Heir to Sevenwaters (9 page)

I glanced in my cousin’s direction, but he was watching with every appearance of calm. The look in his gray eyes suggested he was assessing the two fighters’ technique, nothing more. He made a quiet comment to Gareth, who stood behind him, and Gareth smiled as he murmured a reply. Mikka and Sigurd, across the circle, looked engrossed but not troubled. Perhaps I was overreacting. Perhaps this was not as bad as it seemed.

Cathal slipped and fell to one knee. The crowd sucked in its breath. Aidan grabbed Cathal’s arms, twisted them behind his back and applied a fearsome grip to his opponent’s right wrist, trying to force his knife hand open. Cathal said something under his breath, and Aidan’s features were suddenly suffused with rage. For a moment he looked like a different person. He hissed a response, jerking at Cathal’s arms, but Cathal writhed like an eel and was out of Aidan’s grasp and on his feet again, his knife still in his grip, his expression showing nothing but detached amusement. This time I heard his comment.

“You’ll have to do better than that, papa’s boy!”

Aidan launched himself at Cathal like a battering ram, heedless of his own safety or that of the circle of onlookers. Cathal dodged out of the way, lightning swift, and Aidan came close to crashing headfirst into a pair of white-faced serving women. He managed to stop in time, spinning to face his opponent, knife at the ready.

“At least I know who my father is,” he said in a voice that had gone ominously quiet.

For a moment Cathal froze. Then, in a whirl of movement, the two men met again, and an instant later Aidan was on the ground on his back, with his adversary on top of him and both wrists pinned over his head. I looked for Cathal’s knife and saw, to my astonishment, that at some point he had slipped it back in his belt. Cathal’s grip tightened. Aidan’s right hand opened and his weapon fell to the ground.

“Enough,” said Johnny calmly, stepping forward. “Technically very good, Cathal, but you came close to letting your guard down. You must learn to block out your opponent’s taunts. Aidan, get up.” He reached out a hand to help Aidan to his feet. “If you have not already learned that anger is a hindrance when you fight, now is the time to do so. We are professionals, whether in an exercise such as this or on the field of war. A cool head, impeccable technique and perfect focus are the keys to success. The two of you will settle your differences before nightfall, and there will be no more dispute between you.”

Cathal and Aidan looked at each other. Cathal put out a hand, but his expression was stony. After a long moment, Aidan grasped his friend’s hand briefly, then turned his back.

“Very well,” Johnny said. “Last bout, Cathal. What’s it to be? After that fright, I think our audience might prefer that we avoid anything sharp.”

Aidan was watching me. He had gone to stand with Sigurd and Mikka, but I could feel his gaze and it troubled me. What was it between him and Cathal? Had this really been all about Aidan leaving out one critical detail in his account of his personal circumstances? That might matter to me, but it seemed unlikely that it would have ignited such a dispute between the two friends. Not only had this revealed a darker side to the placid musician I had been so drawn to, but even the impenetrable Cathal had seemed disturbed by it. Not by the fight itself; he’d handled that as coolly as Johnny would have done. It was that comment about fathers that had rattled him. The two of them knew exactly how to upset each other.

Aidan still had his eyes on me, even though Cathal and Johnny, having settled on wrestling, were squaring off in the combat area. I decided I had had enough. I had nothing to say to Aidan, and it was a foregone conclusion that Johnny would win this bout. He always won. Cathal would be good, but not good enough. I would go back indoors and forget about men, the ones who lied by omission and the ones who had no idea how to deal with women. I would busy myself with overseeing preparations for the evening meal. And if Aidan wanted to entertain the household with music afterward, he’d be doing it with no help from me.

