by Erin O'Quinn
“Dia duit.”
He opened his eyes slowly, and then he sat up. “Oh.” He held his head, and I handed him a cup of cold water. He drank it until it was drained.
“Hello,” he said. “I love you.” He reached for me, and I took his hand briefly and brought it to my mouth, nuzzling it for a moment.
“Time for breakfast, you slugabed.” I smiled and went to the fire pit. I had no intentions of starting anything this morning.
He went outdoors carrying his breeches while I fixed our meal, and after about ten minutes he returned looking more robust and ready for the day. We ate silently, as we usually did.
“Cat.”
I looked up from my trencher. He had a slightly puzzled look on his face. “Conas tá tú?”
“Tá mé go maith. I feel very good, Liam.”
He stood, and I did, too. He held my shoulders and looked at me for a long moment. “Angry, Caitlín?”
I shook my head in denial. I was not angry, but I did not know how to tell Liam how I felt. I thought it was time we started to bridle our wildness, until we were married, but how could I say it? I had let too much time slip by without reminding him—or myself—of my promise to Father Patrick.
“No, love. I am not angry. But I think we are getting too…wild.” I used a few of the gestures I had a few days ago when I asked about NimbleFoot mounting the mares, pointing to his groin and then to mine. I felt ridiculous, and embarrassed, too.
I could see he did not understand at all. “Wild?”
“In bed.”
“Wild…in bed.”
“You will figure it out, Liam. Póg dom.” I stood on tiptoe and kissed him very sweetly, trying to keep the passion at bay. But he circled my waist and drew me into his chest, his mouth already wanting more.
“You scamp! I will talk to you later, maybe with Glaed. Maybe we can understand each other better then.”
I knew he did not understand a word of what I was saying. I reached for his downy cheek and stroked his soft beard, wanting him, despairing of his ever grasping what I really meant.
I took his hand, and we walked outside together. I saddled Macha while he waited for me. “I am going to see Magpie,” I said.
“Magpie. Yes…Magpie. Deas. Pretty.”
“Good-bye, love. Slán agat. I will see you later.”
I felt sad riding away from him, but I had no idea how else to end our conversation that morning.
* * * *
“Magpie, you were with me when Father Patrick talked about the sin.”
“You mean ‘fornication,’ Caylith?”
“Um, yes. I–I need to talk with you about that.”
We were sitting in the little teach that Magpie and Raven were living in while their enclave was being built. She had hung tapestries everywhere, and woven rugs were scattered about on the floor. I enjoyed sitting on her benches for they, like Jay’s, had high backs for leaning against and soft animal pelts to cushion one’s behind.
“Did you sin, darling Cay?”
“No, my friend. But it has become harder and harder to say no. I was hoping you could, um, help me.”
She cocked her head just like her father, and her grin was almost impudent. “Help you say no?”
“Help me find a way to tell him. Most of the time we can communicate very well without a common language. But it was this very idea of sinning that almost drove us apart several months ago. That very day, Mag, that we spoke with Patrick, I drove him out of my house, afraid of fornication. He left hurt and confused. It took us weeks to come together again in simple friendship.”
Mag was beginning to nod slowly. “I need to know that he understands me when I do tell him no. I need him to understand that I love him the same—probably even more every day. But we need to control our wild natures until we are married.”
“Cay, I think Liam knows very well. But somehow he has stopped believing that you really mean it.”
I was stunned. “But I do mean it. I-I want us to wait until we are married.”
“But your eyes are telling him something else. And, I suspect, your body is, too.”
I was quiet for a long time, thinking about her words.
“I am strongly attracted to Liam,” I said at last.
“And he feels the same about you, Cay. And I think he is testing you. After all, Patrick is not his priest. Christ is not his savior. So he has no sense of sinfulness, as I think you do.”
“Are you saying he feels not so much love as-as desire?”
