Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale (6 page)

Brigid and I crawl under the bedcovers together again. And, again, she falls into slumber easily.

Mother and Father enter quietly. So do our personal servants. And everyone sleeps. Except me. My mind plays tricks in the dark.

What if there’s a traitor among us? A dirty supporter of the Norsemen? I pull at my hair.

What if Father’s soldiers are recognized as men right off? The Vikings will have time to grab their weapons. Swords, spears, shields, arrows, knives. And, of course, axes. I saw Viking weapons in the toolmaker’s in Dublin. I may have looked upon the very ax that severed Nuada’s hand. The angry Vikings will kill the soldiers, then march into Downpatrick and kill everyone else. Except the women. The women’s fate will be worse than death.

We have to make the men look just right. I’ll give them lessons myself on how to walk like girls. The “maidens” can carry jugs of mead and pour them down the Vikings’ throats. Everyone talks about how Vikings get so drunk they stagger and fall off their ships and perish in the sea.

What if someone escapes? A single Viking who makes it back to the other ships could be our ruin.

And, oh, where will Brigid and I go while all this happens?

I toss hard. Finally I get up and walk outside. The chill of deep night makes me small within my cloak. Winter has returned for a final lashing before spring.

I climb the outside stairs to the top of the east fort wall. The steps are irregular in height, so that attacking strangers cannot run up them without stumbling. But I know them by heart; I climb without falter.

Up here the winds whip my hair across my mouth. The sea is turbulent tonight, white wave-tips shining in the moonlight. I think of the famous poem:

Is acher in gáith innocht
fo-fuasna fairggae findholt.

Ni ágor réimm mora minn
dond láechraid lainn ua Lothlind.

(The wind tonight blows harsh
and spews the white sea foam.

My heart need not fear Vikings crossing the Irish Sea.)

I haven’t grown up fearing Vikings. Hating them, yes, but not fearing them. Not like my parents.

Mother tells how the seas were infested with Viking pirates when she was small. She talks with revulsion about how many Viking settlements there are now in Eire. Not just Dublin, but Wexford, Cork, Limerick, Waterford.

Father, likewise, goes on and on about Viking raids. They get their gold and silver, their precious stones and chandeliers, from monasteries, where our kings stored them for safekeeping. They loot, then burn the Lords buildings. They’ve even put entire ecclesiastical communities to the sword.

It was hard for my parents to agree to my birthday request. Oh, wretched Vikings, who ruined everything.

When Mother and Father were small, they scanned the sea for invaders, quaking. This poem that they recite with fervor never meant much to me before. But now the rough sea signals safety to me. No Vikings will attack tonight.

But I’m not safe. None of us are. I hug myself and keep my eyes wide, though the drying wind burns them.

The sea is black, but in the day it is so many shades of green. And the hills have even more variations on that hue. Grandmother used to say there were forty shades of green in Eire, from the tears of invasions.

I hug myself tighter.

“Who goes there?”

I turn to face a soldier. He holds a spear at the ready. It’s surprising that the patrol didn’t find me sooner. Discouraging. This is a moment when our guard has to be at its most competent. My stomach churns. I lift my hands in surrender.

“Princess Melkorka? Is that you?”

This man is only a head taller than me. And his hair is almost as long and has even more curls. Were it not for his forked beard, he could be taken for a maid. Yes, I think he could.

Will he be one of the fifteen? I feel instant pity for him. Father should send slaves instead of fine soldiers.

“Melkorka, Princess?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Entertaining nightmares”

The soldier opens his mouth, then closes it. “Shall I accompany you home?”

“Please.”

We’ve in the main hall, one week after Nuada’s hand was severed, preparing for our revenge. Fifteen soldiers dress in tunics. They already have ribbons in their hair—Brigid tied them, carefully making bows. They practice walking like women in a line behind me, but they exaggerate too much. They look like fools. Lord, protect these fools. Let no one die. No Irish man.

It’s afternoon. The men wait their turn to be shaven clean. Father wanted it done late, so that their cheeks will be as soft as possible when they hug the Vikings later today. They munch on wheat bread. It’s a luxury, a food for kings at festivals. But Father said all fifteen of them deserve to be treated like kings.

