“The crone stooped; she looked. She looked again. She straightened and turned to the elders. ‘This man is the traitor,’ she said. ‘He betrayed you to the enemy. He is . . . a Green.’
“Everyone gasped in horror. The man in question denied it vehemently. He was no traitor. Hadn’t he just rushed into the encounter along with the rest of the raiding party? That he was still alive was a matter of luck, not treachery. He’d just happened to be last in line.
“Then the crone showed the elders the man’s cloak. It had a rowan cross, just like all the others. But where the thread used by the other warriors’ wives or mothers to sew the rowan twigs to the cloth was, as you would expect, red, this warrior’s womenfolk had used thread of deepest forest green.
“There was no need for further proof, for everyone knew a Red woman would not set so much as the tip of her little finger on anything green. The man must be an enemy spy. Clurichaun justice being what it is, the punishment was dire; so dire, in fact, that perhaps it shouldn’t be spoken of before these young folk.” Willow looked over at Coll and Eilis, half smiling.
“You can’t not tell us!” Coll protested, outraged.
“Very well,” said Willow. “The traitor was taken to the biggest pond in the forest, and they made him walk out on a stone shelf above the deepest part of it, then they pushed him in.”
Coll looked mightily disappointed. “Is that all?” he asked.
“There was a very old and very large fish living in that pond,” Willow said. “She chased him around and around until he grew so tired he was half drowned. Then she ate him. And that is the end of my story, save to add that, to this day, the clurichauns pursue their war over Mochaomhóg’s hill.”
It had been a good story, expertly told. As for Willow putting some special meaning in it just for me, I must have been mistaken about that. If she’d chosen tonight’s tale for anyone in particular, it was surely Eilis and Coll.
“Thank you,” Father said. “We all love tales here. One tends to forget the power they have to make sense of things. Aidan, perhaps we might have a little music before we retire. Clodagh, will you play too? We haven’t heard you for a while.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” I said. I had forgiven Aidan for his lie, but it was far too soon to be playing music with him again. I hadn’t forgotten how good that felt before; perilously good. Feeling that way might have me thinking of a future that probably wasn’t going to happen, a future in which my mother’s child was safely born, and she recovered well enough to resume all her old duties, and Rathnait’s father agreed happily to her not marrying Aidan after all, and . . . There were too many ifs in this picture, and I knew I could not entertain it, not yet. “I’m too tired tonight. I would only make a mess of it.”
“I’ll play,” Aidan said, and fetched his harp from an alcove nearby. “Such a fine tale deserves a musical end piece. I’m afraid I don’t know any songs about clurichauns, so it will have to be something else.”
Cathal was looking particularly stony. Perhaps he didn’t approve of stories, especially ones with magic in them. He was all too ready to dismiss talk of the Fair Folk as sheer fantasy. If he stayed here long enough, he’d find out how wrong he was.
Aidan sang a ballad, the melody ringing out sweetly in his soft, deep voice, the harp providing mellow accompaniment. It was a love song, and while he did not embarrass me by looking me in the eye as he sang it, I could hardly miss the fact that the lady in the piece had hair like a flaming cloud and eyes like green jewels, or that the swineherd who was trying to win her admired her not only for those qualities but for her forthright nature and her devotion to her family. It was a pretty piece that I was certain he had composed himself. In the end the lady left her family and went off into the forest with the pigs and their keeper, which I liked—I had been expecting a predictable tale in which the swineherd turned out to be a prince in disguise, and the surprise added to the charm of the song.
When it was done, folk seemed in no particular rush to retire to bed, though Father excused himself and left the hall. He had little enough opportunity to spend time with Mother, and if Gareth failed to placate Eoin of Lough Gall and the other northerners, those chances would become even fewer. Despite the presence of Muirrin and a bevy of attendants, I knew how much Mother needed him. He had always been able to calm and reassure her in times of crisis. I worried about Father more than I told anyone. What would happen to him if we lost her? It seemed to me he would not weep and rage, but would retreat inside himself, no longer able to smile at a story or laugh at Eilis’s silly jokes.
