The Golden Queen (2 page)

Gallen had come to the inn tonight hoping to ply his trade as a bodyguard, but even though the inn was full of travelers and the roads around Clere were rumored to be thick with robbers, no one had approached him. Not until Gallen caught the eye of a fellow at another table, a prosperous sheep farmer he knew from An Cochan named Seamus O’Connor.

Seamus raised a bushy brow from across the room, as if asking Gallen for permission to sit at his table. Gallen nodded, and Seamus got up and tamped some tobacco into a rosewood pipe, went to the fire and removed a coal with some tongs, then lit his pipe. Father Heany, the local priest, came over to borrow use of the coal.

Seamus sat across from Gallen, leaned back in the old hickory chair, set his black boots on the table and sucked at his pipe, with his full stomach bulging up over his belt. He smiled, and at that moment Gallen thought Seamus looked like nothing more than a pleasant fat gut with a couple of limbs and a head attached. Father Heany came over in his severe black frock, all gaunt and starved looking, and sat down next to Seamus with his own pipe, sucking hard to nurse some damp tobacco into flame. Father Heany was such a tidy and proper man that folks in town often joked of him, “Why the man is so clean, if you took a bath with him, you could use him for soap.”

Together, the two old men blew the pleasant smell of their tobacco all about until they were wreathed like a pair of old dragons in their own smoke.

“So, Gallen,” Seamus said, “rumor has it that you’ll be staying here in Clere now.” He didn’t finish the sentence,
now that your father has died, leaving your frail mother a widow.

“Aye,” Gallen said. “I’ll not be roaming far from home, nowadays.”

“How will you keep yourself, then?” Seamus asked. “Have you thought about it?”

Gallen shrugged. “I’ve been looking about, and I’ve got a bit in savings. It should last awhile. I’ve thought about taking up fishing, but I can’t imagine any woman ever learning to love the smell of a fisherman.”

“Sure, the blacksmith is looking for an apprentice,” Father Heany offered.

“I saw him just today,” Gallen said, remembering how the smith would pick up the horse’s back foot, leaning his shoulders up against the horse’s sweaty rump, “and to tell the truth, I’d rather
be
a horse’s ass than work with my head so close to a horse’s fertilizing region.” Seamus and Orick the bear laughed, and Father Heany nodded wisely.

“Sure,” Heany admitted, “a smart man can always find a job that will let him keep himself unsoiled.” He frowned as if thinking furiously, then said, “There’s the priesthood.”

“A fine vocation,” Orick cut in with his deep voice. The bear was sitting on the floor, paws on the table, licking out of a bowl. Some milk still stuck to his muzzle. “I’ve been thinking of joining myself, but Gallen here makes light of God and his servants.”

“I’ll not make light of God,” Gallen responded, “but I’ve no respect for some who call themselves his servants. I’ve been thinking on it. Your Bible says God created man in his own image, and it says God is perfect, but then he only made man ‘Good,’ as in good enough? Like maybe he was lazing about. It seems to me that God could have done better with us, considering that we’re his crowning creation: for instance, a day-old fawn can jump a four-foot fence—so why can’t a day-old child?”

“Ah, and to be sure, Gallen O’Day—” Father Heany said with a fiery twinkle in his eye “—if God had had you looking over his shoulder on the day of creation to give him a little advice, we would have all been better off!”

Orick lapped at the bowl of milk on the table, and the bear had a reflective look in his dark eyes. “You know, Gallen,” Orick grumbled soberly, “God only gave man weaknesses to keep him humble. The Bible says ‘man is just a little lower than the angels.’ Surely you see that it’s true. You may not live as long as a tortoise, but you’ll live longer than me. Your mind is far quicker than any bear’s. And with your houses and ships and dreams, your people are richer than us bears will ever be.”

Spoken like a true priest, Gallen thought. Few bears ever entered the priesthood, but Gallen wondered if perhaps Orick wasn’t a natural for it.

“I’m not one for the priesthood,” Gallen assured Father Heany. “I still love the road too much. I’m looking to buy some property, then lease it out. Other than that, I plan to continue my work as an escort. There are plenty of short routes hereabouts. I can take some work and still care for my mother.” He said it mildly, but it was not the short roads Gallen wanted to travel. He wanted to someday head south to Gort Ard and look on Saint Kelly’s likeness of the face of God, or head east and search for hidden treasures. But now he would be stuck here in County Morgan, never more than a couple of days from home.

