Heart's Blood

chapter twelve

Cach morning I awoke while the two girls who shared my chamber were still rolled in their blankets, fast asleep. I had long been an early riser, and now, in the quiet time before the household began to stir, I allowed myself to read Anluan’s record of my summer at Whistling Tor, the summer that had changed my life and his. One page a day; I would not let myself read faster. I savored each surprising entry, feeling with him each moment of doubt, each little spark of hope.The longer it took me to reach the end, the better.While there were still pages unseen, I could pretend the link between us remained unbroken. I was not sure I wanted to read the last page, which must surely tell of his decision to shut me out of his future, the choice that made less and less sense the more I read.

Before the girls were astir, I would close the covers softly and slip the little book back into the pouch at my belt. I carried it everywhere. I thought of him constantly. There is a change in some inward part of me, he had written. I cannot tell if I welcome it or fear it. Muirne calls me foolish; she says nothing can change at Whistling Tor, not even its poor excuse for a chieftain. But you have changed me already. My heart beats more quickly. My blood runs more swiftly. Light bathes everything when you are near me, dazzling, terrifying. It is as if you have called me awake after a hundred years of sleep.

With Anluan’s voice beating in my heart, I sat at the desk by day, calming myself with the exercise of my craft. None of the tasks Donal gave me was taxing in any way. I was pleased that I could carry them out to his satisfaction, and happy that I need not spend my day keeping up cheerful conversation with the ladies of the household, pleasant women as they all were. Alone or in Donal’s silent company, I could hold Anluan’s memory close. I could contemplate this morning’s fresh page and dream of tomorrow’s.

I had agreed that Donal could send his letter to the senior lawman in Market Cross, questioning the matter of my father’s legacy and, in particular, the tenancy of the family home. In the end, the missive he dictated was somewhat more detailed than I had expected, setting out certain sensitive matters including Cillian’s assaults on my person and the false stories his mother had put about.

“I trust Colum completely, Caitrin,” Donal had said.“He taught me much of what I know. He’ll be discreet in his enquiries. I do want him fully apprised of the serious nature of this, especially if it turns out the local lawman has been derelict in his duty. Someone should have stepped in to assist you, or at the very least to ensure that you were being properly looked after.”

So I let him send it, and at the same time he dispatched messengers to seek out Maraid and Shea, folk who would visit market squares and grand houses, the kinds of places where musicians might play. Donal was confident that Maraid would be found by the time his assistant returned to work. And if it took a little longer, he said, I must stay on, of course. He would discuss the situation with all of us together, Maraid and Shea and me, and help us make whatever decisions were required.When I protested that I should not stay on after the wedding, both Donal and Maeve insisted that I would not be at all in the way. Indeed, Donal said, it seemed he had sufficient work to keep two assistants busy. If I wished to continue helping him, he would pay me for my efforts.

The sun rose on Donal and Maeve’s wedding day.The sky was a tranquil blue with not a cloud to be seen. After a substantial and noisy breakfast, everyone changed into their best apparel and set off on foot for the local church, where a simple but touching ceremony was enacted. I had feared my presence would set a blight on my host’s day of happiness, but I was swept up in the joy of the occasion and almost forgot my own problems until the moment we arrived back at Donal’s house to find a messenger waiting.

“I’d best speak to you alone, Master Donal.” Under his broad-brimmed hat, the man’s face was very serious. A frisson of unease ran through me.

“Is it about my sister? Maraid?”

An awkward pause as folk chattered and laughed, going in the door behind us.

“We’ll go to the study,” Donal said, glancing at his new wife.“I’m sorry, my dear.”

“Go on,” said Maeve with a smile. No doubt she had known what it would mean to marry a lawman. “If there’s news, Caitrin needs to hear it straightaway.”

Then we were in the study, Donal, the messenger and I, and still the man seemed reluctant to speak.

“Come on, out with it,” Donal said.“You can speak in front of Caitrin; she’s the one who is seeking information in this particular instance.”

The man cleared his throat. “I have news, yes, but it’s not the best sort of news. Maybe the young lady should be sitting down.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “Tell me!” My voice was shaking. “What’s happened? Is my sister all right?” For although I had known we might not find Maraid and Shea immediately, I had never thought that something might be badly amiss with them.

The messenger glanced at Donal, and Donal nodded assent.

“They were staying at the big house in Five Birches, that’s quite some distance north, when an illness struck the household,” the man said.“Many folk fell sick and some died of it, including the chieftain’s own son.And . . . well, the musician, Shea, was one of the unlucky ones.Vomiting and purging one day, gone the next.”

“Gone?” My mind was not making sense of this.“Gone where?”Then, as both men regarded me with somber faces, “You mean . . . you mean Shea is dead?”

“Sit down, Caitrin.” Donal came across and took my arm.“Come, now, sit here.” He turned back towards the messenger. “These are ill tidings. How long ago did this occur?”

“Some while ago, I was told. The widow, Maraid, she’s gone home to her folk in Market Cross, her and the child. There was nobody to take them in up at Five Birches.That household lost many of its own, and for a while it was all at sixes and sevens.”

I knew that if I tried to stand up my legs would not hold me. My head reeled; my stomach lurched. Be strong, Caitrin. “Child?” I croaked. “What child?” Perhaps the messenger had got things confused, and this sad tale was not Maraid’s but someone else’s.

“You didn’t know? The young woman, Maraid, had an infant; it wasn’t more than a couple of months old when her man passed away.Your sister was lucky she and the baby weren’t struck by the sickness, and that they had somewhere to go.”

Lucky. Her husband dead before he was five-and-twenty, her child fatherless, and me, her only sister, away in the west where she could not reach me. And now Maraid was in Market Cross, in that house, with her baby.The two of them were at the mercy of Ita and Cillian.

“Caitrin.” Donal crouched down beside me in his wedding clothes and held out a cup of mead. “Take a few deep breaths.You’re among friends here, and we will help you.” He dismissed the messenger, telling him to wait outside, then came back in and quietly shut the study door. “This is sad news indeed,” he said. “A terrible shock for you. Weep all you want, my dear.”