Nuada walks through the soldiers, holding his stump high in the air to prevent bleeding. “Take care of one another,” he says to a group, but listlessly. He should be more excited; everyone is risking their lives for our honor, after all. But I know where to lay the blame. In this past week he has been recovering well, but he’s still drunk
most of the time. It’s the only way to combat the pain.

Mother enters and beckons me oven “Find Brigid and meet me in the kitchen.”

It’s easy enough to find Brigid. I saw her swipe a handful of ribbons and run off with them not long ago. And I know for a fact that the biggest sow had piglets yesterday.

I take the stone path to the small farmyard within the fort walls. The hens cluck like crazy things as I come up.

The old dog staggers over to greet me. I scratch him behind the ears. “Where’re the piggies, old boy?”

He follows dumbly at my heels, as I head to the muddy area the pigs prefer.

And there’s Brigid.

The sow struggles to her feet at the sight of me, her fat rolling. Sucking piggies dangle from her and fall away with pitiful squeals. She has such a nasty disposition, that one. If she would act a little nicer, she’d be in the house now, like other nursing sows. Only that sow can’t be nice. Not to most people.

But she was just lying there for Brigid, still as a dead thing. How my sister does it, I don’t know. Animals simply trust her, even the most unpleasant ones. They know she loves them.

Two piggies have ribbons tied around their ears. Brigid smiles. “Want to help? There are six left to do.”

The sow takes a threatening step toward me. The piggies squeal louden.

“Come. We have to meet Mother in the kitchen. Now.”

“All right.” Brigid kisses the closest piggy and we run together back toward the manor house.

“You smell like that farmyard,” I say.

“What a surprise.” Brigid laughs.

She knows tonight’s the night. But if she’s thinking about it, she’s better at acting than I am. Maybe she has Father’s gift of deception. I can barely keep my hands from flying all around. I can barely keep my tongue from shrieking.

We pass the milking yard and the sweet-sour scent lures me. I want to go in there and stand between brindled cows. They’re nothing like pigs. They bump against each other, completely docile. After an initial glance at you, they hardly seem to know you’re there. It’s like you disappear.

A blessèd thought.

“It’s time,” whispers Mother, as we come through the kitchen door. “Time to hide.”

“Where are we to go?” I ask.

“I already told you.”

“All you said was a safe place. You keep putting me off. What safe place?”

“It’s not far. I’ll give you directions when you’re on the horse”

“I want to know now.”

“Hush, Melkorka. You really do need to learn when to hush.” Mother looks around warily and I realize she’s afraid we might be overheard. “Here” She holds up tattered, somewhat dirty tunics made of coarse nettle. Peasant clothes. “Change. And hurry about it.”

“They’re shabby.” I draw back, wrinkling my nose. “And they smell. I wouldn’t be caught dead in such things.”

“Exactly.” Mother shakes the larger tunic in front of my face. “Even if people look you straight in the eyes, they won’t recognize princesses in this garb.”

My cheeks flame. Of course. But those rags repulse me.

Brigid grabs the smaller tunic in a flash. “It will be like a game, Mel. Come on.”

I want to slap her for being the first to obey, for acting so cheerful. I have to bite my tongue not to say something nasty as we change clothes.

Mother pulls us by the hand out through the fort gate and behind a thick bush. A fat mare waits there. She’s not one of ours.

Mother undoes the ribbons from Brigid’s hair, then ruffles up both our heads, so we look messy. She kicks at the dirt till the wet underneath shows. “Here.” She
smears the cakey mud across Brigid’s nose. “That’s enough for you. But Melkorka, you need a lot. You’ve become a beauty. And right now, beauty is your enemy. Go on.”

Mother called me a beauty. And when Father was talking to that messenger the other day, he called me beautiful. I warm inside. But how can I? I shouldn’t be lingering on such words in this moment, not now.

I hurry to take a handful of mud and draw it down one temple and across my cheek and chin. I won’t be sluggish anymore. I’ll be quicker than Brigid. I’m the older one, after all.

