“Some say that Gallen called upon the devils, unleashing them on the town, and others say that the demons came of their own accord and that Gallen struggled against them until God’s angels came to fight beside him. In the last two weeks, every person in twelve counties has worn out their jaws yapping about it.”
“Sure, and I suppose you don’t believe such stories?” Maggie challenged, unwilling to so much as venture an opinion about the recent happenings. “So you’ve come to write a song to mock the good folks of Clere—and my beau Gallen, too, I imagine.”
“Ah,” Thomas said, looking around at the folks in town. “I’ve seen no proof that the accounts are anything more than fables. Why, I just drove forty miles from Baille Sean, and I spotted nothing more menacing than an old red fox that was slinking from pine to pine, hunting partridges. If there be green-skinned demons about, I’ve had no sight of them. And as for the tales of angels or fairy folk with flaming arrows, I’ve seen no flames at all except in my own campfire. If I were called to write a song right now, I’m afraid that I’d have to damn you all as liars.”
“I’m not surprised that you saw nothing in the woods,” Maggie said. “The militia says the roads are clear.”
“And I’m not surprised that I saw nothing, neither. Little surprises me anymore. In fact, the only thing that surprises me more than the human facility for prevarication is some people’s nearly equal facility for staring a known liar in the face and believing every fantastic word he utters. That’s a fair part of why I had to come—to see if there’s any truth to this gossip about demons and angels and fairy folks in the woods.”
Maggie half closed her right eye, stared up at him. Out behind the inn, a sheep bleated. The same damned sheep she’d had penned out back for two weeks, waiting for slaughter. But since word of the goings-on in Clere had spread, no one had dared the roads, and the inn had remained empty, except for locals who came to drink and exchange theories on what had happened.
Maggie smiled faintly. “There’s some truth in those tales, Uncle Thomas. Satan himself came marching up that road not two weeks ago, parading at the head of a band of demons. And they heartlessly murdered Father Heany and John Mahoney—but those demons were never conjured by Gallen O’Day.” She watched his face for reaction. “And angels came that snowy night and drove the demons from town, and one of them fought at Gallen’s side—the angel Gabriel—that part is true.
“But now Gallen’s enemies—cutthroats and thieves all—have been telling tales on him, naming him a consort of the devil, hoping to discredit him.”
Thomas scratched behind his ear, and Maggie tried to imagine what he was thinking. Maggie knew that he wasn’t a simple man. He’d never heard a tale that featured demons walking in broad daylight, or angels fighting with magic arrows. But everyone within fifty miles swore that it happened, and the tales were stranger than any lies these unimaginative folks could conjure.
He looked about at the crowd that had gathered. “Well,” he said. “I suppose that there’s more than one song in such a tale, so I’ll have to stay a couple of days at the least. You wouldn’t mind preparing a good room for an old man, and maybe heating up a mug of rum for me to wrap my cold fingers around.”
“I’d like to see the color of your money first,” Maggie said, giving him no quarter.
Thomas raised an eyebrow, fumbled under his coat and muttered, “Och, so you’re a frugal lass, are you? Generous as a tax collector. Well, I like that in a woman, so long as she’s my niece.” Thomas pulled out a rather large purse and jingled it. Maggie could hear heavy coins—gold maybe—in that purse. Only a fool would display so much money in public, Maggie thought. So her uncle was ostentatious as well as cantankerous. And with so much of a purse, she wouldn’t be able to toss him out on the streets any time soon.
Thomas grabbed his lute and climbed down from the wagon, and Danny the stable boy was forced to suffer the indignity of tending the horse of a man who’d abused him.
Thomas stumped into the common room of the inn, looked about. The inn was built inside an ancient house—pine that had a girth of some sixty feet. The rooms rose up through three stories. Like all house-pines, over the years this one had grown a bit musty, and the walls creaked as the wind blew in the pine’s upper branches. The smell of pipe smoke and hard liquor filled the air. The windows were large and open, covered with new white curtains that Maggie had made the week before. The common room featured six small tables, and chairs set in a circle around a fireplace. A small bar separated the kitchen door from the common room. The bar had two barrels on tap—one of beer and one of rum. The ale, whiskey, and wine were stored in back this time of year.
