“And Columbanus?”
“He would not be hurting Crispinus. Never.” It was the first time I had heard her say my father’s name, and I wondered at the sureness in her voice.
“How do you know that, Sheena?”
“He is a man of God,” she said flatly.
“And so was my father, and your lover, a man of God, Sheena,” I said, angry now. “And did that keep him from giving you that bruise on your cheek? Did he treat you with honor, Sheena? And did he treat my mother with honor, for all that he was a man of God?”
She looked at me, and sighed, a long, tired, cold sigh into the wind, a sigh that cut to the bone.
“It’s little enough you know of it all, Muirteach, and little enough you know of your father, for all that.”
“I know more than enough of him,” I replied. “But I do not know who killed him.”
She picked up the mether with her free hand, settling the child against her hip again. “Mayhap I will go to the burial mass. Surely they will not begrudge me that. When is it to be?”
“Friday. They are wanting the time for the great Lords to arrive.”
“Friday is it then,” she mused. “Well then, we shall see.” And with that she turned and went back inside, leaving me sitting in the wind.
* * * * *
In the end, I took Sheena’s advice and stopped at her brothers’ cottage. It was not too far from her own, close to Balerominmore and the beach at Rubha Dubh. Cows had wandered from the byre and munched on the thatching of the roof. The midden heap looked fair overflowing, and, nearby, some dogs fought over a scrap of something. The place showed none of the marks of good order or husbandry that a well-run holding would show. Angus and Alasdair were bachelors, and I felt right at home.
I approached the door, raised the door-flap, and stuck my head inside. All seemed quiet enough. As my eyes adjusted to the dark I began to see the details—the hearth fire out, the ashes cold, I found, when I went to check. Angus and Alasdair were nowhere to be seen.
“Angus! Alasdair!”
Of course they did not answer. Either they had not returned home after visiting Sheena, or they had left again. As I emerged, blinking at the daylight, I heard a noise and got a glimpse of what the dogs were fighting for—a foreleg of a deer. One of the hounds had the hoof in his mouth, and the other, a young puppy, circled, whining, waiting his chance to try and grab it from the larger dog. Or perhaps he just waited for the leavings.
So it seemed Angus and Alasdair had returned home, and left again—to Scalasaig? I was nothing loathe to look for them there, as I felt more than ready to return home myself, and thought longingly of the fire I could build and what I could drink once I returned home. So I hiked the few miles back to Scalasaig, as the winds blew away all the fine weather and a wet drizzle set in.
I found Angus and Alasdair at the tavern. It was not a tavern such as you would find in large cities, that I know now, but the wife of Donald Dubh was a fine alewife, and people often gathered there to drink the stuff, and leave some coins in return. As his store of coins had grown, Donald had started to buy claret, and distill uisgebeatha as well, and so Scalasaig had its own tavern, for all that it was little more than a hut. And inside it, sitting close to the turf fire and already far-gone with drink, I found Angus and Alasdair.
Of course, the talk today was much of the murdered Prior, but the clamor of voices ceased when I walked in the door. I found a seat on a stool by the fire, and asked for some whiskey. Donald’s wife brought a wooden quaich quickly enough, and I settled back to drink it, enjoying the bite of it on my tongue. After a few sips I spoke to Angus and Alasdair, who were sitting not far from me.
“I was by your house,” I said to them, “and saw your dogs are gnawing away at a fine deer leg. Is that the deer you were lifting from Jura?”
Alasdair looked at me for a moment, then cursed. “I told you to tie that leg up,” he said to his brother. “And now himself here is telling us that the dogs have got it after all.” He then finished glaring at his brother, who made some reply, and turned to glare at me, instead, his broad face and red hair glinting by the fire light. “And so you were visiting us, Muirteach? What was it you were wanting? And how were you finding out about the deer?”
“Easy enough to see,” I said, not answering the first question, “with the hide drying on the roof and the dogs gnawing at the hoof there. But your sister was speaking of it, as well.”
“You went to see Sheena?” asked Angus.
