Juliet Marillier - Heart's Blood

“You’d best watch yourself,” Rioghan said to the monk.“It ill becomes a man of the cloth to indulge in thievery. You have more than enough black marks to your name already, Brother.”

“Who said anything about stealing, Councillor? I might borrow a little here, a little there; only what can be easily spared. Saint Criodan’s will never miss it. All those monks think about is how long it’ll be until they can get up and ease their aching backs.”

“Aren’t monks supposed to regard the exercise of calligraphy as an act of worship?” I asked, not at all sure how much of this conversation was serious.

“Not being a scribe myself, I couldn’t tell you.” Eichri’s toothy grin was full of mischief.

I remember something.“Saint Criodan’s.That’s the place where Nechtan was shown a secret library. A collection of . . .” No, I did not want to speak of this after all.

“No talk of Nechtan,” said Olcan.“Magnus, that smells like spring and summer all wrapped up together. How about a song or two while we wait for it to brew? I’ve always liked that one about the lady and the toad.”

I woke late the next morning somewhat the worse for wear.The rest of the evening had passed in convivial style with the four of us offering Magnus varied advice on the preparation of the mulled ale, then trading songs and stories until the brew was fully consumed.

I made my way, yawning, to the library, but my head felt too fragile for scribing. After last night’s revelations, I was drawn to Irial’s notebooks. There was a charm about them that was soothing to the heart. If it had not been for the melancholy counterpoint of the Latin margin notes with their tale of loss, the books would have provided the perfect path to peace of mind.

Irial had labeled each drawing with various names including those used by local herbalists, such as fairy’s kiss, rat’s ears and prince-of-the-hill. Below these he had made observations on the shape, color and texture of leaf, stalk, flower, seeds and root, and had listed the plant’s uses both medicinal and magical. Some could be steeped in water to make healing poultices or restorative teas. Some might be burned on a brazier to restore calm or bring good dreams. I sat at the small table by the window, where the light was best, and read the pages properly this time. Here and there were margin notes in Irish rather than Latin. These did not form a litany of his grief over Emer, but dealt with practical matters. I have used this to beneficial effect. And next to another drawing. Olcan tells me his folk combined this herb with bay to induce a state of trance. I wondered when I might turn a page and see before me a formula for heart’s blood ink.

After some time my head began to throb. Fresh air might help; I would take a walk. I went back through the house to fetch a shawl from my chamber, then headed out into the main part of the grounds. I passed Muirne coming in.

“Muirne, do you know where Anluan is today?”

“He’s resting, Caitrin.”

No sign of anyone this morning; even the scarecrow was absent. Perhaps my companions from last night had been felled by the same headache that had interrupted my work.

The sun was out, sending dappled light down through the trees. It had been raining again and the air was fresh. I made my way along one of the overgrown paths, thinking how quiet it was. In fact, it was unnaturally quiet. Where was everyone? Surely Magnus wouldn’t let a headache keep him from his daily work. Suddenly I felt ill at ease, my skin prickling, my palms clammy.

A single furtive footfall. My heart lurched. Before I could turn, someone grabbed me from behind.

chapter five

Ifought. I had not known I could fight so hard, clawing, biting, kicking like a wild creature in a trap. Cillian, it was Cillian, I knew his voice, the voice of my worst nightmare. “Get a gag on her!” he ordered someone sharply. I twisted and wrenched one way and another, but there was no escaping the strong arms holding me, the cruel hands biting into me.

I got one scream out before a cloth went over my mouth and was knotted so tight it made my gorge rise. Cillian had four others with him, all familiar to me from Market Cross, big men with knives, clubs and wooden stakes. He held me while one of his cronies bound my hands behind my back and another tied my ankles together. I kept struggling until Cillian hit me over the ear, making my teeth rattle. My body was tight with terror.

“Stop fighting, stupid fool,” Cillian hissed. “You’ve led us on enough of a dance.” He slung me bodily over his shoulder, with my head hanging down behind, and strode off towards the gap in the wall. My heart hammering, my flesh clammy with cold sweat, I willed someone to come, anyone. Help me! I can’t go back, I can’t, I can’t . . . There was a swaying view of boots tramping and the stones of the pathway. Please, oh please . . .

“ How dare you! Release her immediately or face the consequences!” A commanding roar: Anluan’s voice.

Cillian halted. Around him, his men did the same. He turned. Upside down, I saw the chieftain of Whistling Tor standing in the archway of Irial’s garden. Anluan’s face was ashen pale, his eyes incandescent with rage. Nobody else was in sight; he was confronting them alone. A rush of warmth ran through me, and with it a new fear.

“I said, release her!”

Cillian put me down but kept a punishing grip on my arm. My eyes met Anluan’s as he limped towards us, head high, gaze fierce, cloak swirling around him.

They laughed, Cillian first, then the others.

“You planning to fight all of us at once, cripple?” My captor’s tone was mocking. “From what I heard down the hill there, you’ve about as much strength as a wet piece of string. Cursed, they said. Only takes one look at you to see what the curse is, freak. Come on, then, fight me! Let’s see what sort of a man you are!” A roar of appreciation from his cronies.

Anluan had halted ten paces from us. Now he took one step forward. His tone was level.“This is your last warning. Untie Caitrin’s bonds and set her free immediately, or pay the price for trespass.”

More sniggering. “He’s got the manner of it, surely,” Cillian drawled, “but not the manhood to carry it out.You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, my lord. Caitrin here is my close kin. No doubt she’s told you some wild story, but the truth is, she had a loss and it sent her right out of her wits. The silly girl ran away. I’m here to take her home where she can be looked after.”

He made to pick me up again and for a moment his attention left Anluan. Mine did not.The chieftain of Whistling Tor advanced no further. Briefly, the blue eyes went distant. He raised his left hand and clicked his fingers.

“Whaa—!” shouted one of the men, and another cursed explosively. Olcan had appeared from nowhere and was standing in front of us, a sturdy, short-legged figure. His face was not genial now but wore a fearsome grimace, and in his fist was a big shiny axe. A rope leash was wound around his other hand. The leash was taut—Fianchu was straining towards the intruders, teeth bared, tongue slavering, little eyes full of murderous intent. Cillian turned, taking me with him, and there was a general scramble for weapons until the men’s eyes fell on what was behind. A tall horse stood there, a horse all bones beneath a pale translucent skin. Its eyes glowed red. The rider was in the habit and cape of a monk.Within the shadow of the hood his face was skeletal; his eyes glinted with an eldritch light.

“Don’t be afraid, Caitrin,” Eichri said, then showed his teeth in a ghostly rictus of a grin. The horse did likewise, uttering a sound that was more rattle than neigh, and reared up. Cillian’s party scattered, shouting.