Demon of Scattery Page 7

  Brigit drew back from the others. Halldor stood, his cloak flapping in the wet wind. Two men pointed to the river, then to the chapel, and shook their heads. Grimfaced, Halldor heard them out. They gestured to one of the ships.

  “No,” he said. Turning away, he caught sight of Brigit. He stepped near and clasped her shoulder. “It was the priest, Eamon,” he said in her tongue.

  “Eamon?” Brigit saw how she had left him: collapsed on the chapel floor, despairing. She had walked from him to Halldor’s tent, Halldor’s bed, of her free will. She should pray for Eamon’s soul, but her prayers would be sacrilege. “What happened?”

  “He ran from the chapel, screaming like a berserker, straight for the river. The guards could not stop him. They had no idea he meant to swim.

  The current here is swift, the water chill—”

  This was no escape attempt. Eamon had taken his own life while she lay in sin with Halldor.

  She stared across the Shannon. The fog that veiled the sun swirled sullen over the wave-tops: the grey of oblivion. Eamon had gone gealt, of course. The horrors he had witnessed had deranged him. And, after all, what future had he faced? His God had abandoned him. He would live out his days as a pagan’s thrall, in a foreign land—if, indeed, he survived the summer.

  And at the end, in that cold building, no one answered. No God, nor even his countrywoman. I lay abed with my captor, and took pleasure in it. Brigit brushed Halldor’s hand from her shoulder and strode toward Ranulf’s hut.

  Ranulf raised on his good elbow when Brigit came through the door.

  “What was the shouting?”

  “A thrall tried to flee. He drowned.”

  “Oh.” Ranulf lay back. Brigit made ready for the bathing and exercise.

  “He go…to Heaven… to Christ?”

  “I fear he will not. He broke God’s law.” Ranulf’s eyes were bright.

  “What is God’s law?”

  “Am I a priest that should be telling you?” She bit back rage and tears.

  “Come, let’s get to work.” She was more brisk with his exercises than was her wont. When she bent his knee he gasped. Exasperated, she said, “Shall I spare you pain, and let you lie abed a cripple all your life?” After that he kept silent.

  As she finished, Halldor came to the door and stood looking in. “His limbs move freer, Brigit. Well have you wrought.”

  She gathered up the basin and cleansing-cloths, and looked into his blue eyes. She read pain there.

  “Brigit—” He reached toward her. “I’m sorry about your friend.” But he stood now fully dressed. His mantle was clasped with the stolen brooch, and she remembered fires across her land.

  “I regret the drowning of your property, my lord.” She waited until he stepped aside, then brushed past carrying the basin. So near—her arm touched his tunic, and she trembled. She hastened from the hut.

  She’d washed the rags and hung them on bushes, though in such grey wind she doubted they would dry. The longer her body kept busy, the longer her mind might keep still.

  At last she lifted her head, threw back her shoulders, and began to walk along the beach. The tide had turned, and with it the Shannon current shifted. Where a sweep of gravel curled into the water, she saw the dark and sodden corpse hooked onto a root.

  I’ll not be burying you in consecrated ground, brother Christian, father priest, for you’re a suicide. And she could scarcely bury him in any case. She dragged the body up the bank and heaped a cairn above it. She said no prayers nor raised any cross.

  Rage drove her to the holy well. Moss-bordered and clear, it mirrored the leaden sky. She crouched near its edge. If she closed her eyes she could see Halldor’s face, and her body still remembered Halldor’s touch. Shall I go back, then, and live as his leman? But beside Halldor she saw the drowned face of the priest. Behind Halldor smoke curled above the fields, and through his laugh she heard captives weeping. Her fist clutched a stone. He has taken my body, he has killed my people and plundered my land— he has even bent my soul— and I would lie beside him? She flung the stone into the pool.

  Water struck her face like tears. She clenched her fists until her palms bled. ” Damn them,” she screamed, ” damn them all, damn Halldor! My curse on him, my curse on all his folk. May their ships founder, may monsters claw them down beneath the waves, may they swill salt beer at their wake!” She sobbed.

  Crows clamored from the rowan tree; invisible gulls screeched, and then all birds were gone. The mist swirled silent.

