She promises she has nothing of the sort in mind, though privately she remains uncertain. She only knows that she must face this killer, when she can find the proof to be sure who it is. He takes her hands and coaxes her to kneel before him while he blesses her, his hands moving in solemn motion to form the cross. She isn’t certain why she has allowed him to persuade her to kneel and she blinks back the few tears that come. The tears are for her confusion and for the other times she has knelt in this manner. She rises and thanks him, and turns. A short distance away Lassar stands, her stick in her hand, and a frown on her face.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lassar waits until Epscop Ábán has departed before she seeks out Cuimne. Even though Cuimne expects Lassar’s questioning, when the moment arrives it is still unnerving. Cuimne has no idea how much she has heard of her conversation. She tries to stir up the old anger, feeding it with thoughts of Lassar’s certain involvement in her brother’s death, but has no success. Her defences are dissolving. She feels vulnerable now, prey surrounded by predators. Epscop Ábán’s visit has done nothing to help the feeling.
‘Sit here where I can see you, Cuimne.’ Lassar points to the bench on the other side of the fire. It’s early afternoon, with no one but the three women inside. Ailill and Liam have gone off with a couple of bothach and a slave to oversee the hauling of stones from some fields. Barrdub is churning butter with some of the other women in the kitchen shed. Cuimne looks over Sárnat’s shoulder discussing cloth to use for the coming baby as Sárnat sits at the loom, newly strung linen thread ready for the working. Sárnat has only just told her of her pregnancy and Cuimne has seized upon the news to distract Lassar from the unspoken questions that hang in the air. It is a ruse that Cuimne knows Lassar sees through, but she had to try. Now, at Lassar’s instructions, she takes the designated seat and sighs.
Lassar tilts her face and narrows her eyes and asks her what her connection is to Epscop Ábán and why she was kneeling in front of him. She doesn’t mention his name, she merely labels him as a ‘holy man,’ but her tone and emphasis make it clear she thinks there is little that is holy about him. Cuimne reminds her of Colman’s court case, but Lassar will not accept this explanation.
‘I am not a half-wit,’ she says. ‘Colmán is not a Christian, no matter that the man has his monastery nearby. It is Cashel singing the tune there, giving land away, not his father. He has little love for Christians.’
‘His father asked Máthair Ab to attend his ailing son. His feelings have changed.’
‘Máthair Ab, is it? And how well do you know her that you would call her “mother?”’
Cuimne could bite her tongue off for the slip. It was a foolish thing to say. ‘Everyone calls her that now. It’s a title of respect.’
Lassar gives her a doubtful look. ‘Perhaps, but that doesn’t explain why you knelt before that Christian priest just now while he uttered words and made motions over your head that belong to his faith.’
She tries to remain calm and offers up the best possible explanation she can think of. ‘I did it because he asked me to. It means nothing. He thinks because I met him before and think kindly of him I might soften you towards him.’
Lassar grunts. ‘There is no hope of that, no matter what kind of useless Christian prayers he may utter over you.’ She falls silent and Cuimne prays now that the conversation has ended. Her prayers, so quick to come to her mind, are directed to the Christian God that she’s just denied and Lassar has whipped her acid tongue against. Despite her poor behaviour towards Him, her prayers are answered. Lassar says no more on the matter and Cuimne moves back over to the loom.
~
The day is as listless as she feels. The air, still and heavy with unshed rain, engulfs the mountains in dark grey clouds. Cows disappear and re-appear on the higher fields like some sídhe from the next world, their lowing ringing eerily across the valley.
Cuimne pauses for a moment to watch them before she searches out Aed, her brat slung quickly across her shoulders. In the days that have passed since Epscop Ábán’s visit, the bishop’s words have continued to haunt her. And this morning she has finally decided to question Aed about what he knows of the events surrounding her brother’s death.
