Erinsong (38 page)

“But I’m not so fine a lady
as me mother to be com
pletely undone by
loss. I have more of the Ui Niall
stubbornness in me than Connacht sensibilities.” As if to
give lie to her words, tears coursed freely down her cheeks and
stung the corners of her mouth. “The
wee
bairn who rests here will have a small piece of me. ‘Tis fitting
that he should. But the rest of me is yours till I die.”

“Then you’ll come away with
me.” Brenna felt re
lief roll from him in
caressing waves.

“No, love, I cannot go,”
she said. “Not to any foreign land. I’m born of Erin and bound to
her shores. But I will travel with ye to stop Thorkill from
over
running me island. We cannot let him
have his way with the people of this land.”

The look of shock on his
strongly hewn features told her he’d all but forgotten about
Thorkill. Now that she’d reminded him, a gritty air of
resignation
and determination settled over
him once more.

“No, Brenna,” he said. “You
can’t come on this
raid. It’s too
dangerous.” He didn’t need to add
espe
cially this time,
but Brenna heard it hovering in the air
anyway.

“Then I’ll wait in Dublin for ye to
return.”

“In the same town as
Solveig?” His brows shot up
in
surprise.

“I’ll bide with Father
Armaugh in his wee church
till ye come for
me. I doubt Solveig will be darkening
the
door of the Lord’s house. I’ll be safe enough there.”

“No, that won’t work.
Armaugh is no longer in Dublin.” He raised his hands as if to ward
off her
questions. “Don’t ask how I know,
but trust me for it.
He’s long
gone.”

“Then if Murtaugh will travel with me, I must
hie meself to Donegal before winter comes,” Brenna said, placing
one hand over her abdomen. “Ye’ll come to me there?”

“
Ja,
my princess,” he promised, sealing the
oath
with a kiss. “If I’ve breath in my
body, I’ll be in Done
gal before our
handfast year is over. You said I may
have
you till you die, and I mean to claim you at your
word.”

Rain pelted them steadily, the drizzling mist
dripping off the horse’s tack, off the low-hung branches thrashed
her as they plodded past, off Murtaugh’s disreputable old hat and
off Brenna’s chin. The sky had wept for her for the last two days,
ever since she parted from Jorand, heading north over the moors and
through the glens to Donegal.

Murtaugh had insisted they come this way,
following the Shannon upriver, instead of cutting across country
as she had when she’d made the trip to and from Clonmacnoise as a
novice. She didn’t recognize any of the landmarks. Brenna was
certain the old man was taking her the long way around, and the
journey was a long weary way without his adding anything to it. She
raised a sodden sleeve to her nose to catch a sneeze. Brenna
decided irritably she’d never be warm or dry again.

“Not far now,” Murtaugh called up to her in
encouragement, his croaking voice reminding her of an ancient
bullfrog. When she’d been ill again that morning, he strapped most
of their provisions onto his own bent back, cooking pots dangling
from his waist, and insisted she ride. Watching him slog through
the mud ahead of her, she was ashamed of her grumbling
self-pity.

“The husbandman I bought a beef from last
season has a wee house in the next glen but one,” Murtaugh said,
waving a gnarled hand toward the unseen refuge. “We’ll bide there
till the weather clears.”

Brenna nodded
mutely.
There! There it is again. Or did I
just imagine it?

A brief flutter, light as a butterfly coming
to rest on a thistle, stirred deep in her belly.

She hadn’t breathed a word of her suspicions
to Jorand. She was too afraid voicing them would make it not true.
Even if she was right, he didn’t need the burden of knowing he
might become a father when he was about to go into danger. He could
not afford any distractions in battle.

Without Jorand, she felt adrift, alone with
her thoughts and had more than enough time to examine her
grief.

She’d brought the Codex back only to have her
hopes dashed by the news of the child’s death. Now she had no way
to atone for the grief she’d caused her sister. She’d won the love
of her husband only to have him yanked by ill-chance into a
struggle over the fate of the whole of Erin.

