“Olcan, may I ask you something?”
He waited, arms folded, bright eyes watchful. Fianchu had come in, his feet leaving a muddy pattern on the floor, and was busily cleaning up the breadcrumbs under the table.
“You were here in Nechtan’s time, weren’t you? Even before that.”
A wary nod.
As with Eichri, a question came out that was not the one I had intended to ask. “How did he die? Nechtan?”
“Peacefully in his bed. He outlived his wife by some years. Funny how things turn out.”
“Olcan, I know you are not part of the host, but something much older. Are there others like you on the Tor?”
A strange smile then, sad, accepting, proud.“I’m the last of my kind in these parts, Caitrin. I’ve heard tell of others far to the south, but that might only be a story.”
“That’s sad for you. Haven’t you been tempted to travel there, to seek them out?” I did not ask if he had ever had a wife and children, a family, or whether he had wanted one.There were so many stories in this place, and most of them sorrowful.
“You’d like to make things right for all of us, wouldn’t you, lass? I’m content enough here on the Tor; it’s my place, has been for far longer than you can imagine.The host, Nechtan’s spell, the whole sorry business, that’s only a bump in the road for me. Still, I’d like to see the lad happy. I’d like to see him make something good out of all this.”
“The lad—you mean Anluan?”
“He’s got a lot to contend with.We all need to stand by him, help him see this through.”
“I plan to do that, Olcan. Let me ask you—” But there was no asking about the voice Gearróg had mentioned, or about Muirne’s strange attitude to the current crisis, or about a number of other things that were exercising my mind, because Anluan was in the inner doorway, leaning against the frame, looking too weary to do so much as sit down at the table, let alone address a formal council in just a few hours.
“Caitrin?”
“I’ll be off,” muttered Olcan, and clicked his fingers. Fianchu snatched up a last crust and was away out the door after his master.
Anluan and I gazed at each other across the kitchen. Don’t tell him how tired he looks. And don’t tell him one glance brings back the feeling of being in his arms, the lovely, safe feeling, the throbbing, delicious feeling . . . “Finished with Rioghan?” I asked as calmly as I could, lifting one of Magnus’s herb jars down from its shelf and putting a pair of cups on the table.
“Finished for now, yes.” He came over and sat down on the bench, then put his elbow on the table and rested his brow on his hand. “He believes I can do this. But hope is such a tenuous quality.To feel it and then to be denied what one most longs for . . .Better, surely, not to hope at all, than to open the heart to a hope that is impossible.”
I had stilled in the middle of putting the herbal mixture into the cups. I set the spoon down. Surely he wouldn’t turn back now, change his mind about this, after showing such strength? “No, Anluan,” I said, my heart thumping.“That is quite wrong.You must let hope in, then instead of simply waiting for good things to happen, work as hard as you can to achieve them.The goal someone hopes for can be anything: writing a line of perfect script, or baking a pie, or . . . or raising a child well, despite the odds. Or standing up for what is right.”
He had lifted his head. In this light, his eyes were the hue of ultramarine, an ink that rivalled heart’s blood for rarity. I could not read his expression. I only knew that from now on I would not look at him without wanting to touch. I wondered whether he could see this on my face. “I thought I’d make Magnus’s favorite restorative draft,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush. “This seems an appropriate time for it.”
Anluan watched me as I finished preparing the drink.“Raising a child well,” he mused after a while. “You mean Magnus?”
“I was thinking of him, yes. He did a good job with you, against quite extreme odds. At least, that’s how it seems to me. And my parents raised me and Maraid well, first the two of them together, and later Father on his own. I was luckier than you. I didn’t lose him until I was already grown.” I felt my throat close up, reluctant to let the words out. I heard the familiar trembling in my voice, but this time I was determined to say it. “He collapsed in the workroom one morning. By the time I went down to join him, he was lying on the floor dead. He hadn’t even been ill. After that, I . . . I was not myself for some time.”
“Come, sit by me.”
It was easy, then, to move to the bench beside him; natural to sit close enough so that from time to time, not quite accidentally, his thigh touched mine. We sat thus awhile, watching the steam rise from the two cups and listening to the sounds from outside: Eichri arguing amicably with one of his brethren, Rioghan issuing orders, Fianchu barking.
“About hope,” Anluan said.“There is no point in hoping for what can never be.”
