“That garden’s his domain,” Magnus said. “But I do everything else.” He glanced around the kitchen, plainly seeing it through my eyes. It was clean but remarkably bare, the shelves near empty, the cooking pans, platters and cups lined up neatly. My sister’s kitchen, at home in Market Cross, had been a place of warmth and light, savory smells and bustling activity. That was before Father died; before Maraid abandoned me to Ita and Cillian. Going into that kitchen had felt like being hugged against a mother’s heart.This chamber was cold, despite the fire.There was no heart here.
“I meant no criticism,” I said awkwardly.
“Not your fault, is it? At least, now you’re here, I can take looking for a scribe off my list of duties. That’s if he’ll have you. I’d best go and speak to him.”
I sat alone before the fire while he went off to find his master. I tried the herbal draft, which was bitter but not unpleasing. I imagined Maraid here, setting a jug of wildflowers on a shelf, hanging a bright weaving on a bare wall, singing as she chopped onions and leeks for a pie. But then Maraid would never be in my current situation. She was far too practical. All she had done was fall in love with a traveling musician and end up poor.
She’s her mother all over again
, I could hear Ita saying.
A slut born and bred, can’t help herself. And you’ll be the same, mark my words.Your kind of looks attract the wrong sort of man, the sort with only one thing on his mind.
I was about halfway through the drink when my gaze crossed the mirror once again and I saw reflected in it the form of a woman standing very still in the doorway behind me. Somehow she had got there without a sound. I jumped up, spilling the contents of my cup. “I’m sorry,” I said, looking around for something to clean up with. “You startled me.” When she did not reply, I added, “My name is Caitrin, daughter of Berach. I’m here about the scribing job.”
She stood watching in silence as I found a cloth and wiped the tabletop. Under her scrutiny I straightened, turning to face her. This was no serving woman. Her manner was regal and her clothing, though plain to the point of severity, was expertly cut and fashioned of finest wool. The gown was dove grey, the overdress a slightly darker shade; her hair was concealed by a light veil. Under its neat folds her expression was coolly judgmental. Anluan’s wife? She was quite young, perhaps not much older than me. How old was the chieftain? Between the unkempt hair, the scowl and the oddity of his features, all I could say was that he was probably no more than thirty.
The woman clasped her hands together, gazing at me with lustrous gray eyes. Her features were neat and small. She held herself very straight. Anluan’s sister, perhaps? Could she be Magnus’s daughter?
“I’m just waiting for Magnus to come back,” I said, forcing a smile. “He said I could sit here.”
The woman did not smile. “I’m sorry,” she said crisply. “We won’t be needing you.”
After a moment’s stunned silence, I protested. “Magnus implied that I could have the job if I was able to do it. I should at least be given a trial—”
She took a step back, as if to allow me to pass her on my way out.“We won’t be needing you. It was a mistake.”
I stared at her. The promise of work, of funds, of safety from Cillian, the hope of a refuge for a whole summer, all dashed because of a mistake? “But Magnus came down to the settlement asking for someone who could read and write Latin,” I said, feeling my face flush. “I can do that. I should be given a chance to prove myself, my lady.” I considered telling her the truth and casting myself on her mercy. Somehow I didn’t think that would get me very far. “Even if there has been a mistake, I’m certain I can make myself useful here.” After all, Magnus had said they needed a boy for the farm and a woman for the house. If I could be safe, I’d be prepared to scrub floors all summer, even with this chilly woman giving the orders. “Please, my lady,” I said. Her intense, wide-eyed scrutiny unnerved me.“At least let me speak to Magnus again.”
“There is no need to speak to anyone else,” she said. After a moment she added, “You are disappointed. Understand that it is best that you do not stay.”
Tears stung my eyes. I was reaching for my belongings when Magnus strode in the back door and set a quill, an ink pot and a scrap of parchment on the table. “Write something,” he ordered. “Straightaway, he said, to prove you can work quickly as well as accurately. If it’s good enough, he’ll consider giving you a few days’ trial.”
I glanced over at the woman. Her lips were pressed tightly together; a little line had appeared between her brows. “I was told I wasn’t required,” I said quietly.
