Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale (5 page)

“Ha! You pictured wrong. Gartnán’s island is no ordinary island; it’s huge, enormous, colossal. It’s a world in the middle of a lake. The fields stretch so far, it takes seven plow teams to prepare them for sowing. The meadows are filled with seven herds. Each herd has seven score cows. Big beasts. Big contented lowing beasts that give enough milk to fill the lake seven times over.

“Gartnán has fifty nets for catching fish, and another fifty for deer. These are big fish, big deer. A family can
feast on just one fish for seven days; the entire
crannóg
can feast on just one deer for seven days.

“The fishnets hang by ropes from the windows of the giant kitchen. Each rope ends in a bell on the rail, right in front of the steward. When the salmon run, the bells ring. They ring so loud that trees fall and the heavens shake. Four men stand in the river and throw the netted salmon up into the hands of the steward.

“And you’re wondering how the steward can hold such fish? Use your brains. Your good Ulster brains. See him. See what a massive man he is?

“Oh, our Gartnán leads a charmed life, he does. He’s no ordinary rich man. Wealth flows from his body like sweat from a slave’s.

“He has the entire island gilded with red gold. And he lies on his couch, drinking mead.

“Mead, my friends, my good fellows. Mead.” He laughs. “And that’s exactly what we should do now.” He lifts one of the mugs waiting on the table at the foot of Nuada’s bed and drinks deeply. “Now, that was a Gartnán sip.”

I have heard this story in various forms all my life, but it never fails to stir my innards. Such wealth in a simple
crannóg.
The Lord takes care of royalty on Earth.

We all drink mead and congratulate the storyteller.

And now he sets aside the dulcimer and rubs his
hands together as if warming them up for the next tale. He will stand by the hearth and paint pictures in our head till dawn, if Nuada can stay awake that long.

“Prepare yourselves for a tale of fairies and elves.” His voice swirls around us like rushing waters, enchanting us instantly. “Can you hear them? Can you smell them? Can you sense them? Hiding in the corners. And behind the chests.”

We look in the corners. We stare suspiciously at the chests.

He laughs. “But that will come later. For now … draw your mind back fifty years.” With flat, open hands, he makes circles in the air over his right shoulder, going back, back, back in time. “A hundred years, three hundred years, to the year 600, to the dense forests, the primeval forests. Are you there? Listen. You hear birds, insects, the swish of animals through the leaves. Listen. Can you hear laughter? Can you hear the merriest laughter you’ve ever imagined?”

I hear it.

“That’s Finn. Finn and his warriors rule this forest.”

A messenger comes through the door right then. Father jumps to his feet and his face shows he’s been expecting him. “At last!”

Mother stands too.

“King Myrkjartan.” The messenger bows repeatedly while he catches his breath. “The Norseman Bjarni has the information you seek about the recent misfortune.”

“I’m waiting,” says Father.

“It was the act of a foolish boy.”

“Nonsense,” says Mother. She grabs Father by the arm, but her eyes are on the messenger. “How could a boy have the strength to do such damage?”

“Not a little boy,” says the messenger. “A youth of fourteen.”

“A Norse youth?” asks Father.

“Yes. He got into a dice game, lost whatever he had, but kept on playing.” The messenger hesitates. “So the winner demanded he chop off the hand of a Christian slave as his payment.”

“A slave?” yips Mother. “Nuada hardly looks like a lowly slave.”

“Of course not. His clothing bespoke riches. But they watched him a moment from the doorway, and his meek demeanor—”

“Nuada’s demeanor is kind, not meek!”

The messenger nods in agreement. “Boys in a dare make mistakes.”

Outrageous words. To cut off Nuada’s hand instead of a slave’s!

“The winner is as much to blame as the youth, then,” says Mother.

“Bjarni agrees,” the messenger says quickly. “They’d been drinking too much.”

“Tell us the details,” says Mother. “Exactly what happened?”

Brigid takes my hand and squeezes. I sneak a glance at Nuada. He stares at the bedclothes. I can’t tell if he’s listening. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling.

“Your son was—”

“Prince Nuada,” says Mother. “Have the courtesy to use his name.”

“Prince Nuada,” says the messenger, “was looking at a tool on a wooden bench. He leaned forward, his hands splayed to either side like this.” The messenger demonstrates. “His right hand was in a perfect position. The youth simply came up behind and swung the ax. Just once.”

