Heart's Blood

The mist was clearing. I could see the houses of the settlement, and behind them a stretch of the makeshift fortification. Beyond that, the ground rose towards a wooded hill. At the very top, sections of a high stone wall could be glimpsed above the canopy of oaks and elms.Towers loomed.The place looked big, grand. Without a doubt, this was the fortress Tomas had mentioned, the one that housed the crooked, inept chieftain of Whistling Tor. Stone: that was unusual.The Normans built in stone. Our own chieftains constructed their fortresses of mud and wattle.This place was substantial. Situated as it was, strategically high above the surrounding terrain, it would make an excellent base for a regional commander, and I wondered if the Norman leaders knew about it. For such a prize they might well venture into the west.

The slopes below the wall were thick with vegetation. Birds were flying in and out. The tale of dangerous creatures in the woods had painted the ancient fort as grim and forbidding in my mind, but the green growth softened it.All the same, it looked set apart, lonely somehow; even without last night’s tales, I thought I would have sensed a sadness about the place.

Outside the window Tomas, an apron around his waist, was speaking to a man I had not seen last night, a large, square-jawed individual with knives at his belt and a heavy axe slung on his back. He had on a worn but well-cared-for leather breastplate over practical garments of wool; it was the garb of a warrior. His hair was more gray than fair, and hung to his shoulders in thick twisted locks. As he and Tomas entered a dispute of some kind, Orna came out carrying a bundle, which she more or less dropped at the stranger’s feet. She did not look at him or speak a word, just scurried back inside.The men’s conversation reached me through the open window.

“What about someone to help with the livestock, at least?” the visitor asked. “That boy you sent me didn’t even last two days.”

“They’re afraid, Magnus. You can’t expect folk to stay in that household of freaks, not to speak of what’s in the woods on every side. And it’s not as if your master pays them a fortune for their labors.”

“You know quite well that the most a lad or lass should expect for that kind of work is a bed and two square meals a day, with perhaps a little something to take home on feast days. We need help. It’s perfectly safe. Anluan’s folk don’t attack their own.”

“I can’t help you,” Tomas said flatly. “You might tell Lord Anluan that ordinary people are sick and tired of being harassed by those creatures in his woods, and they’re still wearier of his failure to do anything about that or about any of the misfortunes that have beset the region since his sorry ancestor unleashed hell in Whistling Tor.”

“Come on,Tomas.You know how things stand. Ask around the neighborhood for me, will you? I can’t manage without a lad to give me a hand, and we could do with a girl to help around the house as well. And there’s another thing. Anluan needs someone for a special job, over the summer. Someone who can read Latin and write. Write properly, I mean. Fast and accurate, that’s what he said.”

My heart began to race.

Tomas snorted in disbelief. “Wouldn’t you need a cleric for that?” he asked.“You won’t get any of them near Whistling Tor, the way things stand. You’re wasting your time.All right, I’ll ask. But you know what the answer will be.”

As I gathered my belongings, the visitor hefted the bundle onto his shoulder and headed off in the general direction of the fortified barrier. By the time Tomas came back in with a load of firewood, Magnus had disappeared from view.

“That man who was outside,” I said. “Magnus, was it? Did he say they needed a scribe up at the fortress?” I prayed that this was the gift it appeared to be: a remarkable opportunity of both hiding place and paid work.

“He did say that.” Tomas set down the wood and regarded me, hands on hips. “Someone who can read Latin.Why he asked me, I can’t imagine. It’s hard enough to find him a simple cowherd, let alone a scholar. Sounds like it’s a big job, whatever it is; could take the whole summer. I’ll tell you the truth, Caitrin.There’s not a soul in the region would agree to spend a season in that place, not for all the silver in Connacht. Not that it matters, since none of us can read anyway, Latin, Irish or anything else.”

“Who is Magnus, exactly? A servant? He works for the chieftain, Anluan, is that his name?”

“Steward, I suppose you could call Magnus. Been there since Irial’s time. Hired as a fighter; stayed on when Irial died. Magnus is a foreigner, one of the gallóglaigh. Doesn’t do much fighting now. More of a farmer and jack of all trades. I can’t imagine why he stays.”

“So there are ordinary folk living on the hill, not just these . . . presences?” I’d have to run to catch up with Magnus before he disappeared up the path into the woods.