“A fine place you have here, Maggie,” Thomas muttered.
“Oh, it’s not mine,” Maggie returned. “It belonged to John Mahoney. I’m just running the place till one of his kin comes to claim it.”
“Nope, nope.” Thomas sighed heavily. “It’s yours, now. Or it will be when you reach your majority. Mahoney sent me a copy of his will two years ago, and I stopped in Baille Sean and had the deed transferred into your name.”
Maggie was rather dumbfounded by all of this. John Mahoney had never bragged much on his family. He’d once mentioned an older brother who lived “down south,” and he’d posted letters once in a while, so Maggie had assumed the brother would come to take possession of the inn.
“I don’t understand,” Maggie said, a bit breathless. “Why would he give it to me? I mean … I don’t understand this. I’ve never much liked working here, and I’m not even sure I want the damned place.”
“Well, now,” Thomas said, “for a frugal woman, you don’t sound overjoyed with your new fortune. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you and I go find a quiet corner, and let’s talk about it.”
Maggie led Thomas to the corner table where she’d been working on her wedding dress. He stopped at the taps and took a large tin beer mug, then filled it up with rum and set it on the grate at the edge of the fire. “A man who has been driving a cart all day in the cold needs something warm to wrap his hands around,” Thomas chided her. “You should know that.” Maggie looked at the full mug. It seemed her uncle planned to be drunk in an hour.
Then he came and sat across from her, folded his hands, and looked her in the eyes. She knew that he was no more than fifty-five, but he looked older. His face had grown leathery from years on the road, and his stomach was going to fat.
“Well, Maggie,” Thomas said. “I’ve been driving for over a week to reach you, and—och—to tell the truth, I’m not sure you’re going to like what I have to say. So it’s begging you that I am, to not take it too hard.” Thomas reached into his shirt, pulled out a yellowed envelope. “This here is a paper that your mother made out on her deathbed. She was always harping on me to take more responsibility for the family, sending me letters and whatnot. So she wrote out her will and had John Mahoney witness it, then had it sent by post. By the time the letter found me, it was months after your dear mother’s death. But in this letter, she acknowledged me as your only living kin, and made me your legal guardian. So … the burden of seeing that you’re properly cared for falls to me, don’t you know?”
She sat back as suddenly as if he’d dealt her a physical blow. She gaped at him, then the words tumbled from her mouth. “Mother has been dead for years—and in all of this time, I’ve not had so much as a letter from you!” But now I have an inn, she thought, so you’ve come to make yourself my legal guardian.
Thomas held up his hands, as if to ward away the accusation in her voice. “I know, I know … and I’m dreadful sorry. But I’ve lived the life of a wandering man, don’t you know, and I couldn’t have cared for you properly on the road.”
Maggie looked over her shoulder. Several townsfolk had slipped into the inn, and all of them had listening ears. They were gathering at nearby tables like a flock of geese to a fistful of grain.
“Anyway,” Thomas said, “your mother appointed me to be your
legal guardian until the age of eighteen. It’s all signed by the bailiff, proper and legal.” He held the paper out for her inspection.
Maggie gaped at him, astonished. “Now don’t take it so hard, darlin’,” Thomas offered. “It’s true that I didn’t split my britches running to your side after your mother’s death, but you were fourteen, old enough to work, and there’s nothing that will build character in a person faster than having to look after one’s self. Besides, did you ever know a teenager who wanted an obnoxious old man like me hovering over her shoulder? Oh, I’ve worried long nights about you, worried that you might make wrong decisions or worried that you might take sick, and I exchanged letters with your old employer, John Mahoney, on the subject. But I knew you were in the hands of a good, saintly person, and you didn’t need me to meddle in your affairs. But now things are different.”
Maggie wondered what he meant, when he said that now things were “different.” Were things different because she was wealthy, or was he planning to meddle in her affairs? Or maybe both.
