Misfortune of Time

by Christy Nicholas

  “Yes, it is. I inherited it from a cousin when he died with no male heirs. However, if the abbot wanted the land, he could sue for ownership and give us a fair price for it. In seasons past, he would require a Brehon’s blessing to do so. Now, though, the church has more clout, and they no longer require the approval of Gaelic Law. Canon Law is much more powerful in this place. In fact, if I hadn’t married your grandfather, anyone might have bought the land against my will. A single woman can be a tenant on her land, but her claim is easily taken by another.”

  Maelan’s eyes glazed and Étaín realized by she’d got too complex for him. Luckily, the return of the clark saved her from having to simplify the concept.

  “You’re in luck. Abbot Mael Finnein has time for you now. Not a lot, mind you—he’s due to receive an anchorite delegation from Darú. You have his ear for now. Follow me, if you please.”

  He set a quick pace, his sandals scuffling along the flagstone path. Étaín followed with Maelan in tow, trying to keep up and not lose him in the crowd. They followed the twisting path around the cathedral and almost to the far side of the complex, to a large roundhouse against the wall. It had one window which opened on the river. The reeds soughed in the wind and a flock of geese chose that moment to launch with raucous honks.

  Maelan giggled, pointing to the birds, but Étaín pulled him into the abbot’s roundhouse.

  The abbot, a tall, thin man with a neat, black beard, sat at his large wooden desk. He peeked over neat piles of scrolls, an inkwell and an array of stamps and wax sticks. A large cupboard of scrolls stood to his right, opposite the light of the window. A small brazier appeared to be his only concession to comfort.

  The abbot looked like they had interrupted him in writing a letter, but he smiled and rose as they entered. She watched for his reaction to her bruise, but he showed neither surprise nor censure.

  “Étaín, is it? And this must be Maelan. I’ve heard Airtre speak of you both. Please, come in and be welcome in my home. Would you care for some juniper wine? My herbalist made a wonderful batch just last moon.” He nodded for the clark to leave, and poured them both small mugs of the pinkish liquid.

  “It truly helps my stomach when it’s acting up. Much nicer in flavor than sour ale, don’t you think?”

  Étaín had drunk juniper wine before, but not in her current life. She pretended she’d never tasted it before. “It’s delightful, thank you, your grace.”

  He smiled. “You are most welcome, child. I understand you come on behalf of this fine young man, then? In need of some teaching?”

  She nodded and looked at Maelan, who sipped the wine and grimaced. “It’s too sweet.”

  She glanced at the abbot with apprehension at the rudeness, but he burst out laughing. “Indeed, it is rather sweet, boy. Some people prefer sweet things. You must not be one of them.”

  He frowned and walked to Maelan. He lifted the boy’s chin up and examined his eyes. “Hmm. I see hints of Airtre within you, but you have more, much more. Will you be following in your grandfather’s vocation, and become a priest? Is that why you wish to have a tutor?”

  Étaín held her breath. Why should he ask a child why he wanted to have lessons? Such a foolish idea. Few children preferred sitting inside, scratching on wax tablets when they would rather be out playing in the forest.

  “I want to be a hero, like in the tales. Heroes always fight with chiefs. To fight with a chief, I need to be a fosterling. Fosterships are hard to get, so if I learn more, I have a better chance.”

  Étaín blinked. The child was not wrong, and he’d surprised her with his excellent grasp of the situation. The abbot did not, as she’d half-expected, laugh at the response. Instead, he stood with his hand on his chin, assessing Maelan.

  After his speech, Maelan stood, spine stiff and proud, staring straight ahead as if a soldier reporting to duty. In his mind, perhaps that’s exactly what he would be.

  It wouldn’t be long until he would be old enough to foster. The thought both frightened and excited Étaín. She would lose her beloved grandson to another chief’s court, but then he would be safe from Airtre’s temper and heavy hand. She would escape this life and find another.

