by Mia Marlowe
“I’ll bide with Father Armaugh in his wee church till ye come for me. I doubt Solveig will be darkening the door of the Lord’s house. I’ll be safe enough there.”
“No, that won’t work. Armaugh is no longer in Dublin.” He raised his hands as if to ward off her questions. “Don’t ask how I know, but trust me for it. He’s long gone.”
“Then if Murtaugh will travel with me, I must hie meself to Donegal before winter comes,” Brenna said, placing one hand over her abdomen. “Ye’ll come to me there?”
“Ja, my princess,” he promised, sealing the oath with a kiss. “If I’ve breath in my body, I’ll be in Donegal before our handfast year is over. You said I may have you till you die, and I mean to claim you at your word.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Rain pelted them steadily, the drizzling mist dripping off the horse’s tack, off the low-hung branches thrashed her as they plodded past, off Murtaugh’s disreputable old hat and off Brenna’s chin. The sky had wept for her for the last two days, ever since she parted from Jorand, heading north over the moors and through the glens to Donegal.
Murtaugh had insisted they come this way, following the Shannon upriver, instead of cutting across country as she had when she’d made the trip to and from Clonmacnoise as a novice. She didn’t recognize any of the landmarks. Brenna was certain the old man was taking her the long way around, and the journey was a long weary way without his adding anything to it. She raised a sodden sleeve to her nose to catch a sneeze. Brenna decided irritably she’d never be warm or dry again.
“Not far now,” Murtaugh called up to her in encouragement, his croaking voice reminding her of an ancient bullfrog. When she’d been ill again that morning, he strapped most of their provisions onto his own bent back, cooking pots dangling from his waist, and insisted she ride. Watching him slog through the mud ahead of her, she was ashamed of her grumbling self-pity.
“The husbandman I bought a beef from last season has a wee house in the next glen but one,” Murtaugh said, waving a gnarled hand toward the unseen refuge. “We’ll bide there till the weather clears.”
Brenna nodded mutely. There! There it is again. Or did I just imagine it?
A brief flutter, light as a butterfly coming to rest on a thistle, stirred deep in her belly.
She hadn’t breathed a word of her suspicions to Jorand. She was too afraid voicing them would make it not true. Even if she was right, he didn’t need the burden of knowing he might become a father when he was about to go into danger. He could not afford any distractions in battle.
Without Jorand, she felt adrift, alone with her thoughts and had more than enough time to examine her grief.
She’d brought the Codex back only to have her hopes dashed by the news of the child’s death. Now she had no way to atone for the grief she’d caused her sister. She’d won the love of her husband only to have him yanked by ill-chance into a struggle over the fate of the whole of Erin.
Brenna closed her eyes, letting her mount pick his own way after Murtaugh. She prayed feverishly for Jorand’s safety. It was all she could do.
Her head lolled forward and she nodded to sleep in the saddle. Nightmarish images of Jorand fighting Kolgrim in the holmhring, flashes of lightning reducing both of them to stark skeletal figures, Solveig’s blood red mouth curved in a taunting smile, and the pit of Potter’s Field all jumbled together in disjointed visions.
With gratitude, she jerked to wakefulness at Murtaugh’s loud “Hello, the house!”
It was a tidy cottage, ringed by the forest. The remains of a fruitful garden stood nearby. The produce was all gathered in against the coming winter, empty brown stalks rattling against a small cattle byre.
“Murtaugh? Heaven bless me, is that ye?” The crofter in the clearing stopped chopping wood in mid-swing and strode toward them in welcome. He was a man of middle years, still strong, but with thinning hair slicked back above a plain, honest face. He clasped forearms with Murtaugh, then smiled up at Brenna. “No amount of foul weather will hurt this old devil, but an’ ye forgive me for sayin’ so, miss, ye look fair done in. Hie ye both inside, and me wife will get some good hot broth into ye.”
As the two men bundled her beneath the low lintel, Brenna learned the farmer’s name was Finian and his wife, a moderately stout young lady about ten years his junior, was called Grainne.
“Mary, Michael, and St. Bride, but ye’re soaked clear through!” Grainne exclaimed after introductions were made. “Come ye with me and we’ll see ye set to rights.”
