Heart's Blood (37 page)

A sound of voices as I approached the kitchen door. I was not the only one up early.

“If it’ll set his mind at ease, I’ll stay up here with her.” Olcan’s voice. “Me and Fianchu both.”

“You’re needed down on the boundary.” Rioghan this time. I hesitated at the foot of the steps. “If anything goes wrong, you must be in position to call Anluan and Magnus back.”

“Maybe so,” Olcan said, “but if he doesn’t think Gearróg can do the job on his own, Anluan’s going to insist on one of us staying. If it’s not me, it has to be Magnus. And if Magnus stays, Anluan goes down there on his own.That’s not right.”

I walked up the steps and through the doorway.“If you’re talking about who’s supposed to watch over me this morning,” I said, “I don’t see why anyone need do so. I’ll do what I usually do, sit in the library and work.The inner door can be bolted and Gearróg can guard the other.”

“Anluan says Gearróg on his own isn’t enough,” Magnus said.“Cathaír’s been given the job of controlling the guards up on the wall. We’ve made various other suggestions, but Anluan doesn’t like any of them. Bit of a sticking point.”

I glanced from one man to another. Magnus had on the field armor he had worn the day I first saw him in the settlement, a protective chest-piece of old leather, padded clothing beneath it, and buckled leather strips bracing his forearms. His gray locks flowed over his broad shoulders. He looked every bit the warrior. There was a frown on his brow, and it was mirrored on Olcan’s features. Rioghan was tapping on the table with his long fingers.Time was getting short.

“I’ll be perfectly safe with Gearróg,” I said. “But if Anluan has doubts, why can’t Eichri stay?”

“Eichri’s required out on the hill, as am I,” Rioghan said. “Everyone has a job for the morning.”

“Well,” said Magnus, lifting the porridge pot from hearth to table, “whatever happens, I suppose we still have to eat. Might almost be simpler if you came down to the settlement with us, Caitrin. I think that’s what he wants.”

“That wouldn’t be right. These are councillors, not ordinary messengers. If they can’t speak Irish, they’ll bring a capable interpreter.”The idea of accompanying Anluan on his mission felt completely wrong. Whatever I might wish I could be to him, I was only a hired helper, one of the ordinary folk. “I’ll talk to him,” I said.

“Now might be a good time.” Magnus jerked his head towards the open doorway. Looking out, I saw the chieftain of Whistling Tor standing by the pump, gazing up towards the half-visible guards on the high walkway. His hair, neatly tied back with a cord, made a single bright note in the misty gray of the morning. He wore his long cloak over a somber outfit that matched the stone wall behind him.

I went out. As I approached he turned towards me and I saw the look on his face, tight-jawed, grim, apprehensive.

“It will be all right.” I reached to take his hands, heedless of who might be watching, and his mouth softened slightly.“We all have faith in you.You should have faith in us.”

“Faith,” he echoed. “It’s an elusive thing. I can’t believe I’m about to do this.”

“You wouldn’t step back now, would you, right at the end?”

“No, Caitrin. I’ve set this in motion, and now I must be the leader it seems folk need here. It’s not the end, of course; today’s meeting is the beginning of something so big I can hardly bring myself to think of it. Caitrin, I spoke to you before about the risks, not just that I may lose my control of the host once I cross the boundary, but . . .You know what happened in the past. I’m worried about you.There are too many elements of this that we cannot predict.”

“I’ll be fine in the library. I’ll have Gearróg.” After a moment I added, “And Muirne, if she’s prepared to sit with me.”

“You mustn’t be in the library.” His tone was adamant. “Stay out of doors, but close to the house. The safest place for you is Irial’s garden. I’ll ask Olcan to leave Fianchu with you. Even so, this troubles me.”

He was thinking of what had happened to his mother, perhaps. But the situation was not at all the same. Besides, he’d said himself that Emer’s death might have been accidental. “I’m sure I’ll be safe,” I told him. “How soon are you going?”

He glanced up at the walkway again; the pacing forms of the guards flickered, dreamlike, amongst the shrouds of mist. “We’ve men on watch who will alert us when the Norman party rides into view,” he said.“That’s if anything can be seen through this mist. Magnus says we’ll have time to get down to the settlement before them, if they use the Whiteshore road.”

