Derval, listen as she might, could hear no sarcasm in the poet’s words. She answered with a noncommittal grunt.
“And more, inion’Cuhain. The taoiseach fears that any traveler on the road north at this time is sure to run into a band of Ui DunLainge’s champions.”
Derval chewed her lip. “And what of that? Would they cut strangers to the ground on sight? We are not the people who raided their cows.”
“Certainly they would not cut us down on the road. But the road is rutted with fresh tracks, and they could scarcely avoid asking us what we had seen.”
MacCullen fell silent, as though he had proved an important point. Derval felt she must have missed something. “Does the taiseach believe we would give him away? After all his hospitality? Or what would have been hospitality but for this.”
“He knows we would not lie,” answered MacCullen slowly. Derval’s face heated again with blushes.
“Never would I let Ui DunLaingacht know that their enemy was in flight and to what refuge. But how could I deny having seen the raiders when my eyes did see them?”
“Did he really say that?” interjected John Thornburn, who had been listening carefully. “Did he just ask you how he could say he hadn’t seen what he had seen? Tell him just how easy it would be.”
MacCullen spoke over John as he might have spoken over the hooting of an owl. “I think that I suffer no peril at the hands of any Gael of this island. Ragged I may be, and without my harper, but my estate is known. Still—others may suffer the anger hidden from me.”
“Like Ailesh?” asked Derval. “She may be known, you think, for a kinswoman of the raiders?” She felt the poet turn in the dark beside her. “Like the young daughter of Goban, and like others! Have you no fear in you for yourself at all, inion’Cuhain? For I warn you that strangers will not grant honor to a scholar who yet speaks with the accent of the iron tongue.”
Derval had spoken at her first thought, before considering that she and John might also be considered to be involved in the matter of the Ui Garrchon and the Ui DunLainge. But although the prospect of meeting a squad of horsemen with axes and spears bent on punishment left her feeling unsettled, she found herself unable to disillusion MacCullen on the subject of her personal courage.
“If a man doesn’t know me for what I am, that is his own business and none of mine. I am not afraid to meet the sluagh of Ui DunLainge.”
“I am,” said John in English. “If you’re talking about what I think you are, I’m scared shitless.”
Derval smiled invisibly in the dark. “Eoin Ban was never taught that it is mannerless to speak in a language one of the party does not understand. He is, however, a great one for enduring foe and hardship.”
John let out a canine yelp at this, and MacCullen burst out laughing. “I think I understand Eoin the cattle leaper quite well!” he said. “Except when he tries the speech of the Irish.
“So then it is settled, Scholar Iníon Cuhain? Despite the will of Buan MacConghal, we will continue toward Dublin?”
Derval was about to reply when a thought struck her. “What about you?”
He frowned. “Me? I do this for young Ailesh. After all, I am Ollave of Leinster, and”—his scowl broke pleasantly—“a man of no small influence.”
Derval had to smile. “Quite. But perhaps you’re not the healthiest chief poet in Ireland. It’s only a night passed since you were sick indeed.”
A moment of silent tension passed, magnified by the gloom. Derval wondered why he found it so difficult to admit his weakness. Surely he could not hope she had forgotten, who had staunched the horrible flow of blood.
“I’ve been better in my health,” MacCullen said at last. “But sick or well, I must return to Dublin immediately. I have been too long away.”
“Why, Ollave? What business has a poet of Leinster in the city of the Gentiles?” Derval asked baldly. “And why were you in Ard na Bhfuinseoge anyway, with only your sister’s son for company?”
If she expected gain by this directness, Derval was to be disappointed, for MacCullen’s response was a long, hard stare. “My business, woman, is Leinster’s business. And I see no reason why Leinster’s business should be yours.”
She felt her face grow hot, even to her lips. “I would agree entirely, poet, had fate not matched our paths so. Against my choosing, to the risk of my life and without hope of gain for me, I must add.”
MacCullen’s hauteur crumbled. “True enough, lady. But as I am not the king of this province how can I reveal his affairs? I must return to Dublin, believe me, and I feel I can now walk a distance.”
