“Clodagh.” Cathal’s tone had changed again.
“What?”
“There’s something I need to tell you. You may not like it much. Will you hear me out?”
I was intrigued. “That depends on what it is,” I said. “I can’t stay out here long.”
“I want you to consider a hypothetical situation. It concerns a strategic matter.”
This was the last thing I had expected. “You’re talking to the wrong person,” I told him. “Speak to Johnny. Or to my father.”
“Wait till I’m finished, Clodagh, will you? You remember what Sibeal said about twins in your family and the special ability they are supposed to have?”
“Yes,” I said cautiously. “I thought that where such phenomena were concerned you were a complete cynic.”
“Forget that. Tell me, how would you respond if your twin sister contacted you in this way now, perhaps speaking of strategic matters, the deployment of warriors or plans for councils? Would you speak to her? What would you tell her?”
I twisted around to stare at him. “Why on earth would you want to know that?” I asked him. “Anyway, Deirdre and I don’t communicate that way anymore. She made a decision that we wouldn’t after she left home, and she’s kept to it. What can this possibly have to do with you, Cathal?”
“Your father is particularly concerned about Eoin of Lough Gall just now; he fears an escalation of unrest in the north. I wonder if there could be another possibility, one that perhaps Lord Sean has not considered. Your twin sister has just married a southern neighbor, a powerful one. What if your father were looking in the wrong direction? What if the real threat were not Eoin but your sister’s new husband, Illann?”
“What?” I was on my feet, bristling with outrage. “Illann? How can you suggest such a thing?” It was ridiculous. Why would Illann wed a daughter of our family only to turn almost immediately against her father?
“You said you’d hear me out.”
“This is silly, Cathal. It couldn’t be true. Even if it were, why would you tell me?” He sat there saying nothing, his dark eyes on me, and after a moment I added, “Why the questions about Deirdre? What are you implying?”
He unfolded himself from the steps and came to stand beside me. “Why would I tell you?” he echoed, and there was none of the old mocking tone in his voice. “This is not something I can take to Johnny or to your father, Clodagh. I’ve no evidence, only a hunch. My instincts tell me you may be personally at risk. It is only fair to warn you. As Illann’s wife, your twin is perfectly placed to spy for him. She need only exchange news with you by this special link the two of you possess, she need only ask an innocent question or two about what Lord Sean is doing, where he’s sending his men, which territorial disputes he’s involved with or which councils he’s attending. Why wouldn’t you answer her? She’s your sister; you trust her.”
I was quivering with anger. “Your instincts are quite wrong,” I said. “Deirdre wouldn’t dream of spying. We’re all loyal to our father. We love him. We love Sevenwaters. It’s a sacred trust to the whole family—”
“Clodagh.” Cathal put his hands on my shoulders. “Listen to me. Please.”
His touch set my whole body on edge. “Don’t!” I snapped, wrenching myself from his grip. Then, hearing the shrill sound of my own voice, I added more calmly, “All right, I’ll listen. But no more baseless accusations. Where did this notion come from? And why can’t we take it straight to Johnny?”
“No!” Cathal’s hands came up as if to touch me again, then he lowered them to his sides. “This is between you and me, Clodagh. At this point it is nothing more than surmise. An informed guess. There should be no need for action unless . . .”
“Unless Deirdre gets in contact with me and asks the kinds of questions a rival chieftain would ask?”
Cathal sighed. “If she does, you should tell your father immediately. Imagine how it could be if you passed on information to your sister and Illann then used it as the basis for an attack on Sevenwaters. That would look ill for you.”
“This makes no sense,” I said flatly. “An attack, what attack? Why would Illann take any such action? He and Father are allies.”
“It’s only a theory.” He was pacing now, arms wrapped around himself. “But possible nonetheless. How can I convince you to give it some credence?”
“You can’t,” I said. “I had thought we were edging toward being friends, Cathal. But these accusations against Deirdre are deeply offensive. And they’re rubbish. How can you possibly know something like that? How could you know what Illann might be planning if Johnny doesn’t?”
