Resentment festered in his blood at the sight of her waving his father’s sword at the Lochlann enemy. And the memory of her arrows shooting through the air turned his bowels.
He gulped his wine to quench his dry mouth. When he won the battle, he longed to smell her blood, in its pungent metallic aroma. Her defiant blood.
If he were given a moment alone with her after the battle days ago, she would have begged for death.
As though it were Kaireen in his hands, he tore pieces from the turkey leg. He stuffed the pieces in his mouth, his eyes rolling into his head at the pleasure of wishing this so.
For touching the weapons, he would rip her arms from their sockets. For speaking against him in front of his father he would carve out her tongue.
“Another leg of turkey, Feoras?” His father broke his concentration and he wrestled with not displaying his anger. “No father, ’tis enough for me here.”
“We were wondering,” Bearach added.
Always his brother had to contribute to anything his father said. As though he feared their father would forget his first born and allow Feoras to usurp his position. “We must compliment the cook, Feoras.” He grinned. “For I have never seen you enjoy your food as much as now. But I have a liking for my meal as long as ’tis not alive.” He patted his stomach and the others at the table laughed.
“We will see, brother,” Feoras whispered during their joking. “Who is the victor of the battle.”
“Wench!” Bearach bellowed, addressing their servant. “Tell the cook she has Feoras’ heart through her cooking. Does she have need of a husband?”
“No.” Feoras clenched his teeth. “She be too fair for me.”
Men pounded their fists on the table. The serving wench laughed with them and then spun on her heel to the kitchens.
Moments later, the hunchbacked cook entered. Time and labor molded her back to its humped shape. Her blush was nauseating. She was thin, but her hands and feet swelled like they belonged to his brother and not a woman.
“Dance with her.” The crowd cheered.
Tables scooted across the great hall, making room for the musicians and dancing.
He was in no mood for either. But his mother’s words often filtered through his mind in times like these. “A laird must make his clan content, occasionally at his own expense. Do your duty once and they will remember you. Neglect it, and they will remember you not on the battlefield.”
With a wink, he stood and then turned away from the high table. He approached the cook, and then offered his hand.
The cook reddened, but accepted his offer. Her hands felt as they looked, like greasy bloated meat. Instead of his grimace, he donned a grin.
As the musicians played, he swirled her round the room. Because of her bent back, her head met his stomach. For effect, he bent and then kissed her forehead. She swooned in his arms.
When the first song ended, the crowd whooped their approval. He should have ended it there. But he had not forgiven his brother’s ridicule.
“Since this maid is so fair,” he addressed the crowd. “All I have for her is…”
Baited, the crowd roared. But he waited until their attention was upon him again. The musicians ceased their playing. The men leaned forward to hear.
“I give her only what I can, another dance.”
The music jerked into another song, and Feoras twirled the cook around the room.
“I fear they mock you and I,” he whispered to her.
Never anger a cook, his mother had told him. For they might remove an offender with poisons, if they so choose.
“No worry.” She smelled of pungent meat when she spoke. “Best time I have had since I was a young thing.”
He nodded instead of commenting, because he doubted he could stomach another whiff of her breath.
At the end of the second song, she panted.
“At last fair maid.” He swept into a bow. “You have put my dancing to shame with yours.”
His brother and father were in conversation at the high table as though their interest in his affairs had already waned.
She giggled and curtsied back.
With a nod, he strutted away and then headed back to the high table. His plate and goblet were full. But eating now would keep him awake all night. He needed his strength for the upcoming battle with the Liannon clan.
Instead of eating, he tossed his turkey leg to the dogs. Then he swigged the wine in hopes his headache would ease.
How dare they mock him in front of everyone. Well, soon his father and brother would pay. Without a word, he bowed his head to his father. But his father did not respond. Infuriated, Feoras tugged on his wool cloak and then hiked to the gate tower.
