Juliet Marillier - Heart's Blood

I hurried after him, questions tumbling over one another in my mind. “What exactly is it I’ll be working on?” I asked.

“Records. Family history. They’ve all been scholars after their own fashion, from Anluan’s great-grandfather down to him. He’s got all manner of documents in there, some of them not in the best condition. Needs sorting out, putting straight. It’s a mess, I warn you. Enough to dishearten the most orderly of scribes, in my opinion. But what do I know of such matters?”

As he talked, the steward led me along a hallway and up a precipitous flight of heavily worn steps to an upper floor, where several chambers opened off a long gallery. Large spiders tenanted each corner and crevice of the stonework. Leaves had blown in through the openings where the gallery overlooked the garden to gather in damp piles against the walls.There was a forlorn smell, the scent of decay.

“Here,” said Magnus, ushering me through a doorway.

The chamber was bare, cold and unwelcoming, just like the downstairs rooms I had seen. It was furnished with a narrow shelf bed and an old storage chest. I did not think anyone had slept here for a very long time. “I’ll bring you up some blankets,” my companion said.“It gets cold here at nights. There’s a pump outside the kitchen door; we use that for washing. And you’ll need a candle.”

“Has this door a bolt?”

“This may not be your run-of-the-mill household,” Magnus said,“but you’ll be quite safe here. Anluan looks after his own.”

On this particular point it was necessary to hold my ground. “Anluan can hardly be expected to patrol up and down this gallery all night making sure nobody disturbs us,” I said.

“No,” Magnus agreed. “Rioghan does that.”

“Rioghan!” I was surprised to hear a name I recognized. “I met him yesterday. At least, I think it must be the same man. A sad-looking person with a red cloak. I didn’t realize he lived here at the fortress.”

“He’s one of those who live in the house,” Magnus said.“I’ll introduce you to all of them at supper, when we generally gather. More live out in the woods, but you won’t see them so much.”

“Did you really mean that, about Rioghan walking up and down the gallery at night? I’m not sure I’d be very happy about that, even if it did make things safer.”

“Rioghan doesn’t sleep. He keeps watch. He may not be on the gallery—he prefers the garden—but he’ll be alert to anything unusual. As I said, it’s safe on Whistling Tor provided you belong.”

“I don’t belong, not yet.”

“If Anluan wants you here, you belong, Caitrin.”

“I still want a bolt for my door.”

“I’ll put it on my list of things to do.”

“Today, please, Magnus. I understand you are very busy, but this is a ... a requirement for me. Something I can’t do without. Perhaps I can return the favor in some way.” As soon as this was out I remembered the carter’s words: There’s other ways of paying. “For instance, I could chop vegetables or sweep floors,” I added.

“I’ll bear it in mind. Well, make yourself at home. There’s a privy out beyond the kitchen.When you’re ready, come down and I’ll show you the library. You’ll be wanting to make a start.”

Some time later, clad in the spare gown I had brought—a practical dark green—and with my hair brushed and replaited, I stood with Magnus on the threshold of the library and found myself lost for words.

I had always valued order. The skilled exercise of calligraphy depends in large measure on neatness, accuracy, uniformity. In our workroom at Market Cross, the tools had been meticulously maintained and the materials stored with careful attention to safety and efficiency. It had been a haven of discipline and control.

Anluan’s library was the most chaotic place I’d ever had the ill luck to stumble into. It was a sizable chamber. Several big tables would have made useful work surfaces had they not been heaped high with documents, scrolls and loose leaves of parchment. This fragile material was strewn about apparently at random. Around the walls stood sundry chests and smaller tables, their tops as heavily laden as those of their larger counterparts. I suspected every receptacle would reveal, on opening, a welter of entangled materials.

I walked in, not saying a word. There were glazed windows all along the western side of the chamber. In the afternoons the light would be excellent for writing.

“The things you’ll need are in that oak chest,” said Magnus, pointing to the far end of the chamber. “Pens, powders for ink and so on. He said even if you’ve brought your own, they’ll run out quickly. There’s a good stock of parchment, enough for the job, he thinks. If you need more of anything we can get it, but to be honest I’d rather not have the trouble.”

I eyed the disorder around me, trying hard to view it not as an obstacle but as a challenge.“What exactly is it I’m supposed to do here? Is Lord Anluan going to explain it to me himself?” A family of scholars, Magnus had said. I thought of the very detailed instructions Father and I had received for our commissions, the minute attention some of our customers had paid to the niceties of execution. “Where is the material I have to transcribe?”

And when Magnus just looked at me, then cast his gaze around to take in the entire chamber, long scrolls, thick bound books, tiny fragments, loose bundles of parchment sheets, I felt hysterical laughter welling up in my throat.

“ All of this?” I choked.“In a single summer? What does this man think I am, a miracle worker?”

Magnus lifted a scrap of vellum by a corner and blew on it, setting dust motes dancing in the light from the window. “Trained by the best, didn’t you say?”

“I was. But this ... this is crazy. How do I know where to start?”

“You don’t have to write everything down. It’s only the Latin parts he wants, seeing as he was never taught that tongue. It’s Nechtan’s records, the oldest ones. There’s some in Irish, and he’s read those, but he thinks some of the Latin documents are his great-grandfather’s as well. He needs you to find those and put them into Irish so he can read them for himself.They’re mixed up with all sorts of other things.” Magnus glanced at a row of small bound books that had been set by themselves on a shelf, and his expression softened a trace. “Pictures, recipes for cures and so on. Notes, thoughts. Each of the chieftains of Whistling Tor made his own records. But the library’s never been organized. The oldest pieces are crumbling away. If it was me doing the job—not that I’m a reading man, myself—I’d see some merit in making a list of what’s here as you go through it, so you’ll know where to find things later. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Perfect sense, Magnus. Thank you for the suggestion.” I took one of the little bound books from the shelf and opened it flat on a table, revealing a charming illustration of some kind of medicinal herb. Beside it, in spidery writing, were instructions for preparing a tincture suitable for the treatment of warts and carbuncles. “I wish someone had done that before now. Made a list, I mean.You said Lord Anluan and his family were scholars.”

Perhaps I had sounded too critical.“He did make a start himself.” Magnus’s tone was forbidding. “Or tried to.”

“Tried to.” If what Tomas and Orna had told me was true, this chieftain must have a lot of time on his hands. They’d implied that he did not perform any of the duties a local leader might be expected to undertake, such as riding forth to make sure his folk were well, checking on his fields and settlements, establishing defenses against possible attack. “This is a big task, Magnus. It looks as if I’ll have to sort out the entire contents of the library before I start on the translation. Is there anyone here who could help me?”