Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  “Fainne!”

  Perhaps I had shut my eyes. Perhaps I had been swaying, or my crooked foot had slipped just a little on the treacherous surface. As Eamonn called out, I felt his arms around my waist again, grasping me firmly, pulling me backward.

  “Careful,” he said sharply. “Don’t frighten me like that.”

  But I was the one who was frightened now. For he had not let go, now that we were safe back on the grass. His hands still held me fast, and he was close, so close I could feel the warmth from his body, and hear his breathing over the sound of the water.

  “I would not want to lose you, so soon after I have found you,” he said softly.

  “I—I don’t know what you mean,” I whispered. I wanted to pull away, to break free of his grip. But I feared to offend him. He turned me to face him.

  “I thought—for a moment I thought—no, forget I spoke.”

  “You thought I would jump?”

  “Fall, perhaps. You are unsteady on your feet today.”

  “I told you, it’s nothing.”

  “I’m concerned that I have asked too much of you. Let me see this foot. Perhaps we can improvise a little padding for the boot, or—”

  “I told you. It is not an injury. My foot is malformed, it has been always. I will never walk straight.”

  “Show me.” He took his hands from my waist and went to seat himself on the rocks, folding his arms and observing me calmly.

  “I—” How could I tell him this was the most painful thing anyone could ask me to do? How could I explain how it shamed me to reveal this deformity? If Clodagh was right, this marked me as a child who should never have been born. And the man hardly knew me. He understood nothing.

  “Why are you afraid, Fainne?” Eamonn asked softly.

  “I’m not afraid!” I snapped, and with shaking hands I untied my boot and eased it off my foot. I unrolled my stocking, and hobbled over to sit by him. “There,” I said abruptly. “I can’t imagine why you would want to see.” My cheeks felt hot with embarrassment.

  Then he was kneeling beside me, and his hands were moving against my bare foot, seemingly heedless of its oddity, stroking the arch of it, following the inward curve, his fingers moving to encircle my ankle, warm and strong.

  “This is not such a deformity that it would blind a man to your other charms. But it troubles you, I see that,” he observed, still looking down at the foot, though his hand seemed to be moving up my leg, under my skirt, in a way that was quite unsettling. “So much that you seem different today. More remote. Like a creature poised for flight. Are you frightened, Fainne? I have told you, I am a good teacher. I would be gentle with you, and go slowly. There is no need to shy away.”

  Still his hand moved, stroking my calf, lifting the skirt, straying as if by chance to the knee, and higher.

  “I—I—”

  “You are afraid.” He withdrew his hand, and came to sit by me once more, but closer. I hoped my sigh of relief was not too audible. “I will not rush you. Only—you must understand, for a man, there is an urgency in such matters, a—a need that is hard to deny. It can at times be painful to exercise self-control.”

  “But you will do so,” I managed, my voice squeaking with nervousness.

  “You might meet me halfway.”

  “I—I don’t understand you.”

  “No? You cannot be unaware of my meaning, Fainne. Your words, your glances, have led me to believe you would not be averse to my attentions. Do not deny it. Since first I met you at Sevenwaters, I have seen it in your face, and in those mysterious dark eyes. In the lift of your brow and the toss of your head, in the way your body sways as you walk. A man would have to be a monk not to want you. A man would have to be mad, not to wish to touch that snow-pale skin, to feel the purity of that flesh against his own, to look down on you lying in his bed, with only the dark flame of your hair to hide your nakedness, and to know that you were his alone, a bright jewel never to be shared. I have not the strength to deny that longing, Fainne; I must make this plain to you, fear or no fear.”

  I was quite unable to form a reply. My heart thumped with shock. I had done this, without even trying? I had made him feel thus, without even employing the Glamour? Surely I misunderstood his words.

  “I have shocked you, and for that I am sorry. But here, there are no prying eyes, no listening ears. You spoke very plainly to me. You seemed to be saying it was time to forget; time to move on. I don’t know if I can do that, Fainne. But you could help me. With you, I might begin to wipe away the past.”