Outside, his cloak caught the wind and billowed behind him. His boots hit the groove of the well-worn path to the gate tower. Days ago, his spy within the Liannon clan had sent word after seeing his father’s sword in that abomination’s hands. He climbed the tower steps, eager for the peace offered inside.
This was his refuge when his mother had been driven away. It was here he saw her face for the last time through the tower’s south window.
Elias, his manservant, slept in this tower. Though missing his teeth and eyes, his ears heard the change of color on the autumn leaves.
When Feoras opened the wooden door, Elias snapped to attention. Before a word was spoken, he bowed.
“Leave me.”
Elias jumped, apparently sensing his mood. In no need of prodding, he rushed away, closing the door behind him.
At last, Feoras was alone. His shoulders relaxed at hearing the bolt slide into place.
He moved to the window kicking, aside dusty bowls. Elias liked rats. Fed them from his hand. Filthy creatures, and they knew to hide when Feoras entered.
He gazed across the Irish landscape. Dusk had settled, casting the last golden glow on the oak, spruce, and ash trees. The whole land stretched before him as though in supplication before him.
His hands clenched. He missed his mother so, but she willed him to be strong. And so he would be.
Movement across one the rolling hills caught his eye. He backed from the window and rubbed his hands in anticipation. The spy’s message was three days late; no doubt this would be great news for their battle.
The messenger bird fluttered through the open window of the tower. Around a leg, a fragment of parchment tied with a string. He opened his hand and the bird flew to him. It cooed as he stroked the grey and black feathers.
When the bird calmed, he worked at the knot round the leg. Frowning, for the knot twisted into more knots like a Celtic braid. Eagerness caused his hands to shake.
Whatever this said it was important, as his spy ensured the message would not fall from the journey. The writing would be in code, readable only to Feoras and his spy.
Elias left the bird and any messages alone. He knew the price of defiance, which was why he limped.
The bird danced on the stone floor shaking the tied leg.
“A moment more, little one.” The knot gave way to a loop. Then he eased the bird’s foot from the twine.
He unraveled the parchment then devoured the code. Thrice he read the words, and gooseflesh raced along his arms.
With this news, he would proceed with the plans for battle. With this, he planted the seed of revenge in his clan, and the blame swift to the foe.
His father’s sword was in Kaireen’s room. A meeting place was arranged for tomorrow evening.
However, diversions were necessary for his spy to steal the sword and meet him among the boulders to the west. She would not fail.
She promised. It would be good to see her again. Tomorrow could not come fast enough. And no one would know that he had his father’s sword back. All would think it would still be with Kaireen. Perfect.
Feoras offered the messenger bird her cage. Elias would see to the bird’s food and water. He tore the message into pieces and let them litter the stone floor. The rats would gather
them for use in their nests.
It was a fitting end, rats to collect the Liannon clan’s scraps. Feoras swept from the room. His cloak waved on the steps behind him.
The only lack was his father’s death. His eyes watered at the thought. Not for mourning, but for eagerness. Everything he waited for was now in his grasp.
Instead of taking the path back to the keep, he strode to the stables. It was time to pay the witch a visit. She had failed in her duty these past weeks.
Aye, his father’s sword would bring Feoras into battle at last. Bring him what the witch had not: good news.
Chapter Eleven
Kaireen slumped into her room. Muscles along her back, arms, and legs knotted while each step shot shards of pain through her legs and into her back. The back of her head burst open every time the heel of her leather shoe hit the stone floor.
She had forgotten her misery when Bram was near her. What magic did he possess to affect her so? Whatever it was, she did not like it. She would need to speak with Rebecca about him. It wouldn’t take many words of encouragement to have her interested in him the way she gawked at him during the dance.
Tapestries lined the walls along the hallway. She brushed her hand across the weaves. Ages hardened the threads so the coarseness made her palms itch. Threads of gold, green, and blue colored the scenes. Red splashed through to mark a long ago battle between the O’Neill and Liannon clans.