I couldn’t sleep. It was too quiet. I lay on my back in the darkness, missing the gentle sound of my sister’s breathing. If only Deirdre hadn’t severed the link between us. I could have told her about Aidan, about how he’d concealed the existence of that girl back home even as he set out his credentials as a suitor. I could have discussed the peculiar behavior of both Aidan and Cathal, how they were supposed to be best friends and yet had fought as if they hated each other. I could have asked her what she thought of someone who could be gentle and smiling one moment and full of explosive rage the next. Or of someone with appalling manners and a woeful lack of judgment who demonstrated perfect control when under attack. It wouldn’t have mattered that Deirdre knew as little about men as I did. I just wanted to talk to her. We’d always talked about everything.

I didn’t like being alone at night. Here in the dark, on my own, I could not keep unwelcome thoughts at bay with constant activity. Here there were no meals to plan, no provisions to order, no supplies to check. There was no pickling or preserving, no washing or mending or record-keeping with which to ward off my troubles. Instead there was the thought of Mother, weary today despite her happiness at seeing Deirdre settled so well; there was the looming nightmare of the birth. There was the strange sensation I’d had yesterday in the forest, of being watched as I walked; there was the shadowy figure I thought I’d seen last night in the courtyard, when Cathal had bundled me around a corner and made his ill-advised attempt to be helpful. There was the troubled look on Father’s face as he spoke of Eoin of Lough Gall.

I worried about Johnny, too. How did he feel about the impending birth, and the fact that if Mother had a healthy boy, that child might supplant him as heir to Sevenwaters? While any male of the blood could make a claim to the chieftaincy, a son of direct descent would likely be favored over a cousin, especially a cousin of the female line. Johnny’s outstanding qualities as a leader did not outweigh the fact that his father was Bran of Harrowfield.

I stared into the darkness and tried to distract myself by humming a ballad about a woman who fell in love with a toad. It didn’t help; I kept seeing Aidan playing the tune on his harp, brown eyes full of smiles. I tried lying on my right side and then on my left. I turned my pillow over, gave it a hard thump and willed my mind to stop churning around. It did not comply. Eventually I got up, put on a cloak over my nightrobe and went down to the hall.

Lamps still burned there, and the fire glowed on the big hearth, though the house was hushed; it must be close to midnight. Before the flames sat Father and Muirrin, he in his big chair with the dogs drowsing at his feet, she on a stool close by. In the flickering light the similarity between them was striking—like Sibeal, Muirrin had inherited Father’s dark hair and pale skin, along with his air of grave self-containment. They were looking even more solemn than usual, and I could guess what had kept them up so late. I went over to sit on the rug beside my sister.

“Can’t sleep?” Muirrin asked.

“It feels strange without Deirdre.”

“It’s a time of many changes.” There was a note in Father’s voice that I had never heard before. “Clodagh, Muirrin and I have been talking about your mother.”

I wanted to ask and I didn’t want to. I made myself speak. “She seems so tired all the time. Muirrin, what do you think will happen?”

My sister hesitated.

“Be honest, please,” I said, clutching my hands together under the concealment of the cloak. “I know there’s grave risk involved.” I glanced at Father.

“Muirrin,” he said, “tell Clodagh what you just told me. She needs to know.” His brave attempt at a smile made me want to cry.

“If you’re sure,” Muirrin said, and I heard how she was making her voice calm, using the same manner she would if she had to tell a peerless warrior that he would never be able to fight again, or a young wife that her new husband had died from his wounds. Healers carried a terrible burden. “Clodagh, you already know how dangerous it is for a woman of Mother’s age to bear a child. She’s done remarkably well to carry the infant to this stage. But . . . I’ve told Father I believe there’s a high chance we may lose both her and the baby. The rigors of labor and birth take a toll even on a young, strong woman. Then there’s the risk of childbed fever. And if Mother survives but loses the child, Father and I both fear very much for her state of mind. She is so full of faith that all will be well.”

After a silence, I said, “Thank you for being honest. I knew already, really. But I suppose I hoped you might know something we didn’t, something that would make this less frightening. Eilis has no idea what may be about to happen. I don’t know what to tell her.” Despite my best efforts, my voice shook.

