The Barrow Lover

by Patrick Todoroff

  "Why didn't you report him?" I asked.

  "Me?" Ma Cooney laughed. "Accuse a retired officer from the queen's guard, a landowner, a decade after the fact?" She shook her head again. "Reaping the whirlwind, that."

  "But murdering an innocent— "

  "I was a child when I saw it. Without proof, it wouldn't hold water. Besides, Fade was spreading money around, running his shop. Even if it were only copper. Buys a pile of good will, that does."

  "But you're saying Meechum Fade cut a maiden's throat on a noble woman's orders."

  Another load of tension silted up in the room. "Not just a noble woman—" Teagan prompted.

  "Queen Niamh," her mother said.

  I gaped to catch flies.

  Ma Cooney raised a trembling right hand. "True as true, the lady was Queen Niamh."

  "Who was the lass?" I gulped.

  "Can't say," she replied too quickly.

  "But you've got a notion."

  Another pause, then a nod.

  "Who then?"

  "The Black Jewel of Senlis." She spoke so soft I barely heard the words.

  I looked to Teagan. She shrugged.

  Ma Cooney cleared her throat and started putting vegetables back into her garden basket. "I shouldn't be saying any of this. Was long ago. Got no bearing on today."

  "It just might, Ma," Teagan urged gently. "It's what we're trying to sort out. Who was this 'Jewel of Senlis'?"

  "Black Jewel," Ma Cooney corrected. She stopped fussing with turnips and gathered herself. "Your father—God rest his soul— and I were minding the inn in those days. Every trader and traveler jabbered on about them. From Gaul they were, the Morreaux family. Father, mother, daughter—distant relations of the king. High born but not too high, if you catch my meaning. Rich in name but little else."

  "What were they doing inÉire?" I asked.

  "Fleeing famine was the story. Four years of bleak winters and dry springs on the continent. Desperate times make desperate folk. Entire regions were starving, sick... Lots of new graves scraped in the parched earth of Gaul and Normandy, so the family came begging favor of King Arnaw. Wanting land. A fresh start."

  "Must be nice, a fief on tap from your cousin's uncle," Teagan said lightly.

  Ma Cooney shook her head, suddenly grim. "But there were whispers of another reason."

  I tried jesting her down a notch. "Always is. Who'd we tear down if there weren't those above us?"

  She crossed herself before looking me square in the face. "They were dark whispers. And bloody reasons."

  A powerful dread crept over me, but Teagan spoke up. "Like?"

  "Like both Morreaux' sons had died earlier that year. Family blamed cholera but traders heard... they'd been burned at the stake."

  "What?" I exclaimed.

  "Aye, and the family was really fleeing the Black Friars, not famine. Said they'd seen a warrant nailed to church doors charging them with heresy and unholy consorting."

  "Unholy consorting?"

  Ma Cooney glanced about before answering. "With the Devil. Witchcraft."

  “Load of tosh," Teagan said after a second. "Go against the grain, those are the first likely words out of a bishop's mouth."

  "Aye," Ma Cooney allowed. "Except drought came here the next year. So did the Fichti. And that was the summer they killed Prince Aedh."

  Teagan and I were silent. Her ma continued. "The daughter was the eye of the storm. Folks said she was a rare thing, with raven hair and looks beyond words. A beauty, but a strange, dark one, like midnight in the deep woods."

  I took a sudden interest in my eggs. Her description sat too close for comfort.

  "Folks claimed she had a presence, an eerie set to her," she said carefully. "That to gaze into her eyes was like looking into deep wells."

  I squirmed on my stool again. "You certain it was this Senlis m'amselle in the woods?”

  Ma Cooney sucked her teeth. "Not like I strolled up and asked her, did I? But the hair and the rest of it sure fit."

  "What would she be doing with the Queen up north?" Teagan mused. "Quite the ride from Dubhlinn."

  "Prince Aram was sotted with her, that's why," her ma replied. "Whole kingdom knew. He followed her around like a puppy. Every royal son from Corcaigh to Daire was sniffing after her but rumor was he was talking marriage."

  "And with his brother dead, he was heir to the Emerald Throne," I noted. "She'd be queen."

