Heir to Sevenwaters (4 page)

As chieftain of Sevenwaters, Father was juggling a far more testing set of challenges than I was: not just Mother’s uncertain future and that of her unborn child, but the fact that Deirdre’s marriage was likely to create resentment amongst certain powerful leaders of the northern Uí Néill. They would at the very least be suspicious of this new tie between Sevenwaters and the southern branch of their feuding clan. On top of those things, disquieting rumors had been heard in the district. People had begun to blame the Fair Folk for stock losses, for accidental fires, for crop failures and storms, as if that wise and noble race had almost overnight become mischievous and meddling. Talk of that sort troubled Father, since our land had long provided a haven for the Tuatha De. It was no wonder he was looking so tired. Deirdre and I must smile and hold our heads high tonight. We must celebrate tomorrow’s hand-fasting with every appearance of joy and hope.

“Clodagh,” Deirdre said, “there’s something I have to tell you. You won’t like it.”

“Oh?”

“I’m really, really sorry about this, Clodagh. I know it’s going to make you unhappy, but I have to do it.”

I put the comb down, completely mystified. “Come on, out with it then,” I said. “Whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as all that.”

She dropped her gaze. “Clodagh, we can’t do it anymore. When I’m gone, when I’m at Illann’s. It won’t be appropriate.”

“Can’t do what?” I had no idea what she meant.

“Talk, the way we do. I’m so sorry, I’ll miss you terribly, but . . . Once I’m married, it would be—it wouldn’t feel right, Clodagh. Don’t look like that, it’s not the end of the world. Be practical about it. What if Illann and I were lying together and suddenly you were there between us? Not actually there, of course, but it would be the same. We just can’t do it anymore.”

Something cold and hard lodged itself in my chest. “You can’t mean that,” I whispered, knowing that she must or she would not have said it.

“I’ll have a new home and a new family.” Deirdre’s voice wobbled, and she set her jaw. “I have to concentrate on that. I’m sorry to hurt you, Clodagh. But I do mean it. I’m not going to let you in anymore; I just can’t. And please don’t argue about it. I’ve made up my mind. It’s not only because of Illann and me. I need to learn to stand on my own feet and face my own problems. I’ve become too used to asking you for help and expecting you to fix things, and now I’ll be a married woman with my own household, and . . . Here, give me the comb.” She was battling not to shed more tears. “You should change your gown, it’s all ripped,” my sister said shakily. “What were you doing out there, climbing trees?”

I usually spent time with my father every evening in his small council room, talking over the day’s events. I would bring him up to date on the domestic affairs of the household and he would tell me about his discussions with neighboring chieftains, his decisions in relation to our outlying settlements and their free tenants, his purchases of cattle or his plans to travel to councils and gatherings. Sometimes we’d talk about the conflicts that beset our region, usually involving the warring branches of the Uí Néill clan. We’d been doing this since long before Mother’s pregnancy. In the past she had often made a third in our conversations. Now that she was so unwell she had neither energy nor inclination for such talk, so it was just the two of us. Deirdre had never been interested in such matters.

Father often told me I had a good head for strategy. It was not especially common for chieftains to consult their daughters on weighty issues, I knew, but then Father was no ordinary chieftain. It seemed to me that even if I had had brothers, Father would still have trusted me and valued my opinions, as he did Mother’s. Perhaps it came from his having grown up with a twin sister who had been unafraid to make bold decisions in her own right. Perhaps it was partly because he had become chieftain at the age of sixteen, and had relied heavily on my mother’s support—she had been his childhood sweetheart and they had married young.

Knowing there would be no opportunity for our usual talk tonight, with the celebration supper to be followed by music and dancing, I seized a chance to speak to him in midafternoon, waiting until the two southern chieftains he’d been talking to left the council chamber, before slipping in.

Father was sitting with chin on hand, a document before him on the table. He was staring into space, his eyes distant. There were gray threads in his dark hair now, and lines on his face that had not been there before Mother conceived her child. Father was known as a strong, wise leader, a decisive man who knew how to be tough but was always fair. Right now he looked exhausted and despondent. His two wolfhounds provided silent companionship, one with her muzzle resting on his knee, the other lying across his feet. They lifted their heads as I came in, then lowered them again.

