[2015] Dance of the Minotaur

by TC Calligari

  Two women ran over and began petting Catríona consolingly. She allowed it, pretending to very much need their support and kindness. In the back of her mind, she wondered how many of these people might have had knowledge of the plot to kill her father.

  “My child!” the priest erupted. “Of course you may stay within the safety of the lands MacConaill. It is an evil world outside of our borders and we will always welcome those in need.” Catríona thought it strange the way that the man spoke about the other clans. Did they really think that they were protecting themselves from an evil? Catríona did not think that there was any evil that could compare to that which resided only a short ways away, behind a high ring of stone walls. “What is your name, lass?”

  “Catlin.” She gave the same name that she had been using since she left home. It was a common name, similar enough to her own that she still responded promptly to its call. “My family used to call me Cat.” The old nickname from her father would remind her of her mission, not that she had any fear of forgetting her purpose.

  For a short time afterward the townsfolk rallied with the priest to decide where best she could be put to use. They had almost decided to allow her to assist the midwife, a task Cat could not say appealed to her, when a tall woman with brilliantly orange hair came sprinting up the road toward them.

  “I’ll take her, Father Kendrick!” she panted when she finally came to a halt. There was a murmur of assent through the crowd, as if they all thought that this was an acceptable solution. Catríona immediately took note of the faintly green tinge of the woman’s hands. She smiled. This would be the woman who dyed the fabrics. It was likely that she also participated in the spinning and weaving of all cloth in the village. “Ever since old Gwyn died I’ve been behind on my mending and making. If I can have the girl, I’ll give her a roof over her head for helping with the chores, and anything she makes from her stitchin’ can be hers to keep. If she’s even the least bit skilled, I could use the extra hands.”

  Father Kendrick gave a nod and the deal was done. As the crowd quietly dispersed, Catríona was surprised at how easily her first goal had been achieved.

  Ten days later, Cat could barely contain her satisfaction with how easily she had slipped into the villager’s lives. Upon discovering that she was by far the most skilled seamstress they had ever encountered, Cat’s days were quickly filled with requests for both new and mended items. She explained the skill away by claiming to have once worked as handmaiden to the wife of a bonnet laird, a man who often made gifts of her finery to his own Clan Laird. The truth was that she had only had the best of tutors when learning from a very young age, a privilege not available to the simple woman that she claimed to be.

  The only drawback of her time so far was that she had seen neither hide nor hair of the Laird and his sons. Perhaps they were even more reclusive than she had ever thought. She was beginning to think that this was going to present a problem when it came to exacting her revenge, when early one morning she began to hear a riot of cheering on the street.

  Cat rushed out of the door to join the waiting crowd as a stream of riders began to trickle from the forest. She had never seen men so large in her life. Most of them would crack their foreheads on the beams of the doorways in Castle Sutharlainn. Though Catríona was not considered tall compared to most men, she would be dwarfed by the riders who were now passing through the village on their way to the castle.

  Man after man rode past her, each wearing the MacConaill kilt of burgundy and green. A boy in his teens came through with his own kilt tied awkwardly around his waist. A woman near Cat snickered.

  “I see Birk is still tearing his clothes.” One laughed.

  “Aye,” another whispered, casting a glance her way as Cat pretended not to hear, “I told his mother he better learn quickly or the seamstress is going to start wondering why our men can’t keep their clothes about them. She said she’s mending them herself for the time, at least until the new bairn arrives. It’s the red hair, I tell you. Always takes them longer to control themselves.”

  Cat had just begun to wonder what they were talking about when all thought suddenly fled from her mind. There he was. She would recognize the eldest son of Laird MacConaill any day. His face was the last she had seen before looking into the eyes of her dying father. Behind him were what must have been his two brothers, because the resemblance was definitely there, but none were as captivating as Greum MacConaill.

  He sat astride the horse as if he owned the world. Cat stared at the man, hating him for all his good looks. Why could he not have the mangled face of a monster, rather than the pleasant features of a strong brow and chin. The locks of curls that fell across his forehead were black as the moonless sky. The dark brown of her own hair would pale beside his rich hue.

  Catríona watched the firm set of his shoulders, the way his men seemed to instinctively swarm around him. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the three brothers. Each had been present on her father’s last day. Each had slipped away under the cover of night with the rest of the MacConaill men, only to later claim, by letter, no involvement in the crime.

  A young girl nearby sighed.

  “When do you think he’ll choose his bride?” she said in a breathy voice.

  “It’s true, he’s no longer a cub, girl, but I’d wager you’re a bit too young for him yet.” Laughed her mother.

  “Greum!” The girl cried anyway, waving her arm in the air for his attention.

  His gaze shot over to his admirer and he gave a small nod of acknowledgement. Cat was standing almost directly behind the girl so, when he looked over, she shifted uncomfortably. The only part of her plan that she was uncertain of was if she might be recognized. They had only met one night, yet Greum’s face had been branded as part of a memory that she could never forget. She hoped that the same did not hold true for him. Cat tried to console herself with the knowledge that a woman changes much more from eleven to twenty-one, than a man from seventeen to twenty-seven.

