Misfortune of Time

by Christy Nicholas

  “You’re awake, Étaín. Good. For a while, we all feared you’d never recover your senses. I don’t suppose you remember what happened that night?”

  She did, but didn’t want to. She remembered every terrifying detail. The beggarman and his wild words. His ratty bodhran and the battered case. His foul breath and his iron grip. The way his eyes bored into her soul, horrifying every corner of her inner self into gibbering dread. Étaín shrunk away from the memory, the chilling words and the dread of the entire night.

  He shook her shoulder, painfully gripping her still-bruised shoulder. “You must remember something, Étaín. It’s important we discover what he did, and what Airtre did. Your husband will be on trial, you see, as soon as the abbot has gathered the testimonies. It’s absolutely essential that Airtre is not charged with murder.”

  Étaín had no wish to relive that night. She shook her head.

  “Hmm. Pity, but I suppose I expected little else. At least several men witnessed the beggar’s assault on you. There should be no question that Airtre acted in your defense. They’ll make more reliable witnesses anyhow. Can you at least tell me what the beggar said to you? Airtre said he heard the madman’s voice, but he spoke in whispers.”

  She tried to speak and had to clear her throat several times. He offered ale, and she gratefully drank half the mug before she continued. “He said something… something nasty, something mad. Something about eating my soul?”

  Bressel frowned. “Eating your soul? What sort of madness is that? How can one eat a soul? Well, regardless, the abbot may still want to call you to testify. I urged him to proceed, but he has some foolish notion you might contribute.” With a shrug, he got up, tugging his léine into place.

  Just as he reached the door, he turned around and arched an eyebrow. “This had been an unwanted assault, correct? Not some assignation you’d arranged with some young man? If the latter, the story must never get out. Airtre’s chances at a bishopric would be severely curtailed by such a scandal.”

  Aghast at his suggestion, Étaín only stared as he left.

  Chapter 7

  Étaín’s rehabilitation took longer than she expected. While her body recovered more quickly than it should have for her age, a fact which she masked whenever she could, her mind took much longer to return to normal.

  Every little sound or movement startled her into a panic. She would often blank out, finding herself cowering in the corner because a bird swooped into the roundhouse and flew by her head. A barking dog would send her running in the other direction. A shout would make her cry, even if not directed at her.

  Airtre didn’t come home on time most nights. Étaín felt certain her own inability to cope with daily life drove him away, but she didn’t understand how to make things better. She must simply make a supper which would be as tasty if he didn’t return until after Compline.

  She received a great surprise when he returned at Sext one day. Étaín had barely eaten her midday meal when he arrived at the roundhouse, a struggling and sullen Maelan in tow.

  Étaín stood, resisting the urge to flee into the stable yard at the strange look in Airtre’s eyes. Not that horrifying rage from the night of the attack, but something more visceral and oddly joyful. It made her shudder and wish to run away at that very moment. She reminded herself she must stay as Maelan needed her. Her duty remained to protect him from Airtre’s hand. Chanting this in her mind like a mantra, she steeled her legs to prevent them from fleeing.

  “Is something amiss? You’re home so early.”

  Airtre pushed Maelan down on a stool and smiled. “Our grandson has been sent away from the practice yard today.”

  She kept her tone neutral. “Oh? For what reason?”

  “For pushing another of the boys down so hard, the other boy hit his head on a stone and bled.”

  He smiled after this account. Étaín retreated in confusion. Surely this had been a horrible act, one of a bully. Why would Airtre approve of such a brutal thing?

  Maelan piped up with childish pride. “He said evil things!”

  Étaín narrowed her eyes with a glance at her husband. “What sort of evil things?”

  “He said God wasn’t the only god, and others flew all around us! Gods in the trees and the rivers and the birds. Gods everywhere!” Maelan flung his arms in the air and fluttered them in a comical imitation of a tree in the wind.