But I couldn’t weep. That was too much of a self-indulgence; a waste of precious time. Every moment I spent in this hospitable place was another moment of sorrow, of fear, of crushing loneliness for Maraid and her child. I saw her in the house at Market Cross, weighed down by grief, and I saw myself as I had been after Father’s death, an empty shell, all alone in the world.

“I have to go there,” I said, getting to my feet.The chamber rocked and swayed; I drew a deep breath and stiffened my spine.“Now.Today. Maraid’s there with them. I must go to her.”

To his credit, Donal did not remind me that this was his wedding day. He did not tell me I was being ridiculous. Instead he called in Fidelma and Brendan. Fidelma settled herself beside me, her arm around my shoulders. The men sat opposite. A discussion ensued and a plan was devised. I would leave Stony Ford in the morning, accompanied by Brendan and Fidelma, along with the very large young man who looked after Donal’s horses and performed heavy duties about the place. Aengus happened to be the district wrestling champion.

“I’ll be far happier if you have some brawn to back you up, Caitrin,” Donal said. “Aengus can drive the cart and help to procure lodgings on the way. Make sure he’s there when you first confront your kinsfolk.You should go to see Colum as soon as you arrive in Market Cross, and before you make any attempt to go to the family home. He should have received my letter and read it, but of course he won’t know you are on your way. We cannot be sure what reception your kinsfolk will give you.”

“I’m frightened for Maraid. Cillian may be cruel to her. And the baby—anything could happen—”

“And you would rather be off right now, yes, I understand that,” Donal said. “But you do need the rest of today to prepare, Caitrin. Brendan can write his report on your state of health and take it with him, to produce if anyone should query your capacity to make your own decisions.You and I need to sit down and discuss inheritance law.You must be able to set out your argument clearly. These kinsfolk may attempt to convince you that they were within their rights when they took over your father’s house.”

“But—”

“You don’t go into battle without preparing your weapons. Believe me, not to take this time would be a grave error. Maraid has managed without you thus far; one more day can make little difference.”

I knew he was speaking sense, though my mind and body were gripped by the urge to act. Maraid must not be hurt as I had been. I could not let it happen.

“We’d best put in an appearance out there,” Fidelma said,“just to reassure Maeve.”

I came abruptly back to the here and now.The wedding day; Maeve; the house full of guests. “Donal, I can’t expect you to do this today. And how can I ask Fidelma and Brendan to leave so soon? Poor Maeve. I’ve spoiled everything.”

“Not at all,” said Donal. “Maeve knows how things are likely to be from now on. It’s my great good fortune that she’s taken me on in spite of that. As for these two, if they didn’t want to go with you they’d say so, believe me.”

“Nonetheless,” put in Fidelma, “we should all go out and join in the festivities, if only for a little. And you, Donal, might reassure your wife that you’ll set aside only an hour or so before supper to explain these legal matters to Caitrin. Maeve will want you to be present for supper, and for dancing afterwards.You mustn’t disappoint her.”

The lawman gave his leprechaun grin. “You’re a paragon of practicality and tact, Fidelma. I quite understand why my brother wed you. And I won’t disappoint Maeve in any way at all, I trust.” He became suddenly serious. “Caitrin, you’ve had bad news and you’ve a great deal to think about. I imagine you’ll be wanting quiet and solitude.”

“All in good time,” Fidelma said. “Some food and drink first, I think, and you might have a little word with Maeve yourself, Caitrin. She may well understand what being a lawman’s wife means, but there’s a limit to the tolerance even of a saint.”

We were three days on the road. Two nights we spent in the houses of folk known to Donal. Aengus soon proved his worth, smoothing the way for us with his quietly insistent manner. What that did not achieve, his intimidating bulk did. Fidelma and Brendan kept me company without asking too many questions. I could not sleep.As the miles passed, I thought of the house at Market Cross, and the long time of darkness I had spent there seemed to outweigh the happy years that had gone before. I should be brave. I had a guard. I had friends. I had a doctor who would vouch for my competence and a lawyer whom I could call upon for help. But Cillian had hurt me, and his shadow was a long one. When I thought of Ita, I remembered weeping before her, pleading with her, and I heard her saying, My son would not punish you unless you deserved it, ungrateful girl. At night, when weariness finally overtook me, my dreams were full of dark wells and rending claws. I woke exhausted, wondering if I were not, after all, the same fearful woman who had fled Market Cross a season ago.

I was still rationing myself to one page of Anluan’s book each morning. On the day when we expected to reach Market Cross, I read these lines:

Can a split quill write fair script?

Can a blunt axe cut wood for the fire?

Can a cripple please a lady?

That shocked me so much I broke my self-imposed rule and turned to the next page. There, so familiar I thought I could remember every word of the conversation Anluan and I had shared that morning, was a scrap cut from the parchment sheet on which he’d first attempted the new method of writing. Caitrin, it read. Caitrin. Caitrin. Tears stung my eyes. I wanted to turn another page, and another, to devour the whole book, for it seemed a feast after famine. But I did not. It was too precious to squander thus; I would savor each morsel in turn.

A cripple. I had never thought of him in that way, except perhaps on that very first day when he had lurched across the garden and frightened me. I could swear that none of his household even saw the disability anymore. “You would please me,” I murmured, remembering the mirror of might-have-been, the rise of my body, the thrust of his, the power and rhythm of it. “I know you would.” But perhaps that was foolish. Muirne had more or less told me Anluan was incapable of the act of love. How she had learned this, I could not imagine, but I was becoming convinced this was his main reason for sending me away so abruptly. I could not doubt his feelings for me, not after reading this book with its tenderness, its passion, its confusion.

With a sigh I put the book away and began to dress. Aengus had said that if we started off straight after breakfast we would reach Market Cross in the afternoon, all being well. As I took off my nightrobe and donned shift, stockings and gown, I tried to imagine what might happen when I walked in through the door of my childhood home. I did not like any of the variations my mind showed me. I won’t be afraid of them, I won’t, I told myself, but the churning feeling did not leave my belly. Sheer panic was not far away, the kind of fear that would send me fleeing inside myself. This is foolish.You must help Maraid.And you don’t have to do this alone. But perhaps I did have to do it on my own, or I would never conquer the terror that lurked deep inside me, threatening to cripple me when I most needed to be strong and whole.

