Misfortune of Song: Druid's Brooch Series: #5

by Christy Nicholas

  With a slap on his back, Eógan growled, “I said drink! The ale won’t get any stronger if you stare at it. It might curdle from your sour visage, but the ale won’t get stronger.”

  Maelan shoved Eógan away with his shoulder and growled back. The shorter man was his closest friend, but he knew better than to be so familiar in front of others. Maelan, as warchief, had a dignity to maintain and an image to uphold. Tumbling about in a drunken brawl was not part of his image, no matter Eógan’s affinity for such a state.

  Sometimes Maelan believed Eógan would have been better off in a fían, free from the command of any chief, marauding across the countryside and hiring himself out as a warrior.

  While some warriors who ran with the fían were landless and poor, all túath warriors owned land. It was necessary to support them so they might devote themselves to fighting, to protecting the chief and the laborers. Some acted more nobly than others. Eógan didn’t come from peasant stock, but he acted as if he did. Sometimes Maelan wondered if it was worth all he went through to protect Eógan from his own follies. Then he remembered the Aileach and all disloyal thoughts fled.

  He needed to escape. Swallowing the last of his ale, he pushed himself away from the table. His wooden bench made no noise in the din of conversation, and he slowly escaped from the smoke-filled hall.

  Alone in his room once again, he sat on the bed and closed his eyes. He was so tired. If only Eógan showed a little more sense, he could pass on the duties of warchief to his younger friend. In truth, he had no one he truly trusted to have the dignity and ability the position required.

  Once he entertained the belief he might train his granddaughter, Orlagh, to be a worthy heir. She had the feisty spirit and the strength of will. However, she never grew tall, and while a man could be an effective short warrior, women who were short had a distinct disadvantage on the battlefield and in command of other warriors. Her tongue was also given to sarcasm and insult, neither of which would endear her to men. Besides, her mother, rest her soul, had coddled the girl and given her everything she desired. The child was quite spoiled.

  Maelan undressed and lay back to rest his head. He must get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a full day.

  * * *

  The drip, drip, drip of the last rainfall filled Maelan’s ears as he listened for other sounds. He’d been all day on this patrol, but he couldn’t relax. One of the farmers asked him to watch for a missing sheep, and who knew where the beast had gotten to.

  The first flowers of spring pushed through the moss and dried leaves left over from autumn. The rich, loamy smell of earth and rotted wood was thick.

  Something snapped, and Maelan froze. No Ostmen should be in these woods, but that’s exactly what he was here to verify. He scanned the area, but nothing moved. Slowly, he pulled up his magic, shielding his body from view. His grandmother would have called this shield a Féth Fíada, an invisible cloak, but it covered his whole body. He knew from past experience someone could still see a shimmer, but for the casual observer, he disappeared.

  Slowly, each foot carefully placed, he moved to the glade. A slight rustle of leaves moved in the wind. Was that another snap? He froze again. A slight movement pulled his attention to the right, and he steadied his gaze on a blur of red.

  He didn’t recognize the men. They weren’t Gaels, not with their ridiculous helms. They wore no golden torcs to indicate status. Their weapons were different.

  He held his breath as they passed. The three warriors came so close he could have reached out and touched them, but he didn’t. He needed to see where they went, not get into a skirmish with them.

  When they turned south, rather than north toward Ceann-Coradh, he let out his breath. They must be headed toward Luimneach. The town had become an Ostman stronghold several generations past. Chief Diarmait had no love for the Ostmen and hated the fact they were so close, a mere five leagues to the southwest, but little could be done about it. They were well established and not given to running away simply because their neighbors disapproved. All the Gaels could do was watch them carefully in case they decided to take up their raiding habits once again.

  Another movement caught his eye. No red this time, but a soft gray.Behind that copse of ash trees…a wolf.

  And such a wolf it was. An enormous animal, staring right at Maelan. Of course, a wolf could easily sense him, despite his magic. He remained still and prayed to God the animal would forget him and leave.

  Still, the creature stared at him. He resisted the urge to shoo it away. It wasn’t a dog, domesticated and used to sleeping at his master’s feet. This was a wild animal, used to hunting and killing.

