Forged in Blood Page 17

  ‘Certainly not,’ he returns abruptly. ‘You and Kru wait here in the chapel. I will bring her to you. It is safer here than to be found trespassing in the scriptorium.’

  I nod agreement.

  ‘If you see anyone coming, kneel down between the benches, as if you are settling down to pray. You have seen Baldr do his daily penance. You can go through the same motions, can’t you?’

  I sign to let Kru know what’s happening. I make a sign of praying, and point to my knees. I think he understands, but my smile leaves him puzzled.

  Paperkali interrupts. ‘Have you told him about Saint Bartholomeus?’

  ‘About your problems with the beehive?’ I reply. ‘No, I have not! There hasn’t been time for it. And, besides, it is difficult to put that kind of thing into signs — to explain queen bees and such like.’

  ‘You must promise to tell him,’ insists Paperkali. ‘Kru loved the bees. He loved caring for them. It is something he would want to know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Brother Pap. I will tell him — but in my own good time.’

  ‘That’s all the brothers out,’ says the bee-keeper, who has kept his eye on the yard. ‘I have counted seven scribes from the cellar, and Brother Oengus from the refectory — that makes eight. That means M’lym will be alone in the scriptorium.’ He turns to the altar; bends the knee; makes a sign of the cross. ‘May God forgive me.’ He opens the chapel door, letting in a shaft of sunlight, and breathes deeply. ‘I will go and fetch her.’

  *

  Kru and I stand behind the closed door of the chapel and wait for Paperkali to return from the scriptorium — hopefully he will bring M’lym. Kru fidgets. He pulls his nose and scratches his ears. He can’t bear to stand still. To keep Kru amused, I sign for him, as Paperkali asked me to do, to explain what is happening with the bees. The dim light in the chapel doesn’t help, but — with or without light — I am at pains to put the news of the bees in signs clear enough for Kru to understand.

  In one of the swarms — in the hive named after Saint Bartholomeus — Paperkali’s bees are at war. The mother-bee has died. A new queen is needed to replace her. Four queen-lings — laid as eggs by the old queen before she died — are suspended in jelly-wax. They are alive, but they have not yet hatched from their cells. They wait to be born. The first queen-ling to emerge will kill the other three and assert her control over the swarm. It is five days since Paperkali found the mother-bee dead and as yet no sign of a new queen-ling breaking out of the jelly-wax. A strange thing has happened. While the swarm is leaderless without a queen, gangs of rival bees have begun killing each other. Half the bees in the swarm have died in wasteful battle. Paperkali is beside himself. He fears the hive will be destroyed. One of his twelve honey saints will be lost. There will be no more Saint Bartholomeus.

  My hand-signs for Kru are getting nowhere — he has no inkling of what I am trying to convey. ‘Don’t you see?’ I repeat aloud, letting my frustration show, even though I know perfectly well that Kru cannot hear me. ‘Old one dead! New queen not born. Bees kill bees. New queen not born.’

  Kru’s face widens into a grin, and then an outburst of silent laughter — silent, but mouth opened wide, and hearty ─ showing his toothless gums. He points over my shoulder, while the chapel door opens to full sunlight. “Not killing bees,” he signs. “Killing not! Mother-bee! Mother-bee!”

  M’lym-kun stands at the opened doorway. Paperkali pushes her inside and closes the door behind him, leaving all four of us in shadows. The opening and closing of the chapel door had disturbed the candlelight and cast glowing ripples on the tamped earthen floor of the aisle. At the same time a shaft of short-lived sunlight had led my eyes to the altar and the crucifixion statue on the wall.

  Chapter 26

  Paperkali bends on one knee, facing the altar. He makes a holy sign, marking the cross of Christ by his hand, index finger to lips first, from shoulder-tip left to shoulder-tip right, then over his breast in a swift movement. M’lym-kun kneels at his side. She follows the same rituals of obedience. The monk’s observance is rapidly done, his thoughts elsewhere. He takes up his position at the chapel door. Anxiously he opens it, but only by a crack, to keep watch out into the afternoon sunlight.

  M’lym remains on her knees; eyes closed, lips still moving earnestly in prayer. Once her devotions are at an end, she turns to Kru and leaps unexpectedly into his arms. Our friend lifts her off her feet, swings her to and fro in a shared tearful embrace. Restored to her feet, M’lym approaches me timidly. A shy lifting of her hand into mine. Her lips lightly touch my knuckle with a brief, dutiful kiss. Only then do I notice that her fingertips, her lower lip, and the front of her white robe, are blackened — smudged with ink — from whatever work she is asked to do in the scriptorium.