One step at a time. If I looked neat and tidy, I might feel a little more in control. I would plait my hair and pin it up, then tie on a scarf. At least that would keep out the dust of the journey.

There was no mirror in the chamber where I was lodged. I reached into my bag and took out the little old one I had brought from Whistling Tor, propping it on a shelf. I laid the hairpins ready beside it, then put my hair into a single long braid. When I was ready to coil it atop my head, I glanced into the mirror. My heart leapt.There he was, standing in his bedchamber, clad in warrior’s garments, a leather breast-piece, wrist and arm braces. He was staring down at something held in one long-fingered hand, something small and glinting—a fragment, a shard of glass?

“Anluan,” I whispered, but he could not hear me. As I stared, not daring to move lest I cause the image to vanish, he turned the item one way then another, as if changing the angle of it might make a difference, and I saw that it was a jagged piece of mirror. It caught the light from his lamp, now shining like a star, now, when he turned it, dark as night. The mirror of might-have-been; the broken mirror. Did I only imagine that I saw his crooked mouth form the name Caitrin as he struggled to make the shattered glass show him once more the image that had made him smash it to pieces?

“I’m here,” I breathed. “I’m here, beloved, dearest one . . .”

He straightened; looked up and around, almost as if he had sensed my call. But it was another summons he had heard. I saw him slip the piece of glass under the pillow on his bed, then go to the door. He paused to scrub a hand across his cheeks. He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.Then he opened the door, and there was Magnus, clad in similar garb, with a sword by his side. Anluan stepped out; the door closed, and the scene was lost. A moment later, there in the mirror was the chamber that had been mine. It seemed much as I had left it: neat, bare, empty. The place was a study in grays, shadow on shadow. The door stood slightly ajar. The only light was from the gallery openings beyond. It seemed to be dusk, or a stormy day.

One shadow caught my eye: a neat figure sitting cross-legged in the center of the floor with the little doll, Róise, in her hands. Not the ghost child. Muirne. Her eyes stared straight ahead; her expression was perfectly calm. Her hands worked in spite of that, pulling, tearing, ripping every remaining shred of hair from the doll’s linen scalp. Such strength in those hands; such violence that it sent a tremor of sheer horror into my bones. The little scarf I had made to cover the earlier damage lay on the floor beside Muirne’s outspread skirt, torn into pieces. Muirne’s face told me nothing, but now that I had seen Anluan’s notebook, I thought I could guess what was in her mind. She’s gone at last, gone forever, far, far away, and still she consumes your thoughts. She came here, you let her in, and she changed you. She changed everything.

“Caitrin? Are you ready for breakfast?”

The image fled. The mirror showed me my own face, eyes wide with shock, cheeks stained with tears. I was as white as Róise: linen pale.“I won’t be long,” I called to Fidelma through the closed door. I rolled the mirror in my nightrobe and thrust it back in my bag. My plait had unwound itself; I braided it again with my mind on Muirne’s detached gaze and her furious, destructive hands. That scene made no sense. I was gone from Whistling Tor.What could she hope to achieve by destroying my possessions? Was the woman simply unhinged?

And Anluan . . . I had seen him racked with regret and uncertainty, just as I was. I had seen him dash the tears from his cheeks and walk through his doorway to greet what faced him—another day as leader, another day of preparation for an impossible battle. He had found the courage hidden deep inside him.

He had been cruel to me that last night, taxing me with my cowardice over Cillian. But I had been crueller; what I had said was indefensible. Despite that, he had moved on bravely.Today, I recognized that he had been right to challenge me. I would not conquer my particular monster unless I could walk into that house in Market Cross and confront Ita and Cillian alone.

The day was sunny and bright, but not everything in this part of Connacht was so fair.We saw a troop of Norman men-at-arms riding to the north, the sun glinting on their shirts of chain links and glancing off their weapons. They bore long shields and wore helms of metal with nose guards. They looked formidable. Aengus pulled the cart into a byway and we sat there quietly as they passed.

Later, we saw a house and barn that had been burned. A thread of smoke still rose from the scorched remnants of the place, and something dangled from a tree, like a broken doll.A dog was barking hysterically, running to and fro on its rope, hurling its defiance at an enemy long gone. The men made Fidelma and me wait on the cart while they went to see if there was anyone who could still be helped. I saw Aengus release the dog; it bolted.The men came back and, in silence, we rode on.

I could have done with a councillor, someone like Rioghan, to make a plan and help me execute it. As it was, I made my own plan, which I explained to my companions as we neared the settlement. Confronting my enemy all alone would be foolhardy. It would put not just my safety but that of Maraid and her child—Holy Saint Brighid, I hadn’t even asked if it was a boy or a girl—in danger. That I would not do. So I explained how the plan would work, and the part each of us should play in it, and was pleasantly surprised when all three of them agreed without demur. Rioghan would have been proud of me.

My heart was beating fast and my skin was clammy with nervous sweat, but there was a purpose in me now, a will to succeed that was growing every moment. My strength was building with every turn of the corner, with every creak of the cartwheels, with every step that took me closer to my destination.

We reached Market Cross in midafternoon. Outside the home of the senior lawman, a substantial house shielded by a tall fence of woven wattles, we dropped off Fidelma, after sending Aengus in to make sure Colum was at home. Then Aengus drove us on until we were at the town square. He drew the cart to a halt beside the patch of well-trampled grass that housed the weekly market from which the town had got its name. On the far side of the square my childhood home could be seen: a comfortable dwelling of modest mud bricks, whose thatched roof was decorated with owls fashioned from straw. I got down, making myself breathe slowly. I squared my shoulders just as I had seen Anluan do, then walked across the grass to the front door. Aengus came behind me, while Brendan stayed with the cart and horses. By now, one or two passers-by had noticed our arrival, and there was some talk and gesturing. I could imagine what they were saying: Oh, there’s poor Caitrin home again!You know, Berach’s daughter, the one who lost her wits and ran away.