  Despite his evaluation, Maelan gauged a keen intelligence in the creature’s gaze. Then the wolf blinked once. Maelan found himself blinking in response. When he opened his eyes again, the wolf was gone.

  Maelan scanned the surrounding woods. The creature couldn’t have disappeared so completely. It must be hiding somewhere near.

  Cautiously, Maelan moved toward home. His chief would need a report of the Ostmen, despite their obvious track south. More and more their incursions came close to Ceann-Coradh. Of course, when he told Diarmait of the Ostmen, Maelan knew very well he’d be asked to follow them back to Luimneach once again, and use his magic to spy on them. He would once again refuse. He didn’t know why his chief still bothered to ask. It was always going to be the same answer. Maelan could justify using his magic in their own territory, but to invade another man’s land? To him and his personal code, such cowardice was despicable.

  He slipped into a still-icy pond. With a curse, he extracted himself, but was soaked up to his knees. Grumbling, he shook his leg and turned around, anxious someone had seen his clumsiness. He was getting old. He needed to pass off his duties soon before he lost the respect of the younger warriors. An old warrior only left his post in three ways. He retired willfully, and with a plan, he fell in battle, or he was deposed by a younger man, usually by force or deceit. The first was by far the most desirable strategy.

  But first, he should find someone to replace him. He must ask Eógan for a suggestion.

  He spied the ringfort in the distance, a massive hill rising above the surrounding woods. A large cleared area surrounded the fort, so anyone approaching would be easily seen. A stone wall around an internal, wooden palisade surrounded over a dozen large roundhouses. In addition to the great hall, stables, kitchens, the armory, and several smaller structures stood for living quarters.

  Trudging up the entrance path, Maelan called a greeting to the sentry, who saluted him. He acknowledged the honor and headed straight for the great hall. Chief Diarmait would be in the hall at this time of the day, and Maelan needed to inform him of the Ostmen. Perhaps he should also mention the wolf. The farmers in the outlying areas would be glad to know of such a creature nearby.

  Raised voices coming from the great hall made him groan. If the chief were already entangled in a dispute, Maelan would be drawn in. Straightening his back, he gritted his teeth and entered.

  Orlagh was yelling at a young guard, a rather dull young man who’d finished training last summer. Her face was red and her eyes puffed to slits. She must have been at this for a while now. Diarmait sat in his large, intricately carved wooden chair with his eyes closed and his chin on his hand, obviously bored.

  “Grandfa! Grandfa, tell this flea-ridden woodcock he has no call to tell me what to do! I am not subject to his supervision, and I shall not follow his orders!”

  Maelan closed his own eyes and prayed to God for strength to handle yet another situation with his willful grandchild.

  His chief kept his eyes closed as he said, “Maelan, do take control of your granddaughter.”

  Maelan took hold of her upper arm and pulled her away. “Come, Orlagh.”

  She tried to pull away, but he held firm. “No! I don’t have to go anywhere with you or anyone else!”

  He’d had enough. “You do and you will. You are not yet married, so you
are my responsibility. Have you no care for my reputation? My own standing with the soldiers I must command? If I cannot control my own granddaughter, why should they listen to my orders? Come to my room, and we’ll discuss the matter. Now.”

  She pouted, but didn’t resist when he pulled her away. He swore Chief Diarmait laughed quietly as they left.

  It took several tense minutes until they reached his small roundhouse near the guard barracks. Most of the guards slept in a large room, but as commander, he had his own quarters, with a smaller roundhouse nearby for Orlagh. It was small and simple, but the privacy proved invaluable.

  He forced his voice to pitch low and soft. “Tell me what happened.”

  Orlagh yelled, “It wasn’t my fault!”

  “Did I ask you whose fault it was? No. I asked you to recount the facts. Be objective. Tell me what happened, in what order, and to whom.”

  She scowled but did take a moment to think before she answered. She sighed and stood straight eyes front. He smiled at her imitation of his own stance when giving a report. “Eolande and I were in the market. We were eating bridies and bothering nobody when two young warriors bumped into us. I very politely asked for an apology, but they refused. They said they didn’t apologize to changelings.”