  Airtre now positively beamed. He clapped the boy on the shoulder so hard, Maelan almost fell off the stool. “I couldn’t approve publicly, so I had to bring him home with all appearance of being furious. He’s a good lad. He knows when to stomp on blasphemy, don’t you, Maelan?”

  Maelan smiled at his grandfather with beatific innocence.

  “Ha! My grandson will beat the devil from this town with his own two fists! Maybe he’ll become a warrior for our Lord, smiting all the enemies in the land. Would you be happy to do that, Maelan?”

  “I would, Grandfather! I would become famous, like Cú Chulainn, and all would speak my name for generations to come!”

  Airtre narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Not Cú Chulainn, Maelan. He didn’t believe in god, and therefore remains an evil pagan like that boy today. Let’s find some good Christian warrior to emulate, shall we? Let me think. Saint Patrick is your best example, of course, for piety, but no, you want a warrior. Palladius? Hmm, still no warrior. Oh, I know! Saint Colmcille is a perfect example. He not only stood strong for his beliefs, but he also fought an actual battle to defend them. Three thousand men perished in that conflict. Even though his stance ended in exile, he used that exile to excellent purpose. Eventually, he founded a dynasty of monasteries all over Hibernia and Alba.”

  Maelan scrunched his nose. “He’s not really a warrior, though. Just a monk who had to fight.”

  “Nevertheless, he’s an excellent model to emulate. Perhaps you will become a warrior monk yourself someday, smiting the wicked pagans across the land.” He patted his grandson on the back several times with a wide grin on his face.

  Étaín swallowed the gorge which rose at the exchange. Maelan bullied a pagan child or at least one with an open mind, and Airtre praised him. He actually seemed proud of the boy and encouraging him to keep doing it. Visions of grandfather and grandson, side by side, killing all those in their path, filled her mind.

  She ran out, away from them both. Airtre and Maelan sickened her at this moment. Étaín retched in the stable, in one of the empty alcoves. The horse who used to sleep there had died last winter during a freeze. Even Airtre had hesitated at eating the meat, though. Horse meat had been eaten in pagan ceremonies, so therefore forbidden for Christians.

  She huddled in the old hay, curled up with her knees to her chin and her arms around them. She didn’t want her grandchild to learn this. She’d raised him to be kind, to protect those weaker than him, to be strong for others, not just for strength’s sake. She hadn’t raised him to judge people on their beliefs.

  What if he found out about her brooch? She no longer kept the secret. True, for now only Cadhla had learned of her magic, and he didn’t realize the full truth. Nothing is a secret when two people know it; at that point, it’s simply gossip waiting to escape.

  Her stomach roiled, and she turned her head to vomit again in the rotting hay. She swallowed a couple times, trying to prevent a return of the sick, but her body didn’t cooperate, and she spewed once more. The sour smell made things worse.

  After moving away from the soiled spot, Étaín chose another corner to be miserable in. Airtre wouldn’t come seek her out, but Maelan might. A rustling near the entrance caught her attention. She craned her neck, expecting her grandson. Instead, the small hare she’d rescued moons before hopped in. It remained a wild, wary creature, but became used to her. It hopped toward her, cautious but curious. Closer it came, nose twitching and ears swiveling, alert for any threats.

  Étaín identified with the creature’s vigilance. She’d only experienced caution and panic since the attack at
the abbey. Anything might be a threat, a danger. Every sound created the possibility of death.

  The hare hopped away, once again finding refuge in some hidden hole under the wattle walls. With a sigh, Étaín put her chin back down on her knees. Absolutely nothing would convince her to re-enter the roundhouse right now. Not until her husband left, preferably leaving their grandson so she could speak with him. Maybe she could correct the lesson. Any attempt at the moment would earn her a beating.

  Airtre had been positively cheerful in his praise, and Maelan would respond to it. Her husband normally acted so dour; a bright smile remained a rare thing, like a sunny day in winter. Maelan would likely do anything to cause a repeat of the rarity.