“It’s all right, Muirne,” said Magnus. “Anluan wants to see her work.”
I drew a shaky breath. “You said
if it’s good enough
. Good enough for what?” I asked, putting my writing box on the table and undoing the clasps. “Unless I know what this task is, how can I judge what sample to provide? Latin or Irish? What hand? What size?” I got out a medium goose quill and a pot of the black ink I had mixed myself. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll use my own things.”
Magnus waited, arms folded, as I produced Father’s special knife and refined the quill.
“What does he want me to write?” I asked, glancing up at him.
“He didn’t say. Just show what you can do.”
“But how can I—”
“Best get on with it or I’ll have to tell him you were slow.”
“Slow-witted, you mean, or slow at my craft? I am neither. But this is like sewing a coat for a man you’ve never seen, when you don’t know whether it’s for going fishing or parading around court to impress people.” The task was not made any easier by the silent watcher in the doorway.
“Do you want the position or don’t you?” Magnus asked flatly.
I could not tell them how desperately I did want it, ill-tempered chieftain, disapproving noblewoman, animated scarecrow and all. Anluan had scared me, true; but nothing could be as terrifying as what I had left behind me. A sample: what would he expect? Should I provide an apt Latin quotation? Draft a letter? In the end, the quill moved almost despite me, and what I wrote was this:
I can read and write fluently in Latin and Irish. I’m sorry if I upset you. I would like to help you, if you will allow that. Caitrin.
My script was plain and neat; I had the knack of keeping it straight even when there was no time to score guidelines. At the top of my sample I added the name
Anluan
, and decorated the capital with a little garland of honeysuckle around which a few bees hovered. The
C
for
Caitrin
I made into a slender hound sleeping in a curled position, tail tucked over its legs. I dusted on some fine sand from the bag I kept with my supplies, and the piece was more or less ready.
“Was that quick enough?” I asked as I passed the parchment up to Magnus, surprising an unguarded smile on his lips.“Hold it flat, it won’t be completely dry yet. If he’s so particular, I imagine smeared ink will rule me straight out of contention.”
He bore my handiwork away and I waited again, uncomfortable under the eyes of the woman in the doorway. I couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say, so I remained silent and, for a while, so did she. Then she advanced into the kitchen, moved some cups around on a shelf and said, with her back to me, “You won’t stay. Nobody stays. You will end up disappointing him.” Her tone was odd, constrained. Magnus had said something along the same lines: that it would be better to leave now than to get Anluan’s hopes up only to desert him later. I didn’t want to make an enemy of Muirne or Magnus. If I got the job, we’d be living in the same household all summer.
“If he wants me, I will stay,” I said, but as the time drew out I wondered whether it might be better if Anluan sent back a message that I wasn’t up to the job. Magnus would probably escort me down the hill if I asked him to. Tomas had said the village would shelter me. How likely was it, really, that Cillian would come so far west in his efforts to track me down?
I tried to weigh up Whistling Tor with all its peculiarities, including the curse Tomas and Orna had mentioned, and the situation I had run from. People in Market Cross had believed it fortunate that Ita and Cillian were there to tend to me in the helpless fog of grief that had followed my father’s death. Ita liked to make sure folk understood. Someone had come to the house asking for me; perhaps several people. I’d not been myself at the time, and I couldn’t remember clearly. I did recall Ita’s voice, sharp and confident.
You can’t see her. She can’t see anyone. You know how highly strung Caitrin always was. Losing her father has turned her wits. She’s in no fit state to make her own decisions, nor is she likely to be for some time to come. I will nurse her and provide for her, of course; my son and I will be staying in this house to ensure Caitrin is properly looked after. And I’ll set my mark to any legal papers on her behalf. Poor Caitrin! She was such an accomplished girl.
If people couldn’t see me, they couldn’t see the bruises. If people couldn’t hear me, it didn’t matter if I spoke sense or nonsense. Anyway, I wouldn’t have had the courage to speak up. Because the worst thing wasn’t Cillian’s fists or Ita’s cruel tongue. It was me. It was the way the two of them turned me into a helpless child, full of self-loathing and timidity. It would be a mistake to think I’d be safe in the village with Tomas and Orna. Cillian would pursue me. Ita was determined that he and I would marry.
