by Erin O'Quinn
I felt Liam behind me and did not turn, wanting to feel the length of his body along my back and my bum. He kissed the nape of my neck, then my shoulder. The heat of his body next to me, and his mouth, was set off by the chill of the river and the rain. I turned around, staying very close, and his arms drew me into the haven of his chest.
“Dia duit,” I murmured into his mouth.
His answer had become part of our morning ritual. “Good morning, I love ye.”
He knelt and began to splash and rub water onto me, on my breasts and thighs and legs. When he had finished I did the same to him. Laughing, we ran back into the house, streaming wet from the rain. I remembered with a start that MacCool would be here shortly to join us for morning meal. I quickly dressed, selecting the pale green-and-pearl léine that Brigid had given me. I motioned for Liam to bring us a salmon from our cold box tethered in the river, while I set about cutting turnips into wedges.
When MacCool finally banged on our door, morning meal was ready. He stood in the doorway, rain streaming off his brat, his long, red hair plastered to his face and neck. “Dia duit,” I told him brusquely, and he and Liam sat talking quietly while I served the meal.
“Caylith,” he said at last, looking up from his trencher, “it may rain all day.”
“So?” I asked coolly.
“So methinks it would not be a good day to travel.”
“We are going only so far as the church, you pagan.”
“You mean I am to stay with the priest?”
“Monk,” I corrected.
“An’ he knows I would be his guest?”
“An’ he cares not, lad,” I said, mimicking his cadence. “You enter the house of God as a penitent. That is all he cares.”
MacCool, looking glum, repeated our conversation to his cousin, and Liam laughed with outright humor.
When we left, the rain had ended. But the fog I had predicted hung thick on the hills and the little ravines that lay between us and the church. We all three rode slowly, letting the horses find their own foothold on the mist-shrouded ground. I had motioned for Liam to ride one of the mares, for I wanted my mother to feel comfortable riding later. When we got back to our holdings, we would ride directly to my mother’s house, and he would simply relinquish the mare and walk to the work site.
MacCool rode his fine black stallion, hardly needing to guide it. Like all the clansmen I had met, he and the horse seemed one figure, one of the centaurs I had read about as a child. Yet I had never imagined a black steed with blue eyes and a mane of red hair.
The church was a bright-white clay-and-wattle round-house, one of the first buildings to be built when we arrived here. It had been erected in the middle of a clearing, where a few large oaks had been left to spread their protective canopy. Close to it stood a dark-gray stone cross, at least six feet high, its arms carved from stone in the shape of leaves and vines. The cross was our symbol for the tree of life, an icon of hope for the future of our new little settlement along the River Foyle.
We rode slowly and quietly up to the church. Next to it, under one of the oaks, was a much smaller clay house, the teach where Brother Jericho lived. Liam dismounted and walked into the church. He emerged right way, shaking his head. Then MacCool and I dismounted, leaving our horses to browse, and we all three stood at the lintel of Brother Jericho’s simple little house. Liam knocked on the door.
Brother Jericho opened the door to us, surprised, yet, I could see, delighted. I thought of him more as a friend than a priest, and I did not hesitate to give him a quick hug in spite of his obvious embarrassment. Liam grasped his hand, and MacCool hung behind us.
The young monk, like all the missionaries in Éire, wore a tonsure. His hair had been shaved clean on top. The rest of it, fair and somewhat curly, hung around his face and neck in wispy tendrils, almost like Father Patrick’s.
A quick look around the tiny teach told me that we needed to talk not here but in the church. Soon we were all three settled on benches in God’s house, MacCool still silent and moody.
The monk sat listening gravely as I explained this morning’s mission. I was careful not to speak directly of MacCool’s latest transgressions, for Brother Jericho knew MacCool well. If MacCool were truly penitent, the truth would emerge sooner or later.
