I work all day and into the night. The tiny birds visit me while the sun is up, forming a neat line on the windowsill to watch and listen. There is a question I would ask them, if I could speak their language of cheeps and chirrups. They were in the nemetons, with Faelan and with Brother Odhar, the lore-master. They were at Mistress Juniper’s cottage. And they are here. If they could communicate with human folk, or with others in Eirne’s realm, such small, swift creatures would make excellent messengers.
I have another question, too, and it’s for Eirne. A delicate question concerning something she said while Liobhan was here. She said her spies sometimes took matters into their own hands. Meaning, possibly, that they had been known to take direct action to change the course of events in the human world, despite the ancient laws forbidding it. If those spies were very small, and if they could fly . . . It’s a far-fetched theory. How could they lift a harp, even if there were a hundred of them?
A gentle tap on my door. The glow of a candle, glimpsed through the open shutters.
‘Brocc? Are you awake?’
Eirne’s here. There’s no time to get out of bed, to fling on my clothing, to make myself fit to receive a queen.
‘Half-awake,’ I tell her as I sit up and adjust the blanket to cover my nakedness. ‘Not entirely ready for visitors. But come in if you wish.’
‘I do wish, my bard.’
Her nightrobe is gleaming white; it catches the moonlight in its soft folds. Her hair has been released from its ribbon and tumbles loose over her shoulders in a dark stream. A tremor runs through my body. I do not know which is uppermost, desire, misgiving or cold. This hut is very small. Eirne sets her lighted candle, in its holder, on my work table. She comes over to my pallet and sits down on the edge. Oh, so close. I look into her eyes and feel a hot rush of blood to my face. As the days have passed, we have become closer. We have become accustomed to touching hands, to walking or sitting with our arms linked, to spending time together, I working on my song, Eirne watching. We have even exchanged a tentative kiss or two. But this . . .
‘I came without due warning,’ she says. Her eyes travel to the blanket which I am gripping awkwardly, lest it reveal parts of my body better kept concealed, especially at this moment. ‘You must be cold, my friend. Would you prefer to don some items of clothing? I could turn my back.’
Her tone is merry. A mischievous dimple has appeared at the corner of her mouth. I think of a way to keep warm that does not require items of clothing. But I don’t suggest it, much as I want to. ‘That might be wiser,’ I say, not moving.
‘Or I could give you this.’ Eirne takes off the light shawl she’s wearing over the nightrobe. The fabric is like a stretch of soft cloud, pearly grey in the candlelight, with a twinkle to it as of half-hidden stars. She leans toward me, reaching up to put it around my shoulders. My breath catches at the nearness of her, the sweet scent, the warmth of her body. Although I sit very still, my heart is jumping like the nimblest of dancers. The tune for this moment would be ‘Artagan’s Leap’.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper. The shawl weighs almost nothing, but I feel its warmth through my whole body. ‘It is . . . perhaps . . . not wise for you to be here at night, alone with me.’
Eirne smiles. She takes my hand; holds it on her lap. Oh, gods, I wish men were made differently. My manhood is standing to ever greater attention; blanket or no blanket, she must surely see the state I am in. ‘I wished only to bid you good night,’ she says. ‘I would not outstay my welcome, Bard.’
‘It’s not – it’s just that –’
Eirne raises my hand to her lips. ‘Dear Brocc. I would not press you to act against your will. That could only end in sorrow and confusion. But when you are ready . . . if you wish . . . then maybe . . .’
I withdraw my hand. This simple act is remarkably difficult; I see the dismay in her eyes and hate myself. But I can’t let this happen. I can’t take a step that would be so . . . irrevocable. ‘My lady,’ I say, ‘if it were only a matter of wishing, I would say yes with delight. But I cannot consider this, either tonight or any other night. Midsummer Eve is almost upon us.’ Eirne does not speak. She is looking away from me now, her arms clutched around herself as if my words have hurt her. Now she is not a queen of the Fair Folk, but the village girl of my imaginings, and she’s hurt by my refusal. I don’t know what to say. ‘If I did this, if I . . .’
‘Go on.’ Her tone is cool. The playful mood of her arrival is all gone.
