An angel’s love.
I am Elthael. In my memory I hold the key to releasing four stories that have been withheld for centuries. One is my own – a tale of loneliness and love for a human. One is of Conan – a young servant boy who is torn from his one and only love by a cruel twist of fate. One is of Siobhan, Conan’s one and only friend. She loves him with all her heart and he loves her in return. And finally, Maire, the heroine of our story who battles against impossible odds to survive. Her story is one of love, pain, captivity and freedom. And I, an angel who has lived alone for many millennia, found myself falling for her natural charm, friendliness and grace. So, as you will find out, did someone else. These stories are their own words, these stories are truth. Only one change has been made – I wrote them down as if it was written by an onlooker, not the person themselves. They have all been dead for hundreds of years. Mine has no true beginning, nor an end. It is intermingled with the others, and especially Maire’s. I was there, so my story shows. Sometimes I am telling you my story, but more often it is Maire who is the main character and I am just the background character. You can tell because I write in Italic writing. It is neater, in my opinion. But now I am waffling, so I will stop writing this and tell you the story.
<Part One – Maire’s Story>
Chapter One – Maire’s story
Bewildered
Three years can be a long time when you are bored and alone. Especially if those years are spent mostly in the same room, following the same monotonous, unvarying pattern. When Maire found herself a hostage she needed all her patience was needed to stay calm.
Maire was eleven summers old – young enough to still be a child and old enough to start to understand the world. It all began when she had a dream. When she thought about it afterwards she realised that actually it had seemed more like reality than a dream but she pushed it to the back of her mind. Even so, sometimes she could not help thinking about it.
In her dream she was at the bottom of what seemed to be a very deep well without any water. When she saw the high, barred window she realised that it was a dungeon. Suddenly a figure in white robes, a white so bright that it was hard to look at, appeared in front of her. It had six wings and a halo and she realised with terror and awe that it was an angel. Suddenly the angel spoke and Maire looked around to see who it was talking to. She realised that it was talking to her.
‘’Whether willingly or not, you will end up becoming the mother of Kings. A huge family will be yours, but only when you submit to other people’s wills.’ Bewildered, she blinked and when she looked up the angel was gone, but to show that he cared there was a golden light filling the room so that the dark did not envelop her.
‘Remember,’ said a voice. ‘If you need me I am always there for you. You only have to call. The days when that call will be most needed are coming sooner than you think.’ And then even the light was gone and she was left in darkness again.
The next day Maire woke up in a comfortable bed with silk sheets and velvet hangings – a far cry from her scratchy mattress of straw on the floor of the stable at home. She screamed. Who wouldn’t when they woke up in a strange place and had no memory whatsoever of how they got there? A servant came hurrying in – Maire noticed that they were barely older than her - and she realised that she must be in a very posh place because at home everyone did everything for themselves. Maire couldn’t think of anyone she knew who could afford servants. But then again, she lived in a poor village.
‘Where am I?’ she asked. ‘Who are you? Why am I here?’ The servant just smiled a little sadly and went out. She had obviously been told not to say anything. Annoyed and confused, Maire swung her legs over the edge of the huge bed and sank her toes into the thick woven mat that covered the whole floor. Maire noticed a tub on the floor. It was steaming slightly and she guessed it was for her to wash in. Or maybe it was for her clothes? Unsure, she looked around her, hoping someone would come and tell her what to do. Maire carefully examined the interior of her room, or should we say prison. It was very well furnished and tastefully decorated. The walls of this huge room were covered in some sort of pale green silky stuff. The curtains were dark green velvet like the hangings on the bed. They framed a huge window looking over a very large garden, some stables, a paddock and a sort of training area. The garden had long sweeping lawns and lots of neat ordered flowerbeds that seemed to give a colourful border to the greenness of the rest. Maire gaped. This must be some sort of palace! Eventually she reached the wardrobe on the far side of the room. She was just about to open it and get herself clothed when the door to the room opened and the servant came back in.
‘You need to get dressed – the master wants to see you,’ she said. ‘Goodness, haven’t you even bathed yet? Well, off with that nightshirt and in you get – no time to waste.’ Slightly embarrassed at having to get undressed in front of a stranger, even though they were barely more than a girl, Maire pulled the voluminous nightgown off and stepped gingerly into the tub. She looked down at her body – it was free from all the usual grime, mud and sores where she had been bitten by the lice that infected her barn, so she supposed that someone had washed her before she went to bed. When she was bathed, the servant opened the wardrobe and pulled out a pretty dress. It was dark, midnight blue, made of the finest died linen and a wool lining, for warmth and for comfort. It was shaped, too, unlike the sack like garments she usually wore. The skirt hung down in a pretty way, with little hooked things that she was sure had a complicated name but could not recall it. Maire put it on feeling very grown up. When the ‘ladies’ had come to town she had seen them wearing dresses like this and it didn’t quite feel right to wear it – she was more used to scratchy, brown clothes.
‘Who is your master?’ Maire inquired when she had got over the shock of wearing such a dress. ‘And why on earth does he want to see me?’ But yet again she got no answers, yet again she found herself talking to none but herself. Resigned, she followed the servant down a long corridor. It was lined with portraits in gold frames of various royal persons and again Maire wondered if this really was a palace – none but a king would have items like that. She found confirmation when, after going down several flights of stars covered grandly in some sort of mat, which made them pleasant to walk down, they reached a huge room. On a dais at the end there was a throne and on that throne sat King Niall, which some people called the most successful King of Ireland but she just called the King who charged to much for them to work the land and the King who liked hanging people just because maybe they looked at him in a way he didn’t like or some such thing. She gasped and fainted dead away.
Chapter Two – Maire’s story
Captivity
When she came to she was in a makeshift bed in the Throne Room, as Maire secretly named it. No one seemed to be around so Maire rolled out of the bed. She noticed that she was still in the blue dress, although it was somewhat crumpled after having a farm girl swoon in it. It was then that she realised King Niall was still present, which put a stop to any plans to run away. He regarded her with cold grey eyes.
‘Why am I here?’ asked Maire, voicing the question that she had been desperately wanting to know the answer to. For a moment he said nothing and then with no emotion, not even sadness or remorse, King Niall stated:
‘You are my hostage. Do not attempt to run away – my guards are merciless and would not hesitate to kill you.’ Shocked, Maire just stared and then she got angry, bewildered, homesick and upset all at one time.
‘But you can’t take me hostage! I’m only a child! Why me? Why anyone? Why do you need a hostage anyway?’ She wanted answers and although Niall was a king and she was just a farmer’s daughter from Ulster, she was not going to be done down.
