Chapter Six

  The Sun had dawned far too brightly for Dougal’s liking and, as he opened his eyes in response to Bronty’s shaking him, he also noticed that it was far too high in the sky for it to be dawning at all! He looked at his wife’s stern, disapproving expression and knew immediately that he was in trouble.

  “Did you have an enjoyable time last night?” She asked, her smile striking Dougal as distinctly false. A bad sign, to be sure.

  He quickly replayed all his memories of the previous day and was rather dismayed to find that quite a few were missing, especially those following the eighth tankard of ale. He cringed inwardly, silently wondering just what it was that he had done to make Bronty so upset.

  “I do not mind too much if you feel it necessary to go and have your fill of ale every now and again.” She continued with an exaggerated tone of reasonableness. “I do not even mind overmuch at being woken up by my drunken husband tripping over everything it is possible to fall over in his attempt to be quiet. This, to me, is all part of the same thing. What I do find annoying is when you bring Gryff home so drunk that he can hardly stand. What possessed you to let him drink so much?”

  Dougal sighed slightly in relief. He felt on much safe ground if this what was upsetting her so.

  “That was all Callun’s doing, not mine.” He explained. “He is the village Eron. Who am I to tell him who he can and cannot buy drinks for?”

  “That’s probably the worst excuse I have heard from you in a long time!” His wife sneered.

  “I know but you took me by surprise. Give me an hour or two and I’ll come up with a much better explanation.”

  “Dougal, I’m not interested.” She informed him truthfully. “The poor boy has thrown up all over his room and even now looks so green that I doubt that he will be well enough to take part in the Night of Fires.”

  “He’ll be fine, Bronty.” Dougal reassured her. “Gryff will be back to normal tomorrow. The day after at the latest.”

  “Well, I bow to your superior knowledge in matters of excessive ale intake.” She said acidly. “He’s soon to be a man, after all, and I expect nothing better from him. However, when you finally manage to drag yourself out of bed, you’d better go and clean Gryff’s room up.”

  Dougal groaned. His decidedly upset stomach threatening to rebel at the mere thought of it. “Can’t Gryff do it?”

  “No, he cannot. He’s in such a state that he’d deposit more back on the floor than he managed to clear up. The stink in there is revolting. It’s your job. Do it.” She looked as if she had said what was on her mind and was about to go, then almost as an afterthought she added, “Oh there is one more thing.” The hackles on the back of Dougal’s neck rose at the pleasant, almost friendly way in which she said it. “Do you remember anything else about last night?”

  Dougal furiously wracked his brains for whatever else he may have done that could possibly have so upset Bronty. “Not that much really, if the truth be told.” He finally confessed with an awkward and winning grin.

  “Does the name ‘Cassie’ mean anything to you?”

  Previously lost memories started to return with a vengeance. “She’s the girl from the village, isn’t she? I brought her back with me to help you around the house.” He hesitated slightly, rubbing his painful forehead with the palm of his hand. The dull throbbing interfered considerably with his ability to think. “I did remember to bring her back, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did. She’s sitting in the kitchen at the moment. Do you remember where you told her to sleep last night?”

  “Gryff’s room?” He asked hopefully, already knowing that it wasn’t true.

  “No. Try the barn. You told her to sleep in the bloody barn!” Bronty’s voice rose to a pitch and volume that Dougal found extremely painful, but he thought better of mentioning it to his wife. It seemed to resonate somewhere between and behind his eyeballs. He watched in horror as her emerald green eyes flashed and glittered in righteous fury. “Now listen to me, you sad excuse for a husband. This poor girl has come out here to help me cope with my chores as I am too heavy bearing your child to do them all by myself. It is her first time away from home and you put her to sleep in the barn.” Her voice rose to a shriek. “The first I knew of this was when this poor, bedraggled little girl poked her head around the kitchen door asking if it was alright if she came in to get warm. She’s fourteen summers, for Ostarna’s sake. She was terrified!” Her voice dropped back down to a much more normal, but much more sinister level. “Now, you get out of bed, and you go and apologise to Cassie, then you go and clear Gryff’s room. For as long as she’s here she will stay in his room, and he will have to make do with the barn. Count yourself lucky that you are not out there with him!” She slammed the door on the way out, making the whole room vibrate. Dougal clutched his head in pain. With a very tentative sigh, he got up and got dressed.