Well, Angus had good enough reason to be surprised, for I had never been on good terms with his sister, although my father had taken her as mistress long after my own mother had died. Still, I had resented her, as I resented everyone who thought well of my father. Although after seeing the bruise on her cheek, I wondered now how well she had thought of him.
“So how long was it taking you to hunt that fine stag?” I asked, changing the subject.
Both men were happy to talk of that, and they insisted that they had indeed been on Jura, tracking and hunting the deer, at the time when my father had been murdered two nights ago. And from the look of the carcass at their house I had to think they were perhaps not lying.
But deer can be found on Colonsay as well, and how long does it take to shoot one with a lucky arrow?
“That was a nasty bruise your sister had on the one cheek,” I said, after a bit. “However was she getting it?”
Alasdair shrugged his shoulders, and Angus answered. “Och, perhaps himself was hitting her again. He’ll no be hitting her the now, at least.”
“He hit her often then?” I did not remember my father hitting my mother, but then she had died when I was young, and my father had not come to Islay all that often.
“Often enough, although she would deny it. A black heart he had, for all that he was a man of God.”
The close air in the blackhouse suddenly stifled me. I drained my cup, stood up abruptly, and went out into the rainy afternoon without another word.
Chapter 4
Thinking of the bruise on Sheena’s cheek and what her brothers had told me put me in mind of the Beatons. They were physicians, after all, and so instead of heading towards my own fine house in Scalasaig I turned my steps up the hill towards Dun Evin. The rain let up as I climbed, but left the track up to the dun wet and slippery. I was breathing hard when I reached the top, and, my leg aching, turned for a moment before entering the walls to look out on the landscape.
Although with the low clouds the view was not so fine as you could be seeing on other days, I could still see to the east the Paps of Jura and the bulk of Islay some miles away across the water. It was not difficult to understand why the old chiefs had chosen this site for their home, as easily defensible as it was.
A pair of Uncle Gillespic’s luchd-tighe lounged against the stone and wooden defenses, which surrounded the Dun, and just then the sun peeked out through the clouds, sending glints reflecting off of their shields and great swords that leaned against the stones of the fortress wall.
“So it is Muirteach, is it?” commented Fergus Mor, with a bit of a smile. I had known him since my childhood days there, in my uncle’s hall. Fergus it was who had helped me take my first red deer in the hunt. “And how was it at Donald Dubh’s this afternoon?” he asked.
I grinned a little sheepishly, for him having guessed so quickly how I had spent the afternoon, but only replied, “Fine enough.”
“We were hearing about the Prior,” interjected the other guard, curiosity evident in his voice. He must, of course, have heard of my mission to Islay.
“Aye,” said Fergus. “I am that sorry for you Muirteach. The man was your father.”
The words were kindly meant, and brought an unexpected lump to my throat. As I thanked Fergus, I noted how gray streaks now mixed with the chestnut in his beard, and felt suddenly old myself, for all that I was only three and twenty.
Once inside the Dun I headed towards the great hall, a rectangular building a
gainst the south wall. I blinked as I entered, my eyes adjusting to the dark interior and my nose smelling the acrid odor of the peat fire. After a moment I was able to see Uncle Gillespic, and my aunt Euluasaid sitting at the large table, along with Fearchar Beaton and his daughter.
“Och, Muirteach,” my uncle greeted me, “it is yourself. And so His Lordship himself was wanting you to be finding the killer.” He beamed. “It is just as I was thinking he would do, and a fine thing indeed it will be to see you bring that black-hearted murderer to justice.”
I settled down on a bench, not thinking it such a fine thing as my uncle did. My aunt embraced me warmly, and insisted, as I had hoped she would, that I sit down and eat with them. I watched her put more food on the table: good cheese, bannocks, butter, some venison, fresh milk and honey.
The harper who had come with us from Islay to Colonsay sat closer to the hearth, playing a tune. I would have liked to hear the song about the taking of Castle Sween, but the harper had chosen something less martial and more mournful to play this evening, perhaps in deference to my father’s death.
