by Erin O'Quinn
The squirrel had eaten his last nut, for Liam’s aim was swift and true. We walked purposefully to where it lay on the ground, and I removed the arrow and quickly dressed our catch. Liam buried the innards and hung the skin on his belt, and I hung the meat on my own belt. We grinned at each other and walked back toward our teach.
Walking back, we talked freely. “Need new bow,” he said. “Or…b’fhéidir…I make another weapon.”
“Where did you learn to hunt with a bow and arrow?” I asked him.
“On…range. With cattle. Need to eat.” The explanation was simple and to the point.
“Why do you carry no knife?”
“I…carry knife, Cat, on range. Carry spear, sometimes, call it sleá. Sometimes crann tabhaill. And bata.”
I remembered back when I and my fellow pilgrims had first encountered the wild clansman with his rugged-looking relatives. All of them were intent on following us, and all of them were carrying rather vicious-looking spears with talon-like points.
“I remember the sleá. And what is the—the crann ta—?”
“Crann tabhaill.” He moved his arm in a circular motion near his head, simulating a sling. I nodded in understanding.
“Our friend Brindl is good with the sling,” I told him. “I would like it if you teach me how to use one.”
He put his arm around my shoulders as we walked. “Ar ndóigh, mo chuisle. I would love…show ye everything.”
We entered our holdings through a stand of birches, and right away, even from a distance, I saw our gift from Luke. It was lying next to the door, and I ran to see it more closely. “Liam! Our new tub!” Near the tub sat a low table and a slender, three-foot ladder.
He looked altogether astonished. “Is…tub? Do chapaill? For horses?”
“For Liam,” I said. “And Caitlín. Luke made it for us. Help me carry it in, near the bed.”
Later, I stood admiring Luke’s gift. As I had suspected, it looked rather like a half barrel. Built of a score or more bent staves, the wood was burnished oak circled with shining metal hoops. A few inches from the bottom was a spigot. The whole tub rested on a low, oval table built just for it, and I saw that the spigot was high enough that I could put an ordinary cooking cauldron underneath to drain it.
The tub stood about three and a half feet from the floor, and so Luke had thoughtfully constructed a side ladder for easy access. The tub itself looked to be about four feet long and three feet deep—enough, I thought, to fit the two of us quite cozily.
Liam was sitting cross-legged outside near the door, working with a ball of flax and an old leather belt. I busied myself carrying river water back and forth in our earthenware jug and pouring its contents into cooking cauldrons on the fire. When the water boiled, I carried the cauldrons to the tub and started to fill it. At this rate, I thought, it would take about two hours to complete the task and well worth the effort.
Between trips, I cut up the squirrel meat and prepared the pelt the way Liam had showed me. And every so often I would squat by his side, watching him make what turned out to be a sling.
The sling was simple enough. Liam had started with several lengths of flax, and he first twisted them in threes, making a strong ply. Then he plaited them and tied them in the middle to a rather thick rectangle of leather he had cut from the belt. Each side of the sling was about ten inches long. On one end he tied a knot, and on the other end he fashioned a finger loop.
“I…teach ye later,” he told me, leaning forward to kiss me as I squatted next to him. He stood and drew me up with him. “Now suppertime.”
We cooked together—a fine squirrel stew with boiled carrots and turnips. All the while we ate, I could not help gazing at our new bathing tub. Once I got up and tested the water. It was quite hot, but it would cool down quickly once we got in. I was excited to test it.
Liam grinned at me. “Feel…dirty,” he said. “Salach. Need bath.”
“Come then, mo ghrá. Let us take our first real bath.” I took his hand and we walked to the tub. Liam pulled at the drawstring on his breeches, and they fell around his ankles. I wished then, as often, that I could overcome my shyness and simply take off my clothes in front of him without feeling shamed. I waited until he mounted the ladder in one step and stood in the tub.
“Sit down, Liam,” I told him.
“Hot.”
“Then sit slowly. I will join you.”
