Warrior's Daughter (14 page)

I don’t know how long Cathbad left me there, in the one place in all of Emain Macha sure to be free from intrusion. When he returned, he took my face in his hands and stared down into my eyes.

“Better,” he nodded.

“I should think they would look worse,” I ventured.

“Red as a drunkard’s,” he agreed. “But better for all that.”

He sat down beside me, the dark penetrating gaze searching me still as I stroked Fintan and tried not to squirm.

“And now I must ask you something, Luaine, for Conchobor has asked me to announce your betrothal and to set the bride-price on your behalf. And while I serve the king, I serve the gods and the law also. And so I would know: do you agree to this match?”

I had never really asked myself the question. Now, in the quiet place Cathbad had made for me, I searched for my own will.

I had no love for the king. I could not imagine the king’s marriage bed would be a shared pleasure. So there was regret there, that I would not have a man I could delight in, when I had never even lain with a boy my own age.

But I had known enough real tragedy to realize that this was no tragedy. I was not Deirdriu, pining for her true love. My father had served the king, and Conchobor had been generous and loyal in return. He offered me a place of honor before the women of Ulster. My sons would be high princes. My daughters would stand tall in the eyes of our people.

I did not pretend to myself that I could refuse the offer. The choice was in my own heart: to submit unwillingly or to take my place as a true queen.

“Yes,” I told Cathbad, “I agree to the match.”

Shame, Blemish and Disgrace. That is what they call the three blisters raised by a poet’s curse, the blemishes that kill. But it is not to myself the shame and the disgrace belong. It is to Aithirne’s sons, who tarnished the poet’s calling and betrayed their honor.

I had been married less than a month when Conchobor took Cathbad and his other advisors, along with a troop of men, to Tara, the sacred center of Ireland. Maeve and Ailill had proposed a meeting, to exchange sureties of peace on either side. Conall Cearnach’s revenge had told on them, I suppose. I confess I was glad to see the king off; I was doing my best to play the proud young queen, but it was a lot to get used to. For a start, I had a hard time sleeping with a heavy snoring man pressed against me, and the thought of a few nights with a bed to myself were cheering.

The first day I slept, and then I wandered about with Roisin and allowed myself to be a girl again. On the second day, I decided it was time to visit my parents’ grave.

I dressed, not in my new finery, but in clothes I had brought from Dun Dealgan, wanting to come to them as the girl they had known. I put on the girdle of interlocking leaves my mother had given me in my first womanhood, and then I strapped on the sword that was my father’s gift. I come to honor you both, I thought.

And I came alone, despite the protests of the flock of women who attended me. I drew myself up to my full height—I was as tall as my mother now and growing still. I tried to feel within me the authority Emer had worn so easily and searched within myself for a voice belonging to a queen, not a rebellious girl.

“This is a private matter,” I said. “I would be alone with my parents, this last time, and have a space to grieve undisturbed.” And just like that, the nattering and scolding stopped, and they nodded respectfully and drew back. All except Roisin, who flashed me a cheeky grin and gave her fist a discreet twitch that eloquently cheered my success as she drifted out with the others.

It was a beautiful early autumn day, the light achingly clear, the fields turning golden, the air fragrant with harvest. The orchards would be heavy with fruit. The clouds passed high overhead, fleeting shadows with no threat of rain. It was a day to make even a graveyard beautiful.

They had put one great stone over the grave, engraved along two edges with Ogham. I knelt before it, and with my fingers I traced first one line—Cuchulainn, son of Sualtim—and then the other—Emer, daughter of Forgall. Two names, nothing more.

“Raise my stone over the grave of the Hound,” I murmured, “since it is through my grief for him I go to my death
.”
The last words I heard my mother say.

“It has been done, Ma,” I said to the blue sky. “May you be happy together, in whatever your next life holds.”

Only the kings of Ulster are buried within the walls of Emain Macha. The burial ground where my parents rested lay west of
the walls, for it is beyond the setting sun the souls of the dead must journey.

