Cearball meets a man

Maire’s heavy-​​browed, broad-​​cheeked face was as round as a copper moon: as like her half-brother’s as the night sky was the same over every sea and shore.

On second glance, however, Cearball was struck by a silken, slant-​​eyed exoticism, so unlike Murchad that the effect was like seeing the moon rise in a foreign land and finding it changed.

Her father was supposed to have performed many astounding feats to have won the hand of her mother, and if she had the eyes of her mother Cearball thought he could almost understand why. Even he might be tempted to do a small number of inconvenient things for a chance to see those eyes spring wide, or fall ecstatically closed, or roll back into her head.

Out of duty he waited a moment to give Cynan a fair chance to speak, and then he put on his most delicately lilting Irish accent and began: “Do be forgiving us for disturbing you and your family, my lady…”

He hesitated briefly between a Gaelic, a Welsh, and what he believed to be an English bow. At last he decided upon the Gaelic slant-​​shouldered twist-​​and-​​bend of the waist: it showed off a man’s leg to lesser advantage, but more readily allowed him to peer up at a lady from below with the most fetching twinkle in his eye.

“It’s my cousin Domnall I was hoping to see, but we were told he was away…”

“Domnall’s the cousin of you?” Maire asked dazedly. “He’s visiting our father at present…” She turned her crescent-​​moon face aside, glancing back over her shoulder at the tall man who lounged drunkenly or sleepily on the couch behind her.

Cearball grabbed Cynan by the shoulder and tried to shake some life into him. Cynan’s head simply nodded like a wind-​​tossed flowerstem and stilled.

“Grant me the honor of presenting to you Cynan,” Cearball said, “son and heir of Gruffydd, Prince of Gwynedd.” He paused for dramatic effect, then released Cynan’s shoulder and made a charmingly modest half-​​bow. “And it’s Cearball the name of me, son of Donnchad of the clan of Brian.”

“Cearball!” Maire clapped her fingers into her palm and made a little laugh that rose in pitch like a single line of birdsong and stopped abruptly. “Murchad’s friend from Ireland! He’s told us – about you!” she squeaked and glanced anxiously back at the man again.

The man moved his head enough to allow him to squint up at Cearball through seemingly-​​closed eyelids if he would, but it appeared he did not intend to express any further interest in the visitors.

Cearball decided he would not either, in that case. However, he thought – rude as the man was – it was remarkable to see how skittish and shy Maire was proving to be. It seemed that Murchad was even meeker than Cearball knew, if he could have such a sister and find her fearsome. That, or Cearball’s charm was greater than he knew. He smiled slyly at her, in case it was true.

One of the little children on the floor asked eagerly, “Are you an Irishman, sir?”

Cearball grinned down at him, but he was panicking inside. He had memorized the names of Maire’s daughters – though he was now finding himself incapable of guessing which was the eldest so long as they were not standing side-​​by-​​side – but he could not remember Aengus and Maire having any sons of this age.

“Aye that I am, and what are you?” he teased.

The boy leapt up and cried, “I’m a half an elf and a half a boy!” He pulled his hair back from his pointed ears to prove it.

Cynan made a gasp that came out almost as a grunt, as if the little boy had a second, invisible pair of fists and had punched Cynan in the gut with the both of them meanwhile.

Cearball was little less surprised, but he was able to hide his astonishment from sheer habit of suppressing any expression or gesture that would have indicated he was ever impressed by anything.

He had been told often enough that there were elves in this valley, but he was of the learned opinion that Murchad and Synne were attempting to play a trick on him, and Cearball preferred to display any amount of stubborn disbelief rather than the least sign of gullibility. However, there was no denying the boy had pointed ears.

In the space of five seconds, the second little boy jumped up and giggled, “And I’m a half a boy and half an elf!”… the first boy asked, “Did you come all the way from Ireland?”… the little girl behind Maire accused: “I bet you never saw an elf before!”… and the other girl simply twisted herself up and laughed.

