Heart's Blood (43 page)

For half the morning I walked without seeing a soul. I grew thirsty and stopped to drink from a stream a little way off the track. I grew hungry. My precipitate departure had left me ill equipped to travel far without help. Memories of my flight to the west returned. I suppressed them, making myself move on. My feet were hurting; Emer’s boots were not such a perfect fit after all. The day grew warmer. I took off my shawl and stuffed it into my bag.

A rumbling, squeaking sound and the thump of hooves sent me down under the bushes to the side, wary of carters traveling alone. A pair of stocky horses came into view, pulling a well-kept cart laden with bundles. A man and a woman sat on the bench seat; she had a child on her knee.

I stepped out and waved a hand. A little later I was perched on a sack of grain in the back, on my way eastward. I imagined the mist-clad slopes of the Tor behind me, slowly diminishing until they could no longer be distinguished from the ordinary landscape of fields and woodland. As the cart moved further and further to the east, I did not once look back.

 

It made a difference having funds. I spent two nights in a village inn, with my own chamber and a lock on the door. I got directions and arranged lifts. I read a letter for a local trader in return for a place on a conveyance that was going all the way to Stony Ford, a settlement about three days’ travel north of Market Cross. Father and I had executed commissions for the chieftain there, and I was fairly sure Shea and his fellow musicians would be known in that house.

My fellow passengers on this somewhat larger and grander cart must have thought me dour and uncommunicative. They could not know the whirl of thoughts that filled my mind every moment of the day, those I fought to banish and those I tried to concentrate on, in particular how to track down Maraid and Shea without going too near Market Cross. If Stony Ford did not provide any clues I must try other places Shea had mentioned when telling us of his traveling life, but those were few and far between. I thought I could recall a town called Hideaway or Holdaway, where the band had regularly played to entertain people at a big weekly market. Lean enough pickings, Shea had said with good humor, but if they stayed on for the evening’s dancing there would generally be a few extra coins tossed their way.

Failing that, I could look for Shea’s family. That would mean a far longer journey, as they lived somewhere well to the northeast, close to Norman-ruled territories. His father’s name I had forgotten, but he had been a master harp maker before his hands were afflicted by tremors, and such craftsmen would be few in any part of the land. I had a good chance of finding him eventually. Eventually. How long would it take?

As the cart rolled steadily on and my fellow passengers chatted about the weather or how long it might be until the next stop, I pictured Anluan, Magnus, Rioghan and the rest of them in pitched battle against Lord Stephen’s army. I imagined the spectral voice filling the ears of the host with poison and sending them into howling, tortured disarray. I thought of Anluan cut down, wounded, dying, while I went from village to village asking about a band of musicians who might or might not have passed by some time earlier. I saw the Latin words of the counterspell clean on a parchment page, useless without me there to translate them. Often I came close to tears, and it was necessary to remind myself that if Anluan had really loved me, he would not have sent me away forever.That worked for a little, until my mind began to tell me that perhaps Anluan had banished me because he thought there was no chance of defeating Stephen de Courcy, and that he and Magnus and Olcan were all going to die, leaving the host leaderless and adrift. Once this perfectly logical idea had come to me, I couldn’t shake it off. It made me cold all through. I sat on the cart’s padded seat with my shawl hugged around me and my gaze set straight ahead, seeing nothing but Anluan’s pale face, his bright hair, his lovely crooked features. Over and over I thought of the unforgivable words I had said to him, and of how he had looked when he heard them.

The journey to Stony Ford took several days. We stopped one night in a hostelry that was a cut above the others. Two of my fellow travelers, Brendan, a physician, and his wife, Fidelma, had shown me particular kindness on the way.They and I sat down to supper to find the other folk at the inn table in spirited discussion about the Normans.

“They say there’s been a treaty signed,” said an old man nursing a mug of ale between knotted fingers.