“Father,” I said, closing the door behind me and shutting out the sound of chattering voices from the hall, “I wanted to see if there was anything else you needed done. All the arrangements are in place for tonight’s feast and for tomorrow’s ritual. Most folk have arrived now. Muirrin and her small escort will be here in the morning, Johnny says—apparently she was called to attend to a sick child in our northern settlement as they passed through, so Johnny left three men with her and came on with the rest. All the guests are accommodated. The horses have been seen to and Doran has found space for the grooms and attendants. But there’s no sign yet of the two northern chieftains you invited, Naithi of Davagh and his cousin, Colman.”

“Mm,” murmured Father, and his lips tightened.

“You think they’re not coming? Not even sending representatives? That would be extremely discourteous.”

“I hoped they would come, Clodagh. I extended the invitation to those two because, of all the leaders of the northern Uí Néill, they seem the most open-minded and fair. And with their influential neighbor, Eoin of Lough Gall, away from home, I thought that Naithi and Colman might be prepared to sit at table with Illann just for the two days of the festivities. It seems I was wrong. They’re unhappy about the marriage. Angry, most likely.”

I could see he was deeply troubled, and decided I would not mention shadowy presences following me in the forest, or indeed rude young men insulting me; not while he had that look on his face. “Father, this is very serious, isn’t it, this difficulty with the northern chieftains?”

He motioned to the bench beside him and I sat down, realizing that I had been on my feet all day and was tired.

“I’ll deal with it after the wedding,” he said. “Yes, it’s serious, but Johnny’s here now and we’ll devise a strategy. You look a little tired, Clodagh. This is a busy time for you. And you must have mixed feelings, with Deirdre going away.”

“I’m fine, Father.” I managed a smile. “I’m getting used to all this. It’s one less worry for Mother if I make sure everything is the way she would want it to be.”

There was a short silence. The unspoken thought hung between us: that Mother might never again take up the reins of the household; that she might not be with us for very much longer.

“I wish the wedding could have been later,” I said, remembering how pale and weary Mother had looked when I went up to see her earlier. “She gets tired so easily. I suggested she might leave the supper early.”

“I’ll be glad when Muirrin gets here and can give us her expert opinion on your mother’s condition,” Father said, rubbing his eyes. “I have to say, Clodagh, that although this is a wonderful marriage for Deirdre, I, too, wish the timing could have been different. It’s too much for Aisling right now, even with you handling the arrangements so efficiently. She seems . . .” He broke off, unwilling to put his thought into words.

I laid a hand on his shoulder; he covered it with his.

“I know, Father,” I said quietly. “But the festivities will be over by tomorrow afternoon. And Muirrin should be staying until after the baby is born.” My eldest sister was a healer; this was the job she and her husband carried out at Johnny’s establishment on Inis Eala, where combat injuries were frequent. We were lucky she had been able to come to Sevenwaters.

“I’m sad that Maeve cannot be here,” Father said. “I know she shies away from such gatherings, but she’d want to see her sister married. I miss her, Clodagh. You girls are all precious to me in your different ways. I hope you know that.”

“I do, Father.” I heard what he was not saying: that Mother’s fervent desire for a son—she was unshakeable in her belief that she was carrying a boy—could all too easily be taken to mean that she cared less than she should about her six daughters. I had heard my youngest sister, Eilis, say that Mother did not love her as much as the child who was coming. Sibeal had hushed her, telling her that mothers love all their children equally, always. I did not really think this was true. “And we love you. You’re the best of fathers. It will feel odd, won’t it, when Deirdre is gone? Once Muirrin leaves again you’ll only have three of your girls left. And Coll, of course.”

Father smiled. “You asked me if there was anything else I needed done. I suppose I should ask if I can be sure my nephew will be on his best manners before our distinguished guests tonight.”

“What Coll may not be prepared to do for me,” I said, “he’ll do for Johnny. He worships his big brother. I think we’ll have perfect behavior for a little while at least.”

“Perfect? From that child? I doubt it.” Father’s tone was affectionate. Coll was not a wayward boy, simply adventurous. He and Eilis got in and out of trouble together regularly. It made the household livelier, which I thought a good thing.

