In Praise of the Bees

by Kristin Gleeson

  ‘It’s nice to see such a fair face as yours,’ he says. His voice is weak, but there’s no trace of malice. She returns the smile and continues dabbing the cloth along his brow. His hand seems to come from nowhere and grabs her wrist. ‘You’re not a spirit, a ban sídh, are you?’

  She jumps at his touch and for a moment she wonders if what he asks her might be true, that she is the harbinger of death.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘I thank you for persuading my mother to take some rest.’

  Áine jumps and all the fear returns at the sound of his voice. Her hands shake as she finishes emptying the pot into the tub. She has stepped outside the house for only a moment, passing through the throng of men, the chatting women and ambling servants, to make her way behind one of the sheds where the tubs of urine are kept. She wrinkles her nose at the sour smell that rises up as she keeps pouring, letting its unpleasant odour fill her nostrils and mute her nerves. The urine is used in the processes of tanning hides and fulling and dyeing cloth, and she tries to imagine the depth of colour such potency can create. Finally, she takes a deep breath and turns to Colmán, knowing she must be polite to members of this king’s household, even though she would rather be back in Gort na Tiobratán, in the sparely furnished room that holds her cot.

  ‘It’s to Máthair Gobnait you owe your thanks,’ she says, her head lowered.

  ‘How do you come to be with her? You’re not a Christian.’

  She tenses even more at the directness of his question. ‘How do you know I’m not a Christian?’ she asks softly.

  ‘Unlike her, you’re not wearing a cross and you don’t cover your hair.’ He reaches over, fingers a lock of her hair and she flinches. ‘Though it is of such quality it should never be covered.’

  She holds herself completely still, her head remaining lowered, enduring his touch. Eventually, he drops the lock of hair and studies her intently. ‘I notice you limp. What happened? Did you go to her for healing?’ His voice is kind, sympathetic.

  His gentle tone startles her into a confession. ‘I-I did. My leg was broken.’ Her voice shakes and she raises her head a moment and looks beyond him for a means of escape. She feels his eyes on her, penetrating her wool dress, her léine, to the scars that mark her chest and sides. ‘I’m sorry, I must go,’ she says after a moment, desperate. She moves away from him and he catches her arm.

  ‘I meant no harm by my questions,’ he says.

  She extricates her arm and gives a little nod before scurrying off to the safety of the sleeping cubicle that holds Domnall.

  When she enters the room she sees that Rónnat and Máthair Gobnait have returned and Rónnat has resumed her seat by Domnall’s side. The servant who had stayed with Domnall has gone and Domnall lies on the bed, pale, but awake. At the foot of the bed a harp rests, its dark wood polished smooth. The intricate carving, the grace of its construction testifies to its quality, even without the accompanying sound. It is sound that is foremost for Áine—no, music—she corrects herself, and without thinking, she leans over and plucks a string. Her nails are short and uncurved, so the string hasn’t the clarity it would normally if she could pluck it correctly, but nevertheless, she sighs to hear its beauty.

  ‘You play the harp?’ asks Rónnat. Her voice holds a hopeful note.

  ‘I-I... Yes,’ Áine says. She looks down at her hand which rests against the strings and she can see the harp is different. It’s a harp of the same kind that once sat on her lap and tucked itself against her shoulder, as natural a placement as a mother suckling a child. She takes a deep breath, overwhelmed by the image for a moment. She looks up, bewildered. It is a small piece of herself, but it is genuine and she has no idea what to do with it.

  ‘Would you play for my son? Senán, our revered bard, had hardly begun before he was called away.’

  ‘It would please me greatly, if you would,’ Domnall says. He smiles and this time it lights his eyes. There is kindness of such depth there she can hardly refuse.

  Áine glances over at Máthair Gobnait who nods. She runs her hand along the harp a moment, uncertain. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Just some bit of music. Anything to soothe Domnall.’

