Again day followed day, the
round relentless and unbroken. There were times as she went about
her many tasks when an echo of the wonder she had felt that night
would steal over her and her heart would leap with joy at the glint
of the sun on the ripples of the stream as she checked the fish
traps, the color and pattern of a butterfly's wings, flitting from
flower to flower, as she walked through the home field, of the faint
tang of sea salt in the air, sometimes barely detectable, when the
wind was in the south. And then she would go about her work with a
lightness in her step, sometimes with a song, hovering in her mind
or, even, scattered words and lines spilling thoughtless from her
lips, until weariness or setbacks drove the feeling from her and she
felt only foolish for having joyed over such inconsequential things
with all her weighy duties to think of, the success of the steading
resting on her shoulders just as much as on Maelmuire's
At least as often, she would
wonder if she had rather dreamed it, that creature out of legend,
beyond words to describe, her wild imaginings born from what her
mother had described as mankind's block-headed refusal to admit they
had missed the summit. Most often she thought this when she first
returned from sleep and had to embark at once on what was perhaps the
most difficult task of all, forcing herself to leave the warmth of
the bed, Maelmuire, even in sleep, a comforting presence beside her,
and, of her own will, thrust herself into the bitter chill of the
dawn air, from which there would be no protection until she dressed
herself and built up the fire. It was a morning no different from
any other in this regard, Branwen, still only half awake, stirring up
the hearth ashes in the gray half-light, a close worked shawl pulled
tight about her shoulders against the dawn chill, when there came a
hard pounding on the door. "Who is it and what do you wish?"
she called, rising with difficulty for her limbs were stiff after her
long sleep and the partially built fire had only just begun to warm
them.
"Wake Maelmuire. He must
come quickly." She recognized the voice of Cormac, Nessa's
husband. Redoubling her efforts, she scrambled to the door and drew
back the bolt to find her brother in law, looking weary and harried.
"Raiders," he said grimly. "They've come for the
cattle. Ours are in sorry state but theirs must be worse. We need
every man to defend the little we have. You are in no danger,"
he made haste to reassure her, seeing her wild-eyed start. "The
cattle are all down on the far plains. There is no reason for them
to come up this way. I have brought Nessa and Lorcan to stay with
you just in case and to keep you company." Branwen stepped
back, throwing wide the door to allow him to enter, along with his
wife and son, and went to assist Maelmuire who was already, sitting
up in bed, wakened by the commotion. "My brother, there is need
of haste," Cormac declared as Maelmuire pulled on his clothes
and then the two were off to saddle Liath as Branwen hastily fetched
cold meat and cheese, the last of the oatcakes from the day before,
for them to eat as they rode.
She had a bundle ready, along
with Maelmuire's war gear by the time they returned, already mounted.
She passed the items up to him, thinking as she did so, how tired he
looked, not at all like the times in the past when he had rode to
battle bright-eyed and laughing, or at least grimly eager. Liath
appeared just as weary. As a dapple it was hard to say for certain
but it seemed to her that he was far grayer than he had been in
former years, even a bit grizzled around the eyes and mouth. Unable
to embrace her from the saddle, Maelmuire reached down and gave her
hand a hard squeeze before turning and riding after his brother in
law, the shadow of the hill lying long and black beside them as they
went.
The rest of the day passed in
quiet anxiety. Branwen and Nessa prepared breakfast and then sat in
the doorway spinning, occasionally speaking in low voices, keeping
their eyes and ears peeled for the first sign of approach, ready at
any moment to bolt the door and prepare to defend the house, or to
abandon it and flee to the hills as need required, while Gwen and
Lorcan, sour about not being allowed out to play, amused themselves
as best they could by building miniature forts out of firewood or
scratching designs in the dirt of the floor. And soon they were
merry enough, too young as yet to catch the mood of their elders and
only glad of the chance to spend time together. The day dragged, the
calling of the grasshoppers creating an almost continuous buzz that
simultaneously made Branwen's head ache and made her drowsy.
Thankfully, they had a barrel of water in the house, partially buried
to keep it cool and, although Branwen had shrunk from the risk, Nessa
had insisted on making a quick dash to the stream early in the
morning to ensure it was topped up. Still, they used the water
sparingly, wanting to save as much as possible for the children, who
were now dozing contentedly in the shadows of the house.
Suddenly they heard that for
which they had been listening with shallow breath since the dawn, the
drum of hooves moving rapidly in their direction. Both women were on
their feet at once, Nessa drawing her belt knife, while Branwen
retreated to the hearth and snatched up a long branch, fire hardened
for adjusting the logs in the grate, before returning to stand behind
her sister in law. But they were not kept in suspense for long as,
hard on the sound of galloping feet, came the call or Cormac's horn
and they felt their limbs go weak as water as all the tension they
had held for so long drained away. They slumped against one another,
Nessa with her arms round Branwen's neck, crying and laughing by
turns, and the children, wakened by the sound of the horn, came
stumbling out of bed and crowded into the doorway to greet their
fathers.
