Their journey resumes and they continue to follow the track beside the river that slowly takes them down from the rocky bog land that marks Boirneach and its surroundings, to a more flat open area that has been cleared for farming. They meet a few other travellers on their journey. Each time they encounter anyone, they stop and speak a while, gleaning news and, in the pedlar’s case, offering to share what food they have.
An ócaire hauling wood halts only briefly, remaining in his cart. He seems no more a threat than the few men who’d come on occasion to help on the farm, keeping a respectful distance from all the women. Still, Áine can do nothing to stop the fierce beating of her heart or the sweat that gathers in her clenched hands. She forces deep breaths as the ócaire speaks of the good weather and the hope that it might continue, adding the thought that a drop of rain now and again would not go amiss. A few moments later he is on his way, whistling a tune in a carefree manner.
When a pedlar approaches with his goods laden on his back, she can barely sit upright with the fear that seizes her. His manner is genial, but there is something more, some underlying menace that the open manner in which he regards her seems to emphasize. When Máthair Gobnait gives him greeting and offers to share some of their bread and cheese with the man, she grips Máthair Gobnait’s arm in protest. Máthair Gobnait only pats her hand away and asks the pedlar to take the top sack from the cart.
The pedlar moves to oblige and his hand brushes against Áine’s. She gasps at his contact, alarm ringing through her body. The man grins and removes the sack with a swift graceful movement and places it on the spot Cadoc indicates. Fionn seems unperturbed and busies herself with her own meal, the loud munch of her teeth as she tears at the grass filling the air.
Cadoc helps Máthair Gobnait to climb down from the cart, and before the two can assist Áine, the pedlar is there, his hands around her waist, lifting her through the air. She hangs weightless for a moment, her feet dangling and his face grinning up at her. It’s all she can do to keep from screaming. Her feet find the ground and she stumbles a moment, her stick still in the cart. His hand is on her again immediately, steadying her. She gulps for air and hears herself hiccup.
Cadoc and Máthair Gobnait are busy laying out the food on the small blanket. Glimpsing Áine’s face Máthair Gobnait, sends the pedlar to fill the leather flagon at the river. He lopes off, happy to oblige.
‘There is no need to fear the man. I know him well enough.’
Áine looks at her and tears prick her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help it.’
Máthair Gobnait sighs. ‘Be calm. All will be well.’
The pedlar returns and they begin to eat, sharing his news and stories of his travels at Máthair Gobnait’s prompting. He gives Áine an occasional glance and she can only be thankful that when Máthair Gobnait introduces her, she says nothing of her background.
‘Have you heard anything of a woman gone missing from her family?’ Máthair Gobnait asks.
The pedlar flicks his eyes over Áine for a moment, then shakes his head. ‘I’ve been east, though, and have only lately come from Raithlinn.’
‘How does Uí Blathnaic’s son? We’re on our way now to him.’
The pedlar shakes his head. ‘Not well. Lately, he’s become worse.’
Máthair Gobnait frowns. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I hope there’s something I can do for him.’ She exchanges a few more words with him and then explains that they must depart. They all rise and Áine can only feel relief that the ordeal is over.
The journey resumes, though this time it’s with an urgent purpose that means the cart shakes harder under the horse’s faster pace. Cadoc no longer walks leading Fionn, but stands in the cart with the reins while Máthair Gobnait and Áine sit behind and try to cushion themselves among the sacks against the bone-rattling ride. Áine has no objection to this arrangement, because tucked among the baggage she feels less noticeable, and for a silly moment hopes that she can remain in the cart during the visit to Raithlinn.
When they pull up into a small farmyard near dusk, Áine shrinks down between the sacks, searching the three figures that emerge from the round house. The thatch is still fresh, crisply cut and the pens are well maintained. She hears the bleat of a lamb and the mother ewe’s comforting answer. The man steps forward, one of the client farmers of some connection to Epscop Ábán, a Christian man who treats Máthair Gobnait as if she were otherworldly. The introductions are made and Áine is so tense she hears nothing of the names that are said or the words of welcome that accompany them.