‘Perhaps I am not made like other men,’ I say. ‘I cannot engage in a . . . a dalliance, a short-lived thing, sweet while it lasts, soon over, easily forgotten.’
Eirne rises; takes her candle; moves to the door. She turns
and meets my eye, and while her expression is that of a wounded girl, the strength beneath it is undeniable: she is both woman and queen. ‘Oh, Brocc,’ she says softly. ‘Nor can I.’ The door opens
and closes, and she is gone.
31
Dau
One of Rodan’s bodyguards, Garbh, is gone from court, abruptly, without farewells or explanations. The gossip in the stables is that he lost his position because he danced with Liobhan after her public apology. Tonight, in the great hall, Rodan has both Buach and a new man in attendance. The new one is another big man. Looks like a fighter. And watchful, as a personal guard should be. Liobhan and I are dancing together – the second of our three times – and I see both him and Rodan looking our way, then exchanging words.
It’s a slow dance. The melody is sweet and sad. Liobhan has her hands on my shoulders; mine are on her waist. Her hair is caught up at the sides but flowing loose at the back. The vivid red is softened to gold by the light of many candles set around the hall. I can understand why people would look at her. I just wish Rodan wouldn’t. He’s still doing it, chin on hand.
‘Stop staring,’ hisses Liobhan. ‘Stop looking fierce.’
I can’t answer. But I do need to talk to her. I haven’t had the opportunity to tell anyone what I observed earlier in the ritual area, and I suppose even at this late stage it might be of some importance. I look away from the high table and back at my partner. The music rises and falls. We turn and part and come together again. As we circle with both hands joined, Liobhan gives me a quick smile. There’s a warmth in her eyes. What I feel jolts me. It’s like opening a forbidden door.
‘What’s wrong?’ she murmurs.
I shake my head, avoiding her eyes now. A moment of madness. That’s what it was. She’s my rival. My comrade. On occasion, my partner in adventure. There can be no more than that. Not with Liobhan and not with anyone. I’ve taught myself to joke about such matters – the lusts of the flesh, the games men and women play – in order to be accepted as a man among men. But the future I plan for myself has no room for such things. The forbidden door must stay closed. Locked and bolted forever. I learned my lesson early. To open your heart is to invite pain. It is to lose yourself. Besides, Swan Island has strict rules on such matters.
Liobhan is frowning. I put on an impassive face as we negotiate a tricky set of steps, a twirl, a bow and curtsy, then, as the music draws to a close, a walk back to the seats near the band, arm in arm. I make sure she’s got a place close to Archu before I move away. There may be some gossip circulating that the minstrel girl likes the mute stableboy, or the other way around, but I won’t give Rodan further cause to bother either of us. If it weren’t for Liobhan saying she had to dance with me three times before midsummer, I’d have stayed right away. I don’t like dancing. I never did.
I leave the hall early, while the band is still playing. My mood has turned dark and I am not fit for company. As I near the stable yard I hear footsteps behind me. Three men following. Not in boots, in soft shoes. If they’re trying to be furtive, they’re quite bad at it. If those were stable lads behind me they’d be wearing boots. And they’d be talking, exchanging jokes, perhaps calling t
o me to wait for them.
It could be something. It could be nothing. What to do, turn around or keep walking? Nessan would walk on. Nessan wouldn’t expect a sudden attack. Nor would he be ready for it if it came. But I will be.
I reach the entry to the stables before they speak.
‘Think you’re a fine man, do you, horse boy?’
‘Horse shit, more like it. Fancies his chances of getting up that singer’s skirts.’
‘Her? Not likely. Though she’s a bit of a whore, that’s what I heard. Not slow to offer herself around.’
‘Big girl, that. Quite a handful.’
‘You mean two handfuls.’
Raucous laughter. They’re close now. Three strides away, I estimate. My blood boils. I’m angry out of all proportion. These are nothing but fools a little the worse for wear with drink. Rodan’s friends. But not, I think, the man himself. His voice would have been the loudest.
‘Wouldn’t mind getting up her,’ one of them says. ‘I’d make her dance for me. She’d be lively.’