‘I have you hostage because your village’s inhabitants are nothing better than the pigs they keep. The woman are just cows, to be frank, and as for the men. Sons of ciarogs, all of them. They never pay their taxes-,’ at this point Maire just lost her temper. She did not like her people being dismissed as the sons of cockroaches, however dirty they were,
‘They can’t afford it!’ However, her butting in did no good and King Niall carried on as if there had not been any interruption.
‘- and I mean to set them an example. I will keep you here for a few years and if in that time they do not show any improvement then I will make a point of torturing you in front of even the very youngest of babies and the very oldest of crones just to show your village what I do to people who do not satisfy me.’ Maire was more than shocked – more than aghast.
‘Why, you foul, plotting, murderous beast! You’re nothing more than a … a … a savage! Only a savage could think of something so horrible! Only a savage or a barbarian from … from England, or Wales … or Scotland!’ she blurted out. ‘You can’t be an Irishman at heart! Someone who was truly Irish would never go against their subjects like that!’ She knew she’d crossed the line here, questioning his royal heritage, but when Maire was angry there was no stopping her. Her face was white; contrasting strongly with her wild brown hair and eyes so dark they were almost black. She couldn’t even find the words to describe the King’s atrocious plan, one so evil it was nothing but the words of a mad man, and that more than anything shocked him. How dare this mere girl, this Maire, insult him!
‘What is more,’ he continued, keeping his voice moderately calm even though his face was flushed with anger, ‘It is not only the village, it is the town, it is the whole province!’ This didn’t make sense to Maire and she thought for a few moments.
‘But, surely they won’t care about me. I’m just a nobody to them. A farmer’s daughter from the village by Ulster.’ She said this with a note of pride in her voice as if she thought that maybe she had impressed him with her argument. However, to Maire’s surprise an incredulous smile spread across his face.
‘You mean to say that nobody ever told you?’ Niall could barely keep his amazement from showing. ‘Nobody told you why you looked different from your family? Why your eyes are brown and theirs were blue? Why your hair was brown and theirs was blonde? I can’t believe this. I honestly can’t believe this. Are you sure they never said anything? It’s because you’re adopted! I cannot believe that you didn’t know you were the daughter of one of the most important people in the whole province – and the only daughter too. A boy, yes a boy would have been what I’d liked but there wasn’t one. Shame, really. Anyway, I took you and you should feel honoured if you aren’t killed – shows the people care about you. Did you know that of all my hostages you are the only girl?’ Throughout this completely extraordinary speech Maire’s mouth had been dropping gradually lower and lower. She was amazed – what do you expect? She was more than amazed. Flabbergasted! It was impossible! But Niall just laughed at her face. It was obviously a pleasure to see her surprise.
‘Your majesty, King Niall,’ said the newfound daughter of the most important person in the province in ‘humble’ way. ‘Do you mean to say that there are more hostages? Surely one is enough.’ She had just realised what a precarious position she was in and was determined not to let anything she said or did count against her in the vote for survival. Niall looked surprised at the change of tone but looked directly into the confused girl’s eyes.
‘Why should I answer you? You’re only a girl. If I’d wanted I could have had you executed for your insolent manner but I didn’t. There are nine others, but you aren’t going to be counted. Niall of the Ten Hostages – it doesn’t quite work, does it? Whereas Niall of the Nine Hostages, yes, this rings a bell. One from each of the … kingly regions … that I control.’ For the first time Maire looked down at her body, encased in its beautiful clothes, because Niall seemed to be looking at her so penetratingly that she had to look away. For a long moment she thought that surely she was imagining things because in such a dress her figure looked shapely and she looked so altogether completely unlikely herself that she could not believe that Maire, miss manure hair of the village, was looking pretty. Beautiful even. But it was true.
*
Chapter Three – Maire’s story
Alone
You don’t know anything about Maire, do you? Oh, you’re starting to know her story, true. But her? Well… I can tell you know, without her, history would have been normal, boring. But with her, not a chance. She was shy and courageous, beautiful and unattractive, real and unreal. She was extremely contrary to herself, I know. She lived in a family of ten – a father and nine children. Many people tried to break her and never managed it.
*
No one knew that she was writing this. If they were to have known, Maire would not have lived to see the next day. I have told you that they have all been dead for hundreds of years. Yes, this is true, but a girl such as her never truly dies. Maire lives in my heart and that will always be true. But still, at some point she will die, and you will see it behind you eyes, a video in you head that plays again and again, making you weep, maybe, or making you laugh, depending on you personality.
*
It was lonely for Maire, all on her own in the huge room. She had nothing to do so she amused herself talking to the mouse that had timidly crept out of a hole in the corner. The little furry creatures did not scare her at all as she slept in the stables at home. Still, it got a little boring after a while. After a long fortnight she was told that she was to work.
‘What can you do?’ asked the servant. Maire thought for a few moments.
‘I can… read, write: my father taught me these but I have no idea where he learnt it from, being as he is a poor farmer, I can sing, which is a joy to me because people always used to compliment my voice. And once, I made a flute from the leftover pieces of wood in my father’s barn and played a lullaby that made all the old women cry, but I’m not good enough at playing to play for a king! I don’t think there’s anything else apart from making butter and I doubt you’d want me to do that, as you have skilled cooks and kitchen maids here,’ she replied. The servant looked surprised as if she couldn’t believe that the girl she saw in front of her could really read and write: not many people could in those days.
After that Maire was made to illuminate scripts. It seemed stupid but she did as she was told. Often her hand felt like it would explode after writing for hours on end:
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z or even the tiresome headings for example “Case number one” involving the King’s affairs. It looked likely that she would become the master’s scribe as not many people in the whole court were neat enough writers and fast enough readers to take care of such important documents. Every now and again she would run out of ink and the servant would come in. She would proceed to make ink by grinding ochre and mixing the coloured powder, usually blue, black or red although sometimes brown, with water to make a thick liquid that did not blot if she did it right. Sometimes, if too much water or too much ochre was added, the ink would be too runny or too thick and the servant would fetch more materials and make some more. Maire found it fascinating to watch, especially at first because she had never used proper ink before and hadn’t known where it came from and how it was made. And then it occurred to Maire that she didn’t actually know the maid’s name.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked when she finally plucked up enough courage. The girl looked shocked at being spoken to in a friendly manner and gave a start.
‘Me, miss?’ she asked. Maire laughed. She had a beautiful laugh and it was rare to hear it. It sounded like water trickling in a brook, a clear, pure sound.
‘Who else is there?’ she replied, her teeth revealed in her wide smile. They weren’t white, or straight, but they weren’t rotten.