Cathal sighed. “Let me paint a picture for you, Clodagh. We’re in the west somewhere, right on the borders of your father’s land. At dusk a raiding party surrounds a substantial house owned by Lord Sean. The place is fortified, but it’s less well defended than it might be. The raiding party is large, thirty men at least, and they’re not led by Illann, but he’s behind the enterprise. Why, I cannot tell you, but perhaps it has to do with his links among the kinsmen of the High King. The place they’re attacking has elms and oaks close to the house. There’s a stream, a pond, a beech hedge. Two men have been sent in advance to disable the forward sentry post. As a result, the raiders get close enough to set fire to the main dwelling house before their presence is noticed. In the ensuing panic they kill most of the opposing fighters, and the custodian of the house is forced to flee into the woods with his family. The place burns down. The raiders report to the man who sent them: Illann. And Illann thanks his wife for passing on the information that she gleaned for him: that the place was not well defended, since their marriage had allayed any fears of attack in this quarter.”
Most of this long speech passed me in a blur; I had no wish to listen to such utter nonsense. Either the man was completely mad or this was an elaborate joke of some kind. In a moment he’d probably burst into derisive laughter and make some comment like, You actually believed me!
“The question remains, why would Illann attack my father?” I asked coolly.
“Such acts are generally carried out in order to seize some strategic advantage. At the very least, the news of such a coup would pass a message to all that Lord Sean’s authority is easier to shake than previously believed. With the imminent birth of a child who could replace Johnny as your father’s heir, folk will be anticipating a period of unrest at Sevenwaters. Perhaps northern and southern Uí Néill are in cooperation and plan to challenge your father from either side. Clodagh, don’t look at me like that. I’m serious.”
“If you are serious, tell my father.”
“Would he credit such a tale without a skerrick of proof? Would Johnny? All I want to do is warn you. If you know, you can avoid becoming involved. You can perhaps prevent this from occurring at all by refusing to give your sister any knowledge her husband could use to help him in such an endeavor.”
Any sympathy I’d been feeling for him after the Wolf-child tale had faded completely. My first impression of Cathal had been right after all: he was an arrant troublemaker. More than that, there was something seriously askew in his mind. “You’re one of Johnny’s men,” I reminded him. “Isn’t your first priority to do the right thing by him? I thought all his warriors were flawlessly loyal.”
“I am neither more nor less loyal than the others. Johnny believes Illann is an ally; so does Lord Sean. I have doubts. But I will not go to either of them with information I cannot support with evidence.”
“Then why bring it to me? Have you assessed me as completely gullible?”
His mouth formed a self-mocking twist. “Why indeed, since it is plain you will not listen?”
“I’m going inside,” I said. “I won’t promise not to speak of this to Father. He should know that you are questioning the motives of his close kin. Good night, Cathal. Please don’t come to me with any more wild theories. I’ve enough to worry about already.” I turned and walked away.
His voice
came softly from behind me. “I didn’t come to you,” he said. “You came to me.”
I entered the hall fully intending to report the whole conversation to my father. He’d recognize instantly how ridiculous Cathal’s suggestions were. Deirdre a traitor to the family? It was so silly it wasn’t worth thinking about. Not only was my twin devoted to our parents, she had never had the slightest interest in matters strategic or political. In the unlikely event that someone wanted her to obtain useful information, Deirdre wouldn’t even know what questions to ask.
I was two steps inside the door when Sibeal came rushing down the main stairs, calling my name. The look on her face made something clench tight inside me.
“Where were you, Clodagh?” My sister’s voice wobbled; she was making a heroic effort to sound calm. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Muirrin needs you upstairs right now.” As we went up together, Sibeal told me what I had guessed the moment I saw her. “The baby’s coming early. It shouldn’t be born for ages yet. Clodagh, I’m scared.”
I did not think Muirrin would need me for midwifery duties, and I was right. She was dealing capably with everything and had plenty of serving women to help her. Mother was sitting on the bed with Eithne supporting her. Her features formed a grotesque mask of pain. Aromatic herbs were burning on the hearth; their scent did not quite disguise the smell of blood. I waited until the spasm was over, then said something reassuring, I hardly knew what. Quite certain my terror must show on my face, I was deeply relieved when Muirrin drew me back toward the door.
