When she cautiously emerged from her alcove, he had both elbows propped on the table, gazing morosely out the back door. The view remained the same as always—the small pond across from their garden. With a start, she realized what day it was.
The Ides of April had always been a special time for Airtre, and she cursed herself for not remembering. On this day, decades ago when they’d been young, Airtre’s own brother, Maithi, had died in an accident on a lake.
From what Étaín had discovered, Airtre blamed himself for the death. They’d been acting the fool in their fishing curragh, and the small craft had tipped over. Maithi had hit his head and sunk. Airtre had searched but didn’t find him in time. They found the boy’s body several leagues downriver, tangled amongst the weeds.
On this day, every spring, Airtre remembered his brother and mourned his death. It meant his closest friend, Cadhla, should be here soon. Cadhla had been trained as a midach, a healer, and while his presence didn’t heal Airtre’s old heartache, it at least eased the pain.
Normal routine did not apply on this day. Today would be a day of reflection and grief; a day to observe the second rule of Saint Columbanus, the Rule of Silence. Though Cluain Mhic Nóis followed the Order of Saint Benedict, which did not require strict silence, Airtre often espoused the value of silence for his spiritual needs. Étaín gave thanks for the respite it offered her.
Étaín gathered what she needed for Cadhla’s visit. Some bainne clabair, a thick mixture of old milk and sour cream to drink. Some bland food to eat. Nothing fancy, nothing spiced. Airtre would not taste the food he ate today. He would spend the day in a fog of depressed gloom. Cadhla would sit with him to keep him company, but few words would be said.
With her preparations complete, she must leave for the day. Her presence was neither needed nor wanted on this day, and well she knew it. Cadhla arrived, and she silently led him to his spot next to Airtre at the table. The midach, a tall, thin man with graying hair, nodded to her and poured himself a mug of the bainne clabair, then one for Airtre. Her husband moved, and she jumped, but he only reached for the mug. She bowed her head and left them to their day.
Maelan tended to the horses as his normal duties required. She recalled Bressel’s suggestion to find a tutor for the lad and decided she might curry favor with Airtre to inquire at the abbey about the possibility.
“Maelan, when you’re done mucking out the stable, find me in the garden. I’ve an errand at the abbey and would like your help.”
He nodded and poured another bucket of oats into the feeding trough. The colt nickered in thanks and he patted her neck. Étaín smiled at the exchange. The lad worked well with animals, and she appreciated his deft touch with the horses. Airtre didn’t care for the animals, seeing them as tools to do the farm work. While he owned ten cows, just a couple short of the amount he’d need to be considered a lord, he left their care to her and Maelan. They had the cows, twenty-three sheep, four horses, twelve chickens, a rooster and four pigs.
She perceived each creature’s soul as something precious, and she suspected Maelan‘s view reflected her own.
Just as she finished weeding the medicinal herbs, Maelan appeared, wiping his hands clean. “Perfect timing, Maelan. Come, I’ll get my cloak, and we’ll go to the abbey.”
“The abbey? What do you need there?”
“You shall see, child. Patience.”
Airtre and Cadhla hadn’t moved from their place at the table, though some of the bainne clabair had been drunk. She left silently.
Maelan skipped along next to her, using a switch from the apple tree to draw a line after them in the dirt. He kicked a rock from the path and hummed a tune.
Étaín recognized the tune, a particularly salacious song a traveling bard had performed the week before. “If you hum it where your grandfather can hear, you might earn a blow, Maelan.”
“But it’s just music! I’m not singing the words.”
“It matters not. He knows the song and disapproves of the subject. Therefore, the tune is also forbidden.”
He hung his head in sullen silence for a while before asking, “Why does he disapprove of it? Other men like it.”
She smiled. “Many men like such things, and many men joke about such things. However, most such songs are disrespectful to women. Regardless, as a priest, your grandfather must follow standards set by the church. One of those standards is a moral code for relations between men and women.”
“But married couples do those things, too!”
