Chapter 24

In Weal and Woe

The following morning dawned damp and cold, and we stirred with great difficulty from the warm nest our bodies had made on the boards. We dressed and left without speaking to anyone, slipping away unheeded and taking the slíghe to the south and east. At first we walked in silence, working the knots from our legs with steady strides. Her hair loose. Scandalous. Walking with a tireless stride, her haunches, her bearing regal. Her spear butt struck the road with each step, marking out our pace. We moved through the blue morning, the air as fresh as well water over our faces.

‘I don’t even know if he was my father’, I said at last, when the sun had taken its ascendancy in the sky, finally banishing the uncertainties and fears of the previous night. She listened. ‘Nor what he had done to my mother, how he had come to know her. He would never speak of her, and any attempt I made to know more caused such rage in an otherwise mild man’. She listened, encouraging me with her silence. ‘I have been told many stories. Milesius told me that they were given as payment of a fine to the Tiarna soon before I was born. Conn spoke poisonous words to me, suggesting that the Tiarna had sired me or that Milesius himself was my father. De Lacy alleged a memory of a man of my father’s name in Frodsham, a reeve who had profited by selling the sons and daughters of his tenants to Gaelic slavers. And it is this which my mind has been caught upon. That he may have fallen foul of his own evil transaction. And perhaps I was the seed that he planted in my mother, a woman he had betrayed. Or perhaps I am the son of a slaver who violated her on the passage over the sea. Or of the merchant who sold them on, or of the man who held them first’.

‘It is beyond knowing’, she said, and her words were not unkind.

‘And perhaps she did not know herself. My poor, beautiful mother. Perhaps she could not bear to nurse me. A demon on her breast, drawing life where so many others had drawn their tribute’. Tears came. I had never spoken of her aloud. And we walked onwards, our driving steps, our gazes fixed ahead. It fell from me, like onerous chains. An ancient bondage, slipping from me. Father dead. Mother dead. The Tiarna gone, Milesius gone, de Lacy gone. The world convulsing and her by my side. And though it was a fleeting, illusory thing, I felt it as fate. The fruiting of a tree that had grown barren.

We walked on in silence, though there was communication in our cadence. An energy from her as we moved, shoulder to shoulder, a feeling of power in our togetherness, a slight intoxication at the fathomless, empty country around us, the wend of the empty road. Smiles bloomed unbidden across our faces. Freedom. A weightless freedom we had not known. No lord, no soldiers, no work, no matron. A lightness on us and a feeling of what had gone before. A dangerous excitement buzzing like unseen wasps between us. Her hand sometimes finding its way into mine as we walked. My shoulder falling at times against her. And more than once along the way, we darted off the route at the distant sight of travellers and, as we lay in the dock leaves, waiting for the broken parties of refugees to pass, kissed thirstily, hands moving over each other. Bodies pliant or resisting, accepting or wrestling, feeling the shape and strength of each other in the transaction. Ever on, we rejoined the road. The warmth of the morning a surprise to us. The itch of spring in our noses. In our loins.

Three signs of lustful behaviour: sighing, playfulness, visiting.

We walked for hours, our reluctant progress forward skirting an indistinct vastness to the west, layered with purple and white tufting of ceannbán on the crust of the bog. Enough to fill an acre of pillows and quilts. The land shaken from its torpor, whispering promises of an easy living. At midday we saw from afar a figure on a horse and another two on foot. We scattered quickly, leaving the high road and rolling into the yielding turf, allowing ourselves to sink into the malleable ground, the low heather hiding us.

We watched in silence as they approached. A Gael on an Engleis courser, struggling to master the beast’s spirit. The saddle abandoned and the rider’s bare thighs clenching this way and that, knotted brawn rippling around his knees as he willed the horse onwards. The two young men on foot walked ahead, drawing on the horse’s mouth with tightly bound sedge-grass ropes, leading onwards with arduous steps.

I looked to Ness, my face a question. In the giddy intoxication of freedom, the unrestrained possibility was overwhelming. She said yes with her eyes, hungry for it. Before they drew level with us, I stood out onto the road, my sword drawn, my mailed shoulder towards them.

‘That is not your horse’, I shouted, addressing the rider. The man slid an axe free from his pack, the horse chuntering sidewards.

