by Erin O'Quinn
I was not keen to see Wynn, for he and I had a very short history together, about a week of mouth joining back in the days when I was first learning the nature of a kiss. He and I had parted abruptly before I came to Éire, and for months afterward I festered over his jealous mistreatment of me.
The three of us dismounted and tethered our horses. Brindl had already hung her spatha from her belt. Brigid and I pushed our shillelaghs into our own belts. We walked slowly to where Gristle stood with Wynn, not wanting to disrupt the rhythm of the practice.
Gristle stood immobile, his ageless, handsome face seeming carved from granite. He immediately greeted us. “Ladies,” he said gravely. He bowed stiffly, one bow serving for the three of us. Wynn looked at us, apparently trying to decide whether to bow or mumble a greeting. At last he inclined his head, saying nothing at all.
In my gut, I still felt a knot of disdain for him. He had betrayed a twisted, jealous mind. And he had taken away my precious pony, returning him only months later at Patrick’s monastery at the Hill of Macha. Forgiveness on my part would come slow, if ever.
“O armsman, would you be willing to show three ladies the rudiments of self-defense?”
Gristle would know that I was referring to Brigid, for Brindl and I could almost be described as “battle-weary” from long hours of defending ourselves against many opponents, friendly and otherwise.
“Of course, Lady Caylith. The three of you would please throw off your mantles, lay down your weapons, and join us in this circle.”
I appreciated the way Gristle never seemed surprised at anything. Indeed, he used surprise itself as a training tool. “Lady Brigid, you will face the formidable Brindl. And you, Lady Caylith, will face the unknown strength of Wynn. Three feet. Brindl and Wynn will be the aggressors. I want to see how you react to an attack, any attack.”
Gristle stepped back out of the circle and waited, watching with expressionless eyes of stone. “You first, Lady Brigid. When the attack comes, react naturally and let me see your counter.”
Brigid was less than six inches taller than Brindl, but hopefully she would see that her height afforded her a small advantage. Brindl was small and slight of build. But her strength was astonishing. And her reactions were almost as fast as my own, having devoted herself to daily training for more than two years. All she lacked was Gristle’s tutelage.
The two small women stood taking each other’s measure. I admired the way the untrained Bree gazed levelly at Brindl, breathing evenly, her shoulders and legs relaxed. I was sure she had never trained before, and I was amazed at her instant grasp of how to face danger. Brindl was a veteran, a true warrior, one who seemed to thrive at the edge of peril. Even though I had known her from her birth, I would not want to face her as an enemy. She was not just unpredictable. She was also very, very smart.
I found myself hardly breathing, waiting for Brindl’s eyes to foreshadow an attack. And then I saw it, a split second before she moved. She moved low, throwing herself almost at Bree’s feet, covering the distance as though it were mere inches. And Bree simply stepped aside, almost delicately, and regarded Brindl at her feet. She reached her hand down, and Brindl, grinning, grasped it and lightly regained her standing posture.
Gristle was blunt, as always. “Lady Brindl, you are very fast indeed. Yet your opponent could read your intent as surely as though you shouted it to her. Lady Brigid, you have promise as a warrior. Not because of any inherent strength, but because you have a brilliant mind. Both of you are to move to the circle beyond this one and take turns being the aggressor.”
He turned to Wynn and me. “Your turn, Lady. Take your opponent’s measure and react accordingly.”
I moved slightly so that neither Wynn nor I was looking into the sun. He interpreted my move as a challenge, for I saw his nostrils flare—and that one tiny movement told me everything I needed to know. My breathing became one with the still wind, and I looked into his eyes as though they were the eyes of a stranger, seeking his intent. My knees were bent, my weight centered, my eyes empty of all emotion. And I saw his attack before it happened, for he was still aimed at my heart. The blow went past my chest as I turned and tripped him. My tripping motion was light but effective, for his whole body had been centered on the target and not on being grounded. Being off-balance, he went down heavily.
