After that we walked down to the lakeshore, and as far along it as we could go while still retaining a view of the keep—in fact, two of Father’s men-at-arms seemed to be maintaining a patrol not far from us, and I wondered if Mother had sent them—and Finbar showed Rhian how to skip stones. I did not point out to him that a girl with a clutch of younger brothers was likely to be an expert in this kind of thing. They had a competition, which Finbar won easily. Again his stones seemed to move of themselves, bouncing over the water with an unusual grace. I wondered why he was happy to compete with my handmaid but not with his tutor.
By midday the three of us were grubby, tired and in fine spirits. My plan to get Finbar out of his shell for a while had been a great success, mostly thanks to Rhian, who proved to have talents not only at stone-skipping, but also at balancing along walls, climbing trees and running races, as well as more sedate pursuits such as weaving grass stems into a basket or a little man. Finbar stopped asking questions and applied himself to action for the morning. Sometimes he smiled, as when Rhian made a curious creature from the grasses, with a long neck, a flared snout and a feathery brush of a tail. He might think some pursuits were for little children, but he was not too proud to slip this creation into his pouch before we headed home.
I had done my share of balancing and running, and was feeling comfortably weary. Finbar had some writing to do for Luachan. He headed off to make a start on it—one morning of play had not turned him into a completely different child. I waited in the hallway outside the kitchen while Rhian went in to fetch provisions for the two of us. It had been a satisfying morning. Perhaps the difficulties I saw at Sevenwaters were all in my mind. Maybe I really could fit in here.
Voices drifted to my ears from the little chamber where game was hung—two men talking as they worked. I was about to move away when I caught what they were saying.
“…never find a husband for the girl. Her face is pretty enough. Much like her ladyship. But have you seen those hands?”
“Just think of that against your skin. It’d turn your manhood limp in a moment.”
“Makes my flesh crawl to think of it.”
The door to the kitchen swung open, and Rhian emerged carrying a laden tray. The men were still talking, but their voices had dropped and I could no longer hear the words.
“Maeve? What’s wrong?”
I drew a deep breath.
“Maeve?”
“It’s nothing. I’m wearier than I thought, that’s all. What kind of soup is that?”
Rhian was not fooled. When we were upstairs and behind the closed door of the bedchamber, she set the tray on the little table, then swung around to face me. “You’re upset. What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want any food.”
“You’re having some,” Rhian said. “Sit down there. You’ll feel better with a full belly, trust me.”
I ate in silence, with my head full of images of myself on my wedding night, and my husband—his face was not clear—turning away in disgust when I touched him. It didn’t matter that I had already accepted I would never marry. It didn’t matter that the words had not been intended for my ears, or that the speakers had probably meant no harm by them. I felt dirty, ugly, worthless.
Rhian said nothing at all until our meal was finished and the dishes were tidied back onto their tray. I was sitting on my bed, a pillow held against my chest. My handmaid seated herself on her own pallet, opposite me, and turned her limpid eyes on mine. “If you can’t tell me,” she said, “who can you tell?”
“I thought I was strong.” It was as if something heavy had rolled over me. I had to squeeze the words out. “For ten years I’ve learned how to be strong. I’ve practiced and practiced.”
“And?”
“I heard something not intended for my ears, and I feel…Never mind.”
“What did you hear, Maeve? Who has upset you so much?”
I tried to arrange my features in a reassuring smile.
“Maeve, what?”
“It doesn’t bear repeating. The fault is mine for letting it disturb me. I should be armed against casual cruelty—I’ve experienced enough of it.” It had been such a good day up till now.
“If you won’t tell me, is there anyone else you can talk to? Your mother?”
“No!”
Rhian sat quiet, waiting while I struggled with myself. Try as I might, I could not banish those images from my mind: the marital bed, the tender gesture, the moment of recoil. Who hadn’t heard such tales as a child, relishing the shivering chill of terror? The beastly wife. The loathly bride. The monster in the bed.
