Hush An Irish Princess Tale

“Mel, hurry up!” Brigid calls, splashing through puddles, heedless of the mud that has come up through the wooden plank paving of the road. She is eight, which accounts for much of her bad behavior, but not all. “Please, Mel.” She takes my hand and hangs on it, like she did when she was smaller. “There’s so much to see in Dublin.”

“And what will it be worth if Mother scolds you afterward for mud on the hem of your tunic and cloak?” “A scolding is small price for such pleasure.”

“Oh, Brigid, that’s a new cloak, and it’s beautiful.” Indeed, the woad herb makes wool a stunning blue. I point. “Look, the fringes on the border are already mucked up.”

“Well, then, it’s too late, isn’t it? I might as well run now. Besides, Mel, this is the first time we’ve been here. And we wouldn’t even have come now if you hadn’t begged Father. And Father wouldn’t have agreed if it wasn’t your birth day.” She’s out of breath from fast talk, but glowing with the logic of it. Mother always says Brigid can out reason us all. “And after so long squished in the chariot. And the smelly lodgings in the Kingdom of Meath midway. And then more bumpy time before dawn today. All that to get here. With the cursed rain the whole way. Well, we’re free now, and the sun is shining and we should play.”

I can’t help but agree, though her remarks about cursed rain call for a response. “Rainfall is Eire land’s most important blessing, Brigid.” I tuck her hand over my arm as we walk. “We may not have much farming land, but we’ve got rivers and lakes, which make good fishing and good trading.”

“Don’t quote Father to me.”

“You had better learn to quote him to yourself, then. And until you do, you had better listen to me.” “You’re boring to listen to. Nuada is far better.”

Nuada is our brother. He’s thirteen-two years younger than me-but when the three of us get together for storytelling, it’s Nuada who speaks. His voice is so sweet, cows give more milk when he sings. I’ve seen it.

“Be that as it may, you can’t run through the mud.” My voice scolds. “Someone will treat you poorly. You look like a wild child instead of a princess.”

“Ah, that’s it!” She laughs. “You want men to stare at you in your new cloak. You don’t care about what I look like for myself.” “Don’t be absurd. This is a Norse town. I don’t care what the Norsemen think of me.” I put my hand on top of hers and squeeze harder than I should. “You know very well I will marry Irish royalty from a kingdom much closer to our own Downpatrick.”

“Then don’t you worry about anyone treating me poorly. If they dare to, I’ll shout who I am. No one bothers princesses. No one, no one. Not even Norsemen who have gone crazy… the ones they call Vikings.” As she says that last word, she yanks herself free and jumps in front of me. Her hands become claws, her lips curl back from her teeth, her brow furrows, her nose wrinkles, her eyes squint fiercely.

That’s the monster face Nuada makes when he tells us stories of Viking raids. I can’t help but flinch. Vikings are no joking matter.

Brigid laughs and spins on her heel. She races ahead again. And with an excited cry of “Arrah!” she now turns a corner, out of sight.

I look around. No one seems to have paid attention to our little fight except two women slaves carrying raw wool in big baskets, and they hardly matter. When I give them a reproving glance, they quickly look down and duck into the spinner’s shop.

I smooth my cloak. Brigid’s right: I do love it. Red, from madder, with a plaited border. My tunic is new too. Linen, spun from flax, not ordinary nettle. My maid servant Delaney dyed it yellow from the weld plant.

Father gasped when I first put it on. He says colors play tricks. He fears them. But women know how to control the tricks. Mother’s teaching me. That’s why I picked the weld myself rather than sending a slave boy to the field. And that’s why I urinated on my new tunic myself. My own urine not only holds the color fast, but ensures that the spirit in the color obeys me.

Brigid doesn’t obey me, though, but she won’t go far. The first new thing she sees will stop her. New things fascinate her.

And practically everything about this heathen town is new, which is why I begged Father to take me here for my birthday. Our small town bores me. The Kingdom of Downpatrick has only three thousand people, including those in the surrounding hills and valleys. And that’s even counting slaves. But Dublin has that many living within the town walls, and the stench from their cooking and smoke and dampness pervades every shop-lined street. So many shops. Leather workers, shoemakers, bone workers, comb makers, every kind of craftsman and tradesman work within three spades of one another. It amazes even Mother. She didn’t want to come at first, her fear of Vikings is so strong. But once she saw the stores, she bustled about with a smile. She ordered gloves for Father, and she’s now back at the toolmaker’s, ordering a set of iron knives.