  "Exactly," Ma Cooney said. "Bed her, sure, but marriage? The King and Queen were dead set against that. Penniless lass brings no gold to the table. No alliance, no land. Add a pot full of rumors and scandal, it wasn't going to happen."

  I had an ugly feeling as to where this story landed, but I asked hoping it wouldn't. "So?"

  "So what?"

  "What did happen?" Teagan demanded. "Obvious he didn't marry her. Queen Ysabeau is Welsh."

  "King Arnaw refused a land grant," Ma Cooney said simply. "We heard the Morreaux family up and sailed to England. Right after that carriage passed though here, in fact. News mongers claimed the Black Jewel of Senlis left Prince Airam high and dry. Dumped him for better prospects. Lad moped for months. That's what they said, anyway."

  "But you're persuaded that was her in the woods Fade killt?" I asked again.

  Ma Cooney pursed her lips. "Can't prove it but I'd swear in my bones before God it was." She nodded. "Aye, it was."

  She paused then and looked me over narrowly. "Why are you so keen on this? You got a bee in your trousers?"

  I looked back, head suddenly empty as a busted bucket. "I, erm. Well, with Fade passing and the party, I was, umm—"

  Teagan came to my rescue. "He's out of sorts, Declan is. Finding Fade dead, this Kane fellow talking up his younger days soldiering. It got him curious, is all."

  Her ma harrumphed and shuffled past us toward the front room. I threw Teagan a grateful look, then a worry hit me like a rock.

  "Her name," I called after Ma Cooney. "D'you remember that Senlis' lass's name?"

  "Of course I do," she replied. "I'm old, not daft. Magalie, it was. Magalie Morreaux de Senlis,"

  My heart went crossways at those words.

  I made hasty goodbyes and ducked out, walking as fast as I dared without drawing attention. The sun was beaming, townsfolk were stirring, trading stories and bashful smiles about the previous night. Birds sang and flitted through an azure sky smooth and perfect as the first day in Eden.

  But all I could see was that tiny smile and those terrible blank eyes.

  Magalie. Magalie Morreaux de Senlis.

  Back home, I climbed the stairs calling for Paddy. No answer.

  I hesitated on the top landing. The door to my room was open a notch, the whole house heavy and silent. The morning's stiff silence was back.

  "Paddy?" I creaked my door wider.

  And lost my breath.

  On the floor lay a pile of rumpled linen. Beside it, Widow Halloran.

  Her face was a mask of fear, frozen and unblinking. One hand clutched her chest, the other held the locket.

  The cover was open and Magalie was smiling up at me again.

  Part Five - Certain as the Moon Above

  The churchyard was packed with mourning black and sorrow, all of Carn standing silent in the bright morning sun.

  Vicar Duffy made the sign of the cross, signaling the blacksmiths' boys to lower the coffin. Ropes hissed across their shoulders, slithered in their grip, until the dull thud at the bottom. A new headstone, smooth and unblemished as a baby's cheek, canted in the green grass by the fence, epitaph imminent. Old Whitey Quigg insisted on more time to chisel something fancy for the Widow. "As is only proper," he said.

  The first shovelful of dirt hit the lid. Behind me, someone sobbed.

  "Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine," the Vicar intoned. "Et lux perpetua luceat ei."

  Grant them eternal rest, O Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon her.

  That I knew the meaning was due to the woman in the box, God
rest her soul. Truth be told, any sense of letters or figures I had was down to Widow Halloran. It was her who convinced my Da to let me go on to secondaries, who strong-armed Mayor Tom into buying my books, who told my Ma over and over again I showed promise, despite all the trouble I got myself into. And it was her who took me in after the fever took them.

  The spades were swinging now, the lid near covered. I cleared my throat and cuffed away a tear. Holy water pattered down on newly turned soil. "Requiescat in pace."

  Rest in Peace.

  Behind me, the crowd murmured "Amen."

  Everyone held still until the dirt mounded, then filed down the road two by two or in muted clumps, sniffling and clutching arms. Carn might have Vicar Duffy and Major Tom for all things ecclesiastical or civic, but as headmistress of the only school in County Crae, Widow Halloran had been the final authority on grammar, mathematics and manners for three generations. She'd left her mark on most everyone assembled, and not just from occasional raps on the knuckles.