  His eyes shifted to Catríona, a strange face in a familiar crowd. She did not see him move in the slightest, but it seemed to Cat as if his horse slowed as he watched her. She raised her eyes only slightly to his, keeping her face turned down and dipping into the small curtsy that was common etiquette for a future Laird. She was certain she saw his eyes narrow, or had she imagined that? Her hands were shaking and suddenly Cat’s breathing came with great difficulty. In all of her years of plotting this was the moment that had the potential to foil her entire plan. This was the moment she feared most.

  The crowd was watching her, their eyes moving back and forth between Cat and the man who held her gaze. Without a word, Greum snapped his reigns and the horse trotted ahead. He had not recognized her as anything other than a new face, she was sure of it. He continued down the road toward the castle, leaving Catríona grateful that the encounter was over.

  It was not until two days later that Catríona saw Greum again. The sun had just broken across the horizon when she witnessed Greum and two other men returning from the woods. They spoke softly and laughed with companionable ease. She wondered what they had been doing in the dangerous forest at such an early hour. Her curiosity got the better of her, and before she knew it Cat was quietly slipping through the village following the laughter of the men.

  She paused on the edge of the village square, observing from the shadows as they were joined by three other men approaching from the castle.

  “How was the night run?” A bearded man asked, handing out steaming mugs that they had brought from the castle.

  “Dead silent.” Greum spoke with a smooth, deep voice. “I doubt the McKinnons will raid again for another fortnight. They’re getting smarter though. Nearly caught Birk the other night. The lad’s a good scout but he waits too long, ripped another kilt right through.” The other man grunted in agreement. “Dougan, you’re going to have to post a run on the south border. One of the farmers claims there’s a pack of wolves that keeps stealing
his livestock. See if there is anything that can be done about it.”

  He drained his mug and handed it back to the bearded man.

  “I’m going to get some rest. Aiden is out now if you need anything.” With that he marched up through the gate, leaving Catríona thoroughly confused about the strange way that these people spoke.

  She turned around and headed back to the shop. It was not until a few hours later that she began to wonder… if they were running watches around the MacConaill lands, where were their horses?

  Catríona’s days were marked by frequent sightings of Greum and his brothers, but it was the former that most caught her interest. While all of the clansmen seemed to spend a lot of time entering and leaving the densely wooded forest, Greum was one of the only men Cat regularly witnessed do so alone.

  If the lands were as dangerous as Ainsley had foretold, she understood the pairs of men constantly patrolling the forest surrounding the castle. However, she wondered how Greum could be safe on his own. She wondered what it was that he was doing in there. One day, she watched him cross the sloping field behind the shop without even his sword or a bow for protection. If he felt so sure that there would be no danger, then she should have no fear either, she told herself. Catríona resolved to follow him.

  By the time she had retrieved her cloak and laced her leather boots, he was already out of sight. Cat sprinted across the field, the morning dew soaking her skirts. For a moment she stood on the edge of the forest, afraid to enter, but when she heard a noise ahead she pushed through the bramble determined to catch up to her prey.

  She followed the sound further into the woods until the trees were so thick that even in the morning light she could barely see her hands in front of her face.

  That was when she heard it. The loud crack of wood that was much too powerful to be made by a man passing through the forest. Catríona crouched behind the nearest tree. Her heart pounded in her chest and she instantly regretted the decision to follow Greum into the strange forest. She cupped her hands over her mouth, trying to cover the sound of her breathing. What if it was the wolves that the men had been talking about frequently? She shuddered to think about herself stranded in the face of a wolf pack.

  Another crack further away made Catríona breathe a sigh of relief. She could now hear the beast as it moved up the hill behind her, every step taking it further away. When she estimated that it was a safe distance, Catríona leaned tentatively around the trunk of the tree to glance at the source of the sounds. What she saw stole her breath away.

  Standing at the top of the hill, in a small circle of morning light, was the largest bear Catríona had ever seen. Much larger than the pelt that her uncle proudly displayed on the wall of his receiving chamber. It balanced on his hind legs as it reached into the thick branches of a tree. She could not take her eyes away from the beast, its majestic beauty completely overwhelming her. Its fur, raven black, glistened in the sunlight. Cat knew that she needed to remain still until it moved on, so she took the time to enjoy watching the animal lazily go about its morning.

  It occurred to her, briefly, to hope that Greum was not near this place. Though, she reminded herself, she might not be entirely disappointed if the MacConaill men were to be eaten by the wild animal. Still, it would take away from the poetic justice of being poisoned by her own, vengeful, hand.

  When the bear had moved on, Catríona crept quietly back to the edge of the forest and sprinted back to the village. She would have to find another way to catch the MacConaills unaware.

  She next attempted to follow the Laird’s youngest son, Aiden, but he never seemed to be alone. The third brother, Kenzie, a born womanizer, was often gallivanting around the village but Catríona thought it best if she avoided him altogether. The only way to get his attention was to fall into his waiting arms, something that she was unwilling to do even for the sake of revenge.