I’m going to buy something too. My new cloak needs the perfect brooch to secure it at the breast. Silver would stand out against red better than bronze or iron. I duck into the silversmith’s.

He greets me with words I don’t understand. Norse, undoubtedly. I stiffen a little. Why doesn’t he have an Irish servant? Or if no one’s willing to work for him, why not a slave? Heathens don’t have priests badgering them about giving up slavery-they can have as many as they want with impunity. And they do, according to Father. They take slaves from all over the world. Father says you can hear a dozen languages spoken among the Norsemen’s slaves. If this Norseman had an Irish slave, the lad could speak Gaelic to Irish customers. The Norse language is ugly.

Father speaks Norse, of course. He says Irish kings should these days. No town is safe from invasions by Vikings, and being able to talk with the enemy is essential. He says any man would rather get wealthy off you than kill you-so if you can bargain, good can happen. I speak only Gaelic. That’s enough for a woman, even a princess.

The silversmith wears a short purple tunic over trousers. Cúchulainn, the great hero of our Ulster tales, wore a purple mantle. Does this silversmith fancy himself to be as handsome as Cúchulainn? I’m almost embarrassed for him.

The silversmith looks at me inquiringly. He’s very tall. I walk past the belt buckles and sword hilts and pretend to be engrossed in browsing through the brooches on his display counter. His eyes heat my skin. I’ve never been close to a Norseman before. A common silversmith has no right to look at a princess like that. I lift my chin to confront his impudence with my own eyes.

He’s polishing a large cup with two small handles, one directly across from the other. Enamel and glass stud it in the classic design of circles holding four petals in a star. It makes me think of my favorite chalice in our cathedral. It’s lovely. This Norseman isn’t the least bit crazy. He’s no Viking. And now I look at the pieces in the display counter more carefully. This jewelry is extraordinary. I would love to examine each piece carefully, slowly. The silversmith picks up the brooch my eyes have settled on several times now. He pulls a length of blackwool from a box and smoothes it flat. Then he places the brooch in the center. A darling four-footed animal-not a calf, nor a lamb, but something halfway between. Looping around the little creature are tendrils that curl into intricate leaves. The spirals caress the dear one. Almost like tongues.

A tingling sensation starts at my temples and runs down cheeks and neck, out shoulders, down arms, through ribs, around the curves of my flesh. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. It seems almost sinful. The sort of pleasure our abbot rails against.

I must have this brooch. I fold my hands in front of my waist, as much to keep them from snatching the brooch as to appear ladylike. Are my cheeks flushed? Do my eyes shine? I press my lips together and swallow the saliva that has suddenly filled my mouth.

“I’m not allowed to bargain, sir,” I say, hoping my tone of voice alone will carry the message, since I can’t offer a single Norse word. “Please, set this one aside. I’ll fetch my mother promptly. We have cattle. Sheep. Hogs. I’m sure we’ll find an agreement.”

“Certainly,” he says in Gaelic, with a completely unassuming smile.

A fine salesman, indeed. The brooch is mine. I step out into the street again, just as the shriek comes. High and sharp and bone-chilling.

“Brigid!” I shout. Oh, good Lord in heaven, is it her? “Brigid!” And I’m running up the road, and turning the corner. One scream. Then nothing. That’s worse than a continual cry. I don’t know where to look. I run frantically from hut to hut, thrusting my head through doorways, calling.

“Mel!”

I twirl around and Brigid runs into my arms.

“Oh, Brigid, I thought you-”

“I thought the same about you.”

We hold each other in silence. She smells of horse. The livery. I should have known that’s where she’d be. She loves animals. I hug her tighter.

Then fear breaks and we’re swinging in a circle together, laughing, stupidly laughing in relief.

“It sounded bad,” says Brigid. “Who was it, do you think?

“Melkorka! Brigid!” Father’s old manservant Aonghus comes hobbling up the street. “Come immediately.” His face is stricken.

“What’s happened?” I ask, as Brigid and I run to him, hand in hand. “It’s Nuada.”

Nuada? That scream was Nuada’s? My dear brother’s? My heart thumps hard again. “What happened? Where is he?”

