He held my hair in his fist, bringing his face close to mine.
“This is what you want?” he asked.
I replied with a kiss, thick with desire.
As he tasted himself upon me, his passion grew. Throwing me to the bed, he exposed his chest and pulled up my skirt, pausing for a moment to look at me beneath him.
More gently than I had thought possible of a man from Dún Fionnachaidh, he kissed each of my breasts in turn, before lowering his mouth about my cleft and licking like a marten licks at honeycomb. I bit the back of my hand to keep myself from crying out, and when I could stand it no longer he pushed himself inside me. The width of him hurt for no more than a moment, before the pleasure of it overwhelmed.
When I thought myself dying, he rolled onto his side and held me against his chest whilst he continued to thrust. I clung to him, wishing to remain there forever.
Yet forever is never ours, and eventually our final moments drew near. I shuddered as his warm seed flowed into me, my legs parted wide to receive it.
We lay there kissing for a long time after. He seemed as content as I, unafraid of the consequences of our actions or the wrath of his lover’s husband, whose fort he had entered as a guest and left as a thief.
He lifted me up, sitting astride with his manhood still inside me, saturated and limp. Then he began kissing my neck.
“Now who is this, then?”
For a moment I did not understand what he spoke.
Turning, my confusion melted to horror.
There by the door, holding back the cloth, stood Conn.
Aodh
“You brought them?” Fionn mac Cumhaill asked as I entered the glade.
“I have.”
I threw down a stave and a wooden-handled knife, both of which I had cut myself on the full moon.
“You should treat your weapons with more respect,” he told me. “Pick them up and lay them down properly.”
I did as I was told, my eyes casting about the boulders and between the trees.
“He is not here,” Cumhaill told me. “It’s just you and me.”
My eyes returned to his. He was a giant of a man. I could see a little of him in Caílte, they were blood kin after all, but Caílte was refined whereas Cumhaill was rugged.
Fionn mac Cumhaill was the most famous of all the Fianna who had ever lived. His father had been leader of the Fianna before him, and every kill he ever made had been recorded in verse and song. His mother had been daughter of the mighty druid Tadg mac Nuadat of Almu. Both blood and magic ran through his veins and as such it was claimed he could never die.
I was not sure I believed that, for even the gods eventually die.
“Which weapon do you favour?” he asked.
“The stave.”
“Wrong answer,” he smiled. “You love them both equally and you will fight with both.”
Without a word, I picked them up, the knife in my left hand, the stave in my right.
“Other way around,” he corrected me. “The weapon you know best in your weaker arm, the one you love least in your stronger, until the day you can wield them as one.”
Awkwardly, I swapped hands, already feeling exposed.
Cumhaill turned his back to me and walked to one of the boulders. I was busy feeling the weight of the knife when a rock knocked it clean out of my hand.
“Your grip should be stronger,” he told me.
“I wasn’t expecting that.”
He stared at me with a half-smile and I understood the lesson immediately.
Reclaiming my knife, I readied myself in the centre of the clearing.
The great warrior took up a branch from beneath a tree and began twisting it between his fingers, one way, then the other. After a moment he came towards me.
“Disarm me,” he instructed.
We stepped around one another, and I struck out once or twice with my stave. Cumhaill’s stick met mine, but his grip was too strong for me to knock it from his hand. Each time I struck out he would step to one side, tapping me firmly on my shoulder or torso. We continued in this way for a long time, until my forehead beaded sweat and my arms grew tired.
Exhausted by repetition, I took it upon myself to change tack. The next time his stick rested against my neck, I brought up both my stave and my knife. Together, they pincered his stick between them and I pushed my arms away, twisting.
For a moment I thought I had won. I thought I had separated him from his stick. Yet Cumhaill had merely feinted, allowing the end to droop towards the ground before tightening his grip and bringing it round in a low arc, sweeping my legs out from under me.
“Let’s rest for a while,” he said, offering his hand to help me up.
As I drank thirstily from my water skin, he asked whether I had ever seen battle. I shook my head and admitted that I had not.
“Do you pass out at the sight of blood?” he asked.
“No. I have stuck a pig before, and bled goats.”
“A person is not a goat. You will feel differently.”
“I’ve thought of killing before,” I admitted, the words leaving my lips before I could stop them.
“Who did you think of killing?” I did not answer. “Discretion, a good trait in a warrior. Now tell me, why do you wish to join the Fianna?”
“I wish to leave Sidhe Fionnachaidh. I wish to see the world and have adventures.”
“And have women, and land, and wealth?”
I shrugged, taking another sip from my flask.
“When did you realise this was to be your calling?”
“A year or so ago.”
A faint smile crossed his lips. “About the time you met my nephew?”
“Yes.” I did not lie to him.
“And tell me, if joining the Fianna meant that you could never see Caílte mac Rónáin again, would you still do it?” I stared at him, eyes wide. “No, I did not think as much. So, it is for Caílte you wish to become a warrior. Not for the women, or the land, or the wealth?”