“Yes, but according to the church, they aren’t supposed to have fun with it.” The excuse sounded thin, even to her. Airtre considered the act a sin if performed for pleasure alone with no chance of issue. She had never conceived easily. Luckily, she knew several herbs to keep her from becoming with child. Since she appeared to be in her sixth decade, such condition would absolutely cause dangerous talk.
To be fair, many of the rules had only recently been enacted. News came of a big conclave some winters ago in Rome to set new standards for priests. One of those forbade priests to marry, but exempted those already in wedlock. Étaín had little faith such strictures would be maintained, but at the moment, it made her own marriage even more strained than it had been.
She must move on soon.
Despite her pessimism, the day remained bright for the walk to the abbey. The sun shone, and though the chilly wind blew, the air felt fresh and held the promise of warmth later in the day. A bird sang on the tree as they walked by. Maelan still held his apple switch and hit low branches as he passed. With one such blow, an explosion of feathers erupted, causing both Étaín and Maelan to cover their heads from the winged assault. Two pheasants scuttled along the ground, escaping their tormentor with squawks of protest.
With a rueful chuckle, Étaín said, “Perhaps you should refrain from any more offenses to the forest creatures, Maelan. They seem displeased with your incursions.”
He kicked at a clod of dirt in the path. “They’re just birds.”
“Birds are still God’s creatures, Maelan. You should only hurt them if you are hunting and need to eat.”
Her grandson gave no answer but continued to pout. When another bird fluttered away from their progress, he glanced at Étaín. Seeing her eyebrows raised, he kept his switch by his side rather than rap it against the branch. She nodded in approval. “See, child? Kindness is not so difficult.”
As they rounded the corner, the river Sionann came into view, wide and slow, faint ripples from the swift wind on its surface. The massive timber bridge, already two hundred winters old, spanned the wide river. While wide enough for two carts to pass abreast, the bridge stood more solid than most roundhouses. On the other side stood the massive abbey of Cluain Mhic Nóis.
The sheer bustle of the abbey always surprised Étaín. She didn’t come here often, as her place remained in the home, but occasionally she had an errand, such as today. Almost two thousand people lived and worked around the abbey.
Several stone buildings huddled inside the sturdy curtain wall. The cathedral loomed in the center, a square stone structure built by Chief Flann Sinna centuries ago. There were several smaller temples around the low hill, which hugged the shore. Two intricately carved High Crosses, stone memorials created for honoring great people, dominated the space between the temples, and a stone carved crozier not far away. Étaín always thought it odd one of the smaller chapels had a huge faerie stone next to it, carved with ancient pagan symbols, but the monks paid it little mind these days.
It hadn’t been so long ago pagan ways ruled Hibernia, perhaps five hundred winters past. Christianity arrived slowly at first, in anchorite devotions and monastic huts. Missionaries came to preach the word of the Christian God and his gentle Son, but the island remained mostly wedded to their pagan ways.
Then, when Saint Patrick arrived and concentrated his efforts on the nobility, beliefs changed quickly. The interlopers adapted local customs and sacred spaces to the new religion, meldi
ng the new names to old deities, making saints out of gods. Wells sacred to a goddess became dedicated to Saint Brigid.
Christian churches now sported pagan symbols like swirling spirals and sheela-na-gigs, female figures with grotesque faces and vulva, and no one seemed to notice. Perhaps ignoring a faerie stone became a small thing to ignore within the majesty of the Christian God.
Just within the walls, the hostelry and pilgrims’ quarters were two low, long rectangular buildings. They varied in luxury from bare cots of straw to private rooms for the more illustrious visitors.
In addition to the rectangular church buildings, roundhouses and out-buildings stood against the surrounding wall which held crafters, artisans, merchants, and other support for the abbey itself. Several large farms and more people surrounded the complex. The cries of pigs, cows and chickens occasionally tried to drown out the sheer noise from so many people in one place, but rarely succeeded.
No such thing as quiet existed in Cluain Mhic Nóis proper.