With my head held high, I stepped up to the door and knocked sharply. Anluan, I said silently to myself, making his name a charm against faint-heartedness. I knocked again. “Ita, open the door!” I called out. Still no response. They were home. The kitchen fire was smoking and I could hear someone out in the yard, raking or sweeping. The thready squalling of a small baby added itself to the mix, sharpening my courage. It was my house, after all. I gave the door a push, but it did not budge. I glanced at Aengus.

He put his shoulder to the wood and shoved.The door fell open with a crash. Following the instructions I had given him, Aengus took up a post against the wall just outside the doorway, where he could not be seen from within the house. I walked in.

The noise brought Ita to the kitchen doorway, where she stood with hands on hips, surveying me, a tall, thin figure with her hair scraped back tightly under a cloth. A curious sequence of expressions crossed her face. Whoever she had thought might be making a violent entry into the house, it was certainly not me.

“Caitrin!” She summoned a smile. It was as convincing as a grin painted onto a scowling gargoyle. “You’re safe!”

I almost asked her to explain; almost gave her the opportunity to tell me how fortunate it was that I had not been slain, or worse, by the evil sorcerer whose lair I had foolishly stumbled into—Cillian would have brought back his own version of events, I was sure. But no, I would not ask Ita for anything. I had several things to say, and I would not let her stop me, not this time, not ever again.

“Where is my sister?” I heard the iron in my own voice. Within the house somewhere, the baby was still crying.

Ita moved to take my arm; to usher me into the kitchen that had once been Maraid’s pride and joy, the warm heart of our home. Forcing myself not to wrench away, I allowed her to seat me at the table.The chamber was no longer bright and welcoming. Maraid’s weavings, the flowers she used to set here and there in jugs, the strings of onions and bunches of dried herbs were absent. Yet Maraid was here; had been for some time. With a chill in my bones, I waited for Ita to answer my question.

“Maraid is resting. She’s been quite ill. The baby is sickly. She’s always crying, crying—it’s enough to try anyone’s patience to breaking point. But we took them in, your sister and the child, since Maraid had nowhere else to go. And now you’re here, Caitrin.”

“How burdensome for you,” I said grimly, holding on to calm. “A grieving widow, a crying baby and now a madwoman as well—it really is too much for you to shoulder. I think you and Cillian would be best to move back home.”

Her eyes darted to me then, and quickly away again. I saw her draw a deep breath and compose herself. “This is our home now, Caitrin, you know that; it came to Cillian on your father’s death. As for the burden, the obligations of kinship can be onerous, that is true, but we accept them. It is our duty.” She took a jug from a shelf, then stood holding it as if she had forgotten what she was doing. “I must call Cillian,” she said.

“If you wish.When you call him, please call Maraid as well.”

“I said she’s resting. If you’re home for good, Caitrin, and I take it that is so, you will have plenty of time to see her.” Ita had set the jug down.“You must be tired yourself after such a long journey. Cillian said you were far to the west, almost on the coast.” Her gaze sharpened suddenly.“Are you with child to this cripple you were lodged with? Is that what brings you back here? There are limits to our generosity, Caitrin—what Berach left will only stretch so far.”

“Call my sister,” I said. “And call Cillian. I have something to say to you and it won’t wait.”

Cillian had been out in the yard. At his mother’s call, he came to the doorway where he leaned, staring at me. For a moment the old panic gripped me. I felt his hands on me; my skin ached with the memory of bruise on bruise. His smell was in my nostrils, bringing the dark time sharply back. “Cripple throw you out, did he?” he queried, grinning.

And then, in the opposite doorway, the one that led into the sleeping quarters, there appeared a wan figure, her clothing disarranged, her complexion blotched, her eyes reddened. She was a shadow of herself, her generous curves shrunk to nothing. She raised a hand to brush her hair from her brow, and the wrist was all bones.

“Caitrin,” she whispered. “Is it really you?”

A moment later we were in each other’s arms, Ita and Cillian quite forgotten. “Maraid! I’ve missed you so much! I’m sorry, oh, I’m so sorry about Shea!”

Maraid said something, but her face was pressed against my shoulder, and I could not understand her. She was shaking with sobs. She felt so frail that she might break apart. My lovely sister, buxom, rosy and full of life, had been reduced to this. It was not solely down to grief, of that I was certain, for Maraid had always been strong, resilient, a survivor. As I helped her to sit at the table—she seemed too weak, or too distracted, to do even that by herself—a cold strength entered my heart. I turned to face the two people I had feared most in the world; the two who had almost destroyed me.

“Listen carefully,” I said. “I’ve consulted a senior lawman in the matter of our legal situation, mine and Maraid’s. As Father’s only two children, Maraid and I became joint owners, on his death, of this house and all his worldly goods for our lifetime.You have no entitlement to any of it, Cillian, and nor does your mother.”And, when Ita made to interrupt,“Wait! Don’t try to tell me that I’m crazy, that won’t help you. I have a document from a physician testifying that I am entirely in my right mind. In the absence of sons, daughters inherit a life interest in their father’s property.This is set out under Brehon law, and I suspect you both knew that all along—why else would you intend to marry a woman you clearly despise, Cillian, save that you realized you had no legal entitlement to Father’s property? You probably expected to gain control of it through your children, those you imagined I would bear for you. Perhaps you hoped that I would conveniently die young, or that my mind would remain so confused that you and your mother must make all the decisions for me.”

For a little, the two of them simply stared at me.Then Cillian looked at his mother, raising his brows. “That’s not true, is it?” he said. “It can’t be.”

“Of course it isn’t.” Ita had folded her arms and set her jaw in a manner that was all too familiar to me. “Delusions, that’s what it is, brought about by these adventures Caitrin’s been having among God knows what kind of disreputable folk. Caitrin, you need rest; you need peace and quiet, my dear. I’ll have someone get your bedchamber ready . . .”

I saw it in her eyes, a realization that the comfortable world she had created for herself and her son was about to collapse, and the determination to stop me before I could make it happen. She’d rendered me powerless before; all she’d needed to do was lie.