“Heavens, boy!” Father Heany said. “Why, your reputation has already traveled farther than your foot ever wandered. Every highwayman in the county will clear out in a week, and no one will
need
escorts anymore! Why, you’re your own worst enemy!”

Seamus nudged the priest with an elbow, cleared his throat. “Ah, don’t give the boy a fat head. He’s not that good!” He turned to Gallen. “But, to tell the truth, Gallen, I do want to contract your services. My son’s gone ahead to tell Biddy that I’ll be home later, but I’m not half as drunk right now as I want to be in an hour, and I’ll pay you two shillings if you get me home alive.”

“Two shillings?” Gallen asked. It was a low price for a bodyguard, but then it was late of the night-too late and too rainy for robbers to be about. Gallen would only have to escort Seamus over the hills from Clere to the village of An Cochan, a distance of four miles, making certain that Seamus didn’t fall off his horse. “Give me four and it’s a deal.”

Seamus grimaced as if he were passing a kidney stone. “What? Why you’ve got an inflated notion of your own worth! You’re so hot to become a landlord, you’re already evicting imaginary tenants!”

“Five shillings,” Gallen said. “Four for my services, and one for insulting me.”

“Three!” Seamus said with finality.

Gallen held his eye a moment, nodded agreement. The only sound was the wind howling outside and the paddles in the butter churn. The scullery maid, a sweet sixteen-year-old girl named Maggie Flynn, normally churned fresh butter every dawn, but with the stormy night and so many travelers passing through town, she was trying to get a head start. She had dark red hair and darker eyes, a patina of perspiration on her brow. She caught Gallen looking at her and shot him a fetching smile.

Seamus winked at Father Heany and said, “Ah, Father, it doesn’t get any better than this, does it? Lazing about after a fine dinner.”

“No,” Father Heany agreed. “Not much.”

“No, not much better at all—unless,” Seamus said, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke, “you were in your own house with your own sweet wife sitting on your lap while you were smoking your pipe, and your dear wee children all tucked into bed.” Seamus cocked an eye at the priest, as if daring him to disagree—what with the priest being celibate—but Father Heany just sucked on his pipe thoughtfully, seeming to take a cue from Seamus.

“Ah yes, a wife.” Father Heany sighed. “‘Tis a fine thing, I’m sure.”

“Now, if I were a young man like Gallen,” Seamus said, “just moving back to town, getting ready to settle down, I’d be looking for a wife. In fact, I’d almost think it my duty to find some fine County Morgan girl and marry her.” Gallen wondered what Seamus was hinting at. Seamus had a couple of young daughters out on his farm, but the oldest was only fourteen. And while it wasn’t unheard of for a girl to marry so young, Gallen couldn’t imagine that Seamus would be talking about “duty”—unless some boy had filled one of his daughters with a child and then run off into the yonder and now Seamus was desperate to find the girl a husband.

Father Heany must also have been trying to fathom where Seamus was leading, for he said, “Now that you speak of it, there’s that Mary Gill down in Gort Obhiann whose husband got kicked by a horse last summer, leaving her with three strapping little boys, all of them fatherless. If I were looking for a wife, I’d certainly pay a visit to Mary. A beautiful girl! Beautiful! And she’s guaranteed not to leave you childless.”

“Ah, she’s pretty enough all right,” Seamus agreed. “But dumb as a pine cone, I hear. Like as not, she’ll fall in a well or catch a cold from standing in the rain too much, then leave her husband a widower.”

“Hmmm?” Father Heany asked, cocking a brow.

“Now, there is Gwen Alice O’Rourke-smart as a bee’s sting, and a hardworking girl, too.”

“Nooo, no!” Father Heany threw up his hands as if to ward off a blow. “You can’t go trying to unload your ugly niece onto the boy,” the priest said. “That would be a sin. She’s a nice enough girl, but with those buck teeth—”

“You don’t say!” Seamus frowned in mock horror. “You daren’t talk about my niece that way!”

“I will,” the priest said. “God agrees with me on this point, I’m sure. The girl has tusks as dangerous as any wild boar’s. Now, if Gallen is looking for a nice young woman, I’m sure others could be found.”

Maggie got up from her churn. The cream had hardened to butter, and she could no longer turn the crank. Her face and arms were covered with perspiration. Gallen figured it must be midnight, yet she’d been working since before sunrise. She stood wearily, put a heavy log into the fire, then sat at a nearby table with a sigh that said, “Ah, to hell with it.”

