She’d searched the house, even managing to slip into Ailill and Sárnat’s sleeping cubicle on the pretence of wanting to collect a léine of Sárnat’s to embroider a pattern she’d learned from Colmán’s mother, but found nothing. In desperation, she’d even searched the kitchen and the other sheds, though she knew they wouldn’t have put something so valuable in there. The only place she hadn’t searched was Lassar’s cubicle. Lassar rarely went outside the house without leaving at least one of the women behind to notice every move she made.
Now she is certain the harp is gone and makes her query as calmly as she can. Ailill enters the house, shutting the door behind him. The wind has worked itself up into a hard gale with the approach of evening and now the fire blows up a protest and sparks fly. At the hearth Barrdub jumps away and the turf she is placing on the flame tumbles from her arms. Another servant scuttles over to help her pick up the turf.
‘My harp, what’s become of it?’
This time she directs her question to Ailill. He raises his brow and then shakes his head. ‘The harp isn’t here.’
‘Not here? Where is it?’
‘The family harp,’ says Lassar, with great emphasis on the word ‘family,’ ‘is with Fiacra. He requested it for his son who studies to become a file.’
‘But I’m a file and my father promised it to me.’ She is aware she is whining and though she hates herself for it, she cannot help it. As usual, there are other women in the room, though most are servants at this time of the day. She glances around at the young woman who is sitting with Sárnat at the loom. Cuimne recognizes her as the daughter of one of the minor vassal lords and flushes. Her father would never have approved of such public behaviour.
‘It was not for your father to promise that harp to anyone, especially someone who would leave this family and marry,’ snaps Lassar. ‘Fiacra’s grandfather gave it to your grandfather. It was a great honour then and it’s a great honour now for Fiacra to remember it.’
‘You gave up that precious harp?’ she says. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true.’ Ailill’s voice is kind.
Lassar frowns and pauses, as if she were considering how much to tell such a foolish troublesome girl. ‘We did not go unrewarded. Our cattle are more numerous and we have additional land for them to graze on.’ She glances over at Sárnat. ‘And someday, should my son be blessed with children, we might have an opportunity for an even greater connection to Fiacra.’
Ailill’s kind voice had almost unravelled her, but as soon as Lassar launches into her explanation in her stern tone that carries with it underlying criticism, Cuimne’s tears vanish and she maintains a stony calm.
‘We assumed you were dead,’ Sárnat says. She rises from the loom and moves over to Cuimne and takes her hand. ‘There seemed no need to keep the harp, for none of us played it.’ Her tone is meant to soothe, but it has no effect on Cuimne.
‘I see. Well, I’m not dead and I’m here now and still a member of this clann.’
‘Yes,’ says Sárnat. ‘But perhaps when you go to your husband’s home there will be a harp there for you. Or one could be obtained.’ She looks across at Ailill. He shrugs and mutters an agreement.
Lassar frowns. ‘First you have to get a husband, which might not be such an easy task.’
Ailill interrupts and tells her he’s heard word from Óengus that he’s coming here as soon as he is able. She knows Ailill means it as a kindly change of subject and the knowledge irritates her, so she asks why he hadn’t mentioned it earlier.
He glances at his mother. ‘I’m saying now.’
She lets it pass and concentrates on the news. ‘There is much to make ready. Sárnat, you must let me help you in any way I can. He will no doubt come with several men and baggage, though he does love to ride at a fast pace.’ There are so many things to think about to ensure the visit will run smoothly. She thinks to smile, assuring herself that at last her plans are finally moving forward.
~
She hears the herd dogs barking first, until someone shushes them. The dogs have only just arrived in with the calves and the dogs nip and nudge them into their pen for the night. A short while before, they had done the same for the sheep that are vulnerable to the many wolves and foxes that prowl the land. Now the sky is darkening quickly; the autumn days are closing in as they head towards Samhain and winter.
Barrdub looks up from her work placing the wooden plates on the table when she hears the dogs bark and glances at Lassar, who nods. Liam is out in the yard. Barrdub moves to the door and nearly collides with Sárnat, who is making her own way there. Sárnat sees her and halts, flustered, and resumes her seat on the bench while Barrdub goes out into the dusk. Cuimne rises from the stool, brushes her gown and straightens her hair. Though it has only been a few days since Ailill’s announcement about Óengus, she has no doubt who has just ridden in.
Lassar frowns at Sárnat. ‘You’d better check with Liam that there is enough food for a few extra guests.’
‘Yes, yes of course.’ Sárnat bobs up again from her seat and heads to the door. It opens before she can reach it and a large, grizzled-haired man in dark robes, belt and sandals strides in.
‘Epscop Ábán.’ Cuimne moves forward and starts to kneel before him, until she collects herself and steps back. No one here thinks she’s had any contact with a bishop or any Christian community, so how to explain Epscop Ábán’s appearance?
‘You’re most welcome to our home, A Thiarna Epscop,’ she says, her voice formal. She launches into lengthy introductions of Sárnat and Lassar and their connection to her, and is even grateful when Ailill appears only moments later. She fusses around the bishop, taking his cloak and offering him a seat, while trying to ignore the puzzled glances cast her way. Through her babbling narrative, Epscop Ábán only accepts her offer of a seat and smiles. She avoids his penetrating eyes and hopes that she can think of some explanation that will suffice for all of them.