‘And that is not your sword’, he responded. The two younger men hesitated, unsure whether to keep a hold of their ropes or to draw one of the short javelins lashed to the beast’s flank. I felt the atmosphere change suddenly and knew that she had come up onto the road behind me, leaning on her spear. I had never known such power. I darted forward and swung wide, sword arcing down to sever the rope on my right. My body followed the momentum of the blade, ducking into the shadow of the horse’s breast. I hooked the rider’s foot and heaved it upwards, sending him sprawling arse over head into a hard landing on the stones. Ness scattered the two boys with feints right and left. She took a running leap, hand plunging into the horse’s mane, and threw her leg over the beast’s neck. I pushed myself up over the horse’s flank and threw an arm around her waist as she kicked, screaming jubilantly as the animal sprang forward in a muscular bound. She wheeled expertly and sent us charging back through the running men, and we thundered away southwards, choking on unrestrained laughter.

We rode hard for a time before settling into a gentle pace, the horse pliant, happier with her direction, responding well to the squeeze of her thighs. There were few travellers on the road—ragged and fearful families, some leading scant and wretched cattle, old craftsmen struggling under the meagre tools of their trade. They all fled from the roadway seeing us in the distance, doing their best to hide in ditches and stands of gorse as we cantered past.

At midday, we left the slíghe ourselves and followed a gently sloping meadow until we found a stream for the horse to water. Drooping saileach and birds brave and numerous. Not for the first time that morning, we heard the howling of wolves in the distance. Hedgerows in disarray and clear signs of boar rooting in the grassland. These and other signs of collapsing order.

‘What túath is this?’ I asked. She shook her head, unknowing. ‘I think Tlachta is close’, I said, turning in a slow circle, trying to read the skyline. Perhaps Luigne?’ We found an oat biscuit in a small doeskin pouch hanging among the javelins on the horse’s side. We shared it out three ways, giving the beast her due; we hobbled her with a length of cord from the pouch and went looking for something more to fill our bellies. I pulled some rushes, and we joylessly ate the white pulp from the root, drinking cool draughts of water.

We lay then as the horse browsed, the sun’s warmth fleeting with passing clouds casting chill. I shunted off my hauberk. She rolled over to me and we kissed, her hand running along my garment, feeling out the shape of my gléas. She kissed me again and again, her tongue slow, her hand moving. I felt the shape of her breasts, ran my hand along her cleft. The salt of dried sweat on her face, the mammal smell of her skin.

A deep convulsion ran through my body. She moved off me, rolling onto her back, and we lay there in silence for a moment, regarding the clouds.

‘Did you spit seed?’ she asked.

‘No’, I lied, diffident, blood flushing to my face. The silence went taut, that sound of her smiling unseen. I began to laugh, and she lay her head happily in the hollow at my shoulder.

‘The Engleis say that a woman must enjoy it in order to conceive’, I said. ‘Could it be that I was not conceived of violence then?’ She laughed again, though this time without joy.

‘The Engleis may say that. Priests and lawmen. They say that. Men say that. It is a shameful lie to absolve men of their crimes’. She felt for my face and touched my cheek, rising on her elbow to look down upon me. ‘Do not suffer for your mother’s memory. She suffered. That is all. And it is a suffering that you can never touch, nor own. Honour her with your actions. Redeem her with your actions’. In her words, I read her pain. In her words, I read her restraint, her generosity. I knew what she had suffered. She had told me all by the fording place, my father dark in the water. And I, blinded by my own torment, had almost overlooked her resolve.

‘You are right’, I said. ‘We are alive. We are free’.

‘And masters of the road’, she said, laughing richly.

I drew her to me, the blade of my hand sliding along her cleft, and her mouth fell to my neck.

We rode on, our passions spent, the canter of our mount devouring the distance, taking us away from this blissful middle ground, this space outside of things. This impossible place that could not last. Hour by hour, it receded behind us into the untouchable realm of memory. I fought the words for miles of road until the familiarity of our surroundings could no longer be ignored and Troim spoke its name voicelessly in the bend of the river and the shape of the hills. In the budding of the elder and the men in the fields. A kind of panic began to settle in my chest. A feeling I could not mediate. An itching burn, jaw clenching and unclenching. The words would not be held.