  “I—I don’t think I—” I had folded my arms tightly around me, as if to stop myself doing something I would regret forever.

  “Come now. I give you my word. I will do nothing you do not enjoy. You need but tell me and I will stop. But you cannot lie to me. I know you want me. I see it in the way you blush, like a sudden flare of fire under the translucent skin of your cheek. I hear your need for me in your breathing.”

  He was well practiced. Before I could say a word, I was neatly trapped in his arms, my hands against his chest, my legs across his own so that I was almost on his knee, and he was giving me a kiss that seemed quite expert, not that I had any grounds for comparison. It was a kiss that began gently and became harder; a kiss that started with a soft meeting of lips, and grew into a wet, intimate probing of tongues, a hungry, suggestive kiss that left me breathless and shivering. Under my hand his heart was racing, and his own hands were moving adeptly, one on my back, holding me to him, the other on my inner thigh. There were some very odd sensations in parts of my body I did not want to think about, and the touch of his fingers made me gasp and shudder.

  “Oh, Fainne,” he murmured. “Come, come closer. Put your hands on me, sweetheart. Put your hand here, let me show you.”

  And suddenly, Grandmother’s teaching was no help at all. Indeed, so shocked was I that I could scarce remember a word of it. I simply knew this was wrong. It was so wrong I simply could not allow it to happen. To scream or fight would be undisciplined, and give great offense. I made myself focus; made myself treat this as a puzzle to be solved, while his hands caressed my body and his lips strayed to my ear, and to my neck, and down toward my breasts. I could feel, under my hand, that part of his body he had urged me to touch. It was interesting how it changed under my fingers. I was not ignorant of such matters, despite my strange upbringing. Once, at the cove, I had seen a mare brought to a stallion; had observed the act with a great deal of wonderment, and decided it did not appear very enjoyable, for the mare at least. I had been aware, in Dan Walker’s encampment, of secret trysts in corners, under blankets, or out in the night beneath the trees; of sounds and movements one learned to pretend to ignore. But now, with Eamonn’s body hardening against me, and his breathing becoming harsh and uncontrolled, and his hand untying my bodice to bare my breasts to the winter sun, I knew I must make this stop.

  Eamonn was reaching to undo his belt, he was pressing himself against my hand. Whatever the solution was, it must be quick. I could use the craft as I had once before, and cause him a lancing pain in the gut, a sudden weakness in the stomach. That seemed a little unkind; and arbitrary enough to be viewed with suspicion.

  Now I was lying on the ground, and the whole length of his body was up against me, and his hands were becoming very insistent indeed. Across the grassy shelf the little horse gave a soft whinnying sound. Horses. Something about horses. If I could just think straight for a moment. A stallion could not perform, could not enter a mare, unless his equipment was altered by desire into a more useful sort of tool. An impressive sight indeed it made, when it was. Evidently it was the same for a man. And while I knew no specific spell, I could adapt one quickly; a charm used to modify the forms of things, to make soft hard, for instance, or hard soft. Not too sudden though; there must be no suspicion.

  “Eamonn,” I gasped. “I can’t do this. It’s not right. I always—I always said I would wait.” Under my breath I muttered the spell, even as
my hand touched that most secret part of his body. “That I would wait until I was wed.” The spell seemed to be working with alarming rapidity. I saw the expression on his face change from intense excitement to astonishment to acute mortification. He lifted himself quickly away from my touch. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know how difficult this must be for a man.”

  “Indeed,” he said after a moment or two. “Indeed.”

  “I—I just can’t do it,” I said, sitting up and beginning to refasten my gown with trembling fingers. “I was always brought up to believe such actions were sacred to the marriage bed. For a lady, I mean. I don’t wish to offend you, or to—to cause you any distress. But I vowed I would never give myself to a man, save after he set his ring on my finger.”

  Eamonn seemed to be having a little trouble getting his breathing back under control.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  “No. It is I who should apologize. I expected too much of you, too soon. I forgot how young you are. You make it easy to forget that, Fainne.”