I see it in my mind. Poor Nuada, standing there, then
slam,
the ax comes down from nowhere. Like a curse. The brutality makes everything go black for an instant.

“He grabbed the hand and ran,” continues the messenger.

“And destroyed our son’s future in one cruel act.” Mother sinks back onto the bench.

“What is the youth’s name?” says Father.

“Bjarni will not reveal that. Nor the name of the winner of the dice game—who was also just a youth.”

“They won’t get away with it,” says Father. “This act will not go unpunished.”

“Bjarni asks that you think not in terms of punishment, but, rather, compensation.”

“Compensation?” says Mother. “Don’t you people require blood for blood? How about having that boy’s hand chopped off?”

I gasp at her words. But of course it’s only fair.

The messenger blanches. “Bjarni is ready to compensate well for the indiscretions of the boys.” He slips a satchel from his shoulder, gets down on one knee, and dumps the contents on the floor. Gems glitter.

Mother stands and stamps a foot. “This is outrageous. He offers us his loot.”

“Wait,” says Father. “Don’t say things you’ll regret.”

“You can’t hush me! Does this Bjarni think we’re idiots? He’s stolen these gems from Irish monasteries”

Father shakes his head and looks at the messenger as though he’s asking for commiseration. “This is what it’s like to be married to a headstrong woman.”

“The Vikings are the most vengeful of all,” says Mother. “If anyone understands revenge, they do. Why should a Viking expect us to withhold punishment?”

“For a very important reason,” says the messenger. “Families shouldn’t deal in punishment.”

Mother shakes her head in confusion.

“Explain yourself,” Father says sternly.

“The gems are only part of the deal.” The messenger licks his lips nervously. “They are to ensure the wealth of Prince Nuada his whole life long. But Bjarni has another offer—and this one is to ensure the happiness of your family.”

“Our son has been mutilated,” says Mother. “And you talk of an offer that can bring happiness?”

“He asks for your daughter, Princess Melkorka, in marriage.”

“What?” Mother’s hand goes to her throat as though she’s being strangled. She looks at me.

I am staring back at her. This cannot be happening. I am the one being strangled. I run to her and stand half behind her.

“Bjarni has wealth beyond your dreams,” says the messenger.

“Does he live in Dublin?” asks Father.

“Don’t ask!” screams Mother. “Don’t you dare ask. Don’t you dare consider that offer.”

“And don’t you say another word,” says Father. I’ve never heard him use such a tone with Mother before.
“There are things I must know. You can listen. All of you can listen. But if you say another word, any of you, I’ll make you leave the room.”

Mother lowers herself slowly onto the bench. I sit beside her. Brigid comes and sits on Mother’s lap. We cling to one another.

“Bjarni lives in Nidaros, at the mouth of the River Nidelva, way up the coast of Noregr, the Norse land.” The messenger raises his hand in the air as though he’s painting the north country for our imaginations. “He’s here visiting.”

“Raiding,” says Mother under her breath.

If Father hears, he doesn’t show it.

I press my knees together till it hurts. Everyone knows the stories about Viking towns up in the north country. Nidaros and Bjørgvin and others whose names I forget, but that are just as horrible. Wealth means nothing there. The whole lot of them might as well be disgusting peasants, for, rich or poor, they are all filthy heathens with unspeakable rituals. A slave in Eire has a better fate than a queen up there. The thought of living with such brutes—no, no, it’s unbearable.

“Are the boys who harmed Nuada in Bjarni’s family?” asks Father. He talks in a normal voice. As though this whole conversation is not horrific.

“Not in his family,” says the messenger in a barely audible voice, “no.”

“But from his town?” asks Father.

“Yes.”

“And where are they now?” asks Father.

“In Dublin, visiting, like I said. They came for the winter. But they’re leaving next week. For the southern parts of the Nóregr.”

“All of them?” asks Father. “Bjarni and the two youths?”

“Yes. And Bjarni wants to take Princess Melkorka with him.” The messenger looks at me. “She’s assured a life of luxury.”

“How did he choose Melkorka?” asks Father.

“He saw her on the streets of Dublin. All in red. The day of the accident.”

“It was no accident,” Mother hisses.

“I have a counterproposal,” says Father.