Someone tapped on the door. When I opened it a chink, there was a chieftain waiting to speak to Father. At least I could snatch a few moments’ rest in my chamber, I thought. For Father, the day’s business had begun at dawn and would not be finished until the feast was over and all the guests safely abed.

Nobody would have known, at suppertime, that Lord Sean of Sevenwaters bore such a weight of anxiety. My father’s strong features were calm, his smile convincing as he presided over the festive meal. To accommodate our many guests we had four tables laid, one for family on a dais at the side of the hall, the others set crossways in the main part of this chamber, the biggest and grandest in the keep. Embroidered hangings decorated the walls; lamps cast a warm light over their bright colors. A fire crackled on the hearth, for the spring evenings could be chill here.

When Johnny was with us he generally sat at Father’s left hand, with Mother on the right. This was in recognition that he was Father’s heir and would one day be chieftain of Sevenwaters. Tonight he had ceded his place to Illann, the new son-in-law, and was sitting beside Deirdre, opposite me. It was easy to like Johnny. He was a sturdily built young man with close-cropped brown hair, steady gray eyes and a swirl of facial tattooing that was subtly suggestive of a raven’s plumage. He had always been kind to us girls, though we were slightly in awe of him. Johnny was older, of course; a year or two the senior of our eldest sister, Muirrin. He was a seasoned battle leader and greatly respected among fighting men.

The chieftains of the region did not view Johnny with quite such universal admiration. As the closest male kin—eldest son of my father’s twin sister—he was the rightful heir to Sevenwaters. But his father, Bran of Harrowfield, had once been a fearsome outlaw, and the local leaders had long memories. Aunt Liadan had been abducted by Bran’s warriors when she was about my age, so she could tend to their injured comrade. From that unlikely beginning had come Johnny, and a love that still shone as bright as the stars in the eyes of Liadan and her grim-looking husband. In fact, a prophecy had foretold that my cousin would one day be chieftain of Sevenwaters. That was common knowledge. It was plain to me that Johnny would do the job extremely well, and I knew Father shared my opinion. Of course, should my mother have a healthy son, things might change.

My gaze moved from Johnny to Deirdre, who was seated beside Mother. My twin looked lovely. There was no trace of her earlier tears. I had persuaded her to let me put her hair into a braided, upswept style, and it made her look at least three years older and quite elegant. Illann couldn’t take his eyes off her, and the glances she gave him from under half-lowered lashes showed how much she liked his admiration.

Mother was pretending to eat, but she didn’t fool me. Father kept glancing at her, no doubt seeing what I did: the shadows under her eyes, the waxen pallor of her skin, the strained smile as she tried to concentrate on something Illann was telling her. Aware that Illann’s sister, seated on my other side, was looking at me oddly, I plunged into conversation. “Your household musicians are very good,” I said. “The fellow on the whistle, especially.”

“Illann only hires the best.” His sister cast an assessing look around the hall and paused as her eyes fell on Aidan, who was seated with several other men clad in the blue and gray of Johnny’s personal retainers. Her expression warmed; I could see she found his looks as pleasing as I did. “My brother understands that most households in these parts haven’t the resources to keep a permanent band. I suppose Lord Sean needs to fall back on the wandering bards. It’s a matter of luck whether you get a good one or some fellow with no talent at all.”

“Of course,” I said, swallowing my irritation, “we do have two druids in the family. They’re handy for a little storytelling after supper.” I saw a smile pass across Conor’s face. My father’s uncle was chief of the brotherhood and spiritual leader of our community. He maintained a keen interest in strategic matters and came to Sevenwaters regularly to advise Father. Ciarán, his half-brother, had excused himself from tonight’s festivities as I’d expected. I had housed him in the little chamber next to the stillroom and I knew he would be there alone, absorbed in meditation or study.

“As for wandering bards, my cousin has a talented musician amongst his men,” I went on, glancing at Johnny, who had his close friend Gareth, an amiable, sandy-haired man, standing on guard behind him. He had one warrior stationed by each door as well. Even in this place that was his second home, Johnny took no chances. What he did made him desirable as a friend to the wealthy and powerful. It also made him a target.