Elizabeth McBride (9 page)

"Why didn't you leave Dun Darach? Once everything
was gone?"

Nila met her eyes. "Because sometimes you must choose
your ground and stay on it."

Mhoire considered Nila's statement. "Well, I'm beginning to think that the best thing I could do is run up that
hill and let the fairies take me away."

"Why did you come here?"

Mhoire scanned the view before her-the sturdy hill, the
grassy fields, the blue plate of the sea beyond them. "I
thought if I journeyed to a new place, everything would be
different. I wanted a place that had ... life."

She looked down at her lap. A familiar emptiness fell
over her like mist. In her father's holding, she had had no
friend but Grainne. The dark fort had welcomed few visitors. It had sheltered only pain. And secrets.

"But I have been very selfish," she went on. "I see now
that there are more important concerns than my own. You,
the other women, the child, you are all starving. I cannot
ignore that."

"Nay, you cannot ignore that," Nila conceded. "You
made a choice to come here. And with choice comes responsibility. Besides, child, you can't drop into life like an
angel from the sky. You must create it."

Mhoire closed her eyes.

"What about the man?" Nila asked.

Mhoire's eyes flew open. "What about him?"

"What do you think of him?"

"I ... he ... I don't know what to think of him." She
sensed Nila looking at her but avoided her gaze. "He confuses me."

"As you confuse him, no doubt." Mhoire could hear the
smile in Nila's voice. "Do you want to marry him?"

Mhoire shook her head. "Nay. But he has every right to
demand it." Mhoire twisted her hands in her lap. "It would
be better for the others if I married him."

"It would be easier for the others if you married him.
But better? It is too early to tell."

Mhoire asked the question that had been haunting her.
"Why did my mother leave Dun Darach?"

Nila looked toward the sea, toward the past. "Your
mother did not have a choice."

"Colman was a horrible husband."

"Aye. But you must remember, child-" Nila's voice
sounded sad but deliberate. "-your mother made a promise to him. And she accepted what came of it."

A promise. A living death.

"What was my mother like when she was young?"

Nila reached out and laid her hand over Mhoire's. "She
was like you. Very brave."

Mhoire shook her head. "I don't think of myself-nor
my mother-as brave."

"Your mother was braver than you know. But she
changed after she married."

Tears welled in Mhoire's eyes. She blinked them away.

"You miss her."

Mhoire nodded and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I
wish ..." Her throat closed up. She tried again. "I wish she
had spoken with me more. Like a mother." An image rose
in Mhoire's mind-Eveline sitting in her chamber on a cold
day, shoulders slumped, staring silently out the window.

Nila's voice was as light as a feather in the wind. "Sometimes when we carry a great sorrow, we can see no one's
burden but our own."

Tears spilled down Mhoire's face. Her right hand closed
around the leather pouch that rested against her breast.

"You are carrying a charm?" Nila asked.

Mhoire sniffled hard. She looked down at the pouch.
"Pebbles. I found them after my mother died. Three round
pebbles in a silver box." She looked at Nila then, her eyes
swollen with tears. "Do you think I should marry him?"

"I think you must follow your own path."

"But I'm so afraid," Mhoire whispered.

Kindness pooled in the old woman's eyes. She took
Mhoire's hand and gripped it hard.

For a few minutes, they sat in silence. Then Mhoire
roused herself. "I must go back. It's getting late."

"Aye. Go back along the beach. That's the best way."

Mhoire rose and looked down at the old woman. "Won't
you walk with me?"

Nila waved her away. "You go along, child. I'll return
shortly."

A half-hour later, Mhoire stepped onto the beach. Clouds
were scudding across the open sky. The tide was up, almost
high. To avoid the cold surf, Mhoire picked her way across
the cobblestones that littered the upper reaches, between
the sand and the grassy bank.

She had to watch her footing carefully so as not to turn
an ankle or slip on seaweed. Absorbed in that task, it was
a few moments before she noticed the stones under her
boots. They were all colors: white, pink, green with red
flecks, dark blue striated with thin bands of black. She
dropped to her knees. Carefully, she picked up one and then
another, turning each stone in her hand and looking at it
closely. Then she pulled the leather pouch from around her
neck and emptied its contents into her palm.

Her stones-her mother's stones-were the same as
these that lay all about her. The same shades of pink and
green and blue. Beautifully smooth and rounded by the sea.
They were Dun Darach's stones, and her mother had treasured them all these years.

A deep sob hurled up from Mhoire's chest. Then another
and another. Her lungs compressed in a great spasm and
then released in a flood of tears. She gulped for breath, and
her body convulsed again. She wept uncontrollably, helplessly. It was as if her soul, suppressed for so long, had
finally seized her body. And it poured out dark streams of
sorrow.

She could not say how long she crouched there. But eventually the sobs lessened and she felt the hard stones
digging into her knees. She wiped her face with her sleeve.
Clumsily she tucked her three pebbles back into their pouch
and slipped the leather strap over her neck. She pushed
herself to her feet. The sky now was calm, and clouds lay
across it in long silver ribbons. The sea was the color of
pewter and just as smooth. Where light filtered through a
cloud and beamed upon the water, it shimmered palely, like
an angel's wing.

Mhoire blinked back the last of her tears, tucked her hair
behind her ears, and straightened her shoulders. Dun Darach was directly in front of her. She strode toward it.

"I
suppose we could use our daggers." Mhoire sat back
on her heels in a corner of the gathering hall, her brow
furrowed. "But I wish we had more of them. We must dig
those weeds out of the fields with something."

"I know where we can get more." Grainne gestured to
the other side of the hall where the men's belongings were
piled. "Those men have daggers and knives of all descriptions hanging from them."

