by June Francis
‘I wonder what we’ll discover when eventually we find Milo’s manor? Could it be as his father was wont to talk about it?’
‘Unlikely,’ was Robin’s grumpy response. ‘Nothing is ever exactly as people remember. Distance lends enchantment — you want to remember that.’ He stilled his horse with a steady hand, attempting to pierce the grey curtain. ‘I think it’s getting darker.’
She nodded, thinking she heard something in the sudden silence.
‘Let’s go on.’ Anxiety sharpened her voice.
When it was that they strayed from the road, Constance was never sure, but suddenly their mounts were slithering. Immediately she slid from her horse, only to find herself ankle-deep in muddy water. Her eyes closed briefly in distaste, and taking the bridle, she somehow managed to force the mare out of the marshy ground. At last she felt firm turf beneath her feet, and soothed the animal with soft words. In the moment it took to achieve all that, she lost sight of Robin.
She cried out in panic, and an answer came from somewhere to her left. She could not help considering that ‘Over here!’ was not helpful.
‘Where exactly are you?’ she called.
‘Never mind!’ cried Robin. ‘Keep talking, and I’ll find you somehow.’ His voice now seemed to come from behind her.
‘What should I say?’ she retorted, rubbing her cold hands together
‘What does it matter?’ The mist muffled the words so that they did not sound like Robin’s.
Taking a deep breath, she launched into, ‘Did I ever tell you about the Fiann? They were a band of warriors who lived an almost spartan life and were led by one Finn MacCumail. Can you still hear me?’ The words burst from her as the mists seemed to encircle her in an island of silence.
‘Keep talking,’ came the voice. ‘I’m coming.’
Her brow creased. ‘Running was part of their training. That man reminded me of them. They had to run, and if caught by the other warriors, they were disqualified.’ How silent it was! Her glance swept wildly in a circle. ‘Robin!’ she yelled.
‘Con — stance!’
The sound was faint and far off, and filled with anxiety. Throwing caution aside, she stumbled in its direction or what she thought was the right direction, taking one careful step after another. Three paces — four — five — six, and still no Robin. But she was on firm ground. Another step and another, and suddenly she was floundering. Panic seized her, and she tried to step back, but slipped and fell. She shuddered as the cold mud oozed between her gloved hands and soaked her skirts, penetrating to her buttocks. How she hated it! There had been a day on the fells when a sheep had been unable to free itself from a bog. She gritted her teeth and attempted to rise, only to slip again. A sob burst in her throat.
‘Keep still, woman!’ Her recognition of the voice ensured not only her stillness, but silence. ‘You’ll never get up like that, to be sure.’ His lilting voice held a hint of satisfaction. Instead of crying, now she had an overwhelming urge to scream, but remained silent. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to help you out? And, maybe, if you asked me nicely, I’d do it.’
‘If you have come to gloat ... !’ she said furiously.
‘Why should I gloat? Unless you managed to hit me from behind? But I don’t consider that’s possible now.’
‘You know it isn’t possible,’ she muttered unsteadily. Her teeth were beginning to chatter. ‘How did you find me? Where is ... Robin?’
‘Maybe, now, he’s in the bog?’ His laugh chilled her blood. ‘And maybe it is that you’d like to join him? They say this bog is haunted by afomor. But perhaps you don’t know what afomor is, your being English and all?’
She swallowed. ‘If you’ve thrown Robin in the bog, I’ll ... I’ll ...’
‘You’ll what? Go down after him? Or will you try to persuade me to drag him out?’
‘He was only doing what any man would do to protect his kinswoman!’ Her voice rose. ‘Surely you wouldn’t punish a man for that?’
‘So he’s your kinsman. What would be his name?’ She heard the splash of water.
‘Robin Milburn. He isn’t in the bog, is he?’ Panic shook her voice. ‘Please, you haven’t let him sink?’
‘No, we haven’t. What are you doing, woman, wandering Ireland in the mist? Your kinsman should have more sense than to bring you here.’
‘I wanted to come.’ Her bottom was quite frozen, and she was frustrated because she knew she had to have his help. She doubted that she could move without it. ‘And I do know what afomor is, and I can almost believe that there is one here.’
