“Apologies, my lord.” Archu does not release the prince’s wrist. “I heard shouting. Thought you might be in trouble. But I see you are not under attack. My error.” He glances at Dau. “Are you hurt, young man?”
Dau is looking at the ground now, his shoulders hunched.
“The fellow’s not right in the head,” puts in one of the other men. I recognize them as Rodan’s friends, Cruinn and Coll. “You’ll get nothing out of him.”
“Let go of me this instant, or I’ll have you beaten!” Rodan has forgotten Dau; his ire is all turned on Archu. “You don’t lay hands on the prince of Breifne, oaf! What business is this of yours, anyway? One of those traveling players, aren’t you? Why are you here?”
Archu lets him go. “Rehearsal for this evening’s performance, my lord. We try to find a spot conveniently far from the house, so the noise doesn’t disturb folk. I couldn’t help hearing the disagreement out here. Ah, here’s one of your guards.”
It’s not Garbh but the other one, Buach. He’s running. Behind him strides Master Brondus. Rodan’s breathing hard, as if he’s been in a proper fight, not a one-sided display of bullying. Buach takes the prince by the arm. I’ve seen that sort of hold before. Gentle looking, but near impossible to get out of. The guard murmurs something in the prince’s ear. Brondus turns a questioning look on Archu.
“I’ll take my leave of you, then, my lord. No harm intended, I assure you.” Archu performs an obsequious bow, then walks at a measured pace back over to us. Nobody tries to stop him. Once Archu is back in the rehearsal room with the door closed behind him, we can hear nothing of the conversation. Through the gap in the shutters I see Brondus put a hand on Rodan’s shoulder. Buach releases his grip on the prince. Cruinn and Coll make a quick exit from the stable yard. Brondus says something to Dau, and Dau limps off into the stables. It occurs to me that the prince’s bodyguards may be employed not only to protect him from harm, but also to keep him in check when he loses his temper.
“Start playing again,” Archu murmurs, moving away from the window. “We should stay in here until they’ve all moved on.”
Brocc seats himself, picks up the harp, and begins the introduction to “Artagan’s Leap,” though we know it so well we hardly need to practice it. Archu joins in with the bodhran, keeping the sound muted. But I hesitate, still peering out between the shutters. I stay there long enough to see Illann striding in across the yard—perhaps he’s been at the forge—and the start of a conversation in which he makes a lot of gestures, and Brondus listens, and Rodan looks more and more uncomfortable. Buach is still there, on watch now. Dau does not reappear.
“Ciara,” says Archu, still playing. “We need the whistle part.”
After I’ve joined in, he says under cover of the whistle’s shrill voice, “If I find out what that was all about I’ll let you know. One thing we have learned, and it’s not very welcome. Guard your opinions, the two of you. You know why we’re here. You know what we’ve been hired to do. Concentrate on that. And on the music.” He picks up the pace, making me work very hard indeed. He knows that no matter how ridiculously fast he plays, I’ll feel obliged to keep up. Brocc, too; but he can play anything. If I didn’t love my brother dearly I might be jealous.
As for Dau, I think I’m rather jealous of him, though glad I’m not in his place. Remembering him by the wall, wan and trembling as the blows rained down, I suspect the arrogant chieftain’s son may excel as a spy. As for the carrots and the pony and that moment of kindness, I don’t know what to think of that.
16
DAU
The future king of Breifne does me some damage with his fists. It is a hard test, to stand still and let him pummel me when I could make short work of him—he is not much of a fighter, only a bully. I thought I had locked away one memory forever. But while Rodan shouts and strikes me, time unspools, and my brothers are carrying me down to the root cellar and throwing me bodily from one to the other until I lose control of my bowels. They leave me weeping, shivering, lying in stink and shame. They have been careful to ensure the bruises are hidden by my clothing. Not that it matters. They know I will not tell. The threats they laid on me make sure of that. Later, my father beats me for soiling my clothes. That long-ago day crawls out of its hiding place while Rodan yells abuse and pounds me, and his friends stand by, grinning.