The night passes slowly as she sits as small as possible by the fire, barely touching the plate of food that is placed before her. She refuses a seat at the table, preferring to remain tucked behind the centre pole that supports the house, by the fire, away from the notice of the household. She knows they look at her curiously, but she keeps her head bowed, and uses the curtain of her hair to block her face from the others.
Máthair Gobnait appears to take no notice of her behaviour and converses calmly with them, exchanging minor bits of news and sharing their admiration for Epscop Ábán. She is given a place of honour and the man attends her enthusiastically, providing her with the choicest portions. Cadoc is in the shed, minding Fionn and taking his ease with his own share of porridge and a heel of bread, baked on the hearthstone of this Christian home.
Áine notices that there is a small copper cross nailed to the post she clings to. She wonders if Máthair Gobnait’s hands have fashioned this piece too, though its shape is cruder and there are no fine etchings on it.
At the table, Máthair Gobnait asks them if they have heard news of a missing woman and Áine’s heart sinks. Though she knows she must recover her memory, she would rather do it on her own, when she is ready and feels there is no fear that a person wishing her ill might discover her location. There is no doubt in her mind that some kind of danger exists for her, but at the moment she would rather just spend time in Máthair Gobnait’s community where few would notice her. But Máthair Gobnait ploughs on, pressing the question.
‘Is this missing woman from your community?’ the man asks. His head is bowed, his tone respectful.
‘No, not really,’ says Máthair Gobnait.
‘But she is a noblewoman, or you wouldn’t ask after her,’ says the wife. She preens braided hair, careful to tuck in a stray lock.
Máthair Gobnait pulls herself up and narrows her eyes. ‘I would care for any woman who is missing.’
‘It matters not, of course. She is a Christian,’ the man says.
‘She is a woman in distress,’ says Máthair Gobnait.
‘What is her name? What does she look like?’ asks the man.
‘I don’t know her name, I’m sorry. I ask after her as a favour to others.’
‘We have heard nothing of a missing woman,’ says the man. There is regret in his voice. He is desperate to be helpful. ‘But if we hear news of her we’ll let you know. In the meantime, we’ll pray that you will find her.’
‘Thank you.’
There are no glances in Áine’s direction and so she relaxes somewhat, and by the time they are all ready to take their beds she can follow Máthair Gobnait to the sleeping cubicle with more attention to her walking than to hiding her face behind her hair. When the morning comes, and she has not been killed in the night, and no one has appeared to take her away, she can even manage a small smile of thanks when they take their leave.
~
It is nearly dusk again when they approach the dún that is Uí Blathnaic’s. They have passed many of the holdings of Uí Blathnaic’s client farmers, the prosperous bóaire and less prosperous ócaire, and even that of a few aire déso, the vassal lords, that surround this dún, and so she is not surprised that the dún is so large. Stone and wood buildings dot the yard of the large ráth that surrounds it. A sniff of the air tells her the pens and sheds are filled with pigs, sheep and calves, shut in for the night against wolves and other predators. The cattle low in
the distance, still out in the field under watchful guard. She lifts her head, too curious to fear anyone in this failing light. She sees a few women still out in the field and others in the yard bent over spitted meats cooking slowly over a large pit. Near them, children run around, chasing the yard dog. The cart rolls by a vegetable garden where a woman kneels, pulling weeds. She looks up as they stop.
Máthair Gobnait greets her. ‘Dé’d Bheatha-sa.’
The woman is caught off guard by a noble woman greeting her and in a peculiarly Christian manner. She stares back, uncertain how to respond.
‘The gods be with you,’ the woman says finally, modifying the greeting to suit her own view.
‘You are well, I hope? The weather has been so fine, one could only feel well.’
This exchange is more familiar to the woman and she answers more openly, though a thread of uncertainty is still present for someone unused to regular conversation with nobles. ‘I’m grand altogether. I hope you are well yourself?’
‘I am, and my companion, Áine, too. I’m called Gobnait and I’m looking for Uí Blathnaic.’
