Heir to Sevenwaters (13 page)

“The wise woman of the clan called everyone together. ‘Take off your cloaks,’ she said. ‘Lay them on the ground.’

“Nobody had any idea why the crone would ask such a thing, but they obeyed her as they always did, since she had never been proven wrong in many, many years of sorting out their disputes. Not only the two survivors of the rout but every other man there present laid his cloak down, till there was a blanket of many reds on the forest floor. The old woman paced, examining each cloak minutely. Most of the men had rowan crosses sewn inside their garments, for this is a potent charm against death in battle. It was these the crone seemed to be looking at. As she went through the cloaks, one of the two battle survivors began to look very uneasy. Once or twice he tried to pick up his cloak, pleading that he was cold after that passage over the pond, and the old woman stopped him. ‘I am not done yet,’ she said.”

Willow turned her head and looked straight at me, fixing me with her beady eyes. Startled, I sat bolt upright. Was she trying to tell me something? Was there a message in her tale that was not obvious, an inner meaning I was supposed to make sense of? If so, I had failed to grasp it. I smiled, feeling awkward, and she looked away, resuming the story.

“The crone stooped; she looked. She looked again. She straightened and turned to the elders. ‘This man is the traitor,’ she said. ‘He betrayed you to the enemy. He is . . . a Green.’

“Everyone gasped in horror. The man in question denied it vehemently. He was no traitor. Hadn’t he just rushed into the encounter along with the rest of the raiding party? That he was still alive was a matter of luck, not treachery. He’d just happened to be last in line.

“Then the crone showed the elders the man’s cloak. It had a rowan cross, just like all the others. But where the thread used by the other warriors’ wives or mothers to sew the rowan twigs to the cloth was, as you would expect, red, this warrior’s womenfolk had used thread of deepest forest green.

“There was no need for further proof, for everyone knew a Red woman would not set so much as the tip of her little finger on anything green. The man must be an enemy spy. Clurichaun justice being what it is, the punishment was dire; so dire, in fact, that perhaps it shouldn’t be spoken of before these young folk.” Willow looked over at Coll and Eilis, half smiling.

“You can’t not tell us!” Coll protested, outraged.

“Very well,” said Willow. “The traitor was taken to the biggest pond in the forest, and they made him walk out on a stone shelf above the deepest part of it, then they pushed him in.”

Coll looked mightily disappointed. “Is that all?” he asked.

“There was a very old and very large fish living in that pond,” Willow said. “She chased him around and around until he grew so tired he was half drowned. Then she ate him. And that is the end of my story, save to add that, to this day, the clurichauns pursue their war over Mochaomhóg’s hill.”

It had been a good story, expertly told. As for Willow putting some special meaning in it just for me, I must have been mistaken about that. If she’d chosen tonight’s tale for anyone in particular, it was surely Eilis and Coll.

“Thank you,” Father said. “We all love tales here. One tends to forget the power they have to make sense of things. Aidan, perhaps we might have a little music before we retire. Clodagh, will you play too? We haven’t heard you for a while.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” I said. I had forgiven Aidan for his lie, but it was far too soon to be playing music with him again. I hadn’t forgotten how good that felt before; perilously good. Feeling that way might have me thinking of a future that probably wasn’t going to happen, a future in which my mother’s child was safely born, and she recovered well enough to resume all her old duties, and Rathnait’s father agreed happily to her not marrying Aidan after all, and . . . There were too many
if
s in this picture, and I knew I could not entertain it, not yet. “I’m too tired tonight. I would only make a mess of it.”

“I’ll play,” Aidan said, and fetched his harp from an alcove nearby. “Such a fine tale deserves a musical end piece. I’m afraid I don’t know any songs about clurichauns, so it will have to be something else.”

Cathal was looking particularly stony. Perhaps he didn’t approve of stories, especially ones with magic in them. He was all too ready to dismiss talk of the Fair Folk as sheer fantasy. If he stayed here long enough, he’d find out how wrong he was.