“I see Aidan’s talked himself back into your favor.”
I started. I had wandered over to a corner with my cup of mead, so deep in thought that I hadn’t even seen Cathal there. “He was honest with me,” I said, looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was within earshot. Aidan had gone to put his harp away; Sibeal, Eilis and Coll were all sitting at Willow’s feet, asking questions. The men were engaged in conversation around the hearth. “It’s true, isn’t it, that Rathnait is a child of twelve?”
Cathal nodded, saying nothing.
“And it’s true that the betrothal agreement is only a verbal one, made casually years ago between the two fathers?”
“I know nothing of that,” Cathal said. He wasn’t exactly putting himself out to support his friend’s cause. After that conversation in the stables, this surprised me. “You’re quick to forgive, Clodagh,” he added. “Only today he offers his explanation, such as it is, and already you’re letting him make up songs about you.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “I didn’t ask him to make up the song. And I could hardly storm out just because there was a red-haired woman in it. What’s your objection, anyway? Am I so very unsuitable for him?” Curse it, why had I said that? Posing such a question was asking for a catalogue of my faults, with being boring right at the top. “Forget I said that,” I muttered, staring at my feet.
“No,” Cathal said. “He’s unsuitable for you.”
“What?” He really had my attention now. “A chieftain’s son, a skilled warrior, young, nice-looking and a musician to boot?”
Cathal looked uncomfortable. The supercilious air had disappeared. “On the face of it,” he said, “my friend would be a good match for any woman. All the same, you shouldn’t rush into this.”
“Not that it’s any business of yours,” I said, astonished that he would take it into his head to give me such advice, “but he did convince me today that the agreement between his father and Rathnait’s could be undone with no hurt to anyone. But it doesn’t matter anyway. It would be inappropriate for me to encourage any suitor. My mother’s about to have a child. She’s not well. I’ll be needed at home.” I had not intended to speak so openly of this, but perhaps, if he heard it, Cathal would stop trying to interfere in my personal life.
“You’re doing a pretty poor job of being discouraging,” Cathal said flatly. “Of course, you can’t see the way you look at him. Just don’t blame me if it all goes wrong.”
“I won’t,” I said after a moment. His tone had been neither flippant nor arrogant, but as serious as if he were warning me of some real and imminent danger. “Cathal?”
“What?”
“Today, on the way up to the Pudding Bowl, what really happened? Where did you disappear to?”
Cathal’s features closed up, becoming impenetrable. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he said.
“You do, Cathal.” I was not sure how hard to push this. “I don’t believe you lost your way; that wouldn’t happen to any of Johnny’s men. You must have gone somewhere. You couldn’t have missed us on that track.”
“You seem so certain, Clodagh. And yet with every second breath, it seems, you or another of your family warns me of uncanny folk out in the forest, paths that have minds of their own and any number of oddities to be wary of. I suppose you and your sisters credited every word of the old woman’s silly tale tonight. And you speak to me about truth.”
“Before Aidan gets jealous?” Then, at my look, he added, “The soft-voiced musician has a nasty temper on occasion. But you’ve seen that. And I don’t think you’re quite as lacking in imagination as I first believed.”
“From you, I suppose that remark could be construed as a compliment. I don’t anticipate a broken heart, Cathal. I’m made of stronger stuff than that.”
CHAPTER 4
Now there were only three Inis Eala men left at Sevenwaters: Johnny, Aidan and Cathal. The atmosphere was tense as they waited for word from Gareth. He was to send a message as soon as he had spoken with Eoin. Two mornings after our ride to the Pudding Bowl, Father called me to join him and Johnny in the small council chamber. I sat opposite the two of them at the table; Aidan was stationed by the door, acting as a guard.