“I’ll admit, they might add to the pleasure.” I grinned, but Cumhaill’s face became stone.
“He tells me you are strong,” he continued. “He tells me you can almost beat him in battle, and that you won the bronze cup against Garrett of the Red Rock at Áenach Tailteann. I do not doubt his word, and I can see the trophy for myself, yet you are young and inexperienced.”
“I learn fast,” I protested.
“I’m sure you do. So, I will set you five tasks for the year ahead. If you complete them by the time I ride back to your father’s fort next autumn, I will reconsider your place among the Fianna.”
My heart curled in upon itself. It felt as though all of my hopes were sitting on an island just off shore, yet my feet were sinking in soft sand, so that all I could do was watch the tide rise and swallow them.
“What are the tasks?” I asked.
“First, you must learn to wield both weapons with equal strength. Both weapons in both hands. Second, you must learn to be an efficient hunter. There is a price to be paid when joining the Fianna. A price paid to me. I demand of you five wolfskins, the head of a wild boar, and the skin of a white hart. The gods will forgive the killing of a white hart, but only when it is used to pay the warrior’s price. Thirdly, you must learn the healing crafts. A warrior who bleeds to death is a burden. Go to Elatha and take whatever instruction she gives you. Prepare me an ointment. I shall cut my hand and if the preparation heals it well, I will consider your training complete. In the fourth instance, you will need a sword. Go to your smith and take instruction. Your sword should be fashioned by your own hand.”
“And fifth?” I asked, when the silence weighed heavy.
“And fifth, you must not see Caílte mac Rónáin from the time we ride from your father’s fort, until the time we ride back again.”
“Why?” I implored, stung as though he had cut with his knife.
“Love is an admirable quality, Aodh mac Lir, but it is not enough. Love is f
ickle, it comes and goes, but the skills of a warrior are everlasting. If you devote yourself as completely to them as you have to my nephew, then you may yet be Fianna. If, over that year, your heart finds other loves, or you tire of pretending, then that one year will save us all many years of heartache.”
That evening, the Fianna rode out of Sidhe Fionnachaidh, their banners high against the fading sun. Caílte said little to me as they left. He held me close, kissed my forehead and called me brother. He left no instruction on how I was to live without him in the year to come, nor gifts to remember him by. I kept my eyes upon him until he was so far in the distance I could no longer tell him from his horse.
Aoife
That night I sat with my knife pressed to Conn’s throat.
His little sleeping form was so pale and silent in the moonlight that he looked as though he might already be dead. Yet the tell-tale signs of life betrayed him, that faint rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his eyes beneath those thick lashes. Beside him, his brother Fiachra was curled on his side, one hand resting beside his face.
The heat of passion turned icy as I fell from Nyle’s embrace. The moment Conn saw my panic he fled, the cloth falling back into place behind him.
“My lady,” Nyle spoke, taking my arm and turning me towards him. “What are you so afraid of?”
“That child is my husband’s son,” I said, my voice shrill in my ears.
“What of it?” he asked, his blue eyes holding mine. “Let him tell your husband. Let him tell the whole world. Then ride home with me to Dún Fionnachaidh and be my wife.”
My lips parted, opened by incredulity.
“Have you lost your mind?” I asked.
“Not that I know of. Aoife of Aran, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. If it’s a child you want, I will give you a hundred. Ride home with me, forget this place. It’s cold up here in the hills, and my bed is warmer than your husband’s.”
“My husband is the King of the Sea!” I exclaimed. “What are you?”
He drew back, releasing my arm.
“I am a lord of the White Fields.”
“Yes, a lord. You see the difference? My husband is a pureblood Man of Dea, touched by the cup of youth. My foster father is the great Bodb Dearg, King of all the Danann, son of the mighty Dagda himself. What would I do in a field?”
“One would hope more than you do in bed,” he snorted, and walked from the tent, tearing down the cloth in his anger.
Guennola appeared in his wake, her brow deeply furrowed.
“My lady, has he hurt you—”
“Where have you been, you stupid woman?”
“My lady?”
“You let a child walk in on us. Conn has seen me with him, have you any idea what you’ve done?”
“Forgive me,” she said, falling to her knees and clutching my skirt. “I was only gone a moment, to relieve myself.”
“If Lir ever finds out, I will never forgive you. Not now or in the next life.”
We searched everywhere for the boy, but he could not be found. Not until late that night, when I slipped my knife into my belt and made my way down to the crannóg. As I entered, I could hear Fionnuala’s light breathing from behind the partition and knew that she was asleep. Aodh’s bed was empty, and the twins slumbered unguarded.
There, with Conn’s little life beneath my blade, it seemed so easy to cover his mouth and slit his throat. Things that appear too easy, often are. In the glint of the fire on my blade, I saw his blood soaking into the hay beneath his body. I heard Fiachra’s screams as he woke to find his brother dead. I remembered the guard on the shore who had seen me walk past, who knew that I was within. I felt my husband’s sharp sword as it severed my head from my body.
A sound caused me to start, and I slid the knife back into my belt.