  It was not until the second raid on the MacConaill lands, by the McKinnons, that Catríona’s plan began to take shape.

  That evening, after she had finally put her feet up to rest beside the fire, a large war horn sounded from the high castle walls. Her host ran into the room, grabbed Cat by the arm and pulled her into the cold night air at a full run. As the women and children of the town sprinted to get into the protection of the castle courtyard, the clansmen ran out toward the battle. Some had neither shoes nor weapon and yet still they headed for the battle. Catríona mourned their fate.

  When the gates closed behind them, the women of the town gathered into two groups; those with children set about comforting and entertaining their young counterparts, while the rest, Cat included, were given the task of preparing a meal for the collected horde.

  As she peeled and chopped vegetables for the stew, she got her first look at Castle MacConaill. To be fair, she admitted that it did not differ much in design from Castle Sutharlainn, except for being slightly taller to accommodate the increased height of its male inhabitants.

  To her surprise, she watched the ladies of the castle enter the courtyard to join the townsfolk who were gathered in the open space. It was not their overall appearance that surprised her, as it was to be expected that the highborn would mingle in such a time of need, rather it was one woman among them that caught Catríona’s undivided attention.

  A statuesque woman, not much older than herself, descended the stairs to join the throngs of women. Her raven black hair and large, green eyes were almost an exact replica of Greum’s. The features, though softened in their female version, remained proud, strong, and unmistakably intelligent.

  “That’s Mistress Deirdre.” A woman beside her explained after catching Catríona staring.

  “I’m sorry.” Cat shook her head. “I don’t know who that is.”

  The woman laughed, stirring the broth that was boiling over the fire. “Deirdre is the pair to Master Greum.”

  “Oh!” Catríona was shocked. “His wife?”

  “No, No.” The woman laughed even harder. “His sister.”

  “They’re twins?” Catríona gaped at the beautiful woman who was weaving through the crowd. She had not realized that The MacConaill had a daughter.

  “Aye.” The woman confirmed. “But you’ll not find two with temperaments further apart.”

  Cat waited in silence for the woman to continue.

  “Greum is kind and true, and will make a wonderful Laird. He is a fierce warrior and cares more about his clan than himself. He believes in integrity and justice, but he is quiet and oftentimes too serious. It’ll take a woman’s touch to lighten his load, someday.” Catríona dumped the vegetables into the broth and stood beside the fire, waiting to hear more. “Deirdre is loud, and has lots of energy. You’ll not see it on a night like tonight, but she’s more like to tell you what she’s thinking than any of her brothers combined. She was a handful as a bairn, and we women used to joke that she had a bit of the beast…” the woman cut herself short and cast Cat an appraising look. “Well, you know what they say. She’d have been a good son to The MacConnail, not that he needs another.”

  Before Catríona could ask what had been meant, the woman waved her away with instructions to help those who had just begun to distribute a fresh round of water.

  The night passed with aching slowness. The few men who had remained behind were irritable. Catríona watched them pace the ramparts, searching the distant night sky for any sign of their clansmen. Eventually the women gathered in small groups around the large central fire to pass the time.

  Catríona sat alone on the darkened steps of the castle, wrapped in the warmth of her fur-lined cloak. After the meal had been shared the women had begun to tell stories and reminisce about previous battles and skirmishes that their husbands, sons, or kin had engaged in. It was quickly made clear with their whispers and glances that Catríona was not meant to be part of these conversations. Though she longed for an explanation for their strange descriptions, she had decided that it was best not to press the matter. She had ret
reated away from the fire and left the women to their tales.

  Her head rested against a stone pillar and she had nearly fallen asleep when a voice spoke beside her.

  “You have a singular talent with the needle.” The voice spoke.

  Catríona’s head snapped up and she looked into the knowing eyes of Deirdre MacConaill.

  “Thank you, Mistress.” Catríona nodded.

  “Let’s dispense with the formalities.” Deirdre waved a hand in the air. “Call me Deirdre. You’re new to these parts and have a knowledge of the outside world that, if I might be frank, the MacConaills are known to lack. I’ve seen of your work in town. These new fashions are most interesting to my taste.” Deirdre placed her hand on Catríona’s arm. “I’d like to extend an invitation to come live in the castle, as my handmaiden, if you’d like. You could teach me the new styles and update my wardrobe, for which I would be most grateful and, let us not pretend that you were suited for village life.” She patted Catríona’s arm and laughed. “You have castle-born written all over you and the women assure me of your experience as a maid. So, after this tussle is over with, bring your things to the castle and I will ensure that you will be well provided for.”

  “Yes, of course. I would like that very much, M… Deirdre.” Catríona stumbled. Her heart soared. This was the answer to her prayers. Catríona would gain access to the entire castle and, under the guise of Deirdre’s handmaiden, all of the MacConaills. She felt a small hesitation about deceiving Deirdre. She doubted that this woman had any immediate involvement in the death of her father. No, Catríona’s revenge would come against the MacConaill men. Not the women.