“Oh, dear, what are we to do with you girls?” Ita’s voice was suddenly dripping honey as she came over to us, putting one hand on my shoulder and one on Maraid’s. “Let Maraid go, Caitrin.You’re upsetting her. Come, my dear, let’s get you off to your chamber—”

“Take your hand off me, Ita.” My voice was cold and calm; I had not realized I had such power in me.“I’m not finished yet.” I looked at Cillian, who was rolling up his sleeves. Perhaps he planned to move me forcibly if I would not obey his mother’s wishes and retreat into seclusion. “By all means challenge me under the law—that’s your entitlement. You should be aware that Maraid and I intend to follow due legal process to ensure we get our rights.”

“What are you talking about, foolish girl?” Ita’s tone had a new edge. “Legal process, entitlements . . .You’re not in your right mind and haven’t been since the day your father died. Indeed, even before that I always believed you somewhat . . . flighty. As for more recent times, the wild stories Cillian brought home from the west made it quite plain that you’d never be capable of living a normal life again.”

“Old ruin full of freaks and monsters,” Cillian rumbled. “Never seen anything like it. Nobody could stay long in a place like that without running mad.You’ve got even less wit than your sister, Caitrin.At least she saw the sense in coming home.”

I saw Maraid flinch.

“How dare you!” I could have struck him for his thoughtless cruelty. I put my arm around my sister’s shoulders.“Maraid came back here because she lost her beloved husband. She came because she and her child had nowhere else to go. And now that I’m here, we’re going to make this house into a proper home again, not the travesty it’s become since you moved in and took what was rightly ours. Now listen to me, and listen well.You will be out of this house before dusk.The two of you will not show your faces to me or to my sister ever again.”

A wrenching sob from Maraid; it made my heart sick to hear her.

“Where’s the baby, Maraid?” I asked quietly, my hand on her shoulder. “Is she safe?”

My sister nodded. “She’s in the bedchamber with Fianait.” Fianait had been an indispensable member of our household when Father was alive. A sturdy, good-natured girl, she had done everything from killing and plucking chickens to polishing fine silverware. Ita had dismissed her. If Fianait had come back, it meant Maraid had not been entirely friendless.“Caitrin, is this really true?” my sister said now. “I can’t believe it . . .”

“Nor should you.” Ita was struggling for calm now. “As I said, it’s a pack of nonsense. When did Caitrin ever become an expert in legal matters? Cillian, I think Caitrin may be a danger to herself. You’d best help her to her chamber . . .”

Cillian moved towards me, arms outstretched. Memory welled up in me; sudden panic held me motionless, a rabbit under the fox’s stare.

Maraid rose to her feet. “Don’t you dare lay your hands on my sister,” she said, and though her voice was faint, her courage blazed in her eyes. As she slipped her arm through mine, I remembered that I had a plan, and that I had friends, and that I was not the same woman who had fled this house a season ago.

“I’m not here alone,” I said quietly. “I referred to a physician. He’s waiting just outside. As for the legal situation, I think you’ll find I have the backing of the administrator for the district. His name is Colum, and you can expect a visit from him very soon. I want you packed up and ready to leave within an hour, Ita, and Cillian with you. If anyone sets a hand on me, or on Maraid, or on the child or Fianait, that will be added to the charges you already face. Think carefully before you resort to physical violence. Colum knows all about what Cillian did to me, both here and at Whistling Tor.”

“This is outrageous!” Ita had gone pale. “A—a conspiracy! How dare you circulate foul lies about my son, how dare you poison folk’s minds . . . Don’t think you can get away with this, Caitrin.We have witnesses, reliable folk who will support us—”

Cillian had not understood quite as well as his mother had.“You can’t order us out of the house!” he shouted. “We live here! It’s ours by right!” He reached for me again.

“Aengus!” I called. “You can come in now!”

The wrestling champion of Stony Ford was quick for such a big man. He appeared, all sweet smile and bulging muscles, and behind him came Brendan in his physician’s robe, looking as if he wouldn’t mind a sparring match himself. Cillian took a step backwards. His hands fell to his sides.

“Shall I throw him out?” inquired Aengus.

I felt a profound desire to say yes, but that would be to reduce myself to Cillian’s level. “Not yet,” I said. “My kinsfolk need a little time to pack up their things and arrange a lift back to their home settlement. A little time, not a lot. I want the packing supervised; they’re to take only their personal belongings. We don’t know yet the full extent of what Father left, but if there’s a store of silver or anything else of value in the house, these people must not be given the opportunity to take it with them.”

“This is ridiculous!” spat Ita. “You can’t forbid me to take my own things—”

A discreet knock at the door.

“That will be the lawman, Colum,” I said. “I think he may have some bailiffs with him. No doubt he’ll be wanting a word with you both before you go. I can’t be sure when the hearing will be, but I am quite certain Colum will expect all of Father’s goods to remain in the keeping of Maraid and myself until due legal process has been carried out. Brendan, will you let him in, please?”

“I feel so hopeless, Caitrin,” my sister said.“I’ve tried to be brave, for Etain’s sake, but sometimes . . .” She sighed, as if her thoughts were too sad to be put into words.

“Tell me, Maraid.”

The two of us were at the kitchen table alone. It was night.An oil lamp hung from a hook; beyond the circle of warm light, the chamber seemed full of shadows. Maraid had made an effort at suppertime, appearing with her hair combed and her face washed, but she was not herself.

The lawman, Colum, and his bailiffs had seen Ita and Cillian off the premises after stern words. My kinsfolk would be subject to the full force of the law. Colum had been working on our behalf since Donal’s letter first reached him, and he had news for me: there were indeed funds available to us, silver carefully set away for the purpose of providing for Maraid and me on our father’s death.There was no need for me to earn a living, at least not right away. There would be time to set our house in order; time to come to terms with our losses.

I had offered the hospitality of the house to Brendan, Fidelma and Aengus. After a happy reunion, Fianait had helped me prepare beds while Fidelma cooked supper. Now our guests were all abed; it had been a long day. I had seen the look on Fidelma’s face as she watched my sister push her food around her platter, eating almost nothing. I had noticed Brendan scrutinizing little Etain. Even to my inexpert gaze, my niece looked scrawny and pallid.

“I can’t tell you,” Maraid said now. “You’ll despise me, Caitrin.”

