Misfortune of Time: Druid's Brooch Series, #6

by Christy Nicholas

  When Odhar let his chin go, Maelan walked to a stool next to the table and sat, his head in his hands. Odhar chuckled, but Étaín thought his attitude much too casual for the amount of trouble he’d caused for everyone.

  She raised an eyebrow at her grandson. “Are you under the impression your truancy will go unpunished, child?”

  He frowned, playing with a dark spot on the wooden table. Étaín glanced at Odhar, who barely contained his mirth. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he composed himself appropriately. Étaín turned to Maelan, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “As delighted as I am to see you safe and sound, you must still be disciplined for your disobedience. What would you say is an appropriate punishment for the crime, knowing what you do of Brehon Law?”

  Maelan made a show of considering, raising first his right hand, palm up, and then his left, as if debating something in front of an audience. He cocked his head several times and blinked before he grinned. “I should be made to take more lessons in obedience.”

  After resisting the urge to laugh, Étaín said, “I’m afraid that won’t be sufficient for your grandfather. While I shall not add to any physical correction he will deem necessary, taking more lessons—when you obviously enjoy them—is not a properly arduous chastisement for your truancy.”

  Odhar touched her arm. “Now, Étaín, the boy meant no harm, truly. He likely learned a great deal about humility and piety during his night.”

  “That’s true enough, but some penalty must be exacted, or what’s to stop him from doing it again next time? Besides, if I’m too light on the boy, his grandfather will overcompensate on his part. I’d do whatever it takes to save the child from his blows.”

  Her voice grew faint, and she caught her breath. How did she ever speak of such a thing with Odhar? Her relationship with her husband must remain between them, a sacred vow. Their family dynamic should be just as private.

  Odhar put his arms around her and held her in a tight hug, stroking her gray braid. She wanted to sob into his shoulders and take comfort from his strong arms, and she found it difficult to resist the urge. Only the knowledge her grandson remained in the room, surely watching with a great deal of prurient interest stopped her from giving herself completely into Odhar’s soothing embrace.

  Still, she felt safe in Odhar’s arms, a sensation she’d had all too seldom lately. The hug continued for much longer than she’d intended, but she felt loath to pull away from the comfort.

  The hedge-witch from the village flashed through her memory, and she opened her mouth to ask Odhar when a sound at the door made her startle back. Guiltily, she looked around and saw Cadhla at the entrance. He had an odd expression on his face, quizzical and concerned at the same time. He glanced at Maelan. “I see the lad is safe. Has Airtre been notified?”

  Étaín gave a sharp nod.

  “Good. I must speak with you, Étaín. That is if you’re finished here?” He waved his hand at Odhar in a vaguely dismissive fashion.

  She glanced at Odhar, who shooed her away. “We’ll talk later, perhaps tomorrow, Étaín. Go along; it’s time Maelan actually learned something today.”

  As they walked outside into a blustery wind, Cadhla took her arm. His grip clutched painfully. He steered her toward one of the small chapels. She tried to protest, but he simply said, “Shh. Let us get inside.”

  When they entered Teampull Chiaráin, he pulled her down on the bench near the one window. He jerked her arm so hard, she cried out in protest.

  “Étaín, what are you playing at? You know well what Airtre’s reaction would be if he’d seen you. Do you want to be beaten within an inch of your life? We barely saved you from the last time. Are you quite mad?”

  She shrank away from the onslaught, and his face turned stricken. “Oh, Étaín, I am so sorry. That’s as bad as the beating, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, and he gathered her into his arms. Twice, no three times today, she’d been hugged by someone, not her husband. Maelan, Odhar, and now Cadhla. If she hadn’t been on such a wild boat ride of emotions today, she might grow to quite enjoy this.

  When he let her go, she took a deep breath. “I truly am not trying to tempt neither fate nor my husband’s temper, Cadhla. Odhar only comforted me after a trying night full of worry for Maelan. I’m more concerned about Airtre’s reaction to the boy than to anything I’ve done, to be honest.”

  Cadhla narrowed one eye at her. “What are you, that you don’t care if you’re beaten?”