Derval answered his faint, wintery smile. “Or better— ride?” She wrinkled her brow a moment. “The harp would be worth a pony, wouldn’t it?”
“It would be the price of a very good horse!” replied the poet. “But as it is Caeilte’s harp, it is not mine to trade.
“And I would not trade it if it were,” he added, with a theatrical groan. “Not while his mother waits for his music in happy innocence, and that strain will only be heard now in the isles of the West. Not while I, MacCullen, reduced as I am, have yet a bright flame of life in me.”
In the darkness Derval’s grin passed unnoticed. It was not that she doubted the sincerity of the man’s feelings, but… She rehearsed her words before answering, “Of course you wouldn’t trade it, but the very honor with which you are bound to this possession of the blessed dead boy marks how well it would serve as hostage against your return.”
“Hostage?” MacCullen considered the idea. “There is sense in that, scholar. I would, however, have to leave a letter of explanation. Could you pen it?”
“Of course. I’ll rise to the work gladly.”
John spoke in his slow Irish. “We are not going to leave Ailesh behind, are we?”
MacCullen slapped him on the back, or rather meant to. But the light was so poor, and John so huddled against the cold, that the poet’s large hand caught him across the back of the head. “Eoin Cattle Leaper, you cheer my heart! No, we will not leave without Ailesh Ni Goban.”
“Ow,” replied John.
“Certainly not,” said Derval. “Well just have to…to steal her away. Like a cow.”
“Eh? She’s not,” muttered John sullenly. “Nothing like.”
Chapter Eight
Rats, though sharp their snouts,
Are not powerful in battle.
The Vermin Killing Satire “Glam-Dichenn”
of Senchan Torpest, Ollamh of all Ireland
The late-rising moon was partly obscured by the trees, but still it made John and Derval stop to adjust their eyes. Ahead rose the thorn-hedge palisade which enclosed the dun, with only a woven archway breaking its forbidding black length, high enough and wide enough for one man at a time to ride through on a pony. The village ponies themselves milled around the perimeter of a smaller paddock outside the walls. Half the beasts were grays, which glimmered like moons, occasionally eclipsed by their invisible dun or black brethren.
Another day coming, thought Derval. The gardai must have been notified by now. My secretary must be wild. George Hormsby will be calling about the excavations in Dublin. In Dublin! I’m on my way to Dublin now. Has someone called my parents yet?
So they are leaving, thought John, peering through the gloom at the tall stone dun. Will they come back before the place falls apart? What a waste of work if they don’t. Who will ever see my sketches?
MacCullen led John and Derval toward the arched gate, and there was nothing secretive or skulking in the poet’s gait. Derval paused by the horse corral and looked in. “Pack ponies,” she said in English to John, with no great enthusiasm in her tone. “Probably quite fit to pull a small plow as well. Christ knows where among these we’ll find something to carry MacCullen.”
John stumbled on the tussocks of grass while following after her. “Olive!” he whispered very loudly. “Maybe there’s guards?” The man in question stopped and allowed John to catch up. “Certainl
y there are guards, Eoin. I passed them at their games when I went out. What have they to do with us? Do you think a taiseach mean enough to lock his guests away like cattle would admit as much to his young men?”
“Why not?” replied John. “Doesn’t being boss mean you can do whatever you want?”
MacCullen looked down at John, muttered in his throat, and strode away once more. At the archway he came to a halt and leaned over the light wickerwork cattle gate, as though he had nothing to do and too much time to do it in. As John came up behind him he heard the poet address someone.
“In truth, Enan, it is difficult for an injured man to sleep the night through. A healing wound throbs all the harder.”
John started as the fellow MacCullen spoke to uncoiled himself from the earth behind the gate.
In the pale moonlight John could see that the three young men by the gate were not dressed like the others he had seen. They had neither shirt nor leinne, but rather skintight trousers that ended at midcalf. Tight leather jackets covered their upper bodies, giving a sort of Hell’s Angels feeling to the group. These jackets were embroidered or painted; in the poor light John could not tell which.