The women had spent the night at one end of the gathering hall; the warriors had slept at the other end-except
for the sentries whom Drosten had posted to keep watch,
and Drosten himself, who had slept outside.

"Grainne! We're not going to steal their daggers."

Grainne's face set in stubborn lines.

Mhoire turned back to her own neat pile of possessions.
She wished she had brought more things with her.

Suddenly, Oran's high voice rung out. "You have to
wash your hands!"

Mhoire turned on her knees and faced the center of the
hall. Four of Drosten's men were standing in front of the
hearth fire on which Elanta was cooking porridge in an iron
pot. Tiny Oran was flitting from one man to another, prying
their brawny hands from the metal cups they were holding
and inspecting them closely.

"Nay, nay," she was saying to one scruffy individual,
shaking her head. "Your hands are too dirty. You must wash them before you can eat." She pushed him in the
direction of the wash bucket.

Mhoire rose to her feet. "What's this?"

Elanta paused in her stirring, looked at Mhoire out of
the corner of her eye, and then continued with her task.
"Breakfast, of course." She filled one man's cup and gave
him a brilliant smile. He blushed, mumbled a word of
thanks, and settled cross-legged on the ground.

Mhoire walked up to the fire. "I thought I explained this,
Elanta. The men take care of themselves, and we take care
of ourselves." Two red spots formed on Mhoire's cheeks.
Elanta's face, on the other hand, was as placid as a summer's day.

"Good!" Oran's voice piped up. Brian, the curly-haired
young man, walked up to the porridge pot, grinning.

Elanta colored slightly. "We thought it only fair,
Mhoire," Elanta explained as she filled his bowl, "that we
share our porridge with the men since they had shared their
venison with us." Elanta filled another bowl and held it out
to Mhoire. "Besides, they are our guests."

Mhoire sighed and took the bowl. "Not exactly." She
picked up a spoon and ate silently.

Elanta settled Oran next to her, and Mhoire dropped
down beside them. She noticed the resemblance between
mother and daughter, especially in their sheaths of silky
blond hair. She couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy
over Elanta's magnetic beauty.

"The Picts are your enemy, are they not? They have
overrun this country numerous times in the past."

"Och. That was a long time ago." She glanced at the
men and then at Mhoire. "Anyway, they look peaceful
enough now, don't they?"

They certainly did. Mhoire frowned as she watched the
big warriors contentedly shovel food in their mouths. They
were an ill-kempt bunch, in their stained tunics and scuffed
boots. But they looked quite tame. Indeed, all of their attention seemed to be devoted to two benign tasks: getting food in their stomachs and stealing surreptitious glances at
Elanta.

"And where's your leader then this morning?" Brigit
called over to the men. "Or is he such a tough one he
doesn't need to eat?"

"Drosten, you mean? Oh, he loves his food as well as
any of us. But you won't find him cleaning himself up for
breakfast because a woman says so." His mouth split in a
good-natured grin.

"Aye, that's for sure." A bear of a man with a red beard
glanced around at his colleagues and gestured with his
spoon. "That's how he lost his last wife, remember?"

Mhoire stilled. His last wife?

"Fionna," Brian stated. The men all nodded.

"Who's Fionna?" Elanta asked.

Brian leaned forward conspiratorially. "A beautiful princess." The rest of the men nodded again. "The daughter of
Domangart mac Bili. She and Drosten were betrothed to
marry. He would have been king of the province if he had
married her."

"What happened?" Elanta's attention was riveted on
Brian. Even Brigit had her ears cocked. Mhoire kept her
eyes lowered on her empty bowl.

"Ah. It was quite a scandal-" Brian looked around and
lowered his voice. "Drosten was daft for her."

Daft for her? Mhoire felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. Against her will, she leaned slightly forward.

The red-bearded man spoke with his mouth full: "She
had yellow hair."

"Aye," Brian added. There was a dreamy look in his
eyes. "A tall woman. Huge purple eyes and-" He colored
and cleared his throat. "Well, like I said, Drosten was daft
for her. But he had responsibilities, you see. The Britons
were raising hell along the border, and we was out chasing
them constantly."

Suddenly, the red-bearded man reached out and clapped
Brian on the shoulder. "That's when you sliced off your
first head, lad. Remember that, do you, eh?"

Color crept up Brian's neck. "I do that, aye, Fergus." He
managed to look embarrassed and smug at the same time.

"Only sixteen, he was." Fergus's grin showed a row of
teeth as tangled as his hair and beard. "We knew he'd be
a grand fighter. Sliced it clean like he was taking the top
off a radish."

"So tell us about the princess, lad," Brigit demanded.
"Enough about you."

"Oh, aye, well-" Brian looked around again. Clearly,
this was gossip. "Fionna rejected Drosten. Chose another
man."

The women cast astonished looks at each other. Pictish
princesses clearly had more autonomy than most Irish or
Scottish females.

"It was shortly before the wedding," Brian continued,
"and Drosten and all of us had ridden right to her father's
fort from one of the worst battles we had been in." The
men nodded, remembering. "Drosten had this gash in his
head where a Briton had gotten him with an axe. We
couldn't believe he could even stay on his horse, but he
had promised Fionna he'd be there, so be there we had to
be. Well, we got to her father's fort, and we was all eating
in the hall." Brian lowered his voice even more. Everyone
inched closer. "Right in the middle of supper, she announced it to Drosten, just like that. Told him she was
marrying Uurgust. `Drosten,' she said, `you're uncivilized.
I can't marry you.' Everyone heard it."

"That's horrible," Elanta whispered.

"Aye. Twas." Brian shook his head. "Drosten, he just
stood up and walked away. Didn't say a word. Pale as a
ghost, he was. Then we all got back on our horses and rode
home."

"He's never been the same since," Fergus said mournfully. "Not near as much fun in him."