Elizabeth McBride (12 page)

Drosten felt a touch on his arm and looked down into
Mhoire's concerned face. "Are you hurt?" she asked. He
didn't understand her question. She smiled slightly. "You
took quite a banging."

He shook his head numbly.

Irwin's reedy voice broke out. "Do you do this often, lady, or was this a lucky shot?" He stood next to the boar's
carcass, his eyes on the arrows buried in its flesh.

Drosten noted Irwin's arsenal of weapons and wondered
why a man on a horse hadn't gotten to Oran sooner than a
man running. Fury burned in his gut.

"Someone has taught you to use a bow," Irwin continued. "How peculiar."

Mhoire's chin went up. "I know how to defend myself
and others. Is that so very odd?"

"Usually a woman relies on a man to defend her."

"A man is not always available."

"A smart man would always be available to a woman
like you. And fighting is a man's task, is it not?"

Drosten flinched. He glanced at Mhoire, saw her cheeks
turn scarlet, and knew that Irwin's words had stung. He
flexed his fists. Drained or not, he was going to have to hit
the man.

Mhoire reached Irwin before he did. She pulled an arrow
from her quiver and held the point level with Irwin's nose.
"I have saved this child's life with these arrows and killed
our supper. I consider that a worthwhile activity." She lowered her arm. "Ordinarily, I would offer you the hospitality
of my hearth, but I can see you would be most unhappy
breaking bread with a woman as wild and uncouth as I am.
So good day to you, sir."

Irwin blinked rapidly. "I did not mean to offend, lady."

A sad expression flitted across Mhoire's face. Then it
hardened into an angry stare that proved as lethal as her
bow. Silently, Irwin climbed onto his horse and trotted off.

Early the next morning, Mhoire slung her quiver onto
her back and set off to explore the woodlands that draped
the slopes east of Dun Darach. She suspected they were
full of squirrels, rabbits, fox, and other small animals, and
she was eager to bring some of the game back to the fort
for supper.

She was also determined not to let Irwin's words distress
her. It was an unusually fair day, full of sweet air and fleecy
clouds. We must have more days like this one, Mhoire
thought to herself. Good growing days. It was late in the
season to be planting-past Easter-and they would need
plenty of fair weather to bring the crops to harvest.

The blue skies coaxed out the forest creatures, and by
midmorning, Mhoire had felled ten plump rabbits, which
she strung together on a sinew cord and carried across her
shoulders.

Striding across an open meadow, she tugged at the collar
of her gown, opening the laces from her throat to her waist
and exposing her thin linen undershirt. Her hair was bothering her, too. It needed to either be bound tighter so it
wouldn't wobble as she walked, or not bound at all. She
slipped out her hair pin, and let the dark waves fall about
her shoulders.

She thought of the old blind harper who used to come
to her father's hall. When he lifted his voice and poured
out a melody, his dull eyes turned radiant, as if the act of singing unfettered his sight and made him a different man.
That's how Mhoire felt now, walking among the hills,
alone but for the birds and the buttercups. All the defenses
she had constructed, the protective walls of silence and conformity, disappeared. The sun warmed her shoulders like a
mantle, and the pure, greening freshness made her blood
sing.

At the edge of the meadow was a small bower of sycamore trees, and she made her way toward the dappled
shade. She laid her string of rabbits on the ground near the
largest tree, still vital despite a trunk that was completely
split, and wiped her forehead with her sleeve. Then she
leaned against the tree's rough side and lifted her face to
the gentle breeze that sifted through its branches. Archery
cleansed her like a tonic. When she took aim at a target,
her worries and doubts fell away like sediment drifting to
the bottom of a pond.

A movement on the ground caught her eye, and a large
rabbit hopped into the circle of trees. Mhoire slipped an
arrow from her quiver and raised her bow. She held her
breath and then released the bowstring. Got it!

"I see the rabbit population isn't safe in this holding."

Mhoire spun around. Drosten was leaning against a tree
trunk, smiling, with a club in his hand and a bow slung
over his shoulder.

Her heart jumped and then lodged itself high in her
throat. "I ... had intended to take some squirrels. But the
rabbits have more meat on their bones."

His smile widened into a grin. "And it looks like I will
be spending the evening making supper out of them. If I
remember our agreement correctly." He held up his own
string. Hanging from it were just two rabbits.

"Are you a good cook?" she asked impishly.

"I suspect I'll become one."

She laughed at that, a merry sound like the tinkling of
bells.

Suddenly, just beyond Drosten, another rabbit leapt out
from a small bush. Mhoire seized an arrow from her quiver and with one swift movement, notched it to her bow and
fired. It caught the animal in the neck.

She wrinkled her brow and stared at the creatureshocked, not by her aim but by the fact that she had acted
so impulsively. He will think I am boastful. Selfconsciously, she walked over to the rabbit to retrieve her
arrow.

She glanced at Drosten as she passed him. He was watching her closely, a half-smile on his face. When she passed
him a second time to collect the arrow from the other rabbit
she had killed, he was wearing the same expression.

"You're making my nerves jump," she grumbled.

"If that's how you shoot when your nerves jump, I'd like
to see what happens when they're calm."

Mhoire's frown deepened, and her face burned. It was
shameful to be caught hunting like this, with her hair down
and her gown half-open. And now he was mocking her.
But she was not going to defend herself to him as she had
to Irwin. If he thinks I'm a crazy woman, so be it.

She pulled a strip of cloth from under her belt and concentrated on cleaning the blood from her arrows. Drosten
ambled up to her, slipped his own bow off his shoulder,
and dropped it on the ground, along with his club. Then he
nodded at the weapon that was hanging from her shoulder.
"May I look at that?"