The trail grew dusty after Étaín and Maelan crossed the bridge, and the odors of the marketplace assaulted her. Rotted vegetables, sour milk and animal waste were the prevalent aromas of the river’s edge. As they approached the abbey gate, those foul odors gave way to more savory offerings of fresh-baked bread and spices. Hawkers cried out for attention, dangling examples of their wares in her face. Étaín flinched from each approaching merchant, holding tightly to her grandson’s hand. She didn’t know if she gripped him for her own protection or to keep him from getting lost in the pressing crowd, but she didn’t care. The crowded, noisy marketplace made her long for the peace of her garden.
When they finally reached the gate itself, she breathed a sigh of relief. She rested against a fence and closed her eyes while she caught her breath.
Maelan pulled on her hand. “Grandmother? Are you ill?”
“No, child, I’m only overwhelmed. I don’t come here often.”
She opened her eyes to see him screw his brow up in confusion. The lad didn’t understand her unease with so many people. No wonder—he’d grown up next to this massive throng of people and considered it a natural thing. She’d grown up in a much smaller place, a fishing village on the west coast, far from this crushing maelstrom.
She pushed herself from her resting place and turned toward the gate. It stood wide and welcoming on this spring day, and with renewed purpose, they strode through together.
As they passed the gate, the sound of hawking merchants died out, but the cries of construction crews replaced the cacophony of human affluence. Instead of the aromas of fruit and incense, she smelled stone dust, dirt, and sweat.
Étaín had lived near Cluain Mhic Nóis for over thirty winters. Every day she went to the village market, but the abbey itself seemed a different world. Every year they added a new structure, a new section, new building to the huge property. Even with frequent raids from neighboring clans, one just ten winters before, the abbey endured and grew.
A shout to her right startled her, making her shuffle away to the left, almost knocking Maelan over. A loud crash and an angry curse bellowed by a man covered in white dust were followed by momentary silence. The enormous square stone block split apart, a huge, angry crack through the center.
The silence shattered with screaming imprecations by the dusty man to his crew, and they scrambled to escape his wrath. Étaín grabbed Maelan’s hand and scampered away, past the hostelry and toward the Scriptorium.
Étaín had learned to read and write many, many winters ago in another such place in the west. Brennan had taught her, and she cherished wonderful memories of hours in the sunlit room, scratching out her letters on a wax practice tablet. He’d been patient with her mistakes, so she had tried to be when she taught Maelan.
At least, until Airtre and Bressel had discovered them.
Until then, Airtre had only hit her occasionally, light cuffs to correct her without truly harming her. That day, just three winters before, when he’d discovered not only did his wife read and write, but that she taught their grandson, he’d turned into a monster out of dark legend.
Bressel’s face had grown red and his mouth thin. He glared with stormy eyes at the tablet, the stylus in her hand, and Maelan’s first halting attempts at letters.
“What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing, woman?”
She blinked several times. “Teaching Maelan to write.”
The blow had come so quickly, she’d had no chance to duck. Étaín suddenly sprawled on the floor, pain splitting her temple. She grew dizzy and dared not try to stand. She didn’t understand the malfeasance. While women were seldom literate, it wasn’t unheard of. Why should he care if Maelan learned his letters?
“How dare you? Airtre, your grandson should never be taught by a woman. He deserves the honor of being taught by a true monk of the church, not some slattern with no family name!”
With no further urging from Bressel, Airtre clenched his jaw and delivered several increasingly powerful blows to Étaín until she fell into the corner. She cowered under his raised fist, shielding her head from another blow. Her ears still rung from the last one, and she didn’t think she’d remain conscious if he hit her again.
Her name? He worried about her name? She silently urged Maelan to run away, far away, to keep him from earning any punishment. The boy’s gaze flicked between Bressel and his grandparents, unmoving, his eyes wide as an owl.
Étaín had a family name, a good name. She’d been born to the Ua Neachtain chief, a fourth daughter of the house. However, she would never let Airtre know that. That girl had died over a hundred winters before, and she would never claim her name nor her family.
