‘You’ll get it.’
They arranged that O’Malley should send for the ambergris – and Aragon’s payment – immediately. ‘Tell him to deliver it to Iogenán’s hall. I’ll wait for it there.’
‘I wish I could be with you. There’s been no time for Cuimne and my son lately. Ah God, Finn, do you remember Lough Mask?’
They stood transfixed in the camaraderie of sweet times remembered.
* * *
Lough Mask was unbearable. From the ramparts of Iogenán’s rath she watched its waters dimple in the showers and then clear to reflect the pale green edging of trees and rushes. After the first look towards the islands she turned her back on it, but every welcome, every face, tempted her into some self-indulgent pain. The absences were even more dreadful. The door of the tower on Inis Cailleach swung open to display an empty courtyard. Scathagh had gone, nobody knew where. Finn left Swan Island unvisited.
She allowed herself to ride into the hills and, by accident, find the field where she had killed her wolf. She was puzzled by two wolf skulls being nailed to the door of the hut which had once held Blat’s bitch. Somebody else must have killed one.
She was glad when the hides and the ambergris arrived and they could go.
* * *
Muirna went pale when Finn broached the plan to place her in the household of Eleanor of Aquitaine. ‘It’s Abroad,’ she said. ‘They’re Galls – foreigners.’
‘They won’t eat you,’ said Finn, impatiently.
‘But you said that’s just what they would do.’
‘I said they’d eat Ireland. They’re civilised when they’re at home.’
It took time, but as Finn extolled, truthfully, the wonders of Eleanor of Aquitaine’s court and, even more truthfully, the value of having a spy in it, Muirna was seduced, as Finn had known she would be. Muirna was in many ways the most sophisticated of the hags, certainly the highest-born, and though she was happy at the inn, she would be in her element among the excitement and riches of a European court.
Finn spent some of her profits on clothes, mostly for Muirna so that she could uphold Ireland’s honour at the Plantagenet court, but also for the rest of them. In the rush of building the Swan she had overlooked the fact that its staff’s robes were virtually threadbare.
It was Pinginn who supervised Muirna’s wardrobe, showing an interest in ladies’ apparel that Finn considered unhealthy. ‘You lay people are so lucky being able to wear colours and all these lovely, lovely things,’ he said, swathing himself in silk. He spent happy hours overseeing the sewing parties up in the tower room, and devised a headdress for Muirna based on the cap Irish noblewoman favoured which had a roll brim around the skull-covering, decorating it with pearls that he had collected from oysters. ‘They’ll think she’s barbaric in that,’ Finn told him. But Pinginn said: ‘We’ll start a new fashion.’ And in that he was correct.
Nessa provided enough ermine to decorate a hide cloak for Muirna, and Gorm, Miller Molling’s all-purpose worker, tooled some leather into very creditable slippers.
With what silk was left over, Pinginn, who had talked to real crusaders in his time, designed an outfit for the remaining hags. ‘If they like to think we’re Amazons,’ he said, ‘we’d better look like Amazons.’
A few days later the staff assembled in the tower room to inspect their new uniform as modelled by Tailltin. Finn’s mouth fell open. Tailltin’s top was a tunic of emerald silk with a jerkin of dyed scarlet leather – colourful but unexceptionable – her lower half, however, was in trousers, loose, thin trousers that gathered at the ankle.
‘Well,’ said Pinginn, bridling at the silence. ‘I think it’s really elegant. And it’s just ideal for hags, what with the Ploys and all. We’ll attract ever such a lot of custom in it.’
‘Well, I’ll not be wearing it,’ said Blat firmly.
Finn said, ‘And you’re not either,’ just in case Pinginn had been thinking in that direction. There was no doubt, however, that it was a novelty, and novelty was what attracted customers. Tailltin endorsed Pinginn. ‘I’d have learned the steed leap a damn sight quicker if I’d been wearing this.’ And Bevo agreed. ‘Ragnar will positively enjoy being chucked out.’
Finn considered. The Church hierachy would condemn women for wearing trousers, but the Church hierarchy didn’t patronise her inn.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘Bevo and Tailltin can try it out to see what the reaction is.’
