Warrior's Daughter

by Holly Bennett

  Sleep was my friend and waking a torment in the measureless time that followed. But never did my eyes open without seeing Roisin or Geanann at my side, ready with the draught that quieted my body and lulled me back to the darkness. Such strange sleep. I swooped and sank in my bed, and behind my eyelids colors and images bloomed and faded like the dancing lights that sometimes paint the northern sky.

  It was the poppy did that. Geanann told me later he had got it from a healer he met while studying in Alba, a man who had learned its uses in a faraway land where the sun blazed so hot you could burn the soles of your feet just walking on the earth. His small store was precious, though, and he soon switched me to a weaker brew of local herbs. And so I found myself truly awake and able to really look at the man who had hurt me so terribly. Bright-faced Geanann. That’s what they call him, and one look was enough to show the reason. His mother must have been very fair, for he had little of Cathbad’s darkness about him, but was golden-haired with a boyish high color to his cheeks. Only his eyes spoke of his father, for they were a deep storm-gray where one expected blue.

  I made to shift my position—I had lain so long in one place that the straw was packed hard against the bed boards and my back was complaining—and instantly it was my whole body complaining, and loudly. No doubt it showed on my face.

  “Sore?” asked Geanann.

  “Yes,” I said. Tried to say. It came out a hoarse rasp and felt about the same. I ached everywhere, as if I had been through a battle. I suppose I had.

  “For a woman drugged and sick, you fought like a bear,” he said apologetically. Then, perhaps regretting the memories he had sparked, he turned back to the present.

  “You are doing marvelously well, despite your aches. The fever is nearly gone, and the swelling on your cheek is improving already.” He hoisted up my shoulders and gave me a spoonful of thick syrup, warm and sweet with honey. “For your throat,” he said.

  I took stock of myself and realized what he said was true. My face hurt unrelentingly, but the skin no longer felt stretched tight as a drumskin. My head felt clearer and my limbs lay still, free from the quaking grip of fever. I would live.

  Geanann had saved me. I cleared my throat experimentally and looked up at him, meaning to say my thanks. Instead I surprised myself. “You don’t look like a druid.”

  That made him laugh, and the merry sound of it lifted my spirits in a way nothing else could have. It was long since there had been any laughter in my life, and I felt my own lips curl into a careful smile.

  “Doubtless that’s because I am not yet fully vested, but have attained only the first order,” he replied. “In ten years’ time, I promise you, I shall look as severe and wise as Cathbad himself.”

  Three times seven years of study it takes to become a master with the wisdom to guide kings and train apprentices. Geanann had the eyes already: observant, perceptive, quietly commanding. But even with his hairline shaved back in the tonsure of the master druid, I doubted he would ever resemble Cathbad.

  A slow tickly motion on my cheek distracted me, and I made—wincing—to lift a hand and brush the stray hair away. Geanann stopped me, leaning over my face with a thin straw in his hand. “Back to work, you,” I heard him mutter, and there was a momentary twinge as the straw poked at my wound.

  “You’d like to know who it is I am addressing,” he stated as he sat back on his heels. “That was one of my helpers.”

  “What helpers?” Could he speak with the spirits, I wondered, glancing uneasily into the rafters.

  “Maggots,” he said cheerily.

  Maggots. Every flyblown carcass and writhing mass of bad meat I had ever seen appeared in my mind’s eye, and my own face alongside them. My stomach did a slow roll.

  “Roisin thought the same as you. I almost had to fight her to get at you with them.”

  “You put them in me?” My voice was back, loud and clear and full of indignant revulsion. “You put maggots in me?!”

  “Be glad I did,” he answered calmly, serious now. “They are cleaning out the poison and dead flesh in the deep places I could not reach, and they have very likely saved the sight in your left eye.”

  “But—”

  “But what? Are they hurting you? Would you prefer the clumsy slicing of my knife?”

  No. Not that.

