by Lee Arthur
Then she felt his hand. His enormous hand that could be so surprisingly gentle and delicate slid over her shoulder and down her back, pausing at the small of her back to rub the pain from her tired muscles. Following her spine, it went lower, to finger the hair-fringed opening below her tailbone. Involuntarily she flinched. He felt her body tense, and his hand moved on, up over the round haunch presented so trustingly to him, to the vast belly beyond. As his hand, fingers widespread, lay lovingly on that mound, he could feel through the tight-stretched skin the strong, explosive movements of his child beneath. He could have lain there like that, feeling the life of the child yet to come with the sensitive hand of the born horseman, but his pisser had other ideas. His hand moved off her belly and down to that hair-covered crevice between her legs. She moved her leg to give him greater access, but it was his needs that were uppermost in his mind right now. And so his hand didn't linger. Instead, he lifted her leg higher, so that he could place his weapon alongside that crevice and between her legs. Without being told, she gripped it with all the strength of her legs. And men, he began to rock back and forth. He knew satisfaction would be slow coming from this makeshift excuse for the moist hot channel which he so preferred, but what other choice did he have.
After what seemed hours, he thrusting faster and faster to no apparent avail, Nelly took matters into her own hands. Literally. Heaving herself away from him, she rolled over and shoved him over onto his back. With a sigh, Seamus gave himself over to her capable hand. As he lay there reveling in the sensations arising from her capable caresses, his mind strayed. Was this what the Lady Islean was doing for her husband? He suspected, knowing his lady as well as he did, that that strong-willed young woman would not be content tonight to indulge in such one-sided love. Especially after her remark about riding.
The thought of Islean riding her husband brought.forth a groan from Seamus. Nelly, thinking she had hurt him, stopped her ministrations. But Seamus quickly put her hand back where it belonged, and with a thrust or two of his hips persuaded her that she should continue as before. That done, he relaxed and let his mind go back to the manor's master bedroom.
He could imagine Islean undressing her husband. First, she would remove his boots. Seating him in the chair brought up from the great hall weeks ago, she would turn her back to him, gripping one booted leg after another between her own while his foot would rest against her rounded bottom to supply the push needed to pull the boots from his foot. The toes on Seamus's foot curled as he thought of his own foot resting against that sweet rounded bottom.
While she was removing Seaforth's boots, he would be struggling one-handedly to unlace his jerkin. She, seeing what he was about, would rush quickly to his aid and push his hand aside. Then, she would take her time, perhaps playing with the thick curly hair on his chest And once the jerkin was off, Seamus could well imagine she would wickedly ignore the turbulence in his codpiece, but, instead, roll his hose down slowly, caressingly, her cool hands brushing against his inner thighs. ever-increasing spasms, it gushed forth in a crescendo of excruciating pleasure.
His chest heaving with the intensity of his efforts, Seamus couldn't move. He simply lay there, drained of all feeling from the waist down. Nelly raised herself up on one arm and looked down upon him fondly, as if he were but a child and she his mother. Their lips met in a kiss devoid of passion. It was she who broke it. Smiling down upon him, she whispered, "Get yourself dressed my love, and fetch Nanny Goodall. My time is upon me."
.Nelly did not pop out her babe. The labor was long and hard. In the stable, Seamus kept himself busy cleaning tackle that needed no cleaning, and grooming horses that had not a single hair out of place, and trying desperately not to listen to the groans coming from above. Finally Nanny Goodall came down the stairs. "The child will no' be born without help. Go, you, Seamus, to the father and beg him the use of the bell rope for the night."
Seamus blanched. "What are you planning to do, pull the babe out like a foal from a mare?"
The woman laughed and gathered up her skirts to make the steep climb up again. "Nay, nothing like that. But fastening a bell rope to the girdle has been known to shorten childbirth. So, if you would quiet those groans and save your Nelly the pain of birthing what you planted in her belly, be on your way... now!"
