In Praise of the Bees

by Kristin Gleeson

Almaith presses her hand. ‘I hope it becomes the case for you, Cuimne, kin of Colmán.’ She gives a warm smile and it lights up her round face. ‘For now, though, I bid you goodnight.’

  ~

  They are ready to depart early the next morning and Cuimne is relieved to see that the day is fine enough, though a bracing breeze cuts through her brat. Colmán’s men hug their own bratacha close and draw them up around their heads.

  After they take their leave of Murchad’s household, Cuimne mounts the horse behind Colmán as before, and they resume their journey. This time her arms feel more at ease around his waist and she settles into the slow trot that marked their pace the previous day. And this time there are no fears, no tense moments of recall and the track they follow, though stony and rough, is well worn and provides few surprises. They break for a meal somewhere around midday at a spot sheltered from the wind. They settle as best as they can on rocks. One of Colmán’s men lights a small fire, so that they might all share in a drink warmed by a small heated metal rod.

  ‘You’ve known Murchad a while?’ Cuimne asks Colmán eventually. The question has hung in her mind all morning and the other questions that follow it. How much had he said to Murchad and Almaith on his first journey? What did they know of her really?

  ‘Yes, I’ve known him a long while now.’

  ‘And his wife, too? She seemed to count you a familiar face.’

  ‘His wife, nearly as long.’ He eyes her carefully. ‘Murchad and I attended the nemed together.’

  She considers his words and understands then how they would know him and his family so well. It was not a case of two legal representatives meeting on the occasional law case, but fast friends from youth, schooled together, perhaps even as close as foster brothers. ‘They know your family, your wife.’

  He only nods; the statement is obvious.

  She reasons with herself that Almaith’s words were nothing more than an expression of her concerns for the wellbeing of Colmán and Bruinech. Cuimne reminds herself to stop seeing conspiracies where none exist and focus her wits on the place where conspiracies are more likely. Her home.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Even before they entered the dún she can see changes, despite the soft rain that falls. The mountains still rise tall around them, but where sheep had grazed before, there is a field of oats, and where oats have been, cows wander around, their dark hides standing out like shadows on the landscape. Two women working in the vegetable garden, preparing it for winter onions, raise their heads at their approach and give a nod, but Cuimne has no idea of their names, or who their parents might be. Once inside the les, she notices the sheds are different, some new and larger, while others that she remembers are gone. The stocky woman feeding the hens in the yard might be the daughter of the woman who once managed the hens, but Cuimne can’t be sure, and doesn’t want to reveal her ignorance. In the end, she merely nods to the woman and asks if someone might tell the household she is back home.

  The woman gives a small wink to one of Colmán’s men and wipes her hands on the back of her worn gown. ‘You were here before,’ she tells him.

  The man reddens slightly. Though he is not a lord, he is a man of some standing and certainly would prefer not to be so obviously known by this woman. Cuimne can only imagine the circumstances for this acquaintance and suppresses a smile. ‘I was, so,’ he says after a moment. The woman gives a quick obeisance and hurries into the house while they all dismount.

  A small group emerges from the house and makes its way to them. At its head is a tall thin man with dark hair, and Cuimne knows that this is Ailill, and the men clustered around him are his men, and relatively unknown to her.

  ‘You’ve returned, Colmán. And with my cousin.’

  Ailill examines her carefully, his face wary. ‘You are welcome to our home, Cuimne.’ After a moment he moves forward to embrace her lightly.

  She bristles slightly at his phrasing. That he should welcome her to her own home, calling it his in the process, is difficult to bear. She steps back and he releases his arms, while she tries to steer her face into a more neutral expression. Her eyes go unwillingly to his arm and she examines it carefully, but the light is poor and she is unable to study it for long. Her stomach is a knot.

  Ailill indicates the woman behind him. ‘Cousin, this is my wife, Sárnat.’

  A young dark-haired woman moves forward, her manner shy and unassuming. There is no harm in this woman. ‘Welcome, dear Cuimne,’ she says in a soft voice. ‘We were so relieved to hear you were safe.’

