by David Waid
The rider, a woman with an ermine cape flowing down her back and over the horse’s croup, stood in the stirrups. She gripped the beast with her knees, holding the reins in one gloved fist while lifting the other to shade her eyes.
The pattern of the birds’ formation was like a shimmering cloth, changing from dark to light as they switched direction, spreading out, thin and long, then swinging back together in a formation so tight and round, it was like a black moon. The woman sat back in her saddle and shook her head. Something in the set of the world was wrong. An important thing was being spoken, but she could make nothing of it. She thought of her own gambits moving across the chess table and experienced a rising tide of disquiet.
Guiding her steed once more toward the wooden bridge, she slapped the reins against its neck. “Yah!” The drumming of hooves became a hollow sound as she crossed. She knew of an inn two miles ahead that sat where this road met the road from the Valley of Winds. There she could secure a room and, within its dark confines, find exactly how things lay with the boy she pursued.
Branagh stood in the snow by the well, drawing up a bucket of freezing water and pieces of broken ice. The well almost never iced over, but on days like today, when it did, she dropped big stones down to break it up. Mother would scold if ever she knew about the stones, but what else was she to do?
The rope hurt her dry, cracked hands. Her fingers ached with cold so she could barely feel their movement, but the numbness didn’t stop the pain, it made it worse. Looking around the yard at the Inn of the Three Shrikes, her heart sank in her chest. This had been the world for all her seventeen years and there could be no doubt her mother ruled it. There was the rounded top of the brick oven where they cooked bread, a small stable and her younger brother, Kevan, dutifully sweeping the cobbled paving stones he’d shoveled earlier, working his way around the leaning sycamore. Even when bad weather struck and no guests came, the two of them had to work as if the place were full.
An empty chicken coop nestled in a corner of the yard because, in cold like this, the hens and the ill-tempered cock went indoors. Branagh hated the rooster. Having felt his sharp spurs more than once, she went to great lengths avoiding him.
There was the inn itself, with its sloped, snow-covered roof and the chimney huffing at the sky. A seven-foot palisade made of hawthorne posts encircled the inn, with knobby gaps she could slide an arm through to the shoulder. In uncertain times, her mother said, one could not be too careful. Whatever fancy took her mum, meant more work for everyone else. The Shrikes, however, gained a reputation for being well kept. The inn usually hummed with visitors and Branagh trudged a never-ending path to the well and back.
As she thought about her miserable past, present and future, a call came from outside the inn’s gate. A woman’s voice, and not one she recognized. Although Kevan was closer, she put down the sloshing bucket and ran for the fence.
The girl pressed her face to the gap between two posts and saw a woman who looked like she’d stepped from a dream. She sat astride a massive black stallion and wore a long cloak of fur such as Branagh had never seen. Her boots looked soft as lamb’s skin and the stirrups in which they rested shone bright with silver. She must be a queen or a princess, the girl thought.
The woman’s long, black hair hung loose, tossed by the wind. Her cheeks were red from the cold and her blue-grey eyes glittered. She looked older than Branagh, but not by more than a handful of years. She had a light dusting of freckles and a guileless, lopsided smile, which spread as she spotted Branagh.
“I am alone,” the woman called out. “My name is Sairshee and I am cold and in need of a room. Will you invite me in?”
“Oh, yes, my lady,” said Branagh. She and her brother lifted the bar, swinging wide the gate. As the woman rode through, she looked down at the two and presented them with another bright smile.
Sairshee leaned towards Branagh. “I’ll instruct your lad here in the care of Nuada,” she patted the horse’s neck, “if you’d be so kind as to arrange me a room. I need one immediately and don’t want to be disturbed.” She pressed a silver penny into Branagh’s hand. The red-faced girl ran into the house as Kevan walked the lady and her horse towards the stable.
“Mum! Da!” Branagh cried. Her mother was crushing dried herbs on a stool by the fire, a mortar on her knees and a pestle in hand. Poking around her feet were the hens, while the bantam rooster with his bright red wattle and comb stood on an overturned bowl casting an evil eye at Branagh.