The man addressed by the poet wore also a short, shaggy cloak, and his long black hair was braided with ribbons and set off by brass ornaments which gleamed silver in the moonlight.
“The Ollave must forgive my blocking the way. We are only watchful tonight, what with Ui DunLainge and the presence of the Gaill.” He reached sideways and pulled from the wall a long spear. Putting his weight on this, he raised his left leg and rested his bare foot against the side of his other knee. John Thornburn noted the picture he made thus, standing like a heron, and had an impulse to draw him with a heron’s head, braids, brass, and all.
MacCullen continued to lean on the wicker gate, which creaked beneath his considerable weight. “You’re watching your chess game closely enough, at any rate,” he said.
The young man looked from MacCullen’s bland face to the pegboard at his feet, where another youth squatted. This one was groomed in as peacocky a fashion as the first, and was also barefoot. A couple more lounged standing farther away against the wall of the cattle enclosure and did not approach. Enan dropped his spear against the wall again, shrugged his brat over his shoulders, and rubbed one finger under his nose. Perhaps he also blushed; the moonlight did not reveal it. The other player spoke for him.
“That is why at least three must watch every night, Ollave. So that not all can be playing chess at once.”
MacCullen smiled like a cat. “True enough, Ainmine. But many can throw the dice. And the odd man can lose himself quite completely in his companions’ game. Have I not an example here? Young…young—say, are you not the son of Aidhne, whom I last saw dragging at the hem of his mother’s skirt?” The third guard, who had been standing against the palisade, unseen by John or Derval, stepped out.
“I am, Ollave,” he replied, blinking over the poet’s shoulder. He was a very tall young man, who seemed not yet to have grown into his own bony framework. His leather jacket pulled too tightly over his shoulders and exposed an inch of pale skin above the trousers. He met Derval’s eyes for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the wickerwork. His acknowledgment of John was even more awkward. “My name is Delbeth.”
Casually MacCullen swung the gate open. Insouciantly, he strolled in. Derval and John crowded after him.
The poet stooped down beside the wooden board with its tiny pieces of bone and affected a strong interest in the game. “Look here, Scholarinion Cuhain, and tell me if you don’t think there will be a queen imperiled in three moves.”
Derval bent beside him. She was flattered that he should ask her for her opinion, and at the same time angry with herself that the words of this arrogant man could flatter her. Although she played chess, and liked to believe she played it well, she had no idea which pieces the pegs represented. Nor was she certain that chess in the tenth century was the game she was to learn from her uncle nine hundred and eighty years hence. She thought it best to nod sagely after MacCullen, chewing on her thumbknuckle.
John found himself close to the youngest, largest watchman, though not meeting his eyes. Indeed, John’s eyes were approximately level with the youth’s nipples, which were barely visible beneath his drooping brat. He felt a stab of disappointment, for he had been told all his life that people in the past had been smaller, and had ofttimes fantasized a world in which he might be considered a sizable man. He tried to imagine himself battling through this boy to rescue Ailesh.
If I slouched a little, John said to himself, I could hit him in the solar plexus with my nose. He snorted softly in self-disgust, and gangling Delbeth took one step backward.
MacCullen rose once more, groaning. The first guard put his hand beneath the poet’s elbow to assist him. Derval took his other arm, but he shook her off. There was an exchange of sparks between them, witnessed only by John. “I’m not so injured I need lean upon a woman.”
“Then don’t,” said Derval, stepping back ostentatiously. She brushed invisible dirt from her hands. MacCullen turned on his heel and walked toward the dun. Derval followed, striding stiff-legged.
“They fight a lot,” mumbled John to the guards, and without looking around he scuttled after his companions.
“Wait!” The call came loudly, before he had gone ten steps. John froze, with his shoulders around his ears. Derval also stopped dead, though with less visible anxiety.
MacCullen looked over his shoulder. The expression on his face might have withered stone. “What?”
