Winter Serpent (39 page)

There was anger on his face but he could not bring himself to upbraid her, to remind her that she was dooming his hopes with hers.

“Forget the child for a moment and listen to me. It is plain I must deal with caution for us both. I cannot leave the Coire with you until we are wed, for the churchmen here would put a ban on us if we defied them, and bar us from those places where we might still find a welcome. The Macoul is not your enemy; he does only what is necessary for him to do when he sides with the macDumhnull. He would be willing to help us arrange the marriage and the feasts which must follow it.”

“I cannot talk to you of these things now,” she said, distractedly. “When the child is better we will make the arrangements.”

“The child will never be better,” he said cruelly. “Look at him for once with open eyes. Have you ever seen a child closer to death?”

“Be quiet!” she cried.

“I speak the truth, by all my oaths. Collect your wits! If you are to marry me it must be done in haste. There are obstacles enough to the priests’ consent. We must begin to pacify them and submit to their rituals. Alpin will soon be gone, for his work is done. He will take Calum macDumhnull’s pledges of loyalty for what good there is in them and leave for Dunadd. He holds no love for you, now that you have overthrown his plans. When the Ard-Ri leaves, the clans will also depart. Where will you go? Marry now and shake the dust of the Coire from your feet. Stay, and Calum macDumhnull will try to seize you, and then I must fight them alone.”

“But the brehon judges, what of their verdict?”

“The devil with their verdict! They are only puppets. The matter was settled last night in the tent of the Macoul. You made the decision, the verdict. The judges wait only for their fees and a slow retreat which becomes their dignity.”

“I would not marry you now just to save my skin,” she muttered.

“Now, what is this?” he shouted. “It is too late for your pride, for your doubts, if this is what they are. I have broken myself in this business, and I have nothing to show for it. My hopes were once as high as your own, and now I find myself cut free from Alpin and saddled with a cursed woman and her bastard! I would cut your throat now rather than be ruined further for the amusement of these crofters and herders. I have my name pride, if nothing else!”

She lifted her face to him then, but his eyes were hard.

As Comac had predicted, the Macoul proved eager to help with the marriage arrangements. The old man gave some small amount of gold to the bishops so that the usual preliminaries were shortened or set aside. The
churchmen were adamant on the point of baptism, though, particularly in view of the ancient ban on Comac Neish’s family and Doireann’s doubtful alliance with the Viking. They stood firm that both the bride and the bride-groom should be baptized and make private confession, and do penance for their sins before the marriage. After some wrangling by the Macoul this was agreed upon, and Doireann allowed a monk to come to the sleeping cubicles and baptize her. He was kind, and talked to her earnestly, but he soon saw she was dazed with worry and did not understand or care what he did or said. He did not press her or question the incoherent speech which passed for her confession. Only once did she seem to know why he was with her, and this was when he bent to say a prayer for the sick child.

She was still sitting by the bedside when the women came to dress her. With some difficulty they persuaded her to leave the child long enough to put on a clean robe and allow her hair to be combed.

When they were finished they stepped back to view their work. Doireann’s hair hung long down her back and her skin was darkened by the sun. With the crown on her head, the little rubies gleaming in it, and the dark wildness of her eyes, she was a sorceress, a dread woman of legend full of luminous glamour, a sight at once beautiful and unholy.

“Ah, it is sorrow herself among us!” a young girl cried out, frightened, and the women hushed her.

Sorcha came into the cubicle and looked about gloomily. She was steeping some dried leaves in a cup of hot water.

“I have gathered some leaves of the foxglove,” she said. “They are dead and perhaps strengthless for lack of rain, but perhaps the potion will brighten the child.”

She held Ian’s flaccid body to her and trickled the liquid into his mouth. He choked, but did not struggle.

Doireann turned away from them.

“If I had aught that I could give you,” she said miserably, “I would do so, grateful as I am for this.” She began to twist at one of the gold armlets.

Keep your gifts,” Sorcha said stiffly. “I hold no grudge for your harsh words. I would think less of you if you did not tear your heart out over your child. I freely admit that I pity both of you, even though the child is the offspring of the devil-cursed Fingall.” She touched the child’s silky hair with her old fingers. “He is in truth a beautiful child, and if he were mine I suppose I should weep much, also.”

“If I leave him he will die!” Doireann burst out wildly. The women clustered about, trying to calm her.

“You are the daughter of a chief!” Sorcha cried. “Where is your pride? Are you the only one that has had sorrow?”

“She is right,” one of the other women said. “I have held the cold bodies of two of my babies.”

“My first-born wasted away before my eyes,” the byrewoman offered. “Each time I nursed her the milk would come back out from her mouth and nose. Such a pitiful wailing she had, struggling for me to help her, to save her, to nourish her a little. But I was helpless. Slowly she died in my arms.”

“In the name of Holy God,” Doireann screamed, “be quick about what you have to do for I shall soon go mad!”

Doireann nighean Muireach could not break from the nightmare which held her. The confusion of the marriage ritual and the strange faces about her, the words that were spoken, did not penetrate her terrible dream. The heat in the Coire was oppressive, the hall full of droning flies. Occasional spatters of rain fell in the dusty courtyard, and those gathered in the building ran to the doors to see if the long-awaited breaking of the drought had begun. There had been much drinking during the late day and the crowds were sweaty, noisy, full of a thwarted violence and the excitement of the approaching storm.

Doireann felt an island of silence about her in the midst of the noise. People came to her and spoke to her and asked if this or that was all right, and she nodded to them, hoping that they would be satisfied and go away. Only Sorcha was recognizable. It seemed to Doireann that she asked the old woman over and over how the baby fared and got some sort of answer, but she could never remember what it was. She knew only that she pressed her hands to her head in desperation and found it wet, and although it did not pain her, she felt that it was like glass, echoing to the blows of the clamor in the room.

