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?”
chapter thirteen
I
t was the first time I had seriously considered that I might return to Whistling Tor in defiance of Anluan’s decree of banishment.The idea sat uneasily with me, though my heart would have winged there like a homing swallow if it could. It was easy enough for Maraid to say these things. She could not understand the layers of history that sat so heavily over the place. Beside Nechtan’s dark legacy, the question of whether Anluan had been unmanned by the palsy or was merely beset by self-doubt dwindled into insignificance.