  After having done as he had been ordered, Dougal went outside. He found his brother sitting miserably by the well. He was shocked to see that Bronty was not exaggerating. Gryffin was indeed looking distinctly green. Dougal drew a bucket of icy cold water then plunged his head into it, holding it there as long as his breath held. With a ragged gasp, he surfaced, shaking his head and fanning sun glistening water droplets all around. He wiped off the excess with his hands.

  Gryffin looked at him with all the interest he could muster. “Does that help?” He asked.

  Dougal gave the question careful consideration. “I’m not sure.” He finally concluded. “If the water is cold enough, it sort of replaces the pounding in your head with a more generalised pain.”

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  “It doesn’t take the pain away?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Gryffin’s gloom deepened. “I don’t think I will try that then.” He said sadly. “Does drinking ale always make you feel this way?”

  “Most of the time.” Admitted his brother ruefully, adding a strangely truncated laugh that set his head to pounding again.

  “I won’t ever drink again.” Said Gryffin, making the promise more to himself than to his brother. “Why do you do it if it only makes you feel like this?”

  Dougal sat down next to his brother, leaning with his back against the rough stonework of the well. “It’s a strange thing with ale, you soon forget how bad it makes you feel. When you have your first tankard you are determined not to imbibe too much, remembering as you do how bad you felt last time. By about the fourth, you feel pretty good, so you decide one more might be nice, and you are fairly confident that you won’t feel too bad in the morning. By the eighth, you feel so good that one more could only make you feel better and you decide to face tomorrow, tomorrow. Sometime after that, you lose count of how many you have had and tomorrow has ceased to exist.”

  “Is there nothing that you can do to make yourself feel better?” His voice betrayed just how miserable he was feeling.

  “Eating something sometimes helps.” Dougal offered helpfully.

  “You have to be joking!” The very thought of food made Gryffin’s stomach churn in protest.

  “Then there is nothing.” Shrugged Dougal helplessly. “You could try drinking a lot of water.”

  “Tried that. Threw it up again.”

  Dougal placed his hand on his suffering brother’s shoulder. “You will feel better tomorrow.”

  Gryffin shook his head. “I don’t think so. I expect to die at any moment.”

  “Bronty’s asked if it’s alright for Cassie to take your room and you to have the barn while she is here?”

  “It makes no difference to me. I’ve told you that I definitely won’t last the day. Just bury me in the forest somewhere – beneath an Oak tree would be nice.”

  Dougal laughed. “I promise you won’t die, no matter how much you’d prefer it at the moment. I have to go hunting now – do you want to come along?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Just bury me when you get back, will you?”

  Much to his surprise, Gryffin did feel better the next day. Even if he still didn’t feel up to eating yet, his stomach no longer rebelled at the mere thought of food. He had created a warm, comfortable den for himself in the barn and, by sleeping under two feet of straw, had managed to get himself a good night’s sleep. He felt slightly envious that Dougal had shaken off the effects of his hangover completely but, he thought happily, Bronty was still mad at him and he didn’t envy his brother that at all.

  Dougal did not care to linger too long at the breakfast table, what with Bronty’s frosty attitude towards him and all, so he dragged Gryffin away as soon as he could to practise his weapon skills in preparation for the Night of Fires, which now hung over Gryffin’s horizon like a large black cloud.

  “What shall we do today, Dougal?” He asked. His apprehension at the manhood ceremony’s approach grew with each passing day, and so did his compliment of facial tics and twitches. Dougal thought it amazing how many of them his brother had, all vying for supremacy until the overall effect was similar to that achieved by pushing a full ounce of ground pepper up each nostril.