“We have to hurry.”

Brigid and I race past Aonghus and onto the main street, where our chariot and the servants’ wagon still wait outside the toolmaker’s. Mother’s maidservant, Sybil, stands with both hands over her mouth looking into the chariot through the window. Father has one foot raised, about to climb up beside Brogan on the driver’s bench.

“Father!” Brigid reaches him first.

Father lifts her as though she’s a tiny girl again. Brigid locks her legs around Father’s waist. He looks past her at me, his mouth slack and open.

I run to the chariot and Sybil steps back so I can lean in the window. Nuada lies there, his head on Mother’s lap, for all the world seeming dead. He’s wrapped in Mother’s cloak. It’s soaked with blood.

“Nuada?” I say. “Nuada?”

“He can’t answer, Melkorka.” Fish eyes shine from Mother’s pale face, round, unblinking, “Is he…?”

“Badly hurt. Yes. We must bring him to Liaig fast. You and Brigid will ride in the servants’ wagon.”
“What happened?”

:”Go get in the wagon. Don’t worry, Strahan will ride behind.” The cloak slips just a little. Nuada’s arm shows. His right hand is gone. I step backward, shaking my head at
this horror.

“Take her, Melkorka.” Father passes Brigid to me. I am stunned, unable to think, but his face contorts in misery, and I cannot refuse. He climbs up beside the driver and they’re off, clattering fast up the wooden road.

I hug Brigid as hard as she hugs me. “Is he dead?” she whispers in my ear.

I put her down just in time to lean over and vomit in the street.

Brigid cries. “Poor Nuada. Poor dead Nuada.” She’s got both hands in her hair and she’s pulling. “Poor dead brother.”

“He’s alive,” I say when I’ve got the air to speak again. “Thank the Lord, he is alive. But his hand got cut off.”

“His hand?” Brigid wipes at her tears in confusion. “Which hand?”

“Does it matter?”

“His real hand?”

“That’s all we have.”

“It won’t grow back,” says Brigid. She takes a loud, deep breath. And I don’t know whether it’s my smell she’s just taken in or the news, but she leans over and vomits in the road too. Sybil helps us into the back of the wagon. Then she climbs in herself. Aonghus is already there. Torney sits on the driver’s bench. He slaps the reins and our wagon follows the chariot. Strahan rides behind on his horse.

Brigid’s crying again. She grabs at me. I make a tent for her of my arms and cloak, and lock her inside tight. The wagon sways and bumps over rough ground, going faster than our stomachs can endure. Though they are empty, they continue to retch. I take off both our belts to try to make us more comfortable. It doesn’t work. I push the straw on the wagon bed into plumpy seats for us. But the straw is wet from yesterday’s rain. It’s dense and hard.

Brigid crawls back into my arms again. I rock her, murmuring, “My little colleen, my little dear one, colleen, colleen.”

She snuffles in a funny way and I realize she’s fallen asleep. But I don’t stop stroking her. I don’t stop rocking. I don’t stop murmuring. We drive straight through at a pummeling pace. Still, it’s late night by the time we finally get home. Sybil turns us over to the other women servants.

“Clothes off, young lady,” says Lasair to Brigid. Brigid sways on her feet, only half awakened. Her arms hang limp at her sides.

“Poor child. All right.” And Lasair undresses Brigid. Delaney does the same to me. I open my mouth to protest, but I close it again. It feels good to surrender to her hands. I was the big one in the wagon, comforting Brigid, comforting myself. But we’re home now; I can be taken care of.

They wash us. Even our mouths are scrubbed out, though the action makes us retch again. Then clean, white night shifts slip over our heads and we’re led to the kitchen.

Torney and Aonghus and Sybil and Brogan are already there. They look haggard from the journey. I must look haggard too.

I stiffen. It’s not proper to sit at table with servants, and Brogan isn’t even a servant, he’s a slave-sitting with a slave is never done. But nothing is normal today. Brigid and I take our places and huddle together, as far from the others as possible.

We eat a soup of leeks and pigeon stock, milk, parsley, and oats. Oats and barley are peasant grains, but Father likes them, so the cook makes them when we have no guests. Usually I prefer finer food, but I have no trouble eating now. The soup goes down heavy and burrows in my entrails, like a wounded animal.

As each person finishes, they leave, making soft shuffles through the rushes on the floor, until it’s just Brogan and Brigid and me.

