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Hearts Blood - Juliet Marillier
- Дата:11.10.2024
- Категория: Разная литература / Прочее
- Название: Hearts Blood
- Автор: Juliet Marillier
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“Come on, out with it,” Donal said.“You can speak in front of Caitrin; she’s the one who is seeking information in this particular instance.”
The man cleared his throat. “I have news, yes, but it’s not the best sort of news. Maybe the young lady should be sitting down.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “Tell me!” My voice was shaking. “What’s happened? Is my sister all right?” For although I had known we might not find Maraid and Shea immediately, I had never thought that something might be badly amiss with them.
The messenger glanced at Donal, and Donal nodded assent.
“They were staying at the big house in Five Birches, that’s quite some distance north, when an illness struck the household,” the man said.“Many folk fell sick and some died of it, including the chieftain’s own son.And . . . well, the musician, Shea, was one of the unlucky ones.Vomiting and purging one day, gone the next.”
“Gone?” My mind was not making sense of this.“Gone where?”Then, as both men regarded me with somber faces, “You mean . . . you mean Shea is dead?”
“Sit down, Caitrin.” Donal came across and took my arm.“Come, now, sit here.” He turned back towards the messenger. “These are ill tidings. How long ago did this occur?”
“Some while ago, I was told. The widow, Maraid, she’s gone home to her folk in Market Cross, her and the child. There was nobody to take them in up at Five Birches.That household lost many of its own, and for a while it was all at sixes and sevens.”
I knew that if I tried to stand up my legs would not hold me. My head reeled; my stomach lurched. Be strong, Caitrin. “Child?” I croaked. “What child?” Perhaps the messenger had got things confused, and this sad tale was not Maraid’s but someone else’s.
“You didn’t know? The young woman, Maraid, had an infant; it wasn’t more than a couple of months old when her man passed away.Your sister was lucky she and the baby weren’t struck by the sickness, and that they had somewhere to go.”
Lucky. Her husband dead before he was five-and-twenty, her child fatherless, and me, her only sister, away in the west where she could not reach me. And now Maraid was in Market Cross, in that house, with her baby.The two of them were at the mercy of Ita and Cillian.
“Caitrin.” Donal crouched down beside me in his wedding clothes and held out a cup of mead. “Take a few deep breaths.You’re among friends here, and we will help you.” He dismissed the messenger, telling him to wait outside, then came back in and quietly shut the study door. “This is sad news indeed,” he said. “A terrible shock for you. Weep all you want, my dear.”
But I couldn’t weep. That was too much of a self-indulgence; a waste of precious time. Every moment I spent in this hospitable place was another moment of sorrow, of fear, of crushing loneliness for Maraid and her child. I saw her in the house at Market Cross, weighed down by grief, and I saw myself as I had been after Father’s death, an empty shell, all alone in the world.
“I have to go there,” I said, getting to my feet.The chamber rocked and swayed; I drew a deep breath and stiffened my spine.“Now.Today. Maraid’s there with them. I must go to her.”
To his credit, Donal did not remind me that this was his wedding day. He did not tell me I was being ridiculous. Instead he called in Fidelma and Brendan. Fidelma settled herself beside me, her arm around my shoulders. The men sat opposite. A discussion ensued and a plan was devised. I would leave Stony Ford in the morning, accompanied by Brendan and Fidelma, along with the very large young man who looked after Donal’s horses and performed heavy duties about the place. Aengus happened to be the district wrestling champion.
“I’ll be far happier if you have some brawn to back you up, Caitrin,” Donal said. “Aengus can drive the cart and help to procure lodgings on the way. Make sure he’s there when you first confront your kinsfolk.You should go to see Colum as soon as you arrive in Market Cross, and before you make any attempt to go to the family home. He should have received my letter and read it, but of course he won’t know you are on your way. We cannot be sure what reception your kinsfolk will give you.”
“I’m frightened for Maraid. Cillian may be cruel to her. And the baby—anything could happen—”
“And you would rather be off right now, yes, I understand that,” Donal said. “But you do need the rest of today to prepare, Caitrin. Brendan can write his report on your state of health and take it with him, to produce if anyone should query your capacity to make your own decisions.You and I need to sit down and discuss inheritance law.You must be able to set out your argument clearly. These kinsfolk may attempt to convince you that they were within their rights when they took over your father’s house.”
