Warrior's Daughter (13 page)

I do not mean to say she was mad. People came by to pay their respects, and she received them graciously. She discussed plans for the burial rites with Conchobor, and I do not believe he noticed anything amiss—unless that she was remarkably composed.

But Osnait and I, who knew her well, we noticed. She was not mad—she was
absent.
Her eyes looked through us, never making real contact. She did not refuse the broth and tidbits of food Osnait pressed on her, or the sleeping draughts from Cathbad; she accepted them with thanks and left everything untouched. For three days and nights, she did not eat, did not sleep, did not bathe or change her clothes or arrange her hair or speak one word of what was in her heart. And gradually my worry for her turned to a whispery cold fear.

“Why does she not weep?” I demanded of Roisin. I sat up in my bed, unable to sleep for the crawling anxiety in my gut. “She holds in her grief. She allows no one to hold or comfort her.” Not even me, the bitter thought followed unbidden.

It was not a thing I was used to. We are hardly a people to hide our feelings. It did not frighten me to see a grown man roar with anger, or a woman fall down shrieking with grief. But this...this made the black fist writhe in my belly.

“I don’t know, Mistress.” Roisin’s voice was reassuringly real in the dark. I heard the whisper of her blankets and then the
rustle of straw as her weight settled beside me. She rarely called me “Mistress” anymore, except in public. Roisin was a woman with a natural gift for helping and an aversion to serving, and she was too close to the sister I never had for me to want to change her. Tonight, though, hearing my title bolstered me. She was reminding me of who I was, and the strength that should match my position.

We sat in silence, and I let the warm relaxed weight of her arm across my shoulders seep down and settle my jumpy nerves. I was feeling that I might sleep, after all, when she spoke again.

“I have seen something like it in an animal, I think.” Her voice was tentative, fearing perhaps to give offense. I kept silent, inviting her to continue.

“It was a pair of hounds we had, reared from pups together. They were old—maybe close to ten years—when the bitch died. And the dog acted so strange. He guarded her body, would let no one near it without growling. My pa was going to kick him off, but my ma said to let him be. And the next morning he let us bury her.”

I thought about her story, trying to find the window into my mother’s heart. There was a similarity, but was there a meaning?

“Maybe your ma is not ready to let go of him,” Roisin suggested. “Maybe she is saving her grief for the burial rites.”

She had not studied with druids and poets, but Roisin was wise in understanding nonetheless.

I could take no satisfaction in the heads Conall presented to us. He laid them out in rows on the lawn, grisly fruits in a warrior’s garden. More death, more butchered bodies sent home to their
families, more vengeance to be exacted. Will there be a warrior left standing, I wondered wearily, when all accounts are paid? But my mother praised Conall for his courage and loyalty and prowess, and listened rapt to the account of his one-handed duel with Lughaid, and to see her face alert and interested again gave me hope.

Finally he laid in her arms a bundle, apologizing for the rough wrapping. Cuchulainn’s head. My own tears welled up as Emer cradled and stroked it, and I came forward, longing suddenly to see him, touch him even, however disfigured the poor face. The memory of him swept over me so clearly then: his long easy stride, the sparkle of his eyes, the strong circle of his arms, the way the sun brought out all the colors in his hair. I could not let him go to the ground without even looking upon his end.

But my mother stood suddenly and called Osnait to her, and they hurried off to the great house. And there she did all that the poets recount: bathed Cuchulainn’s head and combed out the bright hair; wrapped it in rich silk as green as the barley fields in spring. But she did it alone, locked into the room we had once shared, and she did not come out until it was time for my father’s last farewell and all but her gathered at the graveside, waiting.

She was transformed, her hair arrayed in shining braids and loops, her dress immaculate, the gold gleaming at her throat and arm and waist. She was beautiful beyond words, like a queen of the Sidhe, and she bore her burden of green silk as if it were a crown for a king.

But as she approached, the dark fingers clawed and clutched in my guts and my mouth filled with the taste of fear. I looked to Cathbad, somber in his splendid robe, and found only dark
sorrow in the eyes that followed Emer’s journey. Perhaps that was all I felt as well—the full fierce grasp of grief. And why not? All around me, men and women wept openly for my father.

