“Someone has been listening to the Maysingers,” she said, drawing the apron over her head. “Very well, I will go with you, Duncan Murdosson.” She bent and picked up the bowl of onion husks. “But I must put these away first.”
“I will saddle the horses and meet you at the gate,” I said, stealing another kiss and hurrying away.
The horses were quickly readied and we were soon racing over the gorse- and bracken-covered hills to the south of the estate. The lands of my father’s realm are great in extent, but the soil is thin and rocky in most places; also, our vassals are not so numerous as other estates, which means that we must all work the harder to survive. That said, there are good fields and grazing land to the west, and fine fishing in the wide bay between the high, sheltering headlands.
Banvar has prospered us well enough, and while we may not have possessed the ready wealth of more favored realms, we nevertheless raised enough in grain and cattle to feed ourselves and our vassals, with plenty left over for gainful trade. From what my mother had told me about her youth in Orkneyjar, it seemed to me that growing up in Caithness was much the same. And, like my father, life in the wild, empty hills suited me.
Not that we had forsaken Orkney forever. Heaven forbid it! We regularly traded at Kirkjuvágr, and Murdo often took part in the councils there. Once a year, the king held court at Orphir, and we always attended. Though we were Lords of Scotland now, in many ways those low-scattered northern islands still held us in their sway. Indeed, on a crisp day, we can see the Dark Isles across the water; like storm clouds spreading along the horizon, or like a bevy of gray seals, the islands raise their sleek heads from the surrounding sea.
On the day that Rhona and I rode out, however, my mind was on other things. With the sun on my back, my lovely lady wife by my side, and a good horse under me, my thoughts were on the sweet joy of life itself. I felt the fresh sea air on my face and smelled the damp earth and the flower-sweet scent of green growing things, and the blood ran strong in me.
We reached the cove, and I tethered the horses at the clifftop where they could get a little grass. Rhona and I climbed down onto the sandy beach where we settled in a sun-warmed hollow in the long sea grass. Rhona untied the bundle she had brought with her and produced a loaf of bread, a lump of cheese, and an apple—all of which I cut up with my knife and shared out between us. After our little meal, we lay back in the hollow and enjoyed the warmth of the sand and sun, and the sound of the lazy waves on the shore. Rhona came readily into my embrace and we abandoned ourselves to our loving, and afterward dozed in one another’s arms.
I awoke with my head upon my wife’s breast, and the sun lowering in the west. The tide was lapping around the base of the dune; the shadow of the cliffs had reached our once-sunny hollow, and the air was growing cool. I lifted my head and kissed my lady, and she awoke with a shiver. “We should be getting back,” I suggested, “before they send the hounds to find us.”
“One more kiss, my love,” said Rhona, pulling me close again.
We dressed quickly, returned to the horses, and rode slowly back to the dún, enjoying the fiery extravagance of a setting sun which set the heavens ablaze with scarlet, purple, and gold.
Even before reaching the road leading up to the fortress, I knew something was amiss.
Lashing our mounts to speed, we hastened up the road, through the open gates and into the empty yard. I dismounted and helped Rhona from her saddle; letting the reins dangle, we started for the hall, and were met by Brother Padraig. I took one look at his face, and said, “Is it over then?”
“Your uncle died a short while ago,” he answered simply.
I nodded. “May God have mercy on his soul,” I whispered, and felt Rhona slip her hand into mine.
“The lord and lady are with the body now,” Padraig informed us. “Abbot Emlyn is saying prayers.”
“Poor soul,” sighed Rhona. “Was anyone with him when he died?”
“I was at his bedside, my lady,” the monk answered. “He did not awaken from his sleep. I thought to rouse him at sunset to give him a drink of the potion, but his spirit had flown.”
We went in to find a veritable crowd around the dead man’s bed—serving-men and -maids mostly, a few vassals, and half a dozen monks in attendance with Emlyn. They were standing with their heads bowed, hands folded, as the good abbot softly intoned the prayers for the soul of the newly departed. Rhona and I came to stand behind the monks, and listened until Emlyn concluded his prayer, whereupon the brothers arranged themselves in order around the dead man’s bed, raised it, and began carrying it from the hall.