‘Well, no one. But, miss, I’m just a servant and you can’t really care that much about my name.’ She spoke sadly as if it upset her that no one cared. Maire was surprised, because of course people cared, but she supposed that servants were often ignored and treated as if they didn’t really have feelings,
‘Of course I care!’ said Maire, aghast. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ The servant shrugged.
‘Okay, here goes. My name is Siobhan and I am fourteen summers old. I work here because my family were killed by the king and he demanded I stay here. I couldn’t refuse for two reasons – firstly because he is the king and secondly because I had nowhere else to go.’ With that, fearing she’d said too much, Siobhan fled, leaving the ink wobbling precariously on the table.
After another long week of eating, sleeping and writing, it was announced that girl as she was, the tenth hostage was to learn to ride. Maire was grateful for the exercise but afterwards felt too stiff to move. The horse she was provided with was a grey. She didn’t quite understand why it was called a grey when it was white but thought it was beautiful and didn’t really care what it was called. At first it was extremely hard. Her teacher was one of the older stable boys and she thought he was rather handsome. However, Maire stopped thinking anything nice about him when he laughed unpleasantly as she slipped sideways and landed in the mud.
‘It’s not funny!’ she said indignantly. ‘I haven’t done this before! The only thing I’ve ever ridden was a donkey!’ However, her sour attitude was soon sweetened when he helped her up with a bow and with a flourish set her on her horse.
‘No offence, m’lady. Just a little outburst of bad humour. Forgive me, it was unneeded and immature,’ the boy said as if she really were a lady. Maire was amazed – since her childhood friend had gone to work in a palace and found out how bad the manners of a stable boy were she had never believed that one could be polite. This youth had the manners of the gentleman.
‘Apology accepted,’ she said grandly. ‘What’s your name?’ Maire added as an afterthought. He looked startled.
‘I’m not sure,’ replied the boy, embarrassed. ‘My old master called me Caudex. It’s one of the roman words for ‘blockhead’. It’s not my real name, I don’t think. I remember being called Patrick when I was very young. That’s why I was surprised when one of the hostages—’ He broke off, afraid he was telling his secrets to a stranger who would tell the king. ‘But everyone here calls me Conan. It’s what my mother called me just before they took me away from her. I like it, sort of.’ Maire was shocked that he didn’t know his name. Sadly, she thought that maybe he was an orphan. He said he had been ‘taken away from his mother’ which maybe meant that when he was brought wherever he had never seen her again. That would explain a lot. Still, what did he mean by ‘master’?
‘Where did you learn such fine manners?’ she asked to change the subject. Conan looked up, blushed and looked back down at his feet. Then he muttered something incomprehensible. ‘Sorry,’ said Maire. ‘I didn’t catch that.’ Conan glared at her and she wondered if it was a touchy subject. Still, she couldn’t see how it could be.
‘I was a slave,’ he said quietly. The other boys were giggling. They were acting as if this handsome boy were a huge joke cooked up for their amusement. ‘My parents couldn’t were burned alive by English raiders and I was made a slave, although now King Niall has set me free. Go on; laugh at me like the rest of the world.’ He sounded bitter toward the end as if it were usual for people to make mock.
‘Why would I laugh?’ inquired Maire. ‘There’s nothing funny! I think it’s dreadful for you. And,’ she continued, turning to speak to the other boys, ‘you can stop laughing too. I don’t recall Conan laughing at you if something bad happened, yet you laugh at him. Could you have been through what he did and come out on top? I think not.’ But Conan didn’t seem very pleased at her contribution to his life.
‘I can look after myself, you know,’ he said miserably. ‘You don’t have to stand up for me just coz some idiots are … are …’
‘Idiots?’ put in Maire.
‘Immature and insensitive,’ finished Conan. ‘And I don’t need you to finish my sentences either!’ His cheeriness had vanished. Maire wished she hadn’t tried to cheer him up by talking – it obviously had not worked. Besides which they had to get her riding pretty well in a very short space of time: Niall wanted to take her into the town at Christ’s Mass.
At first she didn’t know what they meant because at home they always called it Christmasstime or even Yule, although that was frowned upon by the people of the new church of Christianity. There was a small, recently built monastery down the road and Maire was friendly with some of the young boys training to be monks, but her father knew nothing of the stolen hours here and now spent down by the stream. She was not allowed to associate with boys until she was betrothed, just in case she (or the boy in question) got ideas. Really, though, her father shouldn’t have worried. It just wasn’t that sort of friendship. They taught her to write neater and to illuminate a little, and in return she would teach them to make small items out of wood. This was one of her favourite past-times: their barn was full of small, carved animals and pictures. Her father encouraged this, being as he was a farmer who in his youth had wanted to be a carpenter, but he knew little where the carvings of monks and monasteries went. Had he ventured into the monastery itself, he would have found out quite quickly. Maire was grateful that he didn’t. Her daydreams were banished by Conan shouting.
‘Wake up! Do you listen to anything? I asked you to trot around the field, not sit on that grey daydreaming!’ Maire was about to do what he said when she thought of a question.
‘Don’t take offence or anything, please. I don’t mean it to be nasty but I’m an inquisitive person. Who were you a slave for? You know what I mean: who was your master?’ Conan was quiet and she was worried in case she’d offended him.
‘I was a slave in England.’ No more, no less. Conan wasn’t in the mood for chatting.
‘Really? I’ve never been there. Is it nice? Are the people barbarians like it’s said they are?’ There were a hundred questions Maire wanted to ask. Conan looked as if he were remembering horrible times: his face was grey and drawn.
“Yes. Savages and slave-dealers. The Celtic tribes I did not see but the royalty are just as bad.” And after that he was silent. His face was deadly pale and not a word escaped his bloodless lips.
A year went past like this. When, at Christ’s Mass soon after this incident, Niall visited the town, Marie accompanied him. She rode her little white pony but not freely. A chain, fixed to an iron collar around her neck, controlled her and she could not move more than about three yards from King Niall. She felt like a dog that could not escape; a prisoner in battle with nowhere to run. The sympathetic faces of the townspeople just angered her and she felt that she needed to explode quickly: her fury was burning inside her and there was nothing she could do. But there was nothing that the trapped prisoner could do as when they went back to the palace she was locked back into her room.
*
As she told me the story, footsteps approached the barn so we hurriedly blew out the candle. Maire had been talking long into the night, and still there was much more to tell. It was not long until dawn so we watched the door cautiously, ready to scarper when the farmer came to do his milking. I remember back a thousand years ago. Not much milking went on then.
*
Chapter Four – Maire’s story
A Fools errand.