  There is distance between the two women, one that is mostly of Cuimne’s making, and she dares the other woman to try to close it. There will be no embrace for the two of them. A nod and a guarded greeting suffices for Cuimne, and with it is carried an unspoken message that makes it clear she will not be won over.

  Ailill sweeps his arm out towards the doorway. ‘Please, come inside.’ Cuimne cannot help but notice there is tension in his voice and she glances down once again to his arm. It strikes her that she would be better to play the warm cousin rather than let him see her animosity. Cuimne looks at the doorway to her home. She hesitates a moment, her heart flutters and threatens the hold she has on her emotions. Even Colmán’s reassuring hand at her back does little to help.

  Perhaps because she expected more dramatic alterations after what she has observed in the fields and inside the les, it seems little changed inside. The rush lights are lit and fixed in their usual position, clamped in the iron pincers. She can see her father’s chair is there, the same trestle table leans up against the wall and the loom is still in its place at the side, a linen cloth stretched on it. The heavy wooden chests, beautifully carved and painted with intricate patterns, seem no more faded than when she’d last been here. The léine and gown that hangs on a rack near the fire could have been her own. It is the same, and yet it isn’t. Ailill takes her father’s wooden couch at the fire next to his mother, who she suddenly remembers is called Lassar. Lassar is an old woman, there is no mistaking that. Even in the poor light, Cuimne can see traces of skin showing through the sparse grey hair that covers her scalp.

  Lassar leans on her stick and makes to smile. ‘You’ll forgive me for not greeting you at the door. These old legs aren’t as nimble as they once were.’

  Though her limbs might be feeble, her voice is firm and the keen eyes say it all, that the mind is as quick as ever. Cuimne remembers that her father had never cared for this woman, describing her as someone who failed to remember her place. Her place is clearly marked now, elevated once again to the king’s side.

  Cuimne regards Lassar with narrowed eyes. Her own vague memories of this woman are limited to painful pulls on her hair when Lassar attacked her head with a comb, and a few heavy slaps to her face when she was caught in some scrape with her brother and dared to answer back. She does have a clear memory of Diarmait calling Lassar a cow behind her back and imitating her large-breasted appearance with a léine of Cuimne’s stuck inside his tunic.

  Sárnat gestures to her. ‘Please, have a seat.’ She flutters nervously over to the bench on the other side of the fire and pulls at the sheepskins covering it. ‘We’ll eat soon, once the meat is finished.’ She glances over at Lassar and bites her lip. ‘I’ll just go over and see how the cooking fares.’

  ‘Some warm mead for them first, Sárnat,’ says Lassar.

  ‘Yes, yes of course.’ Sárnat moves to a bench where a jug of mead rests.

  Lassar motions to a young man, little more than a boy. ‘No, it is the rectaire’s place to get Barrdub or one of the serving girls to do that. Ask him to check also that the meal is ready.’

  Sárnat replaces the jug on the bench and looks uncertainly at the rectaire, who has jumped up from his seat at the side and has headed for the door. Cuimne is surprised that they would have such a young man in such an important position. It is no one she recognizes, so she has no idea if there is some blood connection that has him placed here.

&
nbsp; Lassar is not finished with her instructions to the rectaire. ‘Tell whichever one you see, though Barrdub would be best, to get one of the lads to come in and put up the table. It’s time enough now.’

  The rectaire nods and disappears out the door. The men and few women who cluster in around the fire and off to the side murmur throughout this exchange that is clearly common enough. Cuimne thinks she recognizes a face or two. There must be some client farmers and lords whose lands are tied up in their land that are among them and would remember her. Beside her, Colmán takes her hand and squeezes it under the cover of the bratacha that drape their shoulders. The bratacha are only slightly damp. It seems that Colmán is as reluctant to remove his brat as she is hers. It’s only later, when awkward glances come their way, that they both slide them off their shoulders and Colmán places them next to him on the bench. By this time the slave girl, Barrdub, comes tripping in, heads directly for the bratacha and hangs them on the rack next to the léine. That chore completed, she serves up the mead.