Cearball managed to hold himself straight without shaking, but his eyes glanced wildly about in search of an adult distraction. He knew he did not have a way with children: he would try to sweet-​​talk a girl, and inevitably she would wrinkle her nose and glare at him in disgust – or he would try to joke with a boy, and he would stare blankly at him, waiting for him to get to the funny part. And meanwhile the adults would snicker…

At last, out of desperation, he attempted to joke with a girl. He leaned down and said to the first, “I’ve never seen an elf before, I’m not denying – but to hear those boys talk, you would think they had never seen an Irishman before, either!”

The girl stared blankly at him.

Finally he lost his head and squeaked, “You must be Ete!” like a doting old grandmother.

He waited for her to protest angrily that she was, in fact, Aileann, but to his relief she only stared warily at him and stepped back to a distance that would prevent any grandmotherly pinching of cheeks.

“Ach, my manners!” Maire gasped. “Gentlemen, this is my daughter Ete – ”

Now that Cearball had both the boldness of a successful guess behind him, and a single remaining girl before him, he felt confident enough to interrupt Maire and declare, “And this must be Aileann!”

Aileann squealed and yanked up the hem of her skirt to hide her giggling face and show off her white legs. That, he thought, was beginning to look something like a way with children. He could only wish he had such a way with their mothers.

He did not know the names of the two boys at all, but now that he knew they were elven children, he thought he could not have been expected to.

“And the only one left whose name I’m knowing is your Da!”

The man lifted his head and snorted loudly through his nose.

“That’s not their Da!” one of the boys protested. “That’s our Da!”

The man began to sit up, and Maire hastened to explain.

“That’s the cousin of us, Sir Egelric,” she mumbled, with a first and a second anxious glance over her shoulder at the ponderously rising man.

“I beg your pardon,” Cearball croaked.

“And I’m Wulf!” the boy shouted. “And that’s Gils! And that’s Maire! We all have the same nose in our family!” After a quick inspection of Cearball’s he asked, “Say – are you truly Murchad’s cousin?”

“My husband is with my brother in Scotland,” Maire murmured.

“I beg your pardon,” Cearball repeated stupidly.

Cearball cursed his impetuous tongue. He cursed the doorman who had not told him the lord was away. Most of all he cursed this Egelric, whose slight chuckling laughter seemed to rise up from the same depth of throat as a dog’s growl.

“No harm done,” Egelric said as he swaggered up behind Maire, scattering little wooden animals left and right with his boots as he came. “It’s an easy mistake. It’s the same nose we’re all sharing in this clan – you cannot be telling us one from another in the dark. Can you, Maire?”

His Gaelic was plodding and quaint, but his deep voice was like low thunder that would make men stop and listen, whatever they were doing. Cearball disliked him instinctively, as young bucks have always disliked old stags.

“Are you bringing word from my brother?” Maire asked hesitantly.

“Ach! So I am!” Cearball gasped in relief. He patted his pocket and said, “It’s a fine, brotherly letter I’m bringing, but the important words we dared not write down. I’ve a message for your King, but I was hoping…”

He smiled sheepishly, winsomely, as he had planned to do when he had plotted out his clever speech during the ride into the valley, but in the light of these unexpected circumstances, all his cleverness had been washed quite pale. Nevertheless he did not have time to draft another plan.

And meanwhile Egelric was staring him down with the smirking, self-​​confident insolence of a dog who has the habit of keeping its people off the furniture.

“… hoping to impose upon my cousin Domnall to obtain an introduction into the court of the Duke, as his children are Cynan’s cousins, and from thence to the King…”

“The Duke!” Wulf laughed as at some absurdity. “You don’t need an introduction to go see the Duke! He’s so nice, and he likes to talk more than anything!”

Cearball glanced up at Maire, but she seemed grateful the child was there to provide a distraction. The warm copper of her face had faded to a pallid gray, and her slanted eyes had a stunned look, like the eyes of a dying deer. The man’s mere presence behind her seemed to be draining the blood out of her body and draining the air away from her panting lungs.

“You must get on very well together then!” Cearball said to the boy. For the first time in his adult life, he was grateful to have a child to talk to.