  Maelan rolled his eyes up to the thatched roof, hoping for guidance from above. “Then what happened?”

  Orlagh looked down and shuffled her toe across the rushes on the dirt floor before she answered. In a small voice, she said, “I hit him.”

  “Speak up, Orlagh.”

  She raised her chin and looked straight into his eyes. “I hit him. I punched that boiled cow’s udder in the groin, and I’d do it again. He has no right to call Eolande a changeling!”

  Maelan tried hard not to chuckle. “That’s true, but it isn’t your place to administer justice.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I couldn’t just let him mock her with a self-satisfied smirk on his face!”

  Maelan still wore his brat and took it off, hanging it on a peg near the door. “You could and you should. Next time, fetch someone in authority. Report him to his superior.”

  Her face grew red again as she spoke through gritted teeth. “He was the superior!”

  Maelan turned, narrowing his eyes. “Who, precisely, did you punch, Orlagh?” The muscles jumped as she clenched her jaw. “I’ll find out easily enough, child, so you’d best tell me.”

  “Conn.”

  He crossed his arms and glared at his granddaughter. “Conn. You punched the chief’s fosterling. Orlagh, have you no sense in your pretty, little skull?”

  “Just because he’s the chief’s fosterling, he thinks he can get away with anything! He’s a bully and a cheat and a… a…”

  “And a…?”

  Her angry red face turned to blush, and she dropped her gaze. “He’s… just rude. He thinks he can take anything he wants.”

  Maelan put his hand under her chin and made her look up. “Has he touched you, Orlagh? Did he try to take you?”

  She pulled away and shook her head. “No, no, not me, but he cornered Eolande the other day.”

  His stomach turned cold, and he clenched his fists. “Cornered her and did what?”

  Orlagh shook her head. “He didn’t… take her or anything, but he tried. He earned a few scratches from both her and her raven, but she got away.”

  “And is that what prompted your behavior today?” She shrugged, looking at the floor. “Were you defending her, Orlagh?”

  She looked up and gave a half-smile. “I suppose so.”

  Maelan smiled and patted her on her shoulder. He must have hit a bit too strongly as she wobbled. “That’s my girl. Well, I can’t in good conscience punish you for defending your friend. However, you will need to make a public apology.”

  Her eyes widened. “But Grandfa, he deserved it! He shouldn’t be allowed to attack her like that!”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, Orlagh. However, this is a private matter and shall be handled privately. The public matter—you punching the chief’s fosterling, no matter how well deserved—needs to be dealt with publicly.”

  Orlagh crossed her arms. “I won’t. He doesn’t deserve an apology. In fact, all he deserves is another punch in the groin. I’m happy to deliver the latter. Several times. I might even use a club this time.”

  The mental image of his diminutive granddaughter pummeling the young snot repeatedly with a club appealed to Maelan, and he smiled. This made Orlagh giggle, which in turn made him chuckle.

  “All right, all right. Orlagh, you know the rules. You know what’s expected of you and what honor demands.”

  She heaved a huge sigh and placed her hands on her hips. “Yes, Grandfa. I know the rules.”

  “Then at tonight’s meal, you shall deliver your apology in front of all, yes?”

  “I shall apologize. But I won’t mean it.”

  He smiled and hugged her. “Strictly speaking, honor only demands the appearance of respect, not the reality. Learn that now, my child.”

  * * *

  Her grandfather touched her arm. “It’s time, Orlagh.”

  She gulped. She hated having to do this, but she’d done someone wrong. Brehon Law was crystal clear on the matter. She hadn’t even needed to ask the bard for clarification. This was a basic rule.

  Lifting her skirts so as not to trip, she ascended the dais behind the chief’s elaborate chair and to the side. He turned his head and nodded.

  Orlagh looked down the long table, and everyone stared at her. She swallowed as the smoke hazed the hall. She wasn’t used to being on display like this. She preferred to make things happen behind the scenes. She cleared her throat three times before she could speak. Several people twittered. Voices called out from the smoky room.

