'You do not know how lucky you are,' she said. 'He loves you.'
Meria tried to ignore her, but it was difficult. Once Pelain got her teeth into a subject she was harder to shake than a mastiff. 'You'd know what I mean if you were married to Borga,' continued Pelain, with a wry smile. 'He gets into bed from the left, rolls across me to the right. And somewhere between he grunts and asks, "Was it also a wonder for you?" Happily he's usually asleep before I answer.'
Meria grinned. 'You shouldn't talk that way. Borga is a fine man.'
'If he made his bread with the speed he makes love we could feed the tribes all the way to the sea,' said Pelain. She transferred her gaze to the walking warrior. Td wager my dowry that he doesn't brush across you like a summer breeze.'
Meria reddened. 'No, he doesn't,' she admitted, immediately regretting the comment.
'Then you should value him more,' observed Pelain. 'I know I would.'
The anger flared again. 'Then you should have married him,' snapped Meria.
'I would have - had he asked me,' answered Pelain, no hint of offence in her voice. 'Two strong sons, and no dead babies. Strong seed in that one.'
Pelain had lost four children in the last five years. Not one had survived beyond five days. For a moment Meria's anger subsided, replaced by affection and sympathy. 'You are still young,' she told her cousin. 'There is time.'
Pelain shook her head. 'Vorna says there will be no more.'
Ruathain opened the paddock gate, leading his pony inside and lifting his son to the ground. Braefar took the reins and led the pony away. The warrior kissed Meria's cheek, then swung round to Pelain. 'If you are here making mischief for me,' he said, with a smile, 'I shall throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to your husband's house.'
'Please do so,' she replied, 'since he's not there and I have a wide bed just waiting to be filled by a real man.' For a moment Ruathain stood shocked. Then he laughed aloud.
'By Heavens you have become a wicked woman,' he told her.
Even the normally outspoken Pelain seemed surprised by her own comment. 'Wicked or not, I know when I am not needed,' she replied lamely, before heading back into the house.
Ruathain took his wife's hand and kissed it. Above him the crow suddenly cawed and danced along the rooftop. Ruathain glanced up. He had no love of carrion birds, but he knew they served a purpose and was normally content to leave them be. But this one caused the hackles to rise on his neck.
'Did you get a good price at market?' asked Meria.
'Fair. No more than that. The Norvii also brought their cattle. I was lucky to sell on the first day. By the third the price dropped considerably. Have the boys been well behaved?' The question caused her anger to rise again. Why should his absence bring a change in their behaviour? Did he think her some weak-minded wench who could not control unruly children?
Ignoring the question she told him: 'There is a hot pie just baked. You must be hungry.'
'Hungry for sight of you and the boys,' he said. She gave a wan smile and moved away towards the doorway. He was about to follow when Connavar appeared from the far side of the house. Meria gave a broad smile, her mood lifting momentarily, like the sun breaking through clouds.
'Where have you been, my bonny lad?' she asked him.
'Is the pie ready, Mam?' he countered.
She stepped in close, peering at the bruise on his cheek and the cut lip. 'Why what have you been doing? Not fighting again, Conn?'
'Just playing, Mam,' he told her, squirming from her embrace. 'Anyway I've already told the Big Man all about it.' He darted into the house. Meria swung on Ruathain.
'What did he mean? What has he told you?'
'He got into a fight with Govannan and some of the other boys. It is over now. It matters not.'
'It matters to me, husband. Why were they fighting?'
Ruathain shrugged. 'Boys fight. It is the nature of things. They make up soon enough.' Young Braefar had walked unnoticed from the stable.
'Govannan said Conn's father was a coward who ran away,' said the boy. 'But Conn broke his nose for it. You should have heard it, Mam. It broke with a mighty crack.'
'Get inside!' roared Ruathain. Surprised, for his father rarely raised his voice, Braefar backed away, then ran into the house.
Meria stepped in close to her husband. 'What did you tell him?' she whispered. Above them the crow sent out a series of screeching cries.
