“I admit it,” I say with a shrug and a smile. “My apologies. As for the tune, I cannot tell you if folk would dance to it.”
“When it’s done, play it to us and we’ll tell you,” says Flann.
“Druids dance?”
“Wait long enough and you will find out. Now, weren’t you going to teach us a jig?”
12
DAU
Since we reached court, I’ve kept my head down and done whatever work Illann had for me. Once folk realized being mute didn’t make me incapable, other jobs came my way, too. The court farrier, Mochta, has more work than he can handle, and Illann’s up at the forge a lot of the time. I’m more often in the stables tending to horses, since the stable master soon noticed I’ve got a knack with them. There’s an old herding dog here, Bryn, and when he’s not doing his own work he hangs around me, just watching what I do. That sort of company, I don’t mind.
The grooms sleep in an area off the stables and use the pump in the yard for their ablutions. Illann and I have taken over a spare stall for our belongings, and spread our bedrolls on a pile of hay. It’s quieter, and it means we can talk in whispers when the place is empty save for horses. Illann’s spoken to Archu a couple of times, told him what happened to me on the way here. Archu’s passed on some information from a meeting with the regent and his advisers.
We need to keep to the mission rules. That means the two teams don’t talk to each other unless they have to, and then it’s only Archu and Illann. The musicians’ practice room is not far from the stables—I hear them playing or singing from time to time. But I won’t be dropping in. I have to maintain my cover. The mute. The lad who can’t pass on what he hears. Makes me wonder if Archu and Cionnaola chose this role for me because they think I’m too ready to offer my opinions. Another reason for performing my part in the mission flawlessly.
While I’m bent over a hoof digging out a stone or tying up an animal for dosing or at the workbench mending a buckle, I’m listening as hard as I can. Listening for the scrap of gossip that may lead us to the missing harp. Grooms and stable boys hear a lot. They’re more or less invisible to folk who believe themselves superior: chieftains, regents, princes. A groom is the pair of hands that holds your horse steady while you mount. A stable boy is even less obtrusive. Because of him, your horse spends the night in a clean, dry stall with fresh straw underfoot. Because of him, your animal has clear water to drink and good food to eat. He rubs your mount down when you’ve exhausted it out hunting. He talks to it gently; touches it with careful hands. But you hardly think of that. Even when he’s right before your eyes, you hardly see him. My brothers are like that: so sure of their place in the world that they give no thought to those below them in the order of things. I’ve learned to copy their manner. It keeps folk from getting too close.
For a long while I knew what it was to be invisible. I was the child whose bruises went unseen; whose muffled tears went unheard. I learned stillness and silence. I learned to bear blows without crying out. I learned that good things never last. At thirteen, when the hardest blow fell and I tried to make an end of myself, I found a friend. I tried to push him away, but he wouldn’t go. On Swan Island, I used the warrior skills he taught me. And now, in the royal stables of Breifne, I am applying the hard-learned lessons of my childhood.
It’s late in the afternoon and I’m just back from helping Illann at the forge. I’m in our stall, sitting on my pallet taking a rest before I start the next job, which is helping to top up water troughs. Bryn lies quiet beside me. Some of the other lads are drawing up full buckets from the well; I hear clanking from the stable yard. And I hear something else: men’s voices in conversation, from somewhere nearby. They can’t see me; I’m hidden by the partition between the stalls, unless someone decides to walk right past.
“You know some folk say they’re not of this world? Magical, like something from the old tales?”
“Not birds, you mean, but . . . what? Monsters? Demons?”
Those are not the voices of workingmen, of servants. They’re the tones of highborn folk.
“Rubbish.” This voice I do know; it’s the king-in-waiting, Prince Rodan. I’ve heard him in the hall at suppertime. “You know as well as I do that there’s no such thing, Cruinn. That kind of talk should be shut down before it spreads right through the community. It’s nonsense, and it only serves to stir up unrest.”