“Well, there is Maggie here,” Seamus said with a wink, and Gallen saw that he’d been planning this all along. With Gallen and Maggie sitting so close together, it was a perfect opportunity to torment them both. No one in town could have missed the glances they exchanged, and Gallen had just about decided that Maggie was the one for him. “Now, Maggie has it all—she has her wit, she’s a charmer, and she works as hard as three people.”

“True, true,” Father Heany agreed.

“And looks!” Seamus said. “More men come here to look at Maggie than ever came in for a drink! Why, if some boy were to marry her, it would deal a horrible blow to John Mahoney’s business. Sure, you’ll not find a better catch in all of County Morgan than Maggie Flynn.”

“But …” Father Heany said with a sigh, “she’s too young. The poor girl is only sixteen.” He said it with such finality, Gallen knew it was more than a casual thought, it was a verdict. Father Heany was only repeating aloud in front of Gallen the things that others in town had decided in private.

“Too young?” Seamus argued. “Why, she’s but two months away from her birthday!”

The priest held up his hands. “Sixteen—even an old sixteen—is marginal, very marginal. Marrying a girl so young borders on sin, and I’d never perform the ceremony!” he declared. “Now, if you ask me—and I’m sure the scriptures would back me up on it—eighteen is far more respectable! But if you make a woman wait until she’s twenty, then it seems to me you’re sinning the other way and ought to be roundly chastised for making the lady wait.”

Seamus raised his brow, gave Gallen a look that said, “You can’t argue with a priest,” then drained his glass. Maggie got up to refill it, but Seamus shooed her away with a wave. “So, that’s how you feel about it, Father Heany,” Seamus said as he hitched his pants and strolled to the bar. “Well, all I can say is that it’s growing mighty cold in this corner of the room, so I think I’ll sit me by the fire and leave the young ones be.”

Seamus filled his mug, then sat at a table nearer to the fire. Father Heany and Orick followed, leaving Gallen alone. Father Heany took up a fiddle and began playing a mournful tune appropriate for a cold night. Maggie sat down next to Gallen. He put his arm around her shoulders, and as soon as Seamus had his back turned, she glanced around the room quickly to make sure no one was looking, then nipped Gallen’s ear.

“Gallen O’Day,” she whispered fiercely, “why don’t you come up to my room? I’ll let you play on my feather bolster, and you can undress me with your teeth.”

“What?” he whispered, feeling blood rush to his ears. “You’ve got to be joking! You could have a baby from that. You wouldn’t want to get tied down with children so young.”

“I’m old enough to cook and clean from sunrise to sunset for a bunch of dirty beggars who give me no consideration and don’t know enough to take off their muddy boots before they flop onto a bed. Taking care of a husband and a couple of sweet young ones would be a holiday after this.”

“Ah, Maggie,” Gallen said, “you heard Father Heany. Give yourself another year or two to grow up.”

“I’ll have you know, Gallen O’Day,” Maggie said, “that most men in these parts think I’m old enough already. You should see my backside: I’ve been pinched so many times that it looks like I’ve been sitting in a bowlful of black currants!”

Gallen knew a threat when he heard one. She was saying, either you pay more attention to me, or I’ll find someone who will. And she wouldn’t have to look far. Gallen took a thick oak stick from his pocket and began simultaneously twisting and squeezing it, an exercise he used to strengthen his wrists. “Hmmm …” he said, “maybe I should take a look at your backside.” He felt her warm breath on his neck.

“You’re not a religious man, are you?” she asked. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m just after fornicating with you. If you would rather have a priest and some vows first—”

“No, it’s not that,” Gallen assured her, yet marriage was exactly the problem. She was so young that no honorable man would propose to her, yet she couldn’t bear the thought of working here for another two years. So, if she happened to turn up with a child in her belly, the whole town would just wink at it and hurry the wedding. It was an odd turn of events, Gallen thought, when the town would view a shameful wedding as somehow being more noble than an honorable proposal.

“If I were to propose right now,” Gallen said, “it would hurt us in the long run.”

“In what way?”

“I want to have a political career,” Gallen said. “Father Heany is right. I’ll never make a living by selling my escort services around here. I’ve killed too many highwaymen. Next year, I plan to run for county sheriff. But I can’t do that and go tumbling in bed with you. It would bring shame on us both. I beg of you, give yourself time to grow up.”