  She laughed ruefully and put her hand on his. “It’s not that I don’t care, not in the slightest. It’s just that… well, it’s happened so many times in my life, it no longer terrifies me. Yes, it’s painful and frightening, but I’ve survived it, and more often than you can ever understand. I’ve never suffered any long-lasting ill from it, at least not physically.” While she ascribed it to brooch’s faerie magic, she did heal quickly from broken bones or wounds.

  “Now you’re an even greater mystery. Many times, is it? I don’t seem to recall Airtre beating you so often or so badly. I do admit, it’s been much worse lately than in the past.”

  She shook her head, unable to answer. How could she tell him she spoke of prior husbands’ attentions? Of her foster-father, so many decades ago? Though, if anyone might understand her unique situation, Cadhla might. He had witnessed her magic.

  Étaín could tell him. She should tell him, after all he’d done for her. He deserved to know about the magical brooch, given to her from her dying mother’s hand over a hundred winters ago. She might tell him about the many lives and families she’d had to abandon. He would understand the cruel husbands and the kind ones, the forgotten children, and grandchildren. No, not forgotten, not by her; but she’d been forgotten and long dead to them. She daren’t even find out if her descendants lived. For her to show up in their lives again, even as a stranger, risked someone remembering her face. One cry of “witch” or “faerie” and a terrified mob would be her doom.

  Her magic brooch wouldn’t be much help against such a death.

  Cadhla watched her, waiting for an answer. She did owe him the tale for his silence. Had he asked a question? Ah yes, about her beatings. “I’m older than I look, Cadhla. Therefore, even if I were free, Odhar is much too young for me. I’d been married before I met Airtre.”

  He blinked several times. “You were? You are? But you look younger than he is. You’ve been married to Airtre for over thirty winters. You can’t be more than sixty winters yourself, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were closer to fifty. Did you marry your first husband at twelve winters? Is this related to the magic of your appearance? When you looked younger?”

  She’d been thirteen when her foster-father sold her to the old man who’d been her first brutish introduction to marital bliss. He’d been a fat, angry man, with a red face and a bulbous nose. At least he’d been wealthy enough to keep her in style. Her foster-father gained relief from several debts with her betrothal.

  Her husband had beaten her more than her foster-father had. She shivered, remembering the day, so long ago, when her husband took her on their marriage night. He’d found her already used, and had struck her so hard she couldn’t even stand. It had taken her moons to recover, but it hadn’t stopped him in either beating her again or claiming his marital rights each night.

  The memory made her whimper and shiver, despite her previous declaration of strength.

  Cadhla put his arms around her, slowing the shiver until she let it dissolve into a sob. She sniffed mightily, trying to stave on the full onslaught of self-pity. The sound of her sobs bounced and echoed on the stone walls.

  This time the intruder was her husband, and he entered the small temple so quickly, they barely had time to part before he came within reach.

  With a rough tug, he wrenched Étaín from Cadhla’s arms and threw her into the corner of the small chapel. He punched her in the face, and a white light cracked before her eyes as her cheek exploded with fire and
pain. She sank along the rough stone wall to the cold floor.

  Barely seconds later, his punch met Cadhla’s face. The monk rocked back, but didn’t fall. While Cadhla wasn’t a young man, he was younger than Airtre, and still in the prime of his life. Étaín remembered he’d been a warrior once, long ago before he took his vows.

  Cadhla shook off his surprise at the blow and sunk into a brawler’s crouch, hands open and out, ready to grab. Airtre scowled at his friend and, with a glance at Étaín, threw a punch at his ribcage. Cadhla handily blocked it and shoved the bench between them.

  “Airtre, get a hold of yourself. Truly, nothing happened here. You’ve got the wrong idea completely.”

  “Your arms were around my wife! It’s as simple as that! And you my closest friend! Ooh, you traitor, you!” Airtre pushed at the bench hard, so it knocked Cadhla in the knee. This made Cadhla stumble back, off-balance. Airtre followed up on his attack with another push, aiming for the other knee, but Cadhla anticipated his move and hopped back out of range, though he stumbled.

