Misfortune of Time

by Christy Nicholas

  Should Airtre ever discover her sweet stolen moments of learning, she’d surely pay a dear price. While she cherished the precious moments of conversation with someone who spoke to her as a true person, someone with valuable ideas and cohesive thoughts, she mustn’t.

  She shook her head and hurried away, unwilling and unable to answer questions about her fears.

  She looked forward to the time she spent with the younger monk, despite herself and the danger if Airtre ever discovered them. Not that they did anything improper. After all, she was a grandmother, married to a priest, and he a monk who had taken a vow of celibacy. Of course, priests on the continent had vowed celibacy as well. Luckily for Airtre, this practice had not yet taken hold for priests in Hibernia.

  Still, Airtre didn’t always react reasonably and even now, he cared little for Odhar.

  Bressel had come over one evening, a fortnight ago. He’d listed all of Odhar’s accomplishments, and Airtre scowled. The rumors said the younger monk might be in line to run the hostelry next season, which would leave Airtre without an assignment in the abbey. If the abbot reassigned him, it might be a step down in status. He might even be assigned somewhere outside the abbey. Such a move would seriously hinder his path to becoming a bishop.

  All this Étaín overheard as she cleaned up after supper. The men didn’t seem to care if she listened at this point. They expected abbey politics to be beyond her poor ability to reason. She took care to do nothing to dispel this impression.

  When she brought Maelan to his lesson the next morning, she assessed Odhar with new eyes. He didn’t appear overly ambitious. In fact, he acted modest and understated. He never touted his achievements. The night before, Bressel had mentioned Odhar had written a history of Dubhlinn’s founding. Odhar had never even mentioned authoring a book to her.

  After Odhar set Maelan on a task of copying several psalms, he turned to her. “You look pensive today, Étaín. Is there something on your mind?”

  Startled, she shook her head. “It’s nothing, truly. I’m just concerned about my husband.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Is he ill?”

  She shrugged, wishing she’d kept quiet. “Oh, no, nothing like that. He’s worried about his position.”

  Odhar glanced at Maelan, carefully carving the letters in the wax tablet with his quill. The letters looked shaky, but deep. With a half-smile, Odhar drew Étaín away to the wall, out of the child’s hearing. “Has he been reassigned, then?”

  She sat on the long wooden bench near the window and looked out into the foggy morning. “I’ve heard nothing firm, just rumors.”

  Odhar thought for several moments, and sat next to her, his knee touching hers. “As far as I understand, there are no changes coming in any of the positions. I’ll find out… if you wish?”

  Such knowledge would be valuable to her husband, and it might help to alleviate his concerns about Odhar if the rumors proved to be untrue. However, the very act of inquiring might start events rolling. She didn’t even know why she’d mentioned it to Odhar and wished she could retract the words. Étaín might, with the brooch’s power—but it had been too long for that now. She shook her head. “I’m certain he’s just worrying over nothing.”

  “Very well. Tell me if you change your mind. I’ve made friends with the Abbot’s clark. Now, what did we chat about yesterday? I completely forgot.”

  She grinned. “We discussed Saint Brigid, as I recall.”

  “Ah yes! Brigid of Kildare, She of the Eternal Flame. I always wonder how much of her legend is conflated with the ancient goddess of the same name. Did she really exist or did someone simply decided to take the goddess and Christianize her into a saint?”

  Étaín took in a sharp breath at the blasphemy. He chuckled and patted her hand.

  “Now, my dear, not to worry. I should never breathe such an idea to anyone who cares. So many accounts of her life exist, with conflicting stories. Saint Ultan says one thing and Saint Donatus another. Saint Aileran gives yet a third account of her life, and then Cogitosus, and Saint Broccán have more. None of them relate the same stories or the same actions. Yet, some details sound the same. This isn’t the only discrepancies I’ve seen in the records. Last year, several people noted an unusually bright star in the sky, and yet each recorded them at different times of the spring and summer.”

  “I don’t know anything about the stars, and I recall little of Brigid, to be honest. Her mother had been a slave, I think, and performed miracles feeding the poor. I do remember a story where she took the chief’s sword to give to a beggar.”

