In Praise of the Bees

by Kristin Gleeson

  ‘I said only that you’d suffered injuries on your journey back to your foster family and had lost your memory for a time. Ailill seemed genuinely surprised and relieved that you are recovered. He assumed you were staying with my family and that I’d come only in that capacity. He assured me he would be glad if you returned.’

  ‘You told him nothing more?’

  ‘I told him I had come to inform him about your injuries and recovery. I only listened, observed and then later indirectly questioned a few of the old servants. They explained that your father died during an argument with Ailill and some others who had been asked to come to help in a cattle raid.’

  Cuimne steels her expression. This is no surprise to her, she knows all about it. She knows that the argument got out of hand and her father fell, struck his head upon a rock and died. It does nothing to erase the cloud under which Ailill had become king, election or no. And it is no help in calming the tension that is building inside her, or the tightness around her eyes.

  Colmán continues to speak, explaining the events in detail, but she shuts it out. It’s not the power of the words to invoke terrible grief that make her do this, it’s the knowledge that each word is another stone on the pile of reasons that tell her to act.

  ‘Did you hear anything of my brother’s death?’

  He gives her a look that is filled with such compassion and sympathy she can only turn her head away from it. ‘Áine, please hear what I’m saying. Your brother was in a scuffle, another argument, only this time swords were used, your brother’s included. Hot-headed youths with too much drink in them. His death was an unfortunate outcome.’

  She thinks about this and compares it against her memory, wondering for a few moments if perhaps she misunderstood what she’d seen. She shakes her head a fraction, willing a clearer picture. All she can recall is an arm, well muscled, gripping a sword. Still, there is something about the tale that seems wrong. Why would she be struck down in such a manner if it was an innocent fight?

  ‘What was the cause of this fight?’

  ‘That I don’t know.’

  ‘And is it known who struck my brother?’

  ‘No. At first it appeared that he was slain by an enemy, and his foster brother demanded that someone be brought to account for it, but Ailill was persuaded otherwise when it was clear some of your father’s young men went missing at the time.’

  ‘And they pursued it no further?’

  ‘On the contrary, they searched for the men, but they were never found.’

  Cuimne gives a grim smile. She has no doubt they were never found, because they were the men who had travelled with her and were slain themselves when she was attacked.

  ‘Have you thought of what will you do now, Áine? Will you return to your home or stay here among the sisters?’

  She straightens. ‘I am not Áine, I am Cuimne.’

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry.’

  She nods and lets the silence fall between them while she contemplates all that he’s told her. The pile of stones is higher than ever, now, and it is impossible to pretend otherwise. She must make the journey home, no matter that it might be more dangerous than ever to venture out of this community. She is no closer to knowing who had slain her brother, and while it might appear safer for her now that others seem to believe it was an accident, committed in the heat of the moment, she needs to know who it was. Not just for the overwhelming desire to take some sort of action, but because she knows in her heart there is something more to these events than Colmán was told.

  She looks up at him eventually, sees his concern and something else. ‘No. I cannot stay here. I must return home. I will hear from Ailill himself what happened to my brother.’

  ‘You still believe it was a wrongful death?’

  ‘I must find the truth for myself. Only then will I know what my future holds.’

  ‘Please, Cuimne. You don’t have to do any of this. You could remain here with the sisters.’ He reddens slightly. ‘Or you could come and live with me, be my wife, as I mentioned before. I haven’t changed my mind.’

  ‘It’s impossible for me to remain here. I no longer have the mind or heart for this community. I’m unworthy of their company, especially Máthair Ab’s.’

  ‘What do you mean unworthy? How could you be unworthy?’

  She nearly smiles at his words. That he should be encouraging her now to join this community when in the past he’d been clear how little he thought of the idea. ‘There’s nothing more to be said. I will return to my home.’

  ‘And you will not consider my offer?’ The words are spoken softly.