  Lassar nods across to Colmán and Cuimne and sighs. ‘You must excuse my daughter-in-law. Sárnat is newly wed and is still finding her way here. I know her foster mother well enough to have expected more from the girl, but given her family, I guess it’s no surprise.’ She glances over at her son and shrugs as if to wash her hands of any part in such a poor decision. Sárnat lowers her head, but not before a tear escapes down her cheek.

  Cuimne only half hears this plaintive speech. She cannot stop noting Ailill’s tense posture, the leg crossed and his hand tightly clasping the wooden mug he lifts periodically to his lips to drink deeply. It’s not just the actions that hold her attention, it’s the place he sits while doing them. It is still her father’s wooden couch, the couch from which he heard disputes, gave his decisions and planned the tuath’s future. This man sits in it now, drawn up to the fire, as though her father had never sat in it. Catching her eye, he gives her a tight smile and it stirs her anger. His eyes narrow and they hold her, and she is certain she sees a question there. It’s their own private exchange, while Colmán recounts their journey, making unremarkable things remarkable, until the men come in to erect the table with the rectaire in their wake.

  During the meal, Colmán answers Ailill’s questions about various law cases he’s dealt with in the past, the different tanglings of tuath and kin groups, and the variations of the law in Mumu, in comparison to other parts of the country.

  Cuimne listens to this exchange, her thoughts taking increasingly darker turns. What was Ailill’s purpose in quizzing Colmán about the law? Was he testing his knowledge to confirm that he was in truth a legal representative? Did he suspect that Cuimne had brought him for some other purpose? Or was it that Ailill sought some legal information for himself? Cuimne thinks carefully about the questions she’s heard. They had focussed on fine points of the law regarding orchards, cattle, as well as a few general questions about land ownership. There could be many shades of meaning to any one of these remarks.

  Colmán answers all the questions courteously and without hesitation. Yes, a client farmer who is negligent with sheep or cattle could be made to replace any ailing animal. No, a farmer whose fruit tree overhangs a neighbouring farm wasn’t entitled to all the fruit the tree produced; the fallen fruit belonged to the neighbour. Cuimne is certain there is nothing innocent here. She only wishes her brother was here so she could discuss it with him.

  The women and the other men contribute nothing to this discussion and remain silent for most of the meal. Sárnat glances periodically to check that mugs are filled and plates are never empty while the rectaire hovers nervously near Lassar. Lassar concentrates on her meat, sucking and working her remaining teeth along the bones she holds to her mouth. The bread she dunks into the beer, softening it enough to manage easily. Colmán’s amusement at Lassar’s unabashed actions is obvious, and for some reason that irritates Cuimne.

  Lassar catches her look and raises a brow. ‘The belongings you had here,’ she says. ‘I’ve had them moved to another sleeping cubicle. The one at the back.’ She indicates the north end of the house. ‘My bones can’t tolerate much cold and damp, so I’ve taken your old cubicle.’

  Cuimne gives her a frosty look and glances at Ailill. ‘All of my things?’

  Ailill nods. ‘Your foster family sent them on after you left and nothing could be discovered about what had happened to you.’

  ‘What steps did you take to find me?’

  Ailill frowns and looks at Colmán. ‘Your foster family waited a while, thinking you had been delayed. Eventually, they sent word to us that you hadn’t arrived and wondered if you had decided to remain with us. Did Colmán not tell you? We sent out men to inquire, but by that time no one could find any trace of you.’

  Was that information among the maze of all the words Colmán had laid upon her, trying to convince her that she was mistaken in her assumption? She cannot remember. So many times the buzz of her fears and anger had drowned out the words he’d spoken.

  Colmán mentions that he did explain all of it, but adds there was too much for her to take in at the time to pay much notice to these details. Ailill gives Colmán an assessing look and nods before regarding Cuimne. ‘Your foster family sent your belongings after it was clear you wouldn’t be returning there.’