  But first, she must secure a tutor for the boy. At least it would mean the child remained out of Airtre’s reach for more hours. Airtre rarely stayed home during the day, but when he did, he always had a foul temper. His work at the hostelry took most of his time, but there were evenings when he came home spoiling for a fight, and Étaín usually became his only target. She hoped this worked and Maelan would remain unavailable.

  “I think I know just the man for the job, young warrior. Have you heard of the new arrival to our monastery?”

  Bressel had mentioned him, but didn’t remember if they spoke of a name, so she shook her head.

  “He hails from the great city of Dubhlinn. He is a great scholar, a brilliant scribe, and has a special love for the old tales.” The abbot turned to Maelan. “Would you like to study under someone who knows all the old legends of heroes?”

  Maelan’s eyes lit up, and he nodded vigorously.

  The abbot turned to Étaín and said, “Then that’s settled. Odhar had just asked for something else to work on, and this will be perfect. While he’s a full priest, he prefers his brotherly duties and loves teaching. Have Maelan come to the Scriptorium each morning after Terce, and Odhar will meet him there. He should be done by None, and I expect him to help in the stables after his fighter practice, to pay for the lessons. Will that suffice?”

  “Yes, that will be perfect! You are most gracious, Father.”

  “Étaín, you are most lovely, my dear. If… no, no, pay me no mind, child. Airtre is truly a blessed man to have such a delightful family.” Had the abbot been about to mention her bruised face? She didn’t know, so she took Maelan’s hand and left.

  “Grandmother, why did you call him Father? He’s not your father, is he?”

  “No, Maelan, he isn’t. Father is his title. In a sense, he is a father to everyone at this monastery.”

  He craned his neck as they passed the stables and the Scriptorium. He peered in the window. “Is that where my lessons will be? It looks bright in there.”

  There were many tall windows in the long stone building. Several monks hunched over sunlit tables, concentrating on their work.

  “It’s where you’ll meet your tutor. I don’t know if he will conduct lessons there or elsewhere. I’ll bring you tomorrow for the first meeting, but you must make your own way most days. Can you manage that?”

  He nodded. “I can walk that far! It’s only a couple leagues.”

  “It’s not the distance which concerns me, child. We don’t live in the monastery, so there is a portion of the path which is lonely and through the woods. There are dangers in the forest for a single child.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll bring Cu with me!”

  She shook her head. “The monks in the Scriptorium will not appreciate a large sheepdog in among their precious scrolls. A dog can cause much damage and chaos, and he has duties at the farm.”

  He stood and thought for a moment. Then brightened and said, “I’ll bring my sword! It will frighten off anyone.” He swung an imaginary sword back and forth, cutting down scores of illusory brigands.

  They reached the monastery gate, and she noticed a beggar to one side. She fished within her pouch for a small loaf of bread and handed it to the bedraggled man. He looked thin and wasted, and he muttered to himself as he took the offering. He hovered protectively over a battered case. Perhaps he played music? Étaín had always loved music, but such frivolities didn’t appeal to Airtre, so she seldom got to enjoy any. Perhaps the man would play for her another day. She might have discerned gratitude within the mutterings, but she couldn’t be certain. It mattered not. She never chafed at the church requirement for charity, and mortal thanks were not a requirement.

  Maelan asked, “Why did you give him our bread, Grandmother?”

 
; “Because we had bread and he had none. He needed to eat, child. Could you not see?”

  “I did, but why couldn’t he make bread, like we do?”

  She nodded. “He might, if he didn’t get ill, or become mad, or injured. Many people cannot work for their food. They must live on the charity of others if they cannot earn enough to feed themselves or their family.”

  “Why doesn’t his family take care of him?”

  “They may be all dead, or just as poor. We cannot know. Therefore, we obey the command of God and give to those in need. The flowers of tomorrow are the seeds we sow today, Maelan. A little kindness can have unexpected rewards.” She hoped the finality of her tone would satisfy the child. She loved him more than anything in her world, but sometimes his constant questions drove her to distraction.