My mother gave no sign that she noticed anyone or anything but the body that lay on its burial board, surrounded by weapons and riches, and the head that lay heavy in her hands. The emerald eyes that had once flashed with wit and pride were soft and lost and blind. I understood then that she had not dressed for a public appearance. She had dressed for her lover alone.

She laid my father’s head against his body in regal silence. And then, at last, she fell upon him and gave way to weeping. And the lament she spoke for him as they lowered him into the grave was as beautiful and spirited as Emer herself.

But I could not listen. I could hardly hear her words, so loud did the fear clamor in my head, so black was the darkness that filled me. If Roisin’s hand had not held firm to my girdle, I could not have stayed up on my own legs.

My mother pulled herself away and stood silent as they lowered my father’s body. And then it happened. As he came to rest at the bottom of the grave, she leapt down to him. The bright knife flashed in her hand. Red blood spilled from her throat as she fell.

I watched my mother take her own life and die with the man she loved. And all I could think at first, through the shock and my own horror, was that she had cast me away on the winds of the world.

And so I was carried along, aimless as thistle fluff. I remember only snatches of the days following my mother’s death, for they rolled past like thick gray fog. I could not bear to think about what had happened, and so I could not think about anything at all. And Cathbad must have thought I needed this respite, for he plied me with brews that wrapped me in blurry warmth and made me sleep for hours on end.

It was Roisin who coaxed me back to myself. She tended me like a baby when I could do nothing on my own, and gradually her easy talk while she spooned soup into me or brushed my hair began to reach me. I remember my first painful awakening. Roisin was describing a litter of pups that had been born to a young man she had taken a liking to. “So funny they are, with their big milk bellies and crybaby complaints and the way they burrow and squirm to get the best teat. He says he will give me my pick of them, and I have set my heart on one with a coal black coat and a long white blaze up his muzzle.”

That stirred something in me. I straightened in my chair, forced my eyes to focus until I found Roisin’s brown eyes, bright with sympathy, fixed on my own.

“Where is Fintan?” I asked.

“It is a fine young woman you have become, Luaine, and I want you to know I will help you in any way that I can.”

The king’s heavy hand covered mine protectively. I tried hard to follow Conchobor’s words. My mind was clearer now, and I had stopped taking Cathbad’s numbing drinks, but I still found it so hard to sustain a train of thought—especially if it had to do with my life or future. I could not seem to believe in a future.

“My thanks, Sire. I am grateful for your concern.” My mouth spoke the required words, while my thoughts looped away. The king had asked to see me in his private hall, and Roisin had fussed over my hair and dress as if I was off to a feast.

“Roisin, really. He will just be giving his condolences.”

“He is the king,” she insisted stubbornly. “And you will need him on your side.”

There it was—the future again. What was I to do, once I had done hiding in my chamber in Emain Macha? My father had no brothers, no sons, to share ownership of his lands. His own father, Sualtim, was dead. So Muirthemne and Dun Dealgan itself were mine. But could I maintain them? I was ready to run a household, no doubt, but Dun Dealgan was a border outpost. How could a fourteen-year-old girl command a garrison army?

“Don’t be silly,” Roisin had chided. “Look at you. You are young and lovely, noble of birth, wealthy, educated. You are the daughter of the first man and woman of Ulster. You will have your pick of fine champions eager to share your marriage bed and defend your lands.”

I supposed she was right. I didn’t know, exactly, how to look for a husband, and could not summon much enthusiasm at the prospect. Perhaps in time my path would be plainer.

“Your father, my sister’s son, was very dear to me, and I feel I owe it to him to ensure his child has every protection.” Conchobor’s deep voice droned on. He was stroking my hand, and he had pulled his chair close to mine. I could feel the heat of his leg against my own. I had never been so close to the king, and I saw now the age behind his fine jewels and fabrics. His cheeks were traced with purple veins, his fingernails thickened and yellow. His teeth would not be long in his head from the look of them. I nodded politely.

“You are very kind.”