“Mister MacCool has expressed an earnest desire to be, ah, counseled by Father Patrick,” I said. “It is a very large favor we ask, dear brother, but we need to have you escort him to the good bishop.” As I spoke, I tried to let Jericho see in my face the urgency of what I asked.
It would be a big favor indeed, for the monastery at Emain Macha lay at least four days’ ride to the southwest, not far from the southern shoreline of the Lough Neagh where Michael’s teach stood. And the monk had already showed that he was no horseman. He had accompanied my armsmen and me to Sweeney’s holdings last year, acting as our interpreter. I knew he suffered from saddle sores for a long time after, refusing my offer of a horsetail healing powder, trusting in the Lord’s providence to heal him eventually.
As though I had asked him to please pass the pan bread, he smiled and said, “Of course, Caylith. It will be my honor to tend to one of God’s penitents. He would not be here before me if he did not already feel the need for our Lord’s healing hand.”
At that, MacCool raised his head from his chest where it had lay during most of the conversation, and he rubbed his right eye, perhaps unthinkingly, where the curative powder had done its work. “Jericho, me lad, methinks I would prove to be an unwelcome companion. Ye would have to sit upwind of me unwashed body and me thundering farts all during the entire trip.”
“Yet would I persevere,” said Jericho sweetly.
“Me bawdy songs may bring a flush to your youthful cheeks.”
“The Lord would fill my mind with holy canticles.”
“I like to tell long tales of me sordid past, all the while drinking a grog fit for the Ard Rí himself.”
“Yet my heart is full of godspels and my own High King. The Lord has set higher obstacles than Fergus MacCool in front of me. And yet here you see me, in his very house, rejoicing in his testing of me.”
At last MacCool gave up. Throwing his head back, he laughed with long howls of delight. “I like ye, lad. We will get along. And who knows—I may even like your Pádraig. Let the penitence begin.”
We stood in the clearing outside the church saying our farewells. “Dear brother, I would have you tell Father Patrick to be ready to marry Liam and me. We will send a runner to let him know the day. Tell him we are building a teach just for him whenever he visits Derry.”
“I will, Caylith. The bishop has told me often that he will expand his ministry here. He will come for your sake, and also for the Lord’s work.”
Liam and I took turns grasping his hand. Then Liam turned to his cousin and embraced him, kissing both his hairy cheeks. MacCool thumped him on the back. No words were spoken between the two, but I could see and feel the affection they held for each other. For the first time I saw, in a deep place, why Liam had chosen to believe his cousin the first time Fergus had lied to him.
And yet, I thought, Liam’s love was the truer. For he would never have lied to MacCool. Then, as if it all had never happened, I cleansed myself of the troubled past. Walking up to MacCool, I stood on tiptoes, much as Brindl had done to Liam, and I kissed him lightly on one bristly cheek. Let the healing begin, I thought.
“I was right,” I told him.
“What mean ye, lass?”
“Kissing you is truly like putting my head in a bee’s nest.”
He graced me by laughing a little, and I mounted my red-maned Macha.
We left MacCool and the monk standing together under the leaves of the giant oak, its leaves hung with spent rain like thousands of tiny jewels.
Liam and I rode back as slowly as we had come, for the swirling mist still hung on the trees and along the uneven ground. We traveled in easy silence, used to riding together. I especially e
njoyed the way the fog changed the familiar landscape into unexpected shapes, a grove of rowans becoming a company of dancing elfish maidens.
As we rode, the sun began to break through the pearl-gray skies. The mists rose. Then, like the restless fingers of phantoms, they disappeared. By the time we arrived at the teach of Mama and Glaed, the fog had lifted completely.
We dismounted, again leaving the mares to browse. Liam stooped somewhat to kiss me good-bye, putting his fingers under my chin and lifting my face to his. “Mmm,” he murmured, his tongue running along my lips, then forcing them open. Our kiss was brief yet potent as wine.
Liam turned and walked toward the work site, and I strode to Mama’s door and knocked.
“Darling,” she said. “What a surprise. I am joyed to see you.”