Soon they could see the dark
blur of motion approaching them, rapidly coming close enough to see
it was a small group, only three horses. But then, some of the
kindred had their steadings off to the south and would have found it
far out of their way to come here. And then Branwen's heart came
into her mouth for she could not see Liath among the steeds. Cormac
was out in front, his ruddy brown hair loose for he had removed his
helmet and Nessa gave a cry of joy and hurried forward, but his eyes
were troubled as she approached, though he appeared without serious
injury. The other two riders came up behind and now Branwen could
see one of them had another seated behind him. It was Maelmuire and
as they drew rein before the house, he slid to the ground, clearly
drained and not fully aware of his surroundings. Branwen approached
cautiously, finding his skin ashen gray and his face marked with pain
that had not been there before. "Are you wounded?" she
asked as gently as she could but got no response and he continued to
stare at the ground, seeming not to have heard her.
"He took a blow from a
raider's sword on his arm," said Cormac, struggling to maintain
a neutral tone. "We have bound it and it should heal cleanly.
It is only that...."
"Liath is dead," cried
Maelmuire in broken agony, his voice suddenly breaking forth, harsh
and raw. "He was too old for such exertion. He did his best,
as he always did, but his heart burst from the strain and he died
under me." Branwen closed her eyes with sorrow. Liath had been
foaled in Maelmuire's lap, had carried him in his earliest battles,
when he had traveled for trade. Her thought raced back to the first
time she had seen Liath, riding up out of the green sea of grass,
head high and proud in his new strength, coat like silver, mane like
foam, and on his back the handsome rider, confident and vibrant, skin
of bronze and hair of gold to match the silver of his steed. There
were no words to say. She took Maelmuire by the hand in silence and
led him into the house, setting food before him. She wished Nessa
and her family might linger a while longer for she was not ready yet
to be alone with this new trouble but they were eager to be off back
to their own steading, and she spared no further thought on the aid
she did not have.
Now began a bad time. Day
followed day and Maelmuire rarely spoke. When he did, his voice was
dry and brittle, a husk of its former self. He remained dry-eyed but
she could see the unshed tears clouding his eyes, like the skin of
ice on a winter pond. He went about his daily tasks like one in a
trance, not really seeing what was before his face. Fortunately, for
the last few years he had only rarely ridden Liath when going out to
tend the cattle so at least he was spared that daily reminder, though
there were doubtless many others. Perhaps worst of all, he would not
return home when the day's work was finished, but would spend the
evening in the hall of his uncle, lord of the kindred, drinking with
the other men until the small hours. In the past such behavior had
been rare indeed, usually only when there was some celebration on at
the hall and then, often, he would stop by the house before hand to
let her know or even take her up before him and bring her as well.
Branwen understood he did it to
forget, to spend time with others who could recall the battles and
adventures they had taken part in together when the world seemed wide
and full of promise, battles and adventures into which, often as not,
he had ridden Liath, and, ashamed as she was to admit it, part of her
was relieved not to have his long face about when she was already
weary from the day's work, making her heart bleed for his sorrow she
was helpless to alleviate. But Gwen could could not be expected to
understand such things and Branwen could see how the girl took it
hard. Although there had certainly been times in the past when
Maelmuire had come home too weary to say much, at least he had been
there.
"What is wrong with
father?" she asked one day when they were checking the plaited
fish traps in the stream. "When will he come back? Of course I
miss Liath too. Riding him at the end of the day always made me so
happy. But we still have each other. Would it not be better if we
were all sad together?"
"Child, I cannot say,"
Branwen replied heavily. "The bond between a warrior and his
steed is a special one. I am not sure those who have not had it can
fully appreciate the pain of it being broken." The girl
continued to eye her sulkily, arms folded, her golden fringe of hair
hanging down over her face and Branwen felt an aching line along her
heart like the white flesh of a scar for the child looked so like her
father, back when they had first been wedded, the gesture exact even
to the errant lock of hair to the way he had once thought he could
charm her to anything with his wounded expression. "He just
wants to spend time with those who do know what it's like," she
finished, knowing her words were weak even as she said them, and
making a great show of pulling up the next trap to forestall further
questions.
Gwen said no more but her mother
knew her well and could tell she had not forgotten, could see the
sorrow in her eyes as she slid into bed that night and turned her
face to the wall. Branwen remained awake a while longer, as she
always did, partially burying a pot of stew in the embers to stay
warm for Maelmuire and setting out the remains of the day's bread and
cheese wrapped in a cloth. But this time, perhaps distracted by her
worries for Gwen, she took longer than normal and before she had
quite finished, the door was thrown open and Maelmuire staggered in.