  I took a deep breath and put my mind to the facts. My cheek felt better, not worse. I could not even tell the maggots were there. Perhaps most importantly, I had come to trust in Geanann’s skill.

  “But what happens when they run out of dead flesh?” I imagined them burrowing into my living tissue. It made me shudder.

  “They cannot eat healthy flesh,” he assured me. “When they are done, they will come out.”

  Something to look forward to.

  For two more days I rested and gained strength, and soon I was well enough to notice that Geanann and Roisin grew more uneasy by the hour. By the time they came to speak to me, I had figured out the reason.

  “Conchobor will be sending men here, won’t he?”

  Geanann nodded. “And soon. It is coming on ten days since you left Emain Macha. Not to mince words, he will think he has left you ample time to die.”

  “And if they find me alive?”

  I watched his mouth flatten into a grim line and knew that his thinking matched my own. “Having begun this charade, I do not think Conchobor can afford to leave you alive and risk having his treachery revealed. The warriors remember how he misused Fergus to his own ends to regain Deirdriu. He will lose their trust entirely if this comes out.”

  I understood then—and the bitterness of it was sour in my mouth—that only the king’s treatment of his men was at issue here. It was for the betrayal of Cuingedach and Abhartach, and for my father’s memory, they would not forgive him. There would be no hot uprising on my account.

  It does not come easy to a warrior’s child to flee in the face of an enemy. My father’s spirit cried out for me to stand, and at the thought a fierce defiant joy sang in me. To die defending my home, to make a brave end—it was bright and clean and strong, compared to a murky future that seemed to have shrunk into skulking dishonor.

  But it was not just my own life I held in my hand. Berach and his men might defend Dun Dealgan against the first troops to arrive from Emain Macha, but they would not withstand the might of Ulster for long. And I was no warrior, despite my hot blood. I would not spend others’ lives for a hopeless cause.

  It was Berach’s idea to knock down the flimsy inner walls and destroy more thatch to make the house as uninhabitable as possible. “They’ll find the place abandoned, looted and wide open to the weather,” he proposed. “So it’s not likely they’ll install a new chieftain without a long rebuilding. That will buy you some time, at least.”

  Roisin had ridden ahead to let her family know we were coming, and as Geanann and I prepared to follow I tried once more.

  “Geanann, honestly, there’s no need for the cart. Orlagh has a nice smooth pace and—”

  “You are not ready to ride,” he cut me off.

  He was right—my legs were trembly already, just from being out of bed—but I bristled at his tone. The friendly warmth had gone, replaced by a voice designed to shut down discussion. Druid authority speaks. And I might have been cowed by it, was I not still so full of bottled-up battle lust. I let it out now.

  “I will not leave this place in a god-cursed cart! Bad enough that I am running from my own home. It is the daughter of Emer the Fair and Cuchulainn of Muirthemne who speaks now, and I tell you I will ride from here with my head held high or I will stay in my bed and wait for them to kill me!”

  I untied Orlagh’s lead line from the back of the cart and flung myself into the saddle. My cheek flared at the sudden exertion, but I paid it no mind. I was missing something. “Where is my sword?”

  “Here, my lady.”

  It was Berach. He astonished me by presenting the sword formally, laid across his two great fists, and
then stepping back to drop to one knee, hand over his heart. “At your service, always,” he said.

  I could feel the tears pressing behind my eyes. But I made them stay there. It is no way to receive a warrior’s oath, with weeping. I drew myself straight in the saddle and laid my own hand over my breast. “There is no man I trust more, Berach,” I said. I gazed down at his pale fierce eyes, his blunt face, and knew the words to be true.

  I buckled on the sword, nodded to Berach and wheeled Orlagh about. Then I looked over my shoulder to Geanann.

  “Are you ready, then?”

  “At your service,” he murmured. He had an odd look on his face, and I could not tell whether his words were ironic or not.

  Berach grinned and raised a hand in salute as I kicked my mare into a canter.

  I did not look back again.

