Erinsong

by Mia Marlowe

  But no name, no sense of himself came.

  “I can’t give you my name, but I’d like to know yours.” Any movement toward her would likely make her bolt, so he kept still. “How are you called?”

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  Looking for a rescue party, no doubt. He was unarmed save for his knife and knew he was in no shape to defend himself against more than a handful of men. If he didn’t befriend her before they arrived, he’d be in a tight spot.

  “As you said before, ‘tis a simple thing.” He tried flashing a smile at her, but her frown only deepened. “Where’s the harm in giving me a name to call you?”

  She fisted her hands at her waist and heaved a sigh. “Brenna,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m Brenna, daughter of Brian Ui Niall, the Donegal.”

  “The Donegal?”

  “King of Donegal, if you like,” she said with dignity, drawing herself up to her full height.

  Which isn’t saying much. She was a little slip of a thing, even though she’d fought him like a cornered badger.

  “Well, Your Highness, if I’d known I’d been stabbed by a princess, I’d have tried to bleed more importantly.”

  Brenna made a small growling noise in the back of her throat, then stooped and ripped a length of cloth from her undershift. She strode toward him with purpose. “Sit back then, Northman, and let me see about this.”

  He leaned back on his elbows and watched as she wrapped the length of cloth around his thigh and cinched it tight. The expression on her face was determined and workmanlike, with not a hint of tender womanly concern. She didn’t like him one bit.

  “Do you always doctor the men you maim?” he asked as she tied off the knot. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, and he wished she had a water skin dangling from the girdle at her trim waist.

  “I’d hardly call it maiming.” Brenna straightened and skittered back out of his reach. “That should stop the bleeding then. I’ve done what I can for ye. ‘Pray for your enemies and do good to them’ Father Michael always says.”

  “And I’m your enemy?”

  “Ye be a Northman. ‘Tis enough.” The fear he’d read earlier in her wild eyes was replaced by loathing. “Besides, ye put your hands on me sister. The wee poke of a stick is the very least ye might expect.”

  “That was your sister?”

  Her lips pressed together in a firm line. “Aye, and if ye think to try it again, I’ll fetch me staff and skewer ye good and proper next time. That’ll teach ye to mishandle a daughter of the house of Ui Niall.”

  “I barely knew what I was doing when I grabbed your sister’s wrist.” He fixed her with an intent look. “What do you intend to do with me now that I’ve rolled a ‘daughter of the house’ in the sand?”

  She flushed deep scarlet.

  He cocked his head at her. She looked fetching enough to roll again, despite the throbbing in his leg.

  “I... I’ll not do anything with ye,” she stammered, edging away from him.

  “That’s a pity.” He winced as he rose to his feet. “Tell me. Are all the women of this land cursed with a foul temper and a heavy hand with a sharp stick?” .

  When she glared at him, he remembered he should try to befriend her. So far he’d not made a promising start.

  He trudged back toward the spot where he’d wakened on the shore and was pleasantly surprised when he heard her light footfalls behind him, albeit at a safe distance.

  “Since I don’t know my name, perhaps you could pick one for me, Brenna, Princess of Donegal,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Ye’ll not live long enough to be needing a name.”

  That confirmed it. She was expecting help and soon. He turned to face her as he continued to walk backward toward the barrel he’d noticed in the sand. “All creatures have names. You said so yourself. If we’re going to be friends, you’ll need something to call me till I remember my proper one.”

  “I’m doubting we’ll be friends,” she said as she trailed after him.

  “And I’m sure we will be.”

  “Call yourself what ye will,” she said with exasperation. “I don’t give names to the hens in the fowl yard, knowin’ sooner or later they’ll end up in me stewpot. Just ‘Northman’ will have to do for the likes of ye.”

  Despite her dour words, he liked the musical lilt of her voice. “Tell me, what does Brenna mean?”

  She was quiet for a moment. “I was expected to be a lad, and would have been named Brian. When I wasn’t, me Da just altered his name a bit and I was called Brenna, both for him and for me hair.”

