Misfortune of Time: Druid's Brooch Series, #6 Page 5

  It just might work. Maelan would be eager to escape to his sword practice, but she might slice a few minutes to discuss the lad’s education. Airtre would surely never argue against that.

  Maelan looked apprehensively at his new tutor. “You look too young to teach. How old are you?”

  Aghast, Étaín said, “Maelan! That’s not a polite statement, nor a proper question!”

  Odhar laughed and patted Maelan’s shoulder. “Lad, I’ll never chastise you for a good question, and yours was indeed a good one. I have twenty-seven winters but have been studying in the monastery for twenty of those. Is that wise enough for you?”

  A druid spent twenty winters in the oak groves, according to legend. Étaín held her breath, for fear Maelan would give another rude answer. Instead, her grandson acquitted himself admirably. “It sounds quite acceptable. I’m sure there’s much you can teach me.”

  Odhar turned to her, a silly grin still on his face. “Never fear, good lady. I shall keep good care of your ward for the hours he’s in my care. Perhaps I might even teach him a few things. Now leave us to our lessons, and we shall see you again at Sext.”

  She gathered her dignity and heard Maelan asking yet another question as she exited. “What is Dubhlinn like? Is it more crowded than Cluain Mhic Nóis?”

  Maelan had a healthy curiosity about most things, especially places and people. Cities, warriors out of the old tales, anything he could see. He grew less intrigued by philosophical puzzles and church mysteries, but she could see nothing wrong with this. The latter were usually only of interest to monastic scholars and Brehons.

  The river had risen slightly while she dropped Maelan off, but the bridge still looked clear, if only just. She stood and watched the torrent with fascination for several moments, spying a great branch that got caught under the bridge. It struggled and jerked until it finally pulled free in the current. Then the bloated carcass of a deer followed, still young from its dappled coat. With a shudder, Étaín continued on the muddy path to their home.

  They owned a decently sized farm, with fourteen cumals of land, enough to feed a large family, and their family had grown smaller. It had been larger before illness had carried Maelan’s parents into death’s arms. Étaín sent a brief prayer for the souls of her son and his lovely wife. She still heard the ghost of his voice in the summer wind.

  Some of the excess produce, she sold at market. The turnips were an especially prolific crop last spring and had earned her some extra trade with the spice merchants. Still, Airtre considered spices a luxury purchase, and beyond the ascetic standards of the church, so she daren’t spend too extravagantly.

  Just as she reached the front path, her shoe slipped in the mud. She tried to catch herself on the wall, but she fell heavily on her side, leaving her aching and breathless. Gingerly, she pulled herself back to her feet and surveyed the path. Mud covered the flagstones from the day’s weather, and she had no good way to clean them until it stopped raining. She hoped Airtre didn’t also slip; she would surely be blamed if he hurt himself.

  Even at well over one hundred and fifty winters old, she didn’t feel the cold in her bones like most older folks did. She did, however, feel the ache from her fall, and her cheek throbbed painfully.

  She washed the mud and grime from herself and her clothing and set about finishing the daily chores. If she wished to steal a few moments chatting with the tutor after Maelan’s lessons, everything in the house must be in perfect order. She’d have little time afterward to finish anything before she took him to his war lessons and then home before Airtre returned. He usually came home precisely between None and Vespers and expected the evening meal to be waiting for him, hot and ready to serve.

  Étaín hoped she had enough energy to do this every day. The magical effort of painting her wrinkles on each morning took at least half of her daily strength, and it grew harder every day.

  She must definitely leave soon.

  Soaking the last of the brined fish would serve for this evening’s meal. She’d got the barrel of dried fish for a bushel of her turnips last autumn, and it had been a welcome respite to the mutton and pork all winter. She must try to find another this summer at the market. Some barley, milk, butter, leeks, and cabbage would make a thick chowder. She must gather fresh sorrel and set out a portion of her bounty for the Fae.

  Étaín stared at the fish bubbling in the brine as it sank. She found it oddly fascinating and soothing to see the white flesh dip further below the milky surface.