  I did regret my haughty words, though. To speak thus to one of the Wise Ones, a man to whom I owed my life! He had no need to be spending his days looking after a beleaguered girl, I reminded myself.

  And so I soon reined in my horse and waited for Geanann to come alongside me. He said nothing, merely gazed at me with that neutral, unreadable expression that is part of a druid’s training.

  “Cathbad warned me once against misplaced pride,” I said. “My words did not match the respect I hold for you, and I am ashamed to have spoken them. I beg your forgiveness.” My voice trembled a little at the end, and the tears did prick out in my eyes now, but I kept them trained on Geanann.

  I swear it is like watching the sun sail out from behind the clouds when he smiles. The whole world is suddenly brighter.

  “Conchobor should have made you a true queen,” he said. “You would have been formidable.”

  It was the last thing I expected to hear. I ducked my head, flustered and at a complete loss for words.

  “Shall we slow down to a walk now?” Geanann continued. “It is entirely your decision, of course, but for myself I have seen enough blood pouring from that wound, which is barely knit together, and would prefer that it not be jarred open.”

  It was a slow trip to Brocc’s homestead. I followed Geanann’s pace without complaint, and the sun slanted low in the sky when we finally clip-clopped into the smith’s yard. To my dismay, the half-day ride had worn me right down to a nub—but I was at least unbloodied.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE HIDDEN ROAD

  A skilled smith is an honored craftsman, and Brocc’s home was prosperous and comfortable. Roisin’s sisters and aunt plied me with hot food, warm baths and a stream of bright magpie chatter that seemed to flow from their mouths as naturally as breath.

  Two days in that busy, cheerful home had done much to restore my strength, but nothing to quiet my mind.

  I saw now what a strange and isolated upbringing I’d had. Roisin could scarcely comprehend how alone I was in the world. Though her own mother had died in her last childbirth, Roisin had grown up within a great web of family. Her father’s widowed sister and her son had lived with them since Roisin was a nursling; her mother’s two sisters had each taken a turn at fostering her. There were uncles to share in the working of the lands and the training of unruly boys, young cousins who played and fought and slept together like puppies. It was enough to make me weep.

  But the faults of my childhood were beside the point. I had to decide what to do next, and soon. Yet all the paths before me, it seemed, led to a dead end.

  Geanann’s patient ear had helped trace the paths, but he had not found me a better one. My choices boiled down to two.

  If I moved quickly, I could try to hold Dun Dealgan. It was mine, after all. We would not last long against attack by the combined forces of Ulster, but perhaps Conchobor would not risk an outright assault. He might not want to test his chieftains’ loyalty by setting them against the orphaned child of their greatest champion. Still, what then? Would I reveal his plot? Alone, I had no proof, only wild accusations. Cathbad would not support my claim—he had made it clear he was not willing to overturn the throne of Ulster and risk a further weakening of leadership at this vulnerable time. Without these accusations, I had no grounds for divorce. So I would remain Conchobor’s estranged wife, and my life would remain the sole impediment to his securing of Muirthemne.

  “He wants that title free and clear for his grown sons,” Geanann had agreed solemnly. “In the natural course of things, you would outlive him and retain your lands. He will not let that happen.”

  So, that was one possible future: locked behind the gates of my own home, watching always for the assassin’s blade, the poisoned drink, the sudden attack, with no real chance of prevailing.

  Or I could seek refuge with my uncles in Leinster. My mother’s brothers had been spared by Cuchulainn and they knew it. They had never fought directly against my father. We had not met, but I was their blood relation—surely they would give me sanctuary?

  “They will want you to join your lands to their family,” said Geanann. “Will you war against Ulster on their behalf to secure Muirthemne?”

  Why not? I thought hotly. It is Ulster has turned its hand against me. There was warrior enough in me to lust after revenge.

  Except when I tried to picture the outcome, either victory or defeat, an image rose up in its stead. It was the row of heads Conall Cearnach had laid out at my mother’s feet I saw, taken in vengeance for my father’s death. Buzzing with flies, rank with gore, they filled me with weary disgust. Death for death for death. I had had enough of it.

