The following day, Eithne’s daughter was born in such pain that Niamh wondered if she had done the right thing. Eithne wanted Niamh to be with her at the birth. Niamh found that she was able to soothe the labouring woman and do the things that she was told to do by Geirdis or Kadlin. Another skill she had forgotten she possessed. She wondered how many other babies she had helped into the world and what had happened to them since. She would never know. Eithne lost such a lot of blood that, for a while, they thought she would not live. Fortunately, she rallied in the end and both mother and child survived.
When everything was finished, Geirdis had a word of praise for Niamh’s help, which she now understood.
“If it pleases you,” Niamh said to her, “I would like to learn the way you do things here, so that I might be of more help when sickness comes or when babies are born.”
Geirdis nodded. “You have a knack for birthing women. I will teach you until your own baby arrives, then you’ll have more than enough work of your own to do.”
Geirdis was as good as her word, teaching Niamh the uses of various plants and other substances, where to find them and how to prepare them. Kadlin, too, taught her the things she knew, yet she watched Niamh closely and was disappointed when her body continued to show no change. Samhain, the solstice and Imbolc came and went and still Niamh had not conceived. It seemed that she could not bear a child, not even the daughter that the Guide of Souls had promised her. Certainly it was not for lack of trying.
Eventually Kadlin spoke to Olaf about it. She was overheard and the listener took great delight in telling Niamh. Kadlin’s first friendliness had begun to wane and she became more distant, only speaking when she had to. She ceased teaching Niamh and often answered curtly when asked a question. Niamh felt hurt, but she also recognised the old woman’s need for grandchildren, which she was unable to fulfil.
Kadlin wanted Olaf to reject Niamh or merely treat her as a slave and take another mate in addition, if he would not cast her off. A Norse woman or one of the other captives might prove a more suitable match to Kadlin’s way of thinking. The other men often had a wife, but bedded other women. Olaf, however, refused to consider the idea and apparently had answered his mother angrily, Niamh learned from another source. He continued to seek out her company. Niamh was glad, knowing how much she would miss him if he deserted her. She could not help feeling different about Kadlin, though. She understood the woman’s concerns, but it drove a wedge between them, which only a pregnancy would cure. Niamh worked through the days, lay with Olaf at night and watched every month’s end with new hope and bitterness when the blood began to flow.
The ice was melting in the pools and the sun had regained a little of its warmth, when everything in the rath changed. Now the sickness came. One day, no one was ill except for those with chills and coughs, the next, three people lay in their beds, sweating and squirming. They could not drink or tell anyone what had happened to them. Niamh was among the women told to tend the sufferers, as she expected to be. Over the months, her value had diminished, with her continuing childlessness. She did not ask Olaf to exempt her, knowing it would put him in an awkward position. She also realised that she would be blamed if another helper sickened in her place.
The women did their best, but none of their remedies stopped the sickness. One by one the first three victims died. Geirdis, who lived outside the rath, was sent for again. She had once been a chieftain’s wife and it had been her own wish to live retired when her man had died. None questioned her reasons and everyone treated her with great respect. Niamh knew she had been privileged to be taught by her, for she took few pupils. Not many people could tolerate the smells and the sights that occurred in the old woman’s hut. Niamh had often found herself gagging, but fought through her nausea to learn what Geirdis could teach her.
Kadlin was an old friend of Geirdis’. She lost no time in describing her son’s disappointment, or so Niamh suspected from the glances the two shot at her. She ignored them, got on with her work and carried out her orders. She was no longer bothered by Kolgrimma, who had not been seen inside the longhouses since the sickness began. Niamh wanted to ask where she was, but her usual informant, Eithne, was gone too. Mar had taken her and the children away, in case they caught the infection, and there was no one else she could safely ask.
More people fell sick, Kadlin among them. She faded quickly from a strong healthy woman with a sharp tongue to a tiny skeletal figure who did not speak. Only her eyes seemed alive and she groaned whenever anyone tried to do the things that had to be done to her. Niamh was the one usually assigned to her care. She tried to put aside her feelings and do her best, for Olaf’s sake. He loved his mother and was very anxious about her. He knew, as well as Niamh did, that she was sinking fast and did not have much longer to live. Niamh was with him when he tackled Geirdis about his mother. The wise woman merely shook her head and told him that this illness was beyond her skill.
One afternoon, Niamh stole a few moments away from the longhouse and went up on the rampart, to see over to the hills still covered with snow. She revelled in the freshness of the icy wind on her face, taking away the putrid smell of sickness. She was remembering a time when she was free to ride over the hills with Olaf to their beach of shining sand. Footsteps sounded behind her and she turned to see Olaf climbing up to join her.
“My mother?” he asked her.
“I’m sorry. I doubt she will live more than a few days longer.”
“Is there nothing that can be done for her and the others?”
“Geirdis says she hasn’t seen anything like this before. It’s a new sickness and none of her remedies work.”
“I’ve ridden down to see my brother. He wouldn’t let me into the place they’re staying in now and he’ll not come back even to be with our mother when she dies. He’s afraid of his children taking the infection.”