“Maeve,” Rhian said, “you once said to me, look on what scares you as a challenge to be met, a problem to be solved. You just need to work out how. I see you doing that all the time.”
I examined my hands, the palms covered with red-purple scarring, the fingers hooked like the talons of a raggedy old bird. Vile. Hideous. I turned them over. The backs of my hands had escaped the fire; there, the skin was soft and pale.
“You are brave,” Rhian said. “You’re the bravest person I know. Make a plan. I’ll help.”
Brave, wise and good. All very well for Finn and Baine in the story. They had not only been healthy and unmarked, they had been of more than usual beauty and grace, thanks to their childhood draughts from the magical stream. No such handy remedies for me. I had long ago learned to work with what I had and not waste time longing for what I might have had. I had dealt with hundreds of cruel comments. I had stared down discourteous men, thoughtless children and objectionable old ladies. What was wrong with me, that all I wanted to do right now was run away and hide so nobody could look at me and be repelled? I thought I was stronger than that.
“A plan,” I echoed, thinking that maybe all I needed was more time: a breathing space, so I could become brave again. Like Swift. A solution came to me. It wouldn’t be running away, since I would have a useful job to do, one nobody else had time for. “I do have a plan, Rhian, but I don’t think my mother’s going to like it.”
Not long after that, we were in Mother’s private chamber, where—unusually—she was taking a little time for herself. Not that she was ever idle. She had been reading from a small book bound in dark leather, but she set it down when Eithne let us in.
“Mother, may I speak with you in private?” Back straight; shoulders square; feet planted firm. Look your adversary in the eye. Uncle Bran’s lessons in appearing brave were useful at times like this, when I wanted nothing better than to hide in a corner and will the world away.
“Of course, Maeve. Eithne?”
Mother’s personal maid went out quietly.
“Is Rhian to stay?” Mother asked. It was a fair question, since the two maids were of equal status.
“I would like her to be here, Mother, if you don’t mind.”
“Very well. Sit down, my dear. You look rather serious. Did you enjoy your morning with Finbar?”
Only yesterday, I would have thought this an ideal opportunity to put to her all my concerns about my brother’s education, and his sadness, and his lack of opportunity to be a little boy. “Yes, thank you. I think Finbar enjoyed it, too.” I cleared my throat. “Mother, I need to speak to you about something else. I have a…a suggestion to make. And a favor to ask. You may be upset. If you are, I’m sorry.”
She folded her hands on her knees, waiting. She was Lady Aisling of Sevenwaters; it would take a lot to disturb that calm composure.
“Mother, I must be honest with you. Although it’s been wonderful to see you and Father and Deirdre again, I’m finding it difficult to be here in the house. There are so many bad memories for me. I thought it might be like this. That is one reason I stayed away so long.” I paused to gulp in a breath, rehearsing the next part in my mind. Mother’s eyes were fixed on me. I could not tell whether she was upset or not. “I was afraid. Afraid that being here might undo all the work I have put into being brave and learnin
g to cope with the limitations I have. Mother, there are many things I can’t do; all the things you would want your daughters to do as well as you do them. No, please don’t,” I said as she made to say something. “It’s true; there’s no denying it. But I do have one strength, one thing I can do better than almost anyone, and that’s my knack with animals.”
Mother gazed at me. The silence went on until it was almost uncomfortable. Then I realized she was courteously hearing me out.
“I don’t know if Father told you,” I said, “but there’s a perfect place for Swift—the yearling—to be put out to pasture until he’s recovered from the journey. It’s down near the nemetons, a safe place, Luachan says, protected from the reach of Mac Dara. And there’s a little house down there, right beside the field. I know the household can’t spare a groom to go and stay there. But I could go. Rhian and I. I could watch over Swift, and Rhian could be my hands, and the druids could help with feeding and so on when they tend to their own stock.”
