Morrigan seldom felt the babe kick now.
Two more months to go, and she would enter an unfamiliar land behind closed doors where women screamed and blood flowed. Hannah Lawton died having her. Soon, Morrigan would risk her life in the same way.
Eleanor tried to determine whether the babe lay breeched or headfirst.
“Is she healthy?” Morrigan asked.
“Aye, of course.” Eleanor hardly paid attention. “But not yet turned,” she added. “And don’t you be setting your heart on a girl. There’s no way of knowing beforehand, no matter what anyone says.”
Such was Morrigan’s trust in Eleanor by now, and so troubled did she feel every time she thought of Saint Brigit’s Eve, that she confided about her rages and the fainting. “D’you have a tonic or tea for that?” she asked, hoping her smile would hide her anxiety.
“Do you see flashes of light?” Eleanor asked.
“Aye, and I get the most awful headaches.”
“How long has this been going on?”
Morrigan had to ponder. “A long time. I was about twelve or thirteen, I think, when it started.”
Eleanor listened to Morrigan’s heart with a narrow wooden contraption. When she straightened, she was shaking her head.
“Well?” Morrigan asked.
“I hear nothing untoward. Usually, what you describe is caused by a problem in the heart, though from what you say, the swooning is connected to strong emotion.”
“One never happens without the other.”
“I have seen this before, in Edinburgh. My brother called it syncope, a fancy Latin term for fainting spells. Have you ever had an injury to your head?”
Morrigan thought back to Douglas’s thrashings, the times he’d struck her in the face or cuffed the side of her head hard enough to make her ears ring. Come to think of it, the fainting, rages, and headaches had started about the same time as her father’s beatings. When she left school, at thirteen.
Eleanor’s brows lifted at Morrigan’s flush and downcast gaze. “Ah,” she said, and frowned.
Morrigan couldn’t make herself say the words. She tried, but her voice wouldn’t work. She picked at the coverlet.
“I’ll write my brother,” Eleanor said, “and ask him about it.”
Morrigan nodded.
“I did find out something else that might interest you.”
“Aye?”
“It’s about what you saw, the last time we gave you the witch’s cap. Apparently, the things you described actually happened. I was curious, so I spoke to Father Drummond, and he wrote a few letters. Seems there was an Inquisition, many centuries ago, in what is now the German Empire. Those names you spoke did sound like they came from that area.”
Morrigan had tried to banish the memory over the last four months. Sometimes she didn’t think of it for days or weeks. Sometimes it flooded in with horrible clarity, leaving her cold and shaking.
“It’s interesting to me how you knew that,” Eleanor said, without inflection.
“I didn’t.”
Eleanor perused Morrigan. At last, with a sigh, she said, “Heinrich Baten lived, mistress. So did Klaus Berthold. He was the Archbishop of Cologne. Heinrich Baten was an inquisitor, given special powers by the pope to stamp out heresy.”
“I don’t know what an inquisitor is. Or an Inquisition, or an archbishop. I only know heresy because you explained it.”
Eleanor’s brows lifted. “And yet, when you related your dream, you did so without hesitation, without stumbling or doubt.”
“What about… Caparina Naske?”
“He couldn’t find anything on her.”
She paused for a long time. Morrigan’s nerves twined and stretched.
“According to the priest who searched the history at Father Drummond’s request, Heinrich Baten was ambushed and murdered in suspected retaliation for all those he had burned at the stake.”
“You told Father Drummond about my dream?”
“I did not involve you, and never spoke your name.”
“What does this mean?” Morrigan rubbed her temples. The dizziness was returning.
“I really don’t know.” Eleanor rose from the bed and fluffed Morrigan’s pillow. “It’s odd. Because I’ve discovered that at least some of those you mentioned are folk who really lived, I feel I must regard everything you say when you’re not yourself as possibly real.”
“Do you remember that night last autumn, when Diorbhail and I looked into the water?”
“Aye, you were quite upset as I remember.”
“I saw you in the water that night, Eleanor.”
“Did you?”
“You had a mark on your forehead.”
“I know what you saw. I have seen her as well. She seems a tortured soul, and I have long tried to delve into her story. I have… seen and heard things I am not ready to share.” Eleanor pursed her lips and frowned.
Curran came in then and Eleanor took her leave.
He brushed Morrigan’s hair with soothing strokes, and rested his hand on her stomach for long stretches, not wanting to miss any kicking that might come along.
“You love me still?” she asked.
“Of course I do. More than ever.”