As if I would trim a horse’s hoof in a way that would lame it. As if I would shoe a horse when everything I saw told me she should go barefoot so the right fore could mend. As if I would not wait to consult Illann if I felt inadequate to handle a job safely. I am on the verge of shouting. That, or weeping. Then a door opens and Archu comes out, and I see Liobhan behind him. She nods her head, as if to tell me, Good job. Whatever my opinion of her may be, that recognition is enough to steady me.
Once Brondus takes charge of the situation, I go into the stables and find a spot near the mare’s stall, a place where I can see and hear, but not be seen. Illann brings both Brondus and the prince in. Brondus looks grave and intent; Rodan wears the look of a sulky child. The bodyguard follows, a silent presence. Where was he when his charge was attacking me?
“Master Eoan,” Brondus says, “please explain the mare’s condition, and exactly why your assistant refused to shoe her.” When the prince tries to interrupt, he adds, still courteous, “My lord, if you will, I need to hear Master Eoan’s account first. Then you may tell me what has left you so dissatisfied.”
“This mare’s been ill-shod in the past, Master Brondus.” Illann, too, is keeping his tone very polite. “See here, the right forefoot—” He moves in, lifts the foot so Brondus can see the hoof clearly; it’s a measure of the mare’s excellent temperament, or Illann’s way with horses in general, or both, that she lets him do this without any attempt to kick. “When Prince Rodan brought her in this morning, I explained that the hoof has worn unevenly because of those poorly fitted shoes, and told him we would remove the old shoes and trim the hooves, but not reshoe her today. Do that, and we’d risk laming her permanently. Prince Rodan was not happy with that. I know he wants to ride her tomorrow. But I wouldn’t do it. He went off, and I had to make some shoes for another party, up at the forge. So I gave Nessan the job of taking off this one’s old shoes and trimming her hooves. Which he did, very capably. What she needs now is to go barefoot until these hooves right themselves. She could do with some time in the grazing field, and only gentle exercise. A fine girl.” He gives the mare a stroke on the neck, then backs out of the stall.
Brondus looks at Rodan, offering him the chance to make his case. Rodan scowls. I imagine him as king, and am glad I do not live in Breifne.
“The mare belongs to me,” he says, and I hear that he is trying to keep his voice calm, though he’s breathing hard. “I am the prince of Breifne. This man is a farrier, and not even one of ours. He’s being paid to do a job, and he should do it. If I order him to shoe my horse, he shoes my horse. And he does it himself. I don’t want some half-wit laying his hands on my valuable animals—”
“As I said earlier, my lord”—Illann speaks quietly—“my assistant has done an excellent job. Clearly you trust your own people. Perhaps you might ask one of the court farriers to step in and check the mare’s feet? I’m happy to accept their judgment of my assistant’s work. As it happens, I did consult Mochta after you left me this morning, to be sure I was right about not reshoeing. He agreed with me.”
Rodan has nowhere left to go. He blusters a bit more, then falls silent. They reach an agreement without any need to call in Mochta or another of the court farriers. The mare will be rested until Eoan is satisfied she’s ready to be shod again. Lord Cathra’s stables are not short of good mounts; the prince has only to speak to the stable master, Brondus reminds him. Which strikes me as something Rodan must surely know already, since he is eighteen years old and, as far as I’m aware, has lived here all his life. Perhaps, when he loses his temper, he bec
omes deaf to reason.
When they’re gone, Illann gives me the job of leading the mare out to graze. The animal makes it clear she has friends among the other horses wandering in the field, and when released she heads away with never a backward look, no doubt relieved to be without her ill-fitting shoes. I stand there for a while, breathing deep. The sky’s a hazy gray, and a few birds are flying in toward that stretch of forest where the druids live. Not crows, I hope. At least, not those crow-creatures that startled my mare and nearly sent me tumbling down the hillside to my death. Wretched place! May the remaining days pass quickly, and the mission be over. Illann has told me Brocc is spending his days with the druids. Perhaps he will find the answer there. Out here in the quiet, with the horses tranquil and the birds calling high overhead and the air cool and pleasant, I could almost wish I were the bard and he the warrior. But, of course, he needs to be both. A mad thought comes to me, a vision of myself playing or singing with the musicians. I dismiss it. They’ve been doing it since they were children. That’s why they’re so good at it. And I have been a fool already today, and the day before, and the day before. Playing this part is not at all to my liking. Let me not deepen my folly. Even though, should I astonish myself by discovering a talent for music, it might well come in useful.