  When they returned to their roundhouse, Airtre and Cadhla still sat at the table. The bainne clabair and food had been consumed, so she replenished the supply, adding a bottle of his sloe wine. He wouldn’t drink it while the sun still shone, but come dusk the wine would be a welcome oblivion to his day of mourning.

  Étaín sent Maelan to his duty in the stables and started her own chores. She needed to finish weeding her herb garden, check on the turnip greens, and make soap. She’d have Maelan gather more wood after he curried and fed the horses. Then the chicken coop needed cleaning, and the pigs needed feeding.

  Her housework would need to wait until tomorrow. She knew better than to bustle around the roundhouse this day. Until Airtre had drunken himself into a stupor tonight, she should remain outside and out of his reach.

  Chapter 3

  The next day dawned with pouring rain and sleet. Étaín shivered under her blanket, but she heard Airtre stirring. She needed to get up and prepare his morning meal before he groused. She stretched and touched her cheek. It didn’t feel too bad. Perhaps it wouldn’t be visible for too many days. She used powder on it to hide the dark color, but it always looked fake.

  The one time Étaín had used magic to hide the coloration had ended in a near-disaster.

  Étaín had inadvertently spent more than she had budgeted on spices. Airtre found out and took his frustration out on her. The next day, her face became one large, black bruise, and it hurt just to open her eyes. Her bones ached, and her muscles screamed. She didn’t want to move. While she spent some of her brooch’s magic on healing them to the point she could open her mouth without pain, Maelan walked into her alcove.

  He stood at the entrance, mouth open in horror. “Grandmother! How did you do that? You were all purple last night!”

  She turned to the child, then but seven winters old, and carefully gathered him in her arms. “Just some tricks I’ve learned to hide the most painful bits, mo chuisle.”

  He struggled to escape. “Tricks? What sort of tricks?”

  She didn’t want to explain about her brooch’s powers. Her secret must be kept well hidden upon pain of death. “Nothing sinister, I assure you. Just some makeup and healing.”

  “Healing magic? Magic is forbidden, Grandmother! It’s evil! The priests all say so!”

  No matter how hard she tried to convince the child she used innocent fabrication, Maelan wouldn’t believe her.

  That had been many winters ago. Much as she liked to think the boy had forgotten the incident, she still caught him staring at her with concerned eyes now and then.

  Étaín would not use such magic any longer. She daren’t risk anything which increased the gulf between her and the only person she loved. Instead, she took fine white sand she’d pulverized to powder form and mixed with goose grease. She used a rag and dabbed it on her cheek, blending it into the skin with tender care. It still looked horrible, but just slightly less horrible than the actual bruise.

  By the time she dressed and came to the hearth, Airtre coughed in his alcove. He coughed more in the mornings, especially in the damp spring season, but it usually eased as summer arrived. In the meantime, it made a creditable indicator of how long she had to prepare his morning meal.

  She gathered ale from the keg and eggs from the chicken yard. Oats which had soaked since the night before, some thick cream and a dab of sweet butter would complete the meal. She’s just got everything ready as he emerged from his alcove.

  Airtre said nothing. She doubted he even looked at her face. He never chatted in the early morning hours. While his duty remained to be up before dawn and in the hostel at Prime, he didn’t have to enjoy it.

  Once she’d fed her husband and he’d left, Étaín breathed a sigh of relief. The day after the anniversary of his brother’s death always became a precarious one. His temper grew uncertain, and she had already earned one beating. If she worked particularly carefully today, she might just escape a second one.

  She stood at the washbasin, staring at the dirty dishes from yesterday. She needed to clean them, but couldn’t seem to make herself move.

  A sound from the pigpen alerted her to Maelan. He should finish his morning chores soon. He milked and fed the cows, fed the pigs, the chickens, and the horses. Then he mucked out the stables. His help became a great relief as it allowed her more time to cook and to clean the roundhouse. To run even a small farm such as theirs took a great deal of backbreaking work, and Airtre expected her to do it all.

  This morning, however, they had another appointment, one she had set up herself.

  She still marveled she’d been effective the day before. Such important matters—obtaining a tutor for their only grandchild—would normally be Airtre’s domain. His indisposition yesterday had given her a chance to attempt the task. She hoped he'd approve.

