Erinsong Page 4

  A jagged streak of light seared across his vision and he suddenly seemed to see a sturdy longhouse with smoke rising from evenly spaced holes in the roof. Laughter rolled out of the open door. Then a swirl of color splashed before his eyes and he caught a glimpse of very different image—a glittering alabaster palace and a high-domed structure too celestial to have been made by human hands.

  He lowered the buckets to the ground, swaying dizzily. Was that a memory? Had he actually seen such magnificence or was he gifted with an active imagination?

  The image wavered and dissolved, and he found himself gazing once more at the motley collection of buildings that made up the king of Donegal’s stronghold. No moat, no defense except a waist-high stone wall broken in so many places it wouldn’t keep out a determined cow.

  Why did he notice that? Was he a warrior? A raider? Did he have a family to protect and support? His head ached when he tried to force a memory. So far all he’d gleaned of his former life was a few disjointed images and a snippet of a song.

  Surely more would come.

  Keefe turned in a slow circle. No other habitation was visible from the king’s hilltop, but curls of smoke rising above the trees betrayed the presence of several crofters’ cottages within a day’s walk of the keep.

  Keefe shouldered his burden and carried the water to Brenna at the far end of the courtyard. She was busy adding woad to a large cauldron near the entrance to an anteroom attached to the keep. Through the open door, Keefe saw several standing looms, piles of wool to be carded, spindles and distaff. It was a homey room, rich with the scent of lanolin and alive with vibrant colored cloth, obviously the exclusive haunt of women in the keep.

  “Where is your village from here?” Keefe asked, pouring water into the waiting cauldron. Maybe the name of a settlement would jar loose a memory.

  “Me what?”

  “The nearest town,” he said. The grimace on her face told him she still didn’t understand the question. “You know. A town, a place where people live close together?”

  “And why would we be wanting to do that?”

  “For trade, for protection.” He felt his way, threading through unfamiliar corridors in his mind searching for the right path. Something about the way the Irish farmsteads sprawled over the hills and dales with no visible connection, no sense of a settlement, didn’t seem right to him, but he couldn’t say why. “A town is where merchants and craftsmen set up shop to sell their wares.”

  “Ye mean a fair, surely.” Brenna stirred the water and seemed satisfied when it turned a rich blue color. “Of course we have a fair on both Samhain and Beltane. Everyone comes, the young and the old. ‘Tis merry enough, but I wouldn’t want to be living there.”

  “Why not?”

  “After the contests, the men are drunk for days. If we lived every day as we do at fair time, we’d get no work from them at all.”

  “So you have no village. This is all there is to your father’s kingdom?” Keefe swept his hand in a wide arc to indicate the decaying compound. “Seems to me any Irishman in possession of a high spot can call himself a king if he likes.”

  Brenna bristled, her gray eyes frosting over. “Me father is head of the Donegal clan with three hundred men at his call. He settles disputes and passes judgment.” A spurt of indignation colored her cheeks with flame. “Many’s the blood feud he’s put a stop to, and it’s a wise man as can do that. Brian Ui Niall is king of far more than this keep. I’ll thank ye not to speak lightly of me father and him sparin’ your neck only last evening. None but a fool berates what he doesn’t understand.”

  He cocked his head at her. Brenna was loyal, he had to give her that. “Are you always so easily irritated?”

  “Only by an irritating man.” She turned her attention back to the vat of dye and stirred it furiously. Blue liquid surged over the sides and splashed onto the flagstones. Color rose in her face, making the sprinkling of freckles across her nose less noticeable. “Fetch me some peat and help me get the fire going hotter. There’s a stack of it behind the cattle byre.”

  “As you wish, Princess.” He gave her a mock bow. Except for the deep line etched between her brows, Keefe decided she was prettier when she was angry.

  As he rounded the corner of the byre, he noticed some wood piled in a jumble near the midden heap. The dark burled grain caught his eye. It was the remains of a chair. The graceful back was intricately carved but had been shattered into two pieces and one of the legs was broken off, leaving a jagged stump.