“If you can call it that,” said another man, grim-faced. “More or less gives away all the lands of the east, and a lot besides, to this King Henry. May the Uí Conchubhair break out in a rash of blisters, every one of them from the high king downwards. That man’s handed our birthright to a bunch of gray-shirted foreigners, as ready to burn a good Irish town to ashes as they are to listen to their own folk.”

“You’d want to watch your mouth,” a third man said, voice lowered.

“War’s not over.”This from an ancient in the corner, who had seemed fast asleep.

“Ruaridh Uí Conchubhair’s not the only leader we’ve got, though he may see himself that way,” said a brawny man at the far end of the table. “We’ll keep on fighting till the last of us lies on the sward with his blood soaking into the breast of the earth. Uí Conchubhair’s gone weak in his old age, if you ask me. He was something of a leader, once, a man almost worthy to be called high king. He’s fallen far.”

“No king lasts forever.” Brendan spoke quietly. “As for Henry of England, I know of this agreement, and you’re right—under the terms of it the high king keeps sovereignty here in Connacht, and in other places where the Normans haven’t yet set their mark. But the fact is, Henry can’t keep effective reins on his own lords—they’ve got used to taking what they want, by force if necessary, from us and from each other. They’ll still be jostling for territorial advantage, treaty or no treaty.”

“They’ve proven themselves no respecters of boundaries,” said Fidelma.

I cleared my throat, regretting deeply that I had not taken much interest in such matters when I lived in Market Cross. I had always believed that Connacht, at least, was safe from invasion.That was what everyone said. So far west, with much of the land too barren for farming, it had not seemed a place the English would want. King Henry’s treaty sounded quite true to that theory.

“Has any of you heard of an English lord called Stephen de Courcy?” I asked.“He—I heard that he threatened to take an Irish chieftain’s holding, quite some way to the west of here. I was told there’s a tie of kinship by marriage between Lord Stephen’s family and that of the high king. That means Ruaridh Uí Conchubhair won’t step in to help this chieftain.”

All eyes turned to me.

“Never heard of the fellow you mention,” said the old man. “But it happens. Place up north, can’t remember the name, they rode in and cut down the chieftain’s men-at-arms; a rout, it was. Put their heads up on pikes afterwards, Northmen-style, as a warning to other leaders not to stand up for what was rightfully theirs. Burned the settlement; killed women and children as if they were less than human.That’s what they think, of course. That we’re no better than dumb beasts of the field. It sickens me.”

“You believe something like that could happen right on the coast of Connacht?” I felt a lead weight in my belly. “It makes a mockery of Ruaridh’s title. A high king should protect his own, surely.”

“Ruaridh’s always done what was expedient,” someone said, lowering his voice and glancing around the room. “That’s why he’s lasted so long. His sons are better men.”

There was a short silence, during which nobody met anyone else’s eyes.Then Brendan said, “I believe I’ve heard the name de Courcy before. I can’t remember in what connection. He’s a youngish man, I think, and ambitious. My brother would know more. He’s very well informed on such matters; his line of work demands it.Why do you ask, Caitrin?”

“My father always said the far west would hold out against the Norman advance. But it seems this treaty is a sham, if our own high king can step back and allow someone like Stephen de Courcy to take territory from one of his own chieftains. It’s wrong that we have no protectors, no leaders of our own who can stand up for us.”

A weightier silence this time.

“Do you have kinsfolk in the far west, Caitrin?” asked Fidelma, concern written all over her kindly features. “Perhaps in the territory of this threatened chieftain?”

“Just friends.” I offered no more. Start to discuss Anluan’s situation in any detail and I would lose my hard-won self-control.

“Give it time,” said the man who had mentioned the high king’s sons. “Connacht will stand, that’s my opinion. There will be new leaders, men with stiffer spines and bolder hearts. Men I’d take up arms for myself, if the call came.”

“You?” queried someone with a chuckle.“That leg of yours can’t even walk straight behind a plough, let alone charge into battle against a line of mounted gray shirts. But maybe you fancy a quick and bloody death.”