“You have considerable holdings, you know, Luaine. Lands. The fort itself. Herds, and your father’s bondsmen and his warriors. It’s a heavy responsibility for a young girl. And you are vulnerable, in your grief and your youth. The greedy, the unscrupulous—all will have an eye to your wealth. I fear you may find yourself under attack all too soon.”

This was more than condolences. I told myself to take hold of my thoughts, to pay attention. After all, this was Conchobor’s concern as well. If Muirthemne fell, it would be territory lost to Ulster.

“I understand, Sire. I have had these thoughts myself,” I replied. I glanced at his face, found him nodding enthusiastically. He could help me, I realized, by taking on the role my family might have played. He
was
my family, after all. I took a deep breath. “I have been advised,” I said cautiously, “to marry a man who can take over the defense of the Muirthemne plain.” I had dreamed, of course, of a great love match. The dream, buried under layers of grief as it was, fluttered in protest. But my mother’s passion had ended in ashes. I wrapped myself in indifference, and the gossamer wings stilled.

The king’s thick fingers tightened over mine, and he smiled at me approvingly. “That was my exact thought, Luaine. A match that will secure your lands and guarantee you the safety and comfort you deserve.” He would help, then. Hope, or maybe just relief, rose within me. With the king himself to consider potential suitors and negotiate on my behalf, life began to seem possible. Conchobor’s voice rumbled on, something about my fine looks and noble upbringing, but my thoughts had turned again to my mother’s fall, the way her skirts had billowed up in the wind and the first terrifying spurt of blood from her neck...

“...So you see, you need have no more worries. You have the love and protection of the king now and will want for nothing. Emain Macha has been too long without a queen.”

Lugh help me, what had he said? My mind scrambled to reconstruct the stream of words while I gawped at him like a fool.

“That’s right, my dear.” Did I imagine it? The smile was gentle and indulgent, but a cutting edge of will held it in place. “I will wed you myself. I care that much for your welfare. You shall be my queen.”

I cast my eyes down, coloring in confusion, as he underlined his claim by sliding his arm behind my waist, pulling me close, and pressing his lips into the hollow of my neck.

“The sooner, the better, I think,” he said briskly. “No sense in leaving matters unsettled.”

He was King, he was telling me. He would wed whom—and when—he would.

“Well?” Roisin was not about to let me sink back into my fog.

“I am to wed the king,” I said weakly.

There was a long silence, and I knew without looking that Roisin was struggling to master her dismay. King or not, he would not have been her choice. Nor mine, not that it made any difference.

Bless her, she did not repeat the obvious: that Conchobor was four times my own age, that I had had no chance to mourn my parents or recover from their loss, that I might prefer to stay in my own home. Instead she found the only words left to say.

“You will be queen, Luaine—queen of all Ulster! First among all the women!” She came over to me and took my hands and kissed them, her face solemn now. “Be happy, my lady. You deserve it.”

I managed a smile—a little shaky, but genuine. And then I saw, as if in a waking dream, Roisin’s sharp features blur into bruised violet eyes and corn silk hair. Just for a moment, Deirdriu’s pale face floated before me. I watched it fade into shadow—and I burst into tears.

My parents were hardly a week in the ground when I found myself sitting beside King Conchobor, in the place where I had first seen Deirdriu, at my betrothal feast.

Everything was happening so fast, I could not keep up with my own life. I had been moved into a large luxurious room and surrounded by a flurry of women armed with fabric samples and jewelry, taking my measurements, buffing my nails, scenting my bathwater. Messengers had been sent to Dun Dealgan, telling my father’s men they were now in direct service to the king and to hold the territory in readiness for a new warlord. And in the midst of this confusion came a visit from Cathbad himself.

He took me away from the bustle, to his own quiet dark house. Fintan was there, and I was stricken to think how I had ignored him these long days.

“Fintan is fine,” Cathbad said quietly. “It is you I am concerned with.”

He left me alone to visit with Fin, and slowly the silence and privacy seeped down into my soul and loosened the great knot of grief I had locked away there. I found myself weeping, my tears dripping and beading up on Fintan’s feathers, and I did not try to stay them but let them pour freely until at last the great rushing sobs quieted and then stilled. It was the first time I was able to truly feel what had happened to me, and the tears brought release and healing and the return of my own strength.