Aidan sang a ballad, the melody ringing out sweetly in his soft, deep voice, the harp providing mellow accompaniment. It was a love song, and while he did not embarrass me by looking me in the eye as he sang it, I could hardly miss the fact that the lady in the piece had hair like a flaming cloud and eyes like green jewels, or that the swineherd who was trying to win her admired her not only for those qualities but for her forthright nature and her devotion to her family. It was a pretty piece that I was certain he had composed himself. In the end the lady left her family and went off into the forest with the pigs and their keeper, which I liked—I had been expecting a predictable tale in which the swineherd turned out to be a prince in disguise, and the surprise added to the charm of the song.

When it was done, folk seemed in no particular rush to retire to bed, though Father excused himself and left the hall. He had little enough opportunity to spend time with Mother, and if Gareth failed to placate Eoin of Lough Gall and the other northerners, those chances would become even fewer. Despite the presence of Muirrin and a bevy of attendants, I knew how much Mother needed him. He had always been able to calm and reassure her in times of crisis. I worried about Father more than I told anyone. What would happen to him if we lost her? It seemed to me he would not weep and rage, but would retreat inside himself, no longer able to smile at a story or laugh at Eilis’s silly jokes.

“I see Aidan’s talked himself back into your favor.”

I started. I had wandered over to a corner with my cup of mead, so deep in thought that I hadn’t even seen Cathal there. “He was honest with me,” I said, looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was within earshot. Aidan had gone to put his harp away; Sibeal, Eilis and Coll were all sitting at Willow’s feet, asking questions. The men were engaged in conversation around the hearth. “It’s true, isn’t it, that Rathnait is a child of twelve?”

Cathal nodded, saying nothing.

“And it’s true that the betrothal agreement is only a verbal one, made casually years ago between the two fathers?”

“I know nothing of that,” Cathal said. He wasn’t exactly putting himself out to support his friend’s cause. After that conversation in the stables, this surprised me. “You’re quick to forgive, Clodagh,” he added. “Only today he offers his explanation, such as it is, and already you’re letting him make up songs about you.”

I felt my cheeks flush. “I didn’t ask him to make up the song. And I could hardly storm out just because there was a red-haired woman in it. What’s your objection, anyway? Am I so very unsuitable for him?” Curse it, why had I said that? Posing such a question was asking for a catalogue of my faults, with being boring right at the top. “Forget I said that,” I muttered, staring at my feet.

“No,” Cathal said. “He’s unsuitable for you.”

“What?” He really had my attention now. “A chieftain’s son, a skilled warrior, young, nice-looking and a musician to boot?”

Cathal looked uncomfortable. The supercilious air had disappeared. “On the face of it,” he said, “my friend would be a good match for any woman. All the same, you shouldn’t rush into this.”

“Not that it’s any business of yours,” I said, astonished that he would take it into his head to give me such advice, “but he did convince me today that the agreement between his father and Rathnait’s could be undone with no hurt to anyone. But it doesn’t matter anyway. It would be inappropriate for me to encourage any suitor. My mother’s about to have a child. She’s not well. I’ll be needed at home.” I had not intended to speak so openly of this, but perhaps, if he heard it, Cathal would stop trying to interfere in my personal life.

“You’re doing a pretty poor job of being discouraging,” Cathal said flatly. “Of course, you can’t see the way you look at him. Just don’t blame me if it all goes wrong.”

“I won’t,” I said after a moment. His tone had been neither flippant nor arrogant, but as serious as if he were warning me of some real and imminent danger. “Cathal?”

“What?”

“Today, on the way up to the Pudding Bowl, what really happened? Where did you disappear to?”

Cathal’s features closed up, becoming impenetrable. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he said.

“You do, Cathal.” I was not sure how hard to push this. “I don’t believe you lost your way; that wouldn’t happen to any of Johnny’s men. You must have gone somewhere. You couldn’t have missed us on that track.”

