How does he know that? Did Archu tell him he was going to seek information in Tassach’s community? “I believe so, Master Brondus. Should I speak now?”
“Go ahead.”
Aware of the scribe poised with quill in hand to set down every word I utter, I think of Dau’s courage in the face of that beating in the stable yard and lift my chin. “After I finished supper last night, I went to the men’s quarters to look for a whistle I had lent to Donal, our harpist. We have a new piece to learn, one that Donal wrote, and we want to have it ready next time we play for Lord Cathra’s guests. I was looking on Donal’s shelf when Prince Rodan came in.” The next bit is hardest; I can’t look at Master Niall or Black-Beard while I say it. I fix my gaze on a tapestry behind Lord Cathra: an image of noblemen riding, with hawks on their fists, and three white dogs running beside the horses. “The prince accused me of stealing, that is true. I told him what I just told you, about the whistle, and he didn’t believe me. He . . . he said he would report me to the authorities unless I gave him what he wanted. It seems Prince Rodan believes he can take advantage of a lowborn woman under such circumstances.”
“She’s lying!” shouts Rodan, so loudly that everyone starts. He gestures in my direction, using a clenched fist. So much for staying calm. Garbh puts a hand on the prince’s shoulder.
“Go on, Ciara,” says Brondus, as if nothing has happened.
“I said no, but the prince would not accept that. He . . . he got me up against the wall and began to . . . to assault me. I just wanted him to stop. When I managed to get my hands free, I pushed him away as hard as I could. He fell backward and hit his head. I checked that he was breathing, and I went for help. I am telling the truth.” It’s done. I suck in a breath and let it out slowly.
“A whistle,” says Black-Beard. “That is a thin excuse indeed. Surely a band of traveling musicians possesses more than one whistle. And why could you not simply ask this Donal to return yours?” It’s a fair point.
“I needed a particular whistle, Master . . . I’m sorry.” I glance at Master Brondus, then at Black-Beard. “I was not given this councilor’s name.” Nor, it would seem, was he given mine. I hold back these words. It occurs to me that I’m more like my mother than I knew.
“His name is Master Bress.”
“I needed the bigger whistle, Master Bress, because that suited the piece in question. Donal wrote the tune to be sung at a pitch that is too low for my usual instrument. You understand, in this particular song I sing the verses while Donal plays the harp, and in the refrains I play the whistle. A harp can be retuned to a higher or lower pitch; a whistle cannot. As for Donal, I didn’t see him in the hall, and I didn’t want to cause a disturbance trying to find him while folk were still eating their supper.”
“You caused a far greater disturbance by going where you should not have gone.”
“I regret that, Master Bress. And I regret the fact that the prince was injured. But his account of what happened is not correct. Mine is.” Not strictly true, but true in the way that matters here.
“I have a question for you, Ciara,” says Master Niall. “How is it that a young woman, a musician by calling, has the strength to fend off the attentions of a grown man? Not only the strength to free yourself, but to push the prince with sufficient force to render him unconscious?”
Oh, gods. “As Prince Rodan himself said, Master Niall, he was caught off balance. It was unfortunate that he struck his head when falling. Also . . . I take after my father. He—he was a very tall man, and quite strong.” My palms are clammy. I just came within a hair’s breadth of forgetting that Ciara’s father is dead.
“Tell me,” says Master Bress, and I know that if I were guilty I would wilt under his stare, “why we should take the word of a traveling musician, a short-term visitor to this court, and a young woman at that, over a statement from the crown prince of Breifne?”
I can’t help myself. I return that gaze, not as Ciara, but as Liobhan, future Swan Island warrior, and as the daughter of parents who taught her courage, honesty, and fairness. “Because I am telling the truth, and the prince is not,” I say with my head high. “I cannot put it more plainly than that.”
A moment’s silence; there’s an odd tension in the chamber, and I think it comes from the regent, who has spoken barely a word.
“What is the name of this piece your friend has written to entertain the crowd?” Master Niall’s tone is casual. The question is anything but.