‘Is that right, now?’ His voice was against her ear as his arms slid about her. He dragged her upright.
‘Ay!’ she said stiffly. ‘And if I’d a penny’s worth of — of sense, I wouldnever have come to Ireland.’ She was too chilled to resist when he humped her up in his arms in front of him, her legs dangling, and proceeded to carry her backwards out of the mire. He set her down on firm ground before turning her to face him. ‘There now; you are well and truly rescued. Do I not get any thanks? A kiss, perhaps?’ There was a hint of laughter in the face that appeared ghostly in the mist.
She lifted a filthy hand to thrust aside a dangling muddy braid. Then she had cause to rub her nose, only to recoil from the stench. ‘I — I stink! It’s all your fault!’ she stammered. ‘If you hadn’t caught me and hounded us, this would never have happened. You are a barbarian! A bullying — heartless — pagan!’ She sniffed back her tears.
There was a pause before he spoke. ‘Is that right?’ he said in a seething sarcastic voice. ‘Twice I’ve saved your miserable life, and a word of thanks wouldn’t come amiss.’
‘Thank you! Why should Ithank you? I could have been in Naas having a hot meal if you hadn’t chased me and almost raped me.’
‘Almost raped you!’ He ground his teeth. ‘If my intention had been rape, woman, you’d have been well and truly raped by now. I wouldn’t have wasted my time listening to your ceaseless bleating.’
‘I don’t bleat!’ She glared at him, her body stiff with cold and rage.
‘You never stop talking — chatter, chatter, chatter.’ He folded his arms across his chest. ‘And I thought Irishwomen talked!’
‘You don’t have to stay and listen. I’d much prefer it if you went.’
‘I’ll go, then.’ He turned and walked away.
She stared after him, noting the height of him and the broad sweep of his shoulders in the ochre-coloured tunic. Already the mist was swallowing him up. Fear overwhelmed her as the silence made itself felt. ‘Don’t go! I didn’t mean it!’ She stumbled hurriedly in his wake, even as he turned.
‘Changed your mind, have you?’ His smile caused her to clench her fists. ‘Scared of thefomor?’
‘I’m not scared! And, besides, I think you mentioned thefomor only to frighten me.’ A shiver set her teeth chattering.
‘How do you know? Some say thefomor still walk the land. Half man, half demon — one-eyed — clawfooted. They can kill with a blow of their mighty tails.’ He stood very close to her. ‘Could you face one here alone without my protection?’ His chest brushed her breasts.
‘I — I don’t believe in — in them.’ She shivered again, and stepped back, not wishing him to believe that she trembled because she was scared of him, or his talk offomors.
‘Never disbelieve that which you can’t prove doesn’t exist. Ireland is a land where magic and the miraculous have rivalled each other since Patrick came.’ His hands shot out suddenly to seize her shoulders. ‘You’re cold!’ He rammed her hard against him, enveloping her in his arms. ‘Frozen little Englishwoman, you need my warmth.’
She struggled violently. ‘I don’t need anything from you, except to know what you have done with Robin.’ Yet, as she resisted, her weariness was as overpowering as his presence.
‘Forget your kinsman — he’ll come to no harm. Think of yourself. It is too dark now even for me to find a way. We’ll have to spend the night by the bo
g till dawn. It would be warmer and safer if we stayed together.’ His breath warmed her forehead, stirring her hair.
‘Stay with you! Do you think I’m mad?’ She fought against the cold and the tiredness that gripped her, forcing her head upright.
‘You are mad if you think you can last the night without my help.’
‘I don’t trust you.’ Her voice was muffled. ‘My husband was killed by the Irish here in the hills.’
‘You are a widow, then, not an innocent? So why balk at spending the night with me? Because, whether you trust me or not, you have no choice. My mantle ... you took it?’ He released her abruptly, so that she almost fell.
‘On my mare.’ She swayed, completely disorientated in the cold blackness.
‘Call her, then.’