‘What about you, dunderhead? Where did you have her? In the barn, in the muck? Did she bare her titties for you? I bet she sang loud enough when you stuck your filthy fingers up her –’
I’m in the barn with my brothers. I’m seven years old. At ten and twelve, they loom as large as monsters. ‘Pigswill! Dung eater! Maggot! Rancid little turd! Go on, then, fight us! Let’s see what kind of man you are, you grovelling piece of shit!’ First the words, the hurtful, ugly words. Then the blows. It would be easier not to fight back, knowing I can’t win. But I do fight, I kick and scratch and struggle until the pain is too great and I curl up on myself, sobbing. I prove them true. At seven, I’m weak, helpless, useless and, at last, mercifully, alone with my tears.
I turn. I breathe. I drag my thoughts back to this moment, this time. A torch burns not far away, illuminating the stable yard, painting the faces of my tormentors rosy red. Rodan’s friends, Cruinn and Coll. And a larger man: the prince’s new bodyguard. I imagine them burning. I imagine them screaming. I do not scream. I do not say a word. I let my eyes speak for me.
‘Ooh, watch out,’ hoots one of them in mock terror. ‘Horse boy’s angry!’
‘Want a fight?’ challenges another. ‘Come on, show us what you’ve got! Fight me, come on, fight me!’
How easily I could knock them down, one, two, three, then dust myself off and walk away. How easily I could kill them. I want to fight. I need to fight. I raise my fists as Nessan might do, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, preparing myself. I’ve had enough of pretence. I want to be a man.
There’s surprise on their stupid faces. They expected me to turn tail and run. Perhaps the plan was to follow and administer a beating, as my brothers would have done. Oh, yes, I’m an expert on bullies. I wonder if Rodan has sent them on this mission, knowing that with midsummer so close, he can’t risk getting in trouble himself.
They’re rolling up their sleeves, getting themselves in position, ready to launch a three-against-one assault. Cruinn looks strongest and fittest. The big fellow can likely throw a weighty punch, but he’ll be slow on his feet. Coll is smaller and slighter. He keeps glancing from me to his companions, looking for some kind of guidance, perhaps an order to attack. Strong Man, Big Man, Little Man. Big Man has a concealed knife; the lighted torch across the stable yard picks out the glint of it. Have they been ordered to kill me? Strong Man has a dagger at his belt, in an elaborately decorated sheath. He looks the sort of person who might use it. I make a gesture. Come on, then!
‘What’s this?’ The voice is Illann’s. I glance across and see him with a group of other workers, heading back from supper. Mochta, the court farrier, is among them. My assailants lower their fists. I’ve never felt so disappointed in my life. I don’t want to be rescued. I want to fight, and I want to win.
‘Looks a bit uneven,’ Illann says as a circle of grooms and stablehands forms, so it’s impossible for any of us to make a quiet retreat. ‘Three against one, and that one a lad with no voice?’
‘He doesn’t need a voice to fight,’ someone in the crowd points out.
Illann is standing square, arms folded, calmly sizing up the situation. What does he expect me to do? What does he want me to do? Over his shoulder, at the back of the crowd, I see Archu and Liobhan standing side by side, silent. The path ahead becomes clear, if Illann will let me follow it. I am Nessan. I have no voice. If I’ve ever been taught to fight, it’s in a boys-behind-the-barn sort of way, no technique to speak of, only brute strength and a few tricks, nothing too clever. And not one against three, because although Dau can do that and win, Nessan would have trouble. I hold up my first finger, then point to myself. Me. I hold up the same finger on my other hand, then point to Strong Man. Me against him. The same gestures for Big Man. Then me against him. And Little Man. Last, I fight him.
‘Ah,’ says Illann. ‘One at a time. That’s closer to fair. You sure, lad?’
Maybe I should feign terror. But that’s beyond my powers of pretence right now. Besides, I got myself into this, and I’m glad Illann has given me a way out that doesn’t involve a humiliating retreat. I nod vigorously.
‘What do you think, boys?’ Illann looks around the circle, and a chorus of voices shouts, ‘Yes!’ and ‘Fight!’ It’s bizarre. Illann’s a Swan Island man. He’s supposed to be undercover.