“Clodagh, I’m assuming you’ll keep things calm downstairs,” my sister said in an undertone. “I’m afraid you won’t be getting much sleep. Johnny says he’ll sit up with Father. Please keep the younger ones away from here until this is over.”
A hush fell over the household. Whatever occurred, this would be a night of change for all of us. Our serving people were discreet, making regular appearances with jugs of ale or platters of food, vanishing from the hall when not required. From time to time one of the women would come down with a request from Muirrin—fresh linen, hot water, provisions for the childbed attendants. I went in and out of the kitchen making sure these supplies were provided promptly. Nobody went to bed. People who did not know her well might think that our mother, with her brisk manner and her insistence on everything being just so, would not be well loved by her serving folk. This was quite wrong. She had married Father when she was only sixteen, and the people of Sevenwaters had been witness to every joy and sorrow of her life since then. The sturdiest washerwoman and the dourest man-at-arms had tears in their eyes tonight. I reminded myself that I was the lady of the house, if only temporarily, and that I must be strong.
Sibeal and Eilis had both refused to go to bed. They had settled themselves by the fire with a blanket apiece, and now Aidan was cross-legged on the flagstones beside them, teaching them tricks with dice. Father kept getting up and sitting down again, lifting his cup of ale and putting it back on the tray untasted. Johnny was trying to engage him in conversation, but he might as well have been talking to a storm-tossed oak.
I didn’t give a thought to Cathal until I sat down much later, on Johnny’s orders, to have some food and drink. I looked over toward the main door, now closed against the cold, and realized I had not seen Cathal since our conversation in the yard. Watching Father as he paced, observing the furrow on his brow and the tight set of his jaw, I knew now was no time to pass on the crazy theory about Illann. “Is Cathal on duty tonight, Johnny?” I asked my cousin.
“I gave him the rest of the night off. If he’s got any sense he’ll be asleep. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I said, thinking that if this was true, Cathal must be the only person in the whole household who was not spending the night in edgy vigil. I was about to frame a question to Aidan about his childhood when a serving woman came running down the stairs and into the hall. Her words tumbled out. “My lord, the child’s born! You have a son!”
Father turned white. “Aisling,” he whispered. Before the woman could speak again, Muirrin appeared behind her with a tiny bundle in her arms, a little blanket wrapped around something no bigger than a doll.
“Mother’s doing quite well, considering.” My sister’s voice was less steady than usual. “You’ll be able to see her soon, Father.” When Father did not move forward to take his new son in his arms, Muirrin offered the baby to me.
He was very light, like a young rabbit or a hen. I folded the swathing blanket back and saw a neat face, the delicate lids closed over eyes whose color I could only guess at, the nose forthright, the fragile skull thatched with a good crop of dark hair, plastered flat by the debris of birth. His complexion was a mottled red. Sibeal came up on one side of me and Eilis on the other, and I showed them. A sweet smile played on Eilis’s face, but Sibeal reached out, expression grave, and touched the infant’s brow with one finger.
“What name will you give him, Father?” she asked.
“I hadn’t really thought . . .” Father sounded far away, as if he had been deeply shocked. I realized, to my wonder, that he had not until this moment ever considered it possible that both Mother and the child would survive. He sat down suddenly, his face in his hands.
Instinct told me what I must do. I moved to crouch by him, lifting the child alongside his knee. “Hold him, Father,” I murmured. “He’s Mother’s gift to you. Take him.”
He gathered the baby up, laying him on his lap. With a gentle hand he smoothed back the hair from the little brow. “He’s so small,” Father said. His fingers traced the faint brows, the strong nose, the tiny bud of the mouth. The child made a tentative sucking motion, and one hand appeared from the swathing cloth, miniature fingers clutching.
“He has the Sevenwaters look, Sean,” Johnny said quietly. “Perhaps he should be Colum, for your grandfather.”
The infant gave a snuffling sigh and closed his fingers around one of Father’s.