  “I had no intention—”

  “Ah. Now you are not quite telling me the truth. For I think, at heart, we speak the same language, you and I. Come, it is best if we return home. You misunderstood, perhaps.”

  “Misunderstood what?”

  “My position. My obligations. My intentions in inviting you here to Glencarnagh.”

  I felt humiliation, closely followed by a rising anger, and I spoke without thinking. “You had better be straight in your words, Eamonn. Why trouble to protect me by veiling the truth? You mean, you thought I would come here, and give myself to you, and be honored that such a grand man would bother to lie with me? You mean, your intention was merely to bed me and have done with it? A man enjoys an untried girl from time to time, does he not?” I could not keep my voice steady. My lack of control troubled me. I had thought myself so clever, with my little spell. Now I felt cheap and dirty, and worse still, I had really insulted him. He was not a man I would wish as an enemy.

  But I had underestimated him yet again. I had read him as a great deal simpler than he was.

  “You are very beautiful when you lose your temper,” he said quietly, staring at me. “Your hair seems like flame in the sunlight. Your eyes glow with feeling. How can a man look at that, and not want you? You are dangerous, Fainne. Very dangerous. But I’ve always liked a challenge. Now let us enjoy the ride home, for it is a fair day. This is not finished between us. We are two of a kind, you and I. Let us speak further of this later. I’m sure we will find room for—negotiation.”

  He helped me up onto the horse, and we started back down the hill path, with me in the lead this time. The men-at-arms would be waiting. Our time away had been rather brief. I could imagine how they might interpret that. It would do nothing to improve my reputation among these folk. The thought sickened me.

  “I told you.” Eamonn’s voice came from behind me, just audible over the fading roar of the great waterfall. “I don’t take kindly to losing. But I think you will find this is a game in which both of us can be winners in the end.”

  Chapter Eight

  That night I retired early, and Eamonn asked no questions. But sleep eluded me. My head ached, and I tossed and turned, one moment cold as ice, the next burning hot. There were creakings and rustlings in the house, and the sounds of guards changing shifts outside, a quiet exchange of words, booted feet trudging off to the kitchen, their owners perhaps hopeful that there would still be a fire on the hearth and a bite to eat. In the end I got up and slipped a cloak over my nightrobe, and went out along the hallway myself, knowing I would not sleep if I lay on my bed willing rest to come. I would seek out some chamomile tea, and I would visit the privy, and if I still could not sleep I would simply sit by candlelight and try to put my thoughts in order. It was not as if I had any real duties here. I could rest all day if I wanted to. Why else had I been brought here but to provide Eamonn with a little amusement, a piquant diversion in his well-ordered existence? That was all it amounted to. I had been stupid not to realize that. No wonder I felt cheap.

  The house was asleep. Farther along the hall, faint light glowed from the kitchen fire, through the open doorway. Perhaps there were still folk about. But the passage was in shadow, lit only by a candle here and there in a small alcove, to make the way safe for such as I who felt the need to wander at night. The side chambers were dark. I walked softly in my door slippers, careful to disturb no one. I was not in a mood for company.

  It was a very small sound that caught my attention, a rhythmic gasping, ah—ah—ah, under the breath. I paused outside the doorway to a darkened chamber.

  I should have moved on straight away, when I saw them. But I found I could not. I stood fixed to the spot, staring. The faint light from the hall candles revealed them dimly. I recognized the woman. She worked in the kitchens, Mhairi was her name, a comely enough creature if a little slatternly, with a generous figure and fine dark eyes. She had her back to the wall, and her legs apart, and her skirt up around her waist, and Eamonn was doing to her what he had been unable to do to me, up by the waterfall. The effects of my spell had been short-lived. He was not embracing the woman; he had his two hands flat against the wall, on either side of her head, and he was scarce looking at her as he thrust and thrust with a grim-faced determination that I thought was not far from anger. Mhairi did not seem unwilling; it was her little cries I had heard, and in the shadows of the room I could see her eyes half-closed, her face flushed, her lips parted. I could not make my legs move to carry me away from where I had no business to linger. The pace of their movement increased, and Mhairi gave a shuddering moan, and then Eamonn cried out and pushed inside her one last time, and I backed away on silent feet, and fled to the relative safety of the kitchen, my cheeks hot with embarrassment and shame.