He eased himself into the tub, and I watched his face. His expression turned from a grimace into a half smile, and finally to a dreamy kind of contentment. “Ready, Cat. Need…help?”
I pulled my tunic over my head and started up the small ladder. He stood, and his hands circled my waist. He picked me up and set me down again, and I was standing next to him in our fragrant new tub.
He sat down again, looking up at me, just about the level of my mound of red hair. “Ye beautiful,” he said.
I bent and put my fingers under his chin, drawing his face up to mine. “And ye, too, lad,” I teased. I sat down gingerly, straddling Liam, for there was not enough room for both of our bums at the same time.
I reached into the water, my hands cupped, and began to pour water onto his shoulders, watching it run down his chest in little streams. “Good. Feel good, Cat. Do it more.”
“Bend your head down toward me,” I said. He leaned forward as I bid, very far, and he captured my left breast. “No, wait,” I said, laughing, and his mouth came off slowly, lingering at the nipple. I cupped my hands and began to pour water on the crown of his head until it was running down his face and back. Then he did the same, running his fingers through his wet hair.
He shook his head as I imagined a lion would toss water from its mane, until drops were flying everywhere. Then, dipping both his large hands into the water, he doused my own red mane. We sat there for at least ten minutes, rubbing water onto each other, laughing and playing like children. At last he stood, and I poured water, then smoothed it, over his groin and his bum.
“Clean now?” he asked.
“Clean enough, O warrior. You get out first, then help me.”
Still he stood there as I sat in the warm water, and he grasped his mighty weapon, his bata, and held it. I understood what he wanted, and I closed my mouth over it very slowly, drawing off, then took it in again as far as I could. I cupped his testicles as I sucked, loving the feel of his skin, loving him.
He pressed his groin against my mouth, holding the back of my head. Then he drew back. “Finish later,” he said, his voice very low and husky.
He quickly got out of the tub and stood waiting to help me out, too. I backed down the little ladder, and he stood behind me as soon as my feet touched the floor. His mouth closed over my shoulder, and he grasped my skin in his teeth, but very gently. Again and again he bit me—my back, my shoulders, the nape of my neck—and then the bites became more intense.
I turned toward him, suffused with passion from my toes to my nipples. “Put me in bed,” I told him, “and light a candle.”
I had lost track of the number of times we had made love that day, for each time was as intense as the last. Now Liam held himself over me as I lay face up, supporting himself with his muscular arms. “Hungry for ye, Cat. Ye make me…wild.”
His mouth started on mine, biting and licking, and it moved down my throat, down to my breasts. I was frantic to feel the hot wetness on my nipples. “You,” I gasped. “Wet, hot, suck me.”
As he sucked me, he slowly inserted his groin until I felt the heat rise between my legs, up into my stomach and spread even into my butt. “Tell me how ye love it. Tell me.” I raised up until my mouth was in his ear, and I told him the words he wanted to hear.
The moment of climax was the same for both of us. As soon as I whispered the brazen demand, I could feel his tremors. And then my own began. We cried out together, loving each other to the utmost. And then we lay very still, remembering the passion, finally spent.
I lay with my head in the hollow of his s
houlder. I could feel that my hair was still wet, and very tangled. “Liam,” I murmured, and I looked up at him.
I thought he was sleeping, but he opened his eyes, and I saw that they were alive with—what? Humor and a touch of wonderment.
“Would you comb my hair?”
He sat on the edge of the bed while I found my comb, and then he drew me onto his lap. “Sit still,” he said gruffly. He started to pull the comb through my wild curls, but I could tell right away that his gentle tugs would never tame them.
“Sing to me, love, and I will tame my own wild pony.”
“I have…new song for ye.”
“Who did you learn it from?” I asked him.
“B’fhéidir…ye find out.” He smiled, and he traced my mouth with his finger.
He started to sing, and I soon forgot the comb and all my wet hair, for the melody was tender, the words as compelling as any he had ever sung to me.
