That first night and day they guarded me so closely it was like having a large, well-armed shadow always a step behind. I even had to remind them that women do have some bodily needs best attended to in private. We then developed a compromise, whereby I could at least be out of sight briefly, provided I did not take too long and came straight back to where Dog, or Gull, or Snake would be waiting, weapon in hand. Nobody needed to point out to me the utter futility of any attempt to escape. They brought me food and water, they brought me a bucket so I could wash myself. Clad in someone’s old undershirt, which came down well below my knees, and a roomy sort of tunic with useful pockets here and there, I braided my hair severely down my back, out of the way, and got on with what had to be done. Carefully measured draughts for the pain; mixtures to be burned on the brazier, encouraging the ill humours to leave the body. Dressings for the ugly burn. Compresses for the brow. Much of the time I would simply sit by the pallet, holding Evan’s hand in mine, talking quietly or singing little songs, as to a feverish child.
On the second night I was allowed out as far as the cooking fire. Dog walked by me through the encampment, where many small temporary shelters were dotted between the trees and bushes, until we came to a cleared area where a hot, smokeless fire burned neatly between stones. Around it a number of men sat, stood or leaned, scooping up their food from the small vessels most travellers carry somewhere in their packs. There was a smell of stewed rabbit. I was hungry enough not to be too particular, and accepted a bowl shoved into my hands. It was quiet, save for the buzz of night crickets and the faint murmur of a bird as it fell asleep in the branches above.
‘Here,’ said Dog. He handed me a small spoon crafted of bone. It was none too clean. There were many eyes turned on me in the half-darkness.
‘Thank you,’ I said, realising I had been accorded a rare privilege. The others used their fingers to eat, or maybe a hunk of hard bread. There was no laughter and little talk. Perhaps my presence stifled their conversation. Even when ale was poured, and cups passed, there was scarcely a sound. I finished my food, declined a second helping. Somebody offered me a cup of ale, and I took it.
‘Did a good job,’ someone said curtly.
‘Nice piece of work,’ agreed another. ‘Not easy. Seen it botched before. Man can bleed to death quicker than a – that’s to say, it’s a job that has to be done right.’
‘Thank you,’ I said gravely. I looked up at the circle of faces from where I sat on the bank near the fire. All of them kept a margin of three, four paces away from me. I wondered if this, too, were part of the code. They were a strangely assorted group, their bizarre polyglot speech indicating a multitude of origins, and a long time spent together. Of them all, I thought, perhaps but two or three had their birthplace here in Erin. ‘I had help,’ I added. ‘I could not have performed such a task alone.’
One very tall man was studying me closely, a frown creasing his features.
‘Still,’ he said after a while, ‘wouldn’t have been done at all, but for you. Right?’
I glanced around quickly, not wishing to get anyone into trouble. ‘Maybe,’ I said, offhand.
‘Got a chance now, hasn’t he?’ the very tall man asked, leaning forward, long skinny arms folded on bony knees. There was an expectant pause.
‘A chance, yes,’ I said carefully. ‘No more. I’ll do my best for him.’
There were a few nods. Then somebody made a subtle little sound, halfway between a hiss and a whistle, and suddenly they were all looking anywhere but at me.
‘Here, Chief.’ A bowl was passed, a full cup.
‘It’s very quiet here,’ I observed after a little while. ‘Do you not sing songs, or tell tales of an evening after supper?’
Somebody gave a snort, instantly suppressed.
‘Tales?’ Dog was perplexed, scratching the bald side of his head. ‘We don’t know any tales.’
‘You mean, like giants and monsters and mermaids?’ asked the very tall, lanky fellow. I thought I detected a little spark of something in his eye.
‘Those, and others,’ I said encouragingly. ‘There are also tales of heroes, and of great battles, and of voyages to distant and amazing lands. Many tales.’
‘You know some of these tales?’ asked the tall man.
‘Shut your mouth, Spider,’ someone hissed under his breath.
‘Enough to tell a new one each night of the year, and have some left over,’ I said. ‘Would you like me to tell you one?’
There was a long pause, during which the men exchanged glances and shuffled their feet.
‘You’re here to do a job, not provide free entertainment.’ There was no need for me to look up, to know who spoke. ‘These men are not children.’ Interesting; when this man addressed me, he used plain Irish, fluent and almost unaccented.
‘Is telling a tale against the code?’ I asked quietly.
‘What about this Bran character?’ Gull put in with no little courage. ‘I’ll wager there’s a tale or two about him. I’d like to hear one of those.’
‘That is a very grand tale, to be told over many nights,’ I said. ‘I will not be here long enough to finish it. But there are plenty of others.’
‘Go on, Chief,’ said Gull. ‘It’s harmless enough.’
‘Why don’t I start,’ I said, ‘and if you feel my words are a danger, you can stop me when you choose. That seems fair.’
‘Does it?’
Well, he hadn’t said no, and there was an air of hushed expectancy amongst the strange band gathered around the fire. So I started anyway.
‘For a band of fighters such as yourselves,’ I said, ‘what could be apter than a tale of the greatest of all warriors, Cú Chulainn, champion of Ulster? His story, too, is a long one made up of many tales. But I will tell of the way he learned his skill, and honed it so that no man could master him on the field, be he the greatest battle hero of his tribe. This Cú Chulainn, you understand, was no ordinary man. There were rumours, and maybe there was some truth behind them. Rumours that he was a child of Lugh, the sun god, by a mortal woman. Nobody seemed quite sure, but one thing was for certain: when Cú Chulainn was about to fight, a change would come over him. They called it riastradh, the battle frenzy. His whole body would shake and grow hot, his face red as fire, his heart beating like a great drum in his breast, his hair standing on end and glowing with sparks. It was as if his father, the sun god, did indeed inspire him at such times, for to his enemies it appeared a fierce and terrible light played around him as he approached them, sword in hand. And after the battle was won, they say it took three barrels of icy river water to cool him down. When they plunged him into the first, it burst its bands and split apart. The water in the second boiled over; the third steamed and steamed until the heat was out of him, and Cú Chulainn was himself again.
‘Now this great warrior had exceptional skills, even as a boy. He could leap like a salmon, and swim like an otter. He could run swifter than the deer and see in the dark as a cat does. But there came a time when he sought to improve his art, with the aim of winning a lovely lady called