“No,” said Father shakily. “He’ll be called Finbar.”
CHAPTER 5
There were no celebrations. The birth of a son to the Sevenwaters family was a momentous event, but for now it was overshadowed by Mother’s precarious health. Although her labor had not been long, it had taxed her hard and the risk of childbed fever was high. Every time Muirrin came down to the hall the rest of us fell silent, anticipating bad news.
Because Mother was so frail, the baby did not stay in her chamber but was housed in the one next door, under the care of a nursemaid. Sibeal and I took turns watching him when the girl was eating or having her time off. It was not exactly hard work, as Finbar slept most of the time. It was hard to believe this was the same child who had kicked so vigorously against the confines of his mother’s belly. I liked sitting with him in the quiet of the nursery chamber. I liked his shadowy eyelids and his fine little fingers. When he did wake, I saw that his eyes would be the same as Sibeal’s, such a light gray-blue as to be almost colorless, and I thought the name Father had given him might be all too apt. “I don’t think it’s a very happy life, being a seer,” I whispered to my baby brother. “I wonder if it’s too late to change your mind?”
The drama of Finbar’s arrival, followed by the continuing unease of Mother’s illness, had crowded everything else out of my thoughts. Suppers were conducted in a somber hush; nobody wanted entertainment. When Finbar was five days old, the haunted look in Muirrin’s eyes began to fade and I heard her say, cautiously, that Mother was doing better than expected.
That evening Willow stepped forward after supper and addressed herself to my father. “Lord Sean, I offer the congratulations of the traveling people on the birth of your son,” the old woman said. “May he grow as strong in wisdom and as clear in vision as his namesake.” Finbar had been named after a beloved kinsman, one of Conor’s brothers, who had lived much of his life in lonely exile and had died in an act of noble self-sacrifice. Someone in our household must have told Willow this story. No doubt it would be g
rist to her mill, the stuff of future tales. “I must move on in the morning,” Willow added, “and I have yet one tale to tell. I would not walk away from this hospitable home in debt.”
“By all means tell us your tale tonight,” Father said. “We will welcome it.”
The old woman glanced around the hall, as if taking in exactly who was present and what might suit their need for learning. “I will not dwell on the problems of humankind,” said Willow. “I will tell a tale that belongs principally to the realm of the Fair Folk. You know of Mac Dara, the powerful prince of the Tuatha De Danann. I hope it will not shock the young folk here if I tell you that individuals like Mac Dara father children in the human world from time to time. And it’s not just the princes who get up to such antics. The fair ladies of the Tuatha De oft-times have their dalliance with human men and bear the fruits of it. Sometimes they act thus to gain a lever by which they can make mortals such as your fine selves dance to their tunes. Sometimes it’s for love, but such a passion fades all too quickly. What woman wants a lover who’ll be wrinkled and gray and bent while she is still in the fragrant blush of youth? Sometimes it’s for the simplest of reasons. The Fair Folk don’t breed easily among their own kind. The surest way to conceive a child is to couple with a young and healthy mortal.
“This tale deals with such goings-on. It tells of the particular curse that lies over those whose ancestry is both fairy and mortal. Of course, the family of Sevenwaters has some knowledge of that already.”
She must be talking about Ciarán, whose father had been Lord Colum of Sevenwaters, my great-grandfather, and whose mother had been a sorceress descended through a dark line of the Fair Folk. The old woman seemed to know a lot about us.
“We won’t speak of Mac Dara himself,” Willow went on. “He’s too shadowy and troublesome a character by far. Let’s start with a lovely lady, we’ll call her Albha, who had long hankered for a child of her own, a baby to love and nurture and dress up in cobweb and gossamer and swansdown, the sort of garments favored by the folk of the Tuatha De. Now the Fair Folk, as you must well know, are not renowned for their finer feelings. They’ve little capacity for love or forgiveness, loyalty or compassion. They do know desire, jealousy, anger and pride. Should they conceive a will to possess a thing, they pursue it with all their considerable power. Should they lose a prize, they exercise the same single-mindedness. The Tuatha De don’t like to be thwarted. They can’t abide coming out second best.
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