“‘The Crow Way.’” It sounds as good as anything.
“Sing us part of the tune.”
I count silently to five. “It’s new and I haven’t memorized the words yet, but the melody goes like this.” Fortunately I know a great many songs. I pluck one from my memory, something I’m sure we haven’t performed here, and hum my way through a verse and a chorus, remembering to pitch it low.
“Master Niall.” Cathra speaks at last. “It is not necessary to put the young woman to the test in this way.” He looks directly across at me now. Gods, he looks worn down, as if his load is almost too hard to bear. “Thank you, Ciara,” he says. “As there were no witnesses to what occurred, we must make a judgment based on your word against Prince Rodan’s.” He glances at the lawman, who nods agreement. “Rodan, in view of your injury we will not ask you to wait here for a decision. You should retire to your private quarters and rest. Ciara, you will wait in the anteroom.”
“Under guard, I hope,” snarls Rodan. “Don’t let the vixen out, or we’ll all be at risk.”
There’s a short silence; nobody seems quite prepared to challenge the prince openly, though to my ears his utterings seem quite inappropriate to a formal hearing.
Master Niall gets to his feet. “We will make sure you are informed of the result, my lord, as soon as a decision is made. Rest well.”
Garbh shepherds Rodan out. I feel myself relax as the door closes behind them. I never want to see the prince again. I wish I could tell these men of power about the way he taunted and struck a mute stable hand. I wish I could tell them how he got a nursemaid pregnant and seems to have treated both her and his own small sister with no care at all for their welfare. But I can’t. Not here, and probably not anywhere. That’s not why we came to Breifne.
I go out to the anteroom, where it’s no surprise to find another guard stationed at the door. I sit down and wait. I think of Brocc, and wonder if he has already gone to a place where I won’t be able to reach him. I want to cry, but I don’t. I have to be strong. What was it Dau said in our strange nighttime conversation? Hold yourself tall. Tell the truth. Don’t show you’re angry. So far, I’ve done fairly well. I’ve told the truth about the bits that count. I’ve managed not to yell at Rodan. I’ve stood up for myself.
The wait feels long. I wonder if Archu is back yet, and whether he’s been told where I am. Probably not; he’d have come straight up here looking for me. I think again of Dau, and how much it helped me to talk to him, even though there was nothing much he could do. I’m revising my opinion of the man. There’s a lot more to him than he chooses to show.
I’m starting to think the men of power will be closeted in there all day, leaving me no time to get up to the storyteller’s house, when the door opens and Master Brondus comes out on his own. I rise to my feet; he motions to me to sit down again, then tells the guard to wait out in the hall and close the door to the anteroom. Brondus sits down beside me.
“You’ve placed us in an awkward position, Ciara,” he says.
I say nothing. His manner is different now; he speaks in an undertone, and informally, as if to a friend. I hope I can trust him.
“To have this happen so close to the coronation ritual is unfortunate,” Brondus goes on. “The house is full of guests. A disturbance involving the prince, followed by a legal process, whatever the result may be, will set tongues wagging and perhaps give rise to . . . unease. Distrus
t. We are already dealing with a major crisis, something I suppose you missed last night. An attack occurred some miles from here, with several of our men killed. We had to assemble a force at short notice and send them out immediately, at night, to respond to it. We’re still awaiting their return. In the meantime, Lord Cathra wants your situation resolved quickly and discreetly. We don’t want folk to start talking about ill omens.”
I nod. There’s an unspoken message in his words, and it has to do with the missing harp as well as with Rodan. If the prince’s behavior is in any way suspect, folk may start to whisper that he is not fit to be king of Breifne. And with midsummer drawing ever closer, and the harp still missing, that is just what Cathra and his advisers don’t want.
“I can guess why you were in the men’s quarters, and so can the regent, I imagine. But we cannot share that information with Master Niall or Master Bress, neither of whom knows the true reason you are here. As it is, we have a choice. If we let you go, and you tangle with Prince Rodan again, the results could be very bad for him. I’m sure you appreciate that.”