Lassar gestures for Sárnat to arrange for some refreshment and issues an open invitation for the bishop to remain with them. This is only what any guest would expect and Cuimne derives no comfort from the words. Their dislike of Christians has always been clear, and is no different than what she had felt before her attack. Their ways are different; their outlook is something that doesn’t always coincide with the traditions of the past. Now, she isn’t certain what she thinks, and for that alone she wishes Epscop Ábán would go quickly. But there’s also the matter of his knowledge of her as Áine, and all that means to her presence here and what she is determined to do.
The conversation follows its usual course among strangers. The weather is dissected and the health of all those present. Cuimne knows she must use this borrowed time as wisely as she can, but knowledge and action don’t always coincide, especially when paralysis of thought comes into play. It’s with a sinking feeling that she notes the talk winding down and everyone but her begins to look at the bishop in expectation, and still no suitable explanation has come to her mind.
‘Colmán knows Epscop Ábán well. They had a law case together recently.’ It is the only thing she can think of and she snatches it in desperation.
The bishop gives her a cryptic look. ‘That is so. A most complex case.’
‘Such a case would while away the evening. We look forward to hearing about it,’ Ailill says politely. ‘I had no idea a Christian priest would hear a case concerning a non-Christian. Are you part of the law courts?’
‘I’m not, no, but everyone involved in the case was a Christian. It was heard at Máthair Gobnait’s nunnery.’
‘A nunnery?’ asks Lassar. She glances at Cuimne.
‘Máthair Gobnait and one of her women tended Colmán’s brother when he was ill and dying. They eased his way, poor man. He died a short while later.’
‘I see,’ says Lassar. She looks at Epscop Ábán. ‘This woman, Gobnait, she is under your authority?’
‘Yes, she’s under the Church’s autho
rity.’
‘Ah, so that explains your presence at the case. But surely, in the end, it is Colmán who decides?’
‘As I said, it was a peculiar case and called for a different approach.’ He describes the events in a succinct manner, his voice calm. It seems simple as he lays it out, omitting as he does all the tension and underlying currents Cuimne remembers.
The topic is well explored, the fine points carefully examined, first by Lassar and then Ailill, while Sárnat casts anxious looks at Liam, at the table and the door. The responsibility of a meal gone cold or burnt looms ever larger for her as Liam stands nervously, casting glances her way. Cuimne gives Sárnat sympathetic looks, but is content with the discussion’s direction. Moments later several of the men enter, giving a subtle hint that it is way past time for the meal to be served.
Sárnat jumps up. ‘Should Barrdub bring in the meat? It must be ready now.’ She gestures to Liam and her relief is apparent. The conversation ceases and everyone’s attention shifts to the meal.
It is after the meal, when all are replete and Epscop Ábán sips his mead with slow appreciation, that the words Cuimne dreads most come out and the bishop mentions that there is a purpose for his visit.
He smiles at Cuimne. ‘There is more besides a wish to greet and visit with your cousin, whom we all knew as Áine.’
It is almost like some bit of planned entertainment the way all eyes turn their gaze from the bishop to Cuimne. She flushes, despite her efforts to keep her face expressionless, and knows that her work is undone. The questions will not come at once, but they will be waiting for her.
For now, Epscop Ábán takes back their attention. ‘I’m on my way to meet with Fiacra. I hope to discuss with him the possibility of acquiring some land here to establish a monastery.’
The statement creates a stir. Shocked looks and sceptical expressions are exchanged. Any speculation of Cuimne’s relationship with this man disappears in the face of this unwelcome information. There are enough places, in their view, for any Christian to worship, or a manach to seclude himself. That there should be more suggests a future they are unwilling to accept.
It is for Ailill to make the point. ‘There is no need for a monastery, here. You would only be spending time and effort to erect buildings that would remain empty.’
Epscop Ábán gives a benign smile. ‘It will not be large, and there are some manaigh from my own monastery who have expressed a desire to come here. We grow apace in Boirneach.’
The bishop’s words do little to allay their concerns and the underlying meaning brings a small flash of anger to Lassar’s eyes.
‘You would have men who are not from this tuath come to live here?’
‘They are all Christians, regardless of their tuath,’ says Epscop Ábán.
‘We are not,’ says Lassar.
‘I understand that. And in time, that may change.’
‘Not in my lifetime,’ Lassar says in a curt tone.
Epscop Ábán nods as if to concede her point. Cuimne knows he is used to these pronouncements and has heard many variations of them in his years with the church. She also knows that he realizes making pronouncements or presenting philosophical arguments will do little to persuade those like Lassar to his belief.
Ailill, conscious of his hospitality responsibilities, gives his mother a warning look and makes some conciliatory remarks. The bishop brushes his hand in the air, accepting the words as if Lassar’s comments were of no matter.
‘Well, I can’t imagine what Fiacra would want with a monastery in these lands,’ mutters Lassar.