That room was nicer than any Maire had been in before but she hated it. The days were long and boring, the only bright thing being the maid, Siobhan, and their stolen minutes together. Although Maire was an honoured guest (though it didn’t seem like it, seemed more like a prisoner) and Siobhan was just a servant, the two had become friends. One would almost think they were sisters, not counting the fact they looked almost the same. Maire would do anything to help the unfortunate girl and she suspected the same could be said of Siobhan. She conceived a plan. Maire would run away. She knew King Niall would not kill her because then he would not have a hostage. She knew that he enjoyed her shame when they passed a member of her old family and she was on a chain like a tame dog. It was twelve moons since she had arrived. Was it only that long? Had she really changed so much that her life at the palace seemed natural? It seemed to her that it was only yesterday when she awoke in a strange bed, only yesterday that she found herself face to face with an angel.
As they were friends, Maire confided in Siobhan when she came in with her evening meal.
‘You need to be careful,’ said Siobhan cautiously. ‘It’s awful risky. Think what would happen to you if you were caught! I’d hate it if something happened to you! Please think about it! I’ll help you escape some time but this is too risky. Don’t do it!’ Maire glared at her.
‘That’s not your place, Siobhan. I have to say you seem to be a little protective of me. I can do this: if it goes wrong no one can blame you,’ she said icily, just like one of the ‘ladies’ who she always found so high and mighty.
‘But, ma’am, it’s not for me that I’m worried. It’s you! What will the king do? You heard what he said when you arrived. Please, don’t do it.’ Her voice was pleading now, and so were her eyes. But Maire had made up her mind.
‘I’m going to do it. If you don’t tell anyone there’s no reason why they should know.’ Her voice was deathly cold and it gave Siobhan the shivers. She could almost picture the words, white against a grey background with no warmth or comfort.
It was the night before Christ’s mass. Maire had heard that some people left their chimneys unblocked and unlit, hoping for a visit from the holy infant or some such thing, so she told Niall that it was a custom of hers. He did not see through her so she ran up to her room. As she changed into black riding clothes, Maire wondered if she was doing the right thing. Her cloak would protect her from soot and so that it did not fall into her eyes, she pulled the hood up to cover most of her face. Like a shadow in the night she slipped up the chimney and began to climb. She was good at climbing: when things were caught in the thatch at home, it was for Maire that her father called.
Soon she was on the roof. Not expecting any guards to be posted up there, she was (understandably) taken by surprise when one caught her in a firm grip and put their gauntleted hand over her mouth.
She was taken down to the throne room where King Niall was sitting, looking extremely grim and forbidding. On the spur of the moment Maire decided to try and pull of the ‘innocent’ act. She also thought it would be best to be moderately polite.
‘Well, Madame Marianne,’ he said. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’ Maire stared at him strangely.
‘Marianne? My name is Maire,’ she commented at last. ‘What do you mean what have you got to say for yourself? I haven’t done anything wrong! Am I to be blamed for something I did not do?’ Oh dear. Her ‘polite’ tone of voice was a little rusty.
‘You know what I mean, Madame Marianne. Your father was a frank. He is the only one in Ireland; probably the only one in the whole of these Isles and that includes England. I wonder how long it will be until they are invaded. God help us if it’s in more than fifty years: they deserve it now. Anyway, this revelation. How does it make you feel? Hurt, betrayed? Upset? I’m sorry I had to be the one to break it to you, little Madame. Your name is Marianne. Do you not like it? It is a pretty name. Maire is so common. And as for what you were doing on the roof, I know exactly what you were doing up there. A fool’s errand: escape attempt. Am I not right?’ The King’s voice dared Maire, or Marianne as we must call her now, to argue. She guessed that she wasn’t going to be executed right then and found that she was extremely tired.
‘I don’t know. Can’t I just go to bed? There’s always the morning to talk about it. Please, I’m exhausted.’ Niall nodded to a guard and she was marched off to her room and locked in firmly.
The next morning, Marianne awoke to find that she was alone. It was the first time since she arrived. Surprised, she dressed and opened the door. It was unlocked. From somewhere down below her a child was crying. Intrigued and feeling sorry for whomever it was, Marianne started down the stairs. She met Siobhan on her way.
‘Oh, miss. I’m so sorry,” she blustered.
‘Sorry?’ asked Marianne. ‘Whatever for?’ The morning was turning out to be very confusing.
‘I had to tell them, I just had to!’ said Siobhan. It was obvious that there was something bothering her. ‘They asked me if I’d known about the escape. They beat me until I said! I’m sorry, I really am. Mind you, they beat me when I told them, too.’ Now that she thought about it, Marianne could see the marks on Siobhan’s arms and legs. She guessed there were some on her back too.
‘Whoa,’ she said. ‘Who is ‘they’?’ The poor girl’s ramblings had not made much sense to her at all.
‘The king, miss. He beat me himself!’ She was crying now. ‘There’s a little girl down her, crying her eyes out. She wants you. Do you know her? Oh, miss, the king’s dreadfully angry. Do be careful!’ Marianne was already half way down the stairs.
When she got to the Throne Room Niall was sitting on his throne looking smug. Crying her eyes out was Marianne’s little sister, Sofie.
‘Sofie, chickadee,’ she said as she always did when Sofie was upset. ‘Don’t cry! I’m here now. Everything is going to be fine, ok? Everything will be perfectly fine and there’s nothing to worry about. Calm now, calm.’ And as Marianne said the words she knew that she could not convince herself to believe them.
‘Well, Marianne,’ began King Niall. ‘I mean to make an example to you today. This,’ he said, nodding to a guard who then stepped forward, ‘is what will happen to you if you misbehave again.’ As she watched, Sofie had one of her little fingers cut off. Involuntarily Marianne gave a little gasp. Niall smiled. ‘Not pretty, is it?’ he said, more as a statement than a question. ‘Not nice. It seems cruel, yes, but would you rather it was your finger than hers? Maybe, but compassion was never my speciality. Proceed!’ he added to the guard who then sliced off each of Sofie’s other fingers one by one.
‘No!’ shouted Marianne in horror. ‘You can’t do this! She’s four years old! She’s got her whole life in front of her and you’re crippling her!’ King Niall looked secretly pleased.
‘No, Marianne, she does not have her whole life in front of her,’ he said. ‘Proceed to the second part of the punishment.’ The same guard drew his sword and rammed it through Sofie’s stomach.