“We’re wrestling with a decision, Clodagh.” Father came straight to the point. “It relates to Gareth’s mission and the question of a council. Perhaps Gareth can placate Eoin, perhaps not. He must at least persuade him that there was no ulterior motive in my decision to grant Deirdre’s hand to a southerner. Still, Eoin being the kind of man he is, the need to call a council is pressing. There have been simmering tensions between north and south since you and Deirdre were little children, and this is likely to inflame them. It could drag Sevenwaters into a full-scale conflict. What we need is a regional treaty.”
I remembered the words people generally used when referring to Eoin of Lough Gall: testy, difficult, volatile, influential. “Will Gareth raise that idea with Eoin?” I asked.
“He’ll offer him my personal invitation to a council, the timing to be agreed in due course. At this stage, no more than that. We’re concerned now that it may not be enough. Without a place, a time, it may seem only a vague promise, offered only to appease. If only I could know what will happen here . . .” Father’s frown indicated an internal struggle.
“Far better, in my opinion, if we call the council now,” put in Johnny quietly. “Invite both north and south. Be bold. Establish a position of control before somebody else does.”
“You have neither wife or child,” Father said. “Wait until those you love are at risk, then see if you would provide the same advice.” Then, after a moment, “I’m sorry. Believe me, I understand the difficulty, and if all were well here, I would be in full agreement with you. But to proceed with plans for the council straightaway seems . . .” He hesitated, chin on hand, gray eyes troubled. “I will be honest with you. It feels a little like defying the gods, and I will not do that, not with the lives of my wife and unborn child in the balance. Perhaps I’m foolish to hear a voice whispering, Would you sacrifice those you love best to achieve peace? I have no reason to heed that; it is not the voice of logic. But I must heed it. I believe the council must wait.”
“You’re wise to trust your instincts, Father,” I said. “They’ve generally been reliable in the past.”
“You’re wrong about one thing, Sean.” Johnny was managing a smile. “I may have no wife or child, but that does not mean I am without hostages to fortune.”
“Indeed,” Father said, though I was not sure what my cousin meant. His parents and brothers, Coll excepted, were far away. Certainly, Gareth was his closest friend and the other men who had gone with him his loyal comrades, but it was hardly the same.
“Maybe I should have gone myself,” Johnny said.
“We can trust Gareth; he has all the skills required for this mission. He’s well-informed, diplomatic and courteously spoken. If not quite a family member, he is close to it. Besides, your own welcome in such households might not be one of undiluted enthusiasm. Clodagh, I seem to have made the decision. Perhaps it’s your quiet presence that enables me to see more clearly. Thank you, my dear.”
On the third evening after Willow had told us the tale of warring clurichauns, Aidan persuaded me to bring my harp down to the hall and we played jigs and reels together. Perhaps such exuberant music was not altogether apt, for Mother had been vomiting and purging, and Muirrin’s brisk manner and capable expression did not fool me into believing all was well. Still, the household seemed to appreciate the music. Our performance lured a group of maidservants and men-at-arms out to dance. As we worked our way through the final jig the pace got quicker and quicker and we almost came unstuck several times. We survived, I flushed and breathless, Aidan laughing and examining his fingers as if to ascertain that they were all still there. The audience applauded heartily. Father, however, was quiet.
“I have another tale for you tonight.” It was Willow’s voice, deep and strong, and as I watched the old woman came forward from her corner, her bony hand clutching her staff. “If Lord Sean permits. It is the second of three I owe, and the right one for this day and time.”
“Of course,” Father said, but it was clear to me his thoughts were elsewhere. I knew he would rather be upstairs with Mother, but he would stay in the hall until the evening’s entertainment was over. Folk liked routine; they liked things to conform to a pattern. That made them feel safe. A chieftain could never put his personal concerns first.
As was her habit, Willow had a good look around the hall before she began her tale. Sibeal was here with Eilis and Coll, sitting on the floor in the front. The departure of Gareth’s party meant Aidan and Cathal were spending a good deal of their time on duty. Tonight, Aidan had the job of keeping close to Johnny, though he had been allowed time off to play for us. Cathal stood further away, near the entry.
