by Niamh Boyce
It was hard to believe that woman was my grandmother. She didn’t feel like blood to me and I didn’t want her gift.
I escaped the funeral preparations and set out to the comb-maker’s. Settled cross-legged, with my back against the wall, I felt content in myself. I loved the clutter of the workshop, the patient way Fiachra made rough bones into delicate combs. He was on his high stool, carving something small. Often, he’d get lost in his work and pay me no heed. My mother’s uncle Donagh was like that. With him, I was always at ease.
The door was open as usual: outside, the rain fell and some monks passed with their hands tucked inside their sleeves, drenched heads bowed and eyes cast down.
‘There they go,’ said Fiachra, ‘the shower of Latinizing, gluttonous, lecherous wife stealers, and they don’t stop at wives, my Lord, they do not … they torment everyone, so they do – the sodomites.’
So that was what Ledrede meant. It made me ill to listen to the bishop speak. It wasn’t what he said; it was how he looked when he said it – his mouth relishing each word. Heretic, heathen. Sodomite, demon.
Fiachra took to whittling with vigour; he was working on a slender handle. Holding it between finger and thumb, he carved for a while longer, then he blew off the dust, licked his thumb and rubbed the surface.
‘A miniature,’ he said, holding it up.
I saw then that it wasn’t a handle – it was the trunk of a tiny body, with a nick for a navel. I noticed several tiny limbs laid out on the worktable. He fixed them to the body with fine pins. The head was bald and blank faced. He flicked a blade back and forth, scoring a mouth, a nose, a pair of eyes. He laid the doll on the table; I reached up.
‘No! It’s not a plaything. It’s a charm, for protection. The mother will bind it with her child’s hair or nails, or whatever other nonsense Margaret Dun has told her to. Why people give weight to her opinion is beyond me.’
I remembered Margaret Dun keening for Roger. It was like being at a mountain wake. I had almost felt the mists close around me.
He spoke about Margaret in such a cantankerous fashion that I suspected he was fond of her, nonsense and all.
11. Saint Canice’s Cathedral
As the noon sun lit the coloured windows, Roger de Valle’s coffin was laid beside the open vault on the floor. Incense failed to conceal the tang of decay from the grave. The top coffin had caved in, revealing a fragment of skull and some threads of hair. The bishop watched from the altar as the pews filled with Kytler’s tithe-shy cronies: merchants in skimpy tunics and coloured hose, followed by their fidgeting wives and coddled lapdogs.
Dame Kytler had assumed the pose of one in prayer, wearing a pale gown and ruby necklace; she fed crystal beads through her gloved fingers. Her allies gathered behind her – ladies in gemmed girdles, flicking their gauzy veils, wetting their animal mouths. Her son, Will Outlawe, conversed with a dozen other men, all wearing the blue livery of Arnold le Poer – of course, young Outlawe was fostered by the Le Poers. Lastly, there stood a clutch of mournful servants. The bishop stepped on to the altar and waited for a lull. The moneylender was finally on his territory again; she would have to listen.
‘Using a common trick of the tax evader, the deceased, Sir Roger de Valle, bestowed all his goods upon his wife before his death. He has thereby defrauded the Church, Christ and his own soul.’
The widow showed no emotion. A decent woman would’ve trembled, thought the bishop, fainted even. But she wasn’t a decent woman; she had let De Valle sign every single thing over to her, leaving nothing for the Church. The bishop had expected a sizable sum from the estate, but now, in the eyes of the law at least, De Valle might as well have died a pauper. The items in his will amounted to no more than a few clothes and a shoe horn.
‘It has been ordained,’ he added, ‘with the unanimous consent of the chapter and clergy, that Roger de Valle will not receive an ecclesiastical burial … unless immediate reparation is made.’
Now, Kytler would have to pay her dues.
The dame lifted her skirts and strolled down the aisle. She stopped by her son and whispered something, before heading towards the door. At the marble font, she dunked a gloved thumb, blessed herself and left the church.
