Summer Rain

The Witch's Daughter: Ch 5. Bronach is gone from Blaine Cottage, but Hilde sees her presence still, and is helped by mother's call to the old ways.

The King of Thomond spoke true. The Uí Conchobhair Failghe fought across their lands from the north-west of Laigins Tir to Dún Alinne.

But beyond Failghe’s reach, east of their realm and west of the mountains, nestled in a valley of lush green lands cradled by the River Slaney, kings from long before lay at rest under ancient stones. For now, no war came here.

On a hilltop here overlooking the town of Bealach Conglas a bitter cold wind and sheets of rain lashed the tombs and ruined forts of Rathcoran. Wild scrub bent over from long battles with the elements. Heather and tussock dotted the hilltop, now trampled by an army and their horses.

A man in a helm and leather armour resolutely stared from the hilltop into the distance to the north-east where the shadow of the Wicklow mountains laid like sleeping beast, its lower limbs shrouded in rain-soaked mists. He was stocky with a full black beard, and he chewed on a bone, then threw it in the grass.

For an age he’d looked for soldiers coming after them through the mists. But there were none.

Another man, slim, and made of sinew walked up to the stocky man. With weathered hands the slim man pulled his collar up against the rain, and straightened his leather helm over his ears. The beginning of watch, and already the weather almost soaked him through. Flinty eyes gazed out up the valley.

The stocky man clapped the other on his shoulder, turned and walked toward the top of the hill, where a group of tents sheltered between the tombs of old Kings, and walls that may have protected soldiers now long dead. A place of peace, after days being pursued by the damn Failghe men.

The wind drove the rain into Bran’s tent, the flapping of canvas drowning his words. The low ridgepole forcing him to sit, he used his pack to raise himself from the sodden ground.

“Sir!” the stocky man said, as he bent into Bran’s tent.

“Nothing from the mountains?” Bran asked. The stocky man’s face said all he needed know.

“Nay sir.”

“Alright, get some food then spell the men watching toward the town and the abbey,” Bran said.

“We’re low on food. You mac Ghiolla Phadraig men, how are your supplies?” said one of the other two men in the tent.

“Low too,” Bran replied. “The abbey, I can just about smell their roasting ovens from here. I’m about done waiting.”

“Aye,” said the other man. “My men are done with salted fish. Surely we trust the monks! They must owe our King enough to feed his soldiers?”

Bran turned back to the map spread on the tents floor. “Diarmait told us to wait here. We’ve done that. I say if by dawn…”

“…sir!” a man said. His a weathered hand on the tent flap, his words carried away by a strong gust. It was the lookout with the flinty eyes.

“What?” asked Bran.

“Sir! Men from the north!” the lookout said.

“Enemy?” Bran asked, spinning about. The lookout stepped away and shaded his eyes, toward the north.

“Soldiers?” Asked the other man, leaning on the map to bring his ear closer.

Drums and horns sounded outside from the camp, shouts came, feet running. Horses neighed in protest. Then cheers.

“By their banners, its King Diarmait mac Murchada sir!” the man said. A grin spread across his face. “And he’s carrying food and ale!”

“Thank the holy mother!” said Bran.

The sky was dark now, iron grey clouds gathering above the faraway hills. A line of bright sky remained in the distant north, and the wind picked up.

It was many moments after the gaggle of villagers had left led by the triumphant figure in black, and Hilde breathed a sigh. They’d be well down the lane by now, near the Main Road into town. Hilde flexed fingers numb from clinging to the rough bark of the pear tree.

Iron grey clouds over Blaine Cottage. © Sarah Smith 2025

Her heart, hammering in her chest since the two men, Bishop Callum Ahearne and Father O’Connor moved under the tree she hid in, began to slow. Her stomach ached, so tense with the effort of remaining still.

Not a real bishop, Father O’Connor said, so who had given him the power to rule her mother a witch?

Jezabel. Uncle Donegal’s wife. Her voice, had been the last to disappear as she listened for them leaving down the lane, raised shrill above Fergus, the blacksmith’s; above Father O’Connor’s.