“It is possible,” Father said quietly, “that your mother is right. Perhaps the gods do intend this child to be born safely. Your mother cares nothing for herself. That is hard for me to accept.”

I got up and put my arm around him, but the gesture of comfort was as much for myself as for my father. It terrified me to hear him sounding less than confident; less than the capable, calm person the world saw day by day, a leader fully in control of himself and his domain. Tonight he sounded like a wounded boy.

“Maybe all will be well,” I said, not believing it for an instant. “Perhaps we should trust Mother’s instincts.”

“I’ve told Father I’ll stay until the child is born, Clodagh,” Muirrin said. “It’s a pity Aunt Liadan can’t be here, since her skills in midwifery far exceed mine, but I will be able to oversee the labor and birth, and perhaps stay on a little after that, depending on what happens. I do need to be back at Inis Eala as soon as I can. It’s too much for Evan to handle all the work there on his own.”

“I’m grateful, Daughter,” Father said. “We must all be strong. Your mother needs hopeful faces around her, not gloomy ones. I’ve spoken to Sibeal about this and she seems to understand, but Eilis . . . it would be too much of a burden for her.”

The look on his face troubled me deeply. I wondered if he had looked like this long ago, when the newborn twin boys had breathed their last. If so, I had been too young, too wrapped up in my own grief to understand it.

“We must pray, I suppose,” Father sighed, and I heard in his voice a hope as fragile as a single thread.

CHAPTER 3

I
kept myself busy. Our serving people had never been so well supervised, our house never cleaner, our meals never more promptly served or more carefully prepared. Sibeal and Eilis completed twice as much sewing as usual and made dramatic progress with their reading and writing. Accompanied by a maidservant, I walked to the hawthorn early each morning to say a prayer and make an offering before commencing the day’s domestic activities. In the evenings I said I was too tired to play the harp, and it was more or less true.

Aidan kept trying to catch me alone in order to offer some kind of explanation. I could hardly be discourteous to him, since to do so would suggest I had had some expectations that the existence of this girl Rathnait had quashed. I would not let him see how much his dishonesty had hurt me.

“Clodagh!”

I was walking from kitchen to grain store, my hair bundled up in a kerchief and my feet in sturdy outdoor boots. Aidan fell into step beside me, shortening his long stride accordingly.

“I want to talk to you. Please.”

“I’m busy, Aidan.”

“Let me explain to you. About home and the betrothal. It’s not the way it sounds, Clodagh, I promise you—”

“I told you,” I said, “there’s no need for any kind of explanation. It means nothing to me. There’s no point in making this into more than it is. Now I must go.”

“It means something to me,” he said to my retreating back, and I almost stopped and let him tell me whatever it was, for he sounded genuinely upset. I ordered myself not to look back, lest those melting brown eyes make me act against my better judgment.

Time passed; the moon went from dark to full. Mother was persuaded by Muirrin that bed rest was in order and ceased to come down for meals. Several times a day I went in to see her. It helped her to know that the household continued to be run according to her rules. No mouse would poke its head into the food stores, no sheet would be inadequately laundered, no spider would dare build a web in a cupboard while I was in charge. Mother’s ankles were swollen and puffy; her face had the same unhealthy look, but her eyes were full of confidence. She praised me for my efforts and expressed a certain pleased surprise that I had apparently managed to absorb all she had tried to teach me over the last few years. I had sometimes thought her too dedicated to perfection in the house; I had wished she would adopt a more relaxed approach. Now I began to realize just how like her I was. Did she, too, maintain the rituals of a perfect household principally to keep her fears at bay?

Two days after full moon the weather turned especially benign. The sun shone, flowers bloomed and the forest came alive with the music of birds and insects about their spring business. Over breakfast in the hall, Father said, “Clodagh, it’s time you had a day off. Aidan has asked me if he can take you and your sisters out riding.”