  Something about the chair jarred his mind. The smell of sawdust rose in his nostrils. He remembered hefting the weight of an adze and the smooth feel of polished, fine-grained wood under his palms. He flexed his fingers and suddenly knew he could fix that chair.

  Keefe gathered up the pieces of wood and carried them along with the peat back to Brenna.

  “No!” she said. “We’ll not be burning that.”

  “Of course not.” Keefe set down the armful of pieces and held up the sections of the back, fitting them together and judging the best way to reunite them. “Why burn what I can repair?”

  Brenna stopped mixing the brew with her long wooden paddle and looked at him intently. “Can ye truly?”

  “I think so.” His mind worked feverishly, traveling down a new, yet strangely familiar, road. Choosing and preparing the wood, the tools, the carefully honed craft that was both art and science—knowledge poured back into him with a rush that left him light-headed.

  He was a carpenter. That much he could be certain of. But what manner of carpenter washed up on a beach with naught but a keg of ale? Questions and self-doubt assaulted him afresh, but he shoved them aside.

  “Where can I find some woodworking tools?”

  Brenna pointed toward a lean-to. “What tools there be ye’ll find in the smith’s shed.” The hopeful expression on her face faded. “I’m doubting there’s aught ye can do for the chair. Our cooper told me ‘twas hopeless, but after ye’ve broken your fast, I give ye leave to try.”

  ***

  Brenna pinned up the last of the light blue linen to flap dry in the slanting sunlight. Wool took color easily darkening to the shade of twilight just before the sky turns inky black, but flax caught the hue of the heavens on a fine summer morn.

  “There’s a good day’s work,” she said approvingly as she eyed the bolts of saffron, deep green, and soft gray undulating in the breeze.

  The scent of a rich stew wafted out of the keep. Moira had been busy as well.

  Brenna brushed a strand of curling hair out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. As she’d worked through the morning, Keefe had crisscrossed the yard several times, fetching different items he needed to attempt the repair of the chair. She hadn’t seen the Northman since she checked on him at midday.

  She knew he was still there, though. From time to time, she’d catch snatches of the rhythmic noise she guessed was a song. It wasn’t the most pleasant of sounds, but she recognized it as the same tune he’d been trying to sing when she’d happened upon him at his ablutions.

  The sound invoked the memory of seeing him in splendid nakedness, the cool stream lapping at his hips. The smoothness of skin pulled taut over his muscles, the water tickling over his chest, the soft fuzz of fine hairs on his belly—

  Brenna shook herself to ward off the vision. What was wrong with her? She knew what men were. Especially Northmen. She’d seen the flicker of lust in his eye when he tried to lure her into the water with him. Brian Ui Niall’s daughter would be no man’s fool, nor his plaything, either.

  She squared her shoulders and marched across the yard to the smith’s shed.

  “The man lolls in the shade all day, singing his heathen songs and playing at work while the rest of us toil under God’s sun,” she muttered under her breath. “He’ll be singing a different tune when I’m through with him, and no mistake.”

  Keefe seemed not to hear her when she rounded the corner. He was squatting down, hands busy, ton
gue firmly clamped between his teeth in concentration. The rapt expression on his face told Brenna he was deeply engrossed in his work, and for a moment, she allowed herself to admire his golden hair, fine features, and darkly even brows.

  Keefe Murphy must be a snare sent from Satan himself, Brenna decided. It wasn’t in nature for a man to be so... beautiful. She forced herself to look at the chair.

  “Oh!” Brenna skittered over and knelt beside him. She ran a finger reverently over the carved back, now neatly pegged together with a new section wedged in where it had previously been shattered. “Ye’ve done it.”

  His smile nearly made her forget the chair.

  “It’s not finished yet,” he said. “I plan to carve the new section to match the old. The pattern ran true all the way across, didn’t it?”