“Did you carry Nuada in, Brogan?” asks Brigid.

“Yes, little mistress.”

“Did you see…?” Brigid swallows loudly. “Did you see his arm?”

“Yes.”

“Will it give you nightmares?”

“Brigid!” I say, shocked. “Don’t ask such a thing.” “I’m past nightmares,” says Brogan. “Before your father bought me, when I was still a boy, I was owned by a man who had a wicked temper. If a slave crossed his path when he was fuming, he’d cut off a part.”

“A part?” asks Brigid. “What part?”

“An ear. A finger. Sometimes in his rage a hand or foot or-”

I clap my hands over Brigid’s ears. “Enough, Brogan!” “Sorry, mistress princess.” Brogan leaves. How dare he present such grisly images to Brigid. How dare he compare a slave’s mutilation to a prince’s. But now my quick anger leaves as suddenly as it came. My hands fall to my lap. I shiver, though the night is not cold. The manor house hushes. We sit a long while, silent. Finally we go to the sickroom and hover outside the door.

Leather-shod feet slap softly as Delaney and Lasair pass in and out. Their basins are clean going in and brimming with bloody rags coming out. The door is open, of course. A sickroom must have the door on each of the four walls open at all times so the ailing patient is visible from every direction. But we know we aren’t allowed in until beckoned. And it’s bad luck to look in before that.

We have hovered like this on other occasions. Usually we can hear well through the open sickroom door. But no one speaks in the usual way tonight. Whispers soak through the wood walls, reaching us only as a formless moment of heat.

“Come in, girls,” calls Mother.

Of course she knew we were here. She knows these things. We pad in. A bench has been pulled up beside Nuada’s bed mat. Mother motions for us to sit there. We move quickly, in silent obedience. A servant passes by us and puts new reeds dipped in animal fat in the lamp, then hurries out again. Mother and Father stand on the other side of Nuada, with Liaig, our physician. They talk in hushed voices. Nuada’s eyes are closed. A sheepskin covers him from the neck down. His face is pale in the lamp flicker.

Since Mother’s eyes are on Liaig, I dare to get off the bench and lean over Nuada’s face, hoping he’ll let me into his thoughts. Nuada and I can tell each other everything just with our eyes and eyebrows-we’ve done it since we were small. We’d get punished for having plotted some trick together and be forbidden to talk to each other, so we learned to manage without words. But now his máelchair-the space between his eyebrows-lies flat; his brows are silent; his closed eyes, a secret. His breath is sweet with mead. At least he’s drunk himself beyond pain. His mouth moves, as though he’s talking. There’s a large mound under the covers by his right side. Bent over like this, I can see Liaig’s bag of instruments and medicines. It lies open on the floor beyond Nuada’s head. A needle still glistens with blood. Long blond hairs coil beside it. Liaig has used strands of Mother’s hair to stitch up Nuada. My lips go cold.

“It was a long ride,” says Liaig quietly to Mother. “That caused a great loss of blood.” He taps the fingertips of one hand against the fingertips of the other in a nervous gesture. “The delay in treatment complicates the matter further.” His tapping speeds up. “I cannot guarantee Nuada’s fate.”

My jaw clamps shut in anger. Nuada is Liaig’s responsibility. Father had this sickroom set up exactly as Liaig told him it should be for the very best cure, regardless of the ailment. A rivulet of water runs across the middle of the floor. Slaves dug a trench and lined it with stones. They diverted the nearby stream into it. That way there’s access to clean water at all times. Everything here is just right, perfect. Liaig has no excuse!

I drop back onto the bench and grab the edge on either side of my legs. I feel I’ll fall forward if I don’t hold on tight. I’m trembling now. Brigid reaches out and lifts the edge of the sheepskin. I know I should stop her. Mother should be the one to reveal the injury. But I understand Brigid’s need. Nuada’s right arm ends with a thick bandage where his hand should be. The bandage rests on a cushion. Mother comes around the end of the bed and sits on the bench beside Brigid. She straightens the sheepskin over Nuada again. “It’s gone. Nuada will show you for himself when he’s ready.” “But how did his hand get cut off, Mother?” Brigid spreads her fingers wide and stares at her own hands as she talks. She clasps them together in a sudden, fierce energy and presses them against her chin. “How?” Tears stream down her face. Though my cheeks are dry, I taste tears too. Deep inside me.