“That’s true. But sometimes we do that anyway. I know about impossible hope, Anluan. After Father died, I prayed that time would go backwards. I prayed that I would wake up and find that it had all been a bad dream. I longed for him to be alive again and the others gone.”
“Others?”
“Cillian and his mother.They came to take charge of everything when Father died. Ita—Cillian’s mother—told everyone I was out of my wits. Perhaps it was true. It was a mad kind of grief, it took up every part of me. I wanted the whole world to go away. If I could have crawled into a shell and hidden for the rest of my life, that’s what I would have done.”
Anluan reached out to lay his fingers against my wrist for a moment. It was the most tentative of caresses, and yet my pulse raced at his touch.“But you are the bravest person I’ve ever met, Caitrin,” he said.
“I wasn’t brave then. I had to make myself face up to my fears. The hardest step was the first: deciding to run away from Market Cross. The most frightening thing was not my father’s death, not Cillian and Ita, but the . . .”
“Tell me,” Anluan said.
I took a deep breath. “It was me, the way I shrank down after it happened, the way I lost myself . . . Like falling deep into a well.” I had dreamed of that, over and over: the yawning hole, the clutching hands, the long, long way down . . .“I started believing what they said about me, that I was useless, hopeless, crazy . . . I even believed that when Cillian beat me, it was because I deserved it . . . If people say those things often enough, it starts to feel true.”
“You’re shivering,” Anluan said.
“I’m all right.”
“Tell me, what was it made you decide to run away? What made you brave enough to take that step after so long?”
“I got up one morning and looked out my window, and I heard a lark singing. I picked up the little doll my sister had made for me, and I looked at the treasures I had kept from my mother and father, and I found a very small spark of courage. I knew my parents were looking down on me. I didn’t want them to be ashamed of me.” I brushed away tears. “They taught us to stand up for ourselves, Maraid and me. For a while I forgot that.”
“Where was your sister when you were lost in this grief, Caitrin?” Anluan’s tone was level.
“Gone. She went away with her sweetheart, Shea. He’s a traveling musician.”
“She left you on your own.”
“Don’t judge Maraid,” I snapped, though he was only echoing my own thoughts on the matter.“She loves Shea. And she did offer to take me with her, but they had no money; it was going to be hard enough for them without me to support as well. Besides, Ita said she’d look after me, see that I got the attention of a physician and so on.”
Anluan turned a quizzical look on me, but said nothing.
“I don’t suppose you can understand,” I added miserably. “I was not myself. I was a . . . a husk, a shell. A thing beset by shadows and fears. Father and I . . . He trained me in my craft. We worked side by side, every day. And then, with no warning at all, he was gone. Gone forever. It was as if the center of my world had collapsed. When Ita and Cillian came, I had no strength to stand up to them. Ita was right, in a way. For a while, I was mad.”
“Where did your sister go with her musician?”
“North. I can’t remember the name of the place. His band moves around.They play in the halls of noblemen as well as performing for village dances and weddings.There was no place for me in that kind of life.” Gods, I was crying again. “I’m sorry, I had no intention of burdening you with this now. I wanted to help you prepare for your council, not talk about my difficulties.”
“Ah,” said Anluan, reaching up as if to wipe away my tears. He drew his fingers back before they touched my face.“But you have helped.You’ve demonstrated, again, how to practice courage in small steps. Have you forgotten that I challenged you to speak of this before and that you could not bring yourself to do it? So you have taken a step, and tonight I will take one. I have a favor to ask you, Caitrin.”
“What favor?”
“I want you to stay with me until it’s time. I am afraid that if you are not here I will fall back into the old way of thinking. I am so accustomed to that. It’s almost as if an inner voice tells me, over and over, that there is no point in trying, that the patterns of the past must inevitably repeat themselves, that because I am not a . . . a real man, I cannot do what is needed here.”
“You are a real man, Anluan.”
“A real man can be a warrior. He can ride out at the head of his troop. He can wield sword or spear in defense of his own. He can summon folk to support him; he can care for those in his responsibility. A real man has a proper home, a calling, a family . . . He can . . .”
What had brought about this sudden waning of confidence? It was as if the voice of despair itself had been whispering in his ear.