  Brigit felt a cool hand on her shoulder. “Daughter, do you mean your curse?” The voice was like music. Brigit raised her head. Her lashes must carry tears, for the woman she saw was wreathed in rainbows: tall, golden-haired, gold-crowned, the woman in her dream. “Do you truly curse Halldor and all his following?”

  Brigit shrank back. This might be a holy well, but here stood no saint.

  The Brigit of her namesake had been an abbess. No abbess would wear a sea-green mantle whose shimmer mirrored waves, nor would her habit be spun of spider-silk. “Yes, I am Brigit,” the woman said.

  “But you cannot be. The Brigit I called was a nun, even as I am—was.”

  “Before that Brigit there was another. I am that one, and this well is mine. But answer me, do you truly mean your curse?”

  Do I curse Halldor? Blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Far-flung mind.

  Hands skilled at carpentry and—other things. Her blood seethed. “Halldor and his men have ravaged the land, slain my people, brought me shame—”

  “Shame, is it now you’re calling it?” The rainbow woman laughed.

  “Strange folk, Christians. But you have given me reasons, not answers. Do you truly ill-wish the Lochlannach? Do you will that evil befall them? For if you wish, so will it be. They are none of my land.”

  Halldor. The rest could perish, but—She closed her eyes and saw slaughtered monks, flies buzzing round their bodies. She heard sobbing captives, remembered bruises and blows, and felt the ache in her own breasts. Halldor led these men. She swallowed, and said, “I do curse them.

  I do ill-wish them, each and every one. Would that Saint Senan—”

  “Strange for you to prate of saints,” the woman said, “on this Bealtaine Eve. Your mother taught you the old ways, Brigit. She spoke true. Place your curse with care.”

  The rainbow blurred, and the woman vanished. Where she had stood was merely a patch of green moss, like any other spot on the banks of the pool. The crows noised back into the rowan tree.

  Bealtaine. She’d been a small child, then. In later years the abbess taught her to call it May Day, or Lady Day, for it was now a feast of the Blessed Virgin, and pagan practices were not to be borne. But she recalled standing with her mother, scattering yellow primroses on the threshold of her father’s chamber. His wife, going toward her lawful bed, kicked them aside. “Ignorant heathen.”

  Brigit’s mother had swept the blooms into her apron, and Brigit cried.

  “Can it be she does not wish him safe from harm this night?”

  “Hush, child. She’ll be rising early enough to draw first well-water, for all her proud ways. Come with me, now, and make sure the fire is out, lest some ill-wisher steal a coal.”

  These, Brigit was later taught, were the ways of bondfolk and servants.

  Her mother, dead, had not been able to gainsay the abbess. Now, though, she breathed the cool air, and felt the sun warm her hands and face.

  Beneath her feet the island throbbed with power. In the distance the river chuckled, the wind whispered.

  It was the river and the wind that would avenge her. As a Bealtaine gift she’d present Halldor with a charm. A simple charm to bring him luck on his next voyage.

  Greyly, but he will trust me, and be destroyed. Then she laughed. The land, and I, and my people will have revenge. Let the weak show mercy.

  The weak die.

  No need to pick flowers for the doorways, nor gaud a May-bush; tonight she had no desire
to ward off harm. And for today she’d best perform her duties, appear calm, beware of rousing any suspicion.

  Again she tended Ranulf. He needed little help with his feeding, and he’d regained enough control that he need not be swaddled. He was healing more rapidly than expected. Not that this would do him any good, after tomorrow. She fended off his questions of Christ; why had she ever cared about his soul? Having hurried through her tasks, she departed.

  Nothing drew her toward the scriptorium. Learning was part of her former life. She wished darkness would fall.

  Halldor was out with the men, sorting and storing plunder. It should be safe to return to the tent. She was cold and wet.

  Brigit pulled aside the tent-flap. There, on the bed, lay a blue gown, a scarlet mantle, and a jeweled belt. Women’s clothes—Halldor must have brought them. But as she felt the soft thick stuff she thought of how he’d gotten it. No matter, that; she was ashiver. She cast aside her nun’s habit and donned the garments. The thick wool lay warm against her skin.