  He nodded. “Aye, she did at that. The beggar bartered it for food.”

  “Doesn’t that make her a thief, then? She might have been killed for her theft.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps the miracle is she never received punishment?”

  She giggled at his irreverence and covered her mouth in shame, looking around to verify no one witnessed her blasphemy.

  With a chuckle, Odhar gently pulled her hand away from her mouth. “Be at ease, Étaín. There is none here but Maelan and us.”

  She dropped her hand and her gaze. It had been so easy to let down her guard with him, but she must be more careful. He was young, attractive, and male. Her husband could so easily misinterpret their friendship. Odhar still touched her hand, and she grew very aware of the contact. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a misinterpretation?

  Odhar glanced at Maelan, but the child still drew his letters with intense concentration. To Étaín’s relief—and regret—he drew his hand back. “I wonder how many other ‘saints’ had been gods and goddesses converted from the old religion? Or how many miracles came from pagan magic? Surely such power wouldn’t have died simply because a new religion migrated to this land.”

  Étaín swallowed. He came dangerously close to her own precious secret, and she sat stiffly on the bench, unwilling to give the slightest clue of her own opinion.

  He lightly touched her arm. “Now there, did I say something wrong? I apologize if I offended you with my questions, Étaín. I understand your husband’s painfully pious. Do my words make you uncomfortable?”

  Her face grew warm with both embarrassment and attraction. He acted too kind, much too kind to her. This wouldn’t do at all.

  A voice at the door made her startle back from Odhar, guilt strong on her face. “What is this?”

  Étaín and Odhar both appeared startled to see Bressel standing in the doorway, hands on his hips. His face glowered red.

  Odhar stood, his hands out. “Bressel! It’s good to see you this day. Étaín just dropped off Maelan for his lesson, and we got entangled in an argument on a piece of theology. Would you care to join the discussion?”

  Bressel glared at Étaín, who dropped her gaze in shame. She may have done nothing with the young monk, but she’d considered it. The word and the deed go hand in hand. A sin of the heart and mind was a sin of the body. Escape, she must escape. She grabbed her cloak and rushed out the door, into the still-thick morning mists.

  The fog swirled around her, leaving her face wet as she escaped through the gates and out into the town. She stumbled over something next to the door and fell to her knees with a cry. She twisted to discover what had made her trip. A beggar crouched next to the door, his battered case open for alms. He held a small drum, a bodhran, but he didn’t play it. Instead, he dropped his instrument and grabbed her arm. She forced herself to look into his eyes.

  Sheer madness stared back at her, with flickers of magic and pain. His eyes drew Étaín in, and she fell deeper into the soul of the mad beggar bard. She screamed and struggled to get away, but he held her arm fast.

  “They are coming to get you, they are! They will come for the magic. They will get you! They came for me, and I never escaped. Never escape! You’ll never escape!”

  Each sentence grew louder until he screamed the words into her face, spittle flying onto her cheeks.

  She cried out, scrambling back and prying at his fingers di
gging into her arm. “Let me go! Let me go! Help! Let me go!”

  His eyes grew wider, and he came so close she smelled the onions on his breath. “Winters, I disappeared for so many winters, but I lived only a fortnight! They took my soul, and they’ll take yours. I see it! I see it! You can never escape!”

  Étaín screamed, sobbing for him to let her go when someone loomed over them. Flesh smacking flesh broke attracted her attention. “Let go, foul creature! Leave her be at once!”

  Airtre loomed over them, his fist ready for another punch. The beggar whimpered and scrambled away, but Airtre followed, punching the man again and again in the face and head. Now trapped against the wall, the beggar bard had no escape, and Airtre continued to pound blow after blow upon him. The sickening crack of breaking bone ricocheted against the stone abbey wall. Black blood splattered and dripped in the dim light.

  Étaín had witnessed many acts of violence in her life, but this berserk frenzy from her husband left her shivering and crying, curled into a ball. It seemed a long time before the sounds from the wall stopped and even longer for her to stop crying.

  Her husband helped her to her feet.

