and the warm color spreading through the fair, smooth skin of his face and throat—
“Brendan of Dun Bochna!”
Then was a flash of movement, then strong hands grabbed him from both sides, pulling him away from Muriel. He clenched his fists and started to fight back, but then kept still.
“What is this about?” he demanded, looking from one captor to the other. He twisted about to look at the little group of warriors who stood behind the two who held him, but kept still when he saw that they all had their swords drawn.
“You are a prisoner here.”
“Prisoner? I am no prisoner! I am the tanist of Dun Bochna, and the guest of your King Murrough!”
Brendan’s two companions, Darragh and Killian, came running to his side, but the men only took firmer hold of their captive. “What is wrong here?” cried Darragh. “What has he done?”
“He is a hostage with an unpaid ransom,” continued the first warrior. He nodded to the men who held Brendan. “Take him to the hall, place him in one of the rooms, and bolt the door.” With a shove, they started him walking in the direction of the King’s Hall.
“What do you mean, an unpaid ransom?” said Muriel, hurrying after them. “These two companions of his brought the gold when they came here for him. I saw it myself, as did you! What are you talking about?”
“The gold was only part of the ransom. Cattle were due as well—fifteen milk cows, to complete the honor price under the law for a tanist.”
Darragh and Killian looked at each other.
“Cattle?” Muriel stepped in front of the first warrior and held up her hands in front of him, forcing him to stop. Brendan’s captors halted too but only tightened their grip on their prisoner. “Surely his men can return to Dun Bochna and fetch a few head of cattle, if that is all that is needed!”
“Lady Muriel,” said Brendan, his voice formal and calm, “I thank you for your concern. But these men are right. The remainder of the ransom was never paid. I thought only of returning here to you, and nothing else entered my mind.”
“Listen to me,” said Muriel, catching the warrior by the arm. “In the leather case at Brendan’s belt is gold and bronze and copper enough to ransom any prince. Ask the king if he will accept that instead of cows. Ask him!”
“Muriel—I will have your king do nothing of the kind,” said Brendan. “That is your bride price, and it will be used to secure your marriage or I will throw it into the sea. I thank you for your offer,” he said, smiling at her, “but I must apologize to your king, and have him tell me what I must do to make the situation right again.”
“That is right,” said the warrior. “It is the king who will decide. Now, Lady Muriel, please make way. The king awaits us.”
They took him to the King’s Hall and walked him inside. The doors closed tight and Muriel could only wait outside, alone.
The day wore on. Muriel shut herself up in her house with the largest basket of clean combed wool that she could find, spinning the wisps of wool into fine, smooth thread wrapped around long wooden spindles.
The simple work occupied her hands, but it could not keep her from thinking the same tormenting thoughts over and over again. She tried to push those thoughts away, tried to tell herself that she was calm and unconcerned, but knew that she was fooling no one—certainly not Alvy.
“Please, dear one, don’t worry for him,” the old woman said, combing out more wool for Muriel to spin. “They wouldn’t think of harming him. He’s just being held for the ransom he’s worth. They’ll put him in a fine room and feed him enough for three strong men and make sure he’s well and happy. He wouldn’t fetch much of a ransom otherwise! He’ll be back with you before you even have a chance to miss him.”
Muriel kept her eyes fixed on her work. “I know he is safe. It’s just
“Brendan of Dun Bochna!”
Then was a flash of movement, then strong hands grabbed him from both sides, pulling him away from Muriel. He clenched his fists and started to fight back, but then kept still.
“What is this about?” he demanded, looking from one captor to the other. He twisted about to look at the little group of warriors who stood behind the two who held him, but kept still when he saw that they all had their swords drawn.
“You are a prisoner here.”
“Prisoner? I am no prisoner! I am the tanist of Dun Bochna, and the guest of your King Murrough!”
Brendan’s two companions, Darragh and Killian, came running to his side, but the men only took firmer hold of their captive. “What is wrong here?” cried Darragh. “What has he done?”
“He is a hostage with an unpaid ransom,” continued the first warrior. He nodded to the men who held Brendan. “Take him to the hall, place him in one of the rooms, and bolt the door.” With a shove, they started him walking in the direction of the King’s Hall.
“What do you mean, an unpaid ransom?” said Muriel, hurrying after them. “These two companions of his brought the gold when they came here for him. I saw it myself, as did you! What are you talking about?”
“The gold was only part of the ransom. Cattle were due as well—fifteen milk cows, to complete the honor price under the law for a tanist.”
Darragh and Killian looked at each other.
“Cattle?” Muriel stepped in front of the first warrior and held up her hands in front of him, forcing him to stop. Brendan’s captors halted too but only tightened their grip on their prisoner. “Surely his men can return to Dun Bochna and fetch a few head of cattle, if that is all that is needed!”
“Lady Muriel,” said Brendan, his voice formal and calm, “I thank you for your concern. But these men are right. The remainder of the ransom was never paid. I thought only of returning here to you, and nothing else entered my mind.”
“Listen to me,” said Muriel, catching the warrior by the arm. “In the leather case at Brendan’s belt is gold and bronze and copper enough to ransom any prince. Ask the king if he will accept that instead of cows. Ask him!”
“Muriel—I will have your king do nothing of the kind,” said Brendan. “That is your bride price, and it will be used to secure your marriage or I will throw it into the sea. I thank you for your offer,” he said, smiling at her, “but I must apologize to your king, and have him tell me what I must do to make the situation right again.”
“That is right,” said the warrior. “It is the king who will decide. Now, Lady Muriel, please make way. The king awaits us.”
They took him to the King’s Hall and walked him inside. The doors closed tight and Muriel could only wait outside, alone.
The day wore on. Muriel shut herself up in her house with the largest basket of clean combed wool that she could find, spinning the wisps of wool into fine, smooth thread wrapped around long wooden spindles.
The simple work occupied her hands, but it could not keep her from thinking the same tormenting thoughts over and over again. She tried to push those thoughts away, tried to tell herself that she was calm and unconcerned, but knew that she was fooling no one—certainly not Alvy.
“Please, dear one, don’t worry for him,” the old woman said, combing out more wool for Muriel to spin. “They wouldn’t think of harming him. He’s just being held for the ransom he’s worth. They’ll put him in a fine room and feed him enough for three strong men and make sure he’s well and happy. He wouldn’t fetch much of a ransom otherwise! He’ll be back with you before you even have a chance to miss him.”
Muriel kept her eyes fixed on her work. “I know he is safe. It’s just
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