She slipped the bow off her arm and handed it to him,
carefully avoiding his eyes.

He ran his large hand over the wood. Then he fingered
the string. He shifted the bow to one hand and assessed its
weight. Finally, he pulled back on the string and lifted the
weapon as if to shoot, taking imaginary aim at one of the
gnarled old sycamores. Then he lowered the bow and ran
his fingers over its curves once more.

"It's very light."

Mhoire peeped at him from under her lashes. He didn't
seem to be taunting her after all. In fact, he appeared curious. "I ... couldn't hold steady the bows made of yew.
They were too heavy. So I made this one out of rowan."

"You made this?"

"Aye."

He made a little grunting noise and stroked the weapon
from one smooth end to the other. "Good work."

She leaned toward him a little. "See the strings?" He
glanced at her and then studied the bow again. "They're
made from gut rather than tree bast. Gut is much more
consistent."

He raised the bow again for another imaginary shot. "It
is certainly effective." He looked squarely at her and
grinned. "But I'd say it's the aim of the archer that makes
this weapon work so well."

She reddened once more.

Drosten leaned the bow against the trunk of the nearest
tree and then relaxed against it himself, folding his arms.
Mhoire slipped the two clean arrows into her quiver.

"Tell me," he said, studying her, "did you shoot that boar
standing or on one knee?"

She tucked the bloody rag back under her belt and faced
him. He looked like a prince from an ancient legend, with
his sunlit hair and his yellow tunic and his silver-clasped
belt.

"I took the first shot standing. But for the second one, I
knelt. I wanted to be sure I hit the target."

A dark cloud seemed to drift across his face. "I should
never have left the child alone."

"What happened with Oran wasn't your fault, Drosten."

He tightened his arms against his chest. "The boar
smelled the blood from the deer I killed. I should have
realized the danger in the situation."

"Don't blame yourself."

A muscle in his face tensed.

Mhoire hesitated, wanting to convince him of his innocence but not knowing how. Biting her lip, she turned and
walked back to where one of the dead rabbits was lying on
the ground. "You know," she said in a lighter tone, "it was
probably your dagger that killed the beast, not my arrow."

"Ah. Not only are you an excellent archer, but you are
humble, too."

She looked over her shoulder and saw that he was smiling again.

She busied herself attaching the rabbit to her string. She
felt awkward, alone with Drosten like this, discussing an
ability that everyone else thought was horrifying. But his
presence was surprisingly agreeable today, and she found
she did not want to break away from it. His frowns had
disappeared, and his demeanor was courteous. More than
courteous. Or maybe the sunshine had mellowed her. Whatever the cause, talking with him now was like having one
more beaker of mead when you were already besotted.
Pleasant. So pleasant that one was inclined not to give
thought to the consequences.

"Tell me about Scathach."

"What?"

"Scathach. The warrior woman. Tell me about her."

"Are you mocking me?"

Drosten grinned. "Not with that bow nearby."

She blushed again and cursed herself for it. She feared
that by the time this encounter was over, her face would
be permanently red.

"Tell me," he prompted again.

"Well-" Mhoire walked toward the other rabbit. "Scathach was a great teacher. She knew all the magical arts of
war." She picked up the animal and began to thread the
string through the skin just under the shoulder joint. "Scathach could jump on top of a lance and ride it without
falling off. She could make this terrible scream that paralyzed whoever heard it. And, of course, she knew all the
arts of swordplay and archery and hurling. All the best
warriors asked to train with her. Like Cuchulain. He was
Ireland's greatest hero. When most people hear the bard's
tales, they remember Cuchulain and his deeds. But Scathach-she taught Cuchulain, and she was a seer, as well."

"Ah. To be able to defend yourself against all enemies
and to know the future, too-that would make a person quite formidable." He paused. "Is that how you would like
to be?"

Mhoire pulled the rabbit tight against the others and
looked up. He was still eyeing her keenly but without
mockery. "I have no desire to be fearsome. But I would
like to be able to defend myself."

"You can defend yourself. I have no doubt that you could
shoot a man as easily as you shoot a rabbit. Men are much
bigger targets and they don't move nearly as fast. Haven't
you ever done it?"

"Shot a man? Nay!"

"Hmm. Just targets and game?"

"Aye. And rarely game at that. There was never much
need at home, and I ... I couldn't let others know that I
was doing this."

"Your father and mother didn't approve. Is that what you
mean?"

Mhoire looked down at the rabbits and stroked their fur
to cover up her embarrassment. "They forbade it. My father
saw me practicing once and he said I must never touch a
weapon again. He said weapons were for men. Clearly, he
had forgotten all the ancient legends. And history. It has
only been a hundred years since King Brude declared that
women did not have to fight beside men in battle."

"You disobeyed your father then."

"Aye."

"Who taught you?"

"No one. I couldn't ask any of my father's men for instruction because he would have punished them. I just
watched the warriors in the courtyard and then I went off
and tried to hit things in the woods."

"Show me what you know."

"What?" Her head bobbed up.

Drosten picked up her bow and held it out. "Tell me a
few of your secrets, Scathach."

She could scarce believe what he was asking. "But you
are already a very good warrior."

He pushed himself away from the sycamore trunk and with two strides was standing before her. His eyes danced.
"Come. Show me how you do it. My rabbit-hunting skills
need improvement."

She hesitated, all confusion. To have her interest in archery discovered was one thing, but to demonstrate ... She
bit her lip and reached for the weapon.

At first haltingly and then with more and more enthusiasm, she showed Drosten how she grasped the bow, how
she took her aim, and how she released the bowstring.