  She sighs and gives him a direct look. ‘No. For many reasons. Though it’s for my cousin, Ailill, to decide, I doubt he would agree to such an arrangement. Nor would I want him to. If only for the reputation of the tuath, he would want me to have the full honour of cétmuinter, no second wife or mistress. As for me, I wouldn’t want to do such a thing to Bruinech. She has suffered enough.’

  ‘We’ve all suffered enough. My parents, Bruinech, me, we’ve all suffered the pressure to produce children, a pressure now doubled since my brother’s death.’ There is pain in his voice and bitterness too. ‘I thought by bringing in another wife or mistress, I might lessen the pressure on Bruinech, so that she might be happy. You were known to her, and you are compassionate and wouldn’t introduce more strife into our household.’

  She considers his words and she notes the distress in his face. The points he makes now are so different from the impression of his initial offer. She finds herself moved by his situation and for half a moment she’s tempted to accept. She shakes her head. ‘No, I’m sorry. I cannot help you.’

  ‘I see.’ His tone is more formal now and his face schooled to a neutral expression.

  ‘I would ask you one more thing, though. That is, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Yes?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Would you take me to my home?’ She reads the mixture of emotions on his face. She knows there is too much honour in him to refuse and his worry over her welfare will compel him to ensure she is well settled in her home. It’s that element of his character and his feelings for her that she puts her faith in. It helps her to insist on her return home and look for her brother’s killer, because only she can recognize the arm that wielded the sword.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Are you certain you won’t stay here?’ Máthair Gobnait sits in her stone chair, the throne from which she surveys the land she loves.

  Cuimne shakes her head, avoiding any glance towards the mountains and kneels before Máthair Gobnait. Underneath her knees the grass is damp, its wetness already penetrating her wool gown and léine. ‘I’m sorry, Máthair Ab, but I must go home.’

  Máthair Gobnait rests her hand on Cuimne’s head. ‘I understand your need to visit your family. I think it’s important for you to go there to make some kind of peace with who you were, and who you are now.’

  ‘I am still who I was: Cuimne, daughter of King Fergus of the Eóganacht of Irluochair and sister to Diarmait.’

  ‘You are that and more. Much more.’

  ‘As much as I might wish it—might have wished it, I am only what I was. I can pretend nothing more. I am no Christian. I’m a woman who will not forgive what happened to those I love.’

  ‘Forgiveness that is easy to offer doesn’t come from the deepest heart. Cuimne, give yourself time to absorb your grief and all that you have suffered, so that it can find its place beside all the other things that are you.’

  ‘I cannot. I must go, Máthair Ab.’

  Máthair Gobnait clasps Cuimne’s face in her hands. Her eyes are glittering, full of emotion. ‘You, my child, must decide which path you are to follow, but it must be done only after full consideration. Harm lies ahead, for your soul and possibly your life. Think, Cuimne, think!’

  Cuimne blinks under the force of Máthair Gobnait’s tone. And for a moment she pauses to consider the words, but in the en
d she knows there is no other choice for her. She pulls Máthair Gobnait’s hands away and shakes her head, tears in her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Máthair Ab, I must go.’ Cuimne bows her head, unable to face the disappointment in Máthair Gobnait’s face. She hears her sigh.

  ‘And Colmán is willing to taking you?’ Máthair Gobnait’s tone is weary, accepting.

  Cuimne bites her lip. ‘Willing? Well, he isn’t happy about it because like you, he’d rather I didn’t go.’

  ‘He’s wise in that.’ Máthair Gobnait rises from her seat and lifts Cuimne up. ‘Then, my child, I can do nothing more but give you my blessing and ask God’s protection for you.’

  Cuimne feels the cross traced across her head and hears the familiar words uttered. She sighs, knowing it will be the last time she’ll feel this kind of comfort from this dearest and holiest of women.