We are dancing around the real truth. “The results could be bad for me, too,” I say.
“Lord Cathra is anxious to keep the prince out of harm’s way until midsummer,” says Brondus. “He’ll also be keen to see your . . . group . . . complete its task in time. And I imagine that requires all of you.”
“Yes.”
“Master Niall is prepared to declare that what happened was an accident and that no formal charges will be laid. Lord Cathra has requested that you make a formal apology to the prince. We’ll arrange a time and place for that. Also, from now on you’ll be under your uncle’s supervision, and you must promise that you won’t become embroiled in anything else of this kind while you are here. Master Niall will write a full record of the discussion and it will be stored under lock and key.”
Breathe, I tell myself, hardly able to believe it. It’s over. You’re free. “A formal apology,” I say, trying to imagine myself uttering such words in Rodan’s presence. “Do you think that will be enough for the prince? He was angry. Angry enough to hurt someone.”
Brondus gives me a very straight look. “Let’s keep to the facts, Ciara. Prince Rodan was the one who was hurt.”
It occurs to me that I have enough information—the taunting and beating of Dau, Máire’s pregnancy, her bruises and Aislinn’s—to cast a lot of doubt on the character of Breifne’s future king, should I decide to share what I know with visitors to court. The prince’s stirring speeches and affable manner in public are only one side of him. And there’s what Dau passed on, about Rodan perhaps dreading what lies ahead. But I won’t share any of that, tempting as the prospect is right now. I’m here to help the regent get Rodan on the throne.
“I can’t be under Uncle Art’s supervision day and night,” I say.
“I’ll leave it to your uncle to work out the details. I will speak to him as soon as he returns. Meanwhile, one of our guards will escort you down to that room where you practice, and I advise you to stay there until your uncle can join you. Keep away from the prince. You’re a woman of some intelligence. That should not be beyond you. If you allow this to happen again, we’ll have no choice but to lock you up or send you away.”
I want to tell him how unjust this is. But I don’t think I need to. Brondus, too, is intelligent. This is not about ensuring justice is done. It’s about making sure the prince’s volatile temper does not lose him the throne. “Yes, Master Brondus,” I say meekly, because what matters now is getting out of here and going to find Brocc before Archu can stop me.
“Thank you. I’ll ask you to come back into the council chamber and put your mark on the document now.”
The scribe has been busy. As I go in, he sets his quill in the holder, stops up the inkpot, and sprinkles sand over the document to dry the ink. He brings the parchment sheet over to the big table and lays it before Master Niall, who takes his time reading it.
“Very well,” he says eventually. “Bring the pen and ink.” He signs. Turns the document so it’s in front of me. “Make your mark here,” he says, pointing.
“I won’t sign without reading the document,” I say quietly. “Just a moment.” I scan through the sheet, which lays out the situation exactly as Brondus has done. An accident; no charges; no penalty. A formal apology. The part about staying away from Rodan is not there, of course. I didn’t expect that. When I’ve read through to the end I pick up the pen and sign, not with an X or a thumbprint as the lawman is evidently expecting, but with my name. There’s a strong urge in me to write Liobhan of Winterfalls. To speak up. To see truth told and real justice done. Instead, I write Ciara, daughter of Íomhar, which is the name Brigid chose for my imaginary father.
There’s space for one more signature, and I assume it will be Rodan’s. I wonder how they will get him to agree. By telling him they know he was lying? Maybe the prince will understand the argument about not drawing the wrong kind of attention so close to his coronation.
“Very well,” says Master Niall. “You may go. I understand Master Brondus has laid out some rules for you. You’re being released on the strict provisos that you stay within the castle walls and that you don’t go near Prince Rodan. He will be present to hear your apology, of course, and during your evening entertainments in the hall, but as you will be under your uncle’s supervision at those times, I see no difficulty there. Do we have your word that you will adhere to this?”
