Juliet Marillier - Hearts Blood
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.
I had always valued order. The skilled exercise of calligraphy depends in large measure on neatness, accuracy, uniformity. In our workroom at Market Cross, the tools had been meticulously maintained and the materials stored with careful attention to safety and efficiency. It had been a haven of discipline and control.
Anluan’s library was the most chaotic place I’d ever had the ill luck to stumble into. It was a sizable chamber. Several big tables would have made useful work surfaces had they not been heaped high with documents, scrolls and loose leaves of parchment. This fragile material was strewn about apparently at random. Around the walls stood sundry chests and smaller tables, their tops as heavily laden as those of their larger counterparts. I suspected every receptacle would reveal, on opening, a welter of entangled materials.
I walked in, not saying a word. There were glazed windows all along the western side of the chamber. In the afternoons the light would be excellent for writing.
“The things you’ll need are in that oak chest,” said Magnus, pointing to the far end of the chamber. “Pens, powders for ink and so on. He said even if you’ve brought your own, they’ll run out quickly. There’s a good stock of parchment, enough for the job, he thinks. If you need more of anything we can get it, but to be honest I’d rather not have the trouble.”
I eyed the disorder around me, trying hard to view it not as an obstacle but as a challenge.“What exactly is it I’m supposed to do here? Is Lord Anluan going to explain it to me himself?” A family of scholars, Magnus had said. I thought of the very detailed instructions Father and I had received for our commissions, the minute attention some of our customers had paid to the niceties of execution. “Where is the material I have to transcribe?”
And when Magnus just looked at me, then cast his gaze around to take in the entire chamber, long scrolls, thick bound books, tiny fragments, loose bundles of parchment sheets, I felt hysterical laughter welling up in my throat.
“All of this?” I choked.“In a single summer? What does this man think I am, a miracle worker?”
Magnus lifted a scrap of vellum by a corner and blew on it, setting dust motes dancing in the light from the window. “Trained by the best, didn’t you say?”
“I was. But this ... this is crazy. How do I know where to start?”
“You don’t have to write everything down. It’s only the Latin parts he wants, seeing as he was never taught that tongue. It’s Nechtan’s records, the oldest ones. There’s some in Irish, and he’s read those, but he thinks some of the Latin documents are his great-grandfather’s as well. He needs you to find those and put them into Irish so he can read them for himself.They’re mixed up with all sorts of other things.” Magnus glanced at a row of small bound books that had been set by themselves on a shelf, and his expression softened a trace. “Pictures, recipes for cures and so on. Notes, thoughts. Each of the chieftains of Whistling Tor made his own records. But the library’s never been organized. The oldest pieces are crumbling away. If it was me doing the job—not that I’m a reading man, myself—I’d see some merit in making a list of what’s here as you go through it, so you’ll know where to find things later. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Perfect sense, Magnus. Thank you for the suggestion.” I took one of the little bound books from the shelf and opened it flat on a table, revealing a charming illustration of some kind of medicinal herb. Beside it, in spidery writing, were instructions for preparing a tincture suitable for the treatment of warts and carbuncles. “I wish someone had done that before now. Made a list, I mean.You said Lord Anluan and his family were scholars.”
Perhaps I had sounded too critical.“He did make a start himself.” Magnus’s tone was forbidding. “Or tried to.”
“Tried to.” If what Tomas and Orna had told me was true, this chieftain must have a lot of time on his hands. They’d implied that he did not perform any of the duties a local leader might be expected to undertake, such as riding forth to make sure his folk were well, checking on his fields and settlements, establishing defenses against possible attack. “This is a big task, Magnus. It looks as if I’ll have to sort out the entire contents of the library before I start on the translation. Is there anyone here who could help me?”
“Shall I go and tell him you can’t do the job?”
“No!” I found that I was clutching the plant book to my chest, and set it down. “No, please don’t. I will do my best.”
Magnus’s gaze was assessing. “Is it the law you’re running from, with your need for a locked door and your wish to take on a job nobody else would want?”
He was too perceptive by half. “If you don’t ask awkward questions, I won’t,” I said.
“Fair enough.”
“But I must ask just one. Why doesn’t Lord Anluan come and talk to me about this himself?”
“Anluan doesn’t see folk from outside.”
This flat statement sounded remarkably final. How could I do a good job without talking to the man who wanted it done? No awkward questions. That meant I could take this line of conversation no further.
Magnus had moved over to the window and was staring out. The library overlooked the herb garden in which I had encountered the reclu sive chieftain of Whistling Tor earlier. From here I could not see the clump of heart’s blood, only the profusion of honeysuckle and the riotous growth of more common herbs.
“You shouldn’t judge him,” the steward said quietly. “He’s got his reasons. You’re our first visitor in a long time, and the first ever to come without some coercion. And you’re a woman. It was a shock.”
“To me, too,” I said, deciding not to point out that if one advertised for a scribe, one should not be surprised to see one turn up on the doorstep, so to speak. I was learning that the rules of this household bore little resemblance to those of the outside world. I moved to a small table by the window, which stood out for being the one tidy place in the chamber.The oak surface had been wiped clean, and on it stood a jar fashioned of an unusual green stone with a swirling pattern, containing several inexpertly trimmed quills and a knife. Perhaps Muirne was responsible for this little island of order. Beside the jar lay two sheets of good parchment, covered in writing. I picked one up. “Whose hand is this?” I asked.
“Anluan’s,” said Magnus. “Nobody else here can write.”
One look told me why Anluan had done no more than make a start on the daunting task. True, he could write, and if I really put my mind to it I could read what he had written. It was the worst hand I’d seen in my life, so undisciplined that the letters seemed to be trying to crawl right off the page.