When the priest was not to be found in the chapel nor sacristy nor kitchen, Seamus climbed the three flights of stairs leading up to the garret. In a room just outside the unmarried women's dormitory were the priest's quarters, so that his presence might act as a deterrent against unexpected male visitors and licentious behavior. He found Father Cariolinus squatting upon the simple pallet that served as his bed, awkwardly and laboriously mending his hose. Quickly Seamus explained his errand.
The priest sighed. "Not again. Sometime I think that rope spends more time on pregnant women than it does on the bell. Nanny Goodall does rely on it so."
"But does it work?" Seamus inquired anxiously.
The priest looked up from fastening his shoes. "Nanny Goodall seems to think so; I like to believe that my prayers are more beneficial."
"Could you say a prayer for my Nelly?" Seamus begged, following the priest down the steep stairs.
"Aye, I planned to. She's a good lass, that one. She it is who minds my wash and does my mending."
When the two reached the chapel, Seamus volunteered to climb up and unfasten the rope from its clapper. As he began, the priest remarked, "We have some unfinished business from your last visit here, friend Seamus."
Pretending he didn't hear, Seamus kept on climbing.
"The earl is going to live, Seamus."
The tricky part was untying the rope with one hand while keeping the bell from sounding.
"Looks like you could use another hand," the priest called up, then realized what he had said. Seamus glared down at him and would have said something about gallows humor but just then the knot came loose.
"Stand aside, father, I'm going to let it drop."
The priest began coiling the rope, but his mind was elsewhere. "Seamus, is it possible that God is punishing you through Nelly for breaking your promise to him?"
Seamus groaned, a deep masculine version of the sounds he'd heard earlier that night. The thought had occurred to him too, but now to have it said by the priest— It was too much. "What would you have me do, father?"
"The arm can't stay there forever." His face was calm, his voice that of reason, but the wringing of his hands belied his manner. "Fortunately, St. Giles's feast day is past. But suppose some sick person asks and receives permission to touch the relic... and the people open the reliquary and find two hands? Someone is going to put two and two together and come up with our late night visit to the cathedral."
Seamus gave in. "You take the rope to the midwife, I'll go rob the church."
"It is not robbery, Seamus," the priest protested in alarm. "That would be a sin. Besides, we put the arm there ourselves."
"Then why can't we go and tell Beaton what we have done and ask for the arm back so we can bury it?"
The priest looked troubled. "I wish it were that simple. But you don't know our Cardinal Protector Beaton. He might well consider our act, at best, desecration not just of the reliquary or the altar or the relic but the whole church." A note of hysteria entered his voice. "Suppose, just suppose, he considers it blasphemy? In Leviticus it says 'whoever blasphemes shall be put to death.' I know, I have heard him say it myself."
"Father, control yourself. No one in his right mind would accuse you of blasphemy." Seamus tried to think of something mat would reassure the priest, but he was no more learned in theology than he was in midwifery. "What about your bishop, have you asked his advice?"
"No, I tried. But he is away visiting his monastery of St. Raymond of Penafort. Seamus," he confessed, "I don't know what overcame my judgment that night. Do you think I was possessed?"
"You, father?" Seamus laughed, a genuine laugh. "No father, of all the people, you the devil
would avoid most. Whatever work you did that night was not the work of the devil, rest assured of that!"
The priest unclasped his hands with relief. "I pray you are right. But we must get that thing out of mere before it begins to stink and draws the attention of the celebrants of the Mass."
"Do no' call my godchild a 'thing.'" Seamus pretended mock umbrage, but the priest took him seriously. "No, no, it's all right, father. I was only making a joke. Look, here's the rope. I'll get me a lantern and go fetch the arm back right now, this minute. You go pray for Nelly, and I'll meet you back in the chapel before Martins, or Lauds at the latest. And, father, say a prayer for me while you are at it."
The priest was at prayer when a pale, nervous Seamus returned with his burden. How long he'd been gone, the priest didn't know; when he was praying he lost track of time. But he could see the beeswax candles that Seaforth supplied for him had burned almost to the bottom.