I closed my eyes a moment, listening to the familiar bustle, the hum of her voice, and the sad, lilting notes of the harp, wishing myself back a boy again, at home here with my uncle and aunt, with no murders to solve or dead fathers to avenge.
“Och, Muirteach,” laughed my aunt Euluasaid, as I opened my eyes and she handed me a bannock, “and are you as tired as all that? You will be spoiling those good looks of yours if you are not resting a bit.”
For some reason I could not understand, my aunt believed me to be handsome, and often teased me on it. But I did realize, as I ate the bannock she had given me, that I was exhausted. The climb had wearied my leg, I’d had too much drink at Donald Dubh’s, and the last two days had been far from easy. I pushed the image of my father’s body away, however, and smiled at her a little as I ate.
“Are you not thinking, Mariota, that he is well-favored, with that dark hair, and those gray eyes of his? Especially when he is smiling?” she continued. “He has a smile that could be charming the angels, does Muirteach, but we see it too seldom.” Well and truly embarrassed now, I was grateful that Mariota did not respond, and I prayed she had not heard my aunt, above the general noise in the hall.
“Now, Mariota,” my aunt asked a moment or two later, “what would you be using for teething?” My newest cousin was proving somewhat colicky, and none of my aunt’s remedies so far had worked to help the bairn.
I listened idly to Mariota describing to my aunt a concoction of uisgebeatha, fennel, and milk until Gillespic interrupted my thoughts.
“You went to Sheena’s?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“And?”
“She claimed to know nothing, but she had a fresh big bruise on her cheek. Angus and Alasdair claim they were away at Jura, and have a deer to prove it.”
“Deer run on Colonsay,” said my uncle. “Wasn’t it Fergus who saw a large stag and some other deer just up north of the Bay last week?”
“They say Rhodri and Malcolm were with them,” I continued, “but Rhodri and Malcolm are gone now, to Barra, for word came that Rhodri’s great-uncle was taken ill there, and they left this morning. Myself, I do not see how they could have been doing it, if Rhodri and Malcolm were with them, for I am thinking they have no reason to be killing the Prior whatever,” I concluded.
“A great pity that is,” said Gillespic, and I looked at him, wondering what he meant by that—a pity that Angus and Alasdair might not be our killers, or a pity Rhodri and Malcolm had no reason to murder my father.
“Still, there is the bruise on her cheek you said,” added the Beaton, who had been listening intently. “Is Sheena a big woman?”
“Tall enough.”
“Tall and strong enough to kill?
I did not think so. And whyever would she do so now, at any rate, for my father had been beating her, it seemed, as long as he had known her. I said as much to my uncle and the Beaton. The meal ended, the harper stopped his music, and began to eat the food my aunt brought to him while the Beaton, Gillespic, Mariota and I went outside the Hall, into the courtyard.
“Perhaps I had best be paying a visit to this Sheena,” said Mariota abruptly. I had thought she had not heard my conversation with her father and my uncle, but apparently the discussion of cures for the colic had not prevented her from hearing that, at least.
“Whyever for?” I asked.
“Are you not wanting to know how she got the bruises?”
“Aye.”
“And she was not telling you, was she? But she might tell another woman, and a healer at that.”
“Were you not going back to Islay?” I said, starting to argue, but her father interrupted.
“Muirteach, His Lordship himself was wanting me to help you a bit. And though I have inspected your father’s body, we were not going to be leaving for yet another day or so; your aunt is aye worried about her youngest, although for myself I do not think she need be. But there may well be some others here who would like to see a physician.”
I nodded.
“You should know,” he added, “that Mariota herself is a fine healer. And she is good with the speaking, and with the listening. She might be having some luck talking with the woman. And what would be making better sense than that you would be sending her to check on Sheena’s bruising.”
“She’s had bruises before,” I said, churlishly, “and none to check on them.”
“Aye, and the more pity that, then,” replied Mariota tartly.
“I am thinking it is not such a bad idea, Muirteach,” put in my uncle. “Fine I am knowing that women have their own ways when it comes to the speaking. Your dear aunt was teaching me that when first we were wed. Perhaps Sheena would talk more to a woman. Although Sheena has never been much of one for words,” he added.