‘Two coppers on the stableboy to win all three bouts!’ calls out Archu.
There’s a lot of shouting, including offers of four or five coppers for me to lose. While they’re disputing what the rules are and making wagers, I focus my mind and prepare my body. I don’t look at anyone but Strong Man, my first opponent. And when the noise dies down, and Illann, who’s taken it on himself to be fight master, calls out, ‘Ready? Fight!’ I am indeed ready. The crowd has decided the first to get his opponent to the ground and keep him there for a count of three wins. Nobody mentions concealed weapons and the possible use of them. It’s assumed that everyone will fight fair.
I let Strong Man get the first punch in. I grunt and stagger as his fist crunches into my shoulder, drawing a murmur from the crowd. Bizarrely, it seems most of them would like to see me win at least one of these bouts, though it sounds as if the wagers fall heavily the other way. I regain my footing and charge straight into my opponent with head down, like an enraged bull. He’s slow to dodge, and my move pushes the wind out of him. I turn on my heel, clumsily. Strong Man is still bent over, wheezing. I kick his legs out from under him, making it appear more freakish luck than skill. He falls. The onlookers clap and cheer, even the ones who wagered against me. Illann counts to three, then declares me the winner of the first bout. I reach out a hand to help Strong Man to his feet, in the manner of Swan Island, but he scowls and mutters, ‘Keep your grubby hands to yourself, horse boy.’
Big Man is next. Before we square up, someone gives me a water skin and I drink a little, not too much. Liobhan and Archu have their heads close together, whispering. Probably discussing my lamentable lack of finesse, and what further training I should complete when we return to Swan Island. Or they’re wondering why in the name of the gods I’m out here fighting in front of an audience when I’m supposed to lie low in the stables. I could hardly be making more of an exhibition of myself. I hope nobody tells Liobhan how the fight started.
Big Man sizes me up. I’m as tall as him but a lot leaner. He’ll think he can pick me up bodily and throw me down, probably head first, a move to be employed only in a real combat situation, since there’s a good chance you’ll break your opponent’s neck. Big Man is either stupid or reckless. Or he’s acting on orders from guess who.
Big Man and I circle each other. I breathe hard, so he’ll think I’m tired from the first bout. He mutters at me, the sort of foul rubbish they were taunting me with earlier. I watch and wait for the moment.
Ah! He’s about to squat, grab
, lift. I jump on him as if I were an excited child, my arms locked around his neck, my legs around his waist, my teeth in his ear. Big Man shrieks. I spit blood. He staggers; I hold on, a giant, clinging baby he cannot dislodge. He falls. I fall with him, making sure I land on top. We roll and wrestle, but on the ground his weight is a disadvantage; I am by far the more agile. I remember to punctuate this display with uncouth sounds such as a mute man might make under physical strain: grunts, groans and the like. When he has enough breath, Big Man swears in a colourful manner. I will take some of those oaths back to Swan Island with me.
‘Go, stableboy !’ shouts someone. ‘Go, lad!’ I’m not the only one to have suffered Rodan’s unreasonable demands where his horses are concerned, or to have been insulted or bullied by his cronies. I hope the stablehands’ support for me doesn’t make trouble for them later. But then, if I beat all three opponents – and now, as I deliver a sharp elbow strike, then push Big Man onto his back and sit on him, I’m two-thirds of the way there – perhaps the tale of this episode will be suppressed, to save Rodan’s friends embarrassment.
‘Second bout to Nessan,’ says Illann as Big Man gets up, huffing and puffing, and limps into the concealing shadows at the back of the crowd. ‘Where’s the next man?’
Little Man edges forward and puts up his fists. I’m more than a head taller than him and broader in the shoulders. He doesn’t have the look of a fighter. But looks can deceive. I wonder if a quick jab and cross may be enough to fell him, and whether that would give away the fact that I know exactly what I’m doing.
‘Ready? Fight!’
I punch; he ducks. He’s quick and he’s not as scared as he might be. I back off a little, wondering what he’s got in his box of tricks. Strong Man’s standing at the front of the crowd now, he’s got his breath back and he’s urging his friend on. ‘Come on, Coll! You can do it!’
Harp of Kings Page 32