  ‘Well, Ostman,’ she says quietly. ‘Here I am. Can’t stay long. Mustn’t get Paperkali into trouble.’ She takes a step back, and folds her stained hands into the sleeves of her robe as if to hide them. The short-cropped hair and long white robe make her figure look womanly and tall.

  ‘You are given work with monks in the cellar?’

  ‘Writing work, yes,’ she replies. ‘And holy instruction too.’

  ‘I can see you have been mixing their black inks. Messy task, eh?’

  It was an off-hand remark of mine, but M’lym doesn’t take it as trivial. ‘Not just black,’ she replies. ‘Colours too: reds, yellows, green and gold. I am taught to paint letters, rich and bold as the monks do, at the head of each page.’

  ‘Letters?’

  ‘Each separate letter is strung like a bead on a thread. It forms a word. Beads, and then more beads, more and more still — they all add up to fill a page.’

  ‘You are learning to write, to copy runes in a book like a scribe?’

  ‘I can’t do writing on my own yet, but Brother Lorcan says that with practice that will come.’

  ‘Runes! Just imagine, M’lym. I never thought you would end up writing runes!’

  ‘It is not runes or Erse oghams that are written down. Holy script cannot be copied in your language or in mine. It is the Word of God threaded together in precious Roman beads — the monks call it Latin.’

  ‘Why do they do it?’ I ask. ‘What’s it all for?’

  ‘That’s a dumb question, Ostman, even for you!’ A smile glimmers at the corners of her mouth, as it always did, when she gave me cheek. The smile soon fades. ‘The Word of God is for others to read, to learn purity and wisdom, and to understand.’

  ‘Is that what the monks teach you?’

  ‘It is our faith! The faith of the Erse. I believe them.’

  For a moment I am lost for words, taken aback by the gushing of her childish beliefs — as if books are the be-all and end-all of everything. ‘You are well fed, I see, that’s good. You are sprouting up — filling out, too. Look how tall you are.’

  ‘I am treated kindly here,’ she returns in a stony voice. ‘I want for nothing. I know that I didn’t want to stay at the beginning, in fact I was dead against it, but you were right to leave me with the holy brothers. I couldn’t be in a better place.’ But then she adds less coldly. ‘Victuals must be in good supply at the haven. You look different, Ostman, big and strong.’

  ‘That reminds me. Our divvy from the voyage — yours, mine, Baldr’s, Skip’s — the full amount has been turned into coin, and lodged in Lodin’s treasury at Vadrar-fiord fort. It is Hakon’s idea. The Custodian of the Three Rivers is his longstanding friend — our divvy is safe as houses.’

  ‘Is that what you came to tell me?’

  ‘No, M’lym. Not only for that. More important than divvy and silver coin, I wanted you to know that I will keep my word. I will go to Brythuniog. You and I together, as promised, we will look for your father and brother.’

  No reply from M’lym. Her body stiffens. Her eyes turn to the door, as if Paperkali will know how to answer better than she. The monk understands her silent appeal. He shakes his head in disapproval. He opens t
he iron-clad door to the full; he steps outside, his whole attention on the far end of the compound, beyond the garden of herbs, where Father Abban has his quarters.

  Kru is startled by the sudden opening of the door, by a bright burst of afternoon sun into the chapel. Our deaf friend has no notion of what we have been saying. Left without signs or explanation, he fidgets, rubs his nose, pulls his ears. He looks vacantly into the dazzle of spring sunshine.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten me,’ M’lym says at last. ‘That’s to your credit, Ostman, but I no longer ask your help.’

  ‘Why not? What’s happened? Has someone else agreed to take you?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she stammers. ‘It’s just that — it is just that I no longer have any desire to go searching for da and Ardmath.’

  ‘Why not? What has made you change your mind?’

  ‘The holy brothers are my family. This is my life now.’

  ‘In a cellar? With monks? Mixing inks? Writing coloured runes day and night? What kind of life is that? It is no better than being a slave.’

  ‘Here is where I am needed, Ostman. Here is where I want to be. I am not a slave!’

  ‘The monks, child, they have filled your head with nonsense.’