  Now she was dead and Magalie was to blame; murderous Magalie Morreaux popping out of her locket and causing all this grief.

  The picture of the Widow lying on the floor like a broken stick doll, gold disc winking in her palm, mask of nightmares on her face gnawed at me like termites.

  I should have taken a mallet to the damn thing, chucked the pieces in the river.

  But no.

  Vicar Duffy says it's a mortal sin to pray to the Devil, but I was biting my tongue so's not to beg Old Nick to hurry up and take her screaming, smiling, lying, undying soul to the furnace.

  The shame of it burned me.

  Paddy and I walked down the lane wrapped in all that somber hush, townsfolk flowing around us. Nothing passed between us. We hadn't said more than a handful of words to each other since yesterday. There'd been no time.

  He'd cried when I told him, carried the body downstairs to Morton and Figg so they could load her into their black carriage. Big galute tucked her in like she was asleep. I tried to talk to him then, to explain what happened, but he wasn't in a listening mood. Not about the Widow, and certainly not about Magalie.

  The locket was in the attic, on a rafter under the gable end. I'd squirreled it away until I had a better mind on what to do with it.

  For the second time in as many days, Teagan's inn hosted a wake. Difference this go-round was all Carn pitched in. No talk of outlay, no thought to cost. Men dragged kegs up from their cellars, blew the dust off single malts they'd stashed away against cold winter nights, all without a second thought. Less than an hour after the service, a score of women set heaping platters to the tables, pots of bubbling stew, and mounds of rolls still steaming from their ovens.

  County Crae folk are proper-minded, poor in gold but big on horse sense and common courtesy. Paying their respects to Fade was only natural, and no one turns down a free meal. This time however, the town's grief was palpable, not purchased, the generosity characteristic rather than conscripted. We were sending off one of our own.

  At the inn, Paddy gave me a nod, then lined up for stew. The set of his eyes told me he still wasn't up for a chat. I was too heavy, too fuddled to insist, so I nodded back with a determination to find him after. We had to sit down and hash things out before they festered any further.

  Teagan found me at the bar. "You okay?"

  "No."

  She waved Maerin over to grab her tray of empty bowls, then plumped down beside me. Her nearness lit a kernel of sadness in my stomach like I was faint with some kind of hunger. I gripped the bar to keep from falling onto her shoulder.

  She looked me in the eye, concerned and soft. "How's Paddy taking it?"

  "Barely said a word." I shook my head miserably. "He's keeping his cards close to his chest. It's like he doesn't want to talk to me."

  Teagan tried joking. "No surprise, folks not feeling chatty 'round you," she said lightly. "You 'prenticing under An Bás, and all. Second body in a week. Still, the shuffle 'em to the hereafter trade is steady work."

  The memory of the open locket in the Fade's hand, in the Widow's hand, flashed in my head. "I'm not laughing, Tea." I gulped back a sob. "It's all my fault."

  She gripped my arm. "Och! I was only teasing, Dec. Don't you beat yourself up. She was getting on and it's only bad luck, you finding her—"

  "No," I stammered. "It was..."

  Teagan arched an eyebrow.

  "Her," I confessed. "Magalie."

  "Magalie...?" Teagan's gaze narrowed. "You mean—"

  "I mean the lass in the locket is Magalie from Senlis."

  "Go on," she cried.

  "Makes sense, don't it? We dug it out the place of her murder. She told Paddy her name the other night, and when your Ma said it, I rushed home. Only it was too late; Widow H found it under my sheets. She opened it."

  "Under your sheets?" She looked ready to hit me. "Are you mad?"

  "Well, yes. And no." I shrugged.

  "Why kill the Widow?" Teagan demanded.

  "I dunno," I answered. "Not like I got a handle on this heebie-jeebie stuff. Maybe she just got in the way. "

  "But you opened it, right?"

  "Aye, but..." I thought back to that morning in the woods, to my dream, then Paddy the other night. "Four of us opened it. Two are dead."

  "But two are alive. And you're one of them," Teagan said. "That's gotta mean something."

  "Maybe." I held my breath, studying her face. "What I don't get," I said slowly, "is why I got shrieks and blood, but she's all coquette with Paddy."