The messenger nods. “I will bring it to Bjarni willingly.”

“Tell him the act of these two youths has changed the destiny of our family. Nuada is my only son.”

Mother puts an arm around me. I sit tall to hear more.

“Tell him that a room full of gems wouldn’t be enough to compensate. Making my daughter his wife is
a better attempt at compensation, but an irrelevant one. Melkorka is beautiful, and she would soon be married to an Irish king anyway.”

Good for Father. He’s standing up for us. He has always hated Vikings. We will go to war against them, rather than accept their shameful offer.

“Tell him, however, that I am a reasonable man. I loathe violence. If he truly wants to compensate, he must assure us that Melkorka will live the life of a queen. That’s what she’d have here. It’s her due. And he must throw a party on his ship the night he comes for her. An extravagant party. I’ll send fifteen women of my kingdom to keep his men happy. I will pick them myself.”

Mother forms a fist and bites her own knuckles. Brigid is crying. But I do nothing. I have turned to stone.

“And tell him to have three more satchels of gems brought to me. Immediately.”

Father closes the door behind the messenger. Then he closes the three other sickroom doors. That’s against Liaig’s rules. We are just the family now.

He turns to us. “Get a good night’s sleep.”

“Mairg ar maccu—
woe to our children.” Mother’s voice is flat, “Have you gone mad?”

“My brain has never functioned better.”

“You’re selling me,” I cry, finally finding my voice. I sit hunched in a ball.

Mother puts her hand on my back. “You want your daughter to bed down with an animal? You want our grandchildren to be
Gall-Gaels—
half foreigner, half Irish? And then you promise fifteen girls to frolic with those savages. We are Christians; have you forgotten? Oh, King, your brain isn’t functioning at all.”

“I’ll run away.” I sit up straight as I speak, fighting off dizziness.

Father gives a little laugh. “You? Where would you go? The contemplative life of a convent would never do
for my daughters. And you couldn’t serve anyone, taking orders.”

“Don’t scold hen Don’t you dare.” Mother’s words come strong. “You’ve turned against us all. You’re the one acting inexplicably.”

“Not a single girl of my kingdom will get on a Viking ship,” says Father.

Have my ears heard right? I push my hair back and listen hard.

“Tomorrow you will gather a group of women. No slaves. No servants. Only your closest friends. You’ll make tunics that will fit fifteen men and dye them colors, like women wear. And you’ll stuff them in the right places, to make the right curves. Next week fifteen Irish soldiers will meet Bjarni’s Viking ship.” Father paces, rubbing his hands together. “Our soldiers, dressed as maidens—why, you can even add some of Brigid’s ribbons to their long hair—they will go on board and greet the Norsemen with smiles and hugs. And slay the entire lot of them.”

“The two youths will be on that ship,” says Mother with slow realization. “The youths who harmed Nuada.”

“Exactly,” says Father.

“A heinous plan,” says Mother. “And one they deserve. We will avenge our son.” She looks over at Nuada.

Nuada’s eyes are unblinking.

“It must be kept secret,” says Father, “Only the women who sew the dresses, only the men who wear them—only they can know. The word must not get back to Bjarni, or he will launch a preemptive attack.”

“Of course,” says Mother.

“Do you understand, girls?” Father squats before Brigid. “When Vikings attack, they come in huge numbers. They steal, burn, kill. This is a secret unlike any other of your life, Brigid. You must not speak of it to anyone”

“I won’t, Father” Brigid puts her hand on his head. She’s done that since she was small. “But after the Irish soldiers kill the Vikings, won’t other Vikings come to avenge them, too?”

“They’ll never know what happened. We’ll kill all the men on board and sink the ship. When others come to ask, we’ll say the ship never arrived.” Father stands now. “I’ll act indignant that my daughter and the fifteen lasses were left in the lurch.” He puffs out his chest. “If they act suspicious, I’ll accuse them of disputing my word and demand they pay the fee for abusing my honor. Vikings know how we Irish feel about our honor. That will be the end of it.” He turns to me. “You’ll be safe, Melkorka.”

I stare at him. The word “safe” makes no sense. “Your plan puts everyone at risk.”

“Their offer put us at risk. And you two girls will be far from here. Your mother will dress you as boys and send you away.” Father opens the four doors of the sickroom. “Like I said before, get a good nights sleep. You’ll need it.”