‘Coward,’ said the hags.
* * *
It took nearly a year for Ruairi O’Conor to act on the idea Finn had given him, but eventually he was ready to send an ambassador, some friendship-gifts, and Muirna, to the court of Fitzempress.
On a fine May day, the women of the Swan Inn wrapped Muirna’s finery in lawn scented with rosewater and then packed it into a chest. ‘Now, have you got enough warm clothes?’ asked Finn. ‘Remember that the O’Conor is to supply you with spending money but there’s a gold piece in your purse just in case. Oh, and don’t forget that the harpstrings will need tightening after the journey.’ Niall had made Muirna a small Irish harp on which she could accompany her singing – they were banking on Muirna’s voice, which was especially sweet, delighting the Queen of England’s musical ear. ‘And I’ve put a bag of dried sorrel in the chest. You’re to put it in red wine and drink it for stomach upsets.’ She pulled the ermine cloak more closely about Muirna’s throat, unable to think of anything more to do for her but wanting to do it.
Muirna caught her hands. ‘Finn, look at me. I’m all right.’
The guilt and worry that she was sending Muirna into dangerous exile had kept Finn in a fury of preparation until that moment. Now she looked into Muirna’s eyes, which were wet, but steady. ‘You can come home any time you like,’ she told her.
‘I know.’
‘And Bevo will be over in a while to see how you’re getting on.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I’ll come over when you’re sure that he’s… when there’s nobody in court who’s likely to recognise me.’
‘I know.’
‘Take care.’
They all went in the curragh to the far shore of the Liffey. Art was waiting with two horses to accompany Muirna to Galway where she would embark in the O’Conor’s ship. They watched Muirna’s elegant figure pass into the trees of the north bank and out of sight. ‘She’ll be so homesick,’ grieved Finn.
Bevo shook her head. ‘She’ll love it. Think of her as another strand in your spider’s web.’
The net Finn had been spreading from her tower on the Stein was not exactly a spider’s web. For one thing she didn’t want to trap anything in it, and for another its radii were cruder and had gaps that no self-respecting spider would have tolerated; nevertheless, as the months had gone on, she’d composed a network of informants which enabled her, like a spider, to be aware of the vibrations of disturbance within the range of its filaments. And the filaments went far and to some surprising places.
Ireland she covered in many ways. Discovering what Dermot was up to involved no effort, since the whole of Leinster kept a wary eye on all moves its king made and the gossip about his activities was retailed in every inn within it, the Swan being no exception. She was kept in touch with Connaught by Nessa and Niall of the Poems and by the O’Conor himself who, when he remembered, sent her secret messages about his plans for war against MacLochlainn and Dermot Mac Murrough.
In his cups King Asgall was totally indiscreet and Finn was as up to date with what was happening within the Dublin court as if she were part of it.
Brother Pinginn turned out to have odd – some of them very odd – friends scattered about the Irish monastic community, and when they visited Dublin they would send him a message and he would meet them in the city and garner their news. None of them visited the Swan, which was disapproved of by the Church because of its Amazonian reputation.
Niall of the Poems let it be known that any poet on his way through Dublin would
get free board and lodging at the inn on the Stein, and though the stream of men, and occasionally women, who began to turn up there were mere harpers as oppose to the fili – the great poets – they were fruitful sources of gossip as well as providing entertainment for the guests.
Her contact with the world outside Ireland was maintained by sailors, none of whom needed encouragement to talk, and by the Jews whose own network spread to England, France, Spain, Germany, Rome, Scandinavia and even Russia. Vives told her everything he knew on his weekly visits to collect Finn’s repayments, though he was one of the few people who showed suspicion at her questioning, especially about Fitzempress – he knew her well enough by now to realise that she wasn’t gathering information merely out of feminine curiosity. ‘Do you plan harm to the King of England?’ he asked. ‘Remember, he is a good friend to us.’
Finn considered, and then took him partly into her confidence. ‘Only if he invades Ireland,’ she said, ‘as I have reason to think he might.’