  Teagan blinked, looking at me like the answer was plain as the nose on my face. "She wants something is why," she explained. "It's what girls do."

  "What? You're only nice when you're after something, is that it?"

  "No. Not all of us and not always." She reached over the bar and fished up a bottle of beer, set it in front of me. "Think on the Sweeny Triplets though. This... Magalie is all cute with Paddy 'cause he has something she wants."

  "Love him to pieces, but he's not the full shilling. Can't keep two pennies long enough to rub 'em together, let alone much else."

  She frowned. "He's kept you as a friend, hasn't he?"

  I reddened. "That's not what I meant."

  "Well I dunno what she wants," Teagan said firmly. "But it don't have a happy ending. You have to look after him."

  "I have all my life," I protested. "Why do you think I'm humping bales for Meany? I'm down to Daire to pawn the bloody thing off soon as."

  Teagan looked dubious. "That wise, passing a ghosty girl's poison on to someone else?"

  I clenched my fists on the counter top. "I'm wise enough to know she's brought enough grief, and I want it—her—far away as can be."

  Teagan raised her hands and stood up. "Your call, Declan darlin'. I'd be on my way to the smithy's forge myself. Give the wench a taste of locket-hell."

  "But it's gold."

  Teagan stood up and started back to the kitchen. "And that's more important?"

  It is to me, I thought, but kept that to myself.

  "Wait. I need to ask you something," I called out.

  She came back and waited for me to speak.

  I hemmed and hawed, working up a good turn of phrase. Finally, "You think I'm losing my mind?"

  She was startled. "No, why do you ask?"

  "Well," I struggled. "All this talk of evil spirits and dreams, you being a regular church-goer, I worried you'd think it a load of tosh and blasphemy."

  The way she looked brought heat to my cheeks. She stared so long I looked away.

  "Declan Flood," she finally said, "there's plenty that's dark and terrible in this world. Why do you think the Son of God came?"

  With that, she walked away.

  And that, I reasoned, was a damn fine answer.

  I spent the next hour nursing my beer, thinking on what Teagan said; about dark things, about Magalie, about her wanting something.

  Neighbors, various and sundry, milled around me, each with a wry
chuckle and story“about the time,”but behind the brimming eyes and friendly claps on the back was a wariness. Folks dying, peerage-types poking around, a strangeness on the wind... their world was out of kilter, and they sensed me in the middle of it.

  I laughed and hugged and daubed my own tears away, but Magalie's want kept gnawing at me. Paddy didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Barely remembered his name at times. He had nothing worth taking. The big lad's only saving grace was dowsing...

  Dowsing.

  Ma Cooney's story hit me like a brick; it wasn't the what so much as the who.

  Fade snatched life and love away from her that day in the woods. Revenging on him—that I got. But a royal lady had ordered it—and Ma Cooney had named Queen Niamh.

  Now Queen Mother Niamh, ensconced in a hall on the hills over Daire.

  Daire.

  I ran outside looking for Meany's wagons; they were gone.

  And so was Paddy.

  ***

  I stole Mayor Tom's horse.

  Of course Paddy found the locket; finding things is what he does. I wanted to smack myself for being so stupid. Magalie needed Paddy to find her way to the Queen Mother. And not to beg a boon.

  I worked the mare near lather trying to overtake Meany, but he had too great a start on me. Midway on the Letterkenny Road, the sky fell and drizzled piss-warm rain just long enough to raise mud and drench me to the bone. I trotted through the Bishop's Gate near dusk, arse-sore, soaked, and filthy as a used dishrag.

  The walled city of Daire sat on the west bank of the River Foyle, which spilled into the aptly named harbor, Lough Foyle. I saw the canvas-white of sails swaying over the rooftops near the docks. On the river's east side, St. Colmcille's large stone church mothered a mob of wattle and daubs amidst neat fields of barley and vegetables. Beyond them, a grove of gnarled oaks, ancient and rooted as Druids, stretched up into the hills. The sun was slipping away, drawing light after it, all the belfries ringing Angelus into the gloom. The moon hadn't risen, but in the deepening west, early stars winked fierce and bright as worm holes in the floorboards of heaven. Lurking at the edge of the Market Square, I could make out Meany and his wagon. He was fixing to return home. No sign of Paddy.