Once Comac Neish came to her and handed her a cup of beer and inquired how she was feeling. She gave him a wretched smile and he looked startled.

Calum had ordered great quantities of food prepared for the marriage feast but things went badly. Doireann was vaguely aware of the confusion at the cooking-fires and the dropped pots and angry voices, but she closed her mind to them. She could not help the household now, for she was seated in state by her husband at the high table and the Ard-Ri and bishops and chieftains were about her. She answered them when they spoke to her. What she managed to say must have been seemly for they were courteous and appeared to be enjoying themselves. Through it all she sat wondering where she was and what she was doing.

A loud burst of rain drummed on the roof and ceased almost before it had begun. The crowd squealed in delight. The sheep being brought up outside for the night’s penning stampeded and broke through the yard gates and into
the doors of the hall. Their hooves raised a cloud of dust that all but hid them as they poured into the crowds of feasters. The Pictish herders seemed helpless to hold them back. The guests roared with laughter at their efforts and joined in chasing the animals out from under the tables. Even the Ard-Ri came down from the high table and drew his sword and herded a ewe and her lamb through the hall. The women tucked their skirts high on their hips and ran after the animals, and the clansmen who were a little drunk ran after the women and there was scuffling and shrieking among them. The bishop of Lore galloped through the crowd with his crozier, bringing a few frowns from his fellow churchmen for his red-faced gaiety. In the turmoil one of the tables was overthrown and some women dumped into the rushes of the floor.

“This will be a riotous night,” Comac said, smiling. “There are many here who care little about our marriage, but I think they would gladly celebrate a storm and the breaking of the drought. The rain is a good omen.”

“What?” she asked, shaking her head. “Nothing,” he shouted, “nothing.”

Over his head she saw Calum macDumhnull with his fancy cap laid before him on the table. He was not eating, but the servants worked hard to keep his cup filled. His hair was tousled, sweaty, and his eyes red-rimmed.

I have had my revenge, she thought, and gave a bitter smile. It is a twisted one, for now the toiseach of Cumhainn, the crafty Calum macDumhnull, is destroyed, and I have destroyed him.

“Now you smile,” Comac said. “This is better, for you cast a pall on us with your stiff and silent face.”

There was dancing now below them, the wail of the Ard-Ri’s piper spurring the flashing feet and sweating faces. Another heavy burst of rain spent itself in the yard. Those at the tables urged the dancers with shrill cries and someone threw a cup of beer at the wall, splashing the nobles at the high table.

Barra bent over Doireann and took away the remains of her half-eaten food. She meant to ask him how the child was resting in all the noise, but he was gone.

The Ard-Ri stood up and made his speeches of leave-taking. “Why does the High King leave us?” she cried to Comac. “What?” he shouted, cupping his ear.

She screamed her question at him.

“Alpin returns to Dunadd. Have I not explained this to you before, and did you not reply that it meant nothing to you?”

“Did I?” she whispered. “I do not remember.”

“You have drunk too much. I will tell you all that you wish when we have gone to our bed.”

She stared at him.

“I cannot go to bed with you this night. I must be with my child.” Comac bent to her, his face hard.

“Are you a madwoman? If we do not go to our bed together the clans will think it a drunken joke and strip off your clothes and drag you from the hall for a ducking in the loch. You know the temper of wedding feasts as well as I.” Barra put a cup of wine before her and she drank it. In spite of Comac’s words she had had little to drink, but she was dazed, muddled. The faces in
the hall seemed to blaze like wildfire in the fields.

Thunder rolled in the Coire and a gust of wind rattled the wooden hall. The crowd screamed out gaily, but Doireann sprang up, jarring the heavy table. The cups rattled and a knife fell off in the rushes.

“Be quiet!” she cried. She was shivering, listening.

The guests at the high table took no notice of her. The noise was gone now, but she was still filled with alarm. Frantically she pushed her way down from the dais and through the crowds to the row of sleeping cubicles on the far side of the hall. She found her own and lifted the curtain.

Sorcha was asleep on the bed. She held the child in her arms, and he was waxy-limbed and motionless.

Doireann bent over them and felt the child’s face. It was moist, clammy, and his breath rattled through the discharge from his nose. If ever she had seen a child close to death it was this child. Even his chubby body was wasted by the fever.

She put her hands to her face and leaned against the board walls, over-come by her despair.

“God,” she whispered, “now You have had Your revenge on me through my child. I acknowledge that no burning in hell could be worse than this. I am without pride, willing to submit. If this is what I must be reduced to, will-less and despairing, then I surrender to You. But do not torture my child, I beg You. If You think of us at all, help us now!”

She shook her fist at the dark.

“Or are You my enemy, like the rest?” she cried.

Her anger died suddenly. A faint sound, like dogs barking at a prowler, came to her, but far away. She reached down and took the child from his bed.

21

The hall was deaf to any sound in the night. The racket of the pipes and cries of the dancers drowned out any noise. Quarrelsome men shoved at each other in the midst of the leaping figures. A warrior lay here he had fallen, his screaming wife holding a cloth to his
bleeding head. At the table behind them two giggling women had pinned a young man’s arms and were pouring beer into his protesting mouth. A drunken fat woman was being sick onto the floor.

The wind forced the doors open suddenly, dragging the Picts set to guard it into the hall. The gust of wind tore into the room, fluttering the torch flames and the fire on the hearth, billowing up the banner over the high table. The serving men snatched at the cloth to keep it from tearing away from the rafters.

In the sudden darkness the crowd roared. A few of the men nearest the doors rushed to help the struggling Picts.