No one could ever know her family name again.
The painful memory made her shake her head, and she hurried Maelan past the Scriptorium and its mix of delight and terror. Since that day, Airtre hadn’t beaten her badly until recently. She fretted it might mean a resurgence of violence. Étaín could handle the pain herself, but she worried it might spill over onto Maelan.
Next, they passed the apothecary and herb house, full of aromatic medicines and perfumes. Normally Cadhla would be busy at his preparations, but he was at her own home today, with Airtre. She occasionally came to him for herbs and spices she couldn’t find in the market. They appreciated each other’s deep knowledge.
Thus bolstered, she drew Maelan along past the beautifully carved stone cross, covered in details of the Crucifixion. Next to the cross stood a tiny chapel built for the anchorites, hermit-like monks, who lived in Cluain Mhic Nóis. One exited, coughing into his hands as she passed.
They approached the main cathedral’s entrance. To the right lay the small roundhouse which served as the administrative offices of the abbey. Before she asked the abbot for such a large favor, however, she needed to honor God first.
With her gaze cast down, she entered the cathedral. Maelan stood next to her, his head down. She dipped her fingers in the holy font and prayed to God for forgiveness and grace.
The exquisite cathedral was the largest building she’d ever seen, completely constructed of dressed and carved brown sandstone. The central tower rose high, higher than the loftiest roundhouse, taller than four men standing on each other’s shoulders. The building had been formed long and rectangular, with carvings of saints at each column.
Her heart soared as she approached the altar. This magnificent construction filled her with wonder and delight. She knelt and opened her mind to the celestial.
A particular silence was part of a church. Not the mere absence of sound, but a palpable presence. Not the silence of a forest waiting on the rain, nor the silence in the pale hour before dawn. Instead, there existed a silence of the soul, a quieting of the worries of the world. As if God looked down upon her with grace and joy, and a tiny portion trickled through the heavens and into her body, momentarily suffusing her with the blazing light of the summer sun.
Étaín had been raised in a Christian househo
ld, but she’d learned the old ways. Her third mother-in-law, a hedge-witch, had taught her about the older gods, those who still lived in the oak groves and sacred wells. She saw no reason she shouldn’t believe in both, especially on days such as today, when she felt touched by the divine spark in all living things.
With a sigh of pure tranquility, she rose and glanced around for her grandson. He ran his hand over one of the grotesques carved in a sandstone column near the door. With an indulgent smile, she reclaimed his hand, and they exited the sacred space.
The administrative roundhouse seemed meager compared with the wonder and majesty of the cathedral, but she almost felt relief to be in the humbler structure. The elderly clark looked up from his task as she entered, annoyance patent on his face. He held his quill at the ready, evidently expecting her interruption to be miniscule.
He looked her up and down, observing her simple but clean clothing. His eyes lingered on her cheek, noting the purpling bruise. “Yes? How can I be of service, child?”
Étaín wanted to laugh the designation of ‘child’, but swallowed her irritation. “My grandson, Maelan, is in need of a good, respectable tutor. My husband, Airtre, is a local priest, and in charge of the hostelry this season. I should like to speak to the abbot for his recommendation from the monks in his care.”
The clark stared at Maelan for several seconds before nodding. “Very well. I shall see if the abbot has some time for you.”
He swept past Étaín and Maelan before she realized. She looked outside, but he’d already disappeared among the people crossing the yard, about on their daily business.
“How long will we need to wait, Grandmother?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea, mo chuisle. Still, we do need to be respectful and await the abbot’s pleasure. He’s a powerful man, and has authority over all of Cluain Mhic Nóis and the surrounding farms.”
“Is he more powerful than Grandfather?”
She chuckled. “Far more powerful, child—by several degrees. If the abbot decided he didn’t like us, he might forcibly buy our farm and make us move away.”
Misfortune of Time: Druid's Brooch Series, #6 Page 3