  When she had stopped trembling, she combed her hair. In a few months it would be long enough again to braid, if she lived.

  About mid-afternoon the mist scattered before a brisk wind. Men spread cloaks and bedding to dry. Their mood became festive. It was time to stow their gear and make everything ready. Tomorrow they would move on along the coast.

  Food they had aplenty; no need to carry it all. Why not hold a feast?

  They could get more wherever they landed. The countryside was rich, and summer was young.

  Slaves had the meal ready by twilight. Fire gleamed off the men’s arm-rings and brace-lets— stolen gold—and wine and ale flowed freely.

  Brigit sought the serving women, though they glared at her and muttered. Only the young and comely had been taken. She knew what had befallen the infirm and those heavy with child. She gave them no sign, and carried food to Halldor.

  He smiled.” Brigit! Get yourself a bowlful, and sit beside me, here!”

  “If you will it, lord,” she said. And so finally tonight she sat by his side and smiled, even when the vikings gaped in astonishment, even when the Irishwomen made evil signs in her direction. Nothing must betray me.

  She handed Halldor a four-handled silver mether. He took the opposite handle and drank deep, then passed it back to her. His eyes crinkled; she smiled over the rim of her cup and gulped the wine.

  When one of the crew seized a serving-wench and tumbled her in front of the others, she leaned closer to Halldor. He glanced at her, wondering, no doubt, if she’d take it ill. Brigit rested her head on his shoulder. Let him think it is the wine.

  “Long have you camped on this island, lord,” she said, carefully slurring her words, “but never have you honored its own spirits.”

  “Do you mean your saints?” Halldor only half-listened. The wench was putting up a good fight.

  “No, no, not the saints. The spirits of the land. Tomorrow is Bealtaine, for shame, and you taking no notice.”

  Others of the crew were moving in. Halldor shook his head and looked at Brigit. “In a day or so we’ll be gone.”

  She cuddled closer. “Ah, but this island is special. Have you never noticed how it commands the river? It’s a tradition among my people to sail tuathal around it on Bealtaine, that their boats may be blessed and their voyages lucky.” Such was partially true—but the tradition was to sail deisal, with the sun, for fortune. Tuathal—anti-sunward—was for undoing, dark deeds, and evil. And to set sail at all on Bealtaine—

  Halldor regarded her with interest. “Do they indeed? Why do you tell me?”

  As if in response, Brigit drew closer. “You fare off soon on fresh adventures, and have you not said you’d take me along, that I might care for your son and the other wounded? Little would I wish to see your ships accursed!”

  “Right enough,” said Halldor. He gnawed a shred of meat and threw the bone into the fire. Else he made no move.

  He does not quite believe me. He is no fool. “I did not care, earlier, what happened,” she went on. “What matter if I lived or died? But now—”

  She smiled at him and rested both hands on her belt.

  He shrugged. “I’ve never been given to overmuch dread of the land-wights, wherever I went.” Thoughtfully: “And yet these are Irish waters, and if you yourself, a Christian, give me such a rede—” He shook himself and made a wry smile. “If nothing else, the men could gain added heart from hearing we’ll do what we can to make our peace with the Powers hereabouts. Well, I’ll ask my fellow skippers what they think.

  Meanwhile, Brigit, best you hie off to bed. Whatever we do tomorrow, it will be early. From the sky tonight, the weather should be fair. Best to snatch that chance whenever it happens by, in Ireland!”

  Yes, best, passed through Brigit. It’ll be the last day you ever see. She bade him a meek goodnight and left. From the tent-flap she watched as he sought his two captains and, she supposed, explained matters. One—Egil, she recognized, master of Reginleif— seemed to ask a question. Halldor answered merrily, and all three men whooped with laughter. Nodding their heads, the two slapped Halldor on the back and left him.

  When he came to her that night Brigit feigned warmth, but inwardly her flesh was ice. When at last he slept she stared into darkness. From time to time she rose to tend the fire. Tonight it must not burn out. She had a use for it.