Some of the congregation moved forward to remonstrate with the bishop. He raised his hands to silence them. Will Outlawe drew his halberd, but the choir surrounded him, brandishing their own knives till he made his retreat. A slight girl cast herself across the coffin and wept. The young gravedigger, Jasper, came forward and grasped her waist lest she slip headfirst into the vault. Eventually, De Valle’s mourners carried his coffin from the cathedral.
Once they were gone, Ledrede approached the open vault. The stench rose up and filled his mouth. Something glinted from the shredded fabric. He knelt, rolled up his sleeve and reached down into the grave; the object felt cold and came away quite easily. It was a sizable opal, set in gold. He slipped the ring into his purse. He was entitled; it was worth only a fraction of what was due from De Valle’s estate. A splinter protruded from his knuckle, he bit it free and spat. Blood ran from the puncture.
‘A war wound, your holiness?’
It was the gravedigger. Where did he appear from? Was he mocking the bishop’s courage?
‘Replace that slab. No burial. No payment.’
The bishop left the cathedral, and crossed the grounds, growing more furious with each step. Kytler had so much wealth; the Church’s portion of Sir Roger’s property was a drop in the ocean. According to Bede’s young spy, everything the moneylender owned was silver – from her buttons, to her spoons, to her chamber-pot. The dame thought she was above being taxed or penalized. Only the poor were punished here – and it was no different all the world over. No matter what their crime, the likes of Kytler would never be chastised, let alone fined or flogged in the marketplace. He imagined the moneylender tied to a whipping post, her rich silks lashed to shreds, blood instead of rubies glittering on her skin.
12. Petronelle
The townspeople lined High Street and lowered their heads as the coffin passed. We followed in its wake, reciting the rosary. All except Esme, who was ranting: ‘A curse on the bishop’s greed,’ she said for all to hear, ‘a curse on his grabbing hands and on his stinking sandalled feet.’ We were heading towards Saint Mary’s cemetery. At Alice’s request, Sir Roger was to be interred along with her first husband.
Our mistress was waiting for us by the crypt, standing still as a marble angel. She appeared calm, but I knew by the set of her jaw that she was enraged beyond speech. We all stood for a bit, looking at Saint Mary’s priest, who didn’t seem to know how to proceed. Alice swung her fringed purse back and forth, and nodded at him. The chink of the coins must’ve eased his fear of Ledrede, for he stepped into the crypt and the mourners followed. The prayers for the dead drifted up from inside. The priest led the ceremony well enough, if rather hastily. We returned then to the house, where the boards were bending under platters of beef, veal, salmon, trout, pies, breads, pastries, cheeses, dainties – all draped in muslin, to the frustration of the hovering flies. Basilia and Helene served ale and wine, their kirtles laced with black ribbon. After no time the house was packed. A bard from Cork was there, one I’d never heard tell of. Roger had supported him over the years. Alice’s mood had lifted.
‘It’s better,’ she announced, ‘that my husband’s buried some place I’ll visit, that I feel blessed visiting, rather than somewhere I’ll never set foot in again. Now, celebrate the life of a hearty man – drink until you cannot stand!’
Margaret Dun, red-eyed but more composed than earlier, drank a mether of ale in one draught. She patted Helene’s arm and whispered something. The maid giggled. When had Helene become so familiar with Roger’s mistress? And was I the only person who had not known of her existence?
After we’d eaten, Lucia Hatton cornered Alice and was cooing with false sympathy. A waste of an arsehole, Roger used to call her. A little uncharitable but not far
off the mark. A recitation was about to begin, and quiet was being called for. I decided to slip away. I brought Líadan with me, for she seemed rather giddy and was casting flirtatious glances at one of the Hattons’ workers. I questioned her on the stairs. Had she been sneaking snifters? Who was that boy she kept sidling over to? Of course, I got no answer but at least she slept well, better than I did.
I tiptoed into the kitchen just before dawn. The funeral party was not long over. Men dozed under benches and around the hearth. Will was curled under the table, asleep with the mastiff. I’d heard Alice up talking until a while ago; she wouldn’t rise till late. I wrapped a parcel of leftovers and took a small bladder of wine. Out in the stables, I found Milo still asleep. I woke him and, bleary-eyed, he led our mares through the yard. I took the dappled white. The other had a glossy dark coat and was a better horse, but it reminded me of the one I’d left to the wolves.
