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

by Christy Nicholas

  She clapped her hands together. A bard! A real bard. Oh, tonight would be joyous indeed.

  Certainly, Ceann-Coradh had its own bard. No great Gaelic household would do without such a thing. A bard not only told stories, but recited the family histories and Brehon Law. However, their bard, Mícheál, had grown ancient. He rarely entertained of an evening, and barely roused himself to advise the chief on matters of law or family disputes any more. It had been moons since he’d performed something as frivolous or mundane as a mere song.

  The tall bard smiled as he answered Domnall, and the expression changed his face from a simple visage to the light over the ocean at dawn. Orlagh didn’t understand how such a transformation could occur, but it did. His eyes glittered as he spoke, and his hands danced with graceful movements. She couldn’t even understand his words, just his voice. He was melodious and intriguing, and his words captured her as surely as a fish in a net.

  She inched closer, shouldering past one of the other girls in her need to get closer.

  “Hey! Stop stepping on me.”

  In her haste, she didn’t realize she’d elbowed the smith’s daughter. “Oh! Sorry, Alatha. I didn’t notice you.”

  The girl put her hands on her hips. “How in the name of the great god Dagda could you not notice me? It’s not like I’m a tiny thing like you.”

  Alatha was a big girl. In fact, Alatha was bigger than both Orlagh and Eolande put together. She would probably become a smith like her father. She had the mass and the build for it, even at the age of sixteen.

  “I said I was sorry, Alatha, and I am. I just wanted to listen to what the new bard said, that’s all.”

  “Hmph, well, that’s as may be. I’m sure we’ll all listen tonight. Chief Diarmait is having several cattle slaughtered in honor of their visit. It should be a grand feast!”

  Domnall raised his voice. “Our guests need to rest from their journey! Please, give them space so we can show them to their quarters. Tonight we shall hear their news!”

  A grand feast indeed. Their chief was a careful administrator, and wouldn’t slaughter more than he’d budgeted for unless he had an excellent reason. This bard must bring high entertainment to warrant such an honor.

  Still, today would be a very long day, waiting for the evening to arrive. She supposed she ought to make herself busy.

  With dragging feet, Orlagh returned to her quarters and changed into a more utilitarian léine. One which wouldn’t get ruined weeding the kitchen garden.

  Still, she looked forward to the evening. She couldn’t wait to hear new songs from the bards.

  * * *

  Orlagh got to the hall much too early. Adorned in her pale rose léine once again, she had taken the time to pile her hair up in an elaborate braid, complete with tiny spring flowers. Eolande, finally returning from her morning pilgrimage, had helped her. She’d considered donning some jewels, but Eolande said to keep it simple. Very well then, she would just have to catch the bard’s attention some other way. She pulled down at the front of her léine, hoping to show a little more of her generous bosom. All men ached for a peek of such things. Why should a bard be any different?

  When she pulled the léine tight, her bosom looked about to burst forth with violence. With a grimace, she let go. Besides, she couldn’t hold it thus all evening. Everyone would laugh. She sighed and used a wide belt instead. That did part of the job. She briefly considered putting a bit of rag under each breast, to make them rise, but dismissed the idea as unworthy and desperate.

  Holding up her precious bronze mirror, she gazed at her reflection. It wasn’t as good as a still pool, but it still showed a decent image of her face. It was a gift from her mother. Tears pushed behind her eyes. No, no, no time to think of that now. She had a bard to impress.

  Was your reflection an image of your true self? Or merely the outward shell others perceived? Seers and mystics maintained they could perceive more than just someone’s physical appearance; they could gaze into a person’s soul. What did her soul look like? Did it glow in blue and green, like the sunlight reflecting on the river? It was probably more orange and spiky, full of anger and hate. Her grandfather’s was likely some dull brown, the color of dirt, boring and solid, with occasional flashes of red and orange. She decided she preferred the blue idea and vowed to smooth down her angry edges.

  The whole hillfort had been abuzz with details about the visitors. The leader of the entertainers was Temuirr. Quite tall and thin, he looked to be about thirty. He claimed to be a true bard, educated in the Oak Groves with the Druids. The others of the traveling group were singers and storytellers, performers and teachers, traveling from village to village to bring news, stories, and joy. Everyone had a different theory as to where they came from.