Moving to my father’s side, I said, “I am sorry he’s gone. I cannot help feeling we should have done more for him.”
Murdo shook his head. “He wanted nothing from us in his life, but to be allowed to die in peace. As he asked, so he was given.” He appeared about to say more, but turned away abruptly, following the monks out into the yard.
My mother laid her hand on my sleeve as she passed by. “There is an end to all things,” she whispered, giving my arm a comforting squeeze. “Let this also end.”
I wondered at her words, and would have asked her what she meant, but she moved on quickly, and Rhona came up beside me. “It is sad,” she sighed.
“Only a few days ago, no one cared whether he was alive or dead,” I reminded her. “Nothing much has changed.”
Rhona looked sideways at me. “But everything has changed,” she said.
Women, I think, feel these things differently. I do not pretend to understand them.
Torf’s body was taken to the nearby monastery where it was washed and wrapped in a shroud of clean linen, and prepared for burial. I had long heard it said—and now know it to be true—that the Roman Church is bereft in the face of death. The rites attending a soul’s passing are solemn and severe; the Roman priests make no effort to lighten the burden of grief to be borne by the mourners. It is almost as if they view death as a punishment for the audacity of having accepted the Gifting Giver’s boon of life, or as the sorry and inevitable end of sinful flesh.
The Célé Dé, however, see in death a friend whom the All Wise has entrusted with delivering his children from the pain and travail of mortal existence into the eternal paradise of his gracious kingdom. When bodies and hearts become too sick or broken to go on, Brother Death comes to lead the suffering spirit away to its rightful home. Accordingly, this journey is accompanied with laments and dirges for those left behind, but with songs of praise and happiness also for the one who has gone ahead.
While the body was being prepared for burial, Murdo determined that a grave should be dug in the corner of the churchyard. Although, as he said, Torf-Einar had not been one of the Lord’s better sheep, he was still a member of the flock. I offered to help with this chore, but my father would not have it any other way but that he should dig the grave himself.
At dusk, the corpse was brought out and borne to the gravesite in the churchyard where most of the settlement’s inhabitants had gathered. The sun had set with a fine and radiant brilliance, touching the clouds with fire, and setting the sky alight. In the golden twilight, the linen grave clothes gleamed like rarest samite, and the faces of both monks and mourners glowed. We sang a lament for a departed warrior, and then Abbot Emlyn led us in a Psalm; he said a prayer, following which he invited those closest to the deceased to toss a handful of earth into the grave. Murdo stepped forward, picked up a fistful of dirt, and let it fall; and I followed his example. I suppose, despite our brief acquaintance, I felt some innate kinship with Torf-Einar. For all his profligate ways, he was still part of the clan, and we did for him what we would do for any family member.
We sang a Psalm while the monks undertook to shovel the dirt into the grave. The deep hole filled up quickly, and a single flat stone with his name scratched onto it was raised upon the mounded earth, whereupon we went back to the hall to drink and eat a meal in Torf’s memory. As we reached the hall, I glanced up and
saw two stars shining over the steep thatched roof—one for Torf, and one for Skuli, I decided. In the same instant, the monks began singing again, and it seemed to me that the stars shined more brightly. “Farewell, Torf,” I murmured to myself. “May it go well with you on your journey hence.”
We feasted in Torf-Einar’s memory that night and, after the ale had made several rounds, Murdo rose to his feet and spoke briefly of his brother. He talked about their life together growing up in Orkneyjar, and his father’s love and admiration for his first-born son. I could not help noticing, however, that he breathed not a word of their sojourn in the Holy Land. By that I knew the old wound had been reopened in my father’s heart.
That night, Rhona and I clung to one another in our bed, exulting in our loving, and celebrating the life running strong in us.
