Muse (Tales of Silver Downs Book 1) (6 page)

Rhiwallon turned to me and her eyes were wide and dark as she wrapped her arms around my neck. She pressed her body against mine and kissed me full on the lips. I had never been kissed by a girl before, except for a brief touch on the cheek by Mother or Eithne and once by Grainne.
 

Certainly those familial kisses did not make my knees knock together so loud I wondered whether anyone else heard and nor did they make my heart beat fit to burst right through my chest. Those kisses also didn't make other parts of my body respond the way Rhiwallon's kiss did and I wondered for the first time whether perhaps I could actually do this. If she was kind and gentle and didn't laugh at me, I might actually…

Rhiwallon broke the kiss and pulled away. Keeping her gaze fixed on me, she unlaced her blouse. It fell open and I saw her bare breasts. Her skin shone in the lamplight. Rhiwallon took my hand and placed it on her breast. Her nipples hardened under my hand and I froze, wondering what I was supposed to do.

She kissed me again and now my hand seemed to have a mind of its own as it gently explored her bare skin, stroking her soft breasts and lingering over her rounded stomach.

She pulled me down into the hay. We lay side by side and she wrapped her leg around me. My hand slid down to explore the silky expanse of thigh beneath her skirt and she moaned and wriggled closer to me.

As her hand edged into my trousers, panic returned. My budding desire fled and I was limp beneath her hand.

Rhiwallon pulled her lips off mine to stare at me quizzically. "Diarmuid-"

Mortified, I pulled away and stood, swiftly buttoning the pants I didn't even remember her undoing.

"Diarmuid." She tried again and although her voice was gentle, I couldn't bear to stay there another moment.

"Sorry," I muttered, straightening my borrowed shirt as I fled. I tripped over something and slammed into the wall.

There was a soft giggle behind me and my face flamed as I scurried out, humiliation complete.

Caedmon loitered nearby as I exited the barn. He started to speak but my glare cut him off. I said nothing but stalked away into the darkness, seeking somewhere to hide until it was time to go home.

Caedmon and Grainne's handfasting was a sevennight after Midwinter. I had been sleeping poorly since my encounter with Rhiwallon and woke that morning feeling morose and peevish. My dreams had been filled with the raven that stared with empty eyes while blood dripped from its beak.
 

As I lay in bed, the house already echoed with the chaos and commotion of wedding preparations even though dawn was barely breaking. I pulled the covers over my head. Perhaps nobody would notice if I didn't get up today. Eventually footsteps thundering past my bedchamber and a rooster's crowing drove me from my bed.

I dressed in yesterday's discarded clothes. What did it matter if my pants had grass stains on the seat and my shirt was splattered with soup? Nobody would notice what I wore. The only time anyone saw me —
really
saw me — was when I told a tale, and then it was only to criticise.
 

I slunk through the house like a storm cloud, ignoring Eithne's excited cry of "Diarmuid, come here", and slipped out the back door. Swathed in coat, scarf and hat, with my boots crunching over yesterday's snow and the fields around me silent, my mood lifted somewhat. The air smelled of smoke and fir, and was empty of sound other than what I myself made. There was no chatter of voice, no clashing of pots, no crashing of brooms. The fresh, empty air cleared my head a little.

Silver Downs lay nestled in a valley created by rolling hills of pastureland. In the summer, the fields were covered with silver thistledown, their flowers round as a bumblebee's belly. Many hours I had spent lying amidst the thistledown, blowing on the fragile blossoms to release them up into the air and waiting for them to drift back down, falling whisper-soft on my face. Even more hours had I spent roaming the fields, up hill, down into gully, across the streams. I knew every footstep of those fields, all the way from one border to the other, from the corner in which our house stood to the far edge where the woods began.
 

Papa forbade us to enter the woods, for it was said they contained a doorway into the realm of the fey. Tales told of those who ventured deep into the woods and never returned. Whether they declined to come back, having sampled the delights of the fey world, or whether they weren't permitted to return, nobody could say.
 