“He’s wise. It could easily happen.”
“Eithne tells me...” Olaf began and hesitated.
“Yes?”
“She says that the people who live around here told her that such a sickness came once before. It killed many, but a magician in the north knew what to do and cured others, even some who were thought to be dying.”
“Could this magician do the same again?”
“He’s no longer here. He vanished and no one knows where he went. If there was the slightest clue, I would go and fetch him. If I go now, I will certainly fail, with nothing to guide me. I want at least one of her sons to be there when my mother goes to the afterlife.” He banged his hand into the rough wood of the palisade in frustration.
“Perhaps some of the people he cured remember what he did?”
He turned to face her. “I hadn’t thought of that. They might. It’s possible.”
“Where are they likely to be, these people?”
“In the north, so they say, round the point of the island and in the plain by the great river.”
“Couldn’t you go and ask them then?”
“I could, but they’re your kin, for they speak your language. My people have fought with them and taken their lands. They would rejoice in our difficulties.”
“You don’t know that and, anyway, it need not be you who asks. I could go, or one of the others of my people who are here. Becan’s brother is also sick and they are close. Eógan is likely to die. If there is any chance of a cure, Becan would certainly want to find it. Let him go, or me.”
“It’s not that simple. My people overran that land and rule there now. You wouldn’t be able to go alone, talk to your people and return here without harm. I’ll go with you and take enough fighters so we’ll be treated with respect but not appear to be a threat.”
Niamh nodded. “If we’re to save your mother, we must go very soon for she’s running out of time.”
“We’ll leave on the evening tide and be there before dawn. Make yourself ready and tell Becan to meet us on the dock.”
Olaf hurried away, but Niamh stood f
or a moment or two gripping the palisade and wondering what she had started.
11
The boat hissed across the waves as Olaf drove it at an angle into the wind. They surged through the swells, passing tall cliffs of sand and long sandy beaches, with streams which ran down to the sea. Opposite one such place, where the hills had been cracked by a river, Olaf pointed. He said to Niamh, “That’s the deserted house, do you remember?” She nodded, smiling at the memory.
Despite the urgency of their task, Niamh could not but be exhilarated by their journey. They seemed to leap over the waves, casting the sea aside as if they were sowing seed. Niamh knew that Olaf shared her feeling for, although he was concentrating on the steering, a smile played over his lips.
At the northern point of the island, the land turned abruptly south. They had to stand far out into the sea for fierce breakers barred their way. In the ghostly light of the moon, the waves looked like the mouths of sea dragons waiting to snap them up. It took some time to round the point and then they scudded along with the wind behind them and their speed increased. They travelled some distance and then Olaf gave the order to furl the sails and row towards the shore. They dropped the anchor and Olaf said,
“Get some sleep. If we land now, the people will think we are attacking and will fight. We’ll come ashore at first light. Holfi can take the first watch.”
In the rocking boat, Niamh slept only fitfully. She was glad enough to wake at Olaf’s touch and find the sun already climbing into the sky.
“Come, it’s time.”
Oars were shipped and the men rowed ashore through the surf. Olaf left two of them to guard the boat and then took, Becan, Niamh and the other two with him. The smoke of a fire curled up into the morning air. They went cautiously forward until they could see a small roundhouse which had been built on a bluff above the sands.
“Your people, not ours,” Olaf said. “Niamh and Becan will go forward and ask questions. The rest of us will stay hidden so we don’t alarm the folk who live here, but we will be ready for any trouble. If you shout, we’ll come.”
The roundhouse was old and had been much patched. So were the garments of the man who came to the door to greet them. He looked apprehensive but, seeing only two people and one of them a woman, he bade them enter and offered them the traditional hospitality. Becan took a quick look at Niamh who shook her head slightly. Both of them had seen how poor this house was.
“We thank you,” Becan said, “but we have already broken our fast and, if you can’t help us, we have a long way to go this day.”
“How may I help you?” asked the man, who gave his name as Finlo and introduced the bent old woman as Doona, his wife. He looked relieved at their refusal, although he was trying not to show it.
“With information, if you can. We’re searching for those who were cured of the plague by the magician who used to live around here.”
“Why?”
“Some of our people have the same sickness and we’re looking for something that might help them. They say that the magician knew the cure for any illnesses.”
“He’s long gone and no one knows where he went.”
“So we heard, but there must be people still here who saw what he did and know what remedy he used.”
“That sickness passed us by, thank God, but many were stricken down yonder,” Doona said, nodding to the south.
“Some must have survived.”
“Aye they did, especially after the magician came, although they were all terrified of him, thinking he might turn them into frogs if they annoyed him.”
“Where exactly are these survivors?” Becan asked.
“South of here, inland from the big bay. If you follow the river from the coast, you’ll find one or two of the villages where the magician came. Those settlements were taken by the Norse raiders not long afterwards and a lot of the men were killed. The raiders are still there. I wouldn’t go anywhere near if I were you. There’s no saying they would let you leave unscathed. We keep well away from them.”