She hears the clop of hooves before she sees the horses. The mist parts and Óengus appears, his thick, light coloured curls glistening with moisture. He stands in a chariot pulled by a fine horse. It is no cart with a capall, but a warrior’s vehicle, even though the roughness of the tracks and paths would make it a bone shattering journey and the chance a wheel would break. Behind him, his mounted men emerge, one by one, as if they were sheep to be counted for shearing. Óengus jumps from the chariot in a swift graceful motion. Cuimne is overcome with a joy she does not question and launches herself into his arms like she is a young girl again.
For a moment he stands stunned and her arms hang around him. He pulls her back and searches her face, his eyes intent. ‘Ah, mo storín! How good to see you,’ he says finally. He gives her a tight embrace, then drops his arms and puts a hand to her face. ‘And you’ve become such a beauty.’
She regards him under lowered eyes. His own appearance would make any woman’s heartbeat. Under his loose brat the muscled girth of his chest and arms are evident. There is no trace of softness in him, even his face, once a little rounded, is all angles that no amount of beard can hide. The boy is gone. A warrior at the height of his power and ripe for admiration stands before her now. He kisses her lightly on the forehead, his lips lingering perhaps a moment longer than is proper. His beard tickles her. A glow spreads through her body.
Cuimne sees Aed approach and calls out. ‘See who’s finally come? And welcome he is, too.’
Aed gives her a weak smile and nods formally to Óengus. He moves to the servants and the other men and they begin to lead the horses away.
‘No need for formality here, Aed,’ she says. ‘This is Óengus, though you may not recognize him under all that hair.’ She reaches up and tweaks his beard.
Óengus gives a hearty laugh and puts his arm around her. ‘Ah, there is a punishment for girls who do naughty things, if I remember. Since you no longer have braids to pull, it seems my only recourse is tortuous tickling.’ He lifts his hands and twirls his fingers in mocking threat at her neck. She smiles, recalling her brother’s love for this game.
‘Cuimne!’ Lassar stands at the door. Óengus drops his hands and straightens, but Cuimne refuses to let Lassar ruin her good spirits. ‘It’s Óengus, he’s only now arrived. We were just having a little tease as we used to.’
‘You’re a grown woman now, not a girl.’ She turns to Óengus. ‘Come inside then, instead of cavorting like a ten-year-old for all to see.’
Óengus bristles. ‘It is not for you to tell me how to behave, old woman. Nor should you reprimand Cuimne so.’ He glances at Aed, who stands uncertainly by his horse, his hands on the reins. ‘Go on, man, take the horse and chariot and lead the men to the sheds.’
Cuimne asks Lassar in a soft tone to let the issue pass. ‘Óengus is a dear friend, a brother almost, and Diarmait’s closest companion. I would hope to give him a loving welcome.’
Lassar nods stiffly and the welcome proceeds as it should, a door opened, the guest ushered with due ceremony across the threshold and made to settle in the best chair by the fire. His men filter in and find benches to sit upon. The orders are given for refreshment and all polite conversation is exchanged about the weather, his journey and the health of his family and theirs. In short, all the requirements are met.
But it isn’t how Cuimne wishes it. The lack of warmth, the stiffness of the exchange, only serve to underscore how it might have been had her father and brother still been alive. She thinks of all the joking, laughter and easy banter that would be shared among loving companions, all enjoyed with the best mead and the choicest of meats. And afterwards perhaps she might have played the harp, heard tales of his exploits and how he became such a fine warrior. Now, there are
only wary glances and a few questioning looks that mix with the smouldering anger that filter around the room to manifest in the occasional sly reference, dark look or shifting foot.
Cuimne tries her best to lighten the mood. She sits on the stool by Óengus and smiles fondly at him. ‘Are you still easy just as easy to beat at fidchell?’ she teases.
He looks up from his mug and pauses before answering her to assemble his face into a winning smile. ‘I’m certain I could find skill enough to win against you.’
‘There is much to be learned from playing fidchell well,’ Ailill says.
‘I am skilled at it,’ Cuimne says.
‘I understand that your brother was not so skilled.’