“You seem so certain, Clodagh. And yet with every second breath, it seems, you or another of your family warns me of uncanny folk out in the forest, paths that have minds of their own and any number of oddities to be wary of. I suppose you and your sisters credited every word of the old woman’s silly tale tonight. And you speak to me about truth.”

It had been a mistake to think it was worth trying to talk to him. “Forget I mentioned it,” I said. “I’d best go back to the others.”

“Before Aidan gets jealous?” Then, at my look, he added, “The soft-voiced musician has a nasty temper on occasion. But you’ve seen that. And I don’t think you’re quite as lacking in imagination as I first believed.”

“From you, I suppose that remark could be construed as a compliment. I don’t anticipate a broken heart, Cathal. I’m made of stronger stuff than that.”

CHAPTER 4

N
ow there were only three Inis Eala men left at Sevenwaters: Johnny, Aidan and Cathal. The atmosphere was tense as they waited for word from Gareth. He was to send a message as soon as he had spoken with Eoin. Two mornings after our ride to the Pudding Bowl, Father called me to join him and Johnny in the small council chamber. I sat opposite the two of them at the table; Aidan was stationed by the door, acting as a guard.

“We’re wrestling with a decision, Clodagh.” Father came straight to the point. “It relates to Gareth’s mission and the question of a council. Perhaps Gareth can placate Eoin, perhaps not. He must at least persuade him that there was no ulterior motive in my decision to grant Deirdre’s hand to a southerner. Still, Eoin being the kind of man he is, the need to call a council is pressing. There have been simmering tensions between north and south since you and Deirdre were little children, and this is likely to inflame them. It could drag Sevenwaters into a full-scale conflict. What we need is a regional treaty.”

I remembered the words people generally used when referring to Eoin of Lough Gall: testy, difficult, volatile, influential. “Will Gareth raise that idea with Eoin?” I asked.

“He’ll offer him my personal invitation to a council, the timing to be agreed in due course. At this stage, no more than that. We’re concerned now that it may not be enough. Without a place, a time, it may seem only a vague promise, offered only to appease. If only I could know what will happen here . . .” Father’s frown indicated an internal struggle.

“Far better, in my opinion, if we call the council now,” put in Johnny quietly. “Invite both north and south. Be bold. Establish a position of control before somebody else does.”

“You have neither wife or child,” Father said. “Wait until those you love are at risk, then see if you would provide the same advice.” Then, after a moment, “I’m sorry. Believe me, I understand the difficulty, and if all were well here, I would be in full agreement with you. But to proceed with plans for the council straightaway seems . . .” He hesitated, chin on hand, gray eyes troubled. “I will be honest with you. It feels a little like defying the gods, and I will not do that, not with the lives of my wife and unborn child in the balance. Perhaps I’m foolish to hear a voice whispering,
Would you sacrifice those you love best to achieve peace?
I have no reason to heed that; it is not the voice of logic. But I must heed it. I believe the council must wait.”

“You’re wise to trust your instincts, Father,” I said. “They’ve generally been reliable in the past.”

“You’re wrong about one thing, Sean.” Johnny was managing a smile. “I may have no wife or child, but that does not mean I am without hostages to fortune.”

“Indeed,” Father said, though I was not sure what my cousin meant. His parents and brothers, Coll excepted, were far away. Certainly, Gareth was his closest friend and the other men who had gone with him his loyal comrades, but it was hardly the same.

“Maybe I should have gone myself,” Johnny said.

“We can trust Gareth; he has all the skills required for this mission. He’s well-informed, diplomatic and courteously spoken. If not quite a family member, he is close to it. Besides, your own welcome in such households might not be one of undiluted enthusiasm. Clodagh, I seem to have made the decision. Perhaps it’s your quiet presence that enables me to see more clearly. Thank you, my dear.”