“That’s not what the druids say.” It’s the third man speaking. “I heard a druid tell a story once,” he goes on. “He talked about folk going to a different world, through a portal, and there were folk there that were half man, half wolf or eagle or cat. Those crows might be like that. Folk say they’re much too big to be ordinary birds. Maybe they’re a sort of witch or demon. Just ask the farmers who lost new lambs in the spring. Or that woman who nearly had a baby stolen from the cradle.”
“Bollocks, Coll! Eagles take lambs every season. As for the child in the cradle, that’s just an old wives’ tale. The woman saw a shadow, she was startled, and because folk had been spreading superstitious nonsense, she jumped to a conclusion. Then made a meal out of the story, entertaining half the village with it.” The prince’s voice is rising. He’s getting angry. “The sooner this is stopped the better. The druids must take part of the responsibility with their silly tales of magic. As for you two, you’re grown men. I can’t believe friends of mine could take such foolishness seriously, even for a moment. Half wolf, half man? Tales for children, that’s all this is.”
There’s silence for a while. I wonder what I would say if I were in that conversation. The thing that attacked me on the road was no ordinary crow, that I’m sure of. But some creature from the Otherworld? On that point, I find myself in agreement with Prince Rodan, even if his manner reminds me uncomfortably of my brother Seanan.
Cruinn speaks up again. “It’s not just lambs, though. What about the road, and birds swooping down when folk least expect it? You wouldn’t want to be hunting in that stretch of forest, unless you fancied broken limbs and a gashed head. I’ve heard folk say it’s only a matter of time before someone gets killed. Crows don’t swoop like that. Maybe if they’ve got young in the nest, but it’s too late in the season for that. There’s a lot of talk about. Folk want something done. And since you’ll be king . . .”
Silence again. These must be Rodan’s friends; I don’t think anyone else would speak to the heir to the throne in such a casual way, especially not when he’s losing his temper. I wait for him to bite Cruinn’s head off, but when he speaks his tone is quiet and cold.
“Something will be done. If there’s danger lurking in that particular part of the forest, the trees will be felled. There’s always a need for good timber. You’re right about the road. It must be kept safe. That’s for the shorter term. In the longer term, I’ll be limiting the influence of the druids. They are the source of these primitive beliefs. They must be instructed to stop spreading this nonsense out into the community.”
“Isn’t there an old woman that lives up there? In the forest?”
Again, Rodan takes his time in replying. “I believe so,” he says eventually. “Another source of mischievous tales. She’ll be moved on before the felling commences, obviously. A decisive approach, that’s what is required.” When neither of his friends responds, he goes on, “You look doubtful, Coll. Don’t you trust me? Thinning out that tract of forest will create fine hunting land. It’s too heavily wooded at present, not safe for the horses. Folk will thank me for this.”
“My lord?”
That voice is the bodyguard’s, the one named Garbh. The other guard, Buach, has a northern accent, while Garbh sounds like a local man.
“What is it?” Rodan sounds a little testy. I’m guessing he was expecting his friends to greet his ideas with more enthusiasm.
“Time to go in, my lord. Master Brondus says he wants a word with you.”
�
��A pox on Brondus,” mutters the heir to the throne, but I hear the men move out of the barn and away, leaving me with some things to ponder. That woman and her strange little house. Her dog. Her kindness. My suspicion that she had been telling me stories while I slept. A future king who does not trust druids, in a place where druids are woven into the fabric of things. Magic or superstition? Spells or trickery? This is beyond my abilities to unravel. I will pass everything on to Illann, and through him to Archu. And while they mull it over, I can only go on listening.
