The child in her belly kicked, stretching its limbs, testing its strength. My daughter, Tuala thought. By spring the druid will have two grandchildren. If he did not come back, in time she would have two to teach, and still the need to keep it covert, for Bridei’s sake. “Come home, stubborn man,” she muttered. “My son needs you.” It was cold out there, and the druid was more vulnerable than he would ever acknowledge.
Right now, she could use some advice, but there was nobody to give it. Bridei would not be home for a few days yet. Fola was at Banmerren. Nobody else knew Broichan’s secret; there was no one she could talk to. The scrying bowl might have answers, but Tuala was not at all sure they were ones she would welcome.
4
(from Brother Suibne’s Account)
We are building a boat. A farmer has given us use of an old barn, and no questions asked, although he looks at us strangely as we labor, thinking it no doubt an odd occupation for winter. Brother Colm, eager for new shores, sees in the work of our hands and the sweat of our brows a way to draw our whole community into his vision. On the far shore of his dreams a life can be lived wholly in contemplation of God’s love, each moment a prayer. It can also be lived wholly away from his troublesome kinsfolk. I would not put it thus bluntly in his hearing. Were this account intended for eyes other than mine alone, I would choose more circumspect language. I mean no criticism of the man. His situation is difficult; a lesser soul might snap under the strain. God’s love puts iron in Colm’s sinews; God’s breath moves in his lungs and fills his voice with a fervor that cannot fail to carry the rest of us along with him, lacking though we may be in the skills of carpentry and tanning, of caulking and rope making and the hundred other trades a man must ply to construct a seaworthy craft.
I hope it is seaworthy. My stomach clenches when I contemplate that choppy passage between the two lands named Dalriada, one in my homeland and the other in Fortriu: the waves; the swell; the endless soaking spray. My heart quails to contemplate another trip so soon. God tests me. I do not fear powerful men, or new experiences, or challenges of the mind. Indeed, I relished my dealings in the courts of Circinn and Fortriu, and my experiences in the last days of the Gaelic court of Dalriada. My fondness for such work is perhaps greater than is altogether appropriate for a man of the cloth. So God, in His divine wisdom, does not place before me the obstacle of a difficult chieftain to placate or an awkward dialogue to render into a foreign tongue. He faces me with a wooden boat, twelve clerical companions, and an expanse of storm-tossed sea. I praise Him for His perspicacity and thank Him with all my heart that we need not go until spring.
I feel some relief that, this time, the vessel is being built from solid wood and not from ox hides stretched over withies. I wish, all the same, that I were the son not of a scholar but of a fisherman, for then I would find the surge of the sea not sickening but soothing: the rocking of the world’s great cradle.
My hands ache. They are all blisters and cannot hold the quill steady. Let the work be done soon. God grant my spirit obedience and my body strength.
Young men come here from time to time, seeking to join us in our temporary shelter. We have had two in the last seven days. One was clever, keen, well spoken. I would have welcomed the skills he had in reading and writing, for such abilities are rare. The young man, in his eagerness, let his words spill too freely, and mentioned Cúl Drebene—a miracle, he said. Colm was severe. He bade the youth finish his growing up and come back in a few years’ time. By then, if the boat does not sink, we will be far away in Fortriu.
The second youth was a quiet, lumpish sort of lad, steady-eyed. He gave his name as Éibhear, and said he was the son of a sailor. We took him.
SUIBNE, MONK OF DERRY
EILE AWOKE FROM a dark dream in which she was reaching for the hidden knife and could not find it; a dream in which Dalach was laughing and raising his fist and Saraid’s small face was shrunken with terror. Blood… so much blood… She sat up, breathing hard. A cold light was coming through the unshuttered window space of the ferryman’s hut. It was morning, and she was freezing. Saraid. Where was Saraid?
Eile leaped to her feet, looking wildly around. The fire had gone down to ashes. Not only was the child nowhere to be seen, but both dog and man were gone as well. Faolan’s pack was still there, by the hearth; her own bundle lay by her makeshift bed, and she’d had Faolan’s thick cloak over her. No wonder she’d slept so soundly.