  ‘Father Abban says that the soul of a young woman is the purest there can be. Like a soft potter’s clay, her young life — like the Virgin Mary’s — can be shaped and formed in the potter’s hands, and made perfect for the service of God.’

  Kru has grabbed my arm. He has taken M’lym’s too.

  ‘They are coming this way!’ Paperkali shouts in panic from the door. ‘Brother Lorcan and Brother Oengus. And, Christ preserve us, Father Abban too.’ The bee-keeper slams the chapel door shut, enclosing us again in dim, sunless light — only the light of the candle burning on the altar.

  ‘Quick!’ Paperkali chivvying us in the darkness. ‘To the praying-benches. On your knees!’

  I drag Kru to his knees. The four of us kneel on the tamped, earthen floor. Behind us, we hear a twist of the latch on the chapel door. But no sudden sunlight. No opening of the iron-clad door. My eyes have become accustomed to the dim light of the single candle burning on the altar.

  To my left is Kru, his dumb lips moving. He follows M’lym in a mime of prayer. Beyond Kru is M’lym-kun. She prays earnestly, gazing at the crucifixion behind the altar. To my right is Paperkali. The words on his lips are for his cherished bees, a prayer for Saint Bartholomeus.

  ‘O God, hear my plea,’ says Paperkali. ‘Punish me — purge me for the wrong I have done but, please God, spare the hive!’

  Chapter 27

  ‘No, Clithna,’ says Deasún forcefully to his wife. ‘For the last time: you are not coming with us to the tide-head at Inis-tioc!’

  ‘Why not?’ returns Clithna with a glint in her eye.

  ‘You will be a nuisance,’ says Deasún. ‘To me and to others! You meddle in men’s affairs!’

  Ingvar laughs at the mournful expression feigned on his sister’s face. He moves a brass disk slyly on the chequerboard and hands the six-sided dice to Deasún. He and his brother-in-law are playing at ‘dead-or-bluff’ — another version of ‘kroners’, one favoured by the Erse. They are near the end of the game — only three disks of silver and four of brass left on the board — and a wager at stake.

  It is already settled that I will play the winner. Deasún and Ingvar are more than happy to take my challenge — they know that nowadays I have a full purse of coin under my serk. I have a reputation for taking risks in a game, which makes me a soft target for their bluffing me out of my stake.

  ‘Aren’t I right, Ingvar, about your sister?’ Deasún insists. ‘She sticks her nose in, where it is not wanted.’

  ‘Throw the dice, man,’ replies Ingvar keenly. ‘Thor’s sake, keep your mind on the game.’

  ‘No, I don’t, husband,’ says Clithna, butting in — Deasún’s wife has sensed she has the better of him. She is counting on getting what she wants. ‘I’ll be good and behave — you will see — I will keep out of your way. When the men’s stuff is going on. I won’t interfere; I promise.’

  ‘You will be bored,’ says Deasún. ‘Hanging around in women’s quarters with nothing to do.’

  ‘No, I won’t feel time heavy on my hands! I will borrow a horse from Tioc — his daughters will come riding with me. I love crossing the wild heaths over Slieve Bhraan. Remember, Ma, we did it many times as children.’

  At the mention of Slieve Bhraan, Aghamora exchanges a glance with Hakon, but no sooner do their eyes meet than the queen leaves her high seat beside Lodin. She kneels at her husband’s feet, where his two favourite hounds are dozing. The dogs have been out all day, working the sheep on Inis-cáera. The brindled hound stretches affectionately, puts his nose on Aghamora’s bare arm and lets her pet his ears. The black-and-grey blinks in his dog-dream and snores.

  ‘Your daughter is right,’ says Hakon to Lord Lodin. ‘There is no better lookout over the land than from Slieve Bhraan. From the tops — if you are lucky to be up there on a fine day — you can see south as far as the estuary and catch a glint sparkling off the open sea beyond.’

  ‘Don’t encourage her, old friend,’ replies Lodin. ‘It is out of my hands, and yours. Deasún is her husband. He will decide if Clithna goes or not. Mind, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t let her go. I would chase her to the lambing fields on Inis-cáera. I am always short-handed come lambing-time.’

  ‘That’s rich, my lord, coming from you,’ says Aghamora. ‘Seeing as you are the one who spoiled your daughter - from the moment she was born you have given her everything she asked for!’

  Lodin rolls his eyes and winks at Hakon.