“My father was not a warrior, Anluan. He was a real man who loved his family and was dedicated to his craft. Maraid’s husband, Shea, would hardly know one end of a sword from the other. My sister loves him; she trusts him to look after her. He, too, is a real man, a man with a calling. It’s not any particular ability that makes you a man, it’s what is inside.” I laid my hand over his heart.“You are a leader,” I told him.“You are a good person. You are the chieftain of Whistling Tor and you’re going to change things for the better. If you speak from the heart tonight, these folk will follow you to the death. I know it.”
“To the death,” echoed Anluan, putting his hand over mine. “It seems likely that is exactly where I will take them. I fear for those who are dear to me, Caitrin. I fear for all my people.”
chapter nine
We waited in the courtyard as the light faded to the half-dusk of summer and the moon slipped out from a veil of cloud, turning the leaves to silver and setting a shimmer on the still water of the pond. The torches were lit. The table stood ready, a rich blue cloth spread across it: candles burning in a pair of ancient iron holders shaped like leaping salmon. Rioghan had unearthed these and the rod that lay beside them, fashioned of dark wood with bands of inlaid bronze. “To keep order,” he’d explained. “If things get unruly I’ll rap it on the table a couple of times.”
For a while, it seemed there would be nobody here but ourselves: Anluan, pale in the moonlight, with Rioghan next to him; Eichri stationed a few paces to his left with the monk who had been helping earlier; Olcan and Fianchu to the right. Anluan had asked me to stand beside him, but I had said no, for that did not seem at all fitting. Instead, I stood on the steps behind him with Magnus, and Muirne came out to join us. I greeted her, trying to conceal my surprise. She made no response.
Time passed. Cathaír came out from the trees, taking a place on the very edge of the circle, half in shadow. He seemed unable to stand still, but constantly shifted his balance, folding and unfolding his arms, looking back over his shoulder. I wished I had thought to offer him a clean shirt in place of his bloodstained garment, but perhaps wearing that remnant of some long-ago battle was part of the curse; perhaps it symbolized his unfinished business in the world of the living.
“Two,” remarked Rioghan, looking from Cathaír to the ghostly monk by Eichri’s side. “Well, it is early yet.”
“They won’t come.” Muirne’s voice was a murmur, but in the quiet of the courtyard it carried clearly. I could have hit her.
“Of course they’ll come,” I said. “I’ll lay a wager on it. Any takers?”
“Don’t be silly, Caitrin.” Muirne’s voice registered irritation, but I had made the men of the household smile.
“None of us is prepared to take you on,” Eichri said.“Of course they’ll come.They know what’s riding on this.”
“Give ’em time,” said Magnus. “This is new to everyone.” He had come back from the settlement just before supper. None of the villagers had been prepared to accompany him up the hill, but Tomas and the others had expressed a keen interest in the results of our council.They wanted Magnus to return in the morning with news.Tomas had suggested sending a message to Brión, chieftain of Whiteshore, to keep him abreast of things. Someone else had remembered a cache of old weaponry hidden somewhere down near the river. The thought that there might be a real possibility of mounting a defense against the Normans had sparked something new in the frightened inhabitants of the settlement. Magnus had counseled caution; they must wait for Anluan’s decision, he’d told them. They had sent him back up the hill with three loaves of freshly baked bread and a crock of honey, but none of us had been able to eat. That bounty, along with my pie, still lay untouched on the kitchen table.
It grew colder. The moon edged higher. Owls cried; creatures rustled in the bushes.
“There is no point in this,” said Muirne.
“We will wait until they are ready.” Anluan sounded quietly confident. It seemed he had conquered his earlier doubts. “All night, if need be.”
Muirne said no more. In the hush that followed, I could hear Eichri whistling between his teeth.
A little cough from Rioghan. Muirne tensed beside me.
“Here we go,” muttered Magnus.
Cathaír had been told to specify the number: no more than ten representatives from the host, exclusive of those who lived within the house. They manifested one by one beneath the trees, then moved up to take their places around the circle. Gearróg would not come; he had remained on guard outside my chamber, content to let Cathaír speak for him. But there were other warriors here: a tall man with a pike; an old, bearded one bearing a bow and quiver; a man with one leg, hobbling on a crutch, with a fearsome array of knives at his belt. His battered leather helm and breastplate and the great slashing scar across his face marked him as a combat veteran.With Cathaír, that made four; with the monk, five.
“Welcome,” Anluan said quietly. None of them spoke, but they acknowledged the greeting with a nod, a jerk of the head, a fist raised in soldierly respect.