Mother nods approvingly. “Like that, on this nag, no one will ever guess who you are.” She makes a cup of her linked hands. “Put a foot in here and climb up.”

“I haven’t been on horseback in years, Mother.”

“It’s easy,” says Brigid.

“That’s why you’ll ride in front,” says Mother. “You’ll control the beast, Brigid. And there won’t be much controlling to do. This mare’s gentle. But she can go fast if you need her to.”

“My tunic will ride up,” I say. “My legs will show”

“Which is fine for a boy. You’ll be safer as boys—two peasant boys. No one will bother you.” Mother cups her hands insistently before me.

I take the lift, and up, I’m on the horse. It seems high, I swallow and look down and swallow again.

In a flash, Brigid’s in front of me. “Give me the reins, Mother.”

Mother unties the reins from the hitching pole and hands them to Brigid. Then she slops a blob of mud on my exposed knee and runs it down to my ankle. She hesitates at my shoe.

“Please let us keep our shoes, Mother.” I won’t go barefoot like a slave. “Please.”

“Go out the south gate and take the fork that leads to the coast.”

I circle my arms around Brigid’s waist. “But that’s the direction of Dublin.”

“Exactly. If Vikings come looking tonight, they’ll expect you to have fled inland. To the monastery. Or north. Any direction but toward Dublin.”

“Where should we stop?” asks Brigid.

“The convent,” I say quickly, gratified to know something Brigid doesn’t. Once Mother said south, it was obvious. “That’s right, Mother, no?”

“A convent will protect you from Irish criminals, but not Vikings. Vikings see a convent as an opportunity. No, stay on the coastal path till you get south of Carlingford Lough. Then turn inland. Soon you’ll come to a ringfort.
It’s large. The chief and his wife, Michael and Brenda, they’ll take you in.”

“So they know we’re coming?” I ask.

“No. No one knows. I couldn’t take the risk of a messenger.”

“What if we don’t make it that far?” I ask.

“You will.”

“What if we don’t?”

“You will.”

“What if Michael and Brenda have left or been overthrown? What then?”

“You’ll use your good sense, Melkorka. You’ll present yourselves as lost boys and beg for charity.”

“What if they aren’t charitable sorts?”

Mother gives a mirthless smile. She hands me a small cloth pouch on a string. “Hang it around your neck inside your clothes. Your gold teething ring from when you were a baby is in there, Melkorka. Any nobleman will realize it’s worth several years’ lodging and food for both of you. And anyone who isn’t a fool will recognize it as belonging to the first child of a truly wealthy king. It’s worth generations of loyalty. You’ll be taken in”

Mother holds another pouch up to me now, this one large. “There’s plenty to eat as you travel to that welcoming ringfort. Stay there till you hear it’s safe to come home.”

And what if we don’t hear that? What if we hear that Downpatrick has been burned to the ground? But I won’t ask that with Brigid listening. She’s only eight.

If the worst happens, I’ll think of the right thing to do. Because I’ll have to. Brigid depends on me.

“And Melkorka, don’t show your teething ring till you know you can trust someone. And don’t reveal who you are to anyone.”

“Not even Michael and Brenda?”

“No one.” She grabs my arm.
“Immalle—
together—whatever you do, stay together.” All along she’s acted solid, in control. But now her lips give her away. They tremble.

The skin on my arms pimples like gooseflesh. We might never see Mother again. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” chirps Brigid.

“Immalle”
says Mother.

“Immalle.
I promise, Mother.”

“Go fast. God speed you with my love.”

Brigid turns the mare with mastery that doesn’t surprise me. But then she pulls the horse to a stop. “Where will you be?” she calls back to Mother.

“Right here. Don’t you worry. Vikings don’t want anything to do with an old woman like me.” She waves. “Go now. As fast as you can.”

“You’re not old,” says Brigid.

It’s true. But I hope Brigid is saying it just to please Mother. I hope she doesn’t realize Mother is in danger.

“Let’s go,” I say in her ear.

We ride out the town gate, take the left fork, trot along the coast.