'I told him the truth. What else would you have me do?'
'Aye, that must have made you feel good,' she hissed, her green eyes angry. 'You'd like him to despise his father, wouldn't you?'
'Nothing could be further from the truth, woman. It saddens me you should think it.'
'Saddens you? Why would it sadden you? You're the man who let his father die. Just to win his bride.' As soon as the words were spoken she regretted them. Never in their ten years together had she voiced them before. The sound of flapping wings broke the silence, and the crow flew off towards the northern woods.
Ruathain stood very still, his face expressionless, his pale gaze locked to her face. That is what you believe?' he asked her, his voice terribly calm.
Pride made her stand her ground. 'I do,' she said.
The sudden coldness in his eyes frightened her, but when he spoke his voice was heavy with sadness. 'Twenty men saw him die. Not one of them would say that of me. It is simply not true. I protected him all day. Then he ran. That was the way of it.' His voice hardened. 'But any woman who would wed a man she believed had connived in the murder of her husband is no better than a pox-ridden whore. And I'll have no part of her. Not now. Not ever.'
Then he walked past her into the house. That night, when the candles were snuffed, the lamps extinguished, Meria found herself alone in the large bed.
Ruathain took his blanket and slept in the barn.
The following morning he summoned workmen and carpenters, who began the construction of a new house at the far end of the Long Meadow. Three weeks later he moved his belongings into it.
The settlement of Three Streams was mystified by the separation. Was he not the most handsome of men, rich and brave? Was he not a good father and provider? Was she not lucky to have found a man to take on a young widow and her son? It was well known that he adored her, and had raised her child as his own. Why then, they wondered, should he have moved out?
Vorna the witch woman could have told them. For she had been picking herbs in the high meadow, and she had seen the great crow circle the house. But she said nothing. It was not wise for humans to meddle in the affairs of gods. Especially gods of death and mischief, like the Morrigu.
Drawing her cloak around her she moved away into the Wishing Tree woods.
If the separation caused confusion in the community of Three Streams its effect on Ruathain's children was devastating. For weeks nine-year-old Braefar was inconsolable, believing himself responsible for the rift. Connavar also felt a powerful sense of guilt, knowing that his fight with Govannan had led to the break-up. Bendegit Bran was also tearful, though he was too young to understand the enormous ramifications of the affair.
All he knew was that he no longer saw his father as regularly, and could not understand why.
Meria herself did not speak about it. She tried to give her children the same amount of love, attention and care, but she was distracted often, and many times they would find her sitting by the window, staring out over the hills, her eyes moist with tears.
Connavar, as would always be his way, tried to tackle the problem head on. A month after the separation he walked across to the Big Man's house one evening and tapped on the door. Ruathain was sitting by a cold hearth, a single lamp casting a gloomy light over the main room. The Big Man was sharpening his skinning knife with a whetstone. 'What are you doing here, boy?' he asked. 'I came to see you,' he answered.
'You saw me today in the high meadow. You helped me mark the cattle.'
'I wanted to see you alone. Why are you here? Is
it something I did? Or Wing? If so, I am sorry.'
'It has nothing to do with you, Conn. It is just ... the way of things.'
'Was it what Mother said to you?'
Ruathain gently raised his hand, signalling an end to the questioning. 'Conn, I shall not be talking about this matter. It is between your mother and me. However, no matter what passes between us, know this: she and I still love you - and Wing and Bran - and we always will. Now go home to bed.'
'We are all unhappy,' said Conn, making one last attempt. Ruathain nodded. 'Aye, all of us.'
'Can we not be happy again?'
'You will be, Conn.'
'What about you? I want you to be happy.' Ruathain rose from his chair and walked across to the boy; hoisting him high, he kissed his cheek. 'You make me happy, my son. Now go.' Opening the door he lowered Conn to the porch step. 'I shall watch you run home - in case the Seidh are out hunting small boys.' Connavar grinned. 'They will not catch me,' he said, and sped off across the field.
