I am mute; I can’t say a word. I take her hands in mine and raise them to form an archway through which the other dancers can pass, couple by couple. Ours is the tallest archway on the floor.
‘So,’ says Liobhan, ‘I know your name is Nessan. I’m Ciara.’ There are other folk quite close; she’s playing the game. ‘I hear you’re very good with horses.’
When I have a hand to spare, I gesture that I can’t talk. Then I try to indicate a question. I point to her, then to the band, then raise my brows. I see Archu now; he’s sitting close to the musicians.
‘Not tonight,’ Liobhan says. ‘Our harpist is away for a few days. We’ll join forces with the other band; maybe have a practice together tomorrow.’
I manage a nod, then the steps of the dance become more complicated and I turn my attention to keeping up. I do keep an eye on wretched Rodan, who hasn’t moved, though now there’s not only his own minder but also one of Cathra’s guards beside him. If the prince was told how to behave tonight, he wasn’t listening.
Someone else has noticed: Archu. We’re stuck where we are because of the nature of this dance; we have to stay with our set of four couples. To get back to her seat with her friends, Liobhan will have to walk close to the prince. I don’t want her anywhere near a man with that look on his face. Not that she couldn’t knock him down with one hand tied behind her back. But Ciara can’t do that.
The dance draws to a close with a final in-and-out weaving of the four couples. With my eyes I convey to Liobhan where we’re going; she gives the very slightest nod. We move straight over to Archu and she sits down next to him. I fade away into the crowd. So, I’ve danced with her once. I didn’t step on her feet. If it hadn’t been for that oaf I might almost have enjoyed myself. I never thought I’d be saying such a thing. The long, strange day must have addled my wits.
What happens next truly surprises me. I’m trying to keep to the shadows. I won’t dance with anyone else – why would I? – though one of the maidservants does approach me with a giggling request when the music strikes up again. Her friends must have pushed her into it. Why would anyone want to dance with a dumb stablehand? I shake my head, try to look bashful, retreat still further. The girl goes away. But Liobhan goes on dancing, sore ankle or not. One partner after another comes forward to ask her, all of them quick enough to give Rodan no opportunity to approach. First is Tassach’s adviser, the man who was standing behind him at the table. Then the bodyguard not on duty, Garbh, who has danced with Liobhan before. The prince is not pleased at all to see that, especially as Liobhan is looking quite happy now, perhaps because she has a partner who is tall enough for her. One of the gate guards asks her next, and then one of the men-at-arms.
Is it some kind of plot? Is it a message for the prince, not in words but in actions, that those who know Ciara would believe her word over Rodan’s, future king that he is? All very well for Brondus to tell them not to gossip. The story will have got around anyway, most likely in many variants. Household servants are as invisible as grooms and stablehands. Folk hear things. I just hope the men brave enough to stand up with Liobhan tonight are not punished for it.
‘Fine-looking girl, that,’ observes one of my fellow workers, looking on as Liobhan and her man-at-arms join hands and spin around, smiling.
I give a grunt of agreement, wondering how she’s going to get safely out of here and into the women’s quarters for the night. And how she’s going to survive the days until Midsummer Eve. She needs her own bodyguard.
The dance comes to an end. Liobhan’s partner walks with her across the hall to her seat beside Archu. The noble folk are leaving the high table, bidding one another good night, taking their cloaks from waiting servants and heading out. Rodan’s not going. He’s still out in the middle, arguing with his bodyguards from the look of it. Lord Cathra comes over to them. Behind him there’s a man in the brown robe of a lawman. I can’t hear anything they say, and I can’t look too closely without drawing notice. But the prince capitulates. He allows himself to be escorted out of the hall and, I hope, away to his own quarters. Illann lets me know, with a jerk of the head, that it’s bedtime for us too. I assume Archu will see Liobhan safely to the women’s quarters. As for tomorrow, and the next day, and all the days until Midsummer Eve, I doubt her capacity to stay out of trouble. She did well tonight. As for those men standing up to support her, that was a fine gesture. But it can only cause more difficulty. This prince can lose his temper over a trifle. He can be consumed with rage over a perceived slight. How much worse when he sees his own household start to turn against him. That all of this is his own doing, he’ll never be able to understand.
