11. Feast and Following #2
Court too felt gray, weighed down. The arms men moved with restless energy.
They should be out, testing the borders, testing themselves.
Summer brought life and light and heat, stirring the blood and driving men and horses into motion.
Tuathal sang and played to soothe tempers and distract with tales of raids, or misadventures.
The next day, Aisling called for him. Tuathal followed her bondservant to the weaving hall.
The sun shone, but brought little joy to the day.
The air steamed, sickly and heavy. Still the weavers and other women worked, some carding flax and wool, others spinning the fibers into fine or fat threads for the dyers and weavers.
Women's work never seemed to end, could not end, not if men and women wore out clothes, or needed bags, hats, socks, cloth for sails, and all the things of fabric.
The queen beckoned, and he followed her to the end of the hall, where the sounds of carding and weaving smoothed over the sound of voices.
Meren left her seat and stood beside and slightly behind the queen, distaff and spindle in hand, working as she waited for the queen's pleasure.
"The chief of the shepherds came to the hall," Aisling began. "He said that the lambs grow more slowly than they should. The dairy women say the same of the calves. They do not run or play as they did before the king's return, and suckle weakly, or not at all." She met his eyes, her question clear.
"I— Oh Queen, I do not know. All appeared well at the start of summer, and none of the beasts from the south ailed.
Those too weak to travel were left, or killed, and no sheep left the lands of the lord of the ford.
" He considered for a moment, then said, "Of the tales of times of illness and woe, only one comes close, and no man or woman here has been cursed by the gods.
Had that happened, the wise ones would have spoken, or have been the ones to pronounce the curse. "
As he said the words, something—a shadow?—flitted over Meren's face where she stood. It disappeared as fast as it came. Perhaps a flicker of the light from the fires had he seen, not a true thought.
Aisling strode to the wall and back, worry in her walk. "Something has turned summer into winter. Should it continue, the barley will fail, the wheat and flax as well, and other crops. The shepherds dare not shear with the days so cold."
"Yes, great queen. I have no answers, no tales that provide a cure for the ill. All has been done as the gods commanded, and still command, unless the wise ones have seen signs that they have not yet spoken of."
She studied him, then nodded once. Then she leaned forward and peered at his shirt, or at the plaid above it.
"As I feared. That pattern." She pointed and spoke more loudly.
"Whoever stitched it wasted thread. It is not straight, and the trim lies awkwardly on the collar and hems. It is not fitting for a bard of the king's court to look so. "
He heard the command under her words. "Again, your keen eyes see what others sense only dimly, oh queen. It will be corrected very soon." Meren, frowning where she stood behind the queen, nodded her agreement. The shirt would disappear come the morning, or so he guessed.
A smile greeted his words. "Good. It does not befit a woman of good repute to permit crookedness and carelessness in the works of her household."
He bowed at the dismissal. After a moment's consideration, he hurried to the hall, fetched the small drum, and returned to the weaving hall.
He tucked himself into an out-of-the-way corner.
After some consideration, he sang and played a steady song of the sea, one the men used when they pulled ropes to move the sails or drag things ashore, including the boats.
The women smiled as they matched their pace to his.
He shifted to a flowing ballad.
"'Swift the waves, swift the sea,
"Swifter still my love to me.
"Slow the grain, slow the bee,
"Slower my love in leaving me.'
"Wise and fair was Blawan the green, fair as the flowers of spring
"She sang as she worked, a song she did sing of the fields and meadows so green."
This time, he set the tempo so that his pace matched that of the weavers, and so he wove with them the tale of Blawan.
After a faster tune he took his leave. One of the youngest bond servants had been watching him, her expression growing more and more worried.
She had been brought from the south, from the lands along the ford, but more he did not know.
Perhaps his words called memories that troubled her. She would not be the first or last.
He made certain that the drum would remain dry, and departed the weaving hall.
To his delight the sun still shone, albeit thin and white instead of golden as it should be for summer.
Heat rose from the earth, sickly heat, the kind that brought illness from still waters and shortened tempers during long days.