  A quick glance at the still form of the beggar, piled in a heap of rags and blood, sent her weeping and trembling into Airtre’s arms. He held her tight for a long time. “You’ll be fine, Étaín. He won’t trouble you again, I assure you. Here, let me walk you home.”

  Her sniffles punctuated their stumbling journey. When the roundhouse emerged from the fog, her home became the most welcome sight she’d ever beheld.

  Cadhla had been waiting for Airtre, but when he saw them, he rushed to Étaín’s side.

  “Étaín? What happened? You look as if you’d seen a ghost!”

  With a wary glance at her husband, she simply shook her head. She couldn’t relive that horrible experience, not yet.

  Airtre frowned. “She’s had a bit of a scare. I need to go let Bressel know what happened. Can you take care of her for a while? I might be some time.”

  Cadhla narrowed his eyes but nodded. Once he left, he helped Étaín inside. “I can help you with the morning work, at the least. You must be exhausted from your fright.”

  In truth, she could barely move her body. Still, she wouldn’t allow a guest to do her work.

  He must have seen the answer in her eyes, for he made a different offer. “How about I do what Maelan would normally do? I’m certain your own chores have increased now he’s at both practice and lessons each day. What’s good enough for the young lad is good enough for me! Now, I’m sure the stables could use attention and enthusiasm. I’ll start there.”

  With no energy to argue, she collapsed on the bench. She took a quick look at her reflection in her precious bronze mirror and frowned. Her wrinkles had smoothed out too much. The scare must have relaxed her grip on the aging magic. She concentrated on her image and the wrinkles deepened.

  The small magic drained what little energy she had left. When Cadhla shouted from the stable, she could barely stir herself to investigate.

  He came in, his brow furrowed. He shook her by the shoulder, but she couldn’t open her eyes. “Étaín? Étaín, wake up! Étaín!”

  Her mind turned fuzzy, and she became vaguely aware of noises near the hearth. She wanted to get up, to tell Cadhla she’d be fine, but she couldn’t move. Instead, she drifted in and out of awareness, the muzziness of her thoughts sluggish and languid. A crash made her crack one eye open, but she only glimpsed the conical thatch of the roundhouse, still dark from yesterday’s rain.

  Someone pressed something warm into her hands.

  “Here, Étaín. Drink this. Sit up, good.” Cadhla tipped the cup to her lips, and she swallowed a couple sips of the hot broth. The savory liquid trickled down her throat and she relished the warmth.

  Over an hour later, she opened her eyes and glanced at her benefactor. She gave him a half-smile. “Cadhla, you needn’t have done all this.”

  “Nonsense! Woman, you were half-asleep with fatigue! Whatever happened that made you so tired? Have you been ill? Airtre mentioned nothing.”

  “No, no, I’ve not been ill. I just… a beggarman in the street… I’m not sure. It …” Her mind sheered away from the memory, and she concentrated on the last of the broth, now cool, in her mug. She drank the dregs.

  “Well, you must have gotten quite a shock. I managed to muck out the stalls and make sure to feed all the beasts. Did you realize you had a hare living in your stable? The thing scared me half out of my wits. It jumped out just as I grabbed an armload of hay.”

  Étaín covered her mouth and giggled. She imagined the comical scene, with Cadhla dancing about and the hare underfoot. The creature had stayed in the stable after she’d rescued it. Hares meant good luck, after all.

  With a start, she stood and placed her mug on the table. “Oh! Oh, what’s the hour? Maelan should be done with his practice soon. I must go fetch him.”

  Cadhla pushed her back on the bench. “You will do no such thing, young lady.”

  His words startled her into an outright laugh. “Young lady? You need to have the apothecary check your eyes, Cadhla.”

  He grinned. “Ha! As if he knew more than I did about medicine. Well, you’re young to me, anyhow. You’ve never looked your age, my dear, and you will be lovely until the day you die, I’m sure. Still, you need to rest this day. You bide here; I’ll go fetch your rascal of a grandson. Is that fair?”

  “Fair enough. I haven’t even thought of something for supper. Airtre will return soon.”