In the months that followed Ruathain and Meria rarely spoke, save for those times when the Big Man came to visit Bran. Even then the conversation was coldly, punctiliously, polite.
Connavar found it all impossible to understand, even though he had heard, from the kitchen, the last angry words between Ruathain and Meria. But they were just words, he thought. Words were merely noisy breaths. Surely they alone could not cause such damage.
A year after the separation he finally spoke to an outsider concerning the problem. Conn had become close to the foreigner, Banouin. The dark-haired, olive-skinned merchant had arrived in Rigante lands twelve years before, bringing with him a baggage train of ponies bearing dyed cloths, embroidered shirts, spices and salt. His goods were high quality and rightly prized. He had spent three months among the Rigante, buying bronze and silver ornaments from the metalworker, Gariapha, and quality hides from the Long Laird's curious black and white cattle. These hides, he said, would be highly desired back in his own distant land of Turgony. When he came for the second year he paid for a house to be built, and spent the winter and spring among the people, a practice he continued ever since. In his third year he took to wearing the plaid leggings and long blue shirt tunic of the Northern Rigante. No-one took offence, for such was Banouin's charm that all knew he wore the attire as a mark of respect.
For his own part Banouin had also taken a liking to the fierce, strange-eyed Connavar. They had met one evening three years before, when Conn had climbed through the window of the small warehouse-stable where Banouin kept his goods. Unknown to the eight-year-old, the little merchant had seen him creeping through the long grass, and had watched him scale the outside wall and ease himself through the window. This took some nerve, since, with the permission of the village council, Banouin always told the children he was a wizard, who would turn any young thief into a toad. The tale was widely believed and the youngsters of Three Streams generally steered clear of Banouin's house.
Intrigued, Banouin had moved silently into the warehouse, where he saw Conn delving into the saddle packs stacked against the far wall. Banouin waited in the shadows. At last Conn came to the pack containing ornate weapons, and drew out a bronze dagger with a hilt of hand-worked silver, crafted by Gariapha. Slashing the air, the boy began to move through a mock fight, twirling and leaping as if surrounded by enemies.
At last he stopped, then walked to the window and waved the blade in the air. This last move surprised Banouin, as did the next. Rather than climb out and make off with the dagger the boy came back and returned the blade to the pack.
'Why did you not steal it?' asked Banouin, his voice echoing in the rafters.
The boy swung round, fists clenched. The merchant emerged from the shadows and sat down on a long wooden box. Conn darted back to the pack, drew out the blade and stood ready.
'You intend to fight me?' enquired Banouin.
'You'll not turn me into a toad, Foreigner,' said the boy.
'I would have, had you tried to leave with my knife. However, since you did not come here to steal, why did you come?'
Conn shrugged. 'It was a dare. Do they have dares where you come from?'
'Yes,' said Banouin. 'A friend once dared me to climb a rock face without a rope. Sixty feet high it was.'
'Did you do it?'
'Almost. I fell and broke my leg. After that I avoided stupid dares.'
At that moment a large rat scuttled from behind the packs. Banouion drew something from his sleeve. His right hand swept up, then down. A bright blade flashed across the room and the boy saw the creature impaled against the far wall. Conn peered at the body and the small iron throwing knife jutting from it.
'Rats spread disease,' said Banouin. 'Now, what were we talking about?'
'Stupid dares,' said the boy.
'Ah yes. Put back my dagger, retrieve my knife and come into the house. There we will talk - if you are still not frightened, that is?'
'I'll be there,' promised the boy. Banouin doubted it and returned to his house. Moments later Conn appeared, carrying the throwing knife, cleaned of blood. They had sat and talked for an hour. At first Conn was ill at ease, but soon he was all questions. Could he learn to throw a knife? Would Banouin teach him? Where had the Foreigner come from? What were the lands like to the south? From that day they had struck up a friendship which both enjoyed.