Coolness of the night chilled her. She dragged her feet along, hoped the motion would ease the stabbing pain of walking to her chambers.
Her stomach rumbled and she could not remember if she had eaten. Little matter, she grew more weary than hungry. Never would she grumble about a meal again. She rounded the last corner, and then pushed open her oak door. In front of the hearth candles flickered in a circle. Fire chewed on cedar logs, filling the air with their scent.
In the middle of the room, steam danced across a large barrel. She closed the door behind her. Rubbed her eyes, and then looked again at the barrel.
It was wide enough for three people to lie in. Purple linen lined the edge, padding the barrel’s rim. She shuffled closer. Her finger tips stretched to touch this dream.
Out of the shadows, Elva stepped, drawing her eyes to her. Kaireen jumped back, as if intruding on her handmaid’s private ritual.
Elva tsked and strode forward. “Off with your clothes ’afore the water cools.” Her fingers eased Kaireen’s stew-stained gown off.
Then her shift and each of her leather shoes removed. All her coverings lay in a crumpled pile outside the circle of flames.
Elva led her to the barrel, and Kaireen stepped inside.
She slid beneath the water. The warmth and the lingering scent of honeysuckle caressed her. The bath massaged her skin, easing her soreness.
A sea sponge floated by her foot and she snatched the edge with her toes.
After washing her body and hair, she was amazed to find the water held her in a warm embrace for such a long time. Normally the water would be chilled by now. She settled lower. Her hair spilled along the back of the barrel. Purple lining padded her head from the sharp edge.
She heard Elva shake fresh sheets for her bed, but she closed her eyes, letting the bath lull her to sleep. Moments later her eyes flew open. The candles had been removed and snuffed. The logs, burnt to embers, lit her room. Her once warm water now stung with cold.
Elva stood before her with a towel. Kaireen eased out of the barrel and then grasped the towel from her handmaid.
She expected the pain when she placed her foot on the stone floor, but only coldness greeted her.
After drying, she allowed Elva to pull a clean shift over her.
Her teeth chattered as she made way to her bed. Climbing inside, Elva then tucked the sheets and coverlet to her chin.
“Elva?” She struggled to keep her eyes open. “Tell me why—about the barrel.”
“’Tis a present,” Elva answered her with a beam. “A present from me, child.”
“Thank you.” Kaireen yawned. Vaguely she wondered why her handmaid would gift her with a present for it was months past her birthday, or how she could afford something so costly.
She heard Elva’s chuckles, but drifted away unable to open her eyes or respond. Her handmaid’s laughing echoed in her skull.
Kaireen’s heart beat faster at Elva’s next words, but denial drove into her stomach. “When you and Bram use the bath together, I will accept your thanks then. ’Tis a wedding present; I suspect you will enjoy with your husband for many a time to come.”
Chapter Twelve
Feoras was in good spirits. His spy had visited him in the woods, and she brought back his father’s sword. She assured him that no one knew it was gone for now. He would need to be quick about the killing or it would be discovered missing in a few days unless a distraction was created. Like a fire.
Inside the witch’s home, Feoras cracked his knuckles. He smirked at the crone who cowered before him. Her fist clutched her wool skirts as she backed further into the cottage.
In her clumsiness she knocked over a stool. Pity, she was the only one he knew in these parts. Others would squeal and use his visits to trap him. But he knew how to keep her from exposing him.
She reminded him of a wounded doe. Her sunken dark eyes darted about, as though in hope for a savior.
“Why is it not working?” he whispered and she cringed. He held back a smile. Whispers made imaginations run wild. She knew to fear his soft voice.
“M-my lord, I-I know not. The medicine should have done the course.” She squeaked.
His fist hit the stone wall and she whimpered. “I am displeased.” Blood seeped on his knuckles.
The fluid warmed his hand. Pleasure released through his body from the pain. Though his bleeding was not nearly as intoxicating as watching others bleed while squealing like stuck pigs.