Brenna closed her eyes, letting her mount
pick his own way after Murtaugh. She prayed feverishly for Jorand’s
safety. It was all she could do.

Her head lolled forward and she nodded to
sleep in the saddle. Nightmarish images of Jorand fighting Kolgrim
in the
holmhring,
flashes of lightning reducing
both of them to stark skeletal figures, Solveig’s blood red
mouth curved in a taunting smile, and the
pit of Potter’s Field all jumbled together in
disjointed
visions.

With gratitude, she jerked
to wakefulness at Mur
taugh’s loud “Hello,
the house!”

It was a tidy cottage,
ringed by the forest. The re
mains of a
fruitful garden stood nearby. The produce was all gathered in
against the coming winter, empty brown stalks rattling against a
small cattle byre.

“Murtaugh? Heaven bless me,
is that ye?” The crofter in the clearing stopped chopping wood in
mid-swing and strode toward them in welcome. He
was a man of middle years, still strong, but with
thin
ning hair slicked back above a plain,
honest face. He
clasped forearms with
Murtaugh, then smiled up at Brenna. “No amount of foul weather will
hurt this
old devil, but an’ ye forgive me
for sayin’ so, miss, ye
look fair done in.
Hie ye both inside, and me wife will
get
some good hot broth into ye.”

As the two men bundled her
beneath the low lintel, Brenna learned the farmer’s name was
Finian and his wife, a moderately stout young lady about
ten years his junior, was called
Grainne.

“Mary, Michael, and St.
Bride, but ye’re soaked clear
through!”
Grainne exclaimed after introductions were
made. “Come ye with me and we’ll see ye set to
rights.”

The main room of the
cottage held the fire pit ringed with Grainne’s cooking utensils, a
sturdy
table and stools, and cupboards
lining one wall. Wo
ven strands of onions
and garlic hung from the
rafters. Brenna
noticed a set of stone stairs along one
wall disappearing down into a
souterraine
beneath the cottage,
full of pumpkins and other assorted gourds, no doubt.

Gratefully, Brenna trailed
her hostess behind a cloth
partition in
the small house. The couple’s bed stood behind the curtain, a thick
straw tick with a number
of woolen
coverlets. Brenna could’ve happily tumbled
into it and not come out for a week. She tried not to
let her longing show when she looked at the
bed.

“Here ye be, Brenna,”
Grainne was saying as she
pulled an old
tunic from the trunk at the foot. “A mite
big for ye, I’d expect, but dry enough.”

“ ‘Tis
heaven to be out of me damp things,” she
said as she peeled off her soggy tunic. Brenna swam in the
borrowed clothing, but the fabric was soft and
warm against her skin. “I thank ye.”

From the dark corner of the
curtained space, she
heard a soft sound.
She strained her eyes to see in the
dimness as the noise grew in intensity and finally launched
into a full blown wail.

“I’m sorry. I’ve wakened your child,” Brenna
said.

“Ach! Don’t fash yourself.
His little Highness was
needin’ to be woke
or he’ll be keeping me up all night.” Grainne scooped up the child
in her capable arms and he quieted immediately. “Murtaugh’ll
be
wanting to see the bairn anyway, him
being the lad’s
godfather, ye
see.”

They rejoined the men in
the warm main room and
this time Brenna’s
nose pricked to the savory aroma
coming
from the kettle suspended over the central fire.
A few raindrops dribbled in through the smoke
hole in the little cottage’s roof and hissed on the heated
stones ringing the blaze. Thankfully, most of the
smoke
seemed to be drifting out the same
opening.

Grainne plopped the child onto Murtaugh’s
lap, and a small hand flailed up to grasp Murtaugh’s scraggly
beard.

“Ho there Rory, me wee red king!” The boy
promptly grabbed his godfather’s nose and pulled himself up to a
wobbly standing position on the old man’s bony knees. “Walking now,
is it?”