  ‘It appeared you were dead, then,’ says Lassar. ‘But we were wrong, it seems. She looks Cuimne up and down and snorts. ‘There’s no mistaking that sulky mouth of yours.’

  Cuimne gives Lassar a dark look and recalls more encounters with this woman during Lassar’s occasional visits to her father’s home. The mean little pinches, the biting criticisms whenever she was near. Colmán, on the bench beside her, touches her leg briefly, counselling caution. She takes a deep breath and tries to smile.

  But there is no one counselling Lassar to still her tongue. ‘You were such a wayward child. Badly in need of some sort of discipline. Your father left you run wild, and much good it did you. Your foster family despaired when you first went to them.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ says Cuimne, with a little more heat than she would like, but she cannot help herself. ‘I was young, not used to being separated from Diarmait and they understood I didn’t mean half of what I said then. Do you have any idea what it’s like to feel alone and no one to listen to you? That you’re not allowed to see the most precious person in the world to you, but you must spend your days instead learning such dull tasks as sewing, spinning and weaving?’ She halts her diatribe, shutting her mouth with force, so that she will say no more of the bitter memories and have them understand the depth of her grief.

  Lassar looks at her with contempt, but Ailill’s face shows only pity and that she will not stand. ‘You must excuse me. The journey was long and my tiredness has overcome me.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Ailill. ‘The rectaire will show you to your bed.’

  Cuimne forces a smile. ‘I don’t need to be shown, I know where it is.’ She bids the others goodnight. To Colmán she asks, ‘You will stay a few days, at least?’

  Colmán glances at Ailill, who nods. ‘A few days only. I must return home, it’s been some time.’

  She sees the fatigue in his face, but the eyes still show the kindness, and something more. She cannot place what it is, but it’s been there for some time and it makes her uncomfortable. ‘Thank you,’ she says eventually and hopes he understands that the thanks she offers is for more than his consent to remain here for a few days.

  ~

  She wakes early, the habit of the past few months too ingrained now to break, and makes her way outside, soft leather boots stuffed on her feet, her wool gown hastily thrown on, and a brat wrapped around her. It seems strange that she isn’t standing or kneeling, reciting, praying, singing, but instead now in her home, surrounded by the familiar distant mountains covered in mist, and the fields and woodlands that dot the landscape. The light is soft, the air is moist against her skin and small droplets cling to her hair. The s
mell is fresh and new, but underlying there is the distinct tang of decay that marks the tail end of autumn.

  From her place leaning against the wall of the house Cuimne notices the signs of the day beginning. She watches the women at the milking, the men having herded the cows in with the help of the farm dog. The cows, crowded into the confines of their pen, are milked in the same order every morning. That much is clear from the manner in which they gather, ready for the firm hands to press the teats into service. It’s another difference from her father’s time, but, she concedes, perhaps a good one. The cows are quiet, the women know their jobs, whether it is emptying the buckets, sitting on the stools, or leading the cows to their appointed place.

  There are more cows than she remembers, a reflection of the farm’s expansion. Is this increase born of theft, or underhanded bargains and trades made with their overlord? Or the king at Cashel? She moves over to the shed where the horses and ponies are housed, inhaling the smell of the manure, oats and horse sweat that pours through the open door. One of the men is just leading the ponies out to the field nearby for the day’s grazing. She nods to him, asks his name and discovers it is Aed, the small boy she would often find crouching by the horse shed years ago, watching the men whenever they were working there.

  ‘Shall I help you?’ she asks. ‘I remember you used to follow me when I insisted on leading my own horse to the field.’

  ‘Of course, Mistress,’ he says. He offers her a rope placed loosely around the pony’s head.

  With a lightened heart she takes the rope and follows Aed towards the les entrance. She feels at home among the horses and ponies, recalling the times she spent on their backs, or playing with them in the field. Here are happy memories and nothing more. For the moment it’s all she wishes for, a few quiet moments where she is in company of her own choosing. A quiet moment like those she found singing the psalms, reciting the prayers, or just sitting silent in front of the altar.