  She takes up the harp and sits on the edge of the bed, settling the instrument on her lap, leaning it against her left shoulder and apologizes that her lack of nails will make for a poor sound. She runs her fingers lightly along the strings, dampening them slightly with the other hand, testing their tension and glorying in the ringing tones that answer. Closing her eyes for only a moment, she lets her hands and fingers find their place. She plucks the strings slowly at first, working her way into a tune that suddenly fills her head only after it does her fingers. They are stiff, her fingers, but not so stiff that it causes her to stumble over the tune. She plays the tune slowly, dreamlike. The tune consumes her, makes her smile, so soft and lilting, it echoes back on itself in the string’s vibrato, and she finds herself humming along quietly. The hum forms words and the words melt with the music, a lullaby wave, soft and rolling. A voice sings with her in her mind, the voice of her máthair. For a moment she can see her, the fine bones of her cheeks, the smiling mouth and light eyes. But only for a moment, and then her mother vanishes into the world of dreams.

  She looks up from the harp, suddenly aware of the three pairs of eyes fixed on her. She feels another pair behind her and turns only in time to see a familiar flash of colour disappearing. Colmán. Suddenly, she is afraid again and puts the harp back on the bed carefully. She folds her hands firmly in her lap. There are all sorts of self-betrayal, but for her, the love of music must be the worst. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t play well. Your bard would be sorry his instrument found its way into such inexpert hands.’

  ‘On the contrary. That was beautiful. My thanks for playing,’ Rónnat says. ‘It was so kind of you.’

  ‘I think Senán would agree there is some competition here,’ Domnall says.

  ‘Oh, no. I’m sure not. I am not a bard of any degree at all. That would mean years of training.’

  ‘Your skill and voice speak differently,’ Domnall says.

  ‘You are a very accomplished musician, Áine.’ Máthair Gobnait’s voice is firm. She does not approve of false modesty.

  Áine examines the hands in her lap. After so many months it is difficult to find the traces of a harper. All she knows is that her fingers found their places on the strings with such ease, the music poured out without thinking and the songs came from a place she can’t enter at will. For now, she has these scant random memories. But even as she treasures these pieces of herself, she can’t deny the panic that accompanies them, and the thought that others know as much, and perhaps more. She looks at Domnall and Rónnat and for a brief moment wonders if they are hiding any knowledge of her identity to act upon later. She discards the thought almost immediately, until she remembers Colmán, and the unease returns.

  ~

  The evening meal is everything she dreaded. Máthair Gobnait insists she accept the hospitality, at least on this first night, rather than sit with Domnall as she had offered to do. There is no hiding, no obscure seat she can take and hope to remain unnoticed throughout the meal, because the two women are guided to designated places amid the cluster of men and women who gather around the table. She looks through the smoke that drifts about the room and sees the numerous spears, shields and other bits of war that hang on its walls. There are some feminine touches too, in the curtain of finely woven fabrics hanging discreetly in a few areas and the piece stretched on the small loom at the back.

  She notes with relief that the bard Senán has taken the place beside her, and that it’s on Máthair Gobnait’s other side that Uí Blathnaic has chosen to sit. When she dares to look around the rest of the table from under the protection of her loosely draped hair, she realizes that many of the people gathered earlier when they arrived have left, and all that remain are only the household members and guests that have most likely travelled far to see the king on s
ome matter. It calms her somewhat, until her eyes light on Colmán, who returns her look with a curious stare. She forces a smile and wills her eyes to look away, and it is then she sees the woman seated next to him. There is something that tells her this woman is his wife, though nothing outward in their manner supports this realization. For a moment she is shocked, since his married state never occurred to her during their few encounters. He would of course be married, she tells herself and she examines the woman carefully, if only to get a deeper impression of the man. She is small, this woman. Her hair, tied back loosely, is a nondescript brown, and the nails on her fidgeting hands are bitten to the quick. Áine stares at the bitten nails for a moment, wondering what they tell her about the man. It’s only later, when Uí Blathnaic introduces the woman as Bruinech, that her relationship to Colmán is confirmed. Áine doesn’t know what to make of her astute insight and whether she should take comfort in it.

  The conversation flows loudly around her and there is no shortage of food on the table. Still, though the food’s quality is better than anything she has eaten at Gort na Tiobratán, something tells her that this is a lesser king, ruling only a tuath, and he is not as prosperous as some, and has no real influential connections. She thinks again to what Epscop Ábán had said about the family, but can really find no clue there. She knows that kingship is a fleeting thing, passing to those who can provide the strength, wealth and prosperity to the tuath, and has little to do with directness of descent. She knows it with a firm conviction, but has no source of this knowledge. Another piece of herself, it seems at first, but the knowledge isn’t personal, it’s common to all.