Often, in the evenings, he and Conn would sit on the boardwalk outside Banouin's home and talk of events in the wider world – a world of mystery and adventure to the Rigante youngster. Banouin had journeyed far, and often travelled upon ships that crossed the great water to the lands beyond. Conn had never seen a ship, and found the prospect of journeying on such a vessel dangerously exciting. Also, he had been amazed to learn, the people across the water spoke different languages. When Banouin first told him he had thought it to be a jest of some kind, and when the Foreigner had spoken in his own tongue it sounded like gibberish and Conn had laughed aloud. Yet after a year he had learned many phrases in Banouin's language.
'You have a gift for learning and language,' said the Foreigner one day, following a short conversation in Turgon. 'Most tribesmen have difficulty in mastering the placement of our verbs.'
'It is fun,' Conn told him.
'Learning should be fun,' said Banouin. 'Indeed so should life. The gods know it is short enough.' His dark eyes fixed to Conn's gaze. 'You don't laugh as much as you did,' he said. 'What is wrong?'
Connavar did not want to talk about the private grief in his household, but all the fears and anxieties caused by the separation suddenly flooded his emotions and he found himself telling this outsider the whole terrible story. As he finished he felt a wave of embarrassment. 'I shouldn't have spoken of it,' he said.
'That's not true, Conn,' Banouin told him, gently. 'That is one of the great advantages of having friends. You can unburden your soul to them and they will not judge you for it. Nor will they repeat what you have said.'
Conn was relieved. 'But can you understand why they remain apart? They love one another. It was just words. That's all.'
'Words are stronger than iron,' said Banouin. 'Everything we do - everything we are - is born from words. A man's prejudices are passed on to him by the words of his father and mother, or by older friends he worships. Religion and myth - though both may be the same - are kept alive by words more than deeds. Last year you broke Govannan's nose because of words. Are you friends yet?'
'No.'
'There you are, then. Words.'
'But mother blames the Big Man for Varaconn's death. It is not true. Varaconn died because he was a coward, because he ran away. Not being true should make a difference, shouldn't it?'
'Perhaps it should, but it doesn't,' Banouin told him. 'I don't think it matters to Ruathain that she was wrong. It was that she believed the story. He is a man of great pride. And that pride is well founded, for he is a fair, brave and honest man. It means much to him that others see he has these qualities. For they are r
are, and hard won. It is not easy to be honourable. The world is full of cunning, crafty men who have no understanding of honour or loyalty. They connive, they steal, and invariably, in the eyes of the world, they succeed. To be honest requires great effort, and continuous courage. And as for fairness, that is hardest of all. Ruathain is a good man. That his wife should think him so base must have felt like a death blow.'
Conn's heart sank. 'Then you think they will never get back together?'
'I will not lie to you, Connavar. It would take a miracle. Your mother too has pride. And he likened her to a pox-ridden whore. She will not forgive that insult.'
'He has taken no other wife,' said Conn. 'Nor has he put her aside in the Council.'
'Aye, that is a spark of hope,' agreed Banouin. 'But only a spark.'
'I shall never lie to any person I love,' said Connavar, with feeling.
'Then you will be an unusual and foolish man,' said the merchant.
'You think it is foolish to be truthful?'
'Your mother said what she truly believed was the truth. You think she was wise?'
'No,' agreed the boy. 'It was not wise. It is all so confusing.'
'Life is often confusing when you are eleven years old.' Banouin smiled. 'It gets even more confusing as you grow older.'
'Is there anything I can do to bring them together?'
Banouin shook his head. 'Nothing at all, boy. It is a problem for them to solve.'
CHAPTER THREE
despite his admiration for the foreigner, connavar could not accept that he was powerless to help his mother and the Big Man. The following evening he saw the witch, Vorna, on the high southern hillside, gathering flowers for her herbal medicines. Connavar left his chores, climbed the paddock fence and ran out over the meadow and up the slope. She saw him coming and paused in her work.
'Can I speak with you?' he asked her.
Vorna laid down her herb sack and sat upon a small boulder. 'Are you not frightened I will turn you into a weasel?'
'Why would you do that?' he asked.
'Is that not what witches are famed for?' she countered.