Author's Note: Well I've updated faster than I intended. Meh … it's the holidays. And this time this chapter is slightly less depressing than the others.
Be constructive guys!
Chapter Four
Heavy breathing ruptured from within Stephen's chest as he awoke one morning. For all it's twisting power, it seemed to claw at his very lungs, as he tried to heave the phlegm up past his throat, forcing him to make rather repulsive throaty, snorting noises. He doubled over, almost rolling out of the bed as the coughs suddenly constricted his chest.
'Oh, he's awake,' said an amused voice from the door. Stephen's eyes snapped open and blearily unsheathed a small dagger towards the source of the noise. However he lowered his hand as he recognised that it was Anice, the widow of his friend Connor. Her plump form was illumianted by the pearly morning sunlight. Her hands were placed upon her hips as she surveyed Stephen's bleary state, torn between both amusement and exasperation.
'Drinking again, I see,' she chastised, shaking her head as Stephen clumsily got to his feet, as Anice coolly studied the bottle littered floor. He grunted a reply and made his way over to her, combing his fingers distractedly through his dishevelled hair.
She watched him closely with her eyebrows raised.
Although she was a stocky, short woman, many men had quelled under her scrutiny. Including the steadfast Connor.
'My apologies Anice,' said Stephen quietly as he scanned the village huts languidly behind her. The light in his blue eyes, no more than a vague glimmer.
'No apologies about it if you're not going to look after yourself,' she said, drinking up his rugged appearance 'come, I have news for you.'
'News?' grunted Stephen sceptically; as they started up the hill the village was built on, 'what kind of news?'
'Good news,' Anice affirmed wryly, 'today you will help me prepare for a wedding for one of my nieces. And don't you roll your eyes,' she added sternly as Stephen made to make a groan, 'I have not made an empty promise to Connor to watch one of his best friends decline from all what has happened. You're a man of strength. Now act like one.'
Stephen raised his eyebrows at her but it had been a long time Anice had mentioned her dead husband's name. But slowly and gradually she was rebuilding all from what had happened. She had buried her daughters, her husband and gradually burying her grief with setting herself new tasks to accomplish.
Yet deep within, Stephen could not help feel incomplete. Something was missing.
'You may also find other things rather than food to your taste at the ceremony,' smiled Anice, a knowing glint in her grey eyes. Stephen raised his eyebrows at her again but a vague laugh escaped him. Anice nodded approvingly.
'And make sure you keep that smile on your face young man,' she said, waggling her finger, resembling wildly the look of a flustered hen, 'God only knows you're going to be all doom and gloom at the celebrations. It would even make God himself want to turn away and hail you down with lightening bolts, and I know that, even though you talk to him on daily basis. Honestly.'
She shook her head and carried on up the hill, lifting her grey skirts from the soaked mud. Stephen did not reply but laughed genially all the same. Though, automatically he looked up into the sky and allowed a grin to unfurl.
It had become a cemented habit to talk to the Almighty. Due to the blow of losing his wife, child and now his closest friend he had desperately sought comfort and counsel in his prayers to the Lord, keeping him his closest companion and personal advisor. He wanted the strength to get over his grief, and yet even though he still felt freshly torn, he thanked the Lord for granting him the strength to live each day.
Finally they reached the outskirts of the village, and they entered a field which was swarming with people, busily attending to jobs. Two large tables were constructed diagonally facing a large space which Stephen presumed would be an area for joyous dancing. Colours of food were being placed upon the tables and bright banners were hung above it, festooning the scene to appear hospitable and festive.
'The ceremony begins in under an hour,' stated Anice and she brought Stephen over to a table full of fresh fruit. 'Eat as much as you want but chopping it onto the platters would be a real help,' she said, handing Stephen a rosy apple and a short knife. He took them vaguely from her, nodding his head in thanks.
Suddenly behind him there was a blast of music, making him jump. The atmosphere transcended into a merry, light tone, immediately wiping away any nimbus of gloominess in the air. The musicians had arrived.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The silhouette of a woman stood resolutely beside a stone hewn window, gazing blankly into the distance across the wild, untamed plains. The cold, greying clouds which brewed in the sky seemed to reflect glassily off her unfocused eyes. Another day. Another bleak day. Confined to her own quarters lest she be leered and glared at by the soldiers of the grand garrison where she dwelled. The fairness of Ireland which lay out of her window seemed to insult her, every feral hill and jagged rock grazed grimly up at her being. She was her own prisoner. Locked away by her own contaminating fears and looming miseries.
