‘What have you heard about it?’
‘There was an argument—’
‘About what?’
‘Your father wanted to raid some cattle, take back some of his own after Úa Cahill insulted him at a gathering.’
She holds up her hand to stop him. ‘Yes, I know that. They told me when I returned for the burial.’
‘Then you know Ailill was among those who were against the raid. They had no heart for such things, the cowards. They’ve become old women and so they wanted your father out of the way and killed him.’
She regards him now and notices the vein that pulses at his forehead. His anger is still strong. She thinks of what they told her when she arrived home and recalls the grief and remorse, but also the strong underlying current of tension. ‘He fell and hit his head on the hearthstone. Do you know otherwise? You and Diarmait were out hunting at the time.’
‘We were. But when we returned with the two boars we’d discovered what happened. Your father was there in the house, dead, and a great lump on the back of his head. Of course they would say it was an accident. Diarmait was furious. There was much shouting and accusations flew back and forth. We stormed out, both of us, and went off. Diarmait couldn’t forget it, though. And I’m certain that Ailill and his men attacked Diarmait when he went off to meet you.’ His face simmers with anger and he clenches his hands. The effort to control his temper is evident.
She considers his statement and can feel some confusion and uncertainty now under the force of the conviction he uses to underscore each word he utters. She puts her head in her hands a moment to create a small private space so that she might organize her thoughts into some sort of order.
‘What would you do about it?’ she asks finally.
‘Diarmait was my brother. I shared everything with him and he did the same. Always.’ The words clip the air, precise and forceful. ‘He promised to share you.’ Grief supplants the anger now, narrowing his face and darkening his eyes.’ He takes up her hand and strokes it repeatedly and examines her face. ‘He promised me we would marry and that’s what we must do first. Then together we can plan how best to kill Ailill and despatch him to the sorry death he deserves.’
She knows she should feel no surprise at his words. Hadn’t her first urge been to kill the man who had cut her brother down? But the idea repels her now and she desires only to persuade Óengus to a different course of action. She looks at her hand, still clasped and tries to decide what steps she will advise. He has stopped stroking, but both hands still clasp hers firmly.
‘Perhaps we should go to the law courts and ask for recompense.’ She knows before she finishes the sentence that he will reject this step out of hand, but the idea has niggled away at her for some time now.
The rejection is swift and severe. ‘No, we should never consider that path.’
‘Well, if he killed my brother, or had a hand in his killing, then some recompense would be due for both. It would be a hefty price for Ailill. He’d be ruined.’
‘Surely, no price can be put on Diarmait’s or your father’s death that would satisfy us.’
‘It would be one way to get land, or cattle at least.’ She says the words quietly, wondering at herself. Colmán would laugh to hear her now.
Óengus strokes her hair and she can feel the strength of his fingers against her head. ‘No, I would not follow that course, though I can understand that you, a woman, would be averse to violence. But don’t worry, I will have a care and ensure that any killing will be done secretly, and if you prefer, without your prior knowledge.’
She considers all the duties, obligations and influence she had as the king’s daughter. But her father is dead and her brother, too, and though she has fewer obligations, she also has little influence to bring to bear on any case that might come before the court. She would never be able to give evidence of anything, even if she had it to give.
‘You have nothing to fear,’ Óengus says. ‘I’m here now. We’ll see this through, Cuimne. You have my word on that.’ He gives her a reassuring smile, cups her chin and leans down for a kiss. She accepts it, but wonders at her choice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
She thinks no one sees her return. She’d insisted that Óengus wait a while before following in her wake, so that she can slip into the house before anyone notices she’s been gone a while. On her way, though, she decides to stop at the horse shed in the hopes she will find Aed there, but the shed is empty, the horses out grazing and Aed most likely turning his hands to whatever task is necessary.
With a sigh, she leaves the shed and makes her way back to the house. In the distance she can hear the herd dogs barking their commands to the sheep. She pauses a moment and sees men on the side of the hill herding in the strays from the furze and rocks to follow the other sheep that are heading toward the lower lying land. The ewes are in heat now, ready for the rams. Ailill has mentioned that this year, with addition of another shepherd and more herd dogs, the numbers of sheep falling prey to wolves and foxes have fallen dramatically. Now she counts the evidence.