  “Aye,” Brenna said. “I can’t believe ye’ve made it whole again.”

  “But that’s just the start.” Keefe’s enthusiasm was infectious as he pointed to the newly turned leg. “I had to use a different type of wood. The chair was made of something that doesn’t seem to grow around here.”

  “That’s right,” Brenna said. “It came from the south, from me mother’s people.”

  “I wondered. I couldn’t match the wood to anything nearby, but I should be able to make a stain that will bring it closer to the rest of the chair in appearance.” He ran a hand over the leg. “Once I’m done you’ll have to look closely to tell which one is the replacement.”

  Brenna sighed. “It’ll never be the same, though.”

  “No. When something is broken, you can’t make it new, however hard you try.”

  When he turned to look at her, Brenna suspected he saw beneath her face to her scarred soul.

  “It’ll never be the same,” he admitted.

  Brenna’s shoulders slumped. Of course not. Once things are done, they can’t be undone.

  “It won’t be the same, but it can be better,” he said, turning the chair on end. “Look here. I’ve reinforced the seat and the back so it’s much stronger than before. But it’s repaired in a way that doesn’t add any bulk or destroy the line of the chair.”

  Brenna smiled. “That’s cleverly done.”

  “Why, Princess, is that a kind word?”

  When she lowered her brows at him and scowled, he raised his hands in mock surrender.

  “Forget I said that.” Then he leaned toward her. “I can tell this means something to you, though. Why is this chair so important?”

  Brenna traced a fingertip over the carving, worn smooth in places from countless backs. “ ‘Tis old beyond reckoning. I was told it came to the family so many generations ago me people believe ‘twas made by the Tuatha De Danaan.” The ancient tribe of Erin was held in such high regard they’d been elevated to godlike status among the more superstitious. “As such, it was priceless. It belonged to me mother.”

  “I thought as much. A delicate chair for a delicate lady. It suits her.”

  “Aye,” Brenna said. “She’s always been fair. Moira takes her looks from the Connacht side of the family. I favor me father’s people.”

  “She’s very quiet, your mother.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. She hasn’t said a word since the chair was broken.” Brenna thought for a moment about her distant mother, Una, a fragile beauty with a figure too waiflike to ever be considered matronly. “A few weeks ago, some of me father’s men were drunk and things got a bit lively. By the time the scuffle was over, the chair was in pieces and Mother stopped talking.”

  “She stopped talking because of a chair?” Keefe picked up a small chisel and began to carve the entwined pattern, taking care to match the new to the old.

  “ ‘Twas not for its value, though ‘tis hard to put that aside. The chair itself was special to her,” Brenna said. “ ‘Twas sent to her by her family when me brother was born. She nursed him, dandled him on her knee, and weaned him on that chair.”

  “So you have a brother.” Keefe looked up at her briefly. “Which one of the men is he?”

  Brenna sighed and settled onto the hard-packed dirt floor beside him. “I had a brother.”

  Chapter Five

  Brenna bit her lip and her whole body stiffened. Why had the words slipped out? This man had no right to her family’s private grief. When he didn’t press her for more, but returned to carving the wood and humming under his breath, she relaxed.

  He turned the chair on its side to get closer to his work and started chanting unintelligible words.

  “What is that noise ye’re making?” she finally asked.

  He tossed her an indignant look. “That noise is a song. It popped into my head this morning and so far it’s about the only thing I can remember. I’m hoping if I sing it, more will follow.”

  He sang a few more growling phrases, then stopped.

  “Have you remembered aught more?” she asked.

  “No,” he admitted. “I seem to be stuck on one verse.”

  “What is the song about?”

  “It’s about sailing the wide world,” he said, his blue eyes trained on a distant point.

  For the first time, Brenna wondered what it must be like to ride the heaving breast of the sea. When Keefe frowned, she felt a stab of sympathy for him. Not to know himself; the man must feel truly adrift.

  “And the song is about going home,” he added.