Suddenly she felt a gentle tugging of her garment. She cast her eyes down and saw a four year old toddler grinning up at her, whilst holding a particularly ugly toy horse. The thing had been carved by Aldrich himself and to Meghan it wildly resembled a debauchedly, distorted cow rather than a proud, strapping stallion. She smirked humourlessly.
'Mother will you play?' Alden said, his pale eyes very much like his fathers wide with enquiry.
Meghan lifted her gaze from the child and stared distractedly around the room.
'Don't pull mother's skirt,' she murmured, pulling her lower garments sharply out of the toddler's grasp.
'All right,' smiled Alden oblivious to her cold manner, 'will mother play later then?'
'Er … yeah,' Meghan muttered vaguely, as she rubbed her face in stress, 'go and play, in - in the corner … '
Alden skipped happily from her company and wandered over to his converted little nursery in the corner of the room. He sat down and contentedly immersed himself in a game of "horse and rider" with the toy. She watched him closely. Just like her previous son, the child had inherited her auburn hair and more annoyingly a love for literature. So the child was a born scholar she mused dryly. Well Aldrich can see to that.
Silently, she left the toddler's company and disappeared from the room. She wandered through the many corridors, inside the main garrison quarters to a lonely room where she knew Aldrich kept his liqueur. She quenched for a long, hearty swig of ale; that ought to keep the gloominess pressing at her brain at bay.
The door handle of the room moved and a figure entered. By the uneven stumps of footsteps, Meghan recognised it was Aldrich. Her heart sank.
'Ah my dear Meghan,' he croaked. He was clad in an ill-fitted armour which hung off his body like dead skin off his body. It was smeared with smatters of mud. His wispy grey hair was bedraggled and hung like loose curtains, framing his long face. He was fresh from an errand of fighting.
'Fighting?' enquired Meghan as she studied him, carefully closing the liqueur cupboard draw silently shut behind her.
'Yes,' smiled Aldrich thinly. He swept over to the cupboard and pulled out a large bottle of ale. He uncorked it and hungrily drank straight from the top, whilst holding the bottle at a precarious angle. Streams of ale began to slide down his neck, seeping into his red collar. When he had consumed it all, he wiped his mouth and banged it on a nearby table.
'I was in need of that,' he said, staring at her.
'Indeed,' Meghan replied tonelessly.
'Yet more control has been needed in the lower villages. King Edward has set me a weighty task, I do not think it is feasible but still I will try. He keeps my being in high esteem, granting me this large stone garrison, which indeed may become a working town if I set my sights on it,' he uttered a sigh, 'Commanding has not been one of my favourite ways to spend my days. Would God rather have chosen me to be the humble farmer in his field? Or maybe the lowly beggar on the streets of London? We will never know. Anyway enough garble from me, how has your day been so far my darling?'
'Bleak,' Meghan replied stonily, pervading his confession with a dismissive response.
'By that tone of voice I would suspect,' laughed Aldrich, 'have you been playing with little Alden?'
'No,' said Meghan shortly.
'Why?'
'He sleeps.'
'Oh, very well!' he exclaimed, 'will you sleep also?'
'It's midday,' Meghan said, frowning.
'Will you nap with me – put an old man to his bed?' asked Aldrich, winking; the alcohol was beginning to transgress his brain. So much so he did not hear Meghan's noise of disgust or feel her leave the room.
'I've sent an escort to give you some supper - I mean tea,' said Aldrich blearily, his voice echoing incoherently off the stone corridor walls as Meghan retreated down them, 'please eat ….'
She shook her head and headed back to the nursery room, and slammed the door behind her.
- - - - - - - - - -
The evening atmosphere was quenched with merriment. The quivering heart-thumping notes of the flute and the joyful, spinning notes of the fiddle garlanded the air, spreading its wings of infectious sounds into the hearts of the villagers as they danced joyfully the night away with each song. People sat on benches, happily watching the scene, applauding loudly at the end of each song. Stephen was among them. For the first time in years, a precious spark of happiness that he thought he would never feel, erupted inside him. And he blessed it.
The wedding had been an extremely wonderful affair. Although, it strongly reminded him of when he and Meghan had married some six years ago, he could not help feel pleased for the newly wedded couple. He had clapped happily along with the rest, smiling largely as they shared their first kiss before the priest, their faces beaming with adoration for one another.
'Oof! I'm all pooped out!'
Stephen swivelled his head and saw a very tipsy Anice meandering her way towards him. She almost tripped from her ceremonial dress but Stephen caught her deftly with his hands.