The sound of excitement in her daughter’s shout made her mother glance up. Her father opened the door to the back of the house, looking in, snow halfway up his legs, a crumpled caubeen on his head and an axe in one hand.
“There’s a fine lady here,” Branagh said. “She wants a room an’ she looks like a queen!”
“How many altogether?”
“None but her, Mum.”
“What’s that? A lady traveling alone, ye say?”
“Aye, she’s alone. She’s a great beauty and she has the biggest black horse ye’ve ever seen.” She held up the silver coin. “And look what she gave me.”
Her mother and father exchanged a glance.
“I’ll not have that one staying in my inn,” said her Da.
“Wipe the snow off your legs and close the door, Derry O’Keefe, or I’ll let you know what I think of ‘yer inn.’ And take that fool hat from yer head.” She crossed the room, took the coin from her daughter’s hand and stood beside her to look out the front door.
Her father still stood in the snow, mumbling. “I never take my hat off but to them I respects.” He leaned the axe against the building, stomped his feet and brushed snow from his legs with quick swats of his big hands.
Branagh, bewildered, watched her parents. “She said her name was Sairshee.”
“It’s her alright, Devil take her,” said Mother. “An’ she’s coming this way. Lord, between us and harm. Take off that hat, ye great mutton.”
“There’s them as say she’s mistress and whore to the Leinster King.”
“They say worse than that, an’ well ye know it. Whether she cavorts with thieves, kings or the Devil hisself, it’s no business for an innkeeper.”
“Ye don’t believe it or ye wouldn’t let her in.”
“I believe every word and I’m goin’ to let her in, Master O’Keefe. The hare doesn’t bait the wolf to its burrow.” She lowered her voice and pointed a finger at her husband. “Now here she comes, take the hat from yer head and close the door.”
“I’ll do what’s right in me own home, woman,” he said, but even so, he stepped in and removed his hat.
Branagh’s mother took an involuntary step back as a shadow fell across the lintel. Sairshee stood in the doorway surveying the room, her black hair hanging unbraided to her waist. For a moment, the only sound was the clucking of hens, then the cock turned his red-rimmed eye on the doorway. At sight of the lady, the beast stretched his long neck to the ceiling and crowed like a herald, the sound doubly loud in the little common room. Branagh couldn’t take her eyes from the ugly curve of the bird’s open beak. He crowed but the once, then hopped from his perch and pecked viciously at the hens, herding them away.
Branagh blushed to the roots of her hair, wanting nothing more than to disappear, hide from the fact that their inn was no better than a Clonyburn chicken shed. The lady’s careful silence felt like a whip across her shoulders.
At the cock’s crow, her mother’s face had gone bloodless. She started to cross herself, but then she looked at Sairshee and stopped. Their eyes met and Mother’s hand dropped to her side. Sairshee turned to Branagh’s father and watched his face register every thought as plain as if it were written with a charcoal stick.
The lady’s lips grew thin and white. She looked like she might say something, but Branagh’s mother spoke first, words rushing in a tumble. “Please excuse us, lady. Our rooster thinks he’s the dandy of the place. My daughter tells me yer needin’ a room.”
<
br /> Sairshee smiled in return, but gone was the warmth. It was a feral, frightening smile. Even Branagh shrank from it. “I understand there’s some talk about me in these parts.”
“We wouldn’t know anythin’ about that, lady.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“We know nothing, lady.”
“I’m glad to hear it. What I want is for you to give me a room and leave me alone.”
“Of course, m’lady. My boy’ll bring in your bags. Branagh, take the lady to the big room upstairs.”
Lighting a candle, the girl led Sairshee up steep, narrow stairs to the second floor. There were three rooms off a landing. Branagh opened the door to one and led the way inside.
The room was dark as a hole because each of the shutters was sealed against the weather with boards and batting. Its air was musty and cold. Branagh knelt with the candle to start a turf fire in the clean-swept hearth while Kevan brought in Sairshee’s saddlebags and placed them by the door.
When he left, Sairshee closed the door.