‘NO!’ screamed Marianne. ‘STOP IT!’ There were tears of pain, sorrow and anger causing streaks of water on her cheeks. ‘You can’t do this! She hasn’t done anything wrong!’ Sofie was screaming too. She couldn’t understand why her big sister wasn’t helping her and she looked down at the cold metal stick that was stuck in her but did not feel any pain. Pretty red colours decorated her brown woollen dress. She wondered where they came from. Had Sofie made them herself? Did the liquid come from inside her? There was so much she didn’t understand and suddenly she didn’t care. Life seemed so simple, no questions, no answers. Nothing. Just a void opening up in front of her that offered a way out. She took it, ecstasy and anguish on her face in a way that made her look completely inhuman. Then she fell. Marianne gasped and ran to the body. Her face was white, her lips were bloodless and her hair hung damply around her shoulders. When she looked up, Niall saw the hatred in her eyes and the pain that he had never known. There wasn’t even a burial. To Marianne this just seemed to add to the unjustness of the whole thing. The tiny body was simply thrown into the lake, adding a fresh colour to the water. It was tinged with red for many weeks after the slaughter of a child. Marianne could not cry. Every time she cried, she was whipped so she lived in constant fear until she became just an empty shell with no emotion but anger and hate and no aim but to escape from the hellhole that she was trapped inside. Sleep did not come to her, for every night she laid awake, watching, waiting and wondering if she would ever forget the sight of Sofie’s face.
Chapter Five – Maire’s story
Offered but declined
As she told me her story, forbidden tears trickled down her withered cheeks and fell into her lap. It was as if the grief of long is re-awoken by telling it. Maybe it is. I would not know. I have never felt pain, if I have it is long forgotten, long forgiven.
*
On evening, Niall came to see Marianne in her room. It was not as nice as the ‘green room’ – which was what Marianne had privately christened the room she had slept in previously – but it was comfortable enough. There was a low bed, very much like the other one, but there were no hangings. In fact, there were no posts. The floor was covered in a mat made from plaiting reeds together. When she arrived, Marianne had found the bare floor extremely cold and unforgiving so she sent Siobhan to get some reeds. The mat she made in her spare time, which, poor Marianne, she had a lot of.
‘Marianne,’ began the king. His voice was somehow pleasanter than usual and he seemed to genuinely care about Marianne’s opinion of what he was about to say. ‘I know you object to my taking of hostages. You have every reason to, given that you are one of them. But I’m not sure you understand the reason. Peasants do not obey me. “It’s nearly 400 Anno Domini now, we need to move on” they say. Well, in my opinion we can’t move on until we get law and order in this age. So, if they will not obey when I am kind then they must obey when I am cruel. Can you not see that by making them obey me I am creating the perfect Ireland, where no one questions my authority? Everyone will play their vital part in making us great!’ It was then that Marianne realised he was –
‘You’re totally mad! I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this but you’ve got your ideas all muddled up. Isn’t it better to have subjects who do your bidding because they respect their King than to have subjects who only do what you want because they are scared of you? I have been here for … two summers, three winters, and I have seen no improvement in the world. You should be ashamed of yourself. I am innocent: name my crimes and see if I deserve to die because others disobey you. I do not understand: I thought you believed in fairness and justice. Evidently not. I know how your reputation will turn out. Admittedly, some will say that you were the most successful king of Ireland ever but others will call you Niall of the Nine Hostages and remember you as a king who was cruel and unjust. Your descendants will say isn’t it a shame that we aren’t descended from a nice king that everybody loved because you will be remembered instead as the king who nobody loved, who was mean and hurt innocents, who did not care for a fair society.’ Marianne was instantly surprised at herself but did not regret her words. She had never made a long and powerful speech before, especially in the presence of a monarch but her emotions were slipping from her grasp and she could no longer hold them in. Niall scrutinised her. His grey eyes took in every aspect of her changed self.
‘I have an offer for you, Marianne,’ said King Niall. ‘Be my lady. Marry me.’ Marianne was shocked. He was in his late twenties, getting on for an old man and she was –
‘I’m thirteen summers old! I won’t marry you!’ And I don’t want to either, she thought. When she was shocked, her thoughts could be extremely uncharitable.
‘Why not?’ asked Niall. ‘I’m the king, I make the rules. I can protect you and plus, when you are the un-proclaimed queen you will be free to leave, although not altogether because you can’t just abandon your husband. There’s nothing to object to and nobody would know. I am asking you to marry me, I expect you to accept. If not, I will find a way to make your considerably shorter life miserable before I kill you.’ It was not fair.
‘So basically you’re telling me to marry you or die?’ she said coldly. There was hatred channelled into every word and it polluted the air like a bad smell. Her eyes flashed and King Niall could tell that soon Marianne would get seriously angry. ‘I’ve made my decision,’ she said. ‘It may not be to your liking: I CHOOSE TO DIE.’ Niall’s eyes widened in surprise: he had not anticipated this.
‘This is not a joke. This is not a game,’ he said. ‘I mean it, you will die.’ Do you take me for a fool? said the cynical voice in Marianne’s head. I’m not a child. I’ve never had the time for games, personally. Well, now I play for life and I play for death. What do you bet? However, she was not a fool and did not voice her opinions aloud. Instead, she made a statement.
‘At least if I’m dead I’ll be able to see my sister again. You may remember. The four year old you killed mercilessly?’ There were tears threatening to spill but her newfound courage kept her going relentlessly. ‘You wouldn’t understand – you have no heart.’ Courage must be one of those qualities that does not show itself until one really needs it.
*
Marianne’s voice was panicky.
‘They’re coming! Quick, we’ve got to hide!’
*
When she was almost fourteen King Niall tried again. He had not carried out his terrible threats but showed no signs of relenting.
‘This is you last chance. Are you going to blow any chances of becoming great?’ Marianne knew what he meant, even though he had not spoken of it for more than ten moons.
‘I will not marry you.’ Those eyes. Those eyes scared Marianne: devoid of emotion, full of ice and fire.
‘Very well, you must face the consequences.’ A guard came forward, the same one who had carried out Niall’s punishment on Sofie. ‘Prepare the execution and, please, make it interesting. Don’t just stab her. Let me see her pain, let me see her wish that she had given a different answer.’ Marianne did not believe it: King Niall was actually going to kill her. I’m going to die, she thought. I can’t believe it. I’m going to die. Another guard dragged her out of the room. They tied her hands and feet together then stood her on the scaffold that was always standing in the courtyard, ready. Being as she was tied, Marianne could not stand very easily. The noose was put around her neck but they did not give her the slight mercy of a hood. A drummer was beating out the beat that Marianne had heard so many times before. Bom, bom, bombombom, bom, bom, bombombom. It was relentless and heartless, just like the man who ordered it. This cannot be happening, though Marianne with a hint of panic. But it is. Save me, someone, please!
‘I’ve changed my mind!’ she said, but it was too late. Just as the pain began, a horse whinnied. Conan, the boy who taught her to ride, was galloping out of the stables holding a long sword. Marianne didn’t know anything about swords but she could see that it was high quality. There was intricate engraving on the blade and vaguely she remembered that she had been shown it before. Now she remembered. It was the pride of the armoury, and very expensive. Galloping over to the gallows, he called out his challenge.
