by Erin O'Quinn
I was profoundly moved by his words, yet alarmed at his raw need. “But you cannot practice on me, dear Murdoch. Your father will see the love in your eyes, and he will rejoice. Believe me. Have as much faith in your honesty as you have in your lively intelligence, and everything will work out.”
“Are you sure you are no scholar?”
I smiled in the dark. “You make me laugh, Murdoch. You have done it several times tonight. That is a quality I love in other people. Make me laugh, and you will make your father laugh, too.”
“So there is something about me you love.”
“Do not abuse my indulgence. Remember your promise.”
“Tá go maith, a chara mo chroí. But now you have confessed your feelings, and I have also. Now it is too late to take back our words.”
“You deliberately twist my words. If I could stand up and leave, I would. Do not try my temper.” I pulled my hand away. “And now it is time for me to sleep. I will see you in the morning.”
“Codladh sámh.”
I turned away and lay tightly curled, my head on the timbers, smelling the still-fragrant wood. My last thought was that Murdoch was right. I was sleeping with him instead of my beloved Liam. And yet I knew my husband would forgive me.
I awoke sometime in the middle of a very black night, the ship pitching and groaning like a drunkard. A light rain had started to fall. Then I felt a cloth of some kind on my hair and over my face. I knew right away that it was Murdoch’s own tunic, and that he had thrown it over me as a protection against the rain. I huddled as low as I could, keeping the wetness from my head, and I felt his arm around my shoulders, keeping me warm.
I dared not say anything at all, for fear he would take it as a sign that I wanted his succor. And yet I knew I would not refuse it, for his gesture was kind and compassionate. And so I drifted to sleep again, feeling his chest rise and fall against me as he breathed.
I awoke with a start. It was well before dawn, and the rain had stopped. I could feel his head on my shoulder, as if he had nodded into sleep too close to me. I took the tunic from my head and sat up straight. When I straightened, I felt Murdoch’s head slip from my shoulder, lower, onto my chest. Panicked, I tried to stand up, and he woke.
“It is almost dawn,” I said. I was able to stand at last, for the sleeping passengers around me apparently did not feel my feet as I righted myself and leaned into the ship’s side. He stood, too. I still could not see him in the darkness, but I knew that the cold wind off the ocean must be biting into his bare skin. Then I felt a fumbling of cloth against me, and I thought he must be pulling his tunic back over his head. All this time, he had not spoken.
I did not know what to say. If I tried to start a casual conversation, it would sound false to my ears and probably to his, too. Perhaps his thoughts were the same, for we stood together for a long time without any words at all. I was beginning almost to dread the growing light of dawn, for then I would be forced to see his face and read his serious, dark eyes.
I turned away, into the side of the ship. I leaned against it, looking into a vast darkness I knew was the great Sea of Éire. At last his voice came. “Cate.”
“Yes?” I did not turn around, for the sky had begun to lighten, and I could see little movements—waves, or leaping fish—on the surface of the water.
“Cate, I told you I would not test the bounds of friendship. And I will not. But I must tell you that it is painful to be with you. And equally painful to be without you.”
Still I spoke not. There was nothing I could do, nothing at all, except try to stay away from him. That would be a terrible waste. For he was intelligent and engaging, and I liked him very much.
“Will you not look at me?”
I shook my head, realizing that he probably could not see my gesture, yet I was afraid to speak. There were absolutely no words that would convey my thoughts, or comfort him in any way. Let my silence be cruel and insensitive, I thought. That is better than hurting him even more deeply with words.
Finally, I thought that he must have left. The silence was as profound as though all words had been swallowed by the uncaring sea. I turned, thinking I would try to go find Liam, and Murdoch stood in front of me. My breath caught in my throat as I saw his dark, searching eyes. “Please. Please be my friend, Doch. Please make me laugh, not cry.”
I must have somehow said the right thing. His mouth, no longer a grim line, loosened, and I saw the identical smile I had seen on the face of his father—a crooked, ironic grin that made me smile in return.