‘We could go back. Walk west’, I said into her ear from where I sat on the horse behind her. I could not help it. And a spell was broken. She brought my hand to her mouth, brushing my knuckles over her lips, and when she released her grip, I knew it was over.

‘When the storm surges against the shore, it is better to be a ship than a sand-dune’, she said. ‘It is better that we ride with the storm than search for a life in the wreckage’. She spoke with finality, closing a door, perhaps, within her. I struggled to do the same, to choke the childish joy that had flowered in the morning.

‘How did you come to be with Meyler?’ I asked, introducing his name between us. Not wanting to hear the answer, as I knew I had played a part. Not wanting knowledge of his hand on her. Not strong enough to leave the question unasked. She breathed a while, thinking about how to begin. Deciding finally that the bare truth was required.

‘I left you on the mountain and I walked east’, she said. ‘I avoided slíghe and meadow. I struggled over bog and pushed through woodland. And I arrived close to a place where there were Engleis watering horses at a stream. I walked straight up to them, my head high, and he stepped out from among the men, rough, strong. A leader. I held his eye as he approached and he stopped short of me, scanning the treeline for ambush. Looking at me with questions. I did not flinch from his gaze. I raised my garment slowly up over my thighs. He came to me, his arms around me, solid as a mountain, and he knew me there in the grass, and from his men, not a hoot or a cry out, and when he led me back amongst them, his hand drawing me by the wrist, they showed me deference. I knew this was a man that could shelter me—if he so wished’.

‘And does he so wish?’ I asked, my throat dry and the bile burning.

She nodded. ‘He did, until yesterday, when I walked from his side to follow you to a ruined church, to a smouldering scar on the valley’.

I nodded then, understanding her answer. Again I had broken her hard-won security, and she returned now to an uncertain welcome. We spoke no further, and a greyness entered the journey. We progressed to Troim, silent and fearful, my hands clasped around her waist, her heels guiding the long strides of the horse. We came over the hill as the darkness enveloped the east, passing the watchtower, and I hailed the soldiers, raising my arm in salute. A salute that was not returned, though they did not move to molest us. Down the valley side we went, and over the fording place, forsaking the bridge, climbing up the other slope towards the walls; we passed through the outer palisade without challenge, the captured herds of Míde corralled there, shunting and lowing in a collective sea of sound. Piles and piles of split timber planking within the gate. Carpenter’s boys working still in the half-light, carrying beams to the work gangs busy around the compound. A grim urgency upon the place.

We continued through to the castel and parted beyond the gatehouse without farewell. I stopped in the shadow of a dung heap to watch her go, leading the courser to the stables. My chest a warm glow which lurched sickeningly when she rounded the gable of the hall and disappeared from sight. I stayed there trying to master the desperate pain, the empty panic. It was unclear where I should go. What to do. I lurked—Crom Cruach in the shadow. Crom Dubh, twisting and black, feeling the handle of my sword, pulling it soundlessly from the wool-lined scabbard. Two fingers’ width. Feeling the edge of the blade. Pressing its keenness. Imagining its irresistible and true line pushing slowly and unyielding into the bridge of Meyler’s nose. I moved out to follow her, crossing the worn ground where the smiths had taken up their trade, beating out little iron nails from glowing ore. I passed through the rhythmical dinging of their work, and someone shouted my name. I turned, fearing Meyler or his cousins, only to see de Feypo coming out of the kitchen, moving towards the hall.

‘Alberic’, he boomed, altering his course and coming towards me. ‘You live. They told me you had run to the Gael. Running back to your oppressor, like Patricius himself’.

‘I went to bury my father’, I said, the words bouncing as hammer blows from the anvil, and I walked from him, looking for somewhere to sleep, some quiet corner, some stable or byre. Somewhere to close my eyes and shut out the noises of the camp, the activity at every turn, the hammering and sawing, the shouting and arguing of carpenters, ditch diggers, masons and lime burners. Piles of brushwood being kindled around the stockade to light the work. I sought somewhere to be alone. For alone I truly was.

A red-headed carpenter’s boy found me behind a large rick of thatching straw, the morning sun blazing behind him, giving him a nimbus of gold—his clothes flecked with wood chip, his face derisive.

‘Get up, dewberry. The Lord Tŷrel summons you’, he said, and I saw a gang of his rangy workmates nearby laughing together. I lunged out with a kick, and he skipped back, raising two fingers to me.