  A motion startled her out of her concentration, and she glanced out the back door. The rain still sheeted down, but she saw something pale moving through her garden. She grabbed her cloak and went to investigate.

  A small creature lay huddled under the large burdock leaves, shivering either from the cold or fear. She spied the young hare, probably less than a moon old. At first, she thought to shoo it away—for a grown hare would decimate her garden in days—but her heart urged her to take the creature into the house, just to get it out of the freezing rain. A few hailstones hit her back as she bent down to gather the hare. It rolled its eyes, but didn’t scamper off.

  The tiny creature huddled warm and soft despite being soaked through. She held it close and brought it into her pantry.

  Once inside the warm roundhouse, she took her time to examine the young animal. Its hind feet had twine wrapped around them. Either from some crude trap or by accident, the hare had crippled itself. She carefully unwrapped the twine and put it aside. Twine had many uses, unless one was a hare.

  Thus freed, she checked it for injury, but found none. Carefully, she took the still-terrified creature to the stable, and let it free among the hay. It would at least have a warmer, drier night in the small roundhouse than it would hunched under the burdock leaves. When she let it go, it bounded off into the stacked hay and disappeared.

  With a smile for the creature’s antics, she returned to the pantry to finish her preparations. She experienced an illicit thrill at disobeying Airtre while looking around in frantic panic, lest he’d come home early and witnessed her betrayal.

  Étaín had loved healing the ravens and crows which came to her when she had been young. They seemed to know she would be kind and would sometimes gift small rocks or shells in return. She even helped an owl once. Airtre frowned upon such soft-hearted sentiments. While God reigned supreme over all creatures great and small, a poor priest didn’t have enough resources to waste on the wild animals of the world, and therefore, Étaín shouldn’t administer to such.

  At least, that’s what Airtre commanded.

  Étaín shook off her suspicion and finished her daily chores. Soon it would be time to pick up Maelan and maybe, just maybe, talk with someone who didn’t consider her to be incapable of intelligent conversation.

  She’d known intelligent women in her lifetimes. They existed. Étaín also realized that, under the church, it could be dangerous to exhibit intelligence. The intelligent women were the ones who chafed under Brehon Law and Canon Law alike, wanting to question authority, their status in life, and their rights under such laws.

  Only in the ancient tales did women have true freedom, given a different world. Legends of Queen Medb or Scathach, the warrior woman, showed a glimmer of what could be.

  She lived in this world, and women must at least pretend to be the subservient chattel they were expected to be. Children, women, the mad, and the crippled—these were the second citizens, the slaves to men. Thus it had been, and thus it would ever be.

  Still, she’d spoken with both men and women who didn’t believe it must be thus. Her third husband had grown up with the Ostmen, where women had the ability and duty to rule, to fight, and to own property. He’d encouraged her to be strong for her sake and his own. He’d talked with her about history, philosophy, speculated about the future, shared healing lore and taught her to read.

  She’d begun to think herself worthy of the gift of such knowledge. At least, until her fourth husband beat t
hose notions out of her.

  Such radical ideas weren’t erased from her memory. They simmered under the surface, ready to bubble up at dangerous times, urging her to hit back, yell back, and scream out in sheer frustration. She pictured herself wielding a mighty sword and chopping off her tormentor’s heads, screeching a mighty battle cry as her dying enemies covered her with steaming blood. She had visions of Macha at the end of a gore-strewn battle.

  Such would be madness.

  If she talked back even a little, even her brooch’s magic would not protect her from a killing blow. It didn’t protect her from injury, just from aging. If Airtre beat her to death, she would be dead, despite all the Fae magic in the realm.

  She shuddered and gave into the shakes for a minute before she wiped the image from her mind. She mustn’t think of such things. Maybe speaking with Odhar after Maelan’s lesson wouldn’t be such a wise idea.

  After wondering how long before she needed to return to the abbey, Étaín glanced at the sky. The sleet had turned to full hail, and she’d no way to tell the time. Airtre would only burn hour candles in extreme need, so she’d have to guess. With a few more finishing touches on the food, she wrapped herself in both her woolen cloak and the oilskin and braved the hail.