I tried not to harbor ill feelings, but it was hard for me to reach my hand down to help him up. I did it, but I moved as though in quicksand. I need not have bothered, for he ignored my extended hand and scrambled to his feet, his face very red, and looked at a distant tree.
“Wynn, you are still announcing your intention, and not even subtly. You are hampered also by emotional baggage that would have given you away in any case. Lady Caylith, I think you have almost been able to disengage your feelings from your martial endeavors. The breathing is coming along nicely. I fault your sportsmanship, for I could see that you channel your emotions, and yet you have not dissolved them completely. The field of battle is no place for personal feelings.”
Being chastened by Gristle was not new, but it still stung. I was shamed by the fact that he could read even the flicker of an eyelash and interpret it correctly. I let his words sink into my experience and technique, and I understood how my reluctance to help Wynn could have cost me not only a battle but a war. Love thy neighbor as thyself. A spontaneous act of kindness would have won the day. Instead, I felt as though I had lost.
The four of us continued to train for hours, taking small rest periods only to rehydrate with cool river water. Gristle pitted me against Brigid and Brindl against Wynn, and every other combination of opponents until each of us had won at least one match. Then he set us to practicing with weapons. Brindl and Wynn were the sword adepts, and Brigid and I practiced with shillelaghs.
I was able to show both Brigid and Gristle some of the moves that Liam had taught me, and holding the well-balanced stick made me want to face my husband again in a shillelagh ring. He had taught me some excellent moves, and I had taught him something about deep breathing, so that we were almost evenly matched. But our playful bouts went sometimes into a dimension that neither of us could have predicted.
At last Gristle said, “Enough, students. I hope you have all four learned something valuable today. You have taught me a few things, and I thank you. Wynn, join me for evening meal.”
And our day of martial training was over. I was tired yet exhilarated, and I saw that Brindl and Bree felt the same. I threw my mantle over the back of my saddle, for I did not even feel cold. When we arrived back at Brindl’s teach, Brigid said, “I am struck by what Gristle told me. That I could be a warrior.”
Brindl regarded her with a steady, appraising eye. “Brigid, you are much better than I was when I first started training. You seem to have a natural affinity for the subtleties of combat. I feel sorry for Michael.” And then she smiled warmly to show that she was jesting.
“I agree with Brindl,” I told her. “I trained for a long time with Gristle before I learned how to appraise my opponent, how to use my weakness as a strength. I saw you do it right from the start.”
“I am overwhelmed by your flattery, ladies.” She was actually blushing. “But today’s practice makes me want to train more. What if we were to meet once a week and you both can teach me some of your techniques?”
Brindie clapped her hands. “Oh! I would like that very much! We can meet here in my own field. What do you say, Caylie?”
“I say that is the best idea I never had. How about a week from today?”
It was decided. We would become a small group of tiny warriors. Someone suggested the name “Triús,” and we all laughed. “Yes,” I said. “Let us be called ‘The Trousers’…‘The Terrible Trousers.’ May all quail who dare confront us.”
I hugged Brindl warmly and mounted Clíona. “Let us go home, young lady,” I said to my mare. “And you, too, Bree, if you are ready to return.”
We rode back to my holdings together, hardl
y talking, thinking about today’s training. Finally, Brigid asked, “Cay, what did Gristle see in your defense against Wynn? Why did he fault you?”
“Simple, Bree. I thought my opponent unworthy, and Gristle saw it. Here is a good rule of combat. Never, never disdain your opponent, for your greatest opponent is yourself.”
Chapter 6:
The Bone Whistle
When Liam got home that evening, I was still inwardly smoldering from my shillelagh practice, and he saw it right away. I stood close to the door instead of near the fire pit, where I usually stood preparing supper at that time of day. The shillelagh he had made me was leaning near the door. His mantle slung over one shoulder, Liam tossed it in the general direction of a bench and gathered me close with one strong arm. He looked down at me, his eyes darker than usual, and he spoke before kissing. “Shillelaghs?”