We came to your valley
down derry, down down.
The glen was all green then
down derry, down down.
The summer was come, love
down derry, down down
the grasses were soft, love
down derry, down down.
Then ye took me over
down derry, down down
up over your hill, love
down derry, down down.
As his lilting tenor voice rose and fell, I sat transfixed. I knew the words were verging on naughty, but the love behind the words held me as though I were trapped in a snare.
When the song ended, I sat with tears glossing my eyes. “You love me,” I said simply.
“Is tú mo ghrá. I love ye, Cat.” He lay back on the bed, drawing me next to him. And then he sang the last of the song, as though he had just made it up.
I love ye again, love
down derry, down down
now winter is cold, love
down derry, down down.
An’ love ye forever
down derry, down down,
in sunshine or snow, love
down derry, down down.
Liam’s song had all the tenderness and simple joy born of deep, sincere love. It was all the more remarkable because it was in my own language, as though he had worked it out over a long period of time, trying to express just how he felt. At that moment, I loved my husband more truly and fiercely than I ever had before.
My arms tightened around him, as though to draw him into my very skin. “Liam, I love ye forever, too.”
Chapter 15:
The Path of Honor
The room was cold, and no candle burned at our bedside table. The fire pit, too, was dark and cold. Liam was still asleep, nested into the curve of my back. His breath was slow and regular on the nape of my neck, and I could already feel that my once-wet hair had dried into a tangled mass like that of a Medusa.
It had happened to me often before. I awoke with answers to some of the problems that had been plaguing me. The answers came today, I thought, because I was chilled to the bone and needed to stay warm by lighting the fires of my mind.
I drew my body into a tighter crescent, harvesting whatever warmth my drawn-up knees could give my cold chest. Not wanting to move, I let my mind play out some answers.
It was clear, first, that I needed to look into the eyes of Owen Sweeney. His face had begun to haunt me, even when I was awake. There was a mystery about him, something my mind could not quite seize, something that teased and tormented me and—yes, I admitted it—frightened me very much.
Why did he allude again to his pain? What pain did he feel? His captive’s wounds were long healed. His legs had been crippled for how long? Probably several years. Why did he continue to rant and to revile everyone around him, even in the face of palpable mercy? Why had he come back to his wretched teach three months back, even when it was possible that I and my followers might have been lying in ambush? Indeed, it seemed that he wanted to be caught, he wanted to be punished.
The other answer crept up like a thief behind me, in a dark cowl, until I whirled around and saw a face—the face of Mother Sweeney! I had never asked her the story of her son. How did he become crippled? Why did he keep slaves, in defiance of the laws of the moots throughout Éire? Why did he kill his wife? Why had he kept her room, her very bed, in the same state it was before she died?
I had no answers to the mystery of Owen Sweeney, but I suddenly knew that if I wanted to cleanse myself of my dread, I needed to discover his true story. If I found that he deserved to be reviled and cast to the remorseless sea, as the high king had ruled, then so be it. But what if I were to find out something more besides?
The sooth teller deep inside me knew beyond a doubt that there was a story waiting to be told. Today I would begin to unravel it.
Liam stirred then, and he spoke into my neck. “Maidin mhaith, a Cháit.”
“Good morning, love.” I turned around, pressing against his sleep-warm chest. “Please light a fire for us.”
“Fire? Yes, feel…fire. Mmm,” he breathed into my ear. I felt his bata rise like a deadly weapon, menacing my thighs.
“Fire first. I am cold.”
He laughed softly and licked my cheeks, then my lips. “Need…move about. Up and down. Get warm fast.”
Forgetting my coldness for a moment, I propped myself up with an elbow and looked at him seriously. “Liam. I think I will go talk with Séamas this morning.”
He looked perplexed. “About…godspels?”
“No. About Sweeney. I need to find out more about him. Galen can give me answers, I know it. And Jericho, too. If I can learn about him…b’fhéidir…I can stop fearing him.”