Mother’s brows had risen rather high. “What an extraordinary idea,” she said.
“I feel very uncomfortable in the keep. Not only can I not help with the work, I…I would rather be somewhere quiet, without a lot of folk, without the confinement of stone walls. I’m sorry, but it’s better to be honest with you now than try to hide this. The place is within walking distance, so Emrys or Donal could come down when Duald can spare them, and we could pick up Swift’s training where we left off, once he’s ready. He’s quite disturbed at present; his whole world changed more or less overnight.”
Mother gave me a very direct kind of look. For a moment I felt like a slovenly housemaid or errant workman about to feel the sharp edge of her tongue. I stiffened my spine and met the look with one of my own. Bran had been a renowned and feared leader of fighting men before he found himself master of Harrowfield. He had trained me well.
“You’re referring to the cottage where Conri and Aisha stayed for a while?”
“I believe it’s the same one. It needs a little tidying up. Rhian has said she will do that, and perhaps find a boy to help with the heavier work.”
“It’s my turn to be honest, Maeve. You may have a talent with horses, but what about the practicalities? Won’t this prize yearling require feeding and watering, brushing down, cleaning up of hooves and so on? You can’t expect the druids to do all that, and Rhian will have her own work. Besides, I’ve been told the animal is particularly difficult.” Mother scrutinized me and my maid in turn. “Look at the two of you. You can’t do this on your own.”
“Could we put this to Uncle Ciarán? I am prepared to abide by whatever he says.”
Now I really had surprised her. “Ciarán?” Oddly, I thought I heard a note of disapproval in her voice.
“He must be asked about accommodating Swift anyway.”
“Your father wouldn’t like this. It’s very unconventional.” She made to say something more, then checked herself. It’s the sort of thing Liadan would do, perhaps. Though Liadan had been her friend, back when they were young.
“I was hoping you might help me persuade Father,” I said. It was a calculated move, and I felt bad making it.
“Are you really so unhappy, my dear? You’ve barely arrived here—surely, given more time, you will start to feel at home again. It was too much for you, coming to supper with so many folk—”
“Please, Mother. It’s costing me something to ask this of you, knowing it must seem as if I’m trying to run away. But I need the quiet. I need to be away from the keep for a while. Not long. Until Swift is ready to move back to the stables, or to be sent on to Tirconnell. I know I cannot stay in the cottage forever.”
“That would most certainly secure our reputation as an eccentric family,” Mother said dryly. “A twenty-year-old daughter, living out in the forest like a hermit, with only a horse for companionship.”
Rhian cleared her throat quietly.
“Besides,” Mother went on, “what about Finbar? Didn’t you express an interest in getting to know your brother better? How can you do that if you’re not here?”
It was a fair argument. “It’s easy enough to walk or ride from here to the nemetons. Luachan can bring Finbar to visit us. That falls within the rules, doesn’t it?”
Mother’s sigh was inaudible, but I felt it. “Don’t mock the rules, Maeve. They exist for a very good reason. You left here before Mac Dara rose to power in the Otherworld, but the things he has done, or has caused to be done, have been…They’ve been truly terrible, bad enough to drive ordinary people mad with grief, bad enough to make grown men weep and tremble. I still cannot talk about the time when Finbar was taken. I try to find the words, and straightaway I am there again, lying on my bed staring at the wall and wondering why I am not dead yet. It was…Never mind. I should not burden you with this. You have your own sorrows.”
I must have been staring at her, too astonished to say a word, for she added, “You must not make light of the rules. Finbar needs constant protection. I thank the kindness of the druids every day that my son can go safely between here and there; that at the tender age of seven he is not banned from riding his horse or walking in the woods, provided he has the right companion and does not venture into the shadow, beyond the guarding hand of Danu. What I cannot combat is the shadow within. I fear Mac Dara set a curse on my son, during the dark days when my baby was stolen away. I see something in Finbar that is not of this world, and it frightens me.”