“No. I am sure he does love you, Caylith. But he is young and, um, healthy. How can he resist the strong desire when you and he lie naked together every night? And more besides?
“How do you know that?”
“I know when I see you together. And I am a sooth-teller, you know.”
I hugged her. “Dear Magpie. I have so much to learn. How will I ever put it all together-my love, my attraction, my urge to run with the very storm?”
“Tell me, Cay. When do you think you will marry?”
“When Michael and Brigid come here to see us.”
“And when will that be?”
I was silent, trying to figure it out. “Well, I am not really sure. We said something about waiting two months, and that was two months ago. I asked his cousin Ryan to get word to Michael to come as soon as possible.”
“Maybe you could try to get word to him again. I think once you are married, most of these questions and problems will go away.” “
“Magpie, I just want to love Liam and enjoy his love in return. Why does it have to be so complicated?”
Her wide mouth curved in a delighted smile. “Life is all of that, and more. The complication is what makes everything worthwhile. You will see.”
We talked after that about my dresses for the wedding, about her large family, her husband Raven and his latest garden, and the progress of the dwarf enclaves. I told her to spread the word about the folkmoot tomorrow at the bally church. Before I left, she silently handed me a small package and told me to open it when I got home.
It was about midmorning by the time I left Magpie’s teach, and I decided to ride by the church to see if Brother Jericho had already left on his trip with MacCool to Emain Macha. I saw the clansman’s black horse tethered under the oak next to Jericho’s house and knew they were still here. I tethered NimbleFoot nearby and went into the church.
I had been here many times, and I always liked sitting on one of the little benches that faced the altar, seeing the row of stately candles burning near the cross that marked the center of the clay round-house. The benches had been arranged in an ever-widening circle around the center altar—really just a raised platform containing floor sconces with candles and a simple stone cross. A fire pit stood some six feet from the altar, large enough to heat the church in cold weather.
The building was studded with windows whose shutters were all now open, letting the morning light stream through and onto the polished wooden floor. I saw no one. Looking around, I realized that soon I would stand near this altar with Liam, and we would speak the holy vows of matrimony. A lump started to rise in my throat, for I felt I may come to the altar carrying a sin, right in front of Father Patrick, unless Liam and I could regain control of our emotions.
Without realizing I was doing it, I started to speak out loud to Father Patrick. Even when I could not confront the awesome spirit of the Lord, I could well see the priest’s merry blue eyes and his understanding smile. My chin was on my chest, and I felt tears just starting behind my eyes.
“I promised you, Father, and I am trying. Well, I was trying. It is complicated. Can you forgive me, and let me start over again? Without hurting Liam? If Liam could talk to you, I think together we would come before you without shame.”
I felt a slight movement near me, and I looked up. Brother Jericho was kneeling on the wooden planks, his head raised, his expression placid. “Brother,” I whispered.
Still looking toward the altar, he sa
id, “The Lord is listening, dear Caylith. Speak to him.”
“I would rather speak to you or to Father Patrick.”
“Then I am listening.”
“Liam and I are close to the sin that Father Patrick warned me of.”
“The sin of—?” he prompted gently.
“Of…fornication,” I whispered.
“Does Liam know it is a sin?”
“Yes. But he is not a Christian. So he has, um, held back only on my account.”
“Perhaps he needs to hold back on his own account.” The monk was still calmly regarding the altar.
I thought about Jericho’s words. “He once told me that he might be able to accept Patrick’s teaching instead of the lore of the druids.”
“But he has never been to our church. Why is that?”
“I think he would not understand most of it, Brother. He needs a teacher who speaks his own language.”
He turned his warm brown eyes to me. “You mean like myself?”
“Yes,” I told the monk. “He likes you very much. And yet you are leaving for the Hill of Macha, taking MacCool to Patrick.”
“Yet I would not leave my flock without a shepherd, Caylith. I now have an acolyte, Brother Galen, who will take my place while I am gone. He is a son of Éire, born Gallagher. I know he can talk with Liam even better than I.”