Thomas leaned back, smiled a charming smile, as if considering what to say next. “By God, you’re a beautiful young woman, Maggie,” Thomas said, condescending, and she remembered an old saying: compliments are so cheap to give that only a fool would hold one precious. “I can tell that John Mahoney cared for you well. He said in his will that you were a special kind of person, one who doesn’t let life just happen to her, but one who would likely go out and make a good life in spite of what happens. He had faith in you.” More compliments, she mused.
He glanced at the wedding dress spread out on the table. “So, when are you planning to marry?”
“Our wedding is set for Saturday,” Maggie said, not sure what else to answer.
Thomas frowned. “And when did this Gallen O’Day propose to you?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“The day John Mahoney died?” Thomas looked skeptical.
Maggie nodded.
Thomas gazed at his hands, cleared his throat. “It seems that he decided to fall in love with you at a very convenient time—just when you were ready to come into a nice, juicy inheritance.”
Maggie said nothing at first, couldn’t quite think of what she should say for there was too much to be said all in one breath. Neither she nor Gallen could have known anything about the inheritance, and there were so many things that Thomas didn’t know. She’d spent time on other worlds, risked her life fighting the dronon to save rascals like her uncle.
“It’s not like that at all!” Maggie said. “You—and you don’t care about anything but my money! In all these years, you’ve never so much as written me a letter—but now that I have an inheritance you come banging on my door! I should sic the sheriff on you, you nasty old lecherous thief!” She threatened him with the law, suspecting that she couldn’t legally get rid of him, but willing to give it a jolly try. Still, she wanted to frighten him.
She saw a flicker in Thomas’s gray eyes, a slight flaring of the nostrils as he drew breath. She knew she’d struck him right. “You plan on moving in here, don’t you?” Maggie said. “You plan on coming to the inn to lord it over me until I’m old enough to toss you out on your ass.”
“That’s not a fair assessment,” Thomas said calmly. “I’m well-known as a minstrel. Many a satirist my age takes up a winter residence in a hostel, and we enrich the landlords with our talents. I’ll earn more for you than my keep.”
“So you admit it: you plan to live here—for free—while you lord it over me? My mother wouldn’t have made you my guardian. You must have forged that letter.”
Thomas licked his lips, stared at her angrily. Obviously, he had not expected her to see through his ruse, and he hated having it discussed openly, here in front of everyone. He called himself a “satirist,” but he was a professional backbiter. He was used to bullying others, pouncing from behind like a wolf. He’d tried to put her on the defensive, keep her mind occupied. Now she was turning to attack. “I’ll thank you, Uncle Thomas,” Maggie said, struggling to sound calm, “to take your wagon and ride out of my life forever!”
“I don’t begrudge you your hard feelings,” Thomas said. “If you were a filly that I’d left in the pasture for three years, I expect that I would have to use a strong hand to break you. And, alas, that is what I intend to do now.
“Maggie, darlin’,” he said, “whether these magnificent stories told on your beau are true or not, your name—our family name—is mixed up in this scandal. I’ve heard you spoken ill of fifty miles away. You’re running about, making mad resolutions that will most likely ruin your life, and I have to step in. I’m afraid I can’t allow you to marry this Gallen O’Day.”
Thomas pulled at the wedding dress on the table, as if he’d take it, and Maggie grabbed it from his hands.
“There will be no wedding,” Thomas said, slamming his fist on the table. “How could there be? What kind of priest would perform a marriage for a girl so young?” His tone made it sound as if he were naming her a dreamer or a liar. It was true that she was young to marry.
“Gallen’s cousin—Father Brian of An Cochan!” Maggie said, feeling a thrill of victory by being able to name such a priest.
“Father Brian, eh? Not without my permission, I’ll wager.” Thomas glared at her coldly, and Maggie realized he’d just tricked her into telling the priest’s name.
He reached into his purse, and tossed a shilling to a boy of fourteen. “You’re a bright-looking lad. You look as if you know where the cat’s hid its kittens. I want you to carry a message for me: run to An Cochan and tell Father Brian that Maggie’s wedding will have to be called off for the time being. Tell him I’ll arrange a suitable donation to the church in order to … compensate him for his trouble.”