Magnus chose that moment to appear in the kitchen doorway.“Breakfast,” he said. “You can’t be a hero on an empty stomach.”

“Not much of a hero,” murmured Anluan. “But perhaps I can learn. Shall we go in, Caitrin?” He held out his arm.The gesture was formal, but as I slipped my arm through his, I had the curious feeling that each of us was incomplete without the other. Apart, we would always be wanting; together, we were whole.

Since I could not tell him this, I said,“Come home safely,” my voice so quiet that I might have been speaking to myself.

 

The sun rose higher and the mist dissipated. A call came from the sentries atop the wall, and Anluan and Magnus set off down the hill.With Fianchu following me, I went to Irial’s garden as Eichri, Rioghan and Olcan headed for their various positions. Everything had been planned to the last detail.

I settled on the bench with a basket of mending, needing an occupation for my hands. My stomach was tying itself in knots. I would not be at ease until I saw Anluan walk back in through that archway, smiling his crooked smile and telling me all had gone to plan.

Muirne had not been present at breakfast, but she joined me in the garden soon after the men left. She did not offer to help with the mending, simply sat at the other end of the bench and watched me, features grave, hands folded in her lap. Gearróg was stationed just inside the archway, spear in hand. Neither of them had much conversation today.

Time passed.A little breeze rustled the leaves of the birch tree. I patched the knee on a pair of Magnus’s trousers and repaired a seam on a gray tunic of Anluan’s.With my eyes on the plain linen, I saw instead his wan face, his troubled eyes, a lock of his hair escaping its cord to tumble down over his pale brow, frost and flame. I imagined him standing as straight as he could, facing Lord Stephen’s emissaries; in my mind, I heard his deep voice speaking with such authority that everyone sat up to listen. He could do it. Of course he could.

The tunic was done. I folded it neatly and put it back in the basket. I got up and stretched, glancing at the sky and trying to judge how much time had passed. I walked around the pathway, stooping to examine the heart’s blood plant. Buds were developing, their tight-furled forms barely hinting at the brilliant color to come. Within a turning of the moon, the blooms would be ready for harvest. There was a lean-to building against the garden wall, a low stone structure that I assumed might hold tools, including perhaps equipment for distillation and decoction; an herbalist like Irial must have had such paraphernalia. I’d never seen the place open; the door was bolted. Perhaps nobody had used it since his time. I entertained a brief vision of myself in there, making a perfect batch of heart’s blood ink. Then I returned to sit on the bench, thinking how long ago that day seemed when Anluan had accepted my wager.

“You appear agitated, Caitrin.” Muirne’s voice was calm as a millpond. “Are you having second thoughts about this plan?”

“Of course not!” I snapped, my fraying nerves getting the better of me. “The plan makes good sense. Everyone agreed to it.”
Except you.
I fished in the basket for more mending, something to stop me from getting into an argument with Muirne, which would achieve nothing beyond upsetting me further. “I’m sorry,” I made myself say. “I am a little edgy.” It seemed I’d even upset Fianchu. He’d been lying at my feet, but now his head was up, his ears were pricked, and a subterranean growling was issuing from his throat. “Be calm, Fianchu, lie down, good boy.”

The dog ignored me, scrambling up to stand alert, the warning growls becoming barks of challenge. Alerted by the sound, Gearróg came along the path towards us. “What is it—aaaghh!” His words were lost in a groan of pain as he crumpled to his knees, his spear falling with a metallic clang to the stones of the path. He doubled up, shielding his head with his hands. His chest heaved; a powerful shaking possessed his body.

I jumped to my feet, mending forgotten. “Gearróg, what’s the matter, what’s wrong?” He was in terrible pain, hunched over and moaning. Fianchu began to whine, as if he, too, was in agony. A moment later, as I was crouched beside Gearróg, trying to get him to kneel up, the big dog bolted out through the archway and off into the forest. “Muirne, help me!” My guard’s body was seized by retching spasms; he fought for breath. “Fetch someone, quickly! We need help!”

No answer. I glanced frantically over towards the seat, but nobody was there. During the commotion, it seemed Muirne had slipped away from the garden.

“Gearróg, I’ll get help.Try to lift your head, here . . .”

Gearróg swung out suddenly, catching me across the arm and chest. I went sprawling backwards onto the flagstones, jarring hip and elbow.“Stop, make it stop!” he yelled. “Keep away! No! No!” The arm swung again. I ducked my head to avoid it. His eyes were wild. Whatever he was seeing, it surely wasn’t me.