  “Your hair?”

  “Brenna means dark-haired.” She made an unsuccessful attempt at smoothing her unruly tresses. “Mine was like jet when I was born.”

  “Named for your father, hmm? He must be very proud of you.”

  “I can assure ye, he’s not,” she muttered.

  Her expression was so pained, a knot formed in his own chest. “Still, Brenna suits you. It’s a fine name. I like the sound of it.” He rolled her name over his tongue once more. “If you won’t choose a name for me, I guess you’ll have to introduce me to your father as Northman then.”

  “To me father?”

  “]a, he’s on his way, I’ll wager.” He still wished he had a name to hang on himself. It would steady him. “Don’t you think your sister went to fetch him? Or maybe she’s not as quick of mind as you.”

  Brenna glanced up the deserted beach. “Da is on his way,” she said with surety. “He’ll be bringing a whole gang of men with him. And none of them with any love at all for Northmen.”

  “Hmph!” He knelt beside the weathered cask on the beach. “Is this mine?”

  “Ye were wrapped around it when we found ye. I’m supposing ‘tis yours.”

  He ran his fingers over the runes etched on the end of the barrel. The bung was intact. If the cask was well made, the contents should still be good.

  “Is your father a drinking man?”

  Brenna laughed out loud. “Sure, and ye have no idea where ye are, do ye, Northman?”

  “Not even enough for a guess.” He shook his head ruefully.

  “So then, I’ll tell ye. Ye have washed up on Erin, where the High Kings have ruled from Tara for hundreds of years, and dear St. Patrick drove out both the snakes and the heathen from its twice-blessed shores.” She jutted her chin upward in pride. “And on Erin, drink is mother’s milk for every man over the age of six.”

  “Good,” he said quietly. “Perhaps he’ll favor a wager as well.”

  A buzzing rippled the air and he was startled to see an arrow quivering in the sand near his knee.

  A row of heads appeared over the hillock. A sinewy, dark-haired man climbed to the top, another arrow nocked on the string. Brian of Donegal leveled his aim at the Northman’s chest with cool precision. The mantle of leadership rested easily on the Irishman’s shoulders and the men with him followed suit.

  “Release me daughter!”

  The Northman shouldered the cask and rose to his feet. “Greetings, Brian, King of Donegal. I’ve done your daughter no hurt.” He grimaced and added softly enough for only Brenna to hear, “Though she can’t say the same for me.”

  Brenna crossed her arms over her chest and sidled away from him.

  Brian and his men trotted across the sand and formed a ring around the Northman. The Donegal edged his daughter behind him, with a quick, assessing glance, taking note of Brenna’s disheveled hair and sand-crusted tunic.

  “Has he harmed ye, lass?” the king asked softly.

  “No, Da.” Brenna dropped her gaze to her feet and stepped back, meek as a lamb.

  “Ye did well keeping an eye on the fiend,” Brian said, gruff approval on his features. “But we’d have found him at any rate. Ye took an awful chance, daughter. Don’t do the like again.”

  Brenna’s lips tightened into a thin line.

  The Northman was surprised by the change in the girl. Brenna had been firml
y in charge since he opened his eyes, ordering her sister to safety, attacking him, and keeping her wits about her when he pinned her to the sand. She was even brave enough not to run off when she could have. To see her subdued now struck him as odd.

  But he didn’t have long to puzzle over it. Brian Ui Niall hadn’t lowered the point of his arrow one jot. The Donegal narrowed his eyes at the Northman.

  “What business have ye here?” Ui Niall asked.

  “I can’t say.”

  “A Northman never travels alone. Like a pack of wolves from the sea, ye are. Where be the rest of your heathen crew?”

  “I don’t know.” He frowned. Why did they hate him so?

  “Ye’d best be telling me, and quickly now. My finger gets tired of holding back this arrow.”

  “He truly doesn’t know, Da.” Brenna placed a restraining hand on her father’s arm. “His wits are addled. The man doesn’t even know his own name.”