Vives considered in his turn. He, too, had no wish to see Ireland conquered, even by a king like Fitzempress who, liberal as he might be towards the Jews, still burdened them with a vicious taxation, whereas in Ireland the Jewish community was left virtually unhindered. Besides, he liked and admired Finn and hoped to make a considerable profit when Aragon brought back her consignment of wine from Aquitaine.
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘You shall know what I know.’ His knowledge was especially valuable because it was not only international but financial. Almost everywhere in Christendom – except Ireland – Jews, the Christ-killers, were forbidden to hold land and therefore practically the only occupation left to them was usury, which was forbidden to Christians. As a result no war could be fought, no great enterprise mounted, no castle built without borrowing from the Jews. Aaron of Lincoln, the Jewish financier for whom both Belaset and Vives acted as agents, advanced money to private individuals on corn, armour, estates and houses all over Europe. Even the Church was his debtor; he boasted that the great conventual church at St Albans had been built entirely on his loan. Thanks to Vives Finn began to know who among the great was doing what in Europe, and how much it was costing them.
It was Scathagh who had provided her with her best sources in the Celtic lands of Brittany, Scotland and Wales. At one time damaged women from all these countries had been healed in her Academy and she had armed Finn with the names and whereabouts of ex-hags who were likely to be useful.
In July Bevo left Dublin for Anglesey, heading for the English court but taking a circuitous route through Wales to meet Gwenllian ferch Owen ap Griffith, an illegitimate daughter of the Prince of Gwynedd and named for an intrepid grandmother who had been captured while leading an army against the Normans and put to death with her men. She herself had been violated by the Norman lord of Kidwelly, ‘and you will find,’ Scathagh had told Finn, ‘that the Normans are not her favourite people. She is a clever woman and, thanks to her training here, a forceful one who has the ear of her father, Prince Owen.’ Bevo’s brief was to make contact with her and discover how relations stood between Gwynedd and England. ‘At the moment they are peaceful,’ Finn said, ‘and Owen is behaving with perfect rectitude towards Fitzempress. But the Jews say that he nurses a grievance from the insulting way the king treated him and will move against him if he shows weakness. If Aquitaine gives Fitzempress trouble, if war breaks out again in France, if Becket becomes more of a nuisance than ever, if I can stir up the Bretons, he will be weak. Tell her to tell her father that will be the time to move.’
Tailltin was sent to Scotland with a similar brief to contact the favourite mistress of Malcolm IV, a lady delighting in the name of Gruoch.
It was an exasperating time for Scottish patriots; Henry Fitzempress had taken Northumberland away from Scotland and annexed it to the English crown. On Tailltin’s return she reported that Gruoch had assured her the Scots would rise against him under Malcolm. ‘But Malcolm is ill, and his heir, William, will need convincing that Fitzempress can be beaten. They hate the English king, all of them, but they’ve got a healthy respect for his fighting qualities.’
Finn had no doubt that Fitzempress could be distracted almost indefinitely from thoughts of an Irish invasion if his more immediate Celtic neighbours began to give him trouble. Her job was to orchestrate the rebellion which all of them threatened but which, without cohesion, could become an unsynchronised series of revolts that could be put down with comparative ease.
‘You’re inciting war,’ her conscience told her. ‘All’s fair in it,’ she answered back, ‘for Fitzempress is inciting it already and it would come sooner or later. Besides, it will save Ireland.’
With Tailltin safely back home Finn decided to take on the next operation herself. Despite the absence of its hags, the Swan could run smoothly. Blat was the mainstay of the kitchen and the two ex-prostitutes were now on light duties, though Brother Pinginn still insisted they stay in bed in the mornings. Even so, she would have liked to leave Lief in residence as a safeguard, but it would make her assignment much quicker to charter his boat there and back than wait around for a merchantman to take her.
A week later she was in Brittany plotting with a witch called Jehane.
It was not an easy interview because Jehane kept going off into trances, occasionally screaming a prophecy and then reverting to perfectly ordinary conversation, as if she’d just left the room to put the kettle on. It was conducted in a tall, single tower on a deserted section of the Breton coast near Dol and the views from its top floor window gave Finn vertigo.