"The same door was undone," Seamus reported, "and the brother did not skip a snore during the whole of my visit." He put his package on the altar and, though the priest protested, began to unwrap it. "No, father, I insist, you must look at this."
The last covering came off. "You have brought the wrong one!" exclaimed the priest in horror. The arm before him, although cool to the touch and grayish in color as if drained of blood, showed no signs of rot. It looked newly cut off.
"No, father, this is Seaforth's arm. Look, you can see the marks on the finger where he wore his signet ring."
"It can't be, Seamus. It has been a month or more since I baptized that arm. It should be ripe by now and sweet-smelling to high heavens. This must be the Saint's arm, it smells too fresh."
"Father, the other arm in the reliquary—it had a wound in its palm, and the wound bled when I touched it."
"A wound? Oh, aye, I remember. Saint Giles had his hand pierced by an arrow while protecting a hind from some hounds."
"Did they have to cut his arm off too, like Seaforth?"
"Oh, no, not till years later when he was dead. Then they divided up the body to sanctify as many altars as possible. Only because of Lord Preston—he of the Preston aisle in the cathedral—did we get the whole arm. Some churches only got a lock of hair, a tooth or toe. We were honored above most because ours was to be the cathedral of Scotland's fust bishop." The pride in his voice vanished as realization sunk in. "Mother of God, what have we done?" He crossed himself and would have prostrated himself before both altar and hand if Seamus hadn't stopped him.
"Nay, father. Maybe it's a miracle, maybe no', but it must be a sign that what we did was no' evil work of the devil. Be that as it may, father, what do we do with it now?"
The priest looked panic-stricken. "I know not, I know not. Cover it up and let me think. No, thinking's no good. I must pray for guidance!"
While Seamus carefully re wrapped the arm in its red swaddling, the priest abjectly prostrated himself before the altar in prayer and invocation. He had scarcely begun the Litany of Loreto when Seamus, remembering his original purpose in coming to the chapel that night, took to his heels and fled for the stable. Entering the door, he listened hard. It was quiet. Carefully, he made his way up the stair, trying to make no sound lest he disturb those within. A knock at his door brought no results. Nor did a second. Finally, he pulled the latch string and let himself in . By the light of a candle, he could make out Nanny Goodall asleep in4 makeshift pallet on the floor. Stealthily he approached his bed.
"Shush, you lummox, you'll wake the dead," came a tired but happy voice from its depths. "And where were you when your son was born?"
Seamus sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, his eyes only for the woman in it. "I was in church, if you must know. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, but are you not the least bit curious about your son? He has a fine head of blond hair, you know," she gloated, moving the covers to one side so that Seamus might have a look. She opened the swaddling clothes a bit more. "And on his ribs, the self-same brown birthmark his da' has."
"He's so small," was Seamus's awed comment.
"What did you think? He would spring from my belly big as you? He's a fine-sized child. Lusty. Healthy. With a good strong set of lungs. They must have heard his first cry on High Street."
Nelly exaggerated. However, word of his birth had preceded Seamus into the earl's bedroom. For when Seamus was summoned hours later at Terce, he was greeted with hearty congratulations: "And what did you name him?"
"Fionn. Nelly would have nothing else."
"Fionn?"
"An Irish name. It means fair of hair and of skin. She wants to make sure my other loves get the message and ne'er forget, her son was born straw-colored like me."
The earl laughed. "Women! Come, join me in a drink, we'll toast your new son."
The strong usquebaugh on an empty stomach, combined with a sleepless night, set Seamus back on his heels a bit. The earl, catching sight of his expression, was all sympathy and concern. Then, man to man, he-confessed that he himself had had a sleepless night, too. Seamus, catching sight of the headdress lying casually alongside the bed, knew what he meant. Another time, he would have been filled with bitter envy, but somehow the events of the night before had been a catharsis, purging him of his lusting after the Lady Islean.