“I suppose a man with a damaged leg can still use a bow,” I said with somewhat more emphasis than I had intended. “Or throw stones. Or perform a hundred other essential tasks.” I looked the would-be warrior in the eye. “I commend your courage,” I said.

Now everyone was staring at me, not as if they believed my speech odd, but as if they were interested in why I had made it; as if they wanted to hear my story. But I could not tell it. I picked up my ale and took a mouthful, eyes downcast, cheeks burning.

“Well, Caitrin,” said Fidelma quietly, “if you want more information about this Stephen de Courcy, you couldn’t do better than Brendan’s brother Donal. When we reach Stony Ford, why don’t you stay with us a few nights? You can talk to him and enjoy some good hospitality at the same time. Unless you must move on straightaway, of course.”

“Isn’t it Donal who’s getting married?” I’d heard them talking about it: how Brendan’s brother, a confirmed bachelor close to forty years old, had astonished everyone by deciding to wed a widow with three little girls.“I’d be in the way, surely.”

“Not at all. The place will be full of guests; one more will make no difference. And Donal carries out his legal practice in a separate area of the house.Think about it, at least.”

So Donal was a lawman. This was not simply an opportunity to rest and recover before setting off to find Maraid. It was a chance to begin putting my affairs and hers to rights; the next step in facing my own hardest challenge. My belly crawled at the thought. I did not know if I could be brave enough. Speaking to this man of the law would set me on course for a confrontation with Ita and Cillian. Sooner or later this road must lead me back to Market Cross.

By the time we reached the township of Stony Ford I had seen the sense in accepting Fidelma’s invitation, at least for as long as it took me to get an idea of where Maraid and Shea might be. The purse of silver was not bottomless, and I might have to travel quite some way further. An offer of hospitality in a safe house among good people was not to be refused.

Brendan’s brother proved to be not at all the austere, strict kind of man I had expected, but small and cheery, with sparse mousy hair and twinkling eyes. He delighted in teasing Brendan about anything and everything—the bond of love between them was plain, and it reminded me sharply of Rioghan and Eichri, whose jibes and jests had so unsettled me until I had realized it was all in a spirit of friendship.

The widow and her children were already living in Donal’s house, which was a fine sprawling place of mud and thatch, with a well-tended garden and stabling for three horses. But softly spoken Maeve was not sharing Donal’s chamber at night; she slept in her daughters’ room. This was not from any lack of enthusiasm for the marriage bed, I thought, noting the way Donal reached to touch her plump arm as she served his breakfast porridge, her quick blush as he caught her eye in passing, the sweetness in their voices as they spoke to each other. They would be wed on the fifth day after our arrival; either they were waiting for their wedding night, or the presence of so many guests in the house had made discretion necessary until then.Two of Maeve’s sisters were there with their husbands and a total of seven children, as well as various other kinsfolk. Maeve’s mother, who lived nearby, came over every day with pies or puddings to complement her daughter’s cookery. It was a busy, happy home.

I found myself sharing a bedchamber with a pair of nieces a few years my junior.Watching them put finishing touches to gowns, dress each other’s hair or run outdoors to be children again for a while, I felt a hundred years old.

Donal’s clients kept coming. He and Brendan had both chosen professions in which there was no such thing as a rest, Fidelma pointed out dryly. Despite the steady stream of folk going in to see the lawman each morning, he found time for me on the second day. His study was a haven of quiet after the bustle and noise. He sat at a big desk, on which there were two bound books, a sheet of parchment and a pot of ink. A single quill lay beside this, with a little dish of sand for drying. The walls of the chamber were lined with shelves on which rested numerous documents, set out so tidily that I was quite certain the lawman knew exactly where to find any given item.There was a smaller desk in a corner, today untenanted. On the window sill an earthenware pot held freshly picked wildflowers, purple, pink and blue—the widow’s touch.