'Oh thank you very much,' she said, as he helped her sit beside him. Her round cheeks were ruddy from the influence of a few hearty drinks but her grey eyes remained as firm as ever. 'Have you danced yet Stephen?' she asked him.
Stephen took a large swig of ale from his flagon and gave a nod.
'Aye,' he smiled, 'indeed I have, Mister Daniel's daughter certainly has a way with rhythm.'
Anice grinned.
'And so it has been said,' she said to him, a long contented sigh escaped her and she gazed misty-eyed at the married couple dancing gently with one another in the centre of the crowd. A stray tear of happiness slid down her plump cheeks. 'From the dying shoots of an old tree, shredded with despair, a blooming flower appears.'
Stephen gave a weak laugh and toasted her remark, though choosing not to elaborate.
'Aye … indeed' he muttered. He knocked back another sip and his face relapsed into a grim expression as they both studied the dancing in silence. Like the spinning figures of the people, Stephen felt his mind whirring with streams of indistinguishable thoughts. Happiness. What was it that would make him truly smile again? Indeed he smiled, beamed, grinned and laughed as he looked on as people and friends from the village bore children and wed into hopeful years of bliss. But all that was only a mere coating of peace, smothered atop his tortured heart.
Injustice and sheer grief stabbed at him night and day whenever his thoughts strayed to the English and deep within, the same maddening hatred rattled through him just as it had done when the English had destroyed all that he had loved dearest. He was restless. He was angry. He could not stay.
As if from another world, he heard the distant resonance of joyful clapping. He gave Anice a sideways glance and saw that the merry woman was clapping along to a particular joyful, rapid dance. The woman had her peace. It was shining on her face and dancing in her eyes. Watching her family bloom and caring for others would fulfil any aching pains of neglect and emptiness. She did not need the thirst to fight to be rid of her pain.
'Anice,' Stephen said quietly. He called her again as she was too immersed in clapping happily along to the song.
'Anice.'
She turned. 'Aye Stephen?' she asked, her widely spread smile fading slightly as she saw Stephen's grave expression. He felt a twinge of guilt. He would make this short and sweet.
'Anice, I leave for Scotland on the morrow.'
'What?'
'I cannot stay here.'
Anice stopped clapping and she stared closely at Stephen, moistening her upper lip in thought. Finally she spoke and gave a heavy nod.
'If it is what you really want,' she said to him sadly, placing an arm on his shoulders. Stephen nodded silently to her question.
'I will only ever feel I have done myself justice if I avenge my family's deaths. I say this to only you because you are a wise woman and a good friend. You would understand. The Almighty points his finger over the sea.'
Anice's solemn face nodded. She bowed her head, staring at her hands which were cupped limply in her lap.
'I understand entirely Stephen,' she said soberly, 'I can't stop you from leaving.'
Eventually, after a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, the woman lifted her head and examined Stephen intently. His roguish face was illuminated to its highest degree of detail by the blazing bonfires which surrounded the ceremony; his cheerful smile, his unshaven face, his unkempt raven hair – everything seemed identical from when she could remember from his youth, save his eyes.
The blue set within them which had once been so bright had been extinguished. All that remained were hollow, dark tunnels of cold, blue stone. Thus, indeed she hated to comprehend it but - He was dead. He was a dead man. And Anice knew that such eyes as his would be once again ignited, not by joy but by his lurking anger. A deep, internal lurking anger which had been simmering dangerously over the years. Only yet to be unleashed.
'And who or what are you going to find in Scotland?' she said to him, pushing her dark musings aside. She raised her eyebrows at him.
'Don't you worry about that; I don't think that all of Scotland is going to be completely agreeing to the ways of King Edward. But for me, I need to feel my blade cleanly slice the balls off an English bastard before the Almighty can call me a hero.'
'A hero?'
'Yup, well a hero just to myself, I would have fulfilled all what I would have spontaneously wanted.'
'I believe God would call you a hero by simply seeking justice,' Anice said, arching an eyebrow, though a smirk played on her lips. It did likewise on Stephen. His sombre face split into a humourless, sardonic grin. 'I know I would.'
'Of course I know you would Anice McDuffie.' He clapped the portly woman genially on the back and she gave a snort. However Stephen's face sank quickly back into its previous serious state.
'Just so's you know, I imagine I will leave at first light, Anice.'
First light. A pink, misty sunrise creeping over the horizon, beckoning Stephen to pursue his mission. That was what he imagined. A last reminder of the special beauty of his Ireland before he descended across the fathomless, iron sea to the ancient, subjugated country that was Scotland.