"Here is food for you," she said as gently as she could,
trying not to show her distress over his haggard and disheveled
appearance. He nodded and stumbled to the table, plainly still
unsteady on his feet. He must have been drunk indeed to begin with
considering he had to have sobered up at least somewhat on the ride
back and she desperately hoped more level heads had kept him company
on the way to ensure he had not wandered out of his way or fallen in
a ditch. Or been set on by wild beasts she thought with a chill down
her back.
She brought him a bowl of the
stew and then sat down across the board, watching in silence as he
stuffed the food into his mouth. When it was over half gone, he
paused and looked at her with desperate searching eyes, seeming to
actually see her for the first time since that fateful raid.
Hesitantly, hardly daring to breath, she reached across the table and
took his hand in hers. A moment passed in which he seemed not to
notice and her heart, suspended, galloped in place. And then he
closed his hand around hers, clasping back, and warmth flowed into
her. "Branwen," he said, the word stilted as he was
struggling to recall it.
"Maelmuire," she
replied and they did not speak again, eyes locked as a poignant
stillness settled over the room. She could see the heavy film of
tears swim on the surface of his eyes, one bud and swell down in the
inner corner. Any moment it would fall. And then Gwen stirred and
shifted restlessly in her sleep. Branwen glanced briefly in her
direction, the concerns of the everyday intruding into the
ephemeral moment. "Your daughter misses you," she said
softly, deepening the reassuring clasp around his hand.
But scarcely were the words out
of her mouth, when Maelmuire had wrenched his hand away and sprang to
his feet with a shout of rage. "I'll not be lessoned by you,
woman," he cried. "A man's fellows will never have respect
for him if he lets his wife instruct him.
"Have your kinsmen ever
said that to you?" cried Branwen aghast.
"They do not have to for me
to know they are muttering it behind their hands when they think I
cannot hear." He swayed where he stood, lost balance, stumbled
to the side. "And as ill as that may be with any woman, how
much worse to be under the thumb of a foreign wife who brings no good
to the match. No good did I say? Nay who brings active ill."
He staggered again. "That I need not guess at. I know many of
my kin were extremely displeased at how you ruined our promising
trading prospects among your people."
"I
ruined them?" Branwen shouted in reply. "If they think
that then, surely, someone has not been honest. Who was it who
implored me to come away with him?"
"I did not know your kin
would act as they did," he roared back, as if that fact excused
him. Weaving unsteadily, he somehow made his way to the corner and
snatched up the old copper cauldron, that had been stowed there,
gathering dust, forgotten as much as possible. "How was I to
know they would fling this shame at me." He threw the cauldron
into the middle of the room so that it rolled, echoing across the
floor. Then, taking up a heavy maul, meant for rock breaking, he
began to strike the already dented and tarnished dome of metal again
and again.
"Good, break it."
Branwen watched his work with grim satisfaction. "I've always
hated it. It's more of an insult to me than to you." Maelmuire
did not desist until he had all but flattened the implement, leaving
only a crushed and twisted lump of metal. Then he slumped over the
maul, breathing hard, eyeing Branwen with a look of bitter hatred.
She was about to respond in kind when her eyes happened to fall on
Gwen in her bed, lying turned towards them, eyes open and glittering
in the light of the dying fire. There was no way to know how long
she had been awake, how much she had seen or heard, and Branwen felt
sick with misery and shame that she should be witness to the
unearthing of the long pain between her parents. Maelmuire followed
the direction of her gaze and saw as well. His eyes fell and his
rage was replaced by hopeless despair. Not saying a word, he
shuffled over to his bed and flung himself down, not even bothering
to fully undress.
Branwen knew she ought to act,
to do something to comfort her husband or her child, but she felt
unable to face the feelings of either and so she made herself very
busy banking up the fire and clearing away the remains of the meal,
taking far longer about it than normal in the hopes they would be
asleep by the time she finished. Maelmuire certainly was, snoring in
a drunken stupor, and it was too dark to see whether Gwen was or no,
especially if she made sure not to look directly at her. Branwen
settled herself carefully along the edge of the bed, her back to her
husband, facing out into the room, but definitely not in the
direction of her daughter. Sleep refused to come and she lay for a
long time staring at the patch of sky visible through the roof vent,
the withered curve of the waining moon hovering at its edge. She
watched it morosely, thinking of Nessa's warrior queen and wishing
she could be as determined and enduring, even if she could, would, be
like her in no other way.
©Amanda RR Hamlin 2026
This story is part of Catalogous Bestiarum: Tales of Magical Creatures
Read the rest of the collection
Deliverance from the Eye, Monthly cycle , Then, if the Choice be Mine, I Choose to March, The Cairn of Troubles Part One, The Cairn of Troubles--part two, Oshana Part One, Oshana Part Two, Oshana Part Three