‘As far as I remember, Marianne has not done anything wrong. This is why I am going to save her.’ No, don’t! We’ll be caught. Oh, Conan, you silly person! You’re not strong enough for both of us! thought Marianne. With one swift movement, he swung the sword around and cut the rope holding her. Gallantly Conan helped her into the saddle and they galloped toward the gate. The portcullis was falling but they manage to get out before it impaled them. For a moment, Marianne thought they had escaped but then she saw the arrows hitting the ground around them. Conan’s strong arms went limp around her waist: one of the arrows shot by not very good archers had found its mark. By some miracle, though she was sobbing in terror, Marianne managed to get to the woods. She pulled Conan off the horse and sat for a few moments with his head in her lap.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘You didn’t have to do that. I insulted you, I questioned you about things you didn’t want to talk about, but still you were prepared to die for me. What have I ever done to deserve such a sacrifice?’ He opened his eyes but closed them again quickly as if it hurt him to try to see.
‘The boy. The youngest hostage. He knew this would happen. He told me but I came. He is … different. He believes in a greater power. I … don’t understand him. You have to … listen to me. I need … I need … water.’ Marianne could barely make out the words and his breathing was ragged as if he had not much air left. ‘Don’t let them catch you. I … can’t help you any more.’ With that, he gave up the struggle to live. Marianne hardly knew Conan. True, he had taught her to ride, but he was not close to her. However, when she realised he was dead she felt as if she had lost a friend.
Sobbing, she piled rocks over the body and made a sort of tomb. It wasn’t much but there was no time. She had to get away. I feel like a murderer. That death was my fault. I’m stained, guilty, and unclean. Now there are two deaths on my conscience. How can I make it up to him, how can I avenge those killed? she thought. Marianne felt as if her mind was betraying her and trying to help her. She felt lost, confused, with no one to help.
‘If there’s a god in that sky then give me something to eat, please,’ she prayed, but there was no conviction in her belief. The boy . . . he is … different. Conan’s words came back to her. He believes in a greater power. Could there really be a greater power, greater than the king? Marianne’s thought were in turmoil: this idea was new to her.
Later that evening she found some berries. It was a stroke of luck because although there was food in the saddlebags it mostly needed cooking and she could not risk a fire so close to the palace. She could not sleep for she had not thought of bringing any blankets. All through the next day, tired and hungry, Marianne toiled through the undergrowth. Occasionally she stopped and hid because the sound of horses’ hooves was never far away. It seemed there was a god who had a soft spot for her: she was not found that day or the next or the next.
‘Please, keep me safe,’ she begged. ‘I don’t know how to live out here on my own.’ And there, in the gloom, she saw a cottage. There were no lights on and it appeared to have been deserted for a few years. It was little less than a miracle. Marianne hid there. It gave her shelter and warmth, and it was almost a home. Almost. But there was something missing: families and laughter.
She had been there for a few months, trying desperately not to be discovered. It was hard: people seemed to come to the cottage for some sort of gathering every few weeks and their footsteps would come close to her hiding place only to go away. Every time this happened, she would be terrified and hardly breathe until she was sure they were gone.
A man’s voice interrupted to the silence.
‘Hullo!’ he said to his companion. ‘There’s someone here. A girl. You know, I had a feeling that someone was listening. How long have you been here, child?’ Marianne didn’t know whether to answer.
‘Two moons,’ she said eventually. ‘I’m sorry; I don’t know who you are.’ They exchanged startled glances and then relaxed.
‘My name is Lewis, my companion’s is Féileacán.’ The second man looked embarrassed at the mention of his name.
‘Your name is butterfly?’ she asked him incredulously. Lewis cut in.
‘He’s mute, no tongue. Yes, his name is Butterfly. We call him that because of him being so delicate and beautiful.’ Marianne could only assume they were being ironic or poetic or something like that. The man was built like a house and was extremely ugly.
‘Bó,’ swore Lewis. Marianne wasn’t sure if she’d heard him right.
‘I’m sorry?’ she said. He looked at her as if noticing her from the first time. ‘Did you just call me a cow?’ Lewis smiled.
‘No, no. But come, you have not done your part of the introductions. What is your name?’ Marianne flushed.
‘Well, I always thought it was Maire, but Niall…’ She trailed off, acutely aware of what she had just revealed. ‘Niall said it was Marianne,’ she finished, trying to appear as if she wasn’t in hiding from the King.
‘Niall said it was Marianne? Do you mean His Majesty, the King, paid enough attention to you to change your name?’ Lewis seemed a little too interested and Marianne became wary.
‘I was a hostage. Don’t take me back there! I’ll be killed if you do. Please, I beg you.’ It was her last card to play. Evoke sympathy and you have a chance.
‘Don’t worry. Niall is not our friend, but may I say that there is a £50 price on your head? There are some who would not be so ready to protect you; a family could live at least two years off that.’ Marianne had expected as much – it was not safe for her to go anywhere.
‘I take it you’ve heard of me then?’ she said trying to make light of the situation. Féileacán laughed and nodded. Marianne noticed that he could be heard when he laughed but not at any other time. It was strange.
‘Fame,’ she sighed. ‘I always thought it would be a good thing.’ Lewis smiled, but then turned serious again.
‘How long is it since you last ate?’ he asked. For a couple of moments Marianne thought.
‘About three days.’ The very thought of food made her sway. Féileacán and Lewis looked at each other.
‘Come,’ said Lewis. ‘We’ll give you food.’ Wearily Marianne got to her feet. Her joints were stiff because she had been sitting in the same position for a long time. Dizzily, she stumbled but Lewis caught her. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked anxiously.
‘I’m fine,’ began Marianne. ‘Well, actually I’m not. My stomach feels as if a monster has been chewing it out from inside, I think I’ve wet myself, I can hardly speak for thirst and I’m about to faint. Other than that everything is absolutely perfect.’ It had always been an asset of Marianne’s, sarcasm even when very ill. Féileacán and Lewis did not even flinch at her icy tone.
‘Okay, you just follow me slowly and we’ll get you something to ease your hunger,’ said Lewis. Step by step Marianne made her way out of the hut, the hut that had been her world for a few weeks. After about forty yards they came to what looked like a solid rock face. Lewis carried on, undaunted. Marianne cried out, but then saw his expression and realised that this was possibly the entrance to the cave. Her guides reached the rock face and started feeling around.
‘Ngggh,’ said Féileacán. Marianne did not know what could be wrong until she remembered that he couldn’t speak.