‘Fidchell is not a game for women,’ Lassar says. It’s clear her comments are meant as a criticism of Cuimne rather than a determination against women’s general involvement.
Cuimne frowns a moment and her anger flares, but just as quickly the flame dies and she find she has no interest in sparring with Lassar. She does feel gratitude, however, when Óengus gives her hand a sympathetic squeeze.
‘Playing fidchell well is for those who are unable to fight battles in real life,’ he says.
‘Just because someone is skilled with a sword and can fight battles doesn’t mean they will win the war,’ Ailill says. ‘There is more to war than swinging a sword around.’
‘What are you trying to say?’ There is an edge to Óengus’ voice.
‘I’m saying nothing but that there is subtlety to fidchell you may not have appreciated.’
Óengus rises from his seat, his face flushed with anger. ‘You think me stupid? That I have no subtlety?’
Cuimne puts a hand on Óengus’ arm. ‘I’m sure Ailill wouldn’t be suggesting anything like that. You are known for your cunning and skill with a sword. You, and my brother. Even at games you were unbeatable when we were young.’
Óengus gives Ailill a dark look, resumes his seat and collects himself with visible effort. ‘And I remember you could never run fast enough to catch us.’ His light tone is forced but it is enough to ease the tension in the room.
Ailill curls his lip but says nothing. The conversation is directed toward safer subjects, in as much as Cuimne can manage it. Safety is relative, for topics of all nature hold hidden traps and it requires all her energy to think ahead and keep the conversation harmless.
They can eat, drink and they can talk about crops, animals and the forthcoming winter. Cuimne touches only lightly on her recent experiences. That subject is filled with too many quagmires and potential flashpoints to discuss with Óengus in any depth in front of Ailill and Lassar. She knows that Óengus is not making a favourable impression and she can only pray in time that he will be able to shift their poor opinion. Tomorrow, she might have an opportunity to take him aside and approach him about everything that is on her mind and get a better idea how he might feel about the idea of a marriage between them. The notion raises no objections for her. She can still feel the connection of her brother through him, and at this moment that outweighs her desire to unearth her brother’s killer. But the two goals may fit neatly together, because she has noted that Óengus’s feeling for her brother is still strong and his fighting spirit keen.
~
She is still contemplating these ideas as she lies in her bed, the rest of the household retired long since. The certainty with which she initially formed her plans is losing its shape, more melting ice than hardened rock. Ailill’s death no longer fills her with satisfaction and the thought of Sárnat a widow with a baby on the way gives her no comfort at all. She can still take some pleasure from the image of Lassar supplanted by another mother of a different king, though if she marries Óengus she would have no involvement in the future here. In that light, what befalls Lassar should be of little consequence.
A cold hand steals across her neck and a kiss is planted on her cheek and her lips. Her eyes fly open and she reaches instinctively for the knife. But it is only Óengus bending over her, clad only in his léine, his blond curls tangled around his head. He presses his lips harder against hers, prying them open with his tongue. Stunned, she lies speechless while he slips under her sheepskin coverlet with practiced ease. She pulls away with a gasp.
‘What—’
He puts a finger to her lips to quieten her and whispers in her ear. ‘You don’t want them to hear us, do you? They might think we’re plotting.’ He gives a soft laugh. ‘You are so beautiful, a stor.’
He pulls off his léine and nuzzles her neck and nips her ears before resuming his kiss. She is stunned by its heat and for a moment she allows the slow response of her own body to take over so that she might enjoy the moment. His hand moves quickly across her shoulder and down inside her léine to cup her breast, squeezing it hard, while the other hand scoops up the hem so that it bunches around her waist. He swings his bare leg over her and she tries to move out from under him, but his weight is too heavy. She can feel his erection hard and full of purpose. He kisses her again, his tongue searching while his hand arranges her legs, separating them.
She manages to pull her lips away. ‘No,’ she whispers. ‘Not yet. Not here.’
‘You have no need to worry,’ he said. ‘Ailill can hardly refuse us marriage then.’