Tears flowed on her gaunt cheeks. “Sorry, my lord. Give m-me another chance.” She fell on her knees kissing his boots. “Please, I will make medicine…stronger medicine.”
He seized her by her grey hair. Her face scrunched in pain. Never did he want to touch her flesh with his. Yet in his haste for his part of the battle, he had brought no weapons with him.
As if she saw his debate, hope sprung into her eyes. To answer her, he kicked her away.
In the corner, she cowered. Her wrinkled hands tried to shield her head.
He raked his fingers through his sandy hair. Leave it to a witch to call poison medicine. He cracked his neck to loosen the tension.
Maybe his father was blessed as a baby? No, she did not try hard enough. Do your best. The oath his mother taught him. Soon he would reunite with her.
His gaze fell on the baggy woman. Results are what counted, not effort. He would force her to do better.
She must try harder. So he snatched the witch from the dark shadows to persuade her.
Chapter Thirteen
Kaireen found Elva nowhere. She called for a servant girl to search for Elva in the kitchens, the great hall, and the courtyard. But the servant came back empty-handed. Desperate, she requested the servant to dress her. The girl tripped, dragging the yellow gown through rushes and dirt along the way. Kaireen gave the handmaid a forced smile.
Dusk and dinner would be within the hour. Nothing would ruin her evening. She had finished the kitchen chores on the morning meal, and now had the evening free before plunging ahead in the dyes.
Last night she dreamed of Bram. Of his kiss and that she could not get close enough to him. They had shared a bath together, then he laughed as she pulled rushes from her tangled hair. Why did she dream about him? Perhaps these hard labors had affected her mind.
She shifted her feet as the handmaid struggled to throw the gown over her head. Kaireen squatted to ease the girl’s vain attempts.
Dressed, she thanked the girl. After she licked her fingertips, she rubbed them against the fabric. But the stains smeared rather than lessened. She saw the
girl’s tears welling in her eyes.
“No, ’tis fine. My clumsiness brushed me into a dirt wall if anyone questions.” She touched the girl’s nose. “’Tis not your fault my maid has lost herself.”
Kaireen slipped on her leather shoes when her door flew open. The door struck against the stone wall with a boom, making Kaireen jump.
Elva stood before her hands on her hips as though upset at her mistress and not the other way around.
“Where have you been?” She held her arms to her sides to keep from shaking. How dare Elva barge in without apology?
“No time. Fetch the mistress her cloak.” She snatched Kaireen by the arm and then dragged her along. “If you had waited a moment longer, I could have you better suited for the ride.”
The young handmaid carried her pile-weave cloak, puffing as she chased them down the hall.
“Ride?” Kaireen stumbled. “No, the hour is late. Are you ill?”
“Wait too long and you will lose your way.” Elva tugged her arm harder.
Kaireen skidded to a halt. “I demand as your mistress you explain yourself at once.”
“Fire.”
Kaireen paled. She sniffed the air, but only the scent of tonight’s meal of roast chicken, ham, and onions answered. “I smell no smoke.”
“Not here, my lady.” Elva grabbed her cloak from the serving girl and then tossed it across her mistresses’ shoulders. “At your sister Shay’s.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. She rushed forward, following Elva outside.
Men raced to ready their horses. Already mounted, Bram gave her a court nod. In the distance, fire lit the western sky. Her sister’s home was on the edge of their land. It was about an hour’s hard ride away.
“They will need every hand on this one.” Elva said.
Kaireen opened her mouth to speak, but no sound arose.
Then Elva pushed her horse’s reins in her hand. She noticed her horse had three blankets tied to the back of the saddle.
“To the fire.” Bram led the men.
Kaireen mounted. Her sister and her niece were alone, she thought. Her sister would not be able to face another misfortune. Already she had a difficult pregnancy. The child was due next month. Loss of her husband had nearly killed her. If she lost her daughter or the babe…
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