Jehane had staggered backwards when Finn had been ushered into her tower by a servant, rolled her eyes and frothed at the mouth. ‘Burning,’ she kept muttering, ‘I see burning.’ Then she’d come round: ‘And how is dear Scathagh?’
‘Well when I last saw her,’ said Finn, bewildered. Jehane was obviously a woman of means, yet her room was littered with the paraphanalia of ancient witchcraft more usually found in the huts of eccentric beldames. It was clear that in Brittany at least, necromancy was still a profitable business. On the walls were strangely knotted straw dollies, black wax candles, cabbalistic incantations on strips of parchment which waved in the breeze from the windows. Dreadful smells came from stone jars on the shelving. Jehane herself wore the high, winged hat of the Breton and a cloak on which was embroidered the signs of the zodiac; she was thin, dark and intense. Her age was almost impossible to guess, but it wasn’t young. Scathagh had not mentioned the circumstances in which Jehane had gone to her Academy – nor did Finn ask – but she had said, ‘Don’t underestimate her, nor the power she wields over the great families of Brittany. The old faith still holds sway there.’
Vives had said, ‘With its difficult terrain in the hinterland, Brittany is an almost impossible country to rule. Each lord thinks himself a king and wars against the others. But Fitzempress cannot leave it to itself because it holds Nantes, and Nantes guards the mouth of the Loire and, therefore, the access to Anjou. His puppet there is Duke Conan, an unreliable man.’
Finn decided there was no point in wasting time in subtleties. ‘Lady Jehane, I am concerned at the inroads Henry Fitzempress is making into the Celtic countries.’
‘Aren’t we all, dear,’ said Jehane. She went rigid and held out her grubby, long-fingered hands in the attitude of incantation. ‘But the young eagles will tear out the innards of the old one, pecking at his eyes and bowels. Oh Henry, Henry, beware your sons. They will be our revenge.’ She dropped her arms, wiped the sweat off the dark hair on her top lip and poured some powerful-smelling liquid from a jar into a chipped cup and gave it to Finn. ‘Drink this, it will return your lover to you.’
‘I don’t want him returned,’ said Finn, but a glance from Jehane’s dark eyes made her drink it just the same. Coughing, she said, ‘Lady Jehane, I am aware that Ralph de Fougeres is preparing revolt against King Henry. He has borrowed money for it. What I want to know from you is whether Duke Conan will quell that revolt o
n the king’s behalf or allow it to take place.’
‘Do you ask me in the name of the Mother?’
‘I do.’
‘We are all her daughters. I must consult the runes.’ Jehane fumbled in her clothing, brought out some carved stones and threw them on the floor. The mutterings and peerings at them took some time. ‘This is ridiculous,’ thought Finn. ‘What am I doing here?’ But she bore with it because Scathagh’s opinion of this woman had been high, and Scathagh’s opinion was worth noting. Besides, there was no doubt that there was real power in Jehane’s mysticism; she made Finn uneasy.
At last the witch squatted back on her haunches. ‘He will do as I tell him,’ she said, ‘for his soul is in my thrall. Especially will he obey me if I offer him money. His gambling debts have mounted up lately.’ She began to sway back and forth, about to go into another trance.
Quickly Finn said, ‘How much?’
Jehane scratched her armpit. ‘Five hundred pieces of gold.’
Finn considered. It was a huge amount, but she could get it easily enough from the O’Conor. Since Irish princes counted their wealth in cattle and rarely used coin, the fine Irish gold which washed down their rivers was usually turned into ornaments, or made into ingots which mounted up uselessly in their treasuries.
‘And two hundred for me,’ said Jehane, casually.
Finn spent the rest of the day in that odd tower. But by the end of it she was convinced that Jehane could deliver the soul of Conan as and when she wanted to. And that when rebellion broke out in the marches of Brittany, its duke would allow it to happen.
Jehane walked with her down to the beach where Lief was waiting to row her to his ship standing out on the flat, steel-coloured sea. As the day had progressed Jehane had become less and less witchy and more and more business-like. But in saying goodbye, she spat on her forefinger and rubbed it on Finn’s forehead. ‘You are in danger,’ she said, ‘Stay away from towers.’
Daughter of Lir Page 32