  Home. Did he have people who missed him? A lover? Perhaps a whole string of women. Looking at his fine profile, she realized he must. How could he not?

  The rhythmic chantey began again, haltingly this time, as he translated for her.

  Slice the gray waves of the sea

  Lay the Hammer-fist down

  To kettle and hearth with treasure I’ll flee

  To find my true Treasures grown.

  He brushed away some of the flaking wood with a rough fingertip. “I’m not exactly sure what it means.”

  “True treasures,” Brenna repeated. “What could that be to a Northman but the wealth from someone else’s labor?”

  He met her gaze directly. “I was thinking true treasure might mean a family.”

  Brenna gulped. Everyone knew Northmen didn’t show any more care to their women and offspring than a stray dog gave to the bitch he’d covered. At least that was what she’d always heard, but something in this Northman’s expression told her he would care.

  “By those lights, your song is about a man finding his bairns changed in his absence.” Brenna was at a loss to explain her sudden shortness of breath. “Do ye suppose it means ye have a family that this verse has come to ye?”

  Keefe laughed. “No matter what happened to him, somehow I think a man would have a hard time forgetting that.”

  He hummed the disjointed tune again.

  A hard fist knotted her stomach. Why should it matter to her if he did have a woman somewhere? Still, the song grated on Brenna like strong spirits on an open wound.

  “Must ye keep making that racket?”

  “A song helps me concentrate,” he said. “If you don’t like mine, maybe you could sing me one of yours.”

  “I’m not a minstrel girl to warble at your beck and call,” Brenna snapped.

  “It’s just a song, Princess.” He seemed undaunted by her frown. “Surely even the Irish know a song or two.”

  “Aye, so we do.”

  “Then where’s the harm in sharing one with me as I work?” His lopsided smile would melt a harder heart than hers.

  “ ‘Tis plain I’ll have no peace till I do. Very well then.” She folded her hands in her lap and searched her repertoire for the right song for the occasion. “Ah! Just the thing. ‘Tis a song that explains why we Irish enjoy foul weather.”

  Brenna’s sweet soprano rose pure and clear despite the minor twist in the tune.

  Bitter blows the wind this night

  Toss up the ocean’s hair so white

  Merciless men I need not fear

  Who cross from Lothland on ocean cle
ar.

  When the last melancholy note died, the corners of Keefe’s mouth turned down. She could tell he felt the jab at his Norse heritage, then.

  “Are all the Irish songs so sad?”

  “If they are, ‘tis only because our lives are often sad,” Brenna said defensively.

  He worked in silence for a moment, then turned to look at her. “Was your brother killed by a Northman?”

  “No,” she said softly.

  “Good.” He directed his attention back to his carving. “At least I’m not responsible for all your woe.”

  The simple statement stung. Perhaps she was wrong to blame Keefe for what happened at Clonmacnoise. Still, he was a Northman. Sometimes she thought holding on to her hatred was all that kept her sane.

  “A sorrow shared is a sorrow halved,” he whispered. “What happened to your brother?”

  Brenna wasn’t sure why, but it seemed right, seemed safe to tell him. “Sean was killed by the Ulaid, a neighboring clan.”

  “And your mother took it hard.”

  “She was fair wild with grief.” Brenna was only a child when her tall, strong brother died. Una, Queen of Donegal, had wailed like a banshee when Sean’s arrow-pierced body was carried into the keep. Her usually mild features contorted into a snarling mask as she demanded Brenna’s father launch a blood feud against the offenders. Looking back, Brenna barely recognized the frenzied harridan with her mother’s voice.

  “Sean’s death was an accident. Some men of Ulaid, led by their king’s son, Ennis, were hunting and strayed into Donegal. They mistook Sean for game in the thicket. It was a foolish waste, but it could have made the rivers run red. Me father settled the matter without a war.”

  “How did he do that?” Keefe wondered. Killing a noble heir was a heinous offense, never mind that it was accidental.