Next day, the mundane chores of the settlement resumed. The awaited ship arrived with its cargo of cut stone, and we began the sweaty task of unloading the ship and dragging the heavy blocks up to the site of the new church. Murdo put as many men to the chore as could be spared from other duties, but it was hard labor still. By day’s end we were well exhausted each and every one, and Torf’s death and funeral were of no more account than the ripple of a pebble tossed into the sea.
As the weeks passed, however, I found myself thinking about some small thing or other Torf had told me about the Holy Land. Once, I asked Murdo for farther explanation, but he just told me that whatever Torf had said was best forgotten. “The ramblings of a sick man,” he declared flatly. “He is dead and that is that. I will not speak of it again.”
Of course, this only served to increase my appetite the more. All through the rest of the summer and the harvest season, I fairly itched for some word of the Great Pilgrimage and its many battles, but little enough came my way. No one on the estate or any of the other settlements had taken the cross, or made the journey—save Abbot Emlyn and Murdo. When I asked the good abbot what happened in the Holy Land to make my father so close-mouthed on the subject, he replied, “One day, perhaps, he will feel like talking about it. No doubt it is for the best.”
Toward the end of harvest that year, Rhona told me that our child-making efforts had borne fruit also: we were to have a baby in the spring. I remember, Cait, looking at you when my lovely lady wife told me the glad news. You were sitting by the hearth stirring a bowl of water with a wooden spoon which your mother had given you so you could cook with her.
“Did you hear, little one?” I shouted. “You are to have a brother!”
Oh, I was so certain the child would be a boy, and I would have a son at last. We dreamed this happy dream all through the long, cold winter. As Rhona’s belly swelled, she often remarked she had never carried a child so large and heavy—a sure sign that a man-child would be born in the spring.
At winter’s end, we awaited the appointed time eagerly. One morning, we awakened to the sound of the snow melting from the roof into puddles below the deep, overhanging eaves. I felt Rhona stir beside me and turned to find her watching me. “Did you sleep well, my heart?” I asked.
“How am I to sleep?” she replied. “This son of yours gives me no rest at all. He kicks and squirms the whole night through.”
Placing a hand to the bulging dome of her round stomach, I said, “It is only because he is eager to come out and meet his family.”
“It is because he is his stubborn father’s son,” she replied sweetly, stroking my hair with her fingertips.
Little Cait awakened and scampered into bed with us. She snuggled down between us and proceeded to wave her feet in the air while singing a song about a fish. It was a fine and happy moment with my best beloved and I reveled in it. Looking back now, I cherish it all the more—knowing the dark, unendurable days which lay ahead.
FOUR
THE BIRTH PANGS came on her early the next morning, but Rhona continued with her ordinary chores until midday when the pains grew severe. I ran to alert my lady mother, who came with one of the older women of the settlement who often served as midwife, and one of her serving-maids to help. They took matters in hand, and Ragna sent me off to the church to help Murdo with the building, promising to fetch me as soon as the birth drew near.
I was still there when Ingrid, the serving-maid, came running a short while later. “Lord Duncan, you must hurry.”
“What,” I said, climbing down from the scaffolding, “is my son born already?”
“My lady said you were to come as fast as you can,” she replied, wringing her hands in her apron.
I took her by the shoulders to steady her. “Tell me what has happened.”
“It is your lady wife,” she said. “Oh, please, come now. Hurry.”
My father heard the commotion below and called down to know what was happening. I explained quickly, and he sent me off, saying he would find Abbot Emlyn and follow as soon as he could.
I raced down the hill to the dún, through the gate, into the yard, and to our house. There were several women standing outside the door; I pushed through them and went in. Ragna met me at the bedside, her face grave and sad. “There is not much time, my son,” she said softly, taking my hand. “She wanted to see you.”
I heard the words but could make no sense of what she was saying. “What is wrong, Mother?”
“The birth has torn something inside Rhona,” she replied gently. “She will not live.”