  My dreams did nothing to dispel my feelings of unease and self-disgust, and in the morning I found I simply could not go out and about my daily business as if nothing at all had happened. Back in Kerry, if we were feeling out of sorts, there had been a simple solution. Father would either lock himself in the workroom to wrestle with his problems in his own way, or go walking out in the wind and sea spray, with only Fiacha for company. If it was summer I would find Darragh, and recite to him my tale of woe, or sit beside him in silence while the world came slowly back to rights. In winter I would meditate: I would fix my thoughts on a single phrase of the lore, or a fragment of verse, and let the rest drop away. In Kerry there was the time and space for such things. Here it was different. The girls were always about, and eager for my company. And Eamonn was here, Eamonn who had made it clear we had unfinished business. I could not face that, not yet. There were folk everywhere. There was no place for stillness.

  My head was full of unwelcome thoughts. My mind was so jumbled it was no wonder I could not see my path ahead. Already winter was upon us, and I had achieved nothing, beyond a descent into confusion and self-doubt. For that I could thank the creatures who called themselves the Old Ones. I did not want to believe what they had told me, about the battle and what it might mean. I did not want to confront that. But I must. A serving woman brought warm water for washing, and I told her I was indisposed. I wished to spend the whole day alone in my chamber, I said. No, I did not require food and drink, beyond the jug of water I had already fetched. I had logs for my fire. She was to make sure everybody knew I was not to be disturbed. Everybody. I would be fine, as long as no one came to bother me.

  Then I bolted the door and made up the fire, and settled cross-legged before it, with a folded blanket between me and the stone floor. It would be a long day, and my self-discipline had weakened somewhat since Kerry. Father always said cold was a state of mind. One must learn to deal with the way it made the body shiver and tremble and long for woollen blankets and mulled wine. One must learn to put that aside. I had sat from dawn to dusk under the standing stones, or on the ledges of the Honeycomb. But today I needed my blanket and my little fire. I was
slipping. I was letting the ways of these folk get under my skin and change me.

  Time passed. I started with the lore, because that came almost without thinking. Its flow carried me along, to a certain point. I fixed on fire; I thought of it in all its forms, and I began to go deeper into my trance, the breathing slower, the body bathed in light, the mind beginning to release itself, just on the edge…and there was a polite knock on the door.

  “Fainne? Fainne!”

  It was Deirdre. I was far distant now, and heard her voice as if through a barrier, from the bottom of a well. I ignored it, holding onto my stillness with all my will.

  “Fainne!”

  “Maybe she’s asleep.” That was Eilis.

  “It’s the middle of the day. She can’t be asleep.”

  “Better leave her alone.” Clodagh’s voice, the voice of common sense. “They did say—”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Deirdre. They did say don’t disturb her for anything. Not for anything.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Their voices faded. But they had disturbed me. I found I could not return to my trance, and I felt sick, as one does when torn too abruptly from that other state of consciousness. Now that the words had intruded, they were followed by thoughts and feelings, and my mind was retelling me the events of yesterday and of last night, and failing to make any sense of it. All right, Eamonn had wanted a woman, and when I had thwarted him with my little spell, he had gone elsewhere. That was logical enough. Why should I object to the discovery that one was as good as another? Why should I care that he had only asked me here because he thought I would be easy prey, poor, innocent, adoring thing that I seemed? I could not have it both ways. I would not play Grandmother’s game with him. I had already decided that, before ever we rode out together. So why did it matter that he had thought me so cheap, and had so easily satisfied himself with a substitute? What had I believed, that he genuinely thought me beautiful? That I might prove to be the cure for all his problems? Perhaps that he would consider making me his wife?