“But—”
“You don’t go into battle without preparing your weapons. Believe me, not to take this time would be a grave error. Maraid has managed without you thus far; one more day can make little difference.”
I knew he was speaking sense, though my mind and body were gripped by the urge to act. Maraid must not be hurt as I had been. I could not let it happen.
“We’d best put in an appearance out there,” Fidelma said,“just to reassure Maeve.”
I came abruptly back to the here and now.The wedding day; Maeve; the house full of guests. “Donal, I can’t expect you to do this today. And how can I ask Fidelma and Brendan to leave so soon? Poor Maeve. I’ve spoiled everything.”
“Not at all,” said Donal. “Maeve knows how things are likely to be from now on. It’s my great good fortune that she’s taken me on in spite of that. As for these two, if they didn’t want to go with you they’d say so, believe me.”
“Nonetheless,” put in Fidelma, “we should all go out and join in the festivities, if only for a little. And you, Donal, might reassure your wife that you’ll set aside only an hour or so before supper to explain these legal matters to Caitrin. Maeve will want you to be present for supper, and for dancing afterwards.You mustn’t disappoint her.”
The lawman gave his leprechaun grin. “You’re a paragon of practicality and tact, Fidelma. I quite understand why my brother wed you. And I won’t disappoint Maeve in any way at all, I trust.” He became suddenly serious. “Caitrin, you’ve had bad news and you’ve a great deal to think about. I imagine you’ll be wanting quiet and solitude.”
“All in good time,” Fidelma said. “Some food and drink first, I think, and you might have a little word with Maeve yourself, Caitrin. She may well understand what being a lawman’s wife means, but there’s a limit to the tolerance even of a saint.”
We were three days on the road. Two nights we spent in the houses of folk known to Donal. Aengus soon proved his worth, smoothing the way for us with his quietly insistent manner. What that did not achieve, his intimidating bulk did. Fidelma and Brendan kept me company without asking too many questions. I could not sleep.As the miles passed, I thought of the house at Market Cross, and the long time of darkness I had spent there seemed to outweigh the happy years that had gone before. I should be brave. I had a guard. I had friends. I had a doctor who would vouch for my competence and a lawyer whom I could call upon for help. But Cillian had hurt me, and his shadow was a long one. When I thought of Ita, I remembered weeping before her, pleading with her, and I heard her saying, My son would not punish you unless you deserved it, ungrateful girl. At night, when weariness finally overtook me, my dreams were full of dark wells and rending claws. I woke exhausted, wondering if I were not, after all, the same fearful woman who had fled Market Cross a season ago.
I was still rationing myself to one page of Anluan’s book each morning. On the day when we expected to reach Market Cross, I read these lines:
Can a split quill write fair script?
Can a blunt axe cut wood for the fire?
Can a cripple please a lady?
That shocked me so much I broke my self-imposed rule and turned to the next page. There, so familiar I thought I could remember every word of the conversation Anluan and I had shared that morning, was a scrap cut from the parchment sheet on which he’d first attempted the new method of writing. Caitrin, it read. Caitrin. Caitrin. Tears stung my eyes. I wanted to turn another page, and another, to devour the whole book, for it seemed a feast after famine. But I did not. It was too precious to squander thus; I would savor each morsel in turn.
A cripple. I had never thought of him in that way, except perhaps on that very first day when he had lurched across the garden and frightened me. I could swear that none of his household even saw the disability anymore. “You would please me,” I murmured, remembering the mirror of might-have-been, the rise of my body, the thrust of his, the power and rhythm of it. “I know you would.” But perhaps that was foolish. Muirne had more or less told me Anluan was incapable of the act of love. How she had learned this, I could not imagine, but I was becoming convinced this was his main reason for sending me away so abruptly. I could not doubt his feelings for me, not after reading this book with its tenderness, its passion, its confusion.
With a sigh I put the book away and began to dress. Aengus had said that if we started off straight after breakfast we would reach Market Cross in the afternoon, all being well. As I took off my nightrobe and donned shift, stockings and gown, I tried to imagine what might happen when I walked in through the door of my childhood home. I did not like any of the variations my mind showed me. I won’t be afraid of them, I won’t, I told myself, but the churning feeling did not leave my belly. Sheer panic was not far away, the kind of fear that would send me fleeing inside myself. This is foolish.You must help Maraid.And you don’t have to do this alone. But perhaps I did have to do it on my own, or I would never conquer the terror that lurked deep inside me, threatening to cripple me when I most needed to be strong and whole.