“Aye,” Finian said with
pride. “Set him down and let him try a step or two. He started that
a day or so ago
.”

Brenna watched in fascination as the child
bobbled from one set of adult legs to the next, venturing halting,
unassisted steps between each safe haven as he worked his way
around the fire pit toward her. A lead weight gathered in her chest
even as she smiled at the boy’s antics. She counted back the months
in her mind. Had he lived, she figured Sinead’s child would have
been of an age with Grainne and Finian’s little Rory.

“Hello.” She leaned toward him when his
dimpled hand lighted on her knees. He gabbled a string of nonsense
sounds in answer.

Grainne laughed. “A talker, that one. No
doubt, he has the makings of a great bard.”

The great bard evidently had enough of
walking on his own and lifted both his chubby arms to Brenna to be
picked up. She plucked him up without any more encouragement,
realizing that her arms ached to do so.

Rory gave her a one-toothed grin and then
tried to jam his whole fist into his mouth. Brenna studied the boy
closely. His hair curled over his head in a profusion of red,
gold, and roan. The barest hint of auburn brows drew together in
consternation as it became apparent to him that he couldn’t gnaw
his own hand without feeling pain.

The boy’s face was
snub-nosed in the manner of all
bairns,
the jaw and cheeks too puffed with baby fat for Brenna to tell what
manner of man he’d make. But the lad’s eyes drew her rapt
attention. Behind a
fringe of ruddy
lashes, her sister’s eyes, gray with sil
ver flecks, stared back at her.

Sinead bore a boy. A bonny wee manikin with
a tuft of red on his little head.

She glanced across the fire
at Murtaugh, the ques
tion burning in her
gaze. His thin lips drew downward. Rory began to struggle in her
arms, fussing in frustration over the inadequacy of his
fist.

“He’ll be hungry again. Are
ye not, me fine wee
fiend?” Grainne lifted
him from Brenna’s lap and set
tled the boy
on her own. She drew out an ample breast, blue with bulging veins,
and gave the boy
suck. His eyes closed in
ecstasy, auburn lashes quiv
ering against
his cheeks.

Grainne sighed, the placid
contentment of nursing mothers stealing over her. She hummed softly
under
her breath.

“He’s a beautiful child,” Brenna said,
fighting to keep from reaching out to fondle the curls glinting
copper in the firelight.

“Aye, he’s a good-hearted
lad, too,” Grainne said with pride. “Though Finian and me can
scarce take
the credit. Rory is me angel
sent straight from heaven.”

“Grainne,” Finian’s voice held a note of
warning.

“Sure and the truth never
did harm,” Grainne coun
tered. “Brenna
here is friend to Murtaugh. That’s good
enough for me.”

“What did ye mean when ye say Rory is your
angel?”

“Murtaugh can tell ye that
tale as well as me, I’d expect,” she answered, but being the sort
who en
joyed the sound of her own voice,
Grainne went on. “Me own bairn died in his crib not a month after
his
birth. He was a goodly boy too, but a
mite puny and,
truth to tell, not near as
bonny as wee Rory.”

Finian harrumphed loudly.
Untroubled by her husband’s interruption, Grainne babbled on. “I
was
fair wild with grief, ye see. Wouldn’t
let Finian even
bury the boy. But I
prayed, aye, and prayed mightily, thinking that the same God who
raised the widow’s son could raise my child.”

“But the Almighty had somewhat different in
mind than I asked for,” Grainne conceded as she shifted the boy to
her other breast. “And the next night, who should come bearing a
newborn babe in his arms but our own Murtaugh.”

Rory’s pudgy hand patted
Grainne’s swollen
breast. “And me still
heavy with milk,” she added as
though that
cinched the matter. “Murtaugh had visited us the month before. He
knew I’d born a child
and had milk enough
for two.” Her voice had a slight
catch.
“Of course, I only needed milk for one by then. I came to me senses
and let Finian bury our dear little
Dermot
under yon hawthorn. So ye see why I say Rory is me
angel.”