Juliet Marillier: Heart's Blood

The last light was fading. Here under the trees, the shadows and the mist combined to make the only safe speed a cautious creep. If only I were not so tired. I’d been up at first light after an uncomfortable night spent in the rough shelter of a drystone wall. I’d walked all morning. At the time, the carter had seemed a godsend.

Footsteps behind me. What now? Hide in the cover of the trees until the person had passed? No. I had made a promise to myself when I fled Market Cross, and I must keep it. I will be brave. I halted and turned.

A tall man emerged from the mist, shoulders square, walking steadily. I had just time to take in his impressive garb—a cloak dyed brilliant crimson, a chain around his neck that appeared to be of real gold—when a second man came up behind him. Relief washed through me. This one, shorter and slighter than the other, was clad in the brown habit and sandals of a monastic brother. They halted four paces away from me, looking mildly surprised. The deepening dusk and the rising mist rendered both their faces ghostly pale, and the monk was so thin his features seemed almost skeletal, but his smile was warm.

“Well, well,” he observed. “The mist has conjured a lovely lady from an ancient tale, my friend. We must be on our best manners or she’ll set a nasty spell on us, I fear.”

The red-cloaked man made an elegant bow.“My friend has a penchant for weak jests,” he said. He did not smile—his face was a somber one, thin-lipped, sunken-eyed—but his manner was courteous.“We see few travelers on this path. Are you headed for the settlement?”

“Whistling Tor? Yes. I was hoping to find shelter for the night.”

They exchanged a glance.

“Easy to lose yourself when the mist comes down,” the monk said. “The settlement’s on our way, more or less. If you permit, we’ll walk with you and make sure you get there safely.”

“Thank you. My name is Caitrin, daughter of Berach.”

“Rioghan,” said the tall man in the crimson cloak. “My companion is Eichri. Let me carry that box for you.”

“No!” Nobody was getting his hands on my writing materials. “No, thank you,” I added, realizing how sharp I had sounded. “I can manage.”

We walked on. “Do you live somewhere locally?” I asked the two men.

“Close at hand,” Rioghan said. “But not in the settlement. When you get there, ask for Tomas. He’s the innkeeper.”

I nodded, wondering if four coppers would be enough to buy me a bed for the night. I waited for them to ask me why a young woman was out wandering alone so late in the day, but neither of them said a thing more, though each glanced at me from time to time as we walked on. I sensed my arrival was a curiosity to them, something that went beyond the obvious puzzle of my appearance.When I’d fled from Market Cross I’d looked like what I was, the daughter of a skilled craftsman, a girl of good family, neat and respectable. Now I was exhausted and dishevelled, my clothing creased and muddy. My boots had not handled the long walk well. The manner of my departure had left me ill equipped for travel. Of my small store of coins, all but those four coppers had been spent on getting me to this point. A new idea came to me.

“Brother Eichri?”

“Yes, Caitrin, daughter of Berach?”

“I imagine you are attached to a monastery or similar, somewhere near here. Is there also a Christian place of scholarship and retreat for women?”

The monk smiled. He had teeth like miniature tombstones; they made his features look even more gaunt. “Not within several days’ ride, Caitrin. You seek to enter a life of prayer?”

I blushed. “I would hardly be qualified for that.What faith I once had, I have no longer. I thought it possible such a place might offer refuge . . . Never mind.” It had been a mistake to ask such a question.The less people knew about my woeful position the better. I’d been stupid to give these two my real name, friendly as they were.

“Are you in need of funds, Caitrin?” Rioghan’s question was blunt.

“No.” The carter had made me wary. Rioghan’s good manners did not necessarily mean he was trustworthy.“I’m a craftswoman,” I added.“I earn my own living.”

“Ah.” That was all he said, and it pleased me. No intrusive questions; no laughter at the idea that a woman could survive on her own without resorting to selling her body. For the first time in many days I felt almost at ease.

We walked on in silence. I could not help staring at Rioghan’s crimson cloak. The fabric was silky and sumptuous, most likely a cloth imported from a far land at fabulous cost. But the garment was sadly worn, almost to holes here and there. Did Rioghan have nobody to do his mending? A person who wore such an extravagant item, not to speak of the gold around his neck, must surely have servants at his beck and call.

He saw me looking. “A badge of authority,” he said, and there was a note of terrible sadness in his tone. “I was once a king’s chief councillor.”

It was hard to find the right response without asking awkward questions. Why once and not now? Rioghan did not look terribly old, only sad and unwell, his pallid complexion adding to that impression. Connacht was ruled by kings of the Uí Conchubhair; Ruaridh had been high king for many years.There would be chieftains ruling each region in these parts.As I had traveled westwards I had seen palisades of sharpened sticks encircling villages. I had seen folk digging trenches and raising defensive mounds around the mud-and-wattle strongholds of local leaders. If ever a king needed his chief councillor it was now, with the Norman invaders eyeing this last untouched part of the land. Had Rioghan fallen out of favor with his leader? Been supplanted by an abler man?

“I’m sorry if I was staring,” I said as we took a branch of the track that headed downhill. Below us, looming shapes in the mist suggested we were at last close to the settlement of Whistling Tor. “That is such a fine red. I was just wondering what the dyestuff was.”

“Ah,” said Rioghan. “You’re a weaver? A spinner?”

“Neither. But I’m interested in colors. Is that the village?”

The two of them halted on either side of me and I paused, looking ahead. A formidable barrier surrounded the modest settlement, a conglomeration of sharp-pointed stakes, iron bars, splintery old gates and other lethal bits and pieces. The mist shifted around it, revealing here a broken plough, there a great jagged stone that must have taken the efforts of eight or ten men to haul into place. As a fortification against the Normans the barrier probably wouldn’t last long, but it made a powerful deterrent to travelers. The place was set about with flaming torches on tall poles.

“It seems the folk of Whistling Tor don’t like visitors,” I said flatly. “Since I’m with you, I suppose it will be all right.”Within that wall I could see men moving about, but the mist made details obscure. I headed on down the hill towards the barrier, my two companions behind me.

I was about twelve paces from the wall when something hurtled over it towards me. I ducked, shielding my head.A sizable stone hit the ground not far away, followed by several smaller ones. Someone shouted from within the barrier, “Not a step further! Spawn of the devil, away with you!”

Blessed Brighid, what was this? Trembling, I peered out between my sheltering hands. Four or five men stood on the other side of the fortification, their faces uniformly ash white, their weapons at the ready: a pitchfork, a scythe, an iron bar, a club with spikes.“Away with you, scum!” yelled one, and another added, “Go back where you belong, into the pit of hell!”

Had the mist transformed me into a monster? Run, Caitrin, run! No; I must be brave. I cleared my throat. “I’m just a . . .” I faltered. A wandering scribe might be the truth, but nobody was going to believe it. “A traveler. On my way to visit kinsfolk. My name is Caitrin, daughter of Berach.” Curses, I’d done it again, used my real name. Pull yourself together, Caitrin. “I need shelter for the night. I mean no harm here.” I glanced over my shoulder, wondering why Rioghan and Brother Eichri had not spoken up on my behalf, but nobody was there. While the inhabitants of Whistling Tor village were hurling stones and insults, my two companions had made a silent departure.