  “Dubhlinn, surely. They must be from Dubhlinn, they’re so outlandish!”

  “They don’t look like Ostmen. Too short.”

  “Maybe they hail from Tír na nÓg, Land of the Ever-Living?”

  “You’re an idiot. Faeries aren’t real.”

  “They could be Frankish.”

  “Maybe they’re Frankish Faeries!”

  Orlagh hid a smile at all these suggestions, especially the last ones. She’d read of Francia, and the beautiful artwork and buildings. Someday Orlagh hoped to travel and discover such wonders. Someday, however, was not today. Today she was content to listen to the bard. When would they arrive? It seemed like she’d waited for hours just to hear them.

  The chief and most of his family entered, but no one truly paid attention. They kept their scrutiny on the main hall doors, waiting for the guests to appear.

  Eolande slipped in the back door and sat next to her with a small smile. Eolande looked a bit worse for wear. How long had she been up on the hill? Sure, and it was a beautiful spot, but what drew Eolande to the stones so often? She’d live up on the hill if she could.

  Bumping her with her shoulder, Eolande’s smile deepened. “When do you think they’ll come?”

  Shrugging, Orlagh said nothing. She picked at the skin on the edge of her fingers. They’d grown chapped from weeding the garden earlier. She may have brushed one of the nettles. Was that a welt? It itched like the very devil. She must get some salve on it before it spread.

  Gasps caught her attention, and she looked up to notice the door to the hall had opened. A lone man stood in the doorway, the dying sunlight behind him, limning him in a golden glow. It was the leader of the guests, Temuirr. He wore a bright blue léine, so bright it was like the summer sky, and it matched his eyes. Over this, he wore a multi-colored brat, a short cape which rivaled her own chief’s in grandeur and flash.

  A brat of many colors was a sign of status and respect. Brehon Law dictated slaves could only wear brat of one color, while freemen could wear four. Chiefs or druí could have six, while the Ard Rí could wear seven.

  Temuirr’s had six colors and a gold fringe on the bottom edge. Glints of gold embroidery showed between the checkered squares. Iridescent green duck feathers decorated the front edge.

  Even Chief Diarmait’s brat didn’t sport duck feathers or gold fringe.

  He stood for several moments in the doorway, soaking in the admiring glances. After giving the hall a sweeping bow, he strode in. The others of his troupe trailed behind him. A woman came next, with ink-black hair swept into an outrageous pile upon her head and a léine of red and orange. An enormous peacock feather was secured in her hair. She was the autumn foliage to his summer sky, and they looked to be of an age.

  Next came a craggy older man, dressed in black with an enormous hawk nose. Two twin boys still in the gawky-colt stage brought up the rear.

  When Temuirr reached the dais, he bowed once again, this time to Chief Diarmait. The chief stood and nodded.

  “Welcome, my guest, to Ceann-Coradh. You have the protection of my hall and the regard of my men. Will you offer us entertainment this evening?”

  The tall man nodded and smiled, turning to the crowd to include ever
yone in his smile.

  “We shall, my chief! We shall perform songs of sorrow and delight, as well as tales of adventure and woe. Might we beg from you a favor, first, my chief?”

  Chief Diarmait’s smile lessened very slightly. Orlagh didn’t think Temuirr noticed it, but she’d known the man all her life and could tell when he was displeased. “Whatever you like, within reason, bard. How may I please you?”

  “’Tis but a simple request, indeed. I desire some assistance. You see, our troupe is short one person. We had a delightful young lady to help with our singing, but alas,” the bard placed the back of his hand to his forehead with a dramatic flourish, “she has found true love and abandoned us. Might we borrow one of your young lasses to take her place? Just for the evening, of course. We shall return her when we are done.”

  Chief Diarmait’s mouth twitched. Orlagh fancied he was fighting the urge to laugh. After dreading a huge favor, this was a ridiculous one. The bard was so theatric. It was a marked change from the old bard, Mícheál, who believed a rowdy evening included one soft harp lullaby.