In truth, I had never thought much about the woods. They were there on the edge of our land, and they were there on the edge of my consciousness. As a small boy, I was kept too busy to contemplate trespassing into forbidden territory. Six older brothers meant I learnt to fight somewhat for they routinely wrestled me to the ground for the smallest fault. I had no formal schooling but my brothers took turns teaching me to read and I could draft a simple letter and read the reply. I could count and tally sums and I knew the history of the lands surrounding us. Many years passed before I realised how unusual it was that all of our family could read, write and tally at least a little.

By mid morning I had reached one of the twin rivers meandering across the corner of the estate. In summer, this was a pleasant spot where one could watch fish swimming in the river and water bugs dancing across the top. Now, the waters were frozen with just the slightest ripple in the ice hinting at how they usually flowed.

Sitting on a sun-warmed rock, my eyes traced the outline of an aged oak tree, its bare branches stark against the winter-grey sky. I tucked the image away for use in a tale and Ida murmured her approval.

With the sun beating down on me and the satisfaction of solitude, things didn't seem quite so bad. I cautiously turned my mind to my Midwinter humiliation. Anger soared, towards Caedmon, Rhiwallon, myself. Embarrassment warred with frustration that Caedmon had refused to listen when I protested his plan. No doubt by now Rhiwallon had told everyone she knew. Heat rose in my cheeks, my hands trembled and Ida whispered of treachery. I pushed away the thoughts, and Ida, for my feelings were yet too raw to examine them closely.
 

I would spend this time here by the river creating a new tale. Something to amaze my audience. My most recent tale telling, at Caedmon's betrothal party, still sent pangs of hurt through my heart. I had not yet achieved any level of success as a bard. Yet every time a tale failed to please, it left me determined to create a better one. One day, I would compose the perfect tale. A tale no audience could ignore. It might even be my very next tale. And so I pushed the memories away and got to work.

I started with a warrior. Immediately I thought of Caedmon and I hardened my heart. I would not allow myself to become distracted. I had work to do. So, a warrior. A simple man with no large expectations for his life other than to survive each battle, marry a good woman and produce at least three sons. But of course, life is never as simple as we wish. Perhaps his wife has produced only daughters and he fears he will never have an heir. My interest dissipated. What audience would want to hear such drivel?

I lay back on the rock, my body fitting comfortably into a shallow depression. In summer, I could lie here and listen to the river gurgling over rocks and around water plants. Small patches of sunlight would pierce a green canopy above me and dust motes would sparkle as they danced in its rays. Now, I could see straight up through the naked trees to the grey sky beyond. I was warm enough with my thick coat and the sun streaming down on me through the skeletons of the trees.

My thoughts wandered through a variety of topics. Possible tale ideas. Caedmon's upcoming marriage. My muse. I called her Ida for it meant thirst, an appropriate name given how I longed for her inspiration. Sometimes I pretended she was real, that my inspiration truly stemmed from a presence inhabiting my mind. What would it be like to share my head with another living creature? Would she know my thoughts and I hers? We would be closer than any husband and wife.
 

In my mind's eye, Ida smiled and images from my new tale swirled around me. I suddenly realised what it lacked: courage and purpose. Perhaps one of the fey has fallen in love with the warrior's wife and tries to persuade her to leave him. But the wife is faithful to her husband, and refuses the attentions of the fey. So the fey sets three tasks for her husband to complete to prove he is worthy of her.
 

The idea was plausible enough for the fey interfered in human lives for their own reasons. Some believed it was because they wove human lives into a pattern to satisfy a design only they saw. Others thought it was merely whim that drove the fey to interfere and that there was no higher purpose. Me, I didn't know. What the fey chose to do with the lives in which they interfered was of no concern to me other than as fodder for my tales.

A tiny smile played on Ida's lips as if she was satisfied with these initial explorations of my new tale. Her mouth was wide, the lips thin and blood-red. It was not an attractive mouth. Not like Rhiwallon's.
 

