Erinsong (6 page)

Something about the chair
jarred his mind. The
smell of sawdust rose
in his nostrils. He remembered
hefting the
weight of an adze and the smooth feel of polished, fine-grained
wood under his palms. He flexed his fingers and suddenly knew he
could fix that chair.

Keefe gathered up the
pieces of wood and carried
them along with
the peat back to Brenna.

“No!” she said. “We’ll not be burning
that.”

“Of course not.” Keefe set down the armful of
pieces and held up the sections of the back, fitting them together
and judging the best way to reunite them. “Why burn what I can
repair?”

Brenna stopped mixing the brew with her long
wooden paddle and looked at him intently. “Can ye truly?”

“I think so.” His mind worked feverishly,
traveling down a new, yet strangely familiar, road. Choosing and
preparing the wood, the tools, the carefully honed craft that was
both art and science—knowledge poured back into him with a rush
that left him light-headed.

He was a carpenter. That much he could be
certain of. But what manner of carpenter washed up on a beach with
naught but a keg of ale? Questions and self-doubt assaulted him
afresh, but he shoved them aside.

“Where can I find some woodworking
tools?”

Brenna pointed toward a lean-to. “What tools
there be ye’ll find in the smith’s shed.” The hopeful expression on
her face faded. “I’m doubting there’s aught ye can do for the
chair. Our cooper told me ‘twas hopeless, but after ye’ve broken
your fast, I give ye leave to try.”

***

Brenna pinned up the last of the light blue
linen to flap dry in the slanting sunlight. Wool took color easily
darkening to the shade of twilight just before the sky turns inky
black, but flax caught the hue of the heavens on a fine summer
morn.

“There’s a good day’s work,” she said
approvingly as she eyed the bolts of saffron, deep green, and soft
gray undulating in the breeze.

The scent of a rich stew wafted out of the
keep. Moira had been busy as well.

Brenna brushed a strand of
curling hair out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. As she’d
worked through the morning, Keefe had crisscrossed the yard several
times, fetching different items he needed to attempt the repair of
the chair. She hadn’t seen the
Northman
since she checked on him at midday.

She knew he was still there, though. From
time to time, she’d catch snatches of the rhythmic noise she
guessed was a song. It wasn’t the most pleasant of sounds, but she
recognized it as the same tune he’d been trying to sing when she’d
happened upon him at his ablutions.

The sound invoked the memory of seeing him in
splendid nakedness, the cool stream lapping at his hips. The
smoothness of skin pulled taut over his muscles, the water tickling
over his chest, the soft fuzz of fine hairs on his belly—

Brenna shook herself to
ward off the vision. What
was wrong with
her? She knew what men were. Especially Northmen. She’d seen the
flicker of lust in his eye when he tried to lure her into the water
with him. Brian Ui Niall’s daughter would be no man’s fool, nor his
plaything, either.

She squared her shoulders
and marched across the
yard to the smith’s
shed.

“The man lolls in the shade
all day, singing his hea
then songs and
playing at work while the rest of us toil under God’s sun,” she
muttered under her breath. “He’ll be singing a different tune when
I’m through with him, and no mistake.”

Keefe seemed not to hear her when she rounded
the corner. He was squatting down, hands busy, tongue firmly
clamped between his teeth in concentration. The rapt expression on
his face told Brenna he was deeply engrossed in his work, and for a
moment, she allowed herself to admire his golden hair, fine
features, and darkly even brows.

Keefe Murphy must be a
snare sent from Satan him
self, Brenna
decided. It wasn’t in nature for a man to be so... beautiful. She
forced herself to look at the chair.

“Oh!” Brenna skittered over
and knelt beside him.
She ran a finger
reverently over the carved back, now
neatly pegged together with a new section wedged in where it
had previously been shattered. “Ye’ve done it.”

His smile nearly made her forget the
chair.

“It’s not finished yet,” he
said. “I plan to carve the
new section to
match the old. The pattern ran true all
the way across, didn’t it?”

“Aye,” Brenna said. “I can’t believe ye’ve
made it whole again.”

“But that’s just the
start.” Keefe’s enthusiasm was infectious as he pointed to the
newly turned leg. “I had to use a different type of wood. The chair
was
made of something that doesn’t seem to
grow around
here.”

“That’s right,” Brenna said. “It came from
the south, from me mother’s people.”

“I wondered. I couldn’t
match the wood to any
thing nearby, but I
should be able to make a stain that
will
bring it closer to the rest of the chair in
appear
ance.” He ran a hand over the leg.
“Once I’m done you’ll have to look closely to tell which one is the
replacement.”

Brenna sighed. “It’ll never be the same,
though.”

“No. When something is
broken,
you can’t make it new, however
hard you try.”

When he turned to look at
her, Brenna suspected
he saw beneath her
face to her scarred soul.

“It’ll never be the same,” he admitted.

Brenna’s shoulders
slumped.
Of course not. Once
things are done, they can’t be undone.

“It won’t be the same, but
it can be better,” he said,
turning the
chair on end. “Look here. I’ve reinforced
the seat and the back so it’s much stronger than before. But
it’s repaired in a way that doesn’t add any bulk or destroy the
line of the chair.”

Brenna smiled. “That’s cleverly done.”

“Why, Princess, is that a kind word?”

When she lowered her brows at him and
scowled, he raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Forget I said that.” Then
he leaned toward her. “I
can tell this
means something to you, though. Why is
this chair so important?”