  ~

  She rides behind him on his horse, her arms around his waist, clad in an old brat and the grey wool gown and linen léine that had once been Sodelb’s. Behind them ride only three other of his men. He has chosen to take only a small number so that the journey is quick. Already, he has been away from home too long. And there is no need to impress the king with his standing or his wealth.

  Cuimne feels this keenly as she clasps his waist. She is no longer a king’s daughter and her position is not as certain as it was the last time she made the journey home. Then, though her father had died, there was no doubt she was the sister of the future king, and she rode proudly with her small entourage. Now, she shares a horse with a legal representative and feels guilt for taking him and his small group away from home too long.

  Colmán has spoken little since their departure from the community and Cuimne is glad. It will take a few days to cover the distance to her home and she thinks she would rather not have the journey filled with mindless chatter, even though she knows that isn’t Colmán’s manner.

  It is in this relative silence that they stop to eat at a small clearing. She draws the brat around her, its once bright blue now faded almost to grey. Grey as her mood and the sky above them. Grey as the beard of Colmán’s servant, who looks tired and drawn. It has only been a short time since his brother’s death, she realizes, and her guilt increases. He should be marking his grief at home.

  ‘Do you journey much in your capacity as legal representative?’ she asks him.

  ‘I am on occasion called away to disputes. But most are in our tuath and don’t require much travel. I go to Cashel sometimes and to the annual law meetings, but that would be all.’

  ‘But now I’ve taken you from your home for a long period of time. And your brother only just dead. I’m sorry for that.’

  He pauses, considering her remark. ‘The length of time I spend from home is much of my own making, if you remember. I chose to look into your background. I chose to make the journey to your foster family and to your home.’

  ‘I understand that, but you did it for me. And now, you’re on another journey at my request.’

  She hears the sigh, sees the small frown. ‘Did it occur to you that, for now, I might prefer to be away from home? That for me, it might be so unbearable to see my parents’ grief, my wife’s suffering, and better to do something I have some considerable skill in?’

  He says it kindly, but it still strikes her dumb and she realizes how much conceit she possesses to have assumed he preferred to tangle himself in her affairs because of his regard for her. She says nothing for the rest of the meal, savouring neither the food, nor the humility that has been thrust upon her.

  A soft rain starts to fall and mist descends from the mountains, so that there is no sight of An Dhá Chích Danann to give her pause of either comfort or challenge as they near the place she was found beaten. She grips Colmán tighter, for even in the thickening mist, she knows it’s nearby. After a moment’s thought, she decides to offer a prayer to An Máthair Anu, the goddess whose breasts rise so full and high, but she cannot still the trembling that shakes her legs and arms.

  Colmán halts. ‘There is no cause for fear. My men are well armed and capable. And I have my own knife and sword.’ He withdraws a sword from the pack one of the men carry and places it in front of him, across the horse’s back. With a quick motion he leans over and takes a knife from the leather casing strapped to his calf and hands it to her. ‘There, hold that, if it makes you feel safer.’

  She takes the knife, clutches it in her right hand and replaces her arms at his waist. ‘Thank you,’ she says. After a moment she leans her head on his back.

  They travel in that manner, the men following, until the light begins to fade. ‘You know a place to stop somewhere for the night?’ she asks. In the past, she had always stayed with distant kin or kin of her foster family, or her own family, to ensure a suitable welcome. It is only now that it occurs to her Colmán might not have such connections in this area. As far as she knows, his people were mostly linked to tuaths and lords east of his home.

  ‘I do. There is another legal representative whose home is very near. I stopped with him before, and I’m sure he would provide a welcome for us now.’

  ‘He wouldn’t deem it unseemly that I am in your company, without servants of my own?’

  ‘I’ll say nothing of your true identity. I’ll say only that you’re my cousin and I’m accompanying you to the home of your prospective husband.’

  She grimaces at that statement. It is a wise choice, but she rankles at the idea she might be on the way to marry someone. It seems too close to the matters that hover between them.

  ‘If he is a legal representative like you, are you certain he won’t see through the lie?’