  Would I go, then, to my uncles, without lands or herds? I would not be destitute—there was the buried cache my mother had shown me, a bride’s portion and more, she had said. I could pay for my keep. Live on the edges of the family, a single woman bound to gratitude. Or I could marry. It is not legal, of course, for a woman to have more than one husband—but that would not preclude an informal bond until Conchobor’s death freed me. But what man would want me? My face was ruined—the shocked expressions of Roisin’s family when they first clapped eyes on me had made that clear. Geanann said that in time the scar would tighten together and the angry color fade, but he admitted it would always be a broad dusky track across my face. So: no beauty, no lands and the enmity of the King of Ulster. I was not likely to be beating off the suitors.

  Was this what I had struggled back from the edge of death for? It was a chance, I reminded myself. Every peasant in Ireland faced worse prospects and a harder life. But I was no peasant, and the role of refugee repelled me.

  How long had it been since I had rambled the countryside with Fintan? My lovely plain swelled and dipped before me, its long vista dotted here and there with farmholdings but the peace of it unbroken. The clang of Brocc’s hammer and the bustle of his household fell away behind me, and for a moment I let myself imagine I was a carefree girl again, a girl confident of her place in the world. A girl with no more pressing task than to slip the lead of her tutors and taskmasters and give herself to sweet daydreams.

  I was no longer that girl.

  But the anxious useless circling of my own thoughts was driving me mad. I needed to escape them for a while. I needed to be quiet, inside and out. And so I walked, and my legs, weak at first from disuse, soon found their easy stride and strength. I watched the clouds scud across the sky, felt the wind lift my hair, startled and then laughed as a grouse exploded out of a thicket in noisy alarm. Fintan flew before me, lighting down to investigate where he would, but never far away.

  Geanann’s astonishing words echoed in my head: “Conchobor seeks your death because he fears you. His first intent may have been to keep you as a powerless bride, but he soon saw you would not submit to his domination for long.”

  “I gave him no cause,” I protested. “I was obedient to his will.”

  Geanann smiled. “It is nothing that you did,” he said. “You have the mark of power on you. My father saw it when you were but a child.”

  Cathbad, apparently, believed I had a worthy future. But all my straining and grasping h
ad failed to reveal it.

  So I walked, and let my mind slowly empty, as I had done nearly every day as a child at Dun Dealgan. I let my thoughts reel away into the clouds, leaving the inner turmoil behind, stretching out instead to the vista surrounding me. I walked, and the rhythm of my legs and heart and breath seemed to match some great heartbeat of the earth. Thrumming through grass and rock and tree, through every finch and beetle, I felt the vital energy of a world that does not question its existence but seeks only to live. It hummed in me as well. I was alive and well and part of this green and golden plain. For the moment, it was enough.

  When my legs tired and my cheek’s complaints from the jarring of my own tread became insistent, I lay in the turf and closed my eyes. The autumn grass was tall and plumed, no longer bright with summer flowers, but dotted still with flat white yarrow blossoms and the pink stalks of redshank. I breathed in the earth smell, rich and damp, the clean freshness of grass. I allowed myself to be happy.

  The answer, when it came, was so obvious that there was no thunderclap of inspiration but only quiet certainty. One moment it was unthought of, the next inevitable, as if all my life had led me to this one place. The longer I held it in my heart, the more right it felt.

  I knew now what I wanted for my life. It sang to me with every step as I made my way back to Brocc’s house. It remained only to see if Cathbad would grant it. I thought he would. He had, after all, given me his raven. A druid’s raven.

  Geanann did not even wait for me to speak. He took one look at me, and his face lit up in that sunny grin.

  “You have found your road, I see.”

  I smiled back. I had best get used to such second-guessing.

  “And you already know what it is, I suppose.”

  “That I do. My father foresaw this end for you long ago, if not the manner of your arriving there. But it was not permitted that I should suggest it to you.”