On my way to the hall, I looked out for some food. Nothing appeared, and I begged a mug of ale at the cowherd’s shelter to fortify me. In the hall, Tŷrel sat on the serpent-riddled throne and asked me questions about what I had seen. The room was empty except for foremen and valets, who came in at intervals with news of progress of the different work gangs or requests for more materials. I stood before him patiently as he dealt with each, until he addressed me again.

‘Meyler came back here fuming about betrayal. He said you attacked his men, injured his cousin’.

‘The only betrayal was his’, I said hotly. ‘A betrayal of his true nature. His scorn for our lord de Lacy and for his new subjects. He made no attempt to reconcile the villeins. I gathered what survivors I could and led them to the monastery, only to find it pillaged also. By Angulo. The saint’s relics scattered and trodden to dust. And my own father murdered. A man of higher birth than most within this fort. A man who had kissed the shrine of Lanfranc. Pledged oaths to the Earl of Chester’.

‘I do not like your tone, boy’, Tŷrel said. ‘Speak thus to Meyler and your tongue, or worse, will be forfeit. You are a hare within his jaws and the distant form of Hugo de Lacy will not protect you. Nor is it certain that he would shield you were he standing by your side. Say your prayers for your father. Bury him within your heart and speak no words of anger to your betters. Vengeance is a luxury for the rich, the strong, those who fight. Not for the likes of you. Your audacity has brought you far. Further indeed than you have any right to expect. But no further. Your next utterance will see your brains stove and spread into the dirt unless it be made of quiescent words, in support of our purpose. None will mourn you here’.

I stood, cowed, with my head lowered. Shame alight on my face and my mouth clamped shut. Inside, the impetuous lizard I had for a tongue skittered and lashed at the confines of its cage.

‘What word have you heard about the army in the west?’ he asked after a pause, his tone neutral. I spoke to best please him.

‘I have heard crones prophesying around ragged fires. Fearful priests nurture hopeful words like candle-flames in a gale. Nothing of substance’. He allowed my words to hang in the air. To decay slowly.

‘Some information has come to us from Bréifne. They believe that such a host exists and marches upon us’. I shook my head.

‘Seignur, I have lived in these lands for my entire life. I have seen war and alliance and hosts appear and dissolve and war brew and dissipate. I have never seen a grand confederation of kings. I have never seen an army of any great size hold together without escalating into conflict between the kings leading it’. I spoke in earnest, seeking to bring him the weight of my knowledge, the extent of my understanding of the Gael. To show my worth. His face remained stern, unmoving. His eyes probed my face, again he allowed my words to fill out the room, to show themselves fully to him as they repeated in the silent corners. Their intonation, their emphases. And when he had considered the shape of my response, he spoke.

‘Meyler says that you went to the monastery to pass information to our enemies. To describe our defences. To list out our numbers, strengths, weaknesses’.

‘Not so, seignur. Not so’, I said emphatically. ‘I went to enact your order. I went to save the innocents and, in doing so, to bring your word to the villeins there that the foreigner was to be fair, to offer opportunity for those who would stay on the land’. He watched me once more, without movement, until he seemed satisfied with my answer.

‘We have sent to the Earl in Dublin for help, and he has refused us. That sanglant fiz de putaigne has refused us aid when our lord de Lacy sent him men and weapons not six months ago. I will go to Duiblinn and speak with him. He will heed me or de Lacy will know of it’.

‘May I accompany you, sire?’ I asked, half bowing with the request. Again, his dispassionate face, his considered response. He understood immediately.

‘Meyler will not hurt you here in my absence, as long as you do not aggravate him. Stay close to de Feypo. Perhaps he will take you on as a garsun for one of his sons. Perhaps he will allow you to bear his cup’.

I bowed again and took my leave, as soldiers, blacksmiths and others waited for audience at the door. I left the hall, crossing the courtyard, through the inner gatehouse, across the outer bailey and, passing the shadowed outer gate, I crossed the bridge seeking de Feypo’s house in the developing faubourg. I found him by his hearth and offered my service. He laughed, always laughing, and sent me to the stables to help with his horses. I worked hard for the day, mucking out, attending to the saddles and gear, carting fodder and watching, watching all around for a glimpse of her, though nothing did I see.