“Could you—would you have Brother Galen come with me now? For Liam and I need a third voice right away.”
“He is with our friend Fergus MacCool at the moment. But yes, I think he will gladly ride with you this morning. And Fergus will gladly relinquish his own steed.”
I smiled and silently completed Jericho’s sentence—“whether he likes it or not.”
* * * *
Brother Galen was, in a word, robust. A man in his early thirties, he stood higher and broader even than Glaedwine, somewhere over six feet. His midriff was partially concealed by his plain monk’s léine, for he wore no belt to cinch it, but I knew it was as large as the rest of him. His almost-black hair was tonsured, like all the missionaries in Éire, and the baldness on top shone in the late-morning sun as we rode toward the bally defenses to find Liam. His eyes, very dark, nevertheless held a warmth and sincerity that won me right away.
“How came you to follow Pádraig?” I asked as we rode.
“Ah, lass, I was a man of the jug, so to speak. A man of large appetites, sure an’ not too much different from our friend, Fergus. I lived in the fort town of Dún Laoire—Dunleary, on the coast not far from the high king’s own Tara. “’Tis a town of wharf rats, very friendly to drunkards and bawds. Excuse me Latin.”
I was enjoying the Gallagher part of him very much.
“To make short of it, I woke up one day in the street, me bed of preference, and I beheld a large crowd of folk all clustering around a robed man. I stood with the gaping rubes and listened in spite of meself. Now this man was bald as ye please, yet young and merry looking, and his eye found me somehow. And it seemed he was talking to no one but meself.
“To make even shorter of it, lass, he reeled me in like a great bloated fish. I followed him, and learned from him and his bald fellows, until I meself knelt before the shearing knife one day meself.”
“And why have you such a ready tongue in my own language?”
“Dunleary is like a crossroads. Before I was twelve I knew at least five tongues in which to order up me grog.”
I was still laughing at Galen as we rode up to the bally trench. Liam straightened up and stood watching us dismount, his face as puzzled as when I left him this morning.
Galen and I waited near the edge of the trench, waiting for Liam to scramble up the side. Galen approached him with his hand extended and spoke in his deep, rich voice, and I understood not a word.
Liam’s mouth toyed with a smile, and he clasped Galen’s hand. The two men stood talking for several minutes, and I knelt on the ground some five or six feet away, watching and listening.
Then Liam and Galen walked to where I knelt. Galen said, “We have decided to sit with ye a few minutes, Caylith, for the day is hot and we be weary of standing.”
And so we all three sat together. The monk translated for Liam very much like Michael and Ryan had.
“Caitlín, me love, ye have found a merry way to speak with me today.”
“I hope you do not mind, Liam. My heart was full of words with no way to speak them.”
“I do not mind, a mo ghrá. You make me happy. Always happy.”
I spoke haltingly. It took me a full minute just to speak a few sentences. “Liam, you are a man of…of bold talents and unbounded attraction. Your ways have set me upside down. I am no longer able to rein in my own bold ways, as I promised Father Patrick I would. And now I stand shamed, for I am only one more kiss away from fornication.” At last I had said it aloud. Somehow, it was easy to speak in front of the experienced monk, for he had no doubt experienced it all several times over.
“Yes. It is all me fault. I cannot stand to be near ye without touching ye.”
“No, it is not just you, Liam. For I feel the same. You see it in my eyes, I know. You read it in my body.”
“Then what be the answer, a chroí? Do we live apart until we be married? Do we not kiss, do we not touch?”
I looked at Brother Galen, silently pleading for help in answering Liam.
“I would invite meself to supper this night,” he said. “We can find an answer then.”
I reached out to Liam, aching to touch him, even in front of the monk. He took my hand but refrained from caressing it. “Yes,” I said. “We would welcome you, Brother Galen. At sunset, if you please.” I told him where we lived.