  “Your daughter is right. I don’t remember anything before I woke up on this beach.”

  Brian squinted at him, taking his measure. “ ‘Tis easy enough to trick a woman, but ye’re daft if ye believe I’ll be fooled by a Northman.”

  “Better we should just kill him, says I,” one of Brian’s men grumbled.

  “Hold there, Connor,” Brenna interrupted the king’s bloodthirsty follower. “One Northman alone isn’t likely to harm us. Alive, he may be useful. We know precious little about the Finn-Gall. I’ll warrant he remembers more than he wants us to know. Or he will, if he’s allowed to live. I’d like to know how he comes to speak our language. If he’s dead, he can’t tell us anything.”

  The king’s gaze shifted to his daughter for a flicker as if considering her words. Even so, the Donegal raised the point of his arrow at the Northman again.

  “Are you a betting man, Brian of Donegal?” the Northman asked, his voice surprisingly calm.

  The tip of the arrow dipped slightly. “What wager have ye in mind, Ostman?”

  Northman thumped the cask with his knuckle. “This barrel came up out of the sea with me. It’s either full of ale or salt water. Here’s my wager: If the drink is good, I’m telling the truth about not remembering. You lose nothing by letting me live.” He shrugged eloquently. “If the ale is foul, then you can kill me.”

  “We can kill ye at will, Ostman, and use the ale to toast your dead carcass.” Nevertheless, Brian’s keen dark gaze swept over the briny cask. Then he looked again at his daughter, an unspoken question in his narrowed eyes. Brenna sent him a silent entreaty, and the Northman’s hopes rose. The Irish princess pleaded his case without a word.

  Clever girl. Now if only the Irish king doted upon his offspring to heed her.

  Brian eased the tension in his bow and replaced the arrow in the quiver slung over his back.

  “Wager accepted, Northman,” the king said. “Ye are either a fool or a brave lad. Come back to me keep and we’ll raise a horn to prove which. No sense in drinking out here when we can do it in comfort. Aidan, take the cask. Connor, bind his hands.”

  The Northman’s wrists were cinched together and the knot jerked tight. Then he was shoved into line with the Irishmen as they began plodding up a path leading into the hills. Brenna walked ahead of him and he allowed himself to enjoy the twitch of her hips as she climbed.

  “Princess,” he whispered to her.

  She didn’t answer him, but she turned her head to one side, so he knew she’d heard him.

  “I thank you for your help.”

  “ ‘Twas not for ye I spoke,” she whispered back. “ ‘Twas only sense. If you’re no use to me father, he’ll kill ye anyway.”

  The Northman expected no less. “Why didn’t you introduce me properly?”

  “How could I be doing that? There’s nothing proper about ye, Northman,” Brenna hissed at him.

  “I’d like it better if you found something else to call me. Northman isn’t a well-favored name around here.”

  She flashed a look back over her shoulder that should have reduced him to cinders.

  They walked in silence for a while, the only sound the even thudding of leather-shod feet on the hard-packed path.

  “I don’t understand,” he finally said. “Why do you all hate my kind so?”

  Brenna whirled and planted her fists on her waist.

  “Look ye into yonder clearing and tell me what you see.”

  He peered through the spindly stand of trees. Scorched grass surrounded blackened timber and the crumbling ruins of a round structure. “Looks like there was a fire.”

  “Aye,” Brenna said. “There was a fire, but before that there was a crofter’s cottage where a man and his wife lived with their three bairns and one on the way. Liam and Colleen, they were, and they had nothing of value—nothing but each other. After the Northmen came, all we found were charred bones. And ye wonder that we hate ye.”

  “I’ll not hold a grudge against all women just because I was stabbed by one once,” he said, favoring his good leg a bit more than necessary. “Even if I am a Northman as you say, I don’t see how you can blame me for this.”

  “Can ye not?” Silver flecks in her gray eyes flashed at him. He recognized both controlled fury and lively intelligence in her level gaze. “Ye speak our tongue. That means ‘tis not your first time on our island. For aught ye know, ye may have been the leader of that murderous raid. Can ye in good conscience tell me different?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she turned on her heel and marched up the path behind her father’s men.