  Étaín still heard their voices drift across the stable yard. A new voice had joined them. It might have been Bressel, but she couldn’t be certain. She had no intention of going to discover the truth. The barn remained safe and comfortable. She stayed in the company of horses who judged no one for their beliefs.

  The sound of feet on gravel warned her someone approached. She uncurled from her huddled position and stood, pretending to be ready to face whatever came.

  Bressel peered into the dim barn. “Étaín? Are you in here? It’s time, we must go into the abbey.”

  “The abbey?” Unconsciously, she brushed her léine to clean it of the bits of hay which clung to the green wool. She should be at least clean and presentable. “What do I need at the abbey today? Maelan’s home from his lessons.”

  He chuckled. “I’d heard! Airtre grew fulsome in his compliments. The lad is learning well. No, this has naught to do with your grandson. Airtre is on trial this afternoon, and you are needed to bear witness for him.”

  Panic seized her and shook her bones. She wanted to sit, to lie down, to run away. However, the trial remained necessary. It might fall apart if she didn’t offer her testimony. She swallowed hard and straightened her spine, ignoring the insistent screams of her frightened child mind.

  If she testified that the beggar had meant her deadly harm, Airtre’s killing of the man would be fully justified. The abbot would levy no charges, no fine, no weregild on the man’s death. Airtre might even be grateful to her for saving him money and reputation.

  On the other hand, if she testified that the beggar had merely accosted her, but not with deadly intent, Airtre could be charged with murder. Since the beggar had no status and likely no family, Airtre could pay a fine to satisfy the judgment. However, the fine for murder, even for one of such lowly station, became hefty. He would also be known as a murderer, despite the circumstances of the incident. He would lose both status and honor price for his behavior, and if he committed another similar crime, he could lose all status.

  If she caused Airtre to pay a large fine, he would certainly take his frustrations out on her.

  Her choice seemed clear if she wished to live. However, the fact remained she didn’t think the beggar had meant to harm her. Frighten her, yes, and he did so with remarkable success. Still, she didn’t think he had meant her true physical harm, and to testify before the abbot that he had would be a sin against God.

  Could she perjure herself before God, in his very cathedral, just to save her own skin?

  Bressel grabbed her by the hand and withdrew her from the dim and dubious safety of the stable. They said nothing as he led her out through the main roundhouse, past a silent Maelan, and out to the entrance. Airtre must have already left for the trial. She plucked her cloak from the entranceway and Bressel finally relinquished his hold on her hand as they exited. She swung the cloak around her shoulders with a confidence she didn’t truly possess, but had learned to fake over her many lifetimes.

  The walk to the abbey became an odd mixture of panic and determination, punctuated with birdsong and the rustling breeze. Summer had truly settled into the land, with bright green leaves and vivid wildflowers carpeting the forest floor. Ivy clung to great oaks while yellow broom erupted in the sunny glades. Willows clung precariously to the side of the burn while the whispering water rushed to the nearby Sionann.

  She still hadn’t come to a decision by the time they arrived.

  As they approached the place where the new bridge stood, her anxiety rose. Workers had retrieved the washed-away bridge, but had not yet repaired it. In the meantime, a temporary bridge stood in its place.

  How should she testify? How could she solve this horrible dilemma? Étaín wished she had a chance to discuss the issue with someone, perhaps Odhar. He had an excellent mind for solving problems.

  After shutting such thoughts away, she concentrated instead on putting one foot in front of another. They came to the cathedral, the place for any such judgments in the abbey. Cadhla stood at the entrance, nodding to her and smiling. She drew strength from his support and walked through the massive stone doorway.

  The structure never failed to impress her. While most of the other buildings in the abbey grounds had been built as traditional wattle-and-daub roundhouses with thatched roofs most people used for homes, the cathedral and several smaller temples were rectangular, built with massive dressed square stones. The enormous doors had been decorated with exquisitely carved wood. The army of craftsmen who lived in the abbey surroundings became a testament to the artistry of the architecture.