  “Will you calm down? She’d been crying. I comforted her, just like any man of God would comfort a penitent. Étaín, can you walk? Go fetch Bressel!”

  She scrambled to her feet and rushed out of the chapel, sounds of the fight still drifting out from the chapel window.

  Where would Bressel be now? She rushed to the Scriptorium, but a quick survey of the startled monks’ faces proved Bressel didn’t sit among them. Instead, she ran to the hostelry, but it remained empty of either monks or guests. By the time she got to the hospice, she had run out of breath and pressed her hand against a stitch in her side. Luckily, Odhar had just come out. One look at her face and he rushed to her side, a mug of cool ale to her lips. She pushed it away, but couldn’t match the tutor’s strength. Obediently, she took several gulps before he relented.

  “Bressel, I need Bressel. Airtre and Cadhla are fighting in the Teampull Chiaráin.”

  Odhar crossed himself. “Saints preserve us! To blaspheme so in that holy place! Go tell the abbot’s clark. You know where his office is? Yes? Good. It’s not far. I’ll go to the chapel and put a stop to this tomfoolery.”

  She nodded, and he ran off, his speed defying the dark courtyard. Once she had caught her breath, Étaín ran to find the clark.

  The bells struck Terce just as she entered the small office. She cursed under her breath. The abbot wouldn’t be here during the canonical hour. He’d be in the cathedral, leading Terce prayers. Luckily, the service normally only lasted three psalms and a Scripture reading.

  Étaín rushed to the cathedral. The stitch in her side grew fierce now, but she alleviated some of the pain with pressure. She waited outside until the prayers finished, impatiently peering in through the doorway. The abbot would be hard pressed to forgive her for a public interruption of required services, especially as the brawl must be her fault.

  The chapel stood within sight of the cathedral, but barely. She craned her neck to see if Airtre or Cadhla had emerged, or if Odhar had succeeded in his interference, but could see nothing. Suddenly the cathedral doors swung open, and a river of monks swept out past her.

  When the river shrank to a trickle, she dared to poke her head into the building. The abbot stood at the altar, his assistant helping him remove his vestments. She shyly approached him, unsure of what protocol should be in this situation.

  The abbot didn’t appear to notice her, so she cleared her throat and bowed her head.

  “Yes, child? I’ve not a lot of time. Be quick about it.”

  “Father Abbot, one of your monks and my husband, are in a fight. Odhar bid me run to tell you.”

  The clark gasped, but the abbot shushed him. “A fight? Where, woman?”

  “In the Teampull Chiaráin.”

  “By all that’s holy… Odhar is trying to stop them? Brother, go fetch several of the heftier monks. Once Airtre gets something in the bit of his teeth, he doesn’t let go. Child, you stay here. You’ll be safer.”

  With that, Étaín waited, her hand pressed to her side. A direct order from the abbot mustn’t be ignored, not by the likes of her. She sat on a cold stone bench along the wall. The open space of the cathedral remained bare, as people stood during mass and hourly prayers alike.

  She chose a corner mostly hidden by a rood screen as if it offered her some shelter to the tumult her life had become. Between Maelan being missing all night and Airtre’s insane jealous assumptions, she’d not had a moment’s clear breath all day, and it began to wear. Her magic slipped away, and she fought hard to keep hold of it. She mustn’t let her aging illusion fall now, not in the middle of the cathedral. Surely the abbot or at least his assistant would return once Airtre had been calmed.

  The cathedral ached with emptiness. She had never been here alone before. The graceful arches loomed above her, and she felt like a tiny ant, insignificant and helpless. How could she, a lowly human, compare against the might and majesty of God? She intruded into his house, his temple, his sanctuary. In reality, she imposed upon his indulgence by hiding from her husband. A husband she’d vowed to cleave unto, in sickness and in health. A husband she’d been married to for over thirty winters. A husband she vowed before God himself to obey.

  Airtre had been so kind when they first married. How had things soured so? How had he turned so angry at her? At everything? He wished he’d advanced more quickly in the church hierarchy, and part of his bitterness stemmed from that. Bressel constantly filled his head with plans and schemes to push his status. This rage must be more than mere thwarted ambition. She detected a deep unhappiness, almost a sickness within Airtre.