He rose, and we did, too. Extending his hand again to Liam, he spoke a few words that made Liam throw his head back in easy laughter.
“What did you say?” I asked Galen.
“That was the language of men, lass. Pardon me, but no cailín would understand. I bid ye good-bye until sunset.”
He mounted Fergus’s bold stallion and trotted back toward the church.
Standing on tiptoe, I pulled at Liam’s soft beard and brought his mouth to mine. “Slán agat,” I said into his mouth.
He took both my hands, holding them together, and he pulled away just far enough to look into my eyes. “We wait. All…right, Caitlín?”
“All right, Liam. I love you.” I turned and mounted my pony. Pulling the reins across his neck, I turned him for home.
At home, unsaddling NimbleFoot, I saw the little package Magpie had handed to me. As soon as I finished currying my pony, I carried it inside and opened it.
It was an undertunic, a long shift. But it was quite unlike my other two, for its skirt flowed to the floor, and I saw that it was meant to be worn without a sash or belt. I understood that it was designed to show not an inch of calf, or even ankle. The top was modest, for when I pulled it over my body I found that the top rose almost to my collar bones. No cleavage showed, and no nipples would ever stand revealed under the coarseness of the material. There was no touch of lace, no softness of cloth anywhere. It was, pure and simple, a spinster’s night dress. Designed by a sooth-teller.
I wrinkled my nose and took it off. But I knew that Magpie was still talking to me. I could almost hear her tiny, bell-like voice in my ear. “Wear this dress to bed, darling Cay, and you will keep your chastity. For any man would turn away rather than behold it.”
I laughed as I held the ugly shift out in front of myself. Yes, it would work. I just had to be strong and keep it close around my body until our wedding night. Surely I could do that.
And yet how would I sleep with cloth that scratched my thighs when Liam’s downy beard would be only a touch away?
Chapter 16:
The Hair Shirt
At sunset, Brother Galen arrived only a few minutes after Liam returned home. Usually, Liam walked straight to the fire pit and kissed me. Tonight, he stood hesitantly by the door. I sighed deeply. What had I done? No
w he was loath even to be near me. I fervently hoped that the monk would restore a bit of sanity to our new, uneasy relations.
Liam quickly opened the door before the monk could knock more than once.
“Sit down, brother,” I said. “We will eat in about ten minutes.” I busied myself at the fire pit while Liam and the monk talked easily, often laughing. Galen did not bother to translate their conversation, and I thought perhaps he was purposely sharing secrets with my lover that it were best I not hear.
I had made a supper of salmon rubbed with savory herbs, all dressed with roasted carrots and wild garlic, which grew in abundance throughout our property. “Are you allowed to drink barley beer?” I asked him as I served up the meal.
“Allowed by whom, lass? By the Lord? Thanks be to him, he is not at all interested in me drinking habits. Bring it on!”
I went to the river and retrieved the wineskin. I poured the beer, sparkling cold and foamy. I did not pour a cup for Liam, and he did not ask for any. I thought that last night’s drinking bout—two cups each—had cured us both for a long while to come.
As supper progressed, I saw that Liam had started to lose his awkwardness and look at me in a way I was used to—with love, mixed with potent promise. I started the conversation by asking Galen, “And did the Lord forbid kissing when he forbade fornication?”
The monk translated my words, and yet he did not answer my question right away. At last he answered, almost as Father Patrick had many months ago, “Nay, lass. Kissing is no sin. Unless there be sinful intent behind the kiss.”
“Explain what you mean by ‘sinful intent.’ For thinking is surely no sin, brother.”
He sighed. “A kiss is a promise, Liam and Caylith. No more. But no less, either. Ye have to be sure of what ye be promising.” He turned and spoke to Liam, who sat pale and silent.
“I promise to love Liam. I promise to marry him and abide with him and honor him.”
“And ye promise no more than those noble goals when ye kiss your lover?” Galen asked with a world of wisdom in his dark eyes.