  Cadhla arched one eyebrow. “Might I suggest… hare pie?”

  Chapter 5

  With great apprehension, Étaín brought Maelan back to the abbey the next morning. She still hadn’t recovered from the horror of the day before, but drew confidence from her grandson by her side, despite his youth.

  Maelan had questioned her on the incident, as rumors already flew. She shushed his incessant inquiries with a firm hand. Étaín had no mind to answer such questions right now. She might never be in such a mood.

  Her worry had been for naught. She’d half-expected the rotting corpse of the old beggar bard to be piled in a heap next to the abbey gate, but no trace of his grisly remnants remained. He couldn’t have survived the assault, certainly. Instead, a wizened woman, with bedraggled, gray hair long down her back, sat huddled in his place. She nodded to the woman as they passed and the new beggar stared at Étaín. The woman’s eyes bored into her back as they strolled through the abbey gates.

  Étaín hadn’t realized how much she’d tensed at the possibility of having to confront the beggar again. Her shoulder ached with the released pressure.

  She suppressed a shudder and led Maelan to the lesson building. Odhar hadn’t yet arrived, but he often had other duties to attend to before Maelan’s lessons, so sometimes came late. With a nervous glance out the doorway, she noticed Bressel pass by and had a moment of clutching fear. She’d forgotten yesterday’s intrusion. The other priest passed by with an aloof nod, and she breathed more easily.

  She had naught to be ashamed of, truly. She merely talked with the tutor while Maelan completed his assignments. What harm did she do? She knew how to read and write, so he hadn’t corrupted her with “unseemly knowledge.” The Christian insistence women shouldn’t be taught had already been broken. She’d learned despite that.

  Odhar arrived, out of breath. “My apologies to both of you! A situation arose at the Archives, I’m afraid. I needed to put out a few fires.”

  Étaín sniffed the air and clutched the bench, but no acrid smoke filled the air. “Fire? There’s a fire in the Archives?”

  “No! No, no, just my turn of phrase. No actual fire, but a mess with new monks not understanding the storage system. I’m sorry to frighten you. You’ve turned quite pale! Here, have a drink of wine. You look as if you could use it.”

  She stared dumbly at the proffered wineskin, so casually given. Real wine remained a luxury, possibly even imported fr
om Rome. Airtre had never been so profligate as to purchase the precious drink. Putting out her hand, tentatively, she grasped the neck of the wineskin.

  “Go on, now, take a nice, long drink. It’s good, strong wine from Iberia, and it would be a shame to waste it. It will fortify your soul for our discussion today! Maelan, did you think on your assignment?”

  The boy watched his grandmother drink before he answered absently. “Yes, I thought about it. I don’t think it’s right, though.”

  Odhar sat on the bench and gestured for Maelan to sit at his desk. “Tell me why you think it’s wrong.” Étaín took another sip of the wine. It tasted sour and sweet at the same time and warmed her insides nicely. It seemed stronger than she’d expected and made her mind dance. The wine tasted of cherry and cedar.

  Maelan thought for several moments before answering. “If the old gods became Christian saints, then why do some people still worship the old gods? Grandfather said wicked pagans lived in the woods who worshipped Crom Cruach and the Dagda and the Morrígan and all those evil ones from ancient times and if I ever saw them at the faerie stones to turn and run away!”

  Odhar chuckled. “Just because the Christians have adopted characteristics of the old gods onto their saints doesn’t mean the old gods have disappeared completely. Some people still believe, and that’s not evil, young man—that’s human nature. Change takes a very long time. It can take hundreds of winters for a basic belief to change. Rome took almost four hundred winters to accept Christ as its Lord, and then only the Emperor and a few of his most trusted advisors converted. It took even longer for the rest of the empire to change their worship to Christ. Some still today are not converted.”

  “But why? Can’t they see the truth of the Word?”

  Odhar shook his head. “It’s not so simple as that, child. Let’s see if I can demonstrate this for you. Hmm.” He looked around the room, but not many items lay in the bare roundhouse beyond the few treasured scrolls and the wall map. His eyes alit on Étaín, and he smiled.