Shivering now without his warmth, Constance sought to penetrate the darkness. ‘Maeve, come to me, my lovely!’ A whinny sounded, sending warmth flooding through her. She continued to call, and suddenly there was a damp furry nose against her shoulders. Tears pricked her eyes, and a great lump clogged her throat.
‘Good girl!’ She felt his hand brush her shoulder and the next moment the warmth of the mantle was about her and he was close to her again. ‘You have given your horse the name of an Irish queen — why?’
‘Because-she-is-Irish-and-has-the-heart-of-a-queen.’
‘That’s a good enough answer. But you need something else to warm you. I have a small flask of whiskey. You have tasted whiskey?’
‘Once. My — my husband’s father g — gave me some.’
‘He has lived in Ireland?’
‘Once — a long time ago.’ She started as his fingers brushed her cheek.
‘Here, drink this.’ The flask touched the side of her mouth. She reached up and took it. His fingers covered hers, steadying the flask as she sipped cautiously. ‘He is Anglo-Irish, perhaps?’
‘He was.’ A spasm of coughing took her as the fiery liquid hit the back of her throat, and she thrust the flask away.
‘No! You must drink some more.’ He thrust it back at her. ‘It is the best remedy I know for warding off the cold.’
‘Then I shall drink,’ she responded, adding to herself; Then, perhaps, I shall not long for your warmth so much in this desolate place.
‘Good.’ There seemed to be a smile in his voice. ‘Your husband’s father? He is dead?’
‘Mmm!’ She swallowed a mouthful of the liquid. It tasted vile.
‘And your husband, he is dead also?’
‘Ay.’ Another mouthful burned its way down her throat.
‘Then why are you here in Ireland?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, Master Barbarian!’ She held the flask out to him, thrusting it against his chest, which was only a few inches away. ‘And I told you earlier that my husband was killed.’
‘To be sure you did.’ He took the flask.
‘I did!’ she exclaimed, the mockery in his tone angering her.
‘So you did. Who was your husband?’ The words murmured so close to her ear caused her to step back. ‘Why are you in Ireland?’
‘Questions ... questions! Why do you ask so many questions?’ she said rather breathlessly.
‘Because I want answers.’ He moved closer again. ‘And if you want to see your kinsman alive again, it would serve him best if you satisfied my curiosity.’
‘You — You will not kill him, surely?’
‘Sweet Jesu, woman, I’m not a barbarian! But my kinsmen have no love for the English.’
She clutched at his tunic. ‘You must not let them harm him! My father would pay a ransom. Believe me! It is my fault he has been captured. I it was, who persuaded him to come with me to seek my husband’s estate.’
‘Your husband’s estate?’ His fingers toyed with hers. ‘My husband, Milo de Wensley.’ She winced as his fingers tightened suddenly. ‘I have come to claim what is mine now. Does that satisfy your curiosity enough?’
CHAPTER TWO
‘WELL ENOUGH,’ the Irishman said lightly, his grip on Constance’s fingers slackening. ‘But it is cold and the night is coming. I consider my mantle should be shared between us.’
‘A — And how do you — consider we should do — that?’ Her throat was suddenly dry, and her head spun slightly.
‘Well, I did not propose to tear it down the middle! I thought that we could wrap ourselves in it and make ourselves comfortable on the ground. We would not do too badly that way.’ His arms went round her before she could move away.
Her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast. ‘I — I’m not sure that’s a good plan.’
‘Is it that you’re a craven after all, Mistress de Wensley? I give you my word that you can trust me. The word of an Irish barbarian.’ His hands were beneath the mantle round her waist. ‘What say you?’
‘I suspect I have no choice.’ His closeness was having a peculiar effect on her knees. She felt quite weak, and had to clutch at his tunic again.
‘Of course you have a choice. Either you share my mantle with me — or you sleep alone without it.’ He was pulling it about him now, and there was room enough for both of them.
A garment big enough to fit rogues and vagabonds — where had she heard that before? Her eyes closed, since trying to see his expression in the dark made her feel as if she were swaying. ‘That is no choice,’ she murmured, ‘and I do not trust you, barbarian!’
‘You expect me to behave like a barbarian?’
‘Ay,’ she whispered, struggling against the lethargy enfolding her.