We cantered through a silent High Street, and at the town gates I showed the keeper the Kytler crest on my cloak and paid our due. We rode across the moat. The horses’ hoofs on the wooden bridge beat loud enough to wake the town, and they certainly woke my heart – how good to be on the other side of the town walls. As soon as we were out of sight, I straddled the horse properly. It was a hazy morning. The road to Flemingstown was swallowed by hedges, and leafy branches formed a canopy above our heads. The dawn chorus was as rowdy as any shower of drunkards. Midges bit so often, I stopped waving them away.
After a time on the road, we spotted a figure in the distance, on foot; he was carrying something. Milo and I drew our horses together as we neared. It was a blond youth, his head shaven a palm’s-width above each ear. ‘Irish,’ Milo said under his breath, as we slowed to a halt. We had no need to fear. It was not a weapon he carried but a bodhrán.
‘Dia duit,’ he said, squinting up at me. ‘An bhfuilimid i bhfad ó Chill Chainnigh?’
‘Níl ach ní cheadaítear na Gaeil ar an mbaile,’ I answered.
‘Ná bíodh imní ort,’ he said, smiled and bowed.
He strolled off in the direction of Kilkennie, drumming lightly on his bodhrán.
‘You speak Gaelic?’ asked Milo.
‘I learnt from a servant.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He wanted to know was Kilkennie near.’
‘But they don’t allow Gaels there.’
‘I told him. Why on earth would he even try?’
‘He’s in love with someone inside the walls.’
‘Nonsense!’ I laughed.
‘Did you not see his eyes?’
I had noticed those bright eyes. Milo had guessed right. I looked at him; perhaps he was older in years than I’d assumed. A thought came as we trotted on – although I was dressed as a lady’s maid, the youth had addressed me in my native tongue. My gown and wimple hadn’t fooled the Gael.
The sun was high when we reached Flemingstown Arch. It was a lonely sight, that huge stone arch stripped of its walls. I reached up and rubbed the woman’s stone. As if someone had dragged me back, I felt the same shiver of fear as when I’d passed through sixteen years ago, a child in my stomach, its father dead. There had been no time to stop then. I’d just twisted my fingers deep into the horse’s mane and galloped from the place.
I got off the mare. She whinnied and halted; it took some nudging before she’d go through the arch. The meadow was a wilderness, as if there had never been lanes or plots. Milo followed; he was sprightly here, different to the timid lad in Kytler’s stable. I saw a heap in the distance and we went over; it was the remains of stone walls. And there was the giant oak tree. This had been the site of the common hall. A broken bell, rusted orange, was half in the earth. I could almost hear it toll. We tied the horses to the tree and walked the land. Now that we were here, Milo couldn’t recall exactly where he’d found Líthgen’s hut.
‘It was different last time,’ he said, confused.
‘It’s always different when you return.’
I stepped through a gap in a hedge – and there they were, the woods. I drank in the dense dark trees. I had been so free here. Alice and I had beaten a track through that long grass, cutting our own zigzag path to the woods. Paradise, I suddenly remembered. That was what we named those woods as children. Paradise. Milo called out. I looked behind – he was standing by a shelter of sturdy wattle.
I lifted the blanket draped across the doorway and went in past him. The walls were hung with skins – hare, squirrel, badger. There was a narrow crib, a handloom leaning against the end and a row of flints on a ledge. Rosemary, sage, thyme and yarrow were strung from the eaves. Milo gave a short whistle. I went outside in time to see a figure coming out of the woods. Her hair hung in a heavy white rope. Her back was bent but she walked strong, hands swinging and her catch in one – a glittering fish. She didn’t speak till we were face to face.
‘You didn’t bring the girl?’
‘Not this time.’
In the bright of day, I saw what I hadn’t that night. How her eyes were hooded, and her skin was webbed with lines. Those eyes were pale, mossy like a pond. She stroked my cheek. There was blood under her nails. An old feeling surged up inside. She was the mother I had not wanted. I would’ve preferred Alice’s – a wistful memory leaving copious furs and tales.