“Yes.” As soon as I opened my mouth to speak, he started to take small bites on my lips, then my chin and throat. I gripped his arms, biting back on his cheeks and ears. I felt suddenly hungry, too.
“Good. Anois.” He strode to the place where our weapons were arrayed against the clay wall and seized his handsome weapon. He turned it around in his hand a moment, testing the heft, as if to assure himself that he had not forgotten the finer points of bataireacht, shillelagh combat. It had been a fortnight since we last had picked up our weapons.
I loved the way Liam was always ready for any challenge, even after a day of muscle-straining labor. I picked up my own weapon, and we walked outside together.
I should have been exhausted by the several hours I had spent that day with three different opponents. But the anticipation of facing Liam caused a kind of strong current to course through me, and I felt fresh as when I had started. We walked to the combat circle we had made behind our teach, rimmed with small dark river stones.
Liam looked at the sky, judging the course of the sun and the play of shadows. I found a place where my feet liked the earth. I bent my knees just slightly, sinking my weight subtly lower and lower, until I became part of where my own feet dug into the soft ground.
Liam faced me, about three feet away. He, too, seemed to become one with the place he stood, and his eyes reflected the lengthening shadows. We both breathed in almost the same rhythm, very slow. We held our weapons loosely, pointed at our feet, and waited.
The longer Liam and I had practiced together, the more we had become a mirror image of each other, and the harder it had become for either of us to gain a clear advantage over the other. Tonight, I felt more than ever that I needed to empty myself of all personal feelings. My breathing slowed even more, and the slower I breathed the more aware I became of my own center. It was bright, like a halo, and pure. There was no rancor, no heady passion, no thoughts of winning or losing.
I gazed at Liam, who had become a living part of my natural surroundings. His eyes were the soaring birds, his mouth, the yielding earth, his voice, the roar of the river. I saw him then for what he was—the complex world itself, the natural reflection of everything I embraced. And in that moment, I saw a whirlwind, and I moved away a split second too late. His shillelagh locked on my own, and the force set me promptly on my bum.
Instantly, his hand was reaching down to pull me back up, and I grasped it willingly. He brought me to his chest, and his eyes were as ravenous as I had ever seen them. “Oh, Cat,” he said, his voice husky and deep, and we kissed. It was a kiss of a thousand bites, seeming not to end. And at last he picked me up in his arms and walked with me, his mouth still on mine.
No matter how often we had stood in that circle of rocks, no matter which combatant gained clear advantage, the aftermath always took us both into a realm of surprise and delight. Tonight as Liam turned toward our door, we were both startled to see two pairs of lively brown eyes watching us, highly amused. His brother Torin and cousin Ryan were lounging against our door, waiting for us to approach.
“’Maith duit,” said Ryan laconically, wishing him a good evening.
“A mo dheartháir,” said Torin, grinning. “Hello, O Brother.”
Liam did not put me down, but he returned his kinsman’s greetings.
“’Tis almost sundown, lad,” said Ryan. “I did not expect to see ye up and about.”
“Cén fáth nach, dear cousin?” asked Liam. “Why not?”
“When first ye wed, ye stay in bed.”
Liam kissed me, as if in defiance of his relatives’ teasing, and he set me down very gently. Then, with no warming, he launched himself at Ryan, who found himself sprawled in the dirt on his back. Liam was straddling him, one knee firmly in his stomach, and he held his cousin fast to the ground by his upper arms.
Ryan pounded the dirt with his fist. “Yield! I yield!”
Liam rose in a stately manner, opened our door, and bowed to his kinsmen.
As soon as I looked at Liam’s tight breeches, I understood their amusement. The first time I had met Ryan, Liam and I were frisking in the Lough Neagh, not quite dressed—naked, actually—when he and seven or eight of his kinfolk came riding to the lakeshore. They had sat astride their horses, laughing uproariously, for the opposite reason. I had just splashed ice-cold water on Liam’s groin, and he had shriveled like a peanut. Yes, tonight was quite the opposite.