As Illann and I walk back to the stables, I remember a young hunting dog, maybe a year old, that came to my father’s hall with a visiting chieftain. The creature lunged and growled and slavered at every other dog in the place, even my Snow, who was the calmest and gentlest of creatures. The fellow punished his dog with blows, with sharp tugging on the chain that leashed it, with words hurled cruelly. The dog was afraid. It was terrified every moment, not knowing what might happen next, not knowing why it was being hurt, not understanding what it had done wrong.
As far as I know, nobody is beating the prince of Breifne. They wouldn’t dare. Maybe Rodan is just naturally stupid and angry and mannerless. But I wonder if what Loman said in the stables was correct. The prince’s sudden outbursts, his deafness to good counsel, his mad decisions may all have one cause: fear of the task ahead, a task he knows deep down he’s unfit for. Rodan is terrified of becoming king.
27
Liobhan
I sleep poorly, tired though I am. Brocc, the faery queen, the Otherworld, the harp – it’s too much to make sense of. Then there’s Rodan, and what happened last night. I’ve stirred something up and it makes me nervous. I thought we could achieve this mission. I thought we had it in us. Now I’m starting to doubt, and that’s not good.
When I see Archu making his way toward me after breakfast, my heart sinks. He’s looking unusually grim. I told him the bare bones of what happened up in the forest as soon as Dau and I got back. He’ll have given the regent the bad news by now. He waits until my companions have left the table, then sits down beside me.
‘We have a meeting with Lord Cathra and his advisers. They’ll call us when they’re ready. Brother Marcán and Brother Farannán, the high bard, will also be present.’
‘We,’ I echo, feeling numb. ‘After last night’s episode, I’m surprised any of them wants to see me a moment longer than they need to.’
‘When I spoke to the regent last night I gave him only the briefest explanation of what happened.’ He’s speaking very quietly; here and there, serving folk are still clearing away cups and platters. ‘If I attempt to repeat the unusual story you told me, I may get details wrong.’
What utter bollocks! Of course he wouldn’t get anything wrong. This is a punishment for going off on my own. Or maybe it’s a test. ‘You remember the last council I attended with you? When they all acted as if I didn’t exist?’
Archu gives a wintry smile. ‘This time they’ll be well aware of your presence. The tale is odd. Best that they don’t have it at second hand. The presence of the druids may aid you; they may find your story easier to accept than Cathra or his councillors will. But they’ll press you to reveal more. You can’t blame them for that. So much rides on this.’
Does this mean Archu himself recognises the involvement of something uncanny? I didn’t tell him I’d gone to the Otherworld. I said nothing of a faery queen and a host of weird-looking beings. I didn’t tell him why they were keeping Brocc, or why I feared for him. Has Dau said something to Illann? I thought he would keep his word.
‘They’ll have questions,’ I say. ‘More than you did. And I won’t be able to answer most of them. Not because I don’t know the answers, but because I’ve made a promise not to speak of . . . certain matters.’
And I realise, even as I say this, that this is precisely the kind of tightrope-walking a spy must be able to do with both expertise and confidence. I wonder if the constant, belly-churning unease is something you get used to.
‘Tell the truth as far as you can,’ says Archu. ‘If you must keep parts of it to yourself, then do so. Don’t let the druids trick you into revealing what must remain secret. Don’t lose your temper. If you get stuck, respond in the way Ciara would – suddenly shy and wordless, overwhelmed in the presence of so many powerful men.’ My expression must be something to behold, as it brings a brief smile to his face. ‘Now go off and keep yourself occupied for a while, but don’t be too far away. When it’s time, someone will come and fetch you.’
Before yesterday, I might have used the time to practise the whistle. But with my stupid tasks to be attended to, I can’t afford to waste a moment. I have the borrowed cloth, and I have a needle and thread, but I don’t know how to cut out the pieces for a doll or how to put them together. And shouldn’t it have clothes of some kind? I’ll need a different kind of cloth for those. I think of Aislinn’s well-loved toy animal. I’ll need wool to embroider the features.