  He stared after her, then back at the blackened ruins. Connor gave him another shove.

  “Get on wi’ye!”

  He stumbled forward, following Brenna’s swaying skirt. The girl was right. He couldn’t deny he might have led the raiders that killed those crofters. He really had no clue what sort of man he was. Was he capable of butchering a family—women and children—for no reason?

  He had no way to know.

  The thought made his head throb, and he raised his bound hands to feel the crust of matted hair at his temple. Why couldn’t he remember? He strained to concentrate as he walked. Disjointed images, indistinct faces, and sudden flashes of sound split his brain, but nothing coherent came.

  He must have slowed his pace because Connor pushed him forward again.

  Better to concentrate on now. Let the past trouble about itself.

  His present was trouble enough.

  Chapter Three

  Sunlight streamed in the open windows of the scriptorium, sending dust motes swirling. The call of a song thrush, sharp staccato blasts followed by a trill, floated on the breeze. The cool waters of the river Shannon called to Brenna, but she couldn’t answer the summons. There was too much work to do. She sighed, dipped her stylus in the shimmering liquid, and turned back to the nearly transparent sheet of vellum.

  The Gospel of Matthew lay on the table before her. She squinted, intent on the delicate interlace she inked in, rimming the page with layers of undulating chains. With deft strokes, she added crosshatching in gold over blue. As she worked, her gaze was drawn to the text.

  ‘In Ramah was there a voice heard, lamentation,

  And weeping, and great mourning,

  Rachael weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.’

  An empty ache throbbed in her chest. She shook her head and focused on the ornamentation again. As she neared the lower corner of the page, the design wavered and writhed. Brenna squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose. Father Michael warned her to take frequent breaks to protect her vision when she was illuminating a manuscript. She’d been at this close work too long.

  She breathed deeply. The sharp scent of ink and the comfortable mustiness of books soothed her. But when she opened her eyes and looked down at the folio, her hand flew to her mouth. The chain pattern had grown a serpent’s head and was slinking off the page and across the table. Blue and gold smeared on the dark oak.

&nb
sp; Brenna leaped to her feet, sending her chair crashing to the stone floor behind her. From out in the courtyard, a scream pierced the air, pulling her to the open window. Clonmacnoise Abbey was overrun by hairy Northmen, their axes dripping red.

  She turned to flee, but there was a small bundle on the table where the vellum had been. A tiny hand stretched out of the coarse blanket and reached toward her.

  A babe! She snatched up the child and ran out of the scriptorium and down the corridor.

  The clatter of footfalls behind her spurred her on. She felt someone’s hot breath on her nape, and gorge rose in the back of her throat.

  It was him. She knew it. She knew he’d be there. He was always there. Dread lay in her belly like a lump of underdone porridge. She tossed a glance over her shoulder.

  But it wasn’t him.

  Instead it was the abbot, his usually pleasant, pudgy features distorted in rage. He whirled her around, snatched the child from her arms, and raised a booted foot to kick her in the gut.

  Brenna lofted into the air as lightly as if she were a cankerwort seed. She seemed to watch herself from outside her own body as she sailed through the tall double doors of the abbey and landed with a thud in the dirt.

  Brenna’s whole body jerked. Her eyes flew open and she stared up at the underside of the thatched roof, the final wavering image from the nightmare leaving her confused for a moment. Beside her, Moira moaned softly and rolled over, taking most of the blankets with her. Brenna was safe in her own bed.

  ‘Twas just a dream. Her heart pounded against her ribs and she willed her breathing to slow. Just a foolish dream. It had no power to harm her. Still, her hand shook as she pushed back what little of the coverlet Moira had left her. Brenna eased out of bed without waking her sister.

  She wouldn’t dwell on the nightmare for one blink more, wouldn’t let herself call up the half-remembered dewy fresh scent of the babe. She banished the dream from her mind. Anything else was the path to madness.