13
LIOBHAN
I find myself longing for Swan Island, where nobody wastes time with stupid things. I keep on trying with the maidservants. For a bit, while they still find me a novelty with my long red hair and my (to them at least) exciting life on the road, it feels as if I’m making some progress. But their chatter is trivial and tiresome, and I fail completely to steer it in any useful direction. I was restless before. Now I feel like an explosion waiting to happen. Brocc is busy learning druid secrets—he visits the nemetons every day. Dau has learned some things about the prince and his plans for the future. I’ve done absolutely nothing. Well, almost nothing. I’ve danced with Garbh twice, on evenings when the two bands played together, but the middle of a crowd of twirling, leaping dancers is not the best place to glean useful information, and there’s been no chance so far to chat with the man during the day. Rodan wouldn’t like that. He doesn’t even seem to approve of Garbh taking time off to dance, despite the other bodyguard being right there next to him. Both times he watched us, glowering, until the dance was over. I’d have thought he had better things to think about, so close to becoming king.
Then another opportunity comes up. I have two gowns with me, the practical one I wore on the ride to Breifne, with the skirt cut to accommodate trousers underneath, and the russet wool with the embroidered overdress, the one I save for our musical performances. Both need cleaning: either a careful wash or at least a sponge and brush to get the worst of the dirt off. In the sleeping quarters there’s no means to do this properly, so one morning I take myself over to the stone-built outhouse where a team of washerwomen spend their days scrubbing and wringing and rinsing the household laundry. Out the back of this place, ropes are strung, propped up off the ground by hazel poles, and on a fair day they’re festooned with everything from bed linen to fine lawn shifts. On wet days, and even in summer there are many, garments drip indoors before an open fire. Water is carried in and out in buckets, filled from the well in the corner of the courtyard.
As I watch the women, with their skirts tucked up, hefting two full buckets each into the outhouse, I realize this is not a bad substitute for combat practice. “Good morning,” I say, approaching the doorway with my russet gown over my arm and a bundle of smaller items clutched in my free hand. “May I wash my things here, please? I’m happy to carry water in exchange, or help with wringing out—I’m quite strong. Also, if anyone knows how to wash this embroidered tunic without the dye running, I’d appreciate some advice.”
One of the women straightens, giving me a thorough look up and down. I can see she’s deciding maybe I really am strong. I’m taller and broader than the biggest of them, and I’ve put my hair into its Swan Island style, tight braids gathered into a knot at the back.
“We’d be stupid to refuse such an offer,” the woman says. “Not sure how long you’ll last on the buckets, though. It’s heavy work. Takes time to build up the strength.”
“I’m happy to give it a try. My name’s Ciara, by the way. You may have seen me singing and playing with the other musicians.”
They introduce themselves. The one who spoke first is Dana. The others are Maeve, Banva, Grainne, and a few more. Dana tells Maeve to sit down and have a rest, and I take a turn on the buckets with Grainne, while the others stir things in a big vat, rub garments on a washboard, or tend the fire.
I work hard, not to ingratiate myself, but because I like to test my body and make sure it’s still strong. Also, if there’s a job to be done, why not do it? After a long stint on the buckets, I do the stirring for a while—that is hot work, right beside the fire with steam in my face—and then Dana sends me outside to sit down awhile. She comes and sits beside me. The cool air feels magical; I breathe deeply. One of the women brings me a cup of water.
“Banva’s washing your embroidered tunic and the gown,” Dana says. “Don’t look like that, your things are in the best hands. Banva does all the delicate garments, has her own special soap and a little brush her brother made for her. And she’ll hang it up the right way so it dries quick.”
“Thank you. I only have the one good gown with me. I don’t suppose it will be dry by tonight.”
“Not unless you want it ruined by hot pressing,” puts in Banva, appearing in the doorway. “Can you borrow something to wear tonight?”
“Only if there’s someone my size with a gown to lend. One that’s more suitable than what I have on. This is not only too plain, it’s even grubbier than my good one.”
Now they’re all interested. Seems I’ve won some favor by showing I can work as hard as them, not that I’d be keen to keep it up all day. Dana tells the rest of them they can sit down awhile and sends two of the younger girls off to fetch some food from the kitchen.