The woman nodded. ‘He’s here alright,’ She indicates the large building. ‘Up there you’ll find him.’
Máthair Gobnait thanks her and Cadoc urges the horse on again, through the gap in the earthwork and stone wall that mark the dún’s boundary, towards the large round building at its centre. She can hear a dog bark. A sizeable wolfhound and a young man emerge from the house. The man wears dark trews and a length of brightly coloured plaid tossed over his tunic and pinned with a gold brooch. The quality of all these items is unmistakeable. His green eyes study the two women a moment before he moves forward and catches Fionn’s bridle. Áine tenses and ducks down among the sacks.
‘You are the cailech, Gobnait?’ he asks. Behind him, the dog jumps once and then sits when the man points his finger at him.
‘I am,’ says Máthair Gobnait. ‘This is my servant Cadoc and behind me is my companion, Áine.’
Áine raises her head a little but takes care that her hair hides much of her face. The man gives her a brief nod, but even in that short space of time she has no doubt he misses no detail. She thinks he must be the rectaire, and realizes this household is very important and noble to have a steward dressed in such a manner.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘We’ve been waiting for you. Your skills are needed now.’ He offers his hand to help Máthair Gobnait down.
‘And you are?’
He blinks a moment and then raises a brow. ‘Excuse me. I thought you knew. I am Colmán, Uí Blathnaic’s other son.’
Áine blushes at her mistake, but Máthair Gobnait nods and takes the offered hand. ‘I didn’t know you were Uí Blathnaic’s son. I’ve had little cause to come here before this.’
‘If it pleases the gods you will have no further cause to come here after this,’ he says. There is no malice in his words, but they are firm enough. It doesn’t make Áine’s fear any less. When she presses her hand in his, it’s trembling and it’s not only her healing injuries that make her stumble when he helps her down. This time there are no hands gripping her waist and arms swinging her in the air. He allows her to lift her leg over the side and use the wheel to balance and climb down. It is only when her leg collapses under the effort that he supports her and gently eases her to the ground. She looks at him quickly and all the fear she has suppressed over the past two days jumps into her throat. She lowers her eyes and hopes he hasn’t seen the terror in her face.
Máthair Gobnait motions for Cadoc to unload the sacks. ‘I will do my best to help your brother.’ She points to one sack. ‘If you could bring that one with us I can go to him immediately.’
Colmán gives her an astonished look. He says something to a small group of well dressed men and they in turn look at each other. He gives an impatient snort and takes up the sack himself, brushing by the others who gape at the sight. Cadoc hides a smile just in time and pretends to fuss with Fionn’s bridle. After a moment, Cadoc takes her off to one of the buildings beyond. Áine looks after Cadoc with longing. Her only wish at this moment is to follow him to the obscurity of the horse shed.
Instead, she turns and follows Máthair Gobnait through the passage doorway and into the house. The men follow her and she can feel their curious eyes scanning every bit of her hair and dress.
Áine blinks her eyes against the change of light, aware only that there are many people here, women and men. She smells the turf burning in the hearth and from its glow and the small shaft of light from above, she gradually makes out the size and grandeur of the room. Every item is in its proper place. There is the cauldron, with a spit, the vat for brewing beer, the mugs, the kneading trough. The floor is strewn with rushes and she feels them even now as she moves carefully across the floor, her stick providing support that is more than physical.
People are milling about, mostly men chatting in small groups or sitting on benches, periodically lifting mugs of beer and mead to their mouths. In the back, she can see the real rectaire and wonders how she could have mistaken Colmán’s authoritative bearing for this man who lazes against the wall instead of checking that the servants fulfil their tasks. It’s clear this group are waiting for something, while one lone woman struggles to fill mugs and press a chunk of bread on them. Colmán strides past them, barely sparing them a glance, and heads toward the back of the room where connecting passageways lead to the many sleeping cubicles. It’s at one of the larger sleeping cubicles that he stops and ushers the pair inside.