  Deasún blows on the dice. ‘Gently does it!’ From his cupped hands he sends the dice on a short roll — that favoured gentle roll of his. ‘That will do nicely,’ he says heartily, when the dice have settled on the felt. ‘A double four!’

  ‘Lucky shit!’ says Ingvar.

  ‘That will teach you,’ says Deasún, slapping Ingvar lustily on the neck. ‘You shouldn’t have raised your stake so late in the game. I am going to clear you out!’

  Clithna — quick to take advantage of Deasún’s flush of success on the game board — caresses his arm tenderly; playfully, and yet, at the same, assertively. ‘Well, husband, what’s it to be? You decide my fate! No one is happier than I to be on Inis-cáera with the hounds. Am I on lambing duty with Da and the herders — or am I going north with you and Hakon?’

  Chapter 28

  The market at Vadrar-fiord is heaving with Erse-men arrived from along the three rivers with livestock to sell. Skippers have their kaupships waiting. They bid for wool-backs to take down the coast. Sheep-herders have brought wethers to market: last year’s gelded spring lambs, woolbacks that have grown fat, and taken on thick coats of wool during a green, wet winter on the mountains. Drovers from richer grazing lands in the valleys around Inis-tioc have shipped young cattle, lean and black, downriver from the tide-head. Black heifers are bred with local brown bulls. Fjak, who grew up as herd-boy, says the brinded off-spring make good milkers. Bullocks will be slaughtered for their hides and horns and butchered meat for the craft-folk of Vadrar-fiord, who can afford to eat more beef than grain.

  Every day sheep and cattle arrive. Herders, who have not come by river, but have used drove-ways to get here, gather their stock on the northern shore of an-Shuir — above Inis-cáera — and wait to be ferried to the south bank on wherries. A modest toll is charged for crossing the river. The rate is kept low, by order of the Custodian — and is rigorously enforced.

  ‘Woe betide a wherryman,’ says Hakon, ‘if he hikes the toll-price! That’s a hanging offence for repeat offenders — if a man is caught trying to fleece the herders, his feet won’t touch the ground!’

  Wool-backs are shorn in make-shift pens south of the fort, the shearings baled-up on the spot and carried to market. Healthy sheep that have grazed well over winter have coats heavy with oils. Their wool
is in demand for making ships’ sails. Sail-makers have cloth-shops, rope-works and looms inside the fort. The canvas-men offer good exchange for winter wool; in return, they trade finished wares of tarps, wool-weave, binding-twine and cord. According to Skip, wool-backs that are sheared before sale are better stock and fetch a higher price. With a wether that is ‘spring-sheared’, a man can see at a glance if the beast is fit in limb and fat on the haunches. This makes for a quick ‘eye-bid’ from sharp buyers off the ships, from skippers such as Hakon who like to get their hands on the best ‘vadrar’. For the first springtime in years, Hakon is not preparing for an annual voyage of coastal trade. Lodin has hired the Meuris — skipper, ship and crew — for a summer of ‘river work’. Our pay-out will match last season’s divvy or better. ‘Without lifting a finger,’ says Hakon. ‘We have it in the bag’.

  *

  The prospect of a guaranteed summer pay-out hasn’t stopped Skip from doing the rounds of the shearing pens. He can’t resist shooting the breeze with the Erse herders and checking out this season’s prices. Once he has done the rounds in the lower fields, he returns to walk the piers at haven, looking up old cronies, sniffing out news at the landings. All the Ostmen skippers and ships are known to him by name. Hakon knows who has the most-trusted midshipmen — and the least-trusted — and where each skipper touts for trade, whether he voyages coast-wise north or west, or sails over the water to Brythuniog and Frankland.

  Most nights Skip can be found in the brew-house, sharing ale and listening to gossip. There is loose talk about the men of Linn-dubh, rumours of an attack on Vadrar-fiord, of an onslaught from fifty long-ships — some say a hundred, but anyway, as many long-ships as King Amlav can muster.

  If you are to believe Halpin, Lodin cannot avoid a violent reprisal for turning his back on the men of Linn-dubh. ‘The Custodian will lose everything,’ says Halp. ‘He will be chased out of Erinland for refusing Amlav’s offer of an alliance.’ And our midshipman urges us, behind Skip’s back, to withdraw our divvy from Lodin’s treasury. ‘Spend it or lose it,’ says Halp. ‘It is your loot — but don’t say I didn’t warn you!’