“I won’t,” I told her.“I’m your sister and I’m here to help make things better. Ita and Cillian are gone. We have the house; we have resources, Maraid. We have our self-respect. Those things can’t bring Shea back, I know. But . . .” I stopped myself. I knew all too well how it felt, that empty, blank hopelessness. “You need to tell someone,” I said. “Please, Maraid.”

“Etain,” she whispered. “Sometimes I don’t even like her very much, Caitrin. Sometimes I wish she wasn’t here. She cries all the time, as if she hates me. I’m no good as a mother. I should never have had a child.”

Silently I cursed Ita, for her influence was written all over this.

“Is that all?” I asked.

Maraid turned bleak eyes on me. “Isn’t it enough?”

“I’m not shocked.” But I was, just a little. Etain was so small and innocent, so fragile. “Maraid, you should let Brendan examine you in the morning.You look ill, not just sad and tired, but . . . to be honest, you look half-starved. And although I don’t know much about these things, people do say that if you’re nursing an infant you should eat more than usual, not less. Etain doesn’t hate you.A little baby isn’t capable of hate. She’s probably just hungry.”

“Ita said I should stop trying to feed her. She said goat’s milk would be better. But I do want to nurse her, Caitrin. I always thought I’d be a good mother. I don’t want to be a failure.”

“Well, then.” My attempt at brisk confidence fell something short. Maraid was crying and so was I. “Let’s make a sisters’ pact right now.” I headed for the pantry, where I filled a small bowl with suppertime leftovers—a little pease pudding, a scoop of soft cheese, a handful of dried plums.

“What are you doing, Caitrin?”

I set the bowl before her, then poured two cups of ale. “This is the agreement. You eat, and while you’re eating—I mean properly, not just playing with your food—I’ll tell you a story. Tomorrow, the same, but I’ll tell some of the story each time you feed Etain too.” Fianait had taken the baby away to settle her for the night. I would enlist Fianait’s help in the morning.

“A story? What story?” Maraid eyed the little meal without enthusiasm.

“An exciting one about a girl who runs away from home and goes to . . .You’ll have to start eating to find out where.”

“All right.” She picked up a single dried plum; I did not speak until she put it in her mouth and began to chew. A fleeting smile crossed her face. “You never used to be so bossy, Caitrin.What happened to you?”

“This girl,” I said, holding my ale cup between my hands, “had been very frightened; so frightened that she had lost sight of what was real and what wasn’t. So frightened that people thought she was out of her wits. She felt all alone in the world; she thought everyone she loved had deserted her.Then one day, out of the blue, she found the courage to flee. She ran, she walked, she took rides, she slept under hedges and in the shelter of haystacks, until the day a carter dropped her off in the middle of nowhere and drove away without a word.”

Intent on the story, my sister had stopped eating. I waited, eyes on the bowl.

“Bully,” Maraid said, getting up to fetch herself a spoon. “And then what?”

I told her how the girl had met two friendly strangers who had vanished when they were most needed; how she had prayed her way into a fortified village; how she had raced off up a hill in pursuit of a man named Magnus, and had been helped by a gnomelike person and a giant hound.

“And then,” I said as my sister put a piece of cheese in her mouth,“she wandered into a lovely little garden, all overgrown but full of bright flowers and singing birds, with a birch tree in the center, and a bench on which lay a book. Nobody was in sight. She wandered about, seeing how cleverly the plants had been chosen, and there, in a corner under a comfrey bush, she saw a clump of heart’s blood.”

Maraid made a little sound; she knew what a treasure that herb was.

“She stooped to admire it, and at that moment a commanding voice rang out behind her: Don’t touch that!” I stopped to take a mouthful of my ale, Anluan’s image strong in my mind: pale as snow, red as fire, blue as speedwell, sad as a broken heart.

“Who was it?”

“That must wait until next time.” I wanted to be sure I had captured her or this experiment might be short-lived. Her grief was deep; it would not be easily healed.

“Was it an ogre? A beast? A handsome prince?”

I smiled. “Not exactly.”

“Is this a true story, Caitrin?” Maraid had eaten almost everything I had given her; now she was sipping her ale.

“I’ll let you make your own judgment. I haven’t told it to anyone else. If I did, most folk would think I really was mad.”

“That’s what Ita told me, Caitrin. She said that after I left here, you became completely unhinged. She said you couldn’t even keep yourself clean. She told me you bolted with only the clothes on your back. She said you were never coming home.”

“I don’t suppose she told you that Cillian came after me, and found me, and tried to force me back here.”

Her eyes went round. “He found you and they didn’t tell me? How could they do that? What happened, Caitrin?”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “It’s a long story.”

As summer became autumn my sister began to mend, along with the house in which we had been raised with such love and hope. The milestones were small but each was cherished: the first time Maraid smiled; the first time she offered to help prepare a meal; the day when Fidelma and Brendan decided we could cope without them and returned home. They told us we would be welcome in their house any time we wished to pay them a visit, and I offered the same invitation. Their kindness had been a remarkable gift.

Fianait and I scrubbed the house from top to toe. We aired bedding and set flowers on windowsills.We baked bread, brewed ale and made preserves. I hired a boy to help with the outside work, and he whistled as he replenished the wood pile and dug over the vegetable patch. Slowly our old home began to get its heart back, and my sister hers.

As Maraid’s cheeks regained their rosy blush and her body began to fill out, Etain blossomed, turning before our eyes from a pale waif to a bonny, healthy babe. The fretful crying ceased. She bellowed for her meals, drank with enthusiasm, then slept in blissful silence. I liked to set her free of her swaddling cloths and see her kick her legs and stretch her arms as if eager for what the world might have to offer. I loved to watch her sleeping, for there was a tender mystery in the little face in repose, closed lids concealing secret thoughts beyond the comprehension of all but an infant new-minted. Looking at Etain, I longed for a child of my own.

There came a day when I passed the open doorway of the bedchamber and heard my sister talking to the baby as she fed her.

“He made the most beautiful music, Etain; he had a voice that would melt the heart of a stone statue, and his fingers on the harp were as light as swallows in the sky. He was the best papa you could ever have had, my love, the best in all the world. His eyes were just like yours, green as grass and bright as dewdrops. Never say he’s gone. Only that he’s nearby, and watching over us every moment of the day.”