“Don’t do this,” Maggie said.
Thomas stiffened at the dangerous tone in her voice, and his own voice took on a hard edge. “I didn’t come all this way just to acquiesce to your wishes, child. And I’ll not haggle about it. The wedding is off!”
“You can’t,” Maggie cried. “Gallen’s a fine man. I love him!”
“This isn’t about love!” Thomas shouted. “This is about judgment. Judgment—a damned fine quality that you’re too young to have in abundance. So the wedding is off! Your mother gave me the right and the moral obligation to use my judgment in raising you, and I’ll exercise that right now. And quit giving me the evil eye!”
“I’ll not let you do this—” Maggie hissed. She shook with rage, and her jaw was set. She thought of the big carving knives in the kitchen. She could hardly believe that a stranger would walk into her life intent on causing so much trouble. It was like getting mugged, only Thomas was doing it legally. She wondered if she should get that letter from Thomas, try to prove that the will was a forgery; but she suspected that it was real, that in a moment of despair her mother really had sent the letter to Thomas, asking his help. And if that were the case, Maggie would be stuck in the boiling pot, certain.
The butcher Muldoon came in through the front door—apparently having heard that Thomas Flynn was in town. Both Maggie and Thomas had lapsed into silence, and Muldoon called, “Give us a song, Thomas!”
Thomas got up, went to his mug of rum that had warmed on the fire, and he took a few stiff drinks, then got his lute out of its case and began plucking strings.
Maggie sat numbly, wondering about her options. She could stay here and put up with this man, which seemed impossible. Or she could get a knife and stab him—which right now felt like a desirable thing to do, though she didn’t like the thought of getting hanged afterward. Or she could try to talk Gallen into running away with her, and she wished that right now Gallen was here instead of being off in the woods.
Maggie’s attention was suddenly caught as Thomas began his song. In his youth, Thomas had had a famous voice. Maggie had a handbill that she kept in a box upstairs, advertising one of Thomas’s performances. On it, another bard said that Thomas’s voice was like a mou
ntain river, all watery and rippling light on the surface but with deep currents that could sweep you away, and beneath it all was a rich and abrasive gravel that could cut a listener to the bone.
And so in a moment, Thomas sang to the local fishermen an old ballad called “Green,” the tale of Claire Tighearnaigh in her green days of love, raising daisies and sweet red roses on the hillsides to sell in the gray streets of Finglas. Thomas had the finest voice that Maggie had ever heard, and she tried to shut it out, but he sang the ballad with warmth and richness, so that she could almost feel the sticky flower stems in her hand and bask in the scent of bloody-colored flowers.
And when he sang of Ian Phelan, who loved a good fight as much as he loved his young fiancée, Thomas let his melody wend its way around the hearts of his listeners, sucking them down into a turbulent morass where their bodies were constantly spinning in the eddies and whirlpools, torn between the worlds of water and sky.
And when Thomas sang of how Ian Phelan was brutally stabbed at the hands of a jealous suitor, Thomas let his voice become gravel, so that his listeners could see how Ian’s corpse had been left on the rocky hillsides above Finglas, his lifeblood leeching into the green flower beds of Claire’s youth, the reds and greens tumbling together like lovers rolling down a hill, caught forever in a place where pain and beauty fuse into one.
When he finished, every rugged fisherman was weeping into his drink, and someone cooed, “Ah, now that was worth missing a day’s work for.” Several folks called loudly for another song, but Thomas refused, saying, “Come back tonight, and I promise you’ll tire of listening to this old voice croak out its songs.”
And Maggie saw that despite her personal problems with Thomas, he was already winning over the hearts of the townsfolk. Sure, and many of them would agree with Thomas, that Maggie was just too young to marry. They’d take his side.
He asked Maggie to escort him to his room. She led him upstairs to a cozy room above the fire, and opened the door for him. “I’ll expect you to behave as any other guest, Thomas Flynn,” she said. “No sleeping on my clean sheets with your boots on.”
Beyond the Gate (The Golden Queen) (Volume 2) Page 3