“All right, Cate. Since that is what you love, that is what I will give you. And you have called me ‘Doch,’ close to dóchas, the word for hope. Come, let us try to find my father. And your husband…And hopefully, some breakfast.”
I grasped his arm to steady myself. Stepping carefully over prone sleepers, we went in search of Liam and Sweeney.
Chapter 29:
Ritual Fire
The exterior of the great mead hall of King Leary was festooned top to bottom with pennants and ribbons. All around the immense structure were colorful pavilions, each guarded by one or more scowling sentries. I fancied that they housed the king’s special guests, ones for whom he had no extra chambers in his own baile. I wondered whether we, too, would be given pavilions. Or perhaps we would all be herded like Beltane cattle into one large tent.
I squeezed Liam’s hand and said as much to him. His mouth twitched mischievously. “Time for cattle byres over, Cay. Cattle go to pastures, not tents.”
“At least, not royal tents,” said Murdoch, who stood next to us, on one side of his father’s cart. I looked up at Murdoch, and then at Sweeney. He sat in his cart with his shoulders squared, his eyes clear. I saw that his mouth, once a knife slash, was softer, curled into a half smile. Murdoch’s face was almost a reflection of his father’s, quite without his realizing it.
I also saw that Mockingbird, standing close to Sweeney, was resting one hand on his massive arm. “Is it true that the people drive their cattle into the fires?” she asked no one in particular.
“That would be highly symbolic, dear Moc,” said Brigid. “But who would milk a burned cow? I think they drive their cattle between the fires in a rite of purification.”
Michael laughed and caressed his wife’s bright hair. “Forget not—I married an ollamh.”
The nine of us stood on much-trampled spring grass, waiting in a large crowd of well-dressed supplicants to enter the mead hall. Torin stood with Swallow several feet ahead, and he turned to us then. “Tá go maith, dear family. Stay close to me. I need to use me soldier’s bravado to enter the hall. Follow me lead.”
Torin grasped Swallow’s hand and strode through the crowd, and it seemed to part like a wave before the prow of a graceful ship. Within moments we were all positioned before the door of the hall, flanked each side by ten hard-faced guards. Torin caught the eye of one of them. “Dia duit, a mo chara, a Mháirtin.”
The man looked at him, blinking several times in astonishment. “A Lugh!” They spoke rapid Gaelic for a few minutes, pounding each other’s backs. Then Torin turned to us with a wide grin. “Again, follow me lead. We go straight to me father.” I heard him when he leaned down to Swallow’s ear. “Martin and I have quaffed many an ale together, a ghrá. Besides, he would dare not impede the king’s son.”
My time in this huge hall had been a short one, but memorable. I had come with Torin bearing the news of his son Liam’s capture and the news of Sweeney’s ransom demand. While I was there, I had managed to expose his twin druids as poisoners, using my guise as the terrible Macha. This time, I thought, it was going to take a bit of verbal expertise to talk our way into his good graces, as long as we were bearing the murderer and captor Sweeney himself like a very king.
I looked around, from the high ceiling to the walls to the gleaming table. The hall looked even more resplendent today than when I had been here before. Of course, this time it had been prepared for the grand occasion of the
Feast of Beltane, one of the two most important religious days in Éire. Tonight was the eve of May Day, the beginning of the new year, when huge fires of purification would burn throughout the land, and most especially here in Tara. So the dining hall, filled with royal guests, was dressed for the occasion.
The hall itself must have been one hundred feet long and thirty or so feet wide—not as large as tradition insisted, but perhaps its very splendor made it seem larger than it really was. The ceilings had to be at least ten feet high, and the roof was made of ingeniously interlaced squares of wood. At twenty-foot intervals in the ceiling were large windows, their shutters open to the sky, letting the bright sunshine pour in.
The walls were hung with shields representing the most influential cenéls in Éire, and under each shield, along a massive oak table, was the seat of a chieftain or king from that family. Today, I noted wryly, each seat contained a royal bum. No room for us.