‘Quite right,’ replied Lewis. ‘No: we’ve come to the wrong place.’ Turning around, they made their way back along the cliff. When they reached the other end, there was a rock face almost the same as the other. Within moments the three weary travellers were sitting around a campfire, Marianne wrapped in a blanket that smelt vaguely of horse.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Can I have some water?’ One of the young women sitting in the shadows at the back of the cave brought her a cup. It was wooden, and looked as if had been roughly made from a piece of bark. Drinking deeply, Marianne felt a surge of relief before her limbs froze and she fell, unconscious, to the floor.
*
‘I think there was some sort of potion in the drink,’ she said. ‘I felt like I was being frozen in ice. I couldn’t move and then I couldn’t even breathe. It was suffocating. You can’t imagine what it was like, believe me.’ She grimaced, and then smiled.
‘But it’s over now, one way or another, ’ she said no hint of humour in her voice.
*
Chapter Six – Maire’s story.
One or another.
When she woke up she was in the back of a cart. There was a thick cloth over the top, making it hard for the poor girl to breathe. Reaching up, Marianne pushed the waxed material to one side and looked out. Her feet were tied and there was a cloth around her mouth to stop her shouting. This was when she decided it was PANIC TIME. They could only be taking her to the king! Marianne ducked down and pulled the cloth back over her. Minutes later, the cart pulled of the dirt track they were following and joined one of the main roads, made of big blocks of stone. They ground to a halt and the cloth covering Marianne was drawn aside. Niall was looking into the cart, looking very smug.
‘Well, Marianne. Turned up again, have you?’ She gritted her teeth and said nothing. ‘Never mind. I have something special in mind for you. Something I reserved just for the one person to escape from within my walls, the one person who could talk their way around the inhabitants of the castle so they were committed to helping her!’ No, Marianne wanted to say. That’s not true! I didn’t ask them to do that, but they did. ‘However,’ went on King Niall. ‘I feel that such a glorious … shall we say … present … should be kept a surprise. How do you like the idea of escaping it? One word, said at the right time, could save you the pain, and me the trouble. Say yes: it’s simple. Well?’ In her mind, Marianne spat in his face. In reality, she knew she was caught in a net like a mouse in a trap. She prayed to god that she didn’t say the wrong thing.
‘Um…’ she said eventually. ‘Would you mind revealing this ‘something special’ before I make my choice? I am not particularly keen on surprises.’ For she knew what he meant. He wanted her to marry him, or die. King Niall laughed. It was not a cheerful laugh but a laugh that implied with every echo, ‘you are going to get it this time’.
‘First,’ he began, ‘I would hang you in chains completely naked in the courtyard for ten days and ten nights without any food. Each of those days I would personally chop of a finger and a toe till you screamed in pain. Then you would be subjected to a week of torturing, still with no food, and if you had not yet starved or been tortured to death, we would chop off you head. More to the point, we would force your whole family, sorry, adopted family, to throw rotten vegetables at you and laugh at you. Or, you could marry me and experience no pain more than childbirth, which I would obviously expect of you.’ King Niall looked quite proud of himself for having thought of this stream of pain. Hatred surged through the caught mouse like an ice cold dagger, lashing out and drawing blood whenever possible.
‘Why do you want me to marry you?’ asked Marianne. ‘I’m not pretty, or particularly intelligent.’
‘Marianne,’ sighed the King. ‘I am twenty-five now. I have about twenty years of my life left. If I am lucky I will see the turn of the century. It is three hundred and ninety years since ‘the year of our lord’ as the Christians call it, and I am an old man. I have no sons, no children whatsoever. Who will continue my line, and inherit the throne? We will all come to ruin if there is no one! Who will stop Ireland being overrun? I am proud of who I am. I need to give my throne to a son who is capable of carrying on. I need to be remembered as the greatest King that Ireland ever had, as you once predicted, but for that I need a wife. I need you.’ Marianne had not heard such emotion from Niall ever.
*
‘But still, he may be cruel but at that moment he wasn’t a monster, he was just a man feeling strained from running a country,’ she said. ‘In a bizarre way it touched my heart.’ Embarrassed, Marianne looked away and would not answer any of my questions.
*
‘You say I am pretty, maybe I am. I have never known it be so before today. Yet I do not understand.’ Niall sighed again.
‘Marianne, you will never understand. I don’t know how to make you understand.’ His voice is weary as if my questions tire him.
‘Have you known pain?’ Marianne asked. The four words she spoke as an innocent challenge have tears trickling down King Niall’s cheeks. The king, a mighty warrior, never known to show emotion, was crying.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When I was about six, my sister tried to make a potion to kill me. She was jealous because although she was the firstborn, I was a boy and I would inherit everything. She cut off one toe, most of my hair, some of my nails and some skin. But she was no witch. I don’t think her heart was really in it. It killed her. Do you understand?’ As he spoke, he pulled off his left stocking. The middle toe was missing. ‘You think I am a tyrant. Imagine what it would be like if she was on the throne.’ Marianne nodded.
‘Life would be even harder,’ she said. More and more she felt something like pity for the man that had always seemed so heartless before. The horrific injury in front of her was the proof that Niall really was a human being. Averting her eyes, she made her decision.
‘Yes.’ The one word sealed her fate. King Niall looked deep in to her eyes. ‘Stop it!’ screamed Marianne when his eyes pierced her soul. ‘Stop it! You’re looking into my soul! Stop it, please!’ By the end of this she was sobbing, in pain or terror Niall did not know.
‘I wanted to see if you meant it,’ said Niall. ‘And I see that you do. Thank you, Marianne, thank you.’
That was how it came to be that Marianne found herself being fitted for a white gown. It was beautiful. All her life she had wanted to wear such a thing, now at fifteen summers, sixteen winters, she was to wear one against her will. There were no bridesmaids, no guests. It was to be a small, private wedding. Strangely, though she had resented it so much, when Marianne kissed Niall as he asked she found that actually she did love him a little bit after all.
*
As we spoke, Marianne blushed and I wonder if she’s ashamed of what she was telling me, but then I realised that maybe it was hurting to revisit events that probably she wanted to forget. They were long ago, hidden, and meant nothing years after. But still I wondered if she really thought I’d tell anyone. Who would have believed me anyway?
*
Chapter Seven – Maire’s story
Revelation
One day the most important person in the whole province was seen marching across the courtyard. Marianne saw him and alerted her new husband.
‘My father is here! I will meet him at last!’ But Niall looked worried rather than please, excusing himself quickly and disappearing. The ‘lord’ had come to see Marianne.
‘This is my daughter?’ he inquired after looking her over. ‘Nay, she is too old. My daughter, could we find her, would be about ten by now.’ He left abruptly, with suspicious moisture in the corners of his eyes. Marianne was left confused.