It is evidence that could tally with a man seeking to usurp a cousin from his position, but is it evidence of a man who would commit fingal? Or is it just good husbandry? She shakes her head, still uncertain where such thoughts will take her, and decides to leave it go for the present. She glances in the direction of the forest and sees Óengus. Quickly, she turns and walks the rest of the way to the house.
Inside, Cuimne pulls her brat from her shoulders as Lassar emerges from her sleeping cubicle and makes her way over to the fire, her progress slow. Sárnat jumps up and goes over to give her hand to Lassar’s arm, but she throws it off.
‘I’m not a cripple yet. I can manage.’
The harsh bite of Lassar’s tone causes Sárnat to flush and pull back. ‘I’m sorry, I could see you were in pain and thought only to help. Shall I get you a warm drink?’
‘It’s only my knees acting up. This damp grips them tight. I’ll be fine in a moment.’ She reaches the chair and drops herself into it with a thump and shuts her eyes. After a moment she opens them and looks at Cuimne. ‘What are you gawking at? Haven’t you any work to do instead of wandering outside looking for trouble?’
Cuimne can see the pain etched in Lassar’s face and gives her a muted comment about watching the herd dogs. She sits down and takes up the hanks of wool in the basket, noting now the fine soft quality of it. With an unconscious motion she sweeps her hair to her back, away from her eyes, so that she can examine the wool better.
‘What’s that on your neck?’ asks Lassar. She leans over for a closer look. Cuimne’s hand flies to cover the offending mark created there the night before under Óengus’ rough mouth. She’d no idea the evidence of his work was still there.
‘It’s only a bruise. I must have given it to myself in my sleep.’ The excuse is so feeble she lowers her eyes in embarrassment.
‘You’re some clever cailín if you can bite yourself in your sleep,’ says Lassar. ‘I told Ailill he’d sniff around you and more, if he didn’t watch it. You be careful girl, or you’ll wind up with more than a bruised neck as a memento.’
‘But if we’re to marry, there is no cause for concern.’
‘Who’s decided you two will marry? Not Ailill. Not yet in any case. We’ve yet to hear anything that convinces us that it would be a good match.’
For some reason Cuimne rises to Óengus’s defence. ‘Óengus is an honourable man, from a good family. His father is old, but he is a king. It would be a good match.’ Her words lack force at the end and she winces at the slight edge of doubt that creeps in.
‘Bah, the man is a hot-headed idiot and his father beats his slaves for sheer pleasure. Even your father saw that.’
‘I wouldn’t call him an idiot.’ She throws out words to replace Lassar’s description, though in her heart she knows they aren’t true. ‘He is kind and compassionate.’
Lassar eyes her. ‘Passionate you mean. Is
that the attraction, he can rut like buck in heat? Or is it that you see him as a substitute for your brother?’
‘No, it’s nothing to do with any of that.’
‘What is it then? Is it that he seems like a hero from some tale? If that’s the case, then it is time you recognized those heroes as only tales to while away a long night. There are no perfect gods out there who will honour and protect you from all the harsh realities of the world. Everywhere there is someone who will undermine you, plot against you, even those in your own fine or clann. The tracks and forests have many a kinless man who would kill you for the price of your leather sandals or the food you carry in your sack. And if it isn’t men, there are fevers, plague, injuries and childbirth that can bring a woman down.’ She glanced at Sárnat, who sits staring at Lassar, stunned by her outburst. ‘And the children, they too can be lost, even before they are named. Think on that, before you try to think to marry the warrior hero you believe Óengus to be.’
Sárnat gives a soft whimper and puts her hand to her belly.
‘I’m sure Lassar didn’t mean you would lose the baby, Sárnat,’ Cuimne says softly. She frowns at Lassar, angry at her outburst on Sárnat’s behalf. This surprises her for only a moment, for she knows that some of Lassar’s words are true enough and the others matter little to her.