At the head of the grandiose table, as before, sat Leary himself, son of Niall of the Nine Hostages—father to Liam and Torin, uncle to Murdoch and Michael, and half brother of Owen Sweeney. Torin strode to where his father sat, and where his mother sat next to him, her head turned to speak some bit of news into his ear.
“Father. Mother. I am returned.” He spoke Gaelic for the sake of his father, but I could clearly understand him. His mother, Queen Máirín, leapt to her feet and embraced him on the spot. “Darling, darling, welcome home.” She pressed his large frame against her silken gown, not caring whether it left a web of wrinkles on her finery. He embraced her, stroking her fine, long hair. When she lifted her face, it was streaked with tears.
The king did not stand, but he gestured to his son with fingers full of gold and jeweled rings “A Lugh, mo mhac. Tar chugam.” He was clearly delighted. Torin grasped his arm and his hand, and then both men commenced to kiss each other’s cheeks. Torin spoke in Gaelic to his father, at the same time summoning us forward.
I looked beseechingly at Brigid. “Worry not, a mo chara. I shall translate for you,” she smiled.
“Father,” said Torin, “he seems to be hiding behind his beautiful wife—but behold your wandering son Liam.”
Liam’s face was beet red as he knelt before his father and sought his jeweled hand. “Father,” he said, and the king lowered his face to Liam’s and kissed him, almost tenderly. Máirín could not wait. “Darling, embrace your dear mother, the one who has missed you terribly. How are you? You are not dead? You are now married? Talk to me.”
I saw with amusement that she was drawing Liam to her bosom as a truant child, not as an independent adult. No wonder he was flushing like a girl.
“Father,” continued Torin with a delighted grin, “ye may not recognize your nephew Michael MacCool, he who is a builder of great ships. An’ here be his wife Brigid, an’ me own sweet, intended wife Swallow. Next to Swallow stands her lovely mother Mockingbird. And, important as our own family, I know ye remember Caylith.”
Brigid pushed me forward as I tried to disappear. “Hah! Macha!” he thundered, and his fist hit the table, making his wine chalice jump. “Come to me. Ye be as dear as the daughter I never had.”
I found myself with my nose buried in the marten fur of his robe, while he ruffled my already-wild hair. Somehow Brigid managed to make me understand his rapid speech.
“Macha—Caylith. Ye have saved me darling Liam once again. And ye have found it in your heart to marry the wretch. Ye know I am indebted to ye completely, an’ ye shall never lack the granting of anything in me power to give ye.” And he planted a large kiss on my defenseless cheek. I know I was crimson, and I was unable to do more than stammer.
“Father, I have one last introduction. The most important one of all. For we come bearing your own half brother Eóghan.”
“What? I have no half brother. You are jesting with an old man. I shall swing a switch on your bum as if ye were a lad.” He spoke humorously, as though indulging his eldest son, not imagining that his words could be true.
At a signal from Torin, Michael and Liam picked up Sweeney in his cart and stood him by the side of the king. I could not help but contrast the shabby wooden cart and the king’s high-backed, mink-laden bench wrought of bronze and copper. And I immediately saw the strong resemblance between the half brothers. They bore the same square-cut, stubborn jaw, the high forehead and aquiline nose, and the lively, dark eyebrows, expressive as the eyes themselves.
At that moment, Leary’s eyes had narrowed, and his nostrils flared dangerously. “Lugh, this piece of drama is no longer humorous. Ye may leave me and await punishment. And leave this murderer for binding by me guards. Next time he dies, he will not rise again like a second Christ.”
I started forward, but Brigid held me back. “Shush, Cay. Let Sweeney and his brother talk it out.”
Sweeney had remained silent as Leary raged, but his eyes never left Leary’s face. At last he spoke. “Hold, Lóegaire. Stay your wrath. Your son Torin is merely a messenger. The saying is old as the Greeks—slay not the messenger.”
I was not the only one who recognized in that instant that the very timbre of their voices was the same. How could Liam—how could I—not have seen or heard the resemblance? I thought then that we see and hear only what we expect, and that is how tricksters get away with their tricks.
Máirín, too, knew in that moment that Torin spoke the truth. “Hear him out, dear,” she said. “For I see that he is indeed your brother.”