The next day her foster-father, the man she had always loved as a parent, came. It was the first time he had been allowed to see her. She suspected that he hadn’t even known of her whereabouts. He ran into her arms.
‘Maire! Oh, you’re alive! Last time I saw you was when you were just a girl. Eleven summers, twelve winters old! We have missed you. I can’t believe Sofie is gone. You saw it, didn’t you! That monster!’
‘Now, Father, be careful. “That monster” is also my husband. No,’ she said, breaking off his protestations, ‘I did not want it but the only other option was dying painfully. He forced me into it! But as his father-in-law, you have royal status. Hush, though, for it is not publicly known that I am queen.’
‘But he is a monster,’ objected the old man stubbornly. ‘He killed your sister!’
‘Don’t you mean my foster sister?’ asked Marianne. ‘Niall explained why I do not look like you, but I still have to find out who are my real parents. At least King Niall told me the truth.’ Her father looked at her open-mouthed. Gone was the quiet Maire he knew, in her place this headstrong Marianne.
‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s not true. I was there when you were born. True, you had a different mother to your brothers and sisters, so they are your half-sisters and brothers but you are my daughter Maire and nothing will change that!’ Now it was her turn to gape.
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘Really and truly?’ She couldn’t explain how much she need confirmation.
‘Yes,’ answered her father, filling her heart with a sudden joy. ‘Really and truly.’ When he had gone she interrogated the man who had lied to her.
‘Why did you not tell me the truth, my king? I am not the Marianne you have made me become, I am the Maire that I have always been and always will be!’ Niall smiled and she thought that maybe he had been waiting for her to ask him that question.
‘You were never truly a hostage, Marianne, Maire, whatever. It was predicted that I would marry a prisoner and how you came to be here I do not know. I suspect my cook, who was prone to listening in on my conversations with fortune tellers etc… I suppose she brought you here in the night, then pretended she didn’t know how you came to be here. Evidently fate will not be held by a halter, to be changed and re-arranged by its victims.’
‘Why did you not let me go, then?’ asked Maire, feeling that maybe this question would score a point against this manipulating man. ‘I never could do this, I never could do that. I … I … I hated you!’
‘You never asked if you could leave,’ said King Niall simply.
*
Three years had passed and Maire had five sons. They were all young and did not yet understand who they are. She knew this and felt sorry for them, because most probably they would grow up with everything, comfort, family and luxury. They would never know what it is like to have nothing, to worry about where your next meal is coming from. The world would come as a big shock to them.
‘Mamma!’ said the oldest, one of two twins. He was but two winters old, but he was born in the summer like his mother, in the month of July. ‘Mamma! Play with us! Do your funny jumpy thing, please!’ Maire sighed. She was proud of the boy, as he could speak well though he was so young, but still children wore her out.
‘It is called dancing,’ she said. ‘Not now, children. I’m busy.’ In a way this was true, given that she was writing in the book that had been a confidante for many years. The triplets looked at each other. They were not yet two summers, eleven months younger than Lewis, the eldest.
‘Dancing?!’ They were proud of knowing the word as their vocabulary was limited, to say the least. At that moment Niall came in.
‘What’s that you’re writing, Maire?’ he asked. Sometimes he shouted and raged at his unfortunate wife, but that day he was in a good mood.
‘Nothing, Ni,’ said Maire, trying to talk her way out of showing him the book. It didn’t work. He laughed but it was a nice laugh, rather than the horrid one the ex-hostage remembered.
‘Ni? Since when have you called me Ni?’ he says humorously. ‘Come on, show you little Ni…’ Reluctantly, with great dread in her heart, Maire handed over the book. Niall opened it and began to read. It wasn’t really a book, more a jumble of papyrus and parchment, depending on what Maire had been able to lay her hands on. All the ink was different colours. As he read, King Niall’s face became grave. ‘You shouldn’t have done this, Maire,’ he said. ‘I ordered my historians not to record a word about you to stop rumours spreading in the future, and you go and write it all down. I should burn this, but I won’t. Oh, Maire, when will you learn?’ His voice was tired and heavy. Maire was not surprised – he was twenty eight, getting on for an old man. The past three years had been average. There were fewer executions, true, because Maire disapproved of them, but apart from that there was not much to show any difference in Niall’s personality.
Maire now loved the palace. Her room was beautiful. She had christened it ‘the white gauze room’. The walls were very pale blue, painted with frescoes of the sea, and the floor was covered in the same kind of rush matting that Maire was getting so practised at making. In fact, she did still make it; it was sold in the market. One large window dominated half of the east wall, and another faced west. Sunlight flooded in, lighting the room more effectively than any candles or torches. On windy days these openings could be covered with white cloths that were thicker than normal, giving her protection from the elements. Her bed was made of pale wood, with translucent white curtains that gave her privacy but light. These led to the name, as you can guess. Covering the windows during the night were cloths of a similar material, thinner than those that kept out the wind and rain.
You may think it odd that her bedroom was not with Niall, but it was right next door. Maire had requested this, as she loved having her own room. The wardrobe was filled with beautiful gowns, as her old one had been, but they were all of a softer linen/wool mix and were natural colours like beige. Five more years passed and during this time Niall was given four more sons and two daughters, two of the sons and both the daughters from Maire, but the other two boys from his second wife. Many kings were renowned for having many wives, Niall was no exception. His children had accommodation high up in the palace, because being young boys they made a lot of noise and sometimes the un-proclaimed queen and her king wished for a little peace and quiet.
The palace grounds found Maire a loving viewer. She would walk along the paths admiring the flowers with their shades of red, orange, yellow, purple and pink, often picking a few and arranging them around her room. Her system of using stone jars filled with water to put them in was soon adapted by a lot of the women who lived and worked in the network of buildings that was the palace. One could easily get lost there, but really it was quite simple. There was the main block, where the throne room and the king’s accommodation (which meant Maire as well) was, the east wing, which housed the kitchens and all the necessary rooms, and the west block, which was the servant’s quarters. It stood on fifty or so acres of fertile land, with gardens and gardeners galore. Only one building was made of stone, and this was the main block. Still, for those times it was quite a development.
After having been married to King Niall for eleven years, she found herself standing one spring under the cherry trees on the furthest lawn from the buildings. Their fourteen sons and two pretty daughters were inside, supposedly doing their lessons or playing, depending on their age. Maire had insisted that, whatever sex they were, all her children learnt to read, write, sew and ride. The boys found sewing extremely tiresome but the girls enjoyed horse-riding. Their parents had been wary of them learning so young but the ponies were so gentle, brought over from a group of islands near Scotland, and so small, shaggy and generally cute tha
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