“Another thing.” Cathra looks at me very directly as he speaks, and his eyes are so troubled that I feel a twinge of sympathy for the man. “You won’t speak of this matter. There’s to be no gossip spread. No word of anything amiss. It’s settled, no charges laid, the prince has recovered, it’s over. Your uncle will be informed, of course, but neither of you is to pass this on any further.”
“I understand, and I will do as you wish, my lord.” I don’t like lying to him. Not spreading gossip is all very well. But staying within the walls of the castle? That isn’t going to happen.
19
BROCC
I wake late, when the sun is already high. Where am I? What’s happened? I look up, not at a roof of timbers, but at a leafy green canopy stretched over bent wattles. The bed on which I lie is narrow. The coverlet both feels and looks like swansdown, cunningly woven with long strands of wool.
“Drink,” says a little voice close to my ear, making me sit up abruptly. “It is safe,” adds the small personage who is sitting on the pillow beside me, its hands wrapped around a beaker. “Water from the stream; your kind can drink without harm.”
I’m dreaming. The creature is something like a hedgehog, but its eyes are too big, and its hands are more like miniature human ones. I take the cup, murmuring thanks, and yesterday starts to come back to me. No dream, but bizarre reality.
I walked through the woods, after I spoke to the storyteller. I sang, and an unseen woman sang, and I passed through the wall and came face-to-face not with the beautiful woman I expected, but with a motley crew of uncanny folk, some resembling forest animals, some human-like, and many in between. There were perhaps thirty of them in all, and the moment I appeared they started to pepper me with questions. Folk say I am a singer of some eloquence. Confronted with that, I lost my voice entirely.
“Greetings, bard.” One of the taller beings stepped forward. He was the height of a lad of about twelve, with glossy reddish fur all over his body, a bushy tail, and a face that had characteristics of both creature and young man. “That was a fine song. Was it not?” A crowing, barking, hooting chorus of approval greeted this. “You are quick-witted,” Fox Boy went on. “The queen likes that.”
I saw no queen, unless she was the owl-like being, or the one with folded wings and eyes like a snake’s and shining silver hair down over her shoulders. Or maybe the queen was one of the more human-looking creatures. I was still struggling to get words out.
Why did Fox Boy call me Bard? Was that solely because I sang my way in, or did they know about me before I came here? I cleared my throat and managed a respectful bow. “I’m honored to meet you all.” It came out as a nervous croak. There was a rustling and squeaking around the circle of folk, perhaps approval, perhaps amusement. “I know how rarely you admit my kind to your domain.”
“What kind is that?” one of them asked, and one of the others hissed, “Shh!”
“Wait for the queen,” said Fox Boy. “Come, let us offer you some refreshment—our own berry wine, our best cheeses, food fit for a king.”
“Thank you, but no. I have my waterskin; I will drink from that. And if I am hungry I will eat the food I brought with me.”
“Ooh,” one of them hooted on a rise and fall, as if amused.
“I am a bard. The tales have made me cautious.”
“So,” put in a tiny being with bulging eyes, something that looked as if it should be halfway up a tree clinging on, “you will not eat our food or drink our drink. But you will walk over our doorstep with never a glance behind you. Cautious indeed.”
It was a fair point. “I came of my own free will, that is true. And I hope to leave the same way. It is best that I do not partake of your food, delicious as it sounds.” I hesitated, not sure how much to say. “Your queen . . . is she nearby? Was that her voice I heard singing?”
“Too many questions,” said Fox Boy.
“I was hoping the queen might grant me an audience. There’s a matter I wish to discuss with her. It’s—pressing.”
“Ooh! Pressing!” echoed one of them in mocking tones. The others twittered and murmured and squeaked all around the glade.
“The queen grants audiences in her own time. Wait for her.” Fox Boy did not speak loudly, but the beings fell quiet all the same. I recognized in him this realm’s equivalent of Master Brondus: a keeper of the peace; a maintainer of order. Perhaps he was the queen’s right-hand man.
The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards) Page 19