  She sees Colmán taste the beer and frown. It’s sour, she knows from her own earlier sip of it. He glances at his wife and then across to the rectaire, who at this moment has found his voice and orders a servant to bring a plate of meat more quickly. Though Áine can’t hear Colmán sigh, she knows he’s given one and there is a touch of frustration in it. His eyes rest on hers for a moment and she sees the despair in them, and it makes her breath catch. Hurriedly, she finds something else to study, the rich red of his father’s brat that hangs over one shoulder. Beside him, Rónnat pushes her food around on the plate and gives a feeble smile to the man across from her who utters some reassuring words. She realizes now that with Rónnat spending all her time with Domnall, the household supervision has fallen to Bruinech and the steward has taken advantage.

  Bruinech picks up a small bit of bread on her platter then puts it down. Even from her place across from her, Áine can see the bottom is burnt. An angry flush creeps up Bruinech’s face. She glances at Áine and then shifts her gaze to Máthair Gobnait.

  ‘How does Domnall fare?’ she asks. Her voice is overloud and there is a slight tremor in it.

  ‘I’ve been able to ease his cough and make him more comfortable, I think,’ Máthair Gobnait says in a calm tone.

  ‘I’m sure Rónnat is grateful for even the slightest of improvements.’ There is no warmth in her expression or her tone. Colmán glances at her and narrows his eyes.

  ‘I make no promises about what I might achieve with Domnall,’ Máthair Gobnait says, ‘but I will do my best to help him in any way that I can, and I will pray for him. God’s love is infinite.’

  ‘Infinite love won’t cure Domnall,’ Colmán mutters.

  Bruinech frowns. ‘My mother-in-law must be made to feel she’s doing all she can for her son.’

  ‘Have you any children of your own?’ Máthair Gobnait asks.

  Bruinech stiffens and raises eyes glittering with tears. ‘I have no children.’

  Áine can see the tiny lines around her eyes, that on a poor woman might signify long days in harsh weather, but in this case she knows it means that this woman has few enough years left for childbearing.

  ‘There is time yet,’ says Máthair Gobnait. ‘The Bible tells us the story of Sarah, Abraham’s wife, who thought she was long past bearing children. Eventually she gave birth to a healthy son.’

  A glimmer of hope lights her face, creating a momentary youthful beauty, but it disappears, leaving her face sullen. ‘As you say, it is only a story.’

  ‘You have no fosterlings?’ Áine asks. The question pops out before she realizes and she wishes to retrieve it immediately when Bruinech and Colmán turn to look at her.

  Bruinech casts a glance at Colmán. ‘My mother-in-law has lately fostered a girl. She’s gone back to her parents to prepare for her marriage.’ The tears are there again for a moment. She looks at Máthair Gobnait. ‘But you’ve no children yourself, have you? You women remain unwed, virginal. Don’t you wish for the protection of a husband, a family?’

  ‘Some of us have wed and borne children. As for me, the church is my family, the Lord is my husband.’

  ‘You don’t wish for children? Even a fosterling?’

  ‘A distant kinsman of one of the sisters is bringing his daughter come the autumn. We hope that eventually she’ll want to join us.’

  ‘She will bring a dowry with her?’ asks Colmán. His face is curious but there is a hint of scepticism in his voice.

  ‘Yes, a small parcel of farmland to add to our own. She’s a kinswoman to one of the sisters in the tuath.’

  ‘And you,’ Bruinech says, looking at Áine, ‘you have no children, no wish to have them, or a husband?’

  Áine hesitates, pushing down the unease. ‘I have no children, no. And I’m not wed.’

  ‘Yet, you’re not one of the community.’

  ‘Áine has met with some misfortune,’ says Máthair Gobnait. She gives a brief account of the circumstances that brought her to Gort na Tiobratán and the nunnery. Áine wails inside at each word that reveals more of herself to these people. To this man. Her heart is beating wildly and it’s all she can do to remain seated.