Her heart was thumping. He’d taken Saraid. Where? What had he done? Eile ran to the door and wrenched it open. After this, after all this, how could she have stayed asleep and not kept the child safe? It was true, what Anda had said. She would never be a good mother, she just didn’t have it in her.
Eile took two steps outside and halted. Saraid was sitting on an old bench, legs dangling, looking down toward the bridge. The dog crouched by her, chewing on something it had caught. Above them gulls flew in crying chorus toward the east. The constant voice of the river came close to drowning their calls. As Eile came out, the child turned her head and put a finger to her lips.
Eile crouched beside the bench and whispered in her daughter’s ear. “Where did the man go? Faolan? Where is he?” They could not afford to waste any time. They must be over the river and away before pursuit could reach them.
“Shh.” Saraid touched her mother’s lips this time.
“Did he tell you—”
“Shh.”
A moment later, Eile saw Faolan coming along the path by the willows, an old sack held up to keep his head dry. Of course, he had given her his cloak.
“Inside,” he said, coming up to the door, and they obeyed. He sounded calm, but Eile’s stomach was churning with anxiety, the need to move clawing at her. It was morning; they must pick up their things and cross the river. They must go on the rope again.
“What?” she hissed as soon as they were back in the hut. “What is it?”
“We have company.” Faolan sounded like a man who is used to convincing others that all is well when, in fact, the sky is about to fall. “Seven or eight of them, all armed after a fashion and, I’m sorry to tell you, speaking of a violent death and the need for the perpetrator to account for herself. Take a deep breath, Eile, and stay calm. We’ll get out of this.”
Eile gulped in air, aware of Saraid’s eyes on her. “I am calm,” she said. “You’d better go on without us. No point in you getting in trouble as well.”
Faolan grimaced; she could not tell what he was thinking. “I have a better suggestion,” he said. “We brazen it out. They didn’t see me, I made sure of that. We wait until the fellows come to mend the bridge. Then we lie. At least, I do. You don’t say anything. I didn’t see Brennan or any of those men from your settlement out there. I’ll say you’re with me.”
The man was more of a fool than she’d thought. “They’re searching for me and her. A girl and a child. Who’s going to believe you? Anyway, they’ll come up here looking and find us before the bridge gets fixed. It’s a stupid idea.”
Faolan looked at her. He did not seem upset or angry. “You think I should fight them all at once? I did say seven; perhaps you didn’t hear that.”
“My father could have done it.” She could remember him practicing. Back in those days, Father had been like a warrior from a story, a hero who could never be defeated. It must have taken a remarkable man to kill him.
Faolan’s eyes had gone strange; he was seeing something she couldn’t. His mouth had become a thin line.
“We’re going.” Eile picked up her bag, reaching out the other hand to take Saraid’s. “Up the river, away. You don’t need to fight anyone. I’ll cope.”
“You won’t get two miles before they catch you, Eile. Is that what you want for your daughter, a chase, a violent ending to this, perhaps confinement among strangers? You said you didn’t want her taken away; that was your reason for refusing the priory. Do this, and you’ll lose her before midday.”
She hated him for speaking th
e truth. “Nobody’s going to believe you,” she said. “What were you planning to say, that I’m your little sister? Your daughter?”
“Neither. Folk will know me once we’re over the river. They’ll know I have—had—three sisters in Fiddler’s Crossing. But I’ve been away a long time. More than long enough to have acquired a wife and child.”
Eile said nothing. The idea made her feel sick. The need to repudiate it warred with the realization that it might possibly get them over the bridge. “So long as you don’t expect anything,” she said.
“I told you,” said Faolan mildly, “I’ve given it up for the sake of my peace of mind. Eile, I can hear someone shouting out there. I think you were right; they’re coming closer. I want a promise from you.”
“I don’t do promises.”