“They don’t bother about us. Nothing here for them to steal, Heaven be praised for small mercies,” Doona muttered. “But didn’t someone say that the woman who lived with the magician married one of the raiders? The son of one of their chieftains, so I heard.”
“A Norse woman?”
“No, a Celt like us and the daughter of a chief who was killed in the battle. She should have known better.”
“Now, now… likely she had no choice in the matter. Better to be a wife than a thrall and they seem to treat her with respect.”
“She’d be the one to talk to, if she’ll see you,” Finlo muttered. “She still works among the sick. My brother was healed by one of her potions, although he was sure it was poison when his wife first gave it to him.” He laughed. “He thought she wanted to get rid of him. Go speak to this woman.”
“We will. At the very least we can ask her. We, too, have very little to steal.”
“You’re young and healthy. You’d make fine slaves. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
Becan got to his feet and Niamh followed. They made their thanks to the couple and walked rapidly towards the shore. Once they were out of sight from the house, Olaf joined them and they told him what they had found out.
“Did they say what the woman was called or her husband?”
“No. The called her the ‘Magician’s woman’ or ‘The Red Lady’ because of her hair. They said that everyone around here knows of her.”
“Let’s go there then and meet her for ourselves.”
The journey did not take long. The boat rounded the sandy cliffs and the big bay opened out before them. They rowed the ship deep into the mouth of the surging river. Their boat was so small and light that they were a long way upriver before the keel touched the bottom. Again Olaf left two men on guard and then led the rest along the path that ran beside the stream. They had just reached a patch of woodland when a voice shouted in Norse,
“Helti! Halt.”
Olaf stopped dead, looking around him. There was no one to be seen. “We come in peace,” he shouted back.
“If you come in peace, put down your weapons.”
Olaf dropped his axe to the ground and unbuckled his sword, motioning his men to do the same. They stood still as three men stepped out of the woodland, holding unsheathed swords. Olaf held out his hands, as a gesture of peace.
“I am Olaf, son of Eirik. My companions and I come from the west coast island.”
“And what do folk from the west coast island seek here?”
“To see your chief. I’m told that he may have answers to some questions.”
“And those are?”
“For his ears, not yours.”
“Speak softly to me. Your sword lies on the ground while mine is here,” one of the men flourished his sword close to Olaf’s chest. Olaf did not flinch but Niamh found that she had to try hard to conceal her trembling.
“I need not speak to you at all. Is this place so unfriendly that all visitors are barred? If you will not take me to your chief, we will go away and wish you well. If you want to fight me, I am ready.” Olaf deliberately stepped forward so the sword touched his chest and brushed the blade aside, so quickly that his action was a blur. The other man struggled but Olaf wheeled him around and held his body against him like a shield.
“Hold still!” he shouted, as the other men surged forward and his own men groped on the ground for their weapons. “We come in peace. No need to fight unless you choose to. If you do, we are ready and this man will be the first to die. No honour in that for any of us.” His dagger touched the struggling man’s throat, but lightly so the skin was unbroken.
“Folki?”
The man ceased his struggles. “Release me. I’ll bring you to my chief but be warned… any tricks and my men will spit you like a bird.”
“I intend no tricks but neither am I a fool,” Olaf said. “You’ll walk beside me with my dagger at your chest and you
’ll lead me true and not into any ambush or you will reach Valhalla before me.”
“So be it,” Folki said. “My men will lead the way.”
Olaf’s men picked up their weapons and then the strange procession continued along the river path. The two strangers in front, then Olaf’s men, Becan and Niamh, with Olaf and Folki at the rear. They did not have far to go. Soon enough the trees ended and they came out into meadowland. Houses had been built a little way back from the river. Most of them were roundhouses but, in their midst, a longhouse had been newly constructed. It was to this longhouse that they were led. When they were seen, people stopped what they were doing and came to see what was happening. Someone called out and an elderly man ducked out of the doorway and stood waiting for them.
“Folki, who are these strangers?” Folki opened his mouth but Olaf was quicker. Loosing his grasp on Folki’s arm he walked forward.
“Greetings to you and yours. I am Olaf Eirikson and these are my people.”
“You arrive in a strange fashion, Olaf Eirikson.”
“Your men challenged us and would have fought. I didn’t choose to take up their challenge and want no one’s blood to be spilled. We come in peace.”
“Why do you come?”
“To have speech with you, if you’re the chief of these people.”
“I am their chief, Ragnar, son of Thorsteinn. Enter, you and your people, but for the sake of peace, leave your weapons at the door and my people will do the same.”
They did as they were bid and so did Ragnar’s men. They settled in uneasy silence, facing each other on benches around the fire.
“So, Olaf Eirikson, what is the speech you would have with me?” The chieftain asked.
“It was told to us that a magician came to this place once when sickness was upon the land.” Olaf started.
“This is true, but it was before we came here ourselves.”
“Is there anyone here who still remembers that time?”
“Why do you ask?”
“There’s a new sickness in the south and some say it’s like the plague that raged here before. The magician had a cure for that scourge, or so we hear. If any survived, it’s possible that they know what he did then, so we may do the same.”
Niamh of the Golden Hair (Manannan Trilogy Book 2) Page 7