My heart hammering, I got onto one knee.Try to help him or run away as fast as I could? He swiped the air, then clapped his hands over his ears. His features were twisted in a grimace of agony.“Make it stop!” he screamed.

Somewhere out in the forest Fianchu was barking. I crouched just out of Gearróg’s reach.

“Gearróg, it’s Caitrin.” I hardly knew my own voice, it was shaking so much.“Caitrin, you remember? I’m trying to help you. Just hold on a little longer. I’m going to fetch someone—”

Shouts broke out on the walkway, not warnings of coming danger but cries of pain. I looked up. Men were staggering, falling, clutching onto whatever they could find to stop themselves from a long drop to the courtyard. Weapons clattered down as hands lost their grip. Two men were at each other’s throats, fingers squeezing, legs braced, eyes bulging. Another snatched up a fallen knife and charged along the narrow way, screaming.

“Muirne!” I yelled. “Muirne, where are you? I need help!” A warrior leaped up onto the parapet, spreading his arms as if to launch himself into flight, and there was Cathaír, seizing the man’s leg, shouting, “No, you fool! Hold fast! Hold fast, all of you!” One of the monks was cowering in a corner, trying to fend off a big fellow with an axe. Dear God, what was this?

A sudden chill by my right side. The ghost child was there, Róise clutched in one hand, the other slipping into mine.“Catty,” she whispered, “my head hurts.” And then, sharp and distinct, there came to my nostrils the smell of smoke. I whipped around, the child’s hand still in mine, Gearróg huddled on the pathway in front of me, and saw it seeping out under the library door, an insidious gray blanket. Through the glazed window something flickered, golden, deadly. The library was on fire. The manuscripts. The books. The grimoires—the ancient pages would go up like a torch. A burst of light, a flare of heat and the history of Whistling Tor would be gone.With it would go any chance of finding the counterspell.

“No!” shrieked Gearróg, rolling over, booted feet kicking, arms threshing. “Make it stop! Leave me be!”

Cold sweat broke out on my skin. From behind the library door I thought I could hear the crackling of hungry flames. I stood frozen as the child clutched at my skirt and began a piercing wail, “No fire! No fire!” Gearróg had come up onto his knees and was groping for his spear, which had rolled out of reach. His arm was twitching so violently that for now he had little chance of grasping the weapon.The smoke thickened around us. Blind panic was only a breath away.

“I need you to help me,” I said, squatting down beside the ghost child. “Take Róise up to my bedchamber right now. Run as fast as you can.You can get into my bed if you want. Stay there until I come, however long it takes.”

She obeyed, silent now, running across Irial’s garden through the drifting smoke and out through the archway. I turned back to find Gearróg on his feet with the spear in his hand, four paces away and facing me. His eyes were desperate. He would kill me without hesitation if he believed that would silence the voice in his head. Behind him the library burned.

“Gearróg,” I said shakily, “you’re a good man.You’re a warrior. Anluan needs you. He needs you to stand guard until he comes back up the hill. It won’t be long.”

The warrior shifted from foot to foot, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the spear shaft. His eyes darted from me to the walkway, where men still fought and yelled and fell.“Anluan doesn’t want me hurt,” I said.“I’m his friend. I’m your friend. Gearróg, the library is on fire. Please let me pass so I can save the books.” I edged forward; he stood immobile, blocking the way. God help me, if I didn’t get in there soon it would all be gone. “Gearróg, let me pass! Please!”

Gearróg lurched to one side, striking his temple with a clenched fist. “Stop your wretched ravings,” he muttered.This time he wasn’t talking to me. “Hush your poisonous prattling! Let a man do his work!”

Up on the walkway, someone started to sing. It was a ragged, desperate sort of song, dredged from old memory, the kind of tune a man reaches for when there is nothing else to keep the mind from tumbling right over into madness.
Stand up and fight, men of the hill . . .
A creaky old voice, not quite in tune, but raised high enough to cut through the mayhem of shouts and screams, scuffling and cursing:

Gearróg was staring up towards the walkway as new voices joined in, first one, then another, then more and more in an uncertain chorus.“
Brothers together
,” he muttered, “
we live and we die . . .”