Juliet Marillier - Heart's Blood

Irial’s books were works of art. His botanical drawings were finely detailed and drawn with both accuracy and charm. He’d used a crow quill sharpened to a point. It was quite plain the artist had loved what he did, unusual as such a pastime might be for someone in his position. It made me wonder what sort of leader Anluan’s father had been. Perhaps he, too, had failed to carry out the duties the folk of Whistling Tor expected of their regional chieftain. Tomas and Orna had been blunt about Anluan’s inadequacy in that regard. Perhaps his father had spent hours in the garden and in the library, pursuing what had obviously been an activity he enjoyed with a passion, and had neglected his district and his folk. Perhaps he had never taught Anluan how to be a chieftain.

Something caught my eye, and I turned the little book in my hands sideways. Irial had written his botanical notes in Irish, which made sense—this language would render his work accessible to a wider readership. But in the margin, in a script so small and fine that at first glance it seemed decoration, not writing, was an annotation in Latin. The most potent remedy known to man cannot bring her back. This is the hundred and twentieth day of tears.

A chill went down my spine.What was this? Another secret, something so private the writer had chosen to set it down in this odd, almost cryptic fashion? Whose loss had Irial mourned for so long?

I moved the notebooks over to the work table, where the light was better. At around midday, Magnus brought me food and drink on a tray, which made me feel guilty for causing him more work. I went out to the privy and returned immediately to the library. There were many, many margin notes, scattered apparently at random through the botanical notebooks, all of them Latin and written in that minute script that tested the most acute of eyes.

It is the forty-seventh day of tears.To see her face in his wounds me.

I long for an ending. Sweet whispers. I must not heed them. The five hundred and third day of tears. Holy Mother, how long had the man gone on grieving?

The notes did not follow the same chronological sequence as the little books. I imagined Irial going back to his old records day by day in the time of his sorrow, setting each observation on a page chosen at random. The last entry I could find was five hundred and three. I searched for the first, and eventually found this: The fifteenth day. My heart weeps blood.Why? Why did I leave them?

And then this: She is gone. Emer is gone. Beside it, in a different ink, a scrawled number two. On the day he lost her, perhaps he had been incapable of writing.

I returned to my chamber when I judged it to be almost time for supper. Now both my gowns were the worse for wear, the brown still stained from my journey, the green dusty after my long day’s work. I brushed down the skirt as well as I could, and washed my face and hands. It must still have been evident that I had been brought to tears by Irial’s notes, for the moment I appeared in the kitchen Magnus set down his ladle, ushered me to a chair and set a brimful cup of ale in front of me.

“What’s wrong?” His broad features wore a frown of genuine concern. When I did not answer immediately, he added, “Come on, get it off your chest.” His manner was kindness itself.

“I’ll be fine. I read something that made me sad. Something that reminded me of home.” I knew about loss. I knew about the numb sorrow that went on and on. “Magnus, what can you tell me about Anluan’s father?”

“Irial?” He turned back towards the fire to stir his pot, but not before I had seen the change on his strong features. Here was another with an abiding sadness. “What do you want to know?”

I realized, to my surprise, that in Magnus’s company I felt safe. On the other hand, anything I told Magnus, Anluan would know before morning. I did not want to share today’s reading matter with the lord of Whistling Tor. “Was his wife called Emer?”

“She was. Who told you that? Not him, surely. He never talks about her and seldom about his father.”

“I saw a reference to her in the documents.When did she die, Magnus? How old was Anluan?”

“This job of yours, it’s going to open up old wounds.”

“I suppose it will, and Anluan has already told me I must read and write and not think about what I’m doing, more or less. But I don’t see how I can transcribe family history if I don’t know how it all fits together.”

“I did warn him the process might be painful,” Magnus said. “The lad was seven when his mother passed away; nine when his father followed her. Irial did his best for as long as he could. After that, all the boy had was me. Irial hired me as a fighting man, not to bring up his son.”

I was silenced. Nine, and both parents dead—it didn’t bear thinking of. At least Maraid and I had had our father until we were young women, though the loss of him had been no less crushing for that.

“Irial was a good man,” Magnus said.“A fine friend, a loving father. Whatever it is you’ve found, you’d best not speak of it to Anluan. He’s already—”

Sounds in the hallway indicated the arrival of the rest of the household, and our conversation came to an abrupt end. Fianchu erupted into the room, bounded over to me and licked my face, almost sending me sprawling, then went to his usual spot by the fire. Olcan, Eichri and Rioghan came in after the hound, greeted us and took their places. We waited briefly, but Anluan did not make an appearance. Magnus began to cut up a leek and cheese pie to accompany the soup, and there was Muirne in the doorway. She was in the same gray gown and overdress, or perhaps another, identical in color and cut, for it was immaculately clean and appeared newly pressed. Her snowy veil looked freshly laundered. Her gaze passed over us, revealing nothing.

“He’s not supping with us tonight?” Magnus queried.

“He’s tired. His leg aches.” I watched as she performed the same routine as last night’s, holding the tray as Magnus served Anluan’s meal, filling the cup, checking that everything was placed precisely so. She left without another word.

My four companions made good company. Magnus kept me well supplied with food and ale. Olcan regaled me with Fianchu’s exploits for the day. Eichri and Rioghan exchanged barbs across the table and moved their food around on their platters, but I did not see either eat a bite.As the meal drew to a close, I plucked up the courage to ask Magnus a new question.

“I came here with only a small bag, as you probably saw. I’ll need at least one more change of clothing to get through the summer, and I have no funds to buy cloth, even supposing they have some down in the settlement. Would there be any old things here? Something I could alter, perhaps, just to get by?”

“I don’t know.” Magnus sounded doubtful. “We wear everything until it’s falling apart; then we use it as cleaning cloths and suchlike. You can sew?”

“My sewing is certainly better than my cooking. Do you think Muirne might be able to find something for me?”

“You could ask,” Magnus said. “She’ll know where such things are, if we have any.”

“I don’t think she approves of my being here,” I said, hoping this did not sound discourteous. “It might be a little awkward.”

There was a little pause; then Magnus said, “She’s devoted to Anluan, Caitrin. She looks after him, tends to him, keeps him company even when all he’s fit for is staring at his boots. He can be as miserable as a wet winter day. It takes an unusual person to tolerate such a man. Anything that upsets him, she’ll disapprove of. Don’t take it personally.”

“She surely won’t object to finding you a gown or two,” said Rioghan. “There must be old things stored away. If anyone knows where, it will be Muirne. She knows every corner of Whistling Tor.”