“I was in the back room of the toolmaker’s, looking at the special collection.” Mother’s voice is level and tired. It seems she’ll fall asleep before the next breath. Instead she pulls Brigid onto her lap and slides along the bench toward me. One arm around Brigid, one arm around me. “When he screamed, I ran to the front room. No one else was there. Nuada had passed out on the floor.”

“But didn’t he tell you everything later?” asks Brigid. “He never got the chance. When he came to, he screamed with such pain, we poured mead down his throat and kept pouring.”

“Will he be all right, Mother?”

Mother rests her cheek on top of Brigid’s head. She doesn’t speak. She seems defeated.

“Of course he’ll be all right,” I say in a defiant burst. I rub Brigid’s hands within mine. “Why, old man O’Flaherty of Connacht lives fine, mean as a boar. And he lost his whole arm when he was just a boy.” “Which is why he never became king,” says Mother. The hair at the nape of my neck bristles. “What doyou mean?”

“A true king must be perfect, dianim-without blemish.” I shake my head. My little brother has been bred to a certain future. He must have that future. “Nuada will be a perfect king. People feel calm when they hear him.” Mother’s eyes widen. “You listen, Melkorka. Listen to yourself. Think about what you’re saying. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise.”

“I don’t understand, Mother.”

“Nuada couldn’t have protected Downpatrick. He doesn’t excite fear.” She reaches out and touches Nuada’s shoulder gently. “He couldn’t be king. My sweet son.”

“Don’t talk like that!” Brigid’s face crumples. “Don’t say terrible things in front of Nuada.”

“He cannot hear us, Brigid. He is senseless. But we are not. Despite our grief, we must be as sensible as we can right now.” She sits tall and sets her jaw. “We must face the needs of our world.”

“You’re talking about the cursed Vikings, aren’t you?” My words come like a revelation. “You’ve always told us how horrible they are. We have to keep armies because of them!” “The Vikings are wicked, yes,” says Mother. “But if not the Vikings, then another Irish king. Melkorka, my dear one, don’t you know? Irish kings all die violent deaths, at one another’s hands if not at invaders’ hands. We’re a bunch of squabbling families, stealing from one another.”

“But then who will be King of Downpatrick after Father?” I ask.

“I don’t know. We’ll have to get together and decide. I’ll let it be known that we’re forming a council. Otherwise the monastery will try to impose someone on us.” “I know what,” says Brigid. “Mel can be queen. She’s older than Nuada anyway. We won’t need a king.” A queen without a king? Me?

“Silly one.” Mother sighs. “I’m queen because I married your father. The only way Melkorka will ever be a queen is if she marries an heir to a throne.”

“But-”

“Hush now,” says Mother. “Go to bed, girls. There’s time enough to figure out the question of succession. Besides, your father is going to be king for many years yet.

I take Brigid by the hand and lead her to our bed mats, on the floor in Father and Mother’s room. We pass an open window. The moon is bloodred. I rub my eyes. but the color stays. Maybe the moon was just so two nights ago as well. I didn’t look then. Maybe if I had, I would have seen the warning. I wouldn’t have asked to go to Dublin. I tuck Brigid in and crawl under my own covers. Maybe, maybe, maybe. My head hurts with all these maybes. What actually happened? Was it an unfortunate accident? But it takes a lot of force to sever a hand. A tremendous amount. Was there an ax? Did a Viking wield it? I hate those heathens. All Norsemen are crazy. They’re all Vikings, really. I hate them. I hate them.

Brigid tugs on my covers. I lift the edge and she crawls in beside me. I usually can’t stand it when she joins me, she tosses so. But tonight I gather her in close. Her face is wet against my neck.

She’s asleep almost instantly. I can’t sleep, though.

In the old days women fought alongside the men. Savage warriors, they say. But not these days, not in the year of our Lord 900. Women are exempt from military duty now, so hardly any of us fight. And even if we do fight, it’s a crime to kill a woman in battle. The new laws treat us as though we’re fragile.

But I’m not. I want to be in battle. I want to fight. I want to be killed fighting to protect my family.

Maybe I was the one who should have been born a boy, born to rule. Maybe little Brigid wasn’t so silly, after all. Maybe, maybe, maybe.