Brenna traced a fingertip
over the carving, worn
smooth in places
from countless backs. “ ‘Tis old be
yond
reckoning. I was told it came to the family so
many generations ago me people believe ‘twas made by the
Tuatha De Danaan.” The ancient tribe of Erin was held in such high
regard they’d been elevated to
godlike
status among the more superstitious. “As
such, it was priceless. It belonged to me mother.”

“I thought as much. A
delicate chair for a deli
cate lady. It
suits her.”

“Aye,” Brenna said. “She’s
always been fair. Moira
takes her looks
from the Connacht side of the family.
I
favor me father’s people.”

“She’s very quiet, your mother.”

“That’s putting it mildly.
She hasn’t said a word since the chair was broken.” Brenna thought
for a moment about her distant mother, Una, a fragile beauty with a
figure too waiflike to ever be considered matronly. “A few weeks
ago, some of me fa
ther’s men were drunk
and things got a bit lively. By
the time
the scuffle was over, the chair was in pieces
and Mother stopped talking.”

“She stopped talking
because of a chair?” Keefe picked up a small chisel and began to
carve the en
twined pattern, taking care
to match the new to the old.

“ ‘Twas not for its value,
though ‘tis hard to put
that aside. The
chair itself was special to her,” Brenna
said. “ ‘Twas sent to her by her family when me brother was
born. She nursed him, dandled him on her knee, and weaned him on
that chair.”

“So you have a brother.” Keefe looked up at
her briefly. “Which one of the men is he?”

Brenna sighed and settled
onto the hard-packed dirt floor beside him. “I
had
a brother.”

Brenna bit her lip and her
whole body stiffened. Why
had the words
slipped out? This man had no right to
her
family’s private grief. When he didn’t press her
for more, but returned to carving the wood and
hum
ming under his breath, she
relaxed.

He turned the chair on its side to get closer
to his work and started chanting unintelligible words.

“What is that noise ye’re making?” she
finally asked.

He tossed her an indignant
look. “That
noise
is a
song. It popped into my head
this morning and so far
it’s about the
only thing I can remember. I’m hoping
if I
sing it, more will follow.”

He sang a few more growling phrases, then
stopped.

“Have you remembered aught more?” she
asked.

“No,” he admitted. “I seem to be stuck on one
verse.”

“What is the song about?”

“It’s about sailing the wide world,” he said,
his blue eyes trained on a distant point.

For the first time, Brenna
wondered what it must be like to ride the heaving breast of the
sea. When
Keefe frowned, she felt a stab
of sympathy for him.
Not to know himself;
the man must feel truly adrift.

“And the song is about going home,” he
added.

Home. Did he have people who missed him? A
lover? Perhaps a whole string of women. Looking at his fine
profile, she realized he must. How could he not?

The rhythmic chantey began again, haltingly
this time, as he translated for her.

Slice the gray waves of the sea

Lay the Hammer-fist down

To kettle and hearth with treasure I’ll
flee

To find my true Treasures grown.

He brushed away some of the
flaking wood with a
rough fingertip. “I’m
not exactly sure what it means.”

“True treasures,” Brenna repeated. “What
could that be to a Northman but the wealth from someone else’s
labor?”

He met her gaze directly.
“I was thinking true trea
sure might mean
a family.”

Brenna gulped. Everyone
knew Northmen didn’t
show any more care to
their women and offspring than
a stray dog
gave to the bitch he’d covered. At least that was what she’d always
heard, but something in
this Northman’s
expression told her he would care.

“By those lights, your song
is about a man find
ing his bairns changed
in his absence.” Brenna was at
a loss to
explain her sudden shortness of breath. “Do
ye suppose it means ye have a family that this verse
has come to ye?”

Keefe laughed. “No matter
what happened to him,
somehow I think a
man would have a hard time forgetting that.”

He hummed the disjointed tune again.

A hard fist knotted her
stomach. Why should it matter to her if he did have a woman
somewhere?
Still, the song grated on
Brenna like strong spirits on
an open
wound.

“Must ye keep making that racket?”

“A song helps me concentrate,” he said. “If
you don’t like mine, maybe you could sing me one of yours.”

“I’m not a minstrel girl to
warble at your beck and
call,” Brenna
snapped.

“It’s just a song, Princess.” He seemed
undaunted by her frown. “Surely even the Irish know a song or
two.”

“Aye, so we do.”

“Then where’s the harm in
sharing one with me as
I work?” His
lopsided smile would melt a harder heart than hers.

“ ‘Tis plain I’ll have no
peace till I do. Very well
then.” She
folded her hands in her lap and searched
her repertoire for the right song for the occasion.
“Ah!
Just the thing. ‘Tis a song that
explains why we Irish enjoy foul weather.”

Brenna’s sweet soprano rose pure and clear
despite the minor twist in the tune.

Bitter blows the wind this night

Toss up the ocean’s hair so white

Merciless men I need not fear

Who cross from Lothland on ocean clear.

When the last melancholy
note died, the corners of Keefe’s mouth turned down. She could tell
he felt the
jab at his Norse heritage,
then.

“Are all the Irish songs so sad?”

“If they are, ‘tis only because our lives are
often sad,” Brenna said defensively.

He worked in silence for a
moment, then turned to
look at her. “Was
your brother killed by a Northman?”

“No,” she said softly.

“Good.” He directed his
attention back to his carv
ing. “At least
I’m not responsible for all your woe.”

The simple statement stung.
Perhaps she was wrong to blame Keefe for what happened at
Clonmacnoise. Still, he was a Northman.
Sometimes
she thought holding on to her
hatred was all that kept her sane.