The chess-playing guards were staring in some surprise at their gawky friend, who had uttered the command. He stepped forward, tripping on the handle of his ax, which lay on the dirt. A cow blundered into him, or he into it, as he came toward John. John decided he would have to punch the fellow in the groin.
“The cow,” he blurted. “Can you teach me to do it?”
John’s mouth hung open as he tried to parse the odd request.
“Can you teach me to stand on the shoulders of the lead cow?” With this out, the young man cupped his large hands on his large elbows and stared fixedly at the sky above and to one side of John Thornburn’s head. His toes made nervous circles on the ground.
MacCullen was standing on one side of John. Derval put a hand on his shoulder. All three of them took a slow breath in concert.
John tried out stories and explanations in his head. All failed when he began to speak. “I never did it before,” he said. “It was the fear of the horns that drove me up there. It made me…” Here John’s vocabulary ran out. He didn’t know the Irish words for “faint,” “nauseated,” or “hysterical.” “It made me want to shit.”
The tall young man looked straight down at John. He opened his mouth to reveal a row of large white teeth, one of them chipped. His smile grew until it shrank the face around it. The first guard clapped him about the shoulder. “You see, Delbeth? There’s hope for you yet!”
John himself suffered under a similar embrace from MacCullen. “Eoin Cattle Leaper, I call you an honest man and a boon companion!” he said, leading John willy-nilly toward the dun.
The great door of wood and iron hung open, and by the accumulation of manure around its base it seemed to have been a while since it had been closed. The dun—that huge thatched hut—was closed to entry by nothing more than a gate of open wickerwork, identical to that which kept cattle in the outer enclosure.
The thatch was raised from the walls by its framework of salley, and this in effect made a sort of clerestory window around the building. The starlight which crept round its odd angles, along with that let in by the door, as well as a certain red glow from the banked fire, provided only enough illumination for John to see the balustrades of the apartments across the hall from him. Beyond, where the sleepers lay, was impenetrable darkness, and he could not see the second story of apartments at all. Yet MacCullen paced forward confidently, found the stone steps, and ascended the
m. John followed, working his fingers into the loose weave of the poet’s brat for security.
Derval was beside him. John wondered how she dared walk two abreast on the open stairway. She whispered, “How will we wake her up?” into the poet’s ear.
“She will wake when she feels my eye upon her,” replied MacCullen.
Stone stairs gave way to straw. The air, heavy with breathing, smelled of sour babies and fresh heather. The poet stopped between one step and the next, and John’s face came into sudden contact with MacCullen’s broad back. He smothered an injured sniff.
Vision came as John Thornburn stood still and watched for it. They were in the center of the second story of apartments, looking in at the sleeping taiseach and his family. Most of the pallets were topped by lumps of blankets no more distinctive than the cocoon of an especially drab sort of caterpillar, but two were identifiable.
The taiseach’s uncle lay on his stomach, and his white, blunt-ended arm was flung over the dark ticking beside his head. It shone with a light of its own, that injured arm.
The arm of the taiseach’s wife was equally visible as it lay in a protective, restraining half-circle about a small heap based on a feather bed and topped by blankets: a heap that might have been—that was—Ailesh Ni Goban. The girl’s face was turned away from her kinswoman’s (as is the custom when two people eat onions and sleep together) and toward MacCullen’s, and indeed as the poet stared, her eyes did open and perceived her visitors, one by one. She looked surprised.
John smiled for her. He was certain she hadn’t enough light to see his smile but knew no better way to offer his moral support. Moral support was the only kind he imagined being of any use, for it didn’t seem to him Ailesh had a chance in a hundred of getting out from under her protector’s arm without rousing the household. He shifted his glance from MacCullen to Derval, waiting for them both to come to that conclusion.
Derval was in shadow, and MacCullen continued to stare.
As though this regard chilled Ailesh, she pulled her blanket higher, bringing a solid layer of cloth between her kinswoman and herself. That was all that happened for five minutes.
Book of Kells Page 14