I hugged her and kissed her smooth ivory cheek. “Hello, Mama. I am going to the dwarf enclaves to order new clothes, and I thought you may want to do the same.”
We sat on low benches in her little home. She had insisted on having several shuttered windows built, and they were all open, letting the newly emerging sunlight stream in. We both sipped a cup of wine, Glaed’s favorite—a strong red, not quite sweet, that he had purchased from somewhere.
I silently admired her bed, ironically similar to the ones I had seen at the slaveholder Sweeney’s brugh, for it was raised about two feet from the floor. It was much more expansive than a cot, and it would have to be, for Glaedwine was one of the largest men I had ever met.
I saw again the scars on her small wrists, and I turned my eyes away. I had never brought up Mama’s time as a slave in Sweeney’s household, nor the years of captivity that had preceded it—and she had never spoken of it. The experience, I knew, was still somewhat raw. My sworn mercenary Glaedwine had been the one to carry my sorrowful, weak mother from the slave quarters. It was he who stayed by her side, who had made sure she ate and drank, who had directed the building of the little chariot she traveled back home in last year.
In spite of Mama’s own advice—that a well-bred woman needed to surround herself with patrician men only—she had fallen in love with Glaed. His boundless compassion and tenderness was the tonic she had needed to heal a very deep hurt.
The son of Saxon trappers, he had spent his youth along the faraway Elbe River until he met a band of rough mercenaries. Then, like a typical, adventure-seeking lad, he had joined their ragged army. Many years and many adventures later, Glaed had attracted a strong little army of his own who called themselves “Glaed Keepers,” for the word Glaed meant bright, and they saw themselves keepers of the noble cause of truth and justice.
I still smiled when I thought of my introduction to Glaedwine, for he was the bold Saxon enemy my armies had come to defeat, the one who stood on the tower of Ravenscar and bellowed his intent never to surrender. He had called down to me, his tiny adversary before the gate. “Where are your parents, young lass? Ye should be home in bed!”
And now, not two years later, he knew exactly where one of my parents was—and he was home in her bed.
“…to the king’s son?” my mother was asking.
“I am sorry, Mama. My mind was wandering. What did you ask?”
“Have you set a date for your wedding?”
“Soon, Mama. It will be soon. I am waiting for Michael and Brigid to arrive. And Father Patrick, too.”
“And have you…and Liam…”
I knew she wondered at the level of intimacy between Liam and me. “Mama, after I arrived at the Hill of Macha, Father Patrick took me aside and counseled me on my, um, spirit of adventure. He explained all about the sin of fornication. And I explained it to Liam. In that way we are pure as the mourning dove.”
“I should be so pure,” she murmured, and then she flushed. “I meant—”
I laughed. “That is all right, Mother. I believe I am as grown-up as I am likely to get for a long time to come. I am overjoyed that you and Glaed have found each other, even if it may mean that I will lose a sworn retainer, a valuable armsman.”
“As long as he is sworn to you, Caylith, he will not leave you.”
“I know, Mother. But there may yet come a time when he must decide between two troths. When that time comes, I absolve him of his pledge to me.”
She looked at me long and searchingly. “You would do that, darling?”
“I would do anything for you, Mama. As long as you ask me not to forswear my troth to Liam.”
“Ah, darling, and I would do anything for you.” She gathered me to her perfumed chest, and we embraced each other for a few heartbeats.
“Now, Mama,” I said, gently pulling away. “Do you still have the gossamer-spun wool we bought at the Fair of Tara?”
We laughed and talked for a while longer, finishing our wine. And then we mounted two gentle mares and rode to visit Magpie and her family.
* * * *
That night in bed, I lay in my oldest undertunic, the one I had always thought too revealing of my swelling breasts. The other still lay outside in the reeds, and I hoped the errant wind had not carried it away, downriver to the sea.