  “I think that you need a bit of extra practice with spear and shield. Run and fetch them, will you?”

  Gryffin disappeared into the barn, returning shortly with two six feet long wooden staves and two crude wicker shields that Dougal had made for just such practice sessions as this. Equipped, they squared off against each other, dropping into fighting crouches. They circle each other slowly, allowing muscles time to warm up, while searching for chinks in the other’s defences by throwing the occasional probing thrust. It was Dougal that made the first meaningful attack, whooping a war cry to the goddess as he leapt forward. He moved his shield out to the left. Catching Gryffin’s spear and forcing it out of the way. He followed this up with a flurry of thrusts, both high and low, that forced his brother to scamper backwards, giving ground to his opponent until he could get his spear back into the correct defensive position. They began to sweat freely in the early morning sun as their exertions increased, and the mock skirmish rolled back and forth across the yard. The slap of wood on wicker soon brought out Bronty, followed hesitantly by a pretty blond-haired girl, Cassie. They fetched chairs and sat to watch the activities. Noticing the spectators, both combatants stepped up the tempo of their attacks, the staves darting forward with increased strength and precision. Gryffin lost himself in the pattern of his brother’s attacks, swinging his shield to the left and right, blocking each strike easily, waiting for the time when he could take the offensive. With the next thrust aimed at his right-hand side, he pushed his shield across, knocking the spear out of the way then pirouetted on the spot. He brought his own stave scything around, intending to sweep his brother’s legs from under him. Dougal was forced to leap high into the air in order to avoid the attack. As he came down, Gryffin was ready for him. He thrust his spear forward, catching Dougal painfully in the ribs. The Women cheered as the elder brother fell on his backside.

  “Nice move, little brother.” He said as he rubbed his side. A bright red welt spoke eloquently of the strength of the blow. “However, I would advise against using that move too often. Someone who possesses more skill than I would make you pay dearly for it.”

  “Why so?” Both men leaned on their staves, having a bit of a breather before starting again.

  “It’s an all or nothing move.” Dougal explained. “I would never advise the use of a move that showed your back to the enemy. It will either work spectacularly, or you will end up dead. Unless you are sure that you have the measure of the man, always play it defensively. Wait for them to overextend themselves, then punish them. It may take longer and look less spectacular but, after the fight, you will still be alive. In the end, that is all that counts – who survives.”

  Gryffin nodded to acknowledge the lesson, then presented his weapons to his brother, ready to start again. They continued until well after midday, and long after their audience had tired of the sport and had retired back inside to continue with their daily chores. By the end of the training session, both carried a collection of grazes and bruises inflicted by the other and they agreed that the battle honours were about even.

  “Fight like that at the ceremony and you’ll do well enough.” His brother congratulated him.

  “D’you think so?” Gryffin’s apprehension was obvious. “I’ll be the oldest there, so people will be expecting more of me. I know there have been comments made that I haven’t taken up my weapons yet. I just don’t want to let you and Bronty down.”

  “You won’t let us down.” Dougal reassured him. “Just do your best. Everyone matures at their own pace. It’s just taken you a little longer to be ready to join the warband, that’s all.”

  “I know how to use my spear; I just feel a bit nervous about the whole village watching. What if I make a fool of myself?”

  “Trust me, Gryff. When the first boy attacks you, all the crowd will disappear. It’ll seem as though it’s just you and him. You have to believe in yourself, that’s all. Have faith in the goddess, yourself and your spear arm, and you won’t go far wrong.”

  “I suppose you are right.” He conceded. “Still, I’ll be glad when its all over and done with.”

  Bronty stood in the doorway of the house. “Gryffin, would you like some food? You must be starving after all that exercise.”

  The two brothers looked at each other.

  “She’s still mad at you, then?” Asked Gryffin out of the corner of his mouth.

  “So it would seem.” Laughed Dougal quietly. “She loves me really, you know. By tomorrow, everything will be back to normal.”

  Gryffin made a disbelieving face. “We’ll see.”