She can smell the sickness even before she enters the room. Once in, she sees immediately the emaciated figure that lies in the wooden bed that takes up much of the room. Beside him, a woman sits on a stool, stroking his forehead. Her dark hair is heavily laced with grey and her gown, of a bright soft material, hangs loosely on her gaunt frame. She turns to them when they enter and the dark rings under her eyes are noticeable.
‘You have come to help Domnall?’ she says. Her eyes are almost feverish.
A man steps forward from the other side of the bed, his broad chest and muscular arms still evident, despite the white in his hair and his gnarled beard. A torc of twisted copper and gold circles his neck and a gold brooch fastens the blue and red plaid brat at his left shoulder.
‘You are the Christian woman I’ve heard about? The one who heals?’
Máthair Gobnait nods. ‘I am.’
He acknowledges her nod with a curt one of his own and frowns. ‘It’s at my wife Rónnat’s insistence that you’re here. I must make that clear. But she is determined that we try all possibilities to heal my son.’ He looks across at his wife and for a moment his expression softens. ‘Well, if you do succeed, then I will say no more ill against your people, I can assure you that much. Let your god do his work.’
‘I can make no promises in that way for myself, nor for God. I am not privy to his counsel. I can only do my best with my knowledge and pray and hold vigil for your son’s recovery. That I promise you I will do.’
Uí Blathnaic sighs and gives a small wave of his hand. ‘As you will. You must accept our hospitality for as long as it takes. One of the women will see to you. My wife prefers to stay at Domnall’s side.’
He looks over again at his son, his face etched in worry. Colmán draws up beside him and puts a hand on his arm. ‘There are many matters to attend to a t’áthair.’
Uí Blathnaic nods and the two leave Máthair Gobnait and Áine alone with the patient and his mother. The patient’s skin is sallow, except for the bright spots of colour on his cheek and his eyes are dark rimmed and sunken. The outline of his skull is clear under the tightly stretched skin. He opens his eyes a moment as if sensing a new turn of events and tries to speak, but a terrible coughing fit overtakes him. His mother holds him tenderly for its duration, stroking his head and then, once it subsides, gently lays him back against the pillow that supports his head. Sweat beads his forehead and pastes his damp curls against his head.
M
áthair Gobnait approaches the bed on the other side and lays her hand along his brow. It rests there for a few moments before she withdraws it.
Rónnat reaches across the bed and clutches Máthair Gobnait’s arm. ‘You’ll help my son, won’t you?’ Her face is intent, willing a positive answer.
‘I’m sure you know the serious nature of his illness. I will do all I can to help him, but there are no guarantees. But I can most certainly ease that cough.’
Rónnat nods and releases Máthair Gobnait’s arm. Máthair Gobnait looks over at Áine and then the mother. ‘I’ll go now and make up the medicinal drink, if you could show me where I might mix it.’
‘I’ll call one of the women.’
‘It will be quicker if you show me now.’
Rónnat glances over at her son. ‘But I can’t leave Domnall.’
‘Áine can remain with him for the time. It won’t take long.’
Rónnat looks down at her son again, anguish written on her face and then turns to study Áine. Áine tries not to shrink from her gaze, but when she sees the desperation in Rónnat’s eyes her fear evaporates. She gives a tentative smile. There is no question now that she will do what she can to nurse and comfort this sick young man.
After a moment’s further hesitation Rónnat nods slightly and rises, gathering up the brat that drapes her shoulders even on this warm summer day. In the brief moment before the woman quickly wraps her brat tighter Áine can see that her dress is soiled and stained.
Once the pair are gone, bearing the bundle of Máthair Gobnait’s medicines, Áine settles herself on Rónnat’s stool next to the patient. Gazing at him, she feels none of the unease that has dominated her since entering this place. Domnall opens his eyes and looks at her. The eyes are glazed and feverish, but she can still make out their hazel colour. They’re not quite the bright compelling green of his brother’s, but there’s a kindness about them she finds appealing. She takes up the cloth his mother has placed in the wooden bowl beside the bed, squeezes it of excess water and places it on his brow. He gives a little smile.
In Praise of the Bees Page 6