Ailill redirects their attention to a request for tales of his journeys and suggests they move to the fire. With only a glance at Cuimne, Epscop Ábán nods and moves away from the table. The glance tells Cuimne everything. He will hold her confidence and remain silent about her deeper connection to him but he will seek her out later.
~
It’s not until the next morning that he finds her alone. It is impossible for her to remain in bed until everyone was about their tasks, because Lassar would only drag her out with accusations of laziness. And sojourns in the sheds with any of the animals or their keepers would be another transgression for Lassar to root out, like a pig hunting nuts in the woods. Her tasks are clearly marked and are inside the house, or in close proximity to it, as befits any other woman of her status and Lassar is there to ensure she keeps to them.
Still, she makes her way to the back side of the house, hoping that it is out of the range of any of the keen eyes on the look-out for her. She stands there, shivering in the chill breeze, her red brat wrapped close about her and watches the cattle grazing on the rise above, the range of mountains looming over them.
‘Contemplating the psalms? Or perhaps offering some prayers?’ Epscop Ábán makes his way to her side. ‘It is a view to be admired, I must admit.’
‘It is.’ She hears her nervous tone. He gives her Máthair Gobnait’s greetings and tells her that Máthair Gobnait misses her terribly. Cuimne stares at her hands while he passes on Máthair Gobnait’s words and feels a tightening in her chest. Silence falls for a moment and she wonders if it is best just to get the conversation he wishes over with. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t forthcoming about our connection, Epscop Ábán. You can see how it is here. No one is a Christian, and there is little sympathy for it.’
‘Yes, my child. That was evident. But you mustn’t forget that you are a Christian. You could show them by your excellent example that there is nothing to fear from God and that only good things can come. He did grant you the return of your memory, and with it, your identity.’
His words are a sour taste in her mouth. She wonders if it had been God’s will that she be granted her memory. If so, it is a punishment, and an apt one. Who better than Him to know it for what it is? But really, she knows it is her own doing, her chosen fate to take her current path, and she must follow it to its end.
‘I am no longer the woman you knew. I’m Cuimne now, not Áine. And Cuimne is not a Christian.’
‘On the contrary, you may have been given the name Cuimne at birth, but now you are born again as Áine, baptized into the Christian faith as that name. It’s not something you can shrug off like a brat, or a gown.’
‘Please, A Thiarna Epscop, it’s not possible for me to continue in your faith. My circumstances are changed.’
‘How so?’
She looks up at him, gauges the shrewd blue eyes, now lined with the experience of many journeys and encounters, and notes the firm mouth. He is a priest and anam cara to many, including Máthair Gobnait. If he still regards her as a Christian he would keep his counsel. Should she tell him what is in her heart?
She lowers her eyes and looks at her folded hands. ‘I have obligations, plans I must carry out for the sake of my brother’s honour.’
‘Plans?’ The words he chooses are always few, but cut to the matter at hand.
‘I believe my brother was killed by my cousin in order for my cousin to become king.’
‘But that is fingal. No tuath would permit a kin slayer to become king unless he was immensely powerful. How did this come about?’
‘I don’t know the exact particulars. I only know that there was an argument, my father was struck down, and soon after, my brother was killed outright in a fight. I think the fight had something to do with my father’s death.’ She pictures the arm wielding the sword, compares it to Ailill’s and she knows she cannot be sure.
‘I see.’ Epscop Ábán sits in silence, contemplating her words. ‘And you know no more than that?’
She shakes her head. ‘I can hardly get the truth from my cousin or his mother and wife, or any of their servants. And I’ve not been able to question anyone else who might have been there. I hope to do that soon, when my brother’s foster brother, Óengus, comes to visit.’
‘Is there no servant or client labourer whom you trust that you could ask? While you might get more particulars from your brother’s foster brother,
it is possible you would hear a more even account from someone else you knew in the past.’ He takes her hand. ‘I find it difficult to believe that your cousin would commit kin slaying in such a manner and there would be no fuss.’
‘Even if he had no hand personally, I’m certain he was behind it. He had so much to gain.’ The words are heated and spill from her mouth before she can stop them.
‘You’re risking much if you’re determined to prove your cousin is this killer.’
‘Óengus will help me if it’s necessary. He and my brother were very close.’
‘So you would put him in danger as well. This can only go badly. Do you plan to bring the law into this? Or would you kill your cousin? Is that your plan? What would the tuath feel about that?’
The question startles her because she realizes that her plan has little shape. All her purpose and commitment seemed to have dwindled lately, and what even a few days ago was a strong desire to meet with Óengus to drive this purpose forward, is now reduced to a genuine wish to see and talk with someone who knew and liked her brother well. As for her safety, she will look after that. She thinks of the knife that she keeps strapped to her leg and close by her in her bed at night.
‘I’m not certain, but Óengus might have some idea how we may proceed.’ The words are feeble and she knows it, even before she hears Epscop Ábán’s reply.
‘If you have killing in mind, you must remember it is still against the law of God and the law of this land,’ he says firmly. He speaks reason, reminding her that such action would affect her future, whether she is linked to the killing or no. ‘Think what Máthair Gobnait has taught you,’ he adds.
In Praise of the Bees Page 19