The main room of the cottage held the fire pit ringed with Grainne’s cooking utensils, a sturdy table and stools, and cupboards lining one wall. Woven strands of onions and garlic hung from the rafters. Brenna noticed a set of stone stairs along one wall disappearing down into a souterraine beneath the cottage, full of pumpkins and other assorted gourds, no doubt.
Gratefully, Brenna trailed her hostess behind a cloth partition in the small house. The couple’s bed stood behind the curtain, a thick straw tick with a number of woolen coverlets. Brenna could’ve happily tumbled into it and not come out for a week. She tried not to let her longing show when she looked at the bed.
“Here ye be, Brenna,” Grainne was saying as she pulled an old tunic from the trunk at the foot. “A mite big for ye, I’d expect, but dry enough.”
“ ‘Tis heaven to be out of me damp things,” she said as she peeled off her soggy tunic. Brenna swam in the borrowed clothing, but the fabric was soft and warm against her skin. “I thank ye.”
From the dark corner of the curtained space, she heard a soft sound. She strained her eyes to see in the dimness as the noise grew in intensity and finally launched into a full blown wail.
“I’m sorry. I’ve wakened your child,” Brenna said.
“Ach! Don’t fash yourself. His little Highness was needin’ to be woke or he’ll be keeping me up all night.” Grainne scooped up the child in her capable arms and he quieted immediately. “Murtaugh’ll be wanting to see the bairn anyway, him being the lad’s godfather, ye see.”
They rejoined the men in the warm main room and this time Brenna’s nose pricked to the savory aroma coming from the kettle suspended over the central fire. A few raindrops dribbled in through the smoke hole in the little cottage’s roof and hissed on the heated stones ringing the blaze. Thankfully, most of the smoke seemed to be drifting out the same opening.
Grainne plopped the child onto Murtaugh’s lap, and a small hand flailed up to grasp Murtaugh’s scraggly beard.
“Ho there Rory, me wee red king!” The boy promptly grabbed his godfather’s nose and pulled himself up to a wobbly standing position on the old man’s bony knees. “Walking now, is it?”
“Aye,” Finian said with pride. “Set him down and let him try a step or two. He started that a day or so ago.”
Brenna watched in fascination as the child bobbled from one set of adult legs to the next, venturing halting, unassisted steps between each safe haven as he worked his way around the fire pit toward her. A lead weight gathered in her chest even as she smiled at the boy’s antics. She counted back the months in her mind. Had he lived, she figured Sinead’s child would have been of an age with Grainne and Finian’s little Rory.
“Hello.” She leaned toward him when his dimpled hand lighted on her knees. He gabbled a string of nonsense sounds in answer.
Grainne laughed. “A talker, that one. No doubt, he has the makings of a great bard.”
The great bard evidently had enough of walking on his own and lifted both his chubby arms to Brenna to be picked up. She plucked him up without any more encouragement, realizing that her arms ached to do so.
Rory gave her a one-toothed grin and then tried to jam his whole fist into his mouth. Brenna studied the boy closely. His hair curled over his head in a profusion of red, gold, and roan. The barest hint of auburn brows drew together in consternation as it became apparent to him that he couldn’t gnaw his own hand without feeling pain.
The boy’s face was snu
b-nosed in the manner of all bairns, the jaw and cheeks too puffed with baby fat for Brenna to tell what manner of man he’d make. But the lad’s eyes drew her rapt attention. Behind a fringe of ruddy lashes, her sister’s eyes, gray with silver flecks, stared back at her.
Sinead bore a boy. A bonny wee manikin with a tuft of red on his little head.
She glanced across the fire at Murtaugh, the question burning in her gaze. His thin lips drew downward. Rory began to struggle in her arms, fussing in frustration over the inadequacy of his fist.
“He’ll be hungry again. Are ye not, me fine wee fiend?” Grainne lifted him from Brenna’s lap and settled the boy on her own. She drew out an ample breast, blue with bulging veins, and gave the boy suck. His eyes closed in ecstasy, auburn lashes quivering against his cheeks.
Grainne sighed, the placid contentment of nursing mothers stealing over her. She hummed softly under her breath.
“He’s a beautiful child,” Brenna said, fighting to keep from reaching out to fondle the curls glinting copper in the firelight.
“Aye, he’s a good-hearted lad, too,” Grainne said with pride. “Though Finian and me can scarce take the credit. Rory is me angel sent straight from heaven.”