This feels so wrong. A hearing yesterday, a council today – a spy isn’t supposed to draw attention to herself, and I’m doing exactly that. My chances of staying on Swan Island are dwindling to nothing. What if I go back to Eirne’s doorway and it doesn’t open? What if they let me in, then laugh in my face? Harp, what harp?
I need a dose of plain common sense, and I know where I can get that, along with practical help. I head down to the washing area, where Dana and Grainne are wringing out items and two of the other women are draping garments over the bushes to dry in the sun. Banva is at the table inside, busy with her needle.
‘Ciara! Welcome!’ Dana’s smile is warm. ‘Fancy carrying a bucket or two?’
‘I can’t now, but I’ll be happy to help later. I’m waiting to be called for a . . . a meeting. I do need advice. Sewing advice.’
Dana jerks her head toward Banva. ‘You know who to ask. Planning on making your own skirt next time, are you?’
‘Nothing like that. I need to make a doll.’
That silences them, but not for long. ‘Not for your own child, I take it,’ says Grainne, ‘unless things between you and that handsome stablehand have moved quicker than they might.’
I actually blush; my cheeks feel hot. ‘For a friend,’ I say.
‘Bring your cloth over here,’ Banva says. ‘I’ll help you cut it out.’
It’s awkward explaining that I have to do everything myself, but I tell her it’s a personal challenge – I want to do something I’ve never attempted before. It turns out the fabric Juniper gave me is not really suitable. Banva says it will be too difficult to embroider on but can be used for the clothing. Which means this doll will be dressed in dull blue-grey, but never mind that. All it really needs is a head with eyes so it can see the future of Breifne. Morrigan’s britches! I don’t even know what that means. A doll, scrying? I feel a pang of homesickness, surprising myself. My mother would understand what this is all about. She’s expert at solving puzzles. And she knows hearth magic. My instincts tell me this is both.
Banva guides me through the planning – size, proportions, uncombed wool for the stuffing, simple clothing, embroidery wool for the hair – and shows me, with a stick of charcoal on a piece of birch bark, what shape the pieces need to be. Head and body in one. Arms and legs made separately and sewn on later, which will mean the doll can be put in different positions. She establishes that I’m competent at basic sewing and lends me a special knife with which to cut the cloth precisely, and a stick with markings along it to ensure everything will fit. Also a well-worn board to work on, so I don’t carve up the tabletop. It’s all more complicated than I expected, and I wonder again about Wolfie, creator of Aislinn’s beloved creature.
The fabric Banva gives me for the body is a cream linen of quite good quality, which she says was left over from a lady’s tunic. I cut carefully, as instructed, since the strip of cloth is only just big enough for a modestly proportioned doll. As I finish cutting the last piece, a serving man arrives with a message from Archu. I’m to go with him to the keep, straight away.
Banva finds a basket, stows my work in it and promises to keep it safe until I come back. She and the others will find embroidery wool for the features and the hair and will draw some outlines for the clothing.
‘But don’t do any cutting or sewing,’ I warn her. ‘This has to be all my own work.’
‘What colour hair?’ enquires Grainne with a grin. ‘Golden like the mute lad’s? Red like yours? Or ordinary brown?’
I make a face at her and head off after the messenger. As we walk I picture the meeting. Cathra. Brondus. The hostile and unpleasant Bress. And two senior druids. This could go very, very badly. I remind myself of Dau’s words: Hold yourself tall. Tell the truth. Don’t show you’re angry. It’s good advice. The trouble is, I can’t tell the whole truth, and my sketchy half-story is unlikely to inspire trust. I can at least make sure I don’t lie. I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin and take a few steadying breaths. I am a Swan Island warrior. I can do this.
The meeting starts badly. I get there late because on the way I see Aislinn sitting outside the herb garden with her back to the dry-stone wall and her arms around Cliodhna. She’s all by herself. The way she’s hunched over tells me plainly that something’s wrong. She hears our footsteps and looks up, her face woebegone.
‘Stop,’ I tell the messenger. ‘Wait, please. I won’t be long.’
He protests, but I’m already heading over to the child. I crouch down beside her, and a moment later she’s flung herself into my arms. Her whole body is heaving with sobs. How can I say what I planned to say – that I’ll come back later and we’ll do something together?