I tiptoed away, eyes streaming, knowing a far greater milestone had been passed. As I stood in the courtyard trying to compose myself, the longing for Anluan stabbed sharp as glass in my breast. I would never hold his child in my arms; I would never lie with him and experience the joy Maraid had had in Shea. My body ached for that loss. My heart bled for it.

Maraid had heard my story in small instalments. Fianait, too, had listened with rapt attention as it gradually unfolded. I told of the dear, odd friends I had made at Whistling Tor, the folk I had had to leave behind. I described every part of that strange and eventful summer. Almost every part. I did not show Maraid Anluan’s book, though I had long ago turned the final page to find, not a grim decision to banish me, but this perfect reflection of my own feelings:

At last I begin to understand why my father acted as he did. To lose you is to spill my heart’s blood. I do not know if I can bear the pain.

He must have written this before he came to see me that night; before he told me we must part forever. I had read it over and over. I kept the little book under my pillow and looked at it late at night by candlelight, or first thing in the morning, when even Etain still slept. I tried to understand why he had been so cold that night if his heart had been breaking, just like mine. Perhaps that had been the only way he could bring himself to utter the decree of banishment.

The mirror was my link with him, a frustrating, unreliable guide to what was happening at Whistling Tor in my absence. I looked in it often, but not while the others were about, for while such eldritch phenomena were part and parcel of life in Anluan’s household, they did not belong in Market Cross.

Sometimes the mirror showed me the blue sky of an imaginary summer, and sometimes my own reflection, dark curls neat, features composed, eyes a little desperate. But sometimes I saw Whistling Tor, and Anluan in the garden with Muirne, his tall figure stooping to listen, her smaller one gesturing as she tried to convince him of something. I pondered all I had learned of her, putting together a chance remark here, another there, and imagined her whispering in Anluan’s ear: You cannot win this.There is no hope.

And yet, he did not give way to despair. On a day when autumn was well advanced, and gusty winds sent dead leaves dancing in the courtyard, I closed the bedchamber door, took the mirror down from the shelf where I kept it and sat down to look for answers.What I saw warmed me; it made me want to shout for joy. Men were gathered in the settlement, Tomas, Duald, a good number of them. They had makeshift weapons over their shoulders. Anluan and Magnus were there, too, and Anluan was addressing the assembled crowd, his head held high, his manner both calm and authoritative.

This vision dissolved to make way for another: a party of riders, not Normans, but Irish.They were waiting at the foot of the Tor.The brawny figure of Magnus came down the path, greeted them, then turned and led them up. The horses were restless as they traversed the winding way through the forest. No sign of the host, though I sensed their presence, watching. In the courtyard, Anluan stood on the steps before the main door with Rioghan beside him and Cathaír on guard behind. The riders dismounted, and Olcan came to lead the horses away. The chieftain of Whistling Tor stepped forward to greet the visitors, as any nobleman might do. There were white faces and nervous glances aplenty, but the visitors stood their ground, and their leader put his hands on Anluan’s shoulders as if they were friends, or perhaps kin. Brión of Whiteshore? Had Anluan somehow made peace with his mother’s family, despite the wrongs of the past? No sign of Muirne. I gazed at the man I loved, willing the mirror to show me more, but the image faded, leaving me looking into my own eyes. My heart was racing. He was doing it. He was bringing them all together. Maybe, just maybe, Anluan could beat the odds and win his unlikely war.

Autumn was passing quickly. Fianait set her hand to spinning and fashioned a warm shawl to cocoon the baby in. Phadraig, the boy who did our heavy work, brought a supply of firewood indoors and stacked it against the wall near the stove.The days grew shorter.

Our legal hearing came and went. I, who had once been turned by fear into a silent, shivering apology for a woman, stood up and answered the judge’s questions with calm competence. I had told my kinsfolk that I never wanted to see them again, but on that day I faced them across the court without flinching. I no longer felt anger. Maraid’s recovery had moderated the harsh feelings that had arisen in me when I first saw her again. I almost felt pity; pity that folk could be so eaten up by selfish greed that they lost all sight of humanity. Cillian was incoherent under questioning. Ita was shrill and bitter, unable to understand how she had erred. They brought one or two witnesses, folk of my acquaintance who gave accounts of how distracted I had been after my father’s death, how distant and odd my manner. We had witnesses, too—those who could testify to Ita’s refusal to let anyone visit me in that dark time, those who remembered her turning down an offer of a physician’s services, those who had known me since I was a child and believed all that had ailed me was grief. In addition, Brendan traveled all the way to Market Cross from his home town in the west to testify in person as to my sanity.When it was over, and reparations determined at a level likely to see Ita and Cillian lose not only our property but their own as well, I thanked Colum and the other lawmen, came home with my family and closed the door on the past.

The days grew shorter still. Fianait baked spice cakes, Maraid brewed mulled ale, and we invited Colum and his wife to visit us and admire the baby. Some of Father’s friends came too, people who had stepped back while Ita ruled the house. If I did not quite forgive them for once believing her story of my madness, I knew I must make peace with them.

When everyone was gone, and a yawning Fianait had retired to bed, Maraid and I sat awhile before the fire, she with Etain at the breast, I staring into the flames. I no longer had to tell a story to encourage my sister to eat or tend to her child. She was well now, and if sadness still lingered in her, she did not let it swallow up her love for Etain or her hope for the future.

“Caitrin?”

“Mm?”

“When are you going to start scribing again? We have funds now, plenty to be going on with.You could buy inks, parchment, all the things you need to restock the workroom.”

I had hardly stepped inside the workroom since I came home. I had not even considered beginning again. But Maraid was right; what Father had left us would not keep us for the rest of our lives. Sooner or later I must seek out new commissions. It would be hard. Few of our former clients had known how large a part I had played in the execution of the fine documents in which we had specialized.They might be reluctant to give me a trial. Still, it wasn’t impossible. Colum might be prepared to recommend me locally. If I was not bold enough to seek commissions, I could always go and work for Donal in Stony Ford, performing the relatively simple tasks of copying and letter writing. I could summon little enthusiasm for any of it.

“Caitrin?” Maraid’s gaze was shrewd.