  The stones stayed small, thankfully, but they still hurt as they pelted her head and back. She carefully navigated across the mud to the forest. Once there, some of the hailstones got diverted by the freshly sprouted branches, so she got relief from the barrage. She slipped several times in the squelching mud.

  The river had grown higher still and had reached the base of the bridge. She eyed it cautiously, but the bridge appeared sturdy. It should hold at least a while longer. It had never washed out in living memory.

  Maelan waited for her in the entrance alcove of the Scriptorium, dressed in his oilskin cloak. Odhar stood next to him.

  “Étaín, you look like a drowned rat! Come in and rest a while. The rain will wait.”

  She shook her head just as the bells of Sext rung out, sounding odd in the rain-sodden air. “I must get Maelan to fighter practice.”

  “I’m sure the lad can find his own way, can you not?” He patted Maelan’s shoulder, and the boy looked up with admiring eyes. He nodded vigorously and then glanced at Étaín. She truly didn’t want to brave the hail again so soon, but her duty remained clear.

  “I have warm, mulled cider, should you wish to defrost.”

  His offer took the urgency out of her departure. She loved mulled cider, and it would be especially welcome on this day. Airtre kept none, preferring the much less expensive sour ale.

  “Aha, my temptation has worked! Run, now, lad. I’ll not hold your grandmother too long. I need a pleasant chat with a lovely woman to recover from our lessons.”

  Maelan scampered off into the hail to the right, in the general direction of the practice yard. Étaín quickly lost sight of him in the weather.

  Odhar donned his cloak. “The Scriptorium, however, is no place for a pleasant chat, so we must brave the weather at least for a short while. Would you accompany me to the lesson rooms?”

  She gestured he should lead the way, and he ducked outside, bearing to the left. She waited until she realized which structure he headed to and pulled her own cowl up to follow. She glanced around quickly to ensure Airtre hadn’t seen her, though she did nothing wrong.

  The mud wasn’t so thick here as at her house. Sometimes being on a hill had its advantages. She arrived at the roundhouse without too much more damage to her muddy shoes.

  The room held several tables, wooden stools, and one long bench along the wall. Numerous valuable scrolls had been stacked on a high shelf with parchment and quills on another. A large map of Hibernia, painted on leather, had been nailed to one wall, with the major counties marked in different colors. It was labeled with several names, including Hibernia, Éire, and Éirinn. She walked to the map and traced the borders with her finger, not quite touching the precious creation.

  Munster, home of the Dál gCais and the Déisi, took most of the lower east half of the island. Portions had been carved out for Ostman territory around Dubhlinn and a few others. In the west, Connacht mostly belonged to the Ui Briains, while the center belonged to the Ui Néill clan.

  All these tribal names Étaín recalled from the legends, old tales, and the news of today. They represented the chiefs and warriors, heroes and dynastic families who ruled the land.

  So many days she spent consumed with the day to day living of her own tiny slice of the world, and yet she had traveled more than most. She’d lived lifetimes in many parts of the land. She’d spent decades in the utter west, with wild winds and bitter winters. Dubhlinn had once been her home, though only for a few winters before her husband died and she moved on. She’d lived in Ui Néill lands at one point, and Déisi lands at another. Now she lived on the border between the southern Ui Néill of Midhe and the Ua Briain of Connacht. Even the Dál gCais of Munster laid claim to Cluain Mhic Nóis at one point. The large complex of monastic and secular buildings lie nearly at the center of the land, both spiritually and physically. The abbey became an important place, filled with faith, artisans, and learning.

  She’d love to study the map for hours.

  Odhar cleared his throat, and she spun around, suddenly ashamed of her fascination. He handed her a mug of steaming spiced cider, and she took a grateful sip. The warm, sweet alcohol calmed her.

  “It’s an amazing map, is it not? I’ve studied it for countless hours and yet I still find new things to discover.”