“Your parents would be glad to see me gone, I think.”
“Oh, no, m’lady…”
“The Devil! I can tell well enough when people don’t like me, although telling and caring are different things.”
“They’re jealous, m’lady. They can see yer beautiful and rich and they have to live…here.” She glanced up. “I think yer wonderful.”
“Thank you,” Sairshee said. “When a woman does well, there’s plenty who are ready with a hard word.”
“I wish I were like you.”
When Branagh moved to collect her candle from the hearth, a thin smile touched Sairshee’s lips, but it was gone again before the girl turned back.
“I can see you’re a good girl,” said Sairshee. Branagh looked up and her face flushed bright red, her plump cheeks and nose shining in the firelight.
“You poor thing. Your mother doesn’t see it, that’s sure. I’d bet a pound to a pine nut you and your brother do the worst of the chores while she sits and gives orders. No, you need not speak a word against her, I’ve seen your hands.”
Sairshee stood in front of Branagh and lifted the girl’s chin. “Smart girls like you aren’t meant to scratch with the chickens. It’s not right, though it hurts me to go against a mother.
“Still, the King of Leinster is a friend, and not as some would have it. Perhaps there’s a remedy. The King stays with his great lords and ladies in a castle that rises from an island in the River Barrow. In spring, there’s flowers that cover the stone bridge. Lights burn, dusk to dawn, and gallant knights dance in lines with girls wearing beautiful, colored dresses.”
The lady looked down and Branagh’s eyes shone back at her. “It may be,” said Sairshee, lowering her voice and leaning close, “that I could find a position for you there.” Branagh’s mouth fell open and Sairshee laughed. “You must nod your head or talk, you simple ninny. Do you want it?”
“I do want it. Please, lady.”
“Then so it shall be. And yet,” she looked at Branagh from the corner of her eyes. “These things can take a very long time.”
The girl’s shoulders sagged.
“Wait!” Sairshee smiled and clapped her hands together. “I know the very thing. Let’s find a courtesy you can provide the king which will earn his gratitude. Then I can bring you to him quickly and you’ll enter his service with honor. And it’s no less than you deserve.”
“But what can I do?”
“Of all things, the king wishes most to know what is happening in his realm. And why shouldn’t he, as he wants to be a good liege to his people.” She looked at the girl kneeling at her feet. “Inns can be wonderful places to learn things if your ears are open and your eyes are keen.”
Branagh’s brows were drawn together in a scowl of concentration. Sairshee sighed.
“If there were someone at the inn who could give information on all she saw and heard…”
“I can do that.”
“Why, so you can. Let us try it, then. If ever you hear of something the King should know, bring word to me at the apothecary’s in Bray. It’s fewer than two miles south by the Dublin road. If you don’t find me there, you can leave it with the man whose shop and home it is. He’ll know what to do.”
Sairshee grabbed both sides of Branagh’s face, peering into her eyes. “The king is searching for one boy, in particular: a thin scrap, older than your brother, younger than you. He may come down from the mountains this way and could be travelling alone or with others. Eamon, he is called. If you see him, you must be sure to tell me as quick as you can.” She shook Branagh’s head. “Do you understand?”
Eyes wide, Branagh nodded and Sairshee released her.
“I could guess by the look you were a smart girl and a poor match for a place such as this. I’m certain we’ll be seeing you in MacMurrough’s Castle before much time has passed. And yet, here’s a warning. If anyone hears of our plan, particularly your own family, it’s ruined. You must be silent and secretive with this one thing.” Sairshee gently pressed her finger to Branagh’s lips. “Now, outside the door with you, girl, and stay close in case I’ve a need.”
6. Consequences
Genoa
Teresa appeared in the white arch leading from the hallway to the stone-lined chamber where her family was assembled, and for three lurching heartbeats she swayed there, covered in dirt and worse. The chamber fell silent, though her return was what they had been waiting for. Don Abozam stood in the midst of conversation with her brother, Sando, and Sando’s wife, Philippa, while her mother sat in a chair, gripping a kerchief. The servants hovered at the edge of the chamber and, in Teresa’s eyes, their pale faces seemed to bob like moons above the dark clothes they wore.