‘I meant nothing in regard to your babe,’ Lassar snaps. ‘You have good health and all the signs so far point to a safe delivery.’
Sárnat nods and bites her lip. She turns her attention back to her sewing, taking up Ailill’s woollen tunic to mend the tear near the hem. The women fall silent and it is only the sounds of servants working in the background shaking out coverlets, sweeping, and stirring the fire, that fills the room. Cuimne is grateful for this small respite, if only to sift through the growing mire of feelings and thoughts. She picks up the wool hanks again with a plan to card them, but Sárnat asks her shyly if she will help her with the embroidery design on the dress they’d discussed before. Cuimne agrees willingly and moves over beside Sárnat.
The two are deep in conversation when Óengus enters, his large frame blocking the light that shines through the open door. Cuimne puts on a smile and greets him evenly. Lassar glances at him and snorts and resumes staring into the fire. She issues no more taunting remarks that might stir Óengus to anger and action that he might later regret and Cuimne is grateful.
‘Did you want to join the men over in the hillside?’ she asks. ‘They’re working with the sheep.’
‘Sheep? No I don’t think so. I’d be of little help with sheep.’ He walks over to the bench she’d vacated earlier and sits down, his feet spread before him. ‘Hunting, now that would suit me. Shall I take Aed and my men and see what I can find? There should still be a few bucks around.’
Lassar snorts softly again. ‘No, Aed is up on the hillside, I think, herding the sheep with the others. They are where they’re needed for now. If you feel the need to stick your spear in something, you’ll have to wait.’
Cuimne reddens and lowers her eyes. The reference is obvious and she can only hope that Óengus won’t pick it up.
Óengus shrugs. ‘Perhaps I’ll go tomorrow. For now, I’ll remain here.’ He stretches out his feet once again and gazes at Cuimne.
Cuimne catches Lassar’s look and sees the raised brow. Her meaning is clear. You cannot still believe this man is not a fool. Cuimne lowers her head. She isn’t certain that he is a fool, or just stubborn in his choices. Stubbornness she needs to take into account. She pulls the metal teeth through the wool, watching it separate the fine hairs. Some of them tear or break with ease, but there are a few tiny knotted areas she has to tease repeatedly before they smooth out like the rest.
~
She feels the weight of him in her bed before she hears him. A kiss on the neck, a hand along her thigh and up along her waist to her breast and a soft moan in her ear. She jumps.
‘Óengus, what are you doing here?’ This time she must do all she can to suppress the frustration in her voice and her only answer is a kiss pressed hard against her lips and his tongue forcing her mouth open.
She pulls away. ‘I thought we agreed this was not a good idea.’ She keeps her voice a calm whisper. ‘Lassar has already noticed the mark you put on my neck.’
He kisses the bite lightly. ‘Ah that is nothing, a storín. I would give you a thousand marks of my love if it would speed our plans to marry.’
‘It won’t speed our plans, though. It will only anger Lassar and Ailill.’ She sits up. ‘We must behave well and I will do my best to persuade Ailill that the match would be good.’
He pulls down the neck of her léine and kisses her collarbone, considering her words. ‘You’re certain that would be a better approach?’
‘I’m certain.’
‘I will have my father send a formal letter outlining an offer and explaining that it was your father’s wish. He won’t refuse us then.’
‘My father wished it? He said nothing to me.’
Óengus waves his hand in the air. ‘It was always understood, my father knows that.’
‘A letter to Fiacra might add weight to the plan. If your father can explain how the clann would benefit from the marriage, Fiacra would give it serious consideration, I’m sure.’ The idea has come to her, not because she feels it will succeed, but because she is almost certain it will not. There was little Óengus’s father could offer Fiacra that he would not get elsewhere, especially if Ailill has already approached him with a specific person in mind.
He strokes her cheek softly. After a moment he nods. ‘Perhaps you’re right. We must think this through carefully.’ He raises himself up and gives her a rueful look. ‘Still, it would be nice to give ourselves a little taste of what is to come.’
She gives him a sweet smile. ‘I know. But this is for the best, believe me.’