  A brightening eastern sky woke the first birds. Brigit looked across at sleeping Halldor. Peaceful, he seemed, his mouth relaxed in a faint smile, the creased, leathery skin almost smooth. Slowly she eased herself from bed and dressed against the chill. The coals yet glowed beneath their shell of ash. She blew one to yellow light and thrust in a splint. There, it flickered and caught. She stood. “With this fire I take the luck out of this house,” she whispered, and stepped from the tent. A breeze blew from the west, and she must shield the flame with her new cloak. None stirred but nightwatch; they sat sleepy, marked her passing, and nodded again. No reason why Halldor’s woman might not walk to the river.

  Waves licked the pebbled shore. Clear heavens and lively air boded well for sailors. Brigit stood ankle-deep and stared at the wavering flame. “This brand is the luck of Halldor’s house, and the luck of all his crew. As it is snuffed out, so may they be.” There was a hiss as she plunged it into the water. She drew forth a charred and dripping stick. “So be it.” She flung it from her, rose, and went back to the tent.

  On her way she noticed the grass was heavy with dew. Young girls would collect Maydew to bathe their faces, that they grow beautiful. But what use had Brigit for beauty? Her feet left dull tracks through the sparkle.

  She had not been visiting Ranulf at daybreak. If she were found missing, Halldor might wonder. She paused at the monastery well to draw a bucket of water before anyone else could. “Again, ill-luck upon this house.” She poured the water on the ground. Having filled the bucket anew she returned with it to Halldor’s tent.

  He must have heard her come in, for he roused. “You’re up betimes, Brigit. It’s hardly light.”

  “On Bealtaine,” she said, “it’s lucky to draw first water. Here, I have brought you a drink.” She dipped a cup in the bucket and held it out.

  He gulped deep. “Ah, thanks.” Raising an eyebrow: “Is all this—the water, the sailing—lore you learned from books?”

  Brigit shook her head. “None of this is written.”

  “Hm—yes, I daresay your clerics frown on what men do to stay friends with the elves. Though it is wise—at least, no harm in it—the more so for us, who have White Christ for a foe. I’m glad you told me of this.” He reached for her. “But you’ve done your share now.” He laughed. “Come and be warmed.”

  The thought was horrible. “Have we time? It’s best you sail early in the day.”

  “We’ve time.” He pulled her to him. She pretended to enjoy. Within, she shuddered. In a few hours the arms that held her would stretch cold and dead.

  Men thronged the shore. Onl
y one turn about the island? No great task, that; then they could spend the rest of the day preparing to leave. If this charm would help them later, why, wonderful! Waves and wind were always chancy things.

  Brigit kept well away from where the captives were housed, and hoped none would betray her. Surely they suspected what she meant to do.

  “You’ll sail with us, Brigit?” Halldor said. “After all, you go on the voyage.”

  She shook her head. “I fear a boat ride today, over the waves—” With a hand to her forehead she swayed slightly, as if close to fainting. “I would be ill. Soon enough when I must travel.” Halldor reached out to steady her.

  “I shall watch from shore,” she said. “Best that you lead your captains and the crews. Yours is the ordering of all; to you should come the greatest part of the luck.”

  Swiftly, then, were the ships pushed into deeper water. Bright the striped sails bellied. To sail tuathal around this island in shifting wind would be a test of seamanship, but the crews were skilled. Laughing, with sail and oar they set out.

  Brigit watched and waited for their doom.

  First they drew well offshore, and she remembered Halldor remarking that he always tried to have plenty of sea room. Of course, here he was not in the sea where he belonged— Would God he had never come from it, for his own sake, even. But I am no longer God’s handmaid, am I? At least not that God. Nor am I Halldor’s lover. The farther he went from Scattery’s desolation, the nearer he came to the mainland that lay so heartbreakingly green and peaceful-looking. In mid-channel, Sea Bear came about. Shark and Reginleif made the same move in her wake, with less ease. Well, less-skilled hands were on their helms.

  They needed all the skill they owned, yon steersmen. Though the current was with them at this start of their round trip, the hitherto favorable airs were swinging—strengthening, too, heartbeat by heartbeat as Brigit stood on a hillock above the strand and gazed outward. She saw yardarms hauled around, sails poled out, and even then marveled at how gracefully the dragons danced over the waves.