“B-But—,” I stammered. “But she will be well. And the child—we were going to—”
“There will be time to speak later,” she said, leading me toward the bed. “Pluck up your courage, my son, and go to your wife.”
I stepped to the side of the bed and Rhona, her face gray-white with the pallor of death, opened her eyes and smiled weakly. I stared in disbelief. Only a short while ago that same lovely face had been glowing with love and life. How was it possible that such a change could occur so swiftly?
She lifted a finger and motioned me closer. I bent to place my ear near her lips. “So sorry…my soul,” she said, her voice the merest breath of a whisper. “I tried to get a son for you…”
“Shh,” I whispered, trying to soothe. “Rest now. We will talk about it later.”
“I love you,” she said, her lips barely moving. “Kiss me.”
I pressed my lips to hers—they were dry as husks, and cold.
“Farewell, my heart…,” she sighed.
A tremor passed through her body. I took her hand and clasped it tight. Her breath went out in a long, slow exhalation, and she lay still.
“Farewell,” I said, my throat closing on the word as the tears came. I raised her hand to my lips and held it there. Then I took her in my arms for the last time. I bent my head and put my face next to hers, and held her close—until I felt my mother’s hands on my shoulders, drawing me gently away. I allowed myself to be gathered into my mother’s embrace, and we stood for a time, motionless, while she spoke words of comfort and courage to me.
Abbot Emlyn and my father arrived then. The abbot stepped into the room, and discerned instantly what had happened. His round shoulders slumped and his cheerful face dissolved in misery. Murdo rushed to the bedside as if he would command the life back into Rhona’s dear body; only when he beheld the stark white skin and her empty upward gaze was he persuaded that there was nothing to be done. He turned to Ragna and me, put his arm on my shoulder.
“Duncan, my son,” he said, drawing me close. “I am so sorry.”
We three stood there together for a time, our tears flowing freely. Abbot Emlyn stepped forward and began the rites for the dead. Stretching his hands over the still-warm body, he began chanting—not in Latin, or Greek, but in the ancient and honorable tongue of the Celts—asking the Swift Sure Hand to enfold the soul of my best beloved, and guide her swiftly to her eternal home. Then he folded Rhona’s hands over her breast, straightened her limbs, and told the serving-women to find Rhona’s finest clothes.
To me, he said, “God has called his faithful daug
hter to join him in paradise. Tonight we will sing a lament for the empty place she leaves behind. Tomorrow we will celebrate her life and rejoice in her receiving her justly earned reward. Look your last upon her, dear friend, and I will return in a little while to take the body away and prepare it for burial.”
I looked at him in dismay. So soon? I thought. Why does it have to be so soon? But I said nothing, merely nodding my assent instead.
Emlyn left, and I turned once more to the bed. Already she seemed more at ease; the pinched tightness of her features had relaxed, and she appeared to be sleeping peacefully. For a fleeting instant my heart leapt up with joy. I felt like shouting, “See! It has all been a dreadful mistake! She lives! Rhona is with us still.”
But no. Released from the pains of death, her body was taking on something of its natural calm. Stooping over her, I brushed the damp strands of hair from her face and kissed her forehead. “Go with God, my soul,” I said, straightening. It was then that I saw the small still form beside her; wrapped in swaddling clothes, looking like little more than a lump in the bed, was the tiny body of my son. Dark-haired, his small face clenched like a fist against a world he would never know, he lay beside his mother.
I beheld the body, and felt my own dear mother beside me. “The little one did not draw breath,” she told me. “There was nothing to be done.”
I nodded, and rested my hand on his still chest—my hand almost covered his whole body. “God bless you, my son. May we meet one day in Blessed Jesu’s court.”
We waited with the bodies until the monks came to take them away to the monastery. I could not bring myself to accompany them, nor take part in the preparations. Instead, I went down to the sea and walked along the beach until nightfall, and Emlyn sent Brother Padraig to fetch me back to the hall. “There is food and drink prepared,” he told me, “and everyone is waiting.”
The Black Rood Page 4