‘What’s wrong, Aislinn?’
She’s too upset to get the words out. Something about the whistle. And something about wanting to go and stay with someone, and how she can’t go because of Wolfie. It’s all jumbled up and I can’t press her to explain further. ‘Where were you?’ she wails. ‘I looked for you all day and you weren’t anywhere!’
The messenger is frowning. I have to go. ‘Sometimes I’m busy,’ I tell Aislinn. ‘And I can’t stay here now. But later I’ll tell you about my secret project.’
This works as I hoped it might. Aislinn sits back and scrubs at her cheeks. ‘What secret project?’
I drop my voice to a whisper. ‘Secret from everyone, Aislinn. Not a word. Can you do that?’
She nods solemnly, her cheeks still wet.
‘I have to go,’ I say, glancing at the messenger, who looks only a step away from seizing me and dragging me up to the keep. ‘People are waiting for me. But I’ll find you later and tell you all about it.’
‘Don’t go! Please!’ She sounds frightened. How can I walk away?
‘Mistress Ciara,’ says the serving man, holding on to his temper, ‘we’ll be late.’
‘Where’s Máire?’ I ask the child. ‘Who is looking after you?’
‘Nobody. Máire’s sick. She’s got a big bruise and a cut lip. She keeps crying.’
‘Mistress Ciara!’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ I whisper. ‘After my meeting I’ll come and find you. You could wait for me here, or in your special place, up in the tree.’
Aislinn nods, mute.
‘And while you’re waiting, think of the best hair colour for a doll.’
‘All right.’ She gets up, and without another word bolts away down the grassy slope toward the big oak, still clutching her toy. I stumble through an apology to my escort, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, simply strides on ahead, grim-faced. Which is fair enough, since I’ve probably got him in trouble as well as myself.
In the council chamber they’re waiting for us. Lord Ca
thra is impassive; Master Brondus gives me a polite nod of acknowledgement; Master Bress looks as chilly as ever, possibly more so; Brother Marcán doesn’t spare me a glance. The high bard is younger
than Marcán; perhaps around the same age as Archu. I notice his beautiful long-fingered hands before I take in his grim expression. I wish I was calmer. But I’m tired, I’m cross, I’m worried, and I’m quite certain all of that shows on my face. Archu, who is the only one standing, beckons me over. I bob a curtsy in the general direction of Lord Cathra.
‘My apologies for being late, my lord.’ It’s not hard to find Ciara’s voice, a little higher than my natural pitch and a lot more hesitant. ‘There was a child in difficulty and I stopped to help.’
Nobody asks what child or what difficulty. These are important men. Children don’t interest them. I wish I could speak out while I have the opportunity. I wish I could ask the regent why the late king’s daughter is such an unhappy little soul, and why in the whole of Breifne they can’t find one or two kind folk to take proper care of her. But that’s not why I’m here.
‘So, young woman,’ says Master Bress, ‘it seems you find yourself in trouble yet again, and only one day since you last stood here before us.’
Is he going out of his way to annoy me? ‘I don’t believe I am in trouble this morning, Master Bress. I was away from court for some time yesterday, it is true. But that absence related to . . .’ I glance at Lord Cathra.
‘You may speak openly,’ puts in Brondus. ‘All those here know the true reason for your presence at court.’ He nods toward the younger druid. ‘Brother Farannán, the high bard, is with us today. We have reached the point, I believe, where we need his guidance.’
‘Thank you, Master Brondus. I understand that I am to provide an explanation of where I was and what I was doing.’
‘Your uncle has told us you were reluctant to provide even him with details,’ says Bress. ‘I remind you that for the length of your stay here, you are in Lord Cathra’s employ. We have scant time remaining until midsummer, and it seems no progress at all has been made on the mission your team undertook, save to rule out some of the possibilities. You seem to have lost one of your number along the way. To say the regent is displeased would be understating the importance of this. We are alarmed.’ His gaze is moving between me and Archu. I don’t like that. If anyone has erred, it’s not our mission leader. ‘We are not sure you understand the deep gravity of the situation. Lord Cathra must be given the truth. The whole truth.’
Harp of Kings Page 28