“Listen to me. When it’s my plan, it’s my rules. When it’s your plan it will be your rules. Agreed?”
“What, then?”
“Don’t say anything and don’t throw anything. Look after Saraid, keep her quiet and do what I tell you.”
“Huh!”
“Just until we’re across the bridge and out of earshot. A silent, submissive wife, that’s what’s required.”
Eile glared at him. The voices were nearing the hut; there didn’t seem to be any choice. She felt Saraid’s arms around her leg, clutching, and bent to reassure her. “It’s all right, Squirrel. Nobody’s going to hurt us. Now be quiet, hold Sorry tight, and stay close to me. Faolan’s going to look after us. We’re going over the river to a new house. A nice one.”
“Sorry?” Faolan murmured.
“That’s what she calls her doll. It was how she used to say her own name. Hush now!” she hissed as the dog began to bark in warning.
It was clear that Faolan was not the type of man who waited for trouble to find him. He picked up the pack, threw open the door, and strode out, and the dog went after him with hackles up, hurling its challenge at the approaching group. Saraid’s grip tightened on Eile’s thigh. The child was trembling. I’m not afraid, Eile told herself. I’m all she’s got. I can’t be afraid. In her mind, her hand thrust and thrust until knife and fingers were sticky with blood; until Dalach was so limp and heavy on her she thought she might never struggle free of him. She’d believed that once it was done the dark things would flee from her dreams, but they were still here. They hovered close even now, when she was wide awake.
“… sheltered for the night,” Faolan was saying. “Not safe for my wife… expecting a child, sick all the time… you know how it is…”
“Shut your dog up, will you? Can’t hear myself think,” someone said.
Faolan snapped an order at the dog, which continued to bark. He looked over his shoulder. “Wife’s creature,” he muttered. “Won’t obey me. My dear…?”
Eile called the dog back to the doorway, quieted it, held on to the frayed piece of rope that was its collar. She took the opportunity to glance quickly around the circle of faces. One or two of them were familiar from the market at Cloud Hill. She lowered her eyes. Submissive was easy. She just had to act like Aunt Anda.
“We’re looking for a girl,” one of the men said. “Young woman with a child. You seen them?”
“The only woman and child I’ve seen are my own,” Faolan said easily. “We’re on our way to Fiddler’s Crossing; just waiting for the bridge to be made safe.”
“You might have a long wait.”
“Only if the men I saw here yesterday are liars,” Faolan said. “I’m supposed to help them this morning, as soon as they bring the materials. Then we’ll be on our way. Sorry I can’t assist you.”
“Bid this wife of yours come out where we can see her properly.” A new voice, this, one with more authority. “And the child. We’re seeking a fugitive. We can’t take your word that she’s not in there.”
“Search if you want. As for my wife, she’s poorly, I told you. And I don’t take kindly to orders where my family’s concerned.”
Eile took Saraid’s hand again and moved out of the hut to stand by Faolan’s side. They’d know her, she was sure of it. How could they not know? If her face didn’t give her away, her shaking hands surely would.
“What’s your wife’s name?” the man snapped, eyes narrowed.
“Aoife,” said Faolan without hesitation.
“And the child?”
“We call her Squirrel, mostly. I think I see someone at the bridge. I promised to help, as I told you. We’ll look out for this fugitive on the road. Is she dangerous?”
Eile set her teeth in her lip. He kept on frightening her, with his stupid names and his foolhardy questions. Her feet wanted to run; she could feel the same restlessness in Saraid’s small body. A sob of sheer panic was welling up in her; she fought to suppress it.
“Excuse us,” Faolan said. “My wife is quite unwell, as I said… Best you let us pass, unless you want her breakfast all over your boots.”
A joker as well. Gods, she felt so sick right now she might do a very good imitation of an expectant woman, not that there was much in her stomach to bring up.