“Grainne,” Finian’s voice held a note of warning.
“Sure and the truth never did harm,” Grainne countered. “Brenna here is friend to Murtaugh. That’s good enough for me.”
“What did ye mean when ye say Rory is your angel?”
“Murtaugh can tell ye that tale as well as me, I’d expect,” she answered, but being the sort who enjoyed the sound of her own voice, Grainne went on. “Me own bairn died in his crib not a month after his birth. He was a goodly boy too, but a mite puny and, truth to tell, not near as bonny as wee Rory.”
Finian harrumphed loudly. Untroubled by her husband’s interruption, Grainne babbled on. “I was fair wild with grief, ye see. Wouldn’t let Finian even bury the boy. But I prayed, aye, and prayed mightily, thinking that the same God who raised the widow’s son could raise my child.”
“But the Almighty had somewhat different in mind than I asked for,” Grainne conceded as she shifted the boy to her other breast. “And the next night, who should come bearing a newborn babe in his arms but our own Murtaugh.”
Rory’s pudgy hand patted Grainne’s swollen breast. “And me still heavy with milk,” she added as though that cinched the matter. “Murtaugh had visited us the month before. He knew I’d born a child and had milk enough for two.” Her voice had a slight catch. “Of course, I only needed milk for one by then. I came to me senses and let Finian bury our dear little Dermot under yon hawthorn. So ye see why I say Rory is me angel.”
A dull ache in her chest, Brenna had to admit the child at Grainne’s breast did have a cherubic look about him. Who’d have thought a brute like Kolgrim could father such a sweet boy?
And what, by all that’s holy, am I to do about it now?
***
The next morning, a thin sun broke through the clouds but gave no added warmth to the earth. A chill wind, an early breath of winter, swirled Brenna’s skirt and slid its icy fingers down her neck as she stepped out of the cottage. She hadn’t slept well on her pallet by the fire, dreaming fitfully of a red-haired lad and her flaxen-haired man, but now the brisk air jolted her fully awake.
Finian appeared from the trees, coming up a path from the river bearing a yoke with two buckets of water, sloshing full.
“Good morrow,” Brenna said with false cheer, her decision made and nothing to be gained in delay. Her gaze swept around the small farmstead. A swaybacked gelding leaned, one hoof crooked up in repose, against the cattle byre. “I notice ye have a spare mount there.”
“Not exactly a spare,” Finian said as he set the buckets down. “I use old Reuben for spring planting. He’s all we have now.”
“And probably not much use over the winter but to eat up your extra grain and fill a stable with muck, aye?”
“Ye’ve the right of it, there, miss.”
“Would ye lend him to me then? ‘Tis a long way to Donegal and we’ve only the one horse between us, Murtaugh and me.” Brenna reached for the leather pouch and held it out to him, giving it a shake. The bag emitted a satisfying jingle. “This should do for his hire. Murtaugh will be coming back by the time ye have need of him and can see him back to ye safe before spring.”
Finian hefted the pouch and looked inside. His brows shot up in surprise.
“Ach! Beggin’ your pardon, but ‘tis plain ye’ve no eye for horseflesh. ‘Tis not a fair trade,” he said. “This would buy a dozen the likes of old Reuben. I cannot take your coin under false pretense.”
Honest and fair. She already knew Grainne would protect Rory like a she-wolf would her pup. She was satisfied Finian had the character she wanted instilled in her sister’s son. Could she ask for more?
Aye, to have him meself.
She quickly stomped down the selfish desire. After seeing Rory with the couple, she knew she couldn’t yank the child from the only parents he’d ever known. She couldn’t do it to Grainne and Finian, who obviously adored Rory. And she wouldn’t do it to Sinead’s boy.
“Let’s say the coin is for the lad, then,” Brenna said evenly. “He needs to be taught his letters when he’s of age. See to his education with the extra. It would please me greatly to hear that your Rory grew to be a man of learning. Will ye do that for me?”
“Aye, with a willing heart,” Finian said, tugging his forelock in respect. “I’m after thankin’ ye.” He shook his head in wonderment. “Learning for me son. That’s a bargain I can live with.”