One step at a time. If I looked neat and tidy, I might feel a little more in control. I would plait my hair and pin it up, then tie on a scarf. At least that would keep out the dust of the journey.
There was no mirror in the chamber where I was lodged. I reached into my bag and took out the little old one I had brought from Whistling Tor, propping it on a shelf. I laid the hairpins ready beside it, then put my hair into a single long braid. When I was ready to coil it atop my head, I glanced into the mirror. My heart leapt.There he was, standing in his bedchamber, clad in warrior’s garments, a leather breast-piece, wrist and arm braces. He was staring down at something held in one long-fingered hand, something small and glinting—a fragment, a shard of glass?
“Anluan,” I whispered, but he could not hear me. As I stared, not daring to move lest I cause the image to vanish, he turned the item one way then another, as if changing the angle of it might make a difference, and I saw that it was a jagged piece of mirror. It caught the light from his lamp, now shining like a star, now, when he turned it, dark as night. The mirror of might-have-been; the broken mirror. Did I only imagine that I saw his crooked mouth form the name Caitrin as he struggled to make the shattered glass show him once more the image that had made him smash it to pieces?
“I’m here,” I breathed. “I’m here, beloved, dearest one . . .”
He straightened; looked up and around, almost as if he had sensed my call. But it was another summons he had heard. I saw him slip the piece of glass under the pillow on his bed, then go to the door. He paused to scrub a hand across his cheeks. He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.Then he opened the door, and there was Magnus, clad in similar garb, with a sword by his side. Anluan stepped out; the door closed, and the scene was lost. A moment later, there in the mirror was the chamber that had been mine. It seemed much as I had left it: neat, bare, empty. The place was a study in grays, shadow on shadow. The door stood slightly ajar. The only light was from the gallery openings beyond. It seemed to be dusk, or a stormy day.
One shadow caught my eye: a neat figure sitting cross-legged in the center of the floor with the little doll, Róise, in her hands. Not the ghost child. Muirne. Her eyes stared straight ahead; her expression was perfectly calm. Her hands worked in spite of that, pulling, tearing, ripping every remaining shred of hair from the doll’s linen scalp. Such strength in those hands; such violence that it sent a tremor of sheer horror into my bones. The little scarf I had made to cover the earlier damage lay on the floor beside Muirne’s outspread skirt, torn into pieces. Muirne’s face told me nothing, but now that I had seen Anluan’s notebook, I thought I could guess what was in her mind. She’s gone at last, gone forever, far, far away, and still she consumes your thoughts. She came here, you let her in, and she changed you. She changed everything.
“Caitrin? Are you ready for breakfast?”
The image fled. The mirror showed me my own face, eyes wide with shock, cheeks stained with tears. I was as white as Róise: linen pale.“I won’t be long,” I called to Fidelma through the closed door. I rolled the mirror in my nightrobe and thrust it back in my bag. My plait had unwound itself; I braided it again with my mind on Muirne’s detached gaze and her furious, destructive hands. That scene made no sense. I was gone from Whistling Tor.What could she hope to achieve by destroying my possessions? Was the woman simply unhinged?
And Anluan . . . I had seen him racked with regret and uncertainty, just as I was. I had seen him dash the tears from his cheeks and walk through his doorway to greet what faced him—another day as leader, another day of preparation for an impossible battle. He had found the courage hidden deep inside him.
He had been cruel to me that last night, taxing me with my cowardice over Cillian. But I had been crueller; what I had said was indefensible. Despite that, he had moved on bravely.Today, I recognized that he had been right to challenge me. I would not conquer my particular monster unless I could walk into that house in Market Cross and confront Ita and Cillian alone.
The day was sunny and bright, but not everything in this part of Connacht was so fair.We saw a troop of Norman men-at-arms riding to the north, the sun glinting on their shirts of chain links and glancing off their weapons. They bore long shields and wore helms of metal with nose guards. They looked formidable. Aengus pulled the cart into a byway and we sat there quietly as they passed.
Later, we saw a house and barn that had been burned. A thread of smoke still rose from the scorched remnants of the place, and something dangled from a tree, like a broken doll.A dog was barking hysterically, running to and fro on its rope, hurling its defiance at an enemy long gone. The men made Fidelma and me wait on the cart while they went to see if there was anyone who could still be helped. I saw Aengus release the dog; it bolted.The men came back and, in silence, we rode on.
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