the next heir of Aengus’s line. And Tassach’s claim would have been strong. His qualities as a leader were, and still are, undeniable. His consistent support for King Aengus;
his wise and careful governance of his own territory; the fact that he was in a position to take up the crown immediately, while Rodan was then only fifteen years old. But he made it clear then that he wasn’t interested, and that has not changed.’
I’m keeping quiet now, doing my best to be unobtrusive. Beside me, Archu is very still. I know he’s listening as intently as I am. Have these men forgotten we’re here?
‘Tassach never wanted the crown for himself,’ observes Brother Marcán. ‘He’s playing a much longer game.’
‘I know that well,’ says Cathra, who has regained his composure and is looking straight at the chief druid now. ‘He’s been pressing a case, yet again, to take the child as a foster daughter in his own household. Nursemaids, tutors, everything she needs, including a foster mother in the person of Lady Eithne and – of course – those two young boys who are conveniently close to Aengus’s daughter in age. Tassach says, playmates. But Tassach thinks, a future wife for his elder son, in time a brood of children, and a new line of succession that mingles Aengus’s blood with his own. And what would that be but a weakening of Aengus’s line? What would it be but a betrayal of my solemn promise to see a son of our late king crowned in his place, and in time, his own sons succeed him? We cannot have this. We cannot allow it. Rodan must be crowned this midsummer. I will brook no delay.’
As the chamber again fills with voices, I think about that odd conversation with Aislinn. A foster arrangement – this must be what she was talking about between sobs. It was all mixed up, but I’m sure she said something about going away and Uncle Tassach and Wolfie, and how she didn’t want to go. But shouldn’t she be delighted to get out of this place and become a foster daughter in Uncle Tassach’s household, with nursemaids, tutors and other children her own age? No Máire? No Rodan? I’d have thought she would be all smiles at the prospect. Though it sounds as if the regent, who must stand in place of a father to both her and Rodan, is not intending to let this valuable playing piece go. Morrigan’s curse, who would be a girl child in a royal household?
While they argue and debate among themselves, I try to make sense of something Brondus said. That Tassach had an opportunity to claim the kingship three years ago and chose not to, so Cathra had to stay on as regent until Rodan turned eighteen. But the old king, Aengus, died six years ago, didn’t he? Aislinn never knew her father. The kingship would have been contested at the first midsummer after Aengus’s death. In keeping with the law concerning kings, any male over eighteen and with any trace of royal blood would be eligible to make a claim. The choice would be made by the assembled nobles of Breifne and, I assume, sealed at the midsummer ritual. It seems nobody made a strong enough claim at the time Aengus died; perhaps there were no claimants. So Cathra stepped in as regent. Rodan, the late king’s only son, would have been a boy of twelve. Did someone challenge the regency three years after that, and if it wasn’t Tassach, then who? Nobody has said a word about this. Maybe Archu knows. Not that it matters now. Seems the only man who wants the job is Rodan.
After a considerable debate, during which I keep my mouth shut, Lord Cathra requests that Master Art supply the druids with Donal’s harp, to be put in a place of safety until Midsummer Day and produced only if the Harp of Kings is not returned in time. The druids will arrange every aspect of the ritual, including the music and the movement in and out of the ceremonial area, so having a backup harp seems quite appropriate, though I can’t help wondering if they’ll manage to lose that as well. My brother would never forgive me. Archu undertakes to deliver the instrument to Brother Farannán before he goes back
to the nemetons, and the high bard promises it will be returned to its owner after the ritual. It’s all feeling quite unreal; time is moving along, and plans are being made, and I can’t even get a picture of the ritual in my mind. But it’s going to happen, it’s getting closer, and I need to complete the stupid tasks for Eirne or I’ll lose control of things completely.
‘Ciara,’ says Master Brondus, making me start. ‘We see no other option but to trust your word and go with your plan, such as it is. Do your best to stay out of trouble between now and Midsummer Eve. When you travel back up to the forest you must not go alone. We will provide an escort for you. Two guards at least. We must ensure you return to court swiftly and safely.’
‘But –’ I protest.
‘That’s not the way we work, Master Brondus.’ Archu’s is the voice of a leader; it does not invite debate. ‘I’ll make sure appropriate arrangements are in place for the safety of my team. And, of course, the secure transport of the harp, should they have it with them. We’ll be discreet.’
The way Cathra and his councillors are looking at me suggests they doubt my ability to comply with this, but none of them argues the point.
‘I’ll speak to Master Brondus later about the gate,’ Archu goes on. ‘We’ll need an arrangement to get Ciara out unobtrusively, and the two of them back in, with the instrument. If you have a trusted man who can be on gate watch that day, it will be helpful.’
Harp of Kings Page 29