“Tá sé go maith. Ye be right.” He stroked my face, his eyes thoughtful. “Every man has story to tell, if he be willing. I…light fire.”
While Liam was working with the tinderbox and the wood, I climbed the little ladder into our new tub. The water was cold and uninviting but much more welcome than the shallow water basin. I stood, cupping water into my hands and letting it run down my body. Then, in one wide step, Liam was standing beside me.
“Tá mé salach. Wash me.”
I pulled him close to my body, once again enjoying his comfortable warmth. I kissed him, nibbling his sensuous mouth and licking his soft mustache. “Liam, you are unquenchable.”
He did not know the word, and he traced my mouth with his finger as if asking me to repeat it.
“You are thirsty. No end. Always need to drink.”
“I drink your kisses, little fox, always need more.”
We laughed together and rubbed each other a bit with the cold water, but we were clearly too chilled to do more than clean ourselves.
Liam made breakfast while I dressed. This morning, I chose another of Brigid’s fine léines, eggshell white, with long sleeves of undulating green and blue, like the ocean. I slipped it on over my lacy undertunic, feeling pretty. And then I found a green-blue gown of soft wool and drew it over the léine.
“Tá tú iontach álainn.” Liam was behind me, still undressed, and he cupped my breasts, rubbing his downy beard on my shoulders. “Ye be totally beautiful.”
Then came a sharp “rap-rap” on our door. Liam answered it to Torin. “I, ah, I hope I am not intruding.” He was speaking to his unclad brother but looking at me.
Liam grinned and clapped him on the back. “You eat with us. Come.”
Torin removed his warm brat, and I hung it near the door. “I got home late last evening, and of course I slept too late this morning. Breakfast would be welcome.” He sat while Liam unhurriedly drew on his breeches, as though his nudity were normal as noontide. It was easy to divide our pan bread and bird’s eggs into portions for three, and we ate in convivial silence.
“Are you going to the enclaves this morning?” I asked, all innocence.
His mouth quirked a bit. “I am.”
“I will be riding to the church. We can ride together a ways.”
&nb
sp; “I would like that, Cate.”
I finished eating and attacked my hair with a comb. At last I gave up and tied it behind my neck with a length of green ribbon. I slipped on my woolen mantle and, instead of waiting for Liam and Torin to finish their conversation, I left to saddle NimbleFoot.
The Brothers O’Neill walked up to the hay haggard, still talking and laughing. I had saddled my pony, and I lifted portions of fodder onto the ground for all the horses. Liam saddled Angus and walked to me for his good-bye kiss. I stood on tiptoes and suckled his lips, murmuring softly, “Slán, darling, I love you.”
He kissed me back tenderly. I smiled, a silent thank-you to him for using his public kiss so as not to embarrass me.
I mounted my pony and held the reins until Torin, too, was ready. Then we rode off at a canter. “Cate,” he said after a minute or two, “I need to apologize to ye.”
“Whatever for? You did nothing wrong.” I gazed resolutely ahead.
“When we rode together a day or so ago, I could hear that ye were upset. And then ye rode off with no further words.”
I was annoyed, for I wanted the incident to be buried. “Nonsense. You are still not used to my teasing.”
“Ye have a keen memory, but so do I. Last week ye told me how I was the sun an’ moon an’ stars to ye, and to Liam. I felt unworthy of your esteem, I spoke gruffly. But I was not rebuking ye, please believe me.”
I had not wanted to meet his gaze, but I looked at him then. I saw that his eyes were troubled, and I was astounded that he even remembered such a trivial incident. “Torin, I, um, I accept your kind words…that—that Liam is fortunate I am his wife. And you need to accept my own words to you. Let us not call them ‘honeyed,’ as though they were somehow not sincere.”
He stopped his horse, and I stopped, too. I reached out into the space between us as though to lightly touch his cheek, a gesture of reassurance, of friendship. “Let us agree that we love each other as family and friends should, and we will let it go.”