“Nobody here is as tall as you, Ciara,” says Grainne. “And none of us has anything as fine as that tunic. It’s lovely.”
“What about Máire?” asks Banva. “You know, the nursemaid. She has two of those shirts with the ribbon borders—I think they would fit you. We could ask her. And if it’s not quite right, you could wear a shawl over it.”
“You say we could ask her.” Dana is looking quizzical. “Who is we, exactly?” She turns to me. “Máire’s not at her best right now. Chances are she’ll either be half-asleep or she’ll snap your head off.”
“I’ll ask her. That’s only fair, since I’m the one wanting the shirt.” Is this the same Máire whose small charge escaped up the oak tree that day? I’ve spotted little Aislinn at supper once or twice, but I haven’t seen her in between. And I promised her a whistle lesson. “I think I may know a way to make this a trade, not a favor. But I will need a skirt as well, and I don’t suppose Máire is as tall as I am.”
“Her skirts would come down to your knees,” says Grainne. “Got tall parents, have you?”
“My father was something of a giant, yes.”
“I have an idea,” says Banva. “As long as one of us has a skirt that fits you around the waist, I can put on a border that will take it down to the ankles. We have a bag of scraps in the chest there, bits and pieces left over from mending, or from garments folk have discarded. You’d be amazed what gets thrown away. Perfectly good, most of it. I can make you something pretty, Ciara.”
“Can you do it in time for tonight?” It sounds like a lot of sewing. In fact, it sounds like trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. I try and fail to see the garment in my mind’s eye.
“Banva does a lot of fine work for the ladies,” says Dana, twisting her mouth into a grimace. “It’s a crime that she’s expected to heave buckets and wring out sheets as well. But there you are. Spoke out when she shouldn’t once or twice, and this is what she got for it.”
“Shh!” hiss the others, and Dana complies, but the look on her face is something to see. If I expected washerwomen to be cowed and menial, I was mistaken.
I’m about to press for more details, but the girls return with a tray of bread and mutton and a jug of ale and the conversation ends. The meal is meticulously shared out among the workers. I try to refuse my share, but it soon becomes clear that the correct response is to eat it with pleasure.
“Thank you,” I say when we’re finished. “I should go and see Máire, perhaps, to ask about a shirt. Where might I find her?”
“This time of day, she may be in the kitchen garden. You know where that big oak tree is? It’s acro
ss the grass from that, with its own little wall around it. And a few apple trees.”
“I think I know where that is.” I keep my tone vague. I’m certainly not admitting to having climbed the oak tree, which gives quite a good view of the garden. “Thank you. I’ll come back later to see how the russet gown is drying. Banva, are you sure you have time to work on the skirt?”
“I’ll find time. The others will help me. You’d best try on one of ours before you go off, or I might be wasting hours on something that won’t fit. Dana, you’re the tallest. Give her yours to try.”
* * *
* * *
I fetch a whistle, tucking it into my belt before I go looking for Máire. I hope she’ll be a person I can talk to easily, like Dana and her hardworking companions, but I suspect she may be more like the silly maidservants. As it happens, Aislinn finds me first. She’s on her own again, just outside the low wall of the kitchen garden, crouched down peering at something in the long grass. Her stuffed creature is sitting with its back to the wall and a handful of flower petals on what might be thought of as its lap.
“Good morning, Aislinn.”
She springs up and whirls around, looking like a cornered rabbit.
“I brought the whistle,” I say quietly. “Is everything all right?”
Aislinn bends down and snatches up her toy, scattering the petals. She clutches it to her chest. Her eyes are on the whistle as I draw it out of my belt.
“I could give you that lesson now, if you like. But I need to talk to Máire first.”
“No!” This is hushed but vehement. “She won’t let me! Anyway, she’s asleep. Can we go to the big tree?”
Standing, I tower above her, making conversation difficult. I crouch down. “Was your little friend having a special treat?” I ask, making a wild guess at the game. “She looked happy there.”
The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards) Page 10