An explosion of questions and exclamations ensued, but she understood none of them. Teresa was confused about the race through Genoa that had brought her home. It was all shadows and shuttered windows, her own racing footsteps echoing like pursuit. Something important eluded her, something she had to tell her family.
One of them shouted her name, pulling Teresa’s attention back to the room. Tear streaks cut runnels through the filth on her face. A wet cloth was pressed to her cheeks, a blanket thrown round her shoulders. She was half drawn, half carried to a dark wooden settle near the fire and overwhelmed with more questions until her father, who knelt beside her, shouted for silence.
“Tell us what happened, Querida.”
“I don’t know.” She put a hand to her temple. “I think Ignacio is dead.” There was a cry from one of the women and her father’s face blanched. “No, I don’t know that.” Fresh tears began to roll down her cheeks. “I think he’s in trouble. I don’t know.”
Her father took her by the arms and shook her, fingers digging into the skin. “Where is Ignacio?” The look of fear in his eyes cleared her head even more than his grip, and the memory of what happened slid into place. She sobbed and he shook her once more.
“Tell me where my son is.”
“I followed him today. I wanted to see where the Maestro lived. When Ignacio left here, I could tell he was excited…and scared. I followed and waited outside the Maestro’s for him, only he never came out.”
“Per Dio! What happened?” Again, he shook her.
“When it was dark, a man left with a big sack. He took it to the canal by the docks. I went down after he had gone. A man’s body was inside.” At the back of her huddled family, the youngest of the serving girls crossed herself. Teresa’s mother pressed the kerchief to her lips.
“It wasn’t Ignacio,” Teresa continued. “This man had straight hair. He was…he was cut. No skin left on his face.”
“You’re certain it wasn’t Ignacio?”
“Yes, Papa.”
Philippa made a noise at the back and her father looked up.
“Are you going to believe this story?”
“Philippa…” It was Sando. He stood and tried to take his wife by the elbow, but she
yanked her arm away, taking a step back.
“Ignacio has come home late many times before,” she said. “Which is more likely, that this craziness is true or that Teresa is wriggling away from a whipping? No, Sando, let me go. I will talk. She is willful. The girl does not understand consequences. She makes accusations, but they are reckless. We could all suffer for them. It’s not right.”
Teresa’s cheeks grew warm. Anger pumped in her veins. “I’m not a liar. Call me one again and I’ll add red to that paint on your face.”
“Teresa!” her father said.
Philippa’s eyes went wide. She fell back another step. One hand went to her throat while the other pointed. “This is what happens. Do you see it? The manners of an animal.”
“Philippa.” Sando took his wife by the wrist. “Stop.”
The woman looked at Sando’s hand and tore free. “And you,” she said, her gaze raking all the faces in the room. “You have ruined her.” The statement hung in the air and no one said a word. “You believe her despite every lie. Madonna mia. It is hopeless.” She flung up her hands. Spinning on her heel, she stalked out of the room with angry, flat-footed strides.
Teresa’s father stood. Shaking his head, he left as well. He did not follow Philippa up the stairs, instead he headed toward the back of the house, returning with a pair of swords and a thick-hafted axe. They clattered and drummed as he unloaded them on a table. “Sando, fetch the cuir boilli.”
To Teresa, he said, “Upon the trust and love I hold for you, daughter, confess now if you have spoken false.”
Her father’s eyes held her. She had not lied, yet Philippa’s words came back to her. The girl does not understand consequences. A chill moved through her back and shoulders and she shivered, knowing the Maestro was a man of influence. Or perhaps it was an echo of the premonition she’d felt outside his home. Remembering that, she thought of Ignacio and her face hardened. Let the Maestro count consequences for once.
Her father read that look and nodded. “I will bring Ignacio home.”
One of the servants brought a clean robe for Teresa, helping her into it. Sando returned carrying stout leather jerkins with metal studs that gleamed in the firelight. He and Don Abozam made their preparations.