At the end of our long working day we grooms and farriers and stable hands are all over sweat and grime. Someone brings buckets of hot water for bathing. They’re left at one end of the stables, along with a few shallow basins. A big improvement over the usual chilly wash under the pump. Illann and I get a bucket and a basin between us.
Illann goes first. While he dries himself I scrub the filth off my body. I never thought I’d be so glad of a scrap of coarse soap. I wince as the hard brush connects with a sore spot. It’s not only today’s bruises. My left foot aches where a nervy stallion stepped on it, and my hands have burns from working in the forge, though today I’ve only done cold shoeing. The odd slipup with the tools of the trade has left its mark, too. One good thing, I suppose—the damage should make me more convincing as a farrier’s boy. I remember Brigid saying, Don’t stand up so straight, Nessan. Slump your shoulders. And don’t look me in the eye. You’re a servant now, not a master.
“Morrigan’s britches,” observes Illann mildly. “Got a fair bit of damage, didn’t you? You could do with a proper salve. There’s plenty of horse liniment. A bit of that will keep you from stiffening up. Some of those bruises look nasty.”
I can’t talk, since the rest of the workers are not far off, having their own cleanup. I dry myself and get dressed. I put on my spare shirt, then wash out today’s filthy one in the bathwater and hang it up to dry. Then we go off to our makeshift sleeping area. While I rub horse liniment into various parts of my person, we conduct a whispered conversation.
“You need to keep your head down after this,” Illann says. “I’ll shoe his precious mare if we get to that point. I don’t want to give the man any further grounds for complaint, reasonable or not. Might be best if he doesn’t see you at supper tonight. I’ll bring some food back for you.”
I’m finding it hard to listen and understand. Truth is, my mind is still jumbling past and present in an unsettling manner, and the liniment isn’t helping much with the aches and pains. Why am I so weak? Why can’t I let go of the beaten child and be the warrior I should be? An image visits me unbidden: myself lying quiet in the straw here while Illann and the others are off in the great hall for supper, and figures coming out of the dark to bundle me away and do unspeakable things. I do not know if they are Rodan and his cronies or my brothers, and it makes no difference.
“Nessan.” Illann’s whisper is sharper than before. “Here.” He puts a blanket around my shoulders. “Sit down. Take your time. I want to know what he said to you. Everything you can recall.” And when I don’t say anything, because I can’t, not yet, he adds, “It’ll help.”
I shake my head. It won’t help. The only thing that helps is squashing the memories as small as I can and locking them away in their dark corner.
Illann sits down beside me. Most of the others have gone out of the barn; one or two of the grooms are going around checking the animals again. A dog barks, out in the yard. I wonder what the other team is doing. It’ll be another night of music for them, I suppose. I heard them practicing before. Rodan shouting vile abuse. Mocking laughter. And through it all, the sweet voice of the harp, the steady heartbeat of the drum. The whistle, too, briefly. But I did not hear her singing.
“Nessan?”
I lick my lips. Can I speak at all? Will I return to Swan Island mute and useless? “Never see him on his own.” Even this hoarse whisper takes some effort. “Always a bodyguard, one of the two. And often his friends as well. Though he must have given his guard the slip when he decided to have words with me. He’d been drinking. I could smell it on his breath.” Someone’s coming; I hear the soft sound of footsteps on the earthen floor, and fall silent. We stay where we are, sitting side by side on the pallet.
It’s one of the grooms, Loman. He stops at the end of the stall. “Heard the young fellow took a bit of a beating,” he says. “Is he all right?”
“He’ll recover. Thank you for asking.” Illann is practiced at these things. He manages to sound friendly while giving away as little as possible.
“Good,” says Loman, not moving on.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see that he’s still studying me. A sorry specimen I must look. Gods, how I hate this!