He leaves her with a kiss and squeeze of her breast and a promise that when the time does come, she’ll remember it always. She touches her neck as she watches him leave and feels a small pang of regret that she cannot find it in her heart to marry this man who had been so close to her brother.
~
Óengus, Aed, and the other men go hunting, even Ailill. He trails behind reluctantly, and they head for the forest with spears, long knives and short swords in hand. Óengus leads the way, his brightly coloured brat slung across his chest, his face flushed with the promise of the day. Cuimne watches them go, lifts her hand for a wave in response to Óengus’s and wishes them all good hunting. Beside her, Sárnat knits her brow and places her hand on her stomach. It isn’t unknown for serious and even mortal wounds to occur in any hunt. And for that Cuimne finds herself praying, and her prayers are offered along with Sárnat’s. She adds one that includes the hope that Óengus will heed her and refrain from taking matters into his own hands and spear Ailill.
The farewells complete, Lassar herds them both inside while she mutters to herself inaudibly, though her tone clearly indicates her own assessment of the situation. If she has anyone in mind to blame for this day’s hunting, she keeps it to herself and gives over the rest of the day to ensuring everyone is kept busy. Hunting men work up great appetites, even if there is nothing killed. There is food to prepare.
When darkness begins to fall, Cuimne’s eyes start seeking out Sárnat’s, the two women united in their desire for the men’s safe return. Barrdub appears to be the only one who doesn’t feel the heightened tension and hums lazily at her tasks, until Sárnat snaps at her to hush. Stunned, Barrdub looks at her in surprise, but keeps her mouth firmly shut and her thoughts to herself.
The darkness is well settled when they hear shouts. The words are unclear, as are their owners. Cuimne and Sárnat meet at the door as if cued and Sárnat flings it open. It takes a while to count the number of figures making their way through the les entrance and up to the door and discover they are less than they should be. Cuimne searches for Ailill first and when she sees his face, her relief is palpable. Sh
e can detect fatigue under the grime of dried blood and dirt, but no sign of injury or pain. It’s then she sees that Óengus has his arm slung across Aed’s shoulder and is limping badly. He is whole as far as she can tell, otherwise.
The two women step aside to allow the men to come in. Liam rushes forward to help. When they enter, Cuimne can see that Aed’s face is red with the effort of supporting Óengus. They settle Óengus on the wooden couch. He is nearly white with the pain and his mouth is drawn tight. The servants take the men’s bratacha and bring hot water for them to wash off the blood and grime of the day.
‘The others are coming. We left them to finish stringing up the large buck that was killed,’ says Ailill. ‘We came ahead to get Óengus back, but it took longer than we thought because we had to stop often to rest.’
‘What happened?’ Cuimne asks in a quiet voice. She kneels down by Óengus’s leg and begins to remove his leather boot. It’s undamaged but also too tight for her to shift.
Óengus groans in pain at her efforts. ‘My ankle, I think I’ve broken it. The feckin buck led me a merry chase, and just as I threw my spear, I tripped over a root and fell.’
She pictures the scene but keeps the smile to herself. It was not the stuff of heroic tales. ‘A good kill, nonetheless. The buck is dead.’
‘Only after Aed threw his spear to finish it off,’ Ailill says. ‘It was a kill that all shared, to be fair. The men played their part.’
‘If that bastard buck hadn’t decided to double back, I’d have had him long ago,’ Óengus says.
With some firmness Cuimne changes the subject to the possibility of cutting his boot to remove it. Óengus raises noisy objections until she gives a small tug on it to prove her point. He relents after a howl of pain. It takes a sharp knife and Aed’s strong fingers in the end to cut through the leather without damage to the skin, but finally the boot is removed and the true state of his ankle revealed. Bruising already darkens the stretched skin that envelops the ankle bone. For a moment it’s as though she is back beside Máthair Gobnait, treating yet another injury during the harvest season. Giving it little thought, she issues instructions to Barrdub without fuss, her voice calm, while Liam and the other servants tend the rest of the men.
In Praise of the Bees Page 21