Stunned surprise turned me mute. It seemed the imperturbable exterior of Lady Aisling concealed a woman with fears and doubts, a loving, troubled mother. She was more like me than I had ever dreamed.
“It was doubly grievous when Finbar was taken,” she said quietly, “because we had already lost you.”
Oh, gods. What could I say to that? “I’m sorry,” I whispered. Sorry I misjudged you. Sorry I did not miss you more, these last years. Sorry I think of Aunt Liadan and Uncle Bran as my real parents. That would break her heart. Besides, it was no longer entirely true; had not been since the moment my father walked toward me by torchlight, his arms wide-open. “Some things…they stay with us, whether we want them or not.”
“Best that this does not fade.” My mother’s neat features were somber. “It can be hard sometimes to give Finbar the freedom a child must have. I want to keep him close, to wrap him up, never to let him out of my sight. But he must live his life.”
I made myself say it. “And so must I, Mother.”
There was a tap at the door.
“What is it, Eithne?” asked my mother without getting up.
“Nuala is asking if she can speak to you about the flour, my lady.”
“Later.”
When Eithne was gone, I said, “He’s some kind of seer, isn’t he? Finbar, I mean. That isn’t something Mac Dara made happen; it’s the way he was born. He’s like Sibeal.”
“Curse and blessing.” Mother’s lip twisted. “So it seems, Maeve. It’s a heavy burden for one so young. Sibeal managed it far better in those early years. Perhaps it helped her to have the rest of you about, reminding her what it was to be a child.”
I remembered Sibeal well. We had been close; she was the next sister down from me, two years my junior. Sibeal’s manner had been considered, like that of a much older person. She had possessed an intense stillness. Often she had chosen to sit quietly under a tree, watching, as the rest of us got wet and muddy and tore our clothes on brambles. She would gaze into the water of a pond, or frown over the little wax tablet where she wrote her notes, while I was playing with a ball or running about with Bounder. Sibeal at eight had been very like Finbar was at seven: finely made, dark, with those big, strange eyes that seemed to look right inside you. But, unlike our brother, she had been a creature of poised quiet, serene and confident. There had been no trace of shadow over her.
“Maybe,” I said. “I hope we helped her; she surely helped us, with her wise solutions to problems.” Another image passed through my mind:
my sisters gathered around my bedside, looking down at me. Faces chalk white; eyes wide with horror. Deirdre with tears pouring down her cheeks; Clodagh with her arm around little Eilis. Sibeal as pale as the rest of them, but holding on to her composure. What was it she had said? The gods honor your courage, Maeve. She had tried very hard to keep her voice steady. And later my eldest sister, Muirrin, perhaps welcoming a change from the grueling job of keeping me alive, had helped the others make me a doll; they had all worked on it, even Eilis, who hated sewing with a passion. That doll was sitting on my bed back at Harrowfield. She had seen me through some testing times.
“I’m sorry they aren’t here,” I said. “Sibeal in particular. I would have liked to see them all.”
“You will in time. They will come here to visit, or you will go to Inis Eala, or even to Kerry.”
“Mm.” Or I would go back to Harrowfield and never see any of them. “Mother, about Swift and the cottage—will you think about it, at least? And speak to Father and to Ciarán, if you decide you can allow it?” I hesitated.
“What is it, my dear?”
“I have shadows too; memories that remain with me, no matter how hard I strive to lay them to rest. It has been hard to come back here. Being in the cottage will help keep them at bay. And if I can work with Swift, that will be even better. It is the one gift I can offer; it provides me with a purpose. And a purpose gives a person faith in herself. I’m sure you understand that.”
“I understand all too well,” my mother said. “Rhian, you’ve been very patient. Would you go down to the kitchen and ask Nuala for some refreshments for us? And tell Eithne she can come in now.”
Rhian bobbed her charming curtsy and went out.
Sevenwaters [06] Flame of Sevenwaters Page 12