  Étaín wished she understood so she might help him to heal.

  Several hours later, after the sun had set and she remained shivering in the empty cathedral, a sound made her jump. With apprehensive eyes, she glanced up to see Odhar.

  He beckoned to her from the door. “You must come with me, Étaín.”

  She shook her head. “The abbot bade me stay. I must stay.”

  He rolled his eyes. “The abbot is the one who sent me. I am to take you someplace else, someplace safe. Airtre is quite mad, and we daren’t risk him hurting you.”

  Still, she resisted. “Maelan? Where is he? Is he safe?”

  “Safe enough. I’ve put him in my cell for the nonce. You, we must be more circumspect with. We cannot risk even the whiff of impropriety. Now come.”

  Reluctantly, she rose and came to him. He took her hand in both of his and stared into her eyes with earnest intensity. “Tonight we will keep you safe, but you must leave, Étaín. I don’t understand what evil spirit has taken hold of Airtre’s heart, but he is quite mad with jealousy, convinced you’ve cuckolded him. He has accused both me and Cadhla and even Bressel of lying with you.”

  She pulled back, but he kept hold of her hand. “But I’ve done nothing with any of you! I’m completely innocent!”

  He shook his head. “It matters not to Airtre. He’s convinced himself. He said the village hedge-witch showed him a vision in the flames.”

  “Magic? He detests magic as a tool of the devil. Why would he say such a thing?”

  He pulled her gently from the cathedral, and she finally followed. “He’s been visiting her often, sometimes with Bressel, trying to contact his brother.”

  “His brother has been dead for over fifty winters.”

  “Aye, but the witch has convinced Airtre she can contact him. This might be what sent him into delirium. Cadhla is caring for him now, but they’ve had to tie him to his bed.”

  She pulled away, finally able to retrieve her hand. “I must go to him! I’m his wife, I’m bound to care for him.”

  “No! Étaín, he’ll kill you. Don’t you see? I can’t let you go to your death.”

  The terrifying image of his fury when he killed the beggar loomed within her mind’s eyes. She swallowed and recognized the truth of it in his eyes, glittering in the now late afternoon sun. Gold washed everything in an unearthly glow
, an ironic beauty on an ugly truth. Numbly, she walked to where Odhar would lead her.

  They came to one of the smaller out-buildings, a tiny roundhouse which served as little more than a storage hut for the blacksmith. The interior remained dry and warm, smelling of iron and salt. “You’ll be safe here for now. I’ll fetch some of your things from your home. Is there anything in particular you need? We’ll get you out in the morning. Then I’ll help you escape, and we can go somewhere, anywhere but here. I’ll care for you, I promise.”

  “I can’t leave, not yet. Maelan is still vulnerable, Odhar, can’t you see? I must see him settled before I can even think about saving myself.”

  He held her hand, squeezing it gently. “I vow to you, Étaín, I shall make certain Cadhla settles the lad well away from Airtre. You do trust Cadhla to have the boy’s best interests in mind, don’t you?”

  Gulping, she nodded. Cadhla would be kind. He would take care of Maelan. He also had strength enough to stand up to Airtre if he needed to. Stronger than Étaín had ever been. She only had the strength to flee.

  She’d had extensive experience with fleeing. She knew how to run. “I will need clothing. Fetch at least three léine. The color matters not. There is a small bundle in my chest of drawers next to my cot, wrapped in white silk. Take that and the water skin in the pantry. I’ll need food and drink which doesn’t rot easily—cheese, dried meat, apples, ale. My cloak.”

  He blinked several times at her precise list, but nodded. “I’ll sneak in while Cadhla is still ministering his potions. I won’t be long. There are straw and a blanket. You should be comfortable enough for one night.”

  When he left, Étaín stood for several minutes before she could convince her body to move. Even then, her actions were instinctive, with no true thought for what she should do. Having fled so many times, it had become second nature to her. She needed to get her essential items and go. She mustn’t look back once she decided. Dwelling on those she left behind must be saved for later, for a time she didn’t flee in desperate fear for her life.