She felt as though she floated when he lowered her to the ground. Even the dampness caused her no real discomfort. The real Constance seemed to be separated from her body huddled close to his. When he kissed her, it was as though it were happening to someone else. It was a long time since that person had been kissed. Pictures drifted in and out of her mind; memories of Milo’s father’s tales mingling with stories of old Ireland — offomor and the Fiann, devils and men. She awoke for a moment, and moaned softly when his lips teased her nipple. He hushed her and kissed her hungrily. For an instant her mouth clung to his, and she was remembering the dreams she used to have about the old heroes of Ireland. They were poets, who knew magic. They had the choice of the prettiest girls in the settlements, and this man was a warrior who had chosen her as his mate. Their kisses became quite frantic and she no longer felt cold. They were lying in a golden meadow and he was whispering words of love. How long since she had been loved? She reached up and brought his face down; she could not see him properly, but her fingers could feel the outline of his nose, and his lips, before they claimed hers. Then they were moving in harmony together like horses galloping across the meadow towards the sun. She gasped with delight as the sun came out suddenly in a blaze of golden glory. It was quite unbelievably blissful. Afterwards, they were at peace, her head resting on his chest. Legend said much about the Fiann warriors. She dreamed that the Irishman fought for her, challenging the demon that haunted the bog. It carried a huge sickle, which it swung so threateningly that she awoke with a start.
Pale stars gleamed overhead, and the grey of dawn was in the east. The faintest light gleamed on little brown streams that trickled running paths through the treacherous ground. She sat up, shivering as the mantle slipped from her shoulders. Pulling it more closely about her, she looked for its owner, but there was no sign of him, or of her mare. She peered in a frantic circle about her. Now that the mists had evaporated, she could see the Wicklow Hills as clearly as though stamped in wax. Had he gone back to them, riding her horse? Fury erupted inside her and she scrambled to her feet.
When the mantle slipped to the ground, she became aware of the state of her clothing. It was stained, and reeked of the bog, and she was still damp. Something felt wrong! Her hand went to her breast to discover that all the buttons were in the wrong holes. Earlier a silver button had worked loose, and she had placed it in her pouch. With shaking fingers she refastened the buttons as hot colour stained her che
eks. What had happened last night? Her heart felt as if a hand squeezed it. Where was that barbarian with her mare? Where was Robin? Why had she been left alone here? Whathad those dreams of heroes and monsters fighting meant? And there was more — she was sure there had been more!
Her fears still gripped her, but as she watched the sun turning the brown streams orange and pink and gold, another picture came into her mind. She compressed her trembling lips. A kiss he had asked for saving her life — for rescuing her from a demon. Had he taken more? Her fists clenched. She had been defenceless, so had he taken advantage of her lack of resistance? What was the good of standing still, wondering what had happened. There was nothing she could do at present to right any wrong against her person.
Help! She had to get help for Robin. How far was the town Master Upton, the guide, had mentioned? If she could find her way there, she would be able to secure help from the authorities. Her eyes searched the ground. She could not rid her thoughts of the barbarian. There were hoofprints in the damp earth, and her gaze followed them, like a muddle in one area, before they became more distinct and easy to follow. She began to walk, hoping they might lead her to the road. She headed towards a mound, skirting the bog, but the prints took her not up the slope, rather round it; and then, treading carefully through undergrowth for a moment, she lost the trail, before finding it again in a patch of mud. Through some trees she went and then across a damp meadow. In the distance, she caught the gleam of water.
Slowly she walked towards the river, but there was nobody there, and the trail stopped. Perhaps the mare had crossed the water? She gave a sigh, and sank down on the river bank. How quiet it was, as though the whole landscape had been deserted by man! She was thirsty and filthy, and would have a drink, and wash as much as she was able.
Discarding her cote-hardie, she placed the mantle on the bank beneath a group of willows. Her stockings were ruined, as were her shoes, and she put them in a clump of nettles, long dead, and not yet growing fully. In the shadow of the willows, she entered the water in her shift. She gasped with cold as the water deepened, but she determined to rid herself of the stench of the bog.