Liam lay on his side, fingering the tunic, letting his thumb slide just under the soft material. I realized then that my shifts were a potent part of our lovemaking, for he always tried to penetrate them, and I always resisted the impulse to yield. Far from being a game, I fought against the tearing down of my modesty as much as he sought to expose my growing breasts and hardening nipples.
His bold eyes appraised my chest, and his fingertips found my nipples. He drew my mouth to his while softly pinching them, and I could not help the hungry moan that escaped my lips as his tongue rolled around in my mouth. Soon I was thrusting myself in an urgent rhythm against his long body, and his mouth found my breasts under the yielding cloth.
“Now, Caitlín?” he asked, lifting his head, challenging me with his eyes, and then he lowered it and sucked some more. And he asked again, “Now? Now, Caitlín?”
I had already showed him my fierce response to interrupting the potent rhythm of our love play. I seized his hair and held his head—hard—against my breasts. He put his hands on my hips and held me, and his groin started to move against my own. “No. No,” I said, and I meant it. I tried to twist away, and he yielded in spite of his obvious passion. Still holding my hips, he put his head between my legs and rocked my bum while his tongue moved on me, hot and wet, until my spasms ceased. They seemed to last a very long time.
Afterward, he murmured in my ear, “Not fornicate ye. But…want to.”
I stroked his fine, wavy hair. “I also, Liam. But we wait for the marriage bed.”
“Tá go maith,” he said. “We wait.” He did not sound the least happy about it.
Chapter 14:
A New Command
As always after a good rain, dawn was spectacular. Streaks and swirls of saffron and orange spread above the eastern tree line. The new sun cast shafts of brilliant blue on the darker blue of the river, causing the surface to take on the appearance of shifting crystals. I stood in the river later than usual this morning, for I had slept so soundly that Liam had to awaken me. That had happened exactly never before, and I shook my head in wonder that I was such a slugabed today.
I knelt and splashed cold water over my head and breasts, letting it run down my legs and thighs. I thought about last night, how Liam had held my hips and made love with his mouth, how my pleasure had lasted for long minutes. I marveled that every time we lay together, the sensuality increased instead of diminishing.
Liam walked up to me, his legs pushing against the current, his naked body reflecting the shifting light of the water. I stood marveling at the way the light and shadows danced and played across his athlete’s frame. He stopped a foot in front of me, and we faced each other as on a shillelagh field, each taking the other’s measure. My own body was streaming with water, little currents and streams running down my hair, my breasts, my stomach, and into the soft, red hair underneath.
His
eyes captured mine and held them. I felt my heart’s tumult in my throat and stood very still, trying to control my breath. I reached for his insistent groin.
One more step and his hands were on my shoulders, gently pushing me to a kneeling position in the flowing water. I reached around and captured his muscular butt, massaging and exploring it with my fingers as I buried my face in his demanding hardness. My mouth started at the top and worked its way lower and lower until my tongue and fingers met between his buttocks. I did it again and again, finding a rhythm that made him cry out once then gasp and moan. I stopped only when he held my head hard against himself, pulsing and wet.
I rose slowly, my body close against him. He probed my mouth with his tongue as though for the first time, and I opened it a little, letting him in. “A Cháit,” he breathed. I felt his heart beating strong and fast. I thought it was his pet name for me, like “Cat,” and I liked it.
We stood holding each other in the swift river, not wanting to part. Finally, when his heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm, he smiled. “Dia duit, I love ye.” He stroked my cheek, his eyes full of laughter and affection.
Loving his smile, I traced it with my finger and went in search of my truant underwear.
When I finally went inside, I saw that Liam had fixed our morning meal. He had said nothing, not even trying to ask me inside, and I was touched by his gesture. He had roasted a flank of salmon wrapped in savory rosemary leaves and rubbed with garlic. By the time I ate it, it was a bit cold, but it was falling-apart tender and more flavorful than when I cooked. Perhaps I needed to lie in bed late every day.
After Liam left to work on the bally defenses, I decided to find Gristle, for I had not seen him since my return.