“We do! Say, are you truly an Irishman?” Wulf demanded.

Egelric was standing painfully close to Maire without quite touching her, but his smirking indifference to her distress made his touch seem something he was withholding rather than threatening. He was clearly her lover, but rather than hiding it, he seemed to be holding it over her. Therein lay his threat.

Cearball did not know what to do, other than turn his eyes carefully aside until she recovered or slipped away.

“As truly as I am standing here!” he beamed at the boys.

“Can you dance a jig?” Gils challenged gravely.

Cearball burst into shaky laughter. “Is that what you think the Irishmen do all day?”

“And drink,” Gils said.

“And tell tall tales,” Wulf added.

Cearball risked a glance at Maire, but his gaze was immediately caught up by Egelric’s like horns locking into horns.

Cearball had never seen anything like him outside of a paddock or a field. Egelric was holding his manhood over Maire like a stallion throwing his thick neck over a mare’s back, like a bull shoving a cow into a fence – and holding it over Cynan and Cearball like a stag shaking his heavy antlers before his scrawny young rivals – and even holding it over the unknowing children of their two marriages, scattering them heedlessly before him like little wooden toys.

Cearball felt an awkward stirring in his breast that he realized must have been a desire to come to Maire’s aid. However, he could not think of anything practical to do. Certainly, having observed the size of Egelric’s hands, he did not think he would like to measure the size of Egelric’s fists with his face.

In the end, with the instinct of a young buck, he simply tried to make himself seem an unthreatening yearling again.

He snorted at Wulf and Gils and declared, “The only tall-​​tale-​​teller I know is the one who has been telling you such stories!”

“And he’s an Irishman, so that proves it!” Wulf crowed. “Ha!”

Gils laughed wickedly at his brother’s cleverness.

Cearball demanded, “If he’s an Irishman, then why don’t you ask him to dance a jig?”

“Because he’s a priest!” Wulf groaned. “I can’t very well ask a priest to dance!”

“During Ad–vent,” Maire giggled and choked.

Cearball smiled hopefully up at her and succeeded in catching her eye. Immediately a strange fear shivered down into him, and he looked back at the boys.

He leaned down to their level and whispered slyly, “I shall dance a proper Irish jig for you, but on two conditions: first, being an Irishman, I must be properly drunk beforehand. Second, I must be having a lady to dance with.”

“You must go to Nothelm, then,” Gils said wearily. “All the ladies are there. And they dance all the time – even during Ad–vent!”

“Say…” Wulf smiled. “What color are your eyes?”

Cearball wailed, “Ach, no!” and hid his eyes behind his hands.

“Are they purple?” Gils asked.

“Violet!” Aileann corrected sharply.

Wulf cried, “They are!” and hung himself from Cearball’s wrists to pull his hands away. “Look, Da! They are!”

“They’re blue!” Cearball protested.

“Purple!”

“Violet!” Aileann screeched.

Cearball laughed and fought off the children’s pawing for a moment, but he froze stiff and let them cling the moment Egelric roused himself to speech.

“The devil they are,” he chuckled softly.

Cearball looked up in time to see Egelric coming at him, all mocking eyes and broad shoulders and fists.

“Are they, Egelric?” Maire asked with a weak voice and a weaker smile.

“Don’t ask a man!” Aileann huffed. “They don’t know about colors!”

Gils whispered, “Purple!” and then bent beneath a battering of tiny female fists – which punishment he evidently seemed to welcome.

“Better look for yourself, Maire.” Egelric smiled slightly, exposing the points of a pair of fanglike canine teeth. “You were a woman last I checked.”

Maire leapt forward with a start, though Cearball had not quite seen where or how Egelric had touched her.

“It’s blue as the starry skies of Ireland they are,” Cearball said softly, trying to catch the skittish gaze of Maire’s golden eyes in his own, trying to will her into agreeing. Toying with the affections of an innocent little maid no longer seemed so very amusing to him.

But Cynan had to choose that moment to break his doltish silence.

“They are so violet!” he laughed. “You said so yourself all the way here! A thousand times!”