“You don’t want to get on a certain person’s wrong side,” Loman offers, surprising me. “Keep out of his way, that’s my advice.” He looks over his shoulder, as if remembering, rather too late, that if he’s overheard saying this he could be in trouble.
“Mm.” Illann gets up, as if to go somewhere.
“You made the right call with that mare,” says Loman. “I don’t like to see a good horse ill-used.”
Seems the story has got around. But he’s pushing this too far. A groom doesn’t criticize the crown prince. Especially not in front of relative strangers.
“He’s touchy these days,” Loman says, lowering his voice. “The word is, he’s scared of what’s to come. Never really wanted it. So he lashes out. Too bad if someone’s in the way.”
Morrigan save us, can that be true? Is Rodan afraid of becoming king? I look down at the floor, avoiding Loman’s eye. The fellow needs to guard his tongue. Illann moves about the stall, tidying up. The silence gets awkward. I stand up, wobble on my feet, and collapse back onto the straw pallet, coughing. This ploy works, but not quite in the way I intended. Loman goes off to fetch a draft he promises will ease my pain. Illann lets him go.
“Changed my mind,” Illann whispers. “You’ll come to supper with me. And you’ll work with me at the forge tomorrow.”
I get up again, square my shoulders, set aside the aches and pains. I’m dizzy; the collapse was not entirely playacting. I look Illann in the eye and nod agreement. I will be a man. A Swan Island man. I will not be the victim of some highborn fool.
Loman brings the draft, which smells of a pungent herb I cannot name. Liobhan would know what it is. I drink it, not without trepidation. We go to supper. I yawn my way through the meal, sleepier by the moment. As soon as we’re back in the stables I lie down on the straw and pull my blanket over me.
Illann does not settle to sleep. He stands at the workbench near our stall, sharpening his hoof trimmer by lantern light. Keeping watch. I think of Swan Island and the bond between comrades. I fall asleep with the image of Liobhan in my mind. Liobhan standing in that doorway, looking on while Rodan beat me.
17
BROCC
Since Faelan told me the story of the Harp of Kings, I have been thinking of little else. This feels like a puzzle with many pieces, a puzzle I can solve, provided I can fit those pieces together in the right way. There’s the wisewoman in the forest, the storytelle
r who helped Dau, a person who was a friend to Faelan when he was young. There was the mention of portals to the Otherworld in the tale. Since the fey queen, Béibhinn, met with the human king at his own court, doesn’t that suggest there is such a gateway very close to here? Within walking distance? The forest on the hill, haunt of those strange crow-creatures, seems the most likely place for it. And that’s where the storyteller lives.
Am I brave enough to go searching? My pounding heart suggests not. I want to go. I sense that I will find answers, though whether they are the ones Archu needs, I do not know. Would the Fair Folk take back their own harp, if they believed humankind had forgotten the true purpose of the ritual? With what intent? Would it mean the end of the ancient pact between the human kingdom and the Otherworld? And what would the consequences be for Breifne? The crow-creatures do not sound like part of the natural world, but malign presences conjured up by magic. Could their arrival signal an age in which uncanny powers are in conflict with humankind? Perhaps it is already too late to reverse this. Unless the harp can be retrieved. I have to go. I have to go up to the forest and find out what this storyteller knows.
There’s an opportunity. Archu has gone to talk to a man he knows who lives near Tassach’s holding, someone who may be able to give him inside information. He left last night before supper, and he may not be back until tomorrow, so he’s arranged for the other band to play. I’ve told Faelan I won’t come to the nemetons today. But I haven’t told Liobhan my plan. I can’t. She’d want me to wait for Archu’s approval. Or she’d insist on coming with me. That’s not going to happen. I’ll go on my own. I’ll be back by suppertime. Liobhan will think I’m at the nemetons as usual. Time enough to confess when I’m safely home. Or not, if I fail to discover anything useful. It is a good plan. I wish I could be calmer about it.
It’s early; there’s hardly anyone stirring. I fetch the small bag of supplies I have prepared and walk down to the gate. The weary night guards bid me a good morning as they let me out. Liobhan will still be sleeping. Illann and Dau need know nothing of this.
The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards) Page 14