That night, Meren came to him. First, she studied the shirt. "It is crooked," she murmured. "Whoever stitched the bands on worked in haste. The stitches are uneven." She pursed her lips as she shook it out, then folded it.
When she had set the garment aside, he took her left hand and said, "Your hands, however, are very skilled." She smiled and rested her fingers lightly on his bare chest. The warmth of her touch, and in her eyes and smile, boded well for the rest of the night.
After they'd taken their pleasure, he asked, "What troubled you this morning?"
Meren hesitated, dark brown hair half hiding her face. "One of the bond servants, one claimed by an arms man before being sent away to join the other women. She said—"
He waited. When she kept silence, he prodded her. "What did she say?"
She inhaled, then whispered, "That the arms man beat her almost into darkness when she asked about something she'd found in his quarters.
She told me that she wanted to know how to care for the things, and he beat her for asking.
She had bruises to show the truth of her words.
" Fear tinged her voice, fear and something else.
Tuathal held her closer. "Did she know the man's name?"
A head shake. "Only that two others joked that his feet and legs belonged to a child, not to a warrior grown."
"Thank you." He kissed her.
Come the morning, after he dressed and ate, he sought Odhran. The old arms man watched two youngsters training with staves. Tuathal waited until they finished. "Yes, master Tuathal? Do you care for a bout?"
Tuathal shook his head. "Not now. I come with a question and a problem."
Odhran frowned and led him to a quieter corner. "What?"
Tuathal glanced to see if Daithi might be near, then said, "Daithi Short-foot. The arms man who objected to following the command to return the honey, mead, and fleeces to the land. He beat a bond servant for asking about something in his quarters."
The old warrior shrugged.
"It is not the beating but the asking that concerns me, and perhaps concerns all.
The rain falls, water rises in the pasture, and the youngest beasts do not thrive.
The shepherds dare not shear. It is the weak brother of the curse to the south, perhaps.
" As he spoke, a sense of unease filled him.
Did he accuse falsely? Did he see what was not truly there?
Odhran's mouth and mustache drooped in a frown. "Daithi ... Permits none near his place in the sleeping hall. And Cathal said he's found Daithi drunk twice when no one else was, and no special cup given." The frown deepened.
Tuathal waited.
Odhran turned to watch the men preparing to spar. After another few heartbeats he said, "We search, go through everything, all men's spaces. It needs to be done for cleanliness, has not been done since the birth of the year. Should aught be found, I will call for you."
"Thank you. I will do the same, for the same reason. I was informed yesterday that my eye for certain things remains as other men, that being blind."
A knowing look and chuckle greeted his words. "Aye. We men are blind and useless when a woman's made her mind about the work of other women's hands."
"Just so." He departed, making way for the arms men.
Two days later, both the shirt and trouble returned, although not together.
He had been with the king, listening to a question of justice.
Tuathal found a bit to eat, then went to the spring for a drink and space to consider what he had heard and seen.
His eyes rested on the fields below the hill, still damp though no rain had fallen for three days.
"Múinti allav sir?"
He turned to the messenger. One of the youngest would-be warriors trotted toward him, then bowed. "Honored allav, Master Odhran asks that you come to the door of the warriors' sleeping hall."
"I come." Tuathal followed the boy with swift steps, stomach turning sour.
Ahead he heard raised voices and song badly out of tune.
He caught a glimpse of two men holding Daithi Short-foot as Daithi staggered and sang.
Those around, including passing bond servants, frowned at the man's inability to hold his drink properly. But what had he gotten into?
"Here," Odhran said as Tuathal rounded the end of the building. "We found a few other things, but this—" The words stopped as fast as a falling rock stopped when it reached the ground. He pointed to a cowering young female bond servant and a heap of goods.
A small cask of mead and three fleeces lay on the ground. Two of the fleeces had been opened, and he could see scraps of cloth, tags that bore the marks for Pyder's flocks. The cask, paler wood than that from the king's lands, had been opened. He sniffed. Mead.
"The mark on the other end is not one of the king's marks," Cathal growled from beside Odhran.
Tuathal's gut churned with anger. "Who kept this?" He demanded, though he knew.
Silence answered his question. The servants and arms men all looked at each other, none speaking.