It’s best for you, Caitrin
, she’d said, and I’d been too sad, too confused to ask for a proper explanation. It couldn’t be about worldly goods. Father had left Maraid and me almost nothing.
“A scribe,” said Muirne, turning to fix her large eyes on my face.“How did you learn to be a scribe?”
“My father taught me.” I had no intention of confiding in her; not before I found out if I was staying or going. “He was a master craftsman, much in demand around the region of Market Cross.”
“There are many papers. It’s dusty. Dirty. Hard work. Not a lady’s work.”
My smile was probably more of a grimace.“In this particular field, I am a very hard worker. I hope I will get the opportunity to prove it to you.”
Her neat brows lifted, and a little smile curved her lips.A moment later, she was gone as silently as she had arrived.
“Come with me. I’ll show you where you can put your things.” Magnus spoke from the other doorway.
I jumped to my feet. “Does that mean I’ve got the job?”
“A trial period. I’m to show you what needs to be done—you may change your mind once you see it—and you can work on it for a few days. He’ll assess your progress and decide if you’re up to completing the work by the end of summer. There’s a chamber on the upper floor where you can sleep.”
I hurried after him, questions tumbling over one another in my mind. “What exactly is it I’ll be working on?” I asked.
“Records. Family history. They’ve all been scholars after their own fashion, from Anluan’s great-grandfather down to him. He’s got all manner of documents in there, some of them not in the best condition. Needs sorting out, putting straight. It’s a mess, I warn you. Enough to dishearten the most orderly of scribes, in my opinion. But what do I know of such matters?”
As he talked, the steward led me along a hallway and up a precipitous flight of heavily worn steps to an upper floor, where several chambers opened off a long gallery. Large spiders tenanted each corner and crevice of the stonework. Leaves had blown in through the openings where the gallery overlooked the garden to gather in damp piles against the walls.There was a forlorn smell, the scent of decay.
“Here,” said Magnus, ushering me through a doorway.
The chamber was bare, cold and unwelcoming, just like the downstairs rooms I had seen. It was furnished with a narrow shelf bed and an old storage chest. I did not think anyone had slept here for a very long time. “I’ll bring you up some blankets,” my companion said.“It gets cold here at nights. There’s a pump outside the kitchen door; we use that for washing. And you’ll need a candle.”
“Has this door a bolt?”
“This may not be your run-of-the-mill household,” Magnus said,“but you’ll be quite safe here. Anluan looks after his own.”
On this particular point it was necessary to hold my ground. “Anluan can hardly be expected to patrol up and down this gallery all night making sure nobody disturbs us,” I said.
“No,” Magnus agreed. “Rioghan does that.”
“Rioghan!” I was surprised to hear a name I recognized. “I met him yesterday. At least, I think it must be the same man. A sad-looking person with a red cloak. I didn’t realize he lived here at the fortress.”
“He’s one of those who live in the house,” Magnus said.“I’ll introduce you to all of them at supper, when we generally gather. More live out in the woods, but you won’t see them so much.”
“Did you really mean that, about Rioghan walking up and down the gallery at night? I’m not sure I’d be very happy about that, even if it did make things safer.”
“Rioghan doesn’t sleep. He keeps watch. He may not be on the gallery—he prefers the garden—but he’ll be alert to anything unusual. As I said, it’s safe on Whistling Tor provided you belong.”
“I don’t belong, not yet.”
“If Anluan wants you here, you belong, Caitrin.”
“I still want a bolt for my door.”
“I’ll put it on my list of things to do.”
“Today, please, Magnus. I understand you are very busy, but this is a ... a requirement for me. Something I can’t do without. Perhaps I can return the favor in some way.” As soon as this was out I remembered the carter’s words:
There’s other ways of paying.
“For instance, I could chop vegetables or sweep floors,” I added.
“I’ll bear it in mind. Well, make yourself at home. There’s a privy out beyond the kitchen.When you’re ready, come down and I’ll show you the library. You’ll be wanting to make a start.”
Some time later, clad in the spare gown I had brought—a practical dark green—and with my hair brushed and replaited, I stood with Magnus on the threshold of the library and found myself lost for words.