I took the long way back to the gate, leaving the road to walk through the orchards. It was the closest I had been to happiness in months, rambling under the fragrant trees with only Fintan and my own thoughts for companions.

“If only we could smell the sea, Fin.” I had a powerful longing, suddenly, for our quiet days in Muirthemne, the sweet roll of the plain falling away on every side and always, to the east, the endless expanse of the sea. My life now seemed to plunge along without me, and there was no going back to the child I once was.

I had realized almost immediately that Conchobor was not looking for a real queen, or even a real wife, but only an ornament for his arm. I wondered if even his first wife, the mother of his grown sons, had played any role in the governing of his kingdom before she died. If so, he had since grown used to ruling alone, relying on his trusted advisors. He was not about to include a mere girl, inexperienced and untried. For that matter, why should he?

So I would not be a powerful queen. But I should at least be head of my own household. Yet how was I to manage a house that had run on its own, under the iron hand of the steward, for so many long years? I was sure Deirdriu had not even tried. When I walked into the kitchens or asked to see the storerooms I was made to feel an intruder, despite the surface deference. There was nothing for me to do but dress my hair, try on the jewels Conchobor gave me, pretend that my needlework was more than a way to pass the time, and be a gracious conversationalist at table until the men were too drunk to notice. Even in private, Conchobor paid
me little mind. He had done nothing but snore and fart in our marriage bed since the quick drunken coupling of our wedding night. Not that I had any desire for him—far from it—but it was a humiliation that he had so little desire for me.

The golden sun and sweet silence washed over me as I walked along, puzzling over what I had become. Was this what my parents would have wished for me? From the outside, it seemed the very pinnacle of what I had been trained for. But the reality of it felt wrong.

Fintan’s raucous call, some way ahead, jarred me from my reverie. I wondered what—or who—he had found. A few minutes later, as I left the last of the trees behind and returned to the broad road that skirted the walls of Emain Macha, I saw walking toward me the two men who had attracted Fin’s attention. Redheaded, as like as twins, they were easy to recognize: Aithirne’s sons, Cuingedach and Abhartach. They were poets, like their father, and they had said high words at my wedding in praise of Conchobor and of myself.

I smiled and nodded a greeting to them as they approached, then I stopped in surprise as each man sank to one knee before me. As queen I would expect a respectful greeting, but the noblemen I knew were not over-fond of kneeling.

“It is our fair young queen!” proclaimed one. Cuingedach or Abhartach? I had not yet learned to tell them apart. “Luaine of the curly locks. Luaine with eyes as deep and blue as the sea. Luaine of the white throat, more beautiful than any torque or jewel that could adorn it.”

I had to grin. I supposed I would get used to it in time, but except for my wedding—when, after all, they were required to
find something nice to say—I had never been the subject of a poet’s praise. The giddy pleasure of it made my cheeks flush, and I had a bit of a struggle to regain my sense of decorum and give a suitably dignified reply.

“I thank you for your kind words.” I made to walk on, but the other one reached out for my hand.

“A boon, my lady. A boon for me and my brother.”

Sudden caution rumbled in my belly. I was a queen now, I reminded myself. It was a privilege and duty of my position to be hospitable and generous, and a mark of my standing that I could be asked a gift. I should be proud of the request—I
was
proud of the request. But the story of my father’s death had revealed to me the menace that can lie behind a poet’s words. I took a step backward.

“What boon would you request?” And though I tried to keep my voice calm and regal, I could hear the fear in it.

Suddenly they were both standing, pressing me on either side, their voices, so similar, a confused intermingling in my ears.

“We are suffering, Luaine, suffering from our love for you.”

“From the first day we looked upon you, our desire has grown.”

“It is a fire within us, my lady. It scorches and withers us. It is dead we will be, burned away by love, if you do not save us.”

“We are desperate before your beauty. Have mercy on our need, we beg of you.”

I could not believe what I was hearing, and my very incredulity left no room for fear. I pushed them both away from me.