  The interior of the nave looked emptier than during mass. Many of the trappings had been removed, and the altar lay bare. The rounded chancel end looked hauntingly empty, the tall ceilings giving the illusion of a huge cavern, the pillars becoming solid cave drippings.

  Abbot Mael Finnein sat on an enormous wooden-backed stool in the chancel while the rest of the room remained empty of all furniture. The tall window cut in the far end let in the light of the afternoon sun, limning the abbot in a golden silhouette. Dust motes danced around him like magical faerie lights.

  Airtre stood tall and proud on the left. Several monks serving as witness to the proceedings stood on the right. Bressel led Étaín to her place beside them, and she drew comfort from a glimpse of Odhar walking in. Cadhla joined her near the other witnesses.

  Thus bolstered, she held her chin up and looked to the abbot. She refused to look at her husband.

  The abbot rapped his crozier on the stone floor to call for attention. The whispering monks silenced instantly, and even Airtre jumped. Étaín flinched as the staccato sound echoed in the large space, bouncing off the stone walls.

  “We have gathered in the eyes of God to bear witness to a charge of the willful murder of a fir midboth musician. The accused is a priest of the abbey and an ócaire in his own right.”

  Airtre’s expression pinched at the word, ócaire. It described a lesser land owner, usually a younger man. For a man of Airtre’s age to be labeled such seemed insulting, though it was accurate. His cows would need to be counted in the hundreds to qualify as a greater land owner, a bóaire.

  “I understand we have a first-hand witness to the incident. Étaín, wife of the accused, please come forward and offer your account, true and without omission, of what occurred that night.”

  She gulped and forced her foot to move, the stone chill through the thin leather of her summer shoes. The coolness gave her something to concentrate on, something other than her husband’s piercing eyes.

  Étaín looked the abbot in the eyes. “The beggar man attacked me as I waited by the gate to the abbey—”

  The man next to the abbot, his clark, interrupted. “You went outside the gates?”

  Startled, she nodded. He scribbled something on his scroll and for a panicked moment, she thought she’d said something wrong, but he nodded back for her to continue. “I waited by the gate when I heard a sound in the darkness. I lifted my lantern, but saw nothing beyond the glow. Suddenly a man—the beggarman—had his hands tight against my wrists, screaming mad words into my face. He… he licked my arm, and then tried to lick m-m-my face…”

  The abbot raised his hand to stop her testimony. Tears fell down her face. She could no longer stop them
.

  “Please, be easy. He can hurt you no longer, child. Now, did this man hurt you?”

  “He did hurt me, your Grace.”

  “Did you fear for your life?”

  She swallowed and glanced at Airtre. He watched the abbot, and she could discern nothing from his expression. She must make her decision. With a glance back at both Bressel and Odhar, she cleared her throat.

  With a ragged breath and a final glance at Airtre, she whispered, “I did, your Grace.”

  “Apothecary, did the woman sustain injury from this attack?”

  Étaín stepped back, grateful to have finished her testimony. When she glanced around at the monks behind her, she became both surprised and gratified to see Odhar move among those standing. She flashed him a brief smile of thanks, which he returned, warming her heart.

  Cadhla stepped up. “She did, your grace. Étaín required care for nine days. Since her attacker could not care for her after the incident, she would, therefore, be due to a sick-maintenance fee in addition to whatever judgment is granted. Her attack resulted in bruising, fever, and delirium. The latter might have lasting effects upon her for many winters.”

  “Was the victim likely to die from the attack?”

  Cadhla shook his head, his long white beard swaying. “No, she was unlikely to die. However, if the attack hadn’t been interrupted, I cannot say what might have happened to the poor woman.”

  “Can we measure the wounds for a grain-count?”

  He shook his head again. “Her wounds were bruising rather than piercing. We cannot measure bruises with the number of grains fitting in the wound.”

  “Will the bruising result in permanent disfigurement?”

  Cadhla shook his head again. “She will heal, on the outside.”

  After the midach stepped down, several other monks gave their testimony, though they only arrived at the scene of the attack after the beggar had been killed.