“There is a priest in Donegal, Father Michael, who’d be willing to advise ye on the lad’s education. When the time comes, I’ll have him arrange for a tutor to be sent to ye.” Then Brenna’s face brightened with another thought. “Me father is Brian Ui Niall of Donegal. He’d foster the boy when he’s of age if ye like. Or mayhap ye and Grainne might wish to come to Donegal as well. Me father would see ye settled on a fine parcel if it came to that.”
“Murtaugh told me ye were a princess, and I guess I hadn’t believed it till now.” Finian stowed the pouch of silver and hoisted his buckets once more. “It wouldn’t do for the likes of me to question me betters, but I do wonder at your interest in Rory.”
Had he noticed that the lad’s eyes were like hers?
She waved her hand dismissively. “He’s a bonny child and of lively intelligence. Anyone can see that. If I wish to help him along in life, ye’ll not deny me, will ye?”
“Not for worlds,” Finian said. “Thank ye, I’m sure.”
Brenna turned away to curry Reuben and to inspect her sorry end of the deal. She examined his hooves and determined Reuben was strong enough to bear Murtaugh’s weight. The gelding was decidedly long in the tooth but still sound.
“That was well done, lass,” the old man said as he joined her in the stable yard.
“Aye, well, I didn’t want to think of your old legs walking the whole weary way to me father’s keep.”
“I meant about the lad.”
“He belongs with Grainne and Finian. Ye saw to that.” Brenna brushed Reuben’s flank so hard small plumes of dust rose from his hide. “I don’t see as I had much choice.”
“Aye, ye did now,” Murtaugh disagreed. “And for what it’s worth, ye made the right one.”
“Is that why ye brought me here? So it would be my choice? Or maybe ye’ve been feeling guilty over keeping the truth from me?”
“There is that,” Murtaugh said. “I didna hold with the abbot’s decision in the first place, but he meant it for the best. And as bitter as ye were at the time of the lad’s birth, I cannot but think he might have been right. Dinna be surly toward the abbot on that account. But I couldna let ye think the boy dead.”
“What if I wanted to take him now?” She put down the curry comb and leveled her gaze at the old man. “Would ye help me?”
“What if is a bridge over a far riv
er that leads to fairy land,” Murtaugh admonished as he started to load their provisions on Reuben’s bowed back. “Let’s be off. We’ve a fair bit to go before we see Donegal’s keep.”
“About that,” Brenna said. “Do ye know the way to Ulaid? To Conaill Murtheinne?”
“Aye,” he said. “And it’s a good bit closer than Donegal.”
“Good,” she said with a sudden longing in her chest, sharper than a blade. If anyone could help her fill the lonely time till Jorand rejoined her, it was Moira. She felt the strange little flutter in her belly again and smiled. “I’m needing to see me sister Moira. Queen Moira of the Ulaid.”
As they plodded out of the little clearing, Brenna felt the peace of forgiveness descend on her heart. Sinead could rest easy now. Brenna had seen to her bairn and would continue to mark his progress to manhood. In time, perhaps Finian and Grainne might even bring the boy to Donegal.
Brenna’s conscience pricked her. She’d never been able to tell her father that Sinead was dead. Once a girl took the veil she was all but dead to her former life, so perhaps Brian Ui Niall need not be burdened with the truth now. Mayhap it was a telling that could wait, Brenna decided, till she could present her father with a living grandson to lessen the pain of a dead daughter. When Rory came someday to Donegal, Brian Ui Niall would recognize Sinead’s slate-gray eyes, and his own for that matter, in Grainne and Finian’s cherished lad.
Chapter Thirty-five
Moonlight wavered in a jagged streak of silver across the Irish Sea. From their lookout in the sheltered cove, Jorand could see the Island of St. Patrick, a bare knob of rock rising from the frothing waves, with its shrine casting a dark silhouette against the star-dappled eastern horizon.
“We’ve been here two days,” Thorkill grumbled. “Are you sure about the time?”
“Ja,” Kolgrim said. “The pig of an Irishman I questioned about it wouldn’t have lied to me. I threatened to cut off his ballocks if he didn’t tell me everything I wanted to know. A man will tell you anything to protect that bit of skin.” He laughed unpleasantly at his own crude humor, then shrugged, wincing as he cradled his barely healed arm. It had not been well set and though he still had use of it, Kolgrim would always be in pain. “Of course, I cut ‘em off anyway when he was done singing. Now he’ll sing a pretty tune for the rest of his unnatural life.”