Whether the feeling would last, Seamus didn't know, but he was glad he could return Seaforth's confidence with an honestly felt "Then, my lord, perhaps congratulations are in order for you, too."
Seaforth laughed and admitted the possibility. In this mood of camaraderie, the two men descended the stairs to the great hall below. There they parted, but only temporarily, for Seaforth expressed a desire for the first time in weeks to look over his domain. Seamus, in turn, went searching for the chaplain. But he was not to be found. He had left early before Lauds, on retreat to the monastery of St. Raymond of Penafort, taking only one bundle, presumably of his vestments. Seamus had no choice but to return to the great hall and await Seaforth's pleasure.
Seaforth's inspection, later mat morning, didn't take long, the two men scarcely able to stifle their yawns. As a matter of fact, once Seaforth had seen the job Seamus had done policing the guardroom, the earl would have been content to call it a day. But the two men had picked up a small dark-haired shadow. Jamie, playing the moth to his father's flame, kept his distance but stayed always within earshot. Seaforth, still ridden by guilt, was afraid to push the child for fear of estranging him even more. Instead, leading the way toward the stable, he launched into a long story of the day he graduated from pony to horse. Gradually, his voice became softer, so that Jamie, if he would hear at all, must move closer and closer. Both Seamus and Seaforth affected not to notice.
Softly as he spoke, Dunstan had heard a familiar voice, and he soon drowned out all other sounds with the imrwrtunings of his neighs. When that didn't fetch his master fast enough to suit him, he reared and struck at the stalls with his powerful front legs. An ass or a lesser horse would have kicked with his hind legs, but not this destrier who had been trained since a yearling to do the capriole and caracole—warlike movements that had crushed many a foot soldier's head beneath flailing forehoof. -
Seaforth, with Seamus and Jamie close behind, hurried down the row of stalls until he stood before his favorite mount. A softly spoken "Ho, there" was enough to turn the raging stallion into an overgrown pony. His velvety muzzle pushed against Seaforth's chest until the earl put forth his hand and rubbed between the horse's eyes. Up and down the broad forehead he scratched, the horse closing his eyes like a woman delighting in foreplay. Then down over the broad cheeks, finally searching out that ticklish spot in the V beneath the chin. The horse's skin rippled with shivery pleasure, and he stood transfixed. Never stopping his scratching, Seaforth said, as if to himself, "Poor Dunstan. Poor horse. It shall break my heart to get rid of you."
Seamus and Jamie cried out with one voice, "No!"
Pretending not to have heard, Seaforth continued in the same sorrowful voi
ce, "Better to break my heart than yours."
Jamie, all thoughts of his lost toys driven from his mind by the love of this horse, cried out in tearful protest, "No, father, you can't. I won't let you."
Seaforth pretended surprise. "What? You care for him, too?"
"More than anything in this world." Seaforth chose not to question the exaggeration. The exchange was having the desired result, healing the breach between him and the being he loved more than anything in this world.
"Then would you do something to save him?"
"Oh, yes, anything."
Seaforth squatted down to look his son in the eye. As he did, Dunstan, released from his spell, reached over the side of his stall and nuzzled his master's head. Ignoring the horse, Seaforth put his lone hand on his son's shoulder. "Then you must promise me to grow quickly. With only one hand, I cannot hope to handle this horse. But to confine him to a stall for the rest of his life is unfair to him. From the time he was weaned, he has been trained for but one thing—to serve his master. To carry him. To fight for him. Warfare and tourneys are the only things he knows. Without them, he will begin to pine and eventually will lose muscle, and then heart, and then he will die. You must save him from this."
"But I can't. I'm too small." The tears began to flow again.
"Today, yes. But soon you will be big enough. In the meantime, we will let friend Seamus"—Seamus, who thought he'd been forgotten, was startled to hear himself brought into the conversation—"substitute for us. But only until you're ready to take on the responsibility of being Dunstan's master. Agreed?"