  Eolande pinched her hard, and Orlagh gasped.

  She hissed, “Stop it!”

  To Orlagh’s intense embarrassment, the bard looked directly at her. “Do we have a volunteer? I’m sure I heard someone.”

  Eolande elbowed her. She lost balance and had to put one hand out to keep from falling sideways. “I said stop it!”

  Then Temuirr was standing in front of her, with his hand out. Orlagh stared at it. What was she to do? Should she take it? Tentatively, she put out her own hand and looked up into his eyes. They were so very blue, she lost herself instantly. He grasped her hand, pulled her gently from the bench, and led her to the dais. He was so very tall, she had to crane her neck to see his face. His hand was warm and dry.

  In a low voice, he said, “Not to worry, my dear. We’ll not harm you at all. Are you familiar with Ériu’s song?”

  Orlagh nodded. Everyone loved the song about the goddess Ériu.

  He grinned, showing off brilliant white teeth. “Fine, then. Just sing along. You needn’t sing loud if you’re shy. We just like to have someone local with us for balance, aye?”

  She was lost in the music of his voice, and the words barely registered. Hastily, Orlagh nodded again, suddenly feeling like a grand idiot. Why should she be embarrassed to sing? Everyone sang. It was a favorite evening pastime. Even without regular entertainment from the resident bard, songs were a popular way to pass on stories and histories.

  The woman took her hand, so they stood side by side, and they shared a smile. “I’m Yana. You’ll be fine, child.”

  Suddenly Orlagh regained her confidence. She knew everyone in this hall. She knew the song well. She had no reason to be so apprehensive.

  With the first note, her brief confidence shattered into a million pieces.

  Temuirr and his singers weren’t just good. They weren’t just trained well. They were perfect. Each note, each nuance, each phrase was impeccable. Orlagh didn’t even sing after the first few words; she simply moved her lips as if she were singing, and listened with awe and amazement at the singers around her.

  In particular, Temuirr’s voice was a gentle breeze on a warm summer day. It was soft and silky, yet with flavor and depth. He sang with an unusual resonance and a vibrato which thrummed through her bones.

  Orlagh wasn’t singing anymore. She wasn’t even mouthing the words. She stood, dumbstruck, as Temuirr ran through a particularly difficult passage. A gentle touch from Yana brought her back to the task, and she sang softly.

  The woman squeezed her hand. Reassured, Orlagh sang slightly louder, and the woman smiled with a quick glance. Still not loud enough to rival Temuirr’s voice, at least she became part of the group at that moment.

  It was a warm feeling, to be part of such a fine thing. Comfortable, sweet, and quite satisfying. It was the same feeling she got when she’d grown something from seed to harvest, or completed a particularly beautiful weave. The prime satisfaction of a job well done, of creating something of beauty.

  The bard’s poignant voice stirred deep emotions in her heart. Orlagh swallowed back her tears when the song ended. Some part of her had wanted the song to go on forever, so she’d always hear his marvelous voice. Temuirr turned and took her hands. He brought them both to his lips. They were silky soft.

  “Thank you, my dear. Your help was invaluable. Perhaps you will sing with us again sometime?”

  She could only manage a startled nod before Yana led her back to her bench. With a half-smile and a glance at Temuirr, she said, “Come later tonight, and we shall talk, my dear, aye?”

  After another nod, Orlagh sat frozen on the bench.

  Eolande nudged her and smiled with a sidelong glance. “See? You were grand. He held your hands. I saw the kiss.”

  With a growl at her friend, Orlagh glanced at the bards, who had launched into a rowdy song about a man lamenting the fact he was too drunk to pleasure his wife. Her already considerable blush increased as she imagined Temuirr in such a situation with her. His soft lips on hers, his warm hands touching her waist, her hips…

  The end of the song resulted in boisterous shouts and mugs banged on the wooden table. Suddenly, all the noise and the crowd seemed oppressive. Orlagh had to escape, but it would mean she’d miss some of Temuirr’s performance. She didn’t want to miss a minute of it. What if they left again the next day? She’d never see him again.