“Are you mad? I am your king’s wife. You heard me take my marriage vows. I will not dishonor his name, nor my word!”

Their faces darkened, and the realization came upon me that I could be in real danger. One does not anger a poet lightly. I tried to soften my voice.

“Ask of me another boon, an honorable boon, I pray you. If it is within my power to grant it, I will.”

Four pale eyes stared at me, and I saw within them no fire of love, but rather cold will. And then they were on me, dragging me back into the orchard, pinning me against a tree, pressing themselves against me, and all the while one hand was clamped across my mouth so I could barely draw breath, and other hands pulled at my clothing and clutched at my body, and their voices hissed at me:

“We will quench our fires within you, whether you will or not.”

“You must be a friend to poets, little queen. Those who are not are soon sorry.”

I struggled against them, but there seemed no way to get an arm or leg free from their clutches, and in the next instant I was pushed to my knees.

There was an explosion in the trees, an ear-splitting screech. Fintan crashed into one brother’s head, claws outstretched, wings pummeling. Whoever it was he hit cried out and staggered back, beating uselessly at the unseen foe behind him.

It was all I needed. The red rage flowered within me, a heat that burned through my limbs and flamed behind my eyes. I was on my feet, my knee snapping up with a force I didn’t know I had, square between my remaining assailant’s legs. I had my sword free of its scabbard in time to meet his throat as he doubled over. And this time the voice that spoke held no hint of fear, but rang out clear and confident.

“I have not yet blooded this sword, but you can be sure I know how. Do not think the Hound has left his daughter unable to defend herself. It is only respect for your station that keeps me from slitting your throat.

“Get away from me now, and do not come near to me again, or Conchobor will hear of your shameful acts. And know that I will be girded with this sword from now on, and that next time I will not hesitate to use it.”

Fintan flapped over and perched protectively on my shoulder. The man I had kicked stumbled backward, still bent over, his face drained of all color from the pain. His brother, though, was scarlet with anger.

“You think it so simple a matter, to spurn a poet? You think a sword will protect you?”

“I think I have heard enough of your poison tongue. Take your brother and leave my sight.”

He turned his back to me, helping his brother regain his feet. I kept my sword leveled against them. And then, in a single swift motion, he twirled and flicked his arm.

Pain seared into my face. I cried out, clapping one hand to my cheek. A sharp shard was embedded there, the pain of it like a hundred hornet stings. Hot blood spilled through my fingers as the fiery needles pierced deeper with each beat of my pulse.

Laughter, scornful and triumphant, rang in my ears. I raised my sword once more.

“Poison tongue indeed, little slut! You will see now what the ill will of the poets can do. Your name will be reviled throughout Ulster as the most faithless of wives. And you—you, Luaine, daughter of the mighty Cuchulainn though you be—you will die.”

I watched in horror, through a haze of pain, as Abhartach took up the position of the spellcaster: balanced on one leg, one arm extended so that the finger pointed straight toward me, he glared at me through one eye and hurled the words of power in a voice that carried to the skies. “I, Abhartach Mac Aithirne, curse you. Let Shame, Blemish and Disgrace rise upon your face for all to see, and let them spread, and eat away your heart, and kill you.”

The strength drained from my legs like the receding tide and they buckled of their own accord and without my notice. What gripped me, I know now, was fear, but I thought at the time I would die right there under the trees. My vision had darkened and blurred, so that I looked down a kind of hazy tunnel to see only the two brothers as they swaggered down the road. There was a drumming in my ears that drowned out thought, the violent blows of a heart that seemed to have swelled up into my throat and must soon burst from its casing or crush my windpipe.

Cursed
is what that drumming said.
You are cursed, cursed, cursed...

I had been raised to venerate the poets. My models were men like my teacher Lasair, a man of learning who delighted in his own words, yet was patient with a child’s imperfect efforts to recite them. Men like Sencha, Conchobor’s peacemaker, a man respected by all for his wise words and fair mind. Abhartach and Cuingedach were of another type entirely. I had not dreamed of such treachery and malice.