  “Going to do a dance for us, Orlagh?”

  “Fae-lover!”

  “Go on, girl, spit it out!”

  Resisting the urge to yell back at them, she straightened her back. “I… I… I hit Conn, and I apologize. It was wrong of me to do so.”

  “You busted his balls, girl! Say it like it is!”

  Orlagh tried to see who had said that last one, but the smoke made her eyes water. She picked up her skirts and descended from the dais, retreating to the safety of her grandfather’s side.

  He put his arm around her and hugged her so tightly she squeaked. He eased off. “I’m proud of you, Orlagh. That couldn’t have been easy, but you did well.”

  “Thanks, Grandfa. Next time…”

  “No, no next time, Orlagh. This is the punishment for a first offense, and you know it. Next time an apology won’t be enough. Just be sure there is no next time, aye?”

  She nodded. Not another outright assault, perhaps. However, that bully wouldn’t get away with his little tricks again. She would make certain. She would simply have to be more circumspect with her next act of justice and make the punishment fit the crime.

  Orlagh looked around for Eolande, who hid in the shadows. Stretching out her hand, the pale girl came forth to take it. She squeezed hard and smiled at her best friend, her closest confidante. Eolande’s violet eyes swam with unshed tears, but she lifted her chin. Her raven sat on her shoulder and nuzzled her neck, blinking balefully at Orlagh.

  A stir at the hall entrance drew their attention. Several guards rushed in. The tallest one, a young man named Caiside, said, “Chief! A delegation’s wanting entrance.”

  Chief Diarmait sat upright. “A delegation? From whom?”

  Caiside’s eyes grew wide. “Sir… they’re Ostmen!”

  The hall grew silent as the chief digested the information.

  The Ostmen had settled in Luimneach several centuries before and used it as a base to first raid and then settle and trade along the river. It had changed hands back and forth between the Ostmen and the Gaels many times. Several encounters with the foreigners had occurred over the winters, but none had ever approached Ceann-Coradh to talk, as far as Orlagh knew. Surely such in
formation would have been in her own priest-led education.

  Chief Diarmait shaded his eyes with his palm for several moments before he looked up and nodded. “Escort them in. Let’s hear what they have to say.”

  Caiside hesitated. He glanced at his father, Eógan, before asking his question. “Should we offer them guest-right?”

  The chief rolled his eyes. “Of course, we should offer them guest-right, idiot! It’s a double-ended obligation. They cannot kill their host, and we cannot kill them.”

  Blushing, the young guard saluted and rushed back out. His companions followed. Several minutes later they reappeared with three Ostmen.

  Orlagh had seen Ostmen before, but never this close. She’d seen them from the ringfort walls, in small raiding parties at the edge of the cleared plain. Once she had seen a large group on their fierce long-ships, sailing down the river Sionann. Everyone had stopped to stare at the spectacle, the red and white square, striped sail a beacon for their interest.

  The delegation was dressed in fine clothing, with decorative beads and etched armor. They carried enormous broad axes over their shoulders, and they clanked as they walked. The entire hall stared as they marched to the area before the chief’s dais.

  The chief stood as the Ostmen approached. “I welcome you to Ceann-Coradh, royal seat of the Dál gCais. Please, be our guest. Sup of our bread and drink of our ale. I am Chief Diarmait Ua Briain.”

  The tallest of the Ostmen bowed and said in passable Gaelic, “I thank you for your welcome, Chief Diarmait Ua Briain of the Dál gCais. I am Imar, son of Olaf, son of Haldor. I have lived in Luimneach for many winters. We desire to speak with you for trade.”

  His wording was strange, but his accent was easy enough to understand. Orlagh had never seen a man so tall. He would tower over her grandfather, she was certain. And such hair! A blond almost as white as Eolande’s. Maybe she was part Ostman?

  The raven cawed, and Orlagh flinched. Eolande squeezed Orlagh’s hand tight. “What? Eolande, what’s wrong?”

  Her friend whispered, her eyes wide. “They… those men. They know evil.”

  Orlagh cocked her head. “Do you mean they are evil? How would you know? Have you met them?”