I, too, was enjoying this encounter, but I wondered where I would find enough food to provide supper for three strapping lads. “Welcome, boys,” I said. “I hope you can stay for supper.”
“Thank you, Caylith,” said Torin. “We are paying our way tonight.” And he handed me a basket containing a plucked chicken, ready for the pan. I took it gratefully. Ryan scrambled to his feet, silently removed his wineskin, and offered that to me, too.
“Set it on the table, Ryan, and pour us each a cup.”
We all entered the house, and I set about preparing dinner while Liam and the clansmen draped themselves over the too-small benches and lifted their cups. “Sláinte!” I thought they were toasting everything but the bad weather, so frequently did the cups rise and the laughter sound. I felt very warm and happy just listening to them as I cut the chicken into cauldron-sized pieces.
Then Torin was at my shoulder. “Shame on us, Caylith. We leave ye to do the cooking, and no one brings ye wine for your trouble.” He handed me a cup, and I smiled and raised it.
“Sláinte,” I said. “To happiness.”
He had no cup, for he had left it on the table. But he raised one hand in token of my good wishes, and his mouth quirked in a familiar smile, almost exactly like his brother’s. “Aye, sister, to happiness.”
I gazed at him fondly. He and I had shared something that I hoped no other kin of Liam would ever feel, the fear that young, vibrant Liam would die. Torin had helped me rescue my wounded husband from the grip of Owen Sweeney, and our experience together had welded a bond between us. Ryan and Michael had been on our rescue mission. But it was Torin who had suffered most in fear for his youngest brother, who would gladly have given his own life in exchange for Liam’s.
I looked at my brother-in-law and smiled, putting out my hand and touching his beardless face. His hair, auburn at the top, fell in curls into his lighter-brown hair, exactly like his youngest brother’s. “An’ what have ye been up to, lad? We have not seen ye since our wedding.” It was a pointed question, but I pretended to ask it carelessly.
Months ago, I had teased Torin about living in a land of hags and hunchbacks, that he knew no beautiful women. And I had told him I knew someone he might like to meet. He pretended great reluctance, but I did it anyway. On our wedding day, I introduced him to my friend Swallow Feather, a niece of Jay Feather and one of the most attractive women I had ever met. Torin had been smitten on the spot. Now I wanted to know more, without directly asking.
“Ah, lass, ye know how life goes. Up to this and that.”
“An’ sure ye will be going home soon, then?” I kept up a mock-Gaelic lilt, mimicking his own.
“Um, not yet, then. Ye know how life goes.�
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I laughed outright. “Torin, please arrange this chicken in my cook pot, add a little water, and set it over the fire while I go to the garden.”
There! I thought. Give him a bit of colleen’s work to do in repayment for lying to me outright. I knew as sure as I knew my own name that Torin was wooing the fair Swallow, but he was too proud to admit it. He had told me he would rather be a stallion facing the gelding knife than be trapped by a matchmaker. Now to admit anything would mean losing face. He would come around, I knew, for everyone in his family was at least as big a tease as he was, even his own royal father.
On my way outside, I stopped and bent my head a little and kissed Liam’s downy cheek. He looked at me, his eyes smoldering, and my mouth played with a tiny smile. “Deal with your kinsmen, then me,” my smile told him. I put on my mantle and went to the garden.
Long shadows had almost overwhelmed our holdings, for the sun set early this time of year. I could see my garden well enough, and I knew exactly what I wanted. Every inch of the tilled soil was as familiar as the floor in our home, every plant as well-known as our furniture. Seizing a corded basket, I dug with my hand shovel and selected a large head of lettuce, a fat onion bulb, and several small, tender radishes. I took them to the river and washed them thoroughly, letting the swift, cold water rush over my hands and arms, feeling vibrant and happy.
Back inside, I saw that Torin, rather than joining Liam and Ryan, was still fussing with the chicken, his wine cup abandoned on the table where he had left it. I was glad, for there was another matter I wanted to bring up with him in relative privacy.
“Torin, when is Liam’s feast day? And why does he not want to discuss it?”