‘He spoke to you of that?’
‘No, but it’s what we always planned, Diarmait and I. I thought you knew. I thought you wanted it.’
‘I do, I mean I didn’t know about your plan, but that is why I asked you to come. That and to know more of my brother’s death.’
His face darkens. He rolls off her then and props his head on his hand. ‘Yes, we must talk about that. But not here. Tomorrow we’ll find somewhere private.’ His face softens. ‘For now we can turn our mind to more pleasant things.’ He runs his hands along her legs lazily, his green eyes still hazy with lust. For a moment she considers giving into him, but is caught by the thought that it might anger Ailill even more and cause a violent confrontation. It would be one way to achieve his death, for she has no doubt that Óengus would beat him in any swordplay. But it’s the price of it that makes her hesitate. She would not have a war with Óengus’ clann.
Óengus draws her against him and buries his mouth once more in her neck, this time biting hard. His hand pushes down between her legs seeking an opening. She wriggles in pain at his bite and pulls away once again. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Ailill will be furious and that would do us no good.’
He draws up and looks at her, confusion in his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We need Ailill to think we aren’t forcing his hand. It’s better to persuade him, make him think we respect his will in this, so that he doesn’t suspect any darker intentions.’
He considers this idea for a moment, weighing the greater good against a moment’s intense gratification. The battle is difficult. Eventually he sighs but cannot resist a few lingering kisses to her belly and breasts before he takes up his léine and pads out of the room. In the dim light she can see his retreating figure, the broad muscled back, the thick well-shaped legs and buttocks, and for a moment feels regret. Perhaps she is being a fool. She fingers the side of her neck where the sting of his bite still smarts. Then again, perhaps not. There might be something to be said for subtlety in bed, too.
~
Despite the dull day, Óengus takes Cuimne for a walk. He grabs up her hand the moment they are outside and runs across the field to the woods nearby. She is breathless by the time they reach the dense forest, a place that has lost some of its familiar paths she remembers from childhood and is now given over to large bushes and taller, fuller trees. It seems darker too in the heavy grey day, darker than it would normally. She leans against an oak, her hand loosed from his, her chest heaving.
‘Ah, Cuimne, you’re no longer used to running.’ He stands in front of her, his face alight with laughter, his breath even and untroubled.
‘I’ve had little cause to run these past months, and for some of the m
onths, no sound legs to run with.’
‘Your legs were injured in the attack?’ His face clouds. ‘I knew only that you had lost your memory from a blow to the head.’
She grimaces. ‘They beat me everywhere, my arms, my legs, fingers and broke them all. They stabbed my side as well.’
‘In truth?’ He searches her face, a curious look in his eyes. ‘Who did this?’
She pauses a moment. ‘I don’t know. I remember little. My men, my horse, all gone. I thought at first it was connected to my father and brother’s death, but I know now it was more likely a group of outlaws.’ She holds her breath, hoping he will believe her. She’s not certain why she hasn’t disclosed her suspicions or what she saw of her brother’s death. It might have been the dark look in his eyes and what that might wreak from a few unguarded words. She knows only that for the moment, she has decided to keep it to herself. Until she has a better idea of Óengus and his plans and what more she can discover on her own.
He pulls her into an embrace. ‘From now on I’ll be here to protect you, I give you my pledge on that.’ As if to prove the point he lowers his mouth on hers and kisses her fiercely. She allows it, appreciating the sense of security his words provide. She tightens her arms and feels his strong body against hers. Noting her response, he presses her in tighter, runs his hand along her back under her brat and then moves to her breast and kneads it fiercely. He pushes her back against the tree, his breath ragged, and begins to raise her skirt.
She pulls away. ‘We must talk, Óengus. Tell me what happened, please, with my brother.’
After a moment his eyes clear and darken, his attention diverted. He nods. ‘You’re right. There’s time enough later.’
‘Were you there when my brother died? Did you see what happened?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, but I have no doubt that your cousin is a murdering bastard.’
In Praise of the Bees Page 20