“I shall not have as a brother a man who murdered his wife and kept slaves for carnal satisfaction. Me people would never accept such a brotherhood, for their king must be spotless.”
And then I felt a rustling behind me, where I knew Murdoch stood close to me. He quietly walked to the king’s bench and knelt, his head bowed. “I ask permission to speak on behalf of this man.”
“Why should I hear ye?” Leary grated between clenched teeth. “Rise and leave us.”
“I am the son who spoke against my father. I wish to tell you the truth.”
“His son? But you and your siblings swore a complaint, that this man struck down your mother. And that he held slaves in vile debauchery.”
Murdoch raised his head and leveled a look at the king. “I lied. Punish me instead for a false oath. But please hear my story.” He rose from his knees and stood, tall and commanding of attention.
Leary’s face was mottled, angry beyond words. His wife laid a slender hand on his.
“Darling, I beg you to hear his story. We may judge his veracity as surely as any folkmoot would do. Give your brother at least that sliver of indulgence.”
Leary did not speak, but he folded his arms against his chest and leaned back on his bench, waiting. Then Murdoch, he of the ollamh’s tongue, began to speak.
O great king, I need to start forty years ago, when your mighty father was returning from Alba on a campaign against the barbarian Pictish tribes. This was in the land of the Dál Riata…
As Murdoch spoke, I looked around the mead hall. All conversations had ceased, and hundreds of pairs of eyes were trained on Murdoch, standing in his home-spun léine before the high king. I, who knew the story better than most, was as intrigued by his words as they. This man was a true story teller, one worthy of his training and his bloodline.
Even Sweeney had not heard the story from the same angle as his son now told it, for I had deliberately downplayed the anguish of his accident and the extent of his own and his children’s grief. And I had not brought up his children’s flight from their father. But Murdoch talked on with no whitewash of lime and chalk on this very dark story.
It took most of an hour. When at last Murdoch had finished talking, the silence was thunderous. Profound. It seemed that no one in the hall was even drawing a breath, until the king at last exhaled with an explosive sigh. He stood, tall as Murdoch in his marten-lined robe, and he walked in front of Sweeney. And then, to the utter astonishment of every soul in that huge room, King Leary knelt before Owen Sweeney’s c
art.
Tears ran down his cheeks, and he reached out and sought Owen’s large hand. “Me brother. Me lost brother. I am gladdened, an’ humbled, an’ proud. Welcome home, Eóghan. Will ye ever forgive me for sentencing ye to death?”
Sweeney grasped his brother’s huge hand. His dark eyes were bright with unwept tears. “I blame you not, O brother. I was ready to die, I asked to die. I felt I had nothing to live for. Now I have my beloved children, my companion Moc, and my new family. I ask only to be accepted as a man—as a brother and uncle and father, as a lover and husband, like any man.”
Mockingbird had made her way to his cart, and he reached out and touched her dark, dark hair. “Leary. Could you spare us a tent? For we are aweary with traveling and would lie down.” Was it only I who saw that special glint of promise his eyes gave to Moc?
Leary stood and clapped his hands, and four minions appeared before him, bowing low. “Find room in the royal baile,” he directed. “Ye may eject whom ye please, except the closest of me family. But make room for these nine travelers.”
Then he lifted his eyes to the assembly. “Which of ye will yield half your seat to me family? Two to a bench, close to where I may speak with them.”
Ten clansmen near the king rose, and I saw by their shields that they were all from Leary’s own cenél—probably his brothers and their sons. After quarter of an hour of introductions and cheek kissing, we sat at the king’s long, burnished table, all of us close enough to carry on a conversation with him and his beautiful wife. Sweeney alone commanded a seat to himself, with Moc sitting at his side. Murdoch and Torin had lifted him to the high bench where he sat next to his brother Leary. A robe of satin covered his legs.
“And now, a time for toasting,” cried Leary. “A season of joy is upon us again, the merry month when life begins anew. A propitious time for new beginnings, a new family. And at sunset, the lighting of the great fires.”