Aodh appeared in the doorway, naked and dripping from the lake.
He stared at me for a moment before walking to the table and pulling on his tunic.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, without turning.
My hand moved to Conn’s head, stroking his hair gently.
“I wished to say goodnight to the twins, but they are already sleeping.”
“They have been sleeping since sunset.”
“I am so tired from the feast, I lost track of myself.”
“You best get back to your own bed,” he told me. “The wolves walk down here at night.”
I rose and left their home.
“What am I to do?” I asked Guennola, returning to my hut. “It is you who have caused this mess. You should be the one to clean it up.” She looked at me, unsure of my meaning. “The boy cannot be allowed to tell his father.”
“He is only young, his mind is easy to confuse. That man you took to your bed looked so much like his father, he would believe it if you told him.”
“He is young, but he is not stupid. When Nyle rose from my bed he did not recognise Conn. What father does not recognise his own son?”
“I could slip him the dark juice,” she suggested. “One sip of that and he would see such visions he would forget his own name.”
“It is not worth the risk. You must take him to the woods. He must disappear.”
“Everyone from here to the coast knows the children of Lir, they would bring him home again.”
“Not if he were to encounter a boar, or a wild horse separated from its foal.”
“My lady, I would do anything for you, but what you ask—”
“Is murder, I know.”
I sat on my bed with my head in my hands.
Guennola sat beside me, stroking my shoulder.
“He has already forgotten,” she assured.
Fionnuala
What do I remember of that day? That is a question a hundred scholars have asked of me since. I know the answer they expect to hear: that the clouds cast a shadow across the sky, that the winds howled, the sea raged; that my heart was full of foreboding.
This was not the truth.
That day had been long and hot, as the dying days of summer often are. The sun rode high in the sky, the clouds were scarce and white as fleece, and the fort was awash with good cheer after the feast. From the top of the mound the grass below formed brown circles where the camps had been. All but a few forlorn banners remained, the clans returned to their homelands, bellies fat with boar, sloshing with wine. I had spent a lot of time walking the walls of my father’s fort that feasting time, for the one guest I had hoped so dearly to see had not come. The invitation to the clan of the Red Rock had been ignored, Conall had sent no reply.
“Perhaps it did not arrive,” Ailbhe said, attempting to comfort me as I cradled my newborn cousin against my breast. “Riders fall from their horses all the time.”
“Fionnuala,” Eoghan smiled, “you are twice as pretty as he is rich, you shouldn’t idle your time thinking on the likes of Conall of the Red Rock, not when the lords of the White Field are here, with their score of handsome young men. Go dance a little, love a little.”
Yet I could not. My heart was a hundred hills away, thinking on the handsome features of my absent love. Little Bevan gurgled against me as though sharing in my heartache.
“Maybe I shall just wait for you to grow,” I said, kissing the crown of his head. “You would never forget me, would you?”
Bevan gurgled again, and then belched a stain of white milk against my dress.
His father burst out laughing, my aunt elbowing him sharply in the side.
“Oh, give him to me,” she smiled. “This little boy has had far too much excitement these past days.”
Eoghan offered me a scrap of cloth to wipe myself clean.
“When do you leave?” I asked, the thought of their departure adding to my sorrows.
“Not for a few days yet,” Ailbhe replied. “Your father and mine have been deep in conversation since we arrived, trading stories of cattle and battle. We won’t be able to drag him away until the wine is finished. B
esides, Sorcha will need help returning this place to normal after all those oafs have marched through it. You know the Cauci burned down three of your father’s store huts trying to show off their famed fire dance to a group of valley girls? Thankfully there was nothing in them at the time.”
This caused me to laugh, for the Cauci’s opinion of themselves had always been at odds with the rest of Éire. They claimed to be fearsome warriors, and perhaps once they had been, for they performed death-defying dances with flaming staves, yet they were always the first to get drunk at a feast, and more prone to accident than any other clan between here and Great Orme.
“So, you will stay?”
“For a while, yes.”
With this my heart brightened and for a moment I forgot to frown.
There seemed nothing strange when Aoife came to us to suggest an outing. Ailbhe’s son was too young to travel again so soon, and Eoghan, ever the doting husband, stayed to tend to his wife. My own father was sprawled in his hall beside the fire, his snores drowned by those of my grandfather. Sorcha obliged us with a large basket of food, but was too busy with the other servants to leave the fort.
Aoife must have thought through her actions carefully, and known that we would go alone. Such a solitary band we were, myself, the twins, Aodh, Aoife and her maid Guennola, marching off together that day.
As we rode out, Aodh drew alongside me.
“When was the last time she did this?” he asked.
He was right, for Aoife had made no attempt to mother us since she arrived as my father’s new bride. We had gone with her to the fields and the woods on a few occasions, and once to see the great caves by the coast, but it had been a very long time since we set out to enjoy each other’s company. Instead of agreeing with him, I berated my brother for his absence over the feast. I asked what had kept him from the fireside, although I already knew the answer.
“I had things to do,” he replied.
The Children of Lir Page 15