  She risked a smile. Perhaps her interest hadn’t been so provincial.

  “Do you enjoy maps, Étaín? I’ll show you more if you like. You probably can’t read the words, but I can help.”

  She shook her head. “I can read. My… I learned years ago.” She waited for the derision which surely followed such an admission.

  His eyes grew wide, and he placed his hand on her shoulders. “Truly? But that’s magnificent. I’d love to lend you my favorite writings if you’d like. Do you enjoy histories?”

  She stumbled as if braced for a blow which never came. She perceived no censure, no hesitation, no angry words about a woman not knowing her place. He accepted her words as truth and took them as granted. She nodded, blinking. “I love the histories, but I’ve not read anything in a long time. I might have forgotten how.”

  He laughed and patted a space on the bench for them to sit. “And you have a sense of humor, too! Oh, we’ll get along grand. Are you where Maelan gets his sense of the ridiculous? He’s truly a joy. Oh, he’s rambunctious and cares little for philosophy, but I snuck in several ancient tales since they had warriors in them. He enjoyed that. Can you read Latin or Irish? Both?”

  Her glanced flicked to the doorway as someone passed by, but no one came in. “No, philosophy is not something he’d care for. I can read both, but I’m better in Irish.”

  He raised his eyebrows, and suddenly his voice grew more serious. “And do you enjoy philosophy, Étaín?”

  His question sounded oddly intimate. His earlier flippancy had intensified into a solemn inquiry. She nodded, hesitantly. “I don’t remember much about it. I used to discuss ideas with a friend in my youth and learned about some of the Greek masters. While I found it fascinating, some subjects we daren’t discuss.”

  He furrowed his brow and refilled her empty mug with more cider. “Why not?”

  She gulped the warm drink, gathering courage from it. “Certain subjects didn’t match the teachings of the church.”

  This earned her a smile. “Rest assured, Étaín, you may speak of such things to me. I am not so blind I cannot understand viewpoints other than the official canon of Christianity. There have been and will always be other beliefs in the world. I’m not even certain the Christian view is the right one. It’s simply the view in which we are raised. If I had lived in ancient Greece or Egypt, I’m certain I would have believed those to be the right view.” He shrugged and lifted his
eyebrows. “It’s an accident of fate, I’m here in this time, in this place, really.”

  “Do you believe in fate, then?”

  He threw his head back with a hearty laugh. “Fate. You don’t choose the easy subjects, do you? Fate is a hotly debated topic in any circle. Let me ask you this before I answer. Have you read Saint Augustine’s works?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve read of him, but never seen his writings.”

  “Hmm. Well, I must remedy such soon. There is a copy among the scrolls. Until then, I’ll summarize as best I can. Saint Augustine wrote:

  Evil men do many things contrary to the will of God; but so great is His wisdom, and so great His power, that all things which seem to oppose His will tend toward those ends which He Himself has foreknown as good and just.

  Étaín frowned and looked into her mug, once again empty. Her head spun while she tried to make sense of the quote. “So, men are fated for their purpose, but only in the grand scheme. They have free will for the little things, but not for the big things?”

  Odhar clapped his hands. “Yes, exactly! At least, that’s my understanding of Saint Augustine’s words. Perhaps we’re both wrong. Greater minds than ours have debated this point for centuries.”

  Étaín thought of how it applied to her own life. She’d made poor choices in the past, married men who hurt her, men who tried to destroy her. Still, those marriages resulted in sweet children who went out into the world. Surely a few of her descendants did good deeds.

  Little things might result in big things.

  She nodded in understanding. “And we cannot judge the relative merit of the small decisions, as we cannot understand the full picture. Only God can understand everything. He is omniscient and omnipresent. What we may perceive as a cruel injustice might be a necessity in the full wisdom of the world.”

  Odhar stared at her. “My dear, you’ve done yourself a disservice.”

  She blinked, suddenly terrified she’d said something stupid, or overstepped her bounds. She glanced again at the doorway, convinced someone stood watching her, but the doorway appeared clear. “How do you mean?”