“You sure she’s your wife?” The leader of the group had motioned his men into the hut to search, while he himself moved closer to Eile, scrutinizing her face. “Looks the right age for what we’re seeking, and the child as well, three-year-old girl, dark hair… Where are you from? What’s your business in these parts? Why is she wearing men’s clothing?”
The questions had been thrown at them like knives. Eile cleared her throat.
Faolan took a step back. His arm came around her shoulders and she felt him draw a long breath.
“I’m the son of the brithem from Fiddler’s Crossing, Conor Uí Néill,” he said. “The surviving son.”
The strangest thing happened. The man’s face changed before her eyes, a look of fascinated horror crossing his features. He said not a word.
“I’ve been away a long time,” added Faolan quietly. “I had neither wife nor child when I left these parts. I made my home far from this shore. Folk who remember me will tell you I’m a bard, and a bard travels. I thought it was time to introduce Aoife here, and my daughter, to the family. Now we’ll be on our way, if you please.”
They stepped aside and let him pass. She was certain, almost certain, that at least one of the men must recognize her. She’d been at the market now and then, though Dalach preferred Anda to go. He had his reasons for wanting Eile to stay at home. Besides, Anda refused to look after Saraid unless she absolutely must—“It’s the girl’s by-blow, let her tend to it”—and Eile didn’t trust her aunt to be kind to the child. Anda was jealous. So foolish, as if Dalach’s attentions were something to be coveted.
Well, it was over now, that part of it, at least, and it looked, incredibly, as if Faolan had just talked them out of trouble. She gripped Saraid’s hand, fixed her eyes on the ground and moved forward, keeping pace with him. No choice in that; he still had his arm around her. His touch made her edgy and afraid; she wanted to break free, to push the arm away, to be her own self again. He’d better not think he was going to step into Dalach’s shoes, with his talk of wives. Given it up, huh! Men didn’t give it up. They took it when they wanted, they didn’t know how to go without. Faolan was a liar like the rest of them. Like Deord, who’d probably never intended to come back.
“All right?” Faolan murmured as they reached the willows and the knot of men behind them broke into rapid, muted talk, of which nothing was clear enough to understand.
“Mm.”
“Keep moving. I’ll carry Saraid if you want.”
“No. You need your hands free. She can walk.”
“If you say so. Keep quiet until we’re over the bridge. We’ll have to wait until the wood’s in place. The child’s not going over that rope, nor am I.”
They emerged from cover. There was a clear view of the rushing river and the broken span of the footbridge. On the other side a group of men was gathering, and materials had arrived on a cart: lengths
of wood, coils of rope, tools. As Faolan and Eile walked along the river path, a party of riders appeared behind the laborers, a group of ten or so clad in tunics and breeches of blue and black. Their clothing seemed of fine quality, their shirts of pale linen, their boots well polished. Here and there a silver chain, a hat with a plume or a bronze sword hilt showed their status as members of a great household. They must be waiting to cross the other way; perhaps that explained the workers’ early start.
The wait was long. Faolan made play of finding somewhere for her and Saraid to sit, and she swallowed a curt denial that she needed his help with anything so simple. They sat. Faolan coerced a couple of their pursuers to help with the bridge. It looked tricky, grabbing the planks as the men on the other side slid them out, lining them up, then fastening them with more ropes on this side. She watched her father’s friend as he leaned out over the rushing water, and pondered what her next move would be if he fell in and drowned. She’d probably give herself away the moment she said anything; he was the one who could tell lies and make them sound like the truth. He was the one with authority. Maybe she could fall down screaming and weeping, as Anda might have done, and get them to take her to this brithem, somebody Uí Néill. That name she knew; everyone did. They were big people, landowners, chieftains and kings. Eile could imagine the look in their eyes if she and Saraid turned up on the doorstep. Besides, what could she say? “I’m your son’s wife?” That was a joke. Anyway, she couldn’t scream and cry, even if Faolan drowned before her eyes. She couldn’t do that to Saraid, who was already like a little ghost, silent and scared.
The Well of Shades Page 10