‘I missed you,’ she said.
‘So you said, but you didn’t follow.’
‘I stayed with my man.’
‘He was dead.’
‘Would you want him to return and find me gone?’
Líthgen believed my father would return from the other side, that souls close as theirs could not part for ever.
She built a fire outside the hut and then gutted the salmon. I watched as she sliced it lengthways and fried it in an old, long-handled pan. Every now and again, she would turn a piece with a flick of her wrist. Silver scales drifted from the fish, glinting like stars in the blackened pan. It brought me back to being a child, watching the skin crisping, knowing I would soon taste it.
We ate the salmon with the wine I’d brought. I watched my mother gulp it down and decided to bring more next time. She rarely used to drink but when she did she relished it. She would sing and outstay the moon. Milo lay on his back, chewing bread and surveying the sky.
I told Líthgen about my daughter and her silence.
‘What can I do to make her speak again?’
‘What did you do to make her stop?’
I turned from her gaze, watched the smoke twist up.
‘Ah, your silence … our silence. And you’re surprised she carries it, too, and uses it like a weapon? Why did fate take my clever daughter and leave the pretty one?’
‘Time has passed, I’m no longer that.’
‘So you’re clever now – are you?’
‘Never as clever as Dervla.’
My sister had been my mother’s favourite. Losing Dervla had bewildered her. Stolen? she might ask in the middle of a task. In the earth? she might ask on waking. I became used to those whispered questions. For all her second sight, when it came to her daughter, Líthgen was blind. She never knew where Dervla might be. She was last seen by the stream but all we found there were horse tracks. Come back.
‘What happened to this place?’ I waved across the wilderness and fallen walls.
‘The O’Tooles: they raided and burned till there was nothing left. I fled to the other side of the woods. You remember the cave?’
‘I do. The townspeople – did many survive?’
‘No one who lived inside those walls.’
‘But Alice and her father –’
‘They left the day before; took their most valued possessions with them.’
‘That’s more luck than is natural – were they forewarned?’
‘Of course they were.’
I closed my eyes. The midday sun warmed my face. I removed my veil; the hair beneath it was hot to touch.
‘This silent daughter of yours, is she content?’
&n
bsp; ‘Content enough. She’s never hungry, seldom cold and worships Alice Kytler.’
‘Keep her apart from Alice.’
‘She has been good to us.’
‘Do as I say.’ Líthgen rose to her feet, quenched the fire with her wine. ‘Alice has no heart. Haven’t you learnt that?’
Already we were at odds – disagreeing over Alice, just like years before. I sighed. There was no point in talking on; there wasn’t the time. We had to get back to Hightown. I told Milo to fetch the horses.
We had mounted and were ready to leave when Líthgen reached up and grabbed my ankle.
‘Promise you’ll come back. Promise.’
‘I will, don’t worry. I’m going to Hightown, not battle.’
‘Battle. Why say that?’
Why did she always have to be so contrary? She knew exactly what I meant.
‘You know well why. Those who go to battle seldom return – Otto didn’t.’
‘Oh, foolish daughter,’ she said, as she clouted my horse. ‘A dead man can’t ride to battle.’
With a jolt, my horse began to canter. I glanced back at Líthgen. She was standing there, watching us go, her hand pressed flat to her heart.
Milo and I trotted along in silence, each in our own world. I could not stop thinking about Líthgen’s final words.
A dead man can’t ride to battle.
Otto had been mourned as a felled warrior, by his family and everyone in the town. I had grieved over the years, but had grieved for a man cut down in battle.
A dead man.
Had Otto died before going into battle? If Líthgen was right, he had not even made it outside the walls. I kept churning it over in my mind. What had happened to Otto?
At the city gates, Milo got off his horse and handed me the rope.
‘I’m not going back to Kytler’s; I’m going to stay with Líthgen.’
With that, he ran off in the direction we’d come. Of course, I thought, as I watched him, of course he would prefer living alongside Líthgen to his coop in Kytler’s. The keeper trotted over, set his arrow into his bow and aimed in Milo’s direction.