  ‘And you have no recollection of what happened?’ asks Colmán. He gives her a hard stare, but there is no menace there. Clever men can be dangerous, though. ‘Nor any clue to your identity?’

  Áine shakes her head and reminds herself that her ignorance is her protection. Her heart slows, but still she reaches for Máthair Gobnait’s hand under the table.

  ‘What is the first thing you recall after your accident?’ His tone has turned curt.

  ‘You must forgive my husband his manner,’ Bruinech says, her voice a wobble. ‘He is in the law profession and has the rank of aigne. Searching questions are second nature to him.’

  ‘You act for the law courts?’ asks Máthair Gobnait. She nods thoughtfully. ‘That’s better than I hoped. One reason I requested Áine to accompany me here is to enlist your father’s help to discover who her family might be. If it’s possible.’

  ‘She’s not from this tuath,’ says Colmán. ‘Nor anyone just east of here. I travel much fulfilling my duties and I’ve heard nothing of this tale. But as you say, she was found west of you.’ He examines Áine closely, his profession and Máthair Gobnait’s request giving him free rein. ‘Do you recall anything of your former life?’

  Áine lowers her eyes, feeling the heat of his scrutiny that seems to lift her hair and peer into her soul. What should she say to him? ‘Just today, I found I have played the harp.’

  Senán takes this moment to join the conversation. ‘I understand you play well.’ His tall wiry frame sits awkwardly at the table, a paradox of the grace his hands and fingers suggest. ‘Domnall praised you and that means much. He thinks you’re a bard, or some sort of harper of some experience and learning.’

  ‘He knows music?’ asks Áine. It’s a question she knows the answer to before she asks it, but it changes the direction of the conversation as she hopes, though only for a moment.

  ‘He does, under my tutelage.’

  ‘If you have no memory, how is it that you’re called Áine?’

  Colmán’s abrupt question unbalances her for a moment and she pauses to collect herself. ‘Máthair Gobnait gave me the name.’

  ‘You call her “Mother?”’

 
‘I’m called that because I’m a banóircindeach, an honour Epscop Ábán conferred on me. I’m mother to the women and girls in my care.’

  ‘Mother to grown women.’ Colmán looks at her thoughtfully.

  ‘Everyone has a mother, whether they are grown or still a child. These women look to me, those whose kin are dead and gone.’

  ‘You are like their Muimme,’ says Bruinech, a small smile appearing on her face. ‘You’ve not given birth to these women but you nurture and instruct them, isn’t that right?’

  Máthair Gobnait turns the full force of her warmth on Bruinech. ‘That expresses it very well and so beautifully.’

  Colmán frowns and looks at Áine. ‘And you would become one of these women should you not find your kin?’

  ‘I would hope to, no matter the outcome.’

  Máthair Gobnait pats her hand. ‘There’s time enough to decide all that. For now, we must hope that Colmán’s investigations provide some answers.’

  Áine resists looking at Colmán though she can feel his gaze once again, taking in her hair, her face, lingering overlong on her mouth, to travel down along her shoulders, studying the length of her fingers, the smallest one now somewhat crooked from her injuries. His intensity unnerves her, fuels the anxiety that he evokes so easily when he’s near. Beside her Máthair Gobnait squeezes her hand.

  ~

  Áine’s days at Raithlinn beside Máthair Gobnait are filled with activity that give her little time to contemplate her fears, though some of that is of her own choosing. She finds she misses Siúr Sodelb, though, and she allows her thoughts to dwindle on memories of their time together. She does all she can to avoid Colmán’s company the first few days. On the fourth day he leaves to attend to some legal matter on the far end of the tuath and she feels relief when she hears he will be gone a while.

  Much of her time is taken up helping Máthair Gobnait tend Domnall, mixing tinctures, fetching broth and fresh water for him to sip. She also assists in washing his body and freshening the bedclothes and spending time by his side to allow Rónnat periods of rest. She finds Domnall an uncomplaining patient, grateful for the small kindnesses she can manage, but still too weak to say more than a few words each time she sees him. His love of music is evident, though, and his large sunken eyes light up when she first offers to play the harp again. She curses herself for such foolishness, but reasons that Domnall is hardly going to jump out of his sickbed and tell others that she plays.