“Would you ever believe,” Willow said, fixing Coll and Eilis with her penetrating gaze, “that a mother would abandon her baby in a deep, dark wood at night? Only the most troubled of women would do such a thing. Only a mother too frightened and desperate to offer her child the love that was his birthright would leave him thus to the will of the gods. It happened, and the infant was on the edge of death when the wolf came.” The children stared at her, caught up in the tale already.
“Now that wolf,” said Willow, “was far more of a mother than the frail, confused girl. She had cubs in a hollow deep in the woods and plenty of milk to feed them with. So she took up the wee one, carefully, with the back of his garments in her sharp teeth, and carried him off home with her. She loved him in keeping with her nature, practically, wisely, and she nurtured him long after her little ones were grown and had gone their own ways. She cleaned him with her rough tongue, learning the patterns of his strange, hairless body; she discovered how weak he truly was. She hunted for him, since he could not seem to master it. She kept him warm at night; she made beds of bracken and leaves to shelter him when his garments wore away to shreds. And in time Wolf-child learned to crawl and to scamper and to run, mostly on all fours like his brothers and sisters, but sometimes up on two legs, awkwardly. He learned the smells and sounds of the forest; he learned ways to protect himself. He learned the growls and barks and whimpers of the wolf pack’s language. The others tolerated him because of his mother, for she was high in their order, having whelped many strong litters. The pack leader did not consider Wolf-child a threat, since the hairless one was such a weakling. Among the others, the boy’s singular nature earned him a wary respect.
“Years passed, and Wolf-child was a boy the size of this young fellow”—Willow nodded in Coll’s direction—“with the skill to make his own shelter and to snare a bird when he wanted meat. His mother still watched over him, but she had reared many cubs since the day she took the waif in, and her human son was learning to do without her. Only when the winter bit hardest, in time of storm and sleet, would she let him sleep next to her, curled up against the warmth of her body. It was their misfortune that men came to that part of the forest early in the morning on such a day, men who saw with disbelief the aging wolf rising from sleep and the half-grown boy, naked in the cold, jumping up and spreading his arms to protect her from their hunting spears. They
did not kill the wolf mother—their astonishment made them too slow for that—and she fled away soft-footed under the trees. It was the boy they pursued, and it was the boy they finally caught, hardly knowing what they would do with the snarling, thrashing creature they had in their hands.
“Wolf-child was dragged back to the local settlement. He was like any wild creature suddenly captive: bewildered, afraid, furious. He lashed out at anyone who came near. They confined him in a cellar with a bolt on the door. In time, as he grew hungry, tired and dispirited, the boy became quieter, but he growled a warning each time someone came to leave him food. He could not drink from the cup they provided, spilling the water as he tried to lap at it. The cooked meat was alien to him but he devoured it, crouched down over the platter, not using his hands.
“You might ask, why did his wolf mother not defend him out there in the forest? Why did she run, leaving her child to be taken? But to her he was not a child. It was a long time since this strange cub had first come her way. Her tolerance of his closeness had worn thin as she grew older and more weary. She sensed that her time as first female in the pack was drawing to an end. She would have defended a brood of small cubs to the death, but this one must fend for himself.
“For a while Wolf-child was a wonder to be peered at through a chink in the cellar door, a marvel to be entertained by. But the novelty wore thin soon enough. One or two of the villagers tried to talk to the boy, to gesture in a way he might understand, but he responded only with growls or whining, and they soon lost interest in such an unrewarding creature. As for Wolf-child, he was cold, lonely and confused. They had given him clothing to wear, a rough shirt and trousers, and after a little he did keep them on, feeling their warmth. But in the confines of the cellar he could not clean himself as he would in the forest. The stink of the place became so rank that nobody wanted to come near it.
[Sevenwaters 04] Heir to Sevenwaters Page 10