“It’s a sensible suggestion. I will do it. Sometime.”

“Why not now? This is what you love.You used to spend all day over it, so engrossed in the next stroke of the pen that you forgot the rest of the world existed while there was a job to be done.”

I said nothing.The truth was, the future I had always wanted, the long days of peace and tranquillity, the perfect manuscripts evolving under my hands, the satisfaction of putting my craft into practice and earning a living at it, no longer seemed significant. And yet, I had a life here; I had my sister and my niece, I had a home and resources, I had the opportunity to go back to something resembling the old existence I had so cherished. But it was no longer enough.

“I see you don’t want to tell me, so I’m going to guess, Caitrin. No, don’t stop me, you made me talk about my troubles.You love this Anluan of yours, the monster in the garden. Even with the Normans at his gate, you’re longing to go back. That household, and one member of it in particular, is more important to you than anything else in the world.”

“Not more important than you and Etain! Don’t ever think that!”

Maraid smiled. “Maybe not, but important in a different way. Caitrin, it’s written all over you when you speak of him. Why are you so determined to put it behind you?”

“Anluan sent me away. Whatever his reasons were, he meant it to be forever.”

“Of course he wanted you to be somewhere safe when the Normans came. But it seemed to me from the way you told your story that he loves you as deeply as you love him. And he doesn’t sound like a man who would care much about the sort of convention that says a chieftain doesn’t marry a craftswoman.Why can’t you go back when the Normans are gone? Whether he wins or loses, he’ll need you.”

Tears stung my eyes. “That was what Gearróg said, the morning I left. You’re the one Anluan needs most. And maybe that’s true. But he won’t marry me.”

Maraid frowned. “Did he say why not?”

“It’s a bit awkward . . .”

“I’m your sister, Caitrin. If you don’t tell me, who can you tell? Come on now.”

I looked down at my hands, clasped on my lap.“He never said it plainly, only hinted at something amiss. He was concerned for my safety, I know that. But there was . . .” How could I possibly tell her about that vision, the one that had made Anluan smash a mirror with his bare fist? “He said . . . he implied that the palsy affected more than just his arm and leg, Maraid. And Muirne said Anluan would never . . . She said he would not be able to satisfy me. Or any woman. That if I wanted children, I must look elsewhere.” My cheeks were flaming.

Maraid did not speak for a while, but sat thinking, her arm curled around Etain, who had fallen asleep on the breast.“That’s very sad,” she said eventually. “If it’s true. Caitrin, does Anluan feel physical desire for you?”

My cheeks grew hotter still. “Yes,” I muttered. “I told you about the mirror of might-have-been, the one that showed him images of himself without the disability, riding, wrestling, enjoying the activities of a fit young leader. I didn’t mention that one of the images had me in it.” This was hard to get out, even to my own sister. “Anluan and me, together, doing what husbands and wives do. It was . . . it was quite clear that he felt desire, Maraid. Perfectly clear.”

“And the mirror showed what might have been. What he could have done, if he had not been stricken by the palsy. Caitrin, there are other ways a man can satisfy a woman, you know, without performing the act of love itself. Using his mouth, his hands.”

“But . . . I don’t think Anluan would be incapable . . . I know he can . . . can manifest the physical symptoms of desire.”

“Oh?” Maraid was smiling now.

I had not thought this could become any more embarrassing, but I was wrong. “I don’t mean that he and I . . . there was only one time we were close enough to tell . . . but . . . it was plain enough that he wanted me.”

“So the palsy may have weakened his right arm and leg, and altered his face, but it hasn’t had the same effect on his manhood? He has the equipment he needs, and it seems to be in working order?” Maraid’s voice was gentle; she understood me all too well.

I nodded. “He doesn’t seem to believe he can do it,” I said. “Muirne implied the same. If you want a real man, Caitrin, don’t look here. That was what she said.”

“Does that woman love Anluan or hate him?”

I could only grimace; I had no answer for that.

“Let’s take this one step at a time,” Maraid said.“If he wanted you back, but you could never have children with him, would you go?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “But . . . it’s not simple, is it? I’d marry him even if I knew we would be childless. I’d live with him even if we couldn’t marry. But I do want children of my own, Maraid. I want his children.The absence of them would be hard to set aside. In that, perhaps a little of the family curse would linger on. He would always feel that he had failed me. That’s the kind of man he is. I would always feel that there was something missing from my life.”

“It’s a pity you didn’t fall in love with Magnus instead,” my sister said dryly. “He sounds the kind of man who would father as many little gallóglaigh as you wanted, and look after you as well as any woman might need.”

“Not to speak of cooking supper every night,” I said, managing a smile. “Maraid, how could Anluan know whether he was able to father children or not? He’s hardly been off the hill since he was seven years old.”

“A man only knows something like that if he’s tried over a long time and failed,” Maraid said. “Perhaps it’s all in Anluan’s mind.When would he have had the opportunity to lie with a woman?”

I considered what I knew of Anluan’s past: Magnus nursing him back to health after the palsy, when Anluan was thirteen years old; the isolation of the household; the reluctance to leave the hill; the difficulty in getting folk to help. “He wouldn’t have had much opportunity at all,” I said. “I suppose there would have been serving girls up there for short periods. Or Magnus might have arranged . . .” This was so far beyond what I knew, I could hardly begin to imagine how it might have been.

“You know,” Maraid said, “for a boy with his past, and his disability, it might only take one bad experience to convince him that he was a complete failure. He does sound unduly prone to despair. Could it be only that, do you think?”

We considered that awhile, and I thought how impossible it would be, even if I did some day manage to return to Whistling Tor, to broach such a subject with Anluan.

“A boy might feel pretty awkward making love,” said my sister, “if he had limited use of an arm and a leg. If it was his first time and he was unsure of himself, and the woman didn’t understand his difficulty, it’s easy to see how it might go wrong. With the right woman, one who could help him a bit, that same man might find the experience quite different. As for children, they don’t come along if folk don’t try to make them.”

After a moment I said,“I’ve never lain with a man in my life.” My heart was thudding.

“He loves you,” said Maraid.“You love him. Who else will he manage this with, if not you?”