  ‘It’s what I told him before when I journeyed. That I was seeking a marriage bargain for my cousin, so he won’t be surprised to see me come through again, this time with said cousin.’

  It seems plausible when he phrases it in that manner, and she allows herself to be content with that, so when they ride through the les entrance she feels no sense of anxiety. Her early fears have disappeared as the distance from the mountains has lengthened, and she is able to appreciate the sight and smell of the friendly smoke curling from the roof hole, and the sounds of animals settling from the night.

  The welcome from Colmán’s friend Murchad, his parents and his wife, Almaith, are fulsome. They lead Cuimne to a seat by the fire to work off the chill from the wet ride and give her a warming drink. She is grateful for the fuss and allows it to distract her from the larger issues. A servant offers her a bowl of boiled cabbage and meat and she takes it eagerly, glad that she can at last feel her hunger.

  Opposite her, two sleepy children lean across the grandfather’s lap, the older of the two playing with his grandfather’s gnarled fingers. The talk flies over her head while she eats, Colmán falling into easy conversation with Murchad and Murchad’s father. Words of the weather, crops and families fill the air, the natural way of conversation to friends such as these. Actions of the king of Mumu at Cashel and the growing power of the bishops are left to the later hours of the night, when all are settled into their seats, and beer drained countless times from all the mugs.

  Almaith regards Cuimne only with mild interest and offers her a dry léine for sleeping. They have made the small cubicle ready for her, she tells Cuimne after a while, but adds that Cuimne will have to excuse the young toddler already asleep in the bed, promising he will do nothing to disturb her sleep, as he is harder than the dead to wake.

  Cuimne nods and murmurs all that is expected of her, though everything seems no more than a blur in her travel-fatigued state. The last remnants of tension that had gripped her the whole day have slipped away under the influence of the meal, the beer and the warm fire. She rises and follows Almaith into the cubicle after a faint goodnight to the others. Almaith hands her the dry léine and waits while Cuimne removes her damp clothes.

  ‘I’ll hang your garments up by the fire overnight. With some luck and the gods on our side you should h
ave dry clothes for tomorrow, when you resume your journey.’

  Cuimne finds the words to thank her, but her tiredness makes it difficult to utter anything more than that.

  Almaith suddenly becomes talkative. ‘It’s the least I can do for a kin of Colmán’s. Are you derbfine, cousin to his father’s family?’

  Cuimne makes an effort to rouse herself and answer sensibly. ‘I am from his mother’s family, but distant only. Colmán was kind enough to offer his legal expertise in this matter.’

  ‘Colmán is a good, kind man, alright. Such a shame so many troubles have beset him of late. I would hate to see any more come to pass.’

  ‘As would I, Almaith.’

  ‘His wife has suffered terribly, a stor. But she’s the anxious sort, as was her mother, so.’ Her tone contains no special emphasis or hint at a double meaning. Still, Cuimne feels a twinge of unease.

  ‘You knew her mother?’

  ‘No, not directly. But anxiety does nothing to help conceive children. Bruinech was the only child her mother delivered safely.’

  From the cover of her lowered lashes Cuimne gives Almaith a speculative look. She cannot help but feel there is some hint of a message behind Almaith’s words. How best to tell her that her future has nothing to do with Colmán or his family? ‘I hope Bruinech will find some way to alleviate her anxieties, though I doubt I will hear little of how she or Colmán fares after this journey is completed.’

  ‘You’ll be married soon.’

  Cuimne nods. ‘All being well, my affairs will settle into place by the season’s end.’

  ‘And you are happy with the choice?’

  ‘Happy enough. It’s my family duty that’s uppermost in my mind.’

  ‘Yes, we all must be aware of the importance of our obligation to our family. But in the case of marriage, sometimes what sets out to be a duty can be a pleasure. There are children, the satisfaction of a well run household, and the comfort of a good husband. These are all things that can give much joy.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure you’re right.’