  Temuirr launched into a story next, a tale of a Daemon of Gluttony which gripped a chief’s throat. Orlagh had never heard this particular tale, and sat on the edge of the bench, eager to catch every nuance of the story. Her need to escape was forgotten.

  While it was a long tale, Temuirr soon had the entire hall laughing at his story. The detailed satire the hero, Aislinge Meic Con Glinne, created in honor of the bishop was hilarious. The passage described the bishop’s supposed ancestry, giving a pointed declaration that the man was rather portly.

  Bless us, O cleric,

  famous pillar of learning,

  Son of honey-bag,

  Son of juice, son of lard,

  Son of stirabout, son of pottage,

  Son of fair speckled fruit clusters,

  Son of smooth clustering cream,

  Son of buttermilk, son of curds,

  Son of beer (glory of liquors!),

  Son of pleasant bragget,

  Son of twisted leek,

  Son of bacon, son of butter,

  of full-fat sausage,

  Son of pure new milk,

  of nut-fruit, son of tree-fruit,

  Son of gravy, son of dripping,

  of fat, son of kidney,

  Son of rib, son of shoulder,

  of well-filled gullet,

  Son of leg, son of loin,

  of hip, son of flitch,

  Son of striped breastbone,

  of bit, son of sup,

  Son of back, son of paunch,

  of slender tripe,

  Son of cheese without decrease,

  of fish of Inver Indsén,

  Son of sweet whey, son of biestings,

  of mead, son of wine,

  Son of flesh, son of ale,

  of hard wheat,

  Son of tripe, son of ...

  of fair white porridge,

  made of pure sheep’s milk.

  Orlagh couldn’t tell if the descriptions made her hungry or revolted, but either way, the hall loved the story. When Temuirr was finally done, he sat and allowed Yana to sing a song.

  She sang a sweet, high lament which brought tears to Orlagh’s eyes. When she finished, Yana said they’d take a break and sing more later. The general murmur and conversation increased as they stepped down from the dais.

  Orlagh rose. She wanted to walk to them, to talk to Temuirr, thank him for including her, but she was rooted to the spot. What if he dismissed her? Surely he just picked a random girl from the audience. He had no true interest in her.

  Sudde
nly Yana was beside her. “Did you wish to speak with him, child?”

  Torn between telling the older woman she was no child and desperately wanting to shout yes, she settled on nodding.

  “Come, then. He’s escaped into the garden.”

  Orlagh glanced back to see Eolande shooing her away with a sly smile. The heat in Orlagh’s face rose again as she walked through the hall, certain every person there realized exactly what she had imagined of Temuirr. She needed to run and hide, and never show her face again.

  When she emerged from the crowded roundhouse, the cool spring air was such a relief, she gasped.

  Yana chuckled. “It is quite a change from inside, is it not? My brother, for all his talents, doesn’t do well in small places.”

  “Our feast hall isn’t a small place! And… your brother?”

  Laughing, Yana put her arm around Orlagh’s shoulder and led her toward the garden. “Indeed it is not. With so many people within, it can feel small, as if there were no room to breathe. Which is silly, of course, but fear is not always rational. Temuirr was glad for a break and asked after you. Yes, he is my brother, rogue that he is.”

  Yana wasn’t his woman. He was free to like another. He asked after her. He was concerned about her. He liked her. Did he want to kiss her? Orlagh imagination whirled with the possibilities as they approached the extensive kitchen gardens.

  The full moon lit their way. Amid the garlic, nettles, and onions, medicinal and flavorful herbs such as lavender and sage perfumed the night air. Several benches were placed along the paths for rest and contemplation.

  Glowing in the silver light, the bard sat playing a small lap harp softly to himself. A small stone jug sat at his feet. The gravel betrayed their approach, and Orlagh wanted to protest when he halted.

  He held his hand out. “Come, sweet girl. You were a lovely addition to our evening. Will you not join me?”

  Suddenly afraid, she glanced at Yana. The woman’s pale face shone from within the frame of her midnight hair. “Oh, he won’t bite, but don’t tarry too long. We’ll perform again in a short while.”

  With a narrow look at Temuirr, she left along the garden path.

  “Will you not take my hand, sweet girl? Or shall you leave me in this silly pose forever?”