Again, the hot memory of humiliation flooded through me along with a stab of anger towards Caedmon. The situation was his fault. It was he who pushed me to do what I didn't want to. The more I thought about it, the madder I got until if Caedmon had appeared in front of me right then, I might almost have hit him.

Ida's smile broke through my thoughts and again I felt she was satisfied. My new tale pleased her and the knowledge mollified me, cooling my temper. It was enough, for now, that an audience of one, albeit imaginary, was pleased. For that's all any bard ever wants, to please his audience. Perhaps if I could learn to please my imaginary muse, I might also be able to succeed with a real audience. One day, I would weave my words into a beautiful constellation of humour and truth and learning, fine enough to satisfy any audience. One day, I would conclude the telling of a tale to smiles and nods, applause and cheers, rather than silence and sudden excuses.

I spent the morning pleasantly absorbed in my new tale. Images and phrases appeared in my mind — snippets of dialogue, glimpses of imagery — as if fed by Ida. And this tale felt different from any other I had created. It was authentic. Honest. Illuminating. There was light and dark, wonder and horror, and an outcome that would surprise even the most learned listener. Surely this would be the tale to please my audience.

As the sun reached the midpoint of the sky, and my stomach growled with hunger, I started towards home. All morning I had busied myself with my new tale but now, as I drew closer to family and ceremony, I gingerly let myself think about the upcoming celebrations.
 

With Caedmon's aim of producing an heir before he left, there had been no time for a lengthy engagement. He and Grainne had waited only long enough to send word to the closest druid settlement. A druid, or perhaps two, was expected to arrive this morning and then Caedmon and Grainne could be married. Caedmon had itched at even so short a delay but he wanted his heir to be legally recognised. So he waited and was as grumpy as a badger with a sore paw.

Caedmon and I had barely spoken since Midwinter. I was angry, disappointed, lost. Caedmon had been my hero since I was old enough to choose a favourite brother. I didn't know quite how to deal with the fracture between us.

 
I intended to slip into the house, snatch some bread and cheese, and go straight to my bedchamber. But the druids had arrived and Papa caught my eye as I tried to sidle past to the kitchen.

The druids sat at the dining table, eating heartily but not looking at all like men who had spent eight nights on the road. One wore a robe so white it seemed to glow. The other was clad in the brown garments of a novice.
 

I gave the druids only a cursory inspection until I noticed how close Mother sat beside the novice, clutching his hand and smiling up at him. It was not unusual for a novice to accompany a master for such duties. The face of this one was calm and clean-shaven, his hair hung to his shoulders in braids, and his eyes seemed to peer into my very soul. His face was familiar and it took a moment before I remembered where I had seen him: at the solstice festivities.
 

When I studied him closely, I saw echoes of our family. His shoulders were broad like Fionn and Eremon and Caedmon. His hair was dark, like all of us, and his grey eyes were shared by Eithne and also Eremon and Niamh's twins. Still, I might not have recognised him were it not for the way Mother smiled at him.

"This must be Diarmuid." Fiachra's voice was clear and musical, a voice made for calling to the elements. "My youngest brother."

"Fiachra." I hardly knew what to do. Of course the appropriate way to greet a brother whom one had not seen for years was to hug him, but was that still appropriate when the brother was a druid?

He rose and enveloped me in his arms. I expected him to be skinnier for surely druids did not eat much and did no physical work, but the arms around me were well-muscled and his embrace was strong.
 

"Well met, brother," he said.

"Don't let me keep you from your meal," I replied, not knowing what else to say.

"Come sit by me, Diarmuid. Tell me about yourself."

With the melancholy still weighing heavily on me, I wanted only to be alone but I could not refuse Fiachra with grace. The other druid, an older man I did not recognise, slid along the wooden bench so I could sit between them.

I settled myself on the bench and reached for the bread, smearing a thick slice with honey from our own bees. It ran over my fingers as I bit into it, sweet and sticky and tasting of Silver Downs.

"So you are the bard brother." Fiachra reached for another slice of bread. His honey didn't drip off the bread the way mine did.

"So it would seem," I said.