  Doubt clenched her belly. What if he didn’t? What if he hated the tutor, even though the abbot himself recommended him? Pushing down the panic, Étaín finished cleaning the morning dishes and called for Maelan to hurry.

  The boy dripped from his work outside. A small puddle formed beneath him.

  “Put on a dry léine, Maelan. Where is your oilskin cloak?”

  “I left it in my alcove, Grandmother. I’ll get it.”

  She retrieved her own cloak from the peg near the entrance and waited impatiently. She detested being late.

  “Faster, child. Don’t dawdle.”

  “Coming!”

  When he finally emerged, he wore his wooden practice sword in his belt. She placed her hands on her hips. “You do not need your sword, Maelan.”

  “But my tutor should know right away, I’m a warrior first and a scholar second!”

  She shook her head. “You can tell him. Leave the sword.”

  He frowned, but obeyed. He almost disappeared under the oiled cloak, but it did a fantastic job of keeping the downpour from his clothing and hair. They sloshed through the muddy path and to the river.

  At least, they walked to where the river used to be. Today, it had grown into a furious torrent, lapping up against the walls of the abbey itself, and almost reaching the massive bridge. Étaín stared at the water, unable to comprehend how it had risen so high so quickly. It had rained a lot this spring, but surely it hadn’t been so high yesterday? She should have noticed.

  If it rose any higher, they might not make it back across the bridge.

  Étaín weighed her options. If she didn’t make their appointment with the tutor, it would displease the abbot. When he found out about the arrangement, Airtre would be displeased even if he approved of the match. However, if she remained on the far side of the river for several days, their animals would suffer and might even perish.

  Maelan tugged at her arm. “What are we waiting for, Grandmother? I thought we were running late?”

  With a deep sigh, she crossed the bridge. She couldn’t control the waters or the rains. She must do as she needed.

  With a nod to the gate guards, they stumbled into the abbey and headed for the Scriptorium. The bells rang Terce as they entered, shaking the rain and sleet off their cloaks in the small annex built for such activities.

  The huge hall stayed silent
except for the scratching of quills on parchment and the occasional cough or whisper. A reverential oppression lay over those within, each concentrating on their task with singular intensity. The odors of ink, sweat and dust became a welcome respite from the mud and damp outside. Dust motes danced in the still air.

  Étaín held Maelan’s hand and looked around. The abbot said their tutor would meet them here. One monk rose and shuffled toward them, his face hidden in a pale cowl. When approaching, he flipped the fabric back, revealing a young face with blond hair and high cheekbones. His tonsure looked freshly shaved from the shiny skin of his forehead. His solemn expression burst out with a cheery smile when he got close.

  “You must be Maelan. I’m called Odhar. The abbot told me to meet my new student here, but I had no idea I’d have the pleasure of two, my lady…?”

  Flustered, she stammered before she got control of her words. “No, no, I’m no student, Brother. I’m merely Maelan’s grandmother, Étaín. I’m escorting him into your charge, no more than that.”

  “Ah, but I’d be delighted to teach two, and it offers many more opportunities than just one. Are you certain you wouldn’t like to stay for the lessons?”

  Étaín truly wished to say yes, of course; she’d be thrilled to stay. She’d always been curious about the world, history, and the law, but as a woman, she’d never been granted the opportunity for formal schooling. She’d learned her letters only due to an indulgent, loving husband. Even if Airtre accepted Maelan’s schooling, he would never accept hers. The memory of his beating three winters ago made her flinch. Her life would be miserable if he ever discovered such a thing.

  However, she had an idea. “Alas, I cannot, truly. Perhaps we can chat when I come to pick him up? Just for a little while.”

  He took her hand in his with firm pressure. “I would be elated. Will you return at Sext? We can steal an hour before the lad must be off, certainly?”

  It just might work. Maelan would be eager to escape to his sword practice, but she might slice a few minutes to discuss the lad’s education. Airtre would surely never argue against that.