We moved out of the way of some chickens rooting in the courtyard, as the last of the sunset faded away in the west, and I considered. My next step, I had decided, for lack of any other ideas, must be to go to the Priory. But if Mariota did visit Sheena, and was able to find out more information about why my father had beaten her, well, that could only be of help. Grudgingly, I was forced to admit as much.
“There, that will be fine then, Muirteach,” said my uncle. “You can take the small boat, it is easy enough for one person to row, and you can just be dropping Mariota off near Sheena’s on your way to the Priory. It would be best to leave early,” he added, “with the tides as they are tomorrow.”
For myself, I was wishing the Beaton had never brought his daughter with him, for all the opinions she had and all the complications she was causing. I had been hoping to sleep well into the morning the next day.
“Aye,” I agreed, my mood and my exhaustion showing on my face. I wanted sleep badly. In fact, I was feeling too tired to walk down the hill to my own house, and intended to spend the night in my uncle’s hall. “I will drop you near her dwelling—you can see the way to it easy enough from the shore. You’ll not be worried to walk back from there? I‘ve no way of knowing how long I’ll be at the Priory.”
Mariota gave me a scathing look, but said only that that would suit. My uncle took the Beaton towards the byre, where the horses were stabled, wanting his advice on a sickly colt. I left them and returned to the Hall, where I lay down on one of the benches and promptly fell fast asleep.
* * * * *
Early enough the next morning I watched Mariota gather her satchel together, full of jars of salves and small bottles of tinctures, and we left Dun Evin, heading towards the bay at Scalasaig, before the sun had risen high in the east.
I missed my footing on the way down, the path slippery with mud and dew. Mariota glanced at me, but did not speak of my infirmity, for which I found myself to be thankful. I can just remember running as a small boy, before the wasting fever that came and then left me with the twisted leg, a cripple. Now I only run in my dreams.
“The
re is a well up that way,” I said, nodding towards the path that led northward. “A healing well, of Brigit’s.” It was a poor effort at conversation, but was all I could think of to say to her. Perhaps she did not know of it.
It seemed she knew of it, for she replied, “I have heard of it. I shall visit it, before we leave.”
We walked a bit further in silence. She matched her stride to mine, without comment, although I am sure she could have walked a bit faster on her own. She had that scent of elderflower about her again, that same perfume I had noticed yesterday morning on Islay. It was some feminine potion or cream she used, I guessed.
“You grew up in Islay?” I finally asked, feeling tongue tied and awkward.
“Aye.” Her voice sounded like nothing so much as the silver bells the old stories say tinkled in Rhiannon’s hair. “We live most of the time in Balinaby, but have a house at Finlaggan where we stay when His Lordship is wanting us.”
“And your mother?”
“She died in the plague.”
We had something in common then, for my own mother had died in the plague as well, when I was but five, but for some reason I did not tell Mariota this. Conversation faltered as we approached the harbor and I readied the boat.
The sun was just rising over Jura, across the waters. The day would soon be growing warmer, and as I began to row us around the island and towards the south end of Colonsay, the water and the islands looked all silver and shimmer in the light, what with the sun shining through the clouds. I heard the splash of seals diving into the water as we neared the beach by the path leading to Sheena’s, but more seals lay idly on the black rocks and stared curiously at us. I wondered if they were selkies but, whatever, they had their sealskins on this day.
We did not talk much as I rowed. For myself, I was enjoying the morning, although I felt unaccountably shy around Mariota. For some reason I resented this a bit, while at the same time I did not want the trip to end. All too soon we rounded the point and neared the channel to Oronsay.
I had brought the boat into the shallow water, pointed out the path up the rocks and was getting ready to beach the craft, but Mariota stopped me, saying there was no need. She hiked up her skirts, showing a fair bit of lovely white legs as she did so, then disembarked, wading the short distance through the shallow water into the shore. I watched her until she gained the shore, waved, and started up the track, her yellow hair glinting pale gold in the morning sun, and the linen of her shift clinging against her wet legs.
A MASS FOR THE DEAD Page 4