“I might die.”
He gathered her close. “We’re going to have ten bonny, brave, fair and reckless weans, and you’ll be fine. You’re feared because it’s your first, and I don’t blame you. I imagine all new mothers feel the same.”
Ten babies! Easy for him to be brave. It wasn’t him who would go through it. His part ended with the pleasure.
“I wish we could love each other again,” she said.
“I can wait,” he returned, trailing kisses down her neck and across her shoulder. “If I can touch you, it’s enough.”
Caught in an unusual period of boundless energy, she insisted on decorating the nursery and asked Curran how they would go about finding a suitable nanny, with Glenelg cut off by mountains and snow from the rest of Scotland.
“Well,” said Curran, “what about Diorbhail? She was a mother.”
Morrigan stared at him. “Why didn’t I think of that? She’s perfect, if she’ll do it. Thank you, thank you, Curran.” How different he was from Douglas and Beatrice and their petty contempt. “I’ll ask her. I’ll have to be tactful, since she’s still grieving her own child, but I think she’ll do it. It’ll help her.”
Diorbhail was moved into a bigger, snugger bedroom next to the nursery.
“Could we travel after the baby’s born?” she asked Curran that night. Untying her robe, she added, “I want her to know the world.”
“Why are you so sure you’re having a wee lass?”
“I see her. She has your eyes. I want to name her Olivia. Olivia Therese, for your mother.”
“I hope you’re right.” He reached around from behind and stroked the sides of her stomach.
She leaned against him, resting her cheek against his throat. All day she’d suffered cramping and odd pains, but his warm hands soothed it all away. “I want,” she said. “I want….” How braw he always smelled, like storm clouds mixed with fallen leaves. It had become for her the scent of pleasure, contentment, and safety.
“Tell me.” He walked with her to the bed and joined her under the blankets.
“Morrigan…?” Beatrice opened the outer door and entered, looking at a tangled knot of thread she was holding. Not until she’d passed through the sitting room and stood at the bedroom door did she look up. Her brows lifted.
“Michty me.” She wheeled, deliberately stomping, releasing a string of Gaelic. “Chan fhaca mi a leithid….” She shut the door behind her with a solid judgmental thunk.
“Why can’t folk knock?” Curran scowled. “Don’t they know what a closed door means?”
“What did she say?”
“That she’s never seen the like.” He rolled his eyes.
His surly expression sent Morrigan into a giggling fit. He began tickling her.
“Stop it, stop.”
His hands left off tickling and returned to stroking.
“Love me.”
“We can’t.” He kissed her, long and slow, leaving her breathless.
“Please, Curran, we’ll be careful. I want you.” She pressed against him.
“A saint couldn’t resist you,” he said, arranging himself behind her.
“Ah, that’s grand.” She closed her eyes.
“This is dangerous.” But his voice held no conviction.
Her strong-willed husband, the powerful man accustomed to having his own way, lay completely helpless in her thrall. She smiled.
A witch, they called you. And a witch you were.
Night had grown old when she woke to a flow of liquid drenching her legs and the bedclothes. “Oh,” she gasped.
Curran rolled over. “What?” he asked, sleepy and indistinct.
“My water.” The midwife had warned her.
Leaping from bed, he jerked on the breeks he’d left crumpled on the floor. “I’ll get Eleanor.”
It seemed then that Morrigan heard shrieks of laughter outside the window, and fingernails scratching the glass. Dwarves and faeries— they would break the glass as soon as Curran left. They would steal her babe and leave a changeling. “No!” She clutched his arm. “Don’t leave me.”
“Let me call Fionna then,” he said half-impatiently.
Curran told his housekeeper to send Logan for the midwife. “Tell him to use the fastest horses,” he said.
Fionna peered past the master, but bobbed a curtsy and promised to hurry. “D’you want the minister as well?”
Morrigan’s abdomen contracted in a furious, insistent, breathless push. She tried to answer but could only gasp. Thankfully, Curran knew her thoughts. “No,” he said firmly. “We don’t need him.”
The contraction released its grip, allowing her to breathe again. “The bed’s wet.”
“I’ll get someone.” Curran rang the bell. “Don’t move, Morrigan.”
Fright paled Tess’s face as she brought armfuls of clean linen. Curran helped Morrigan out of bed and into the wing chair. Avoiding Morrigan’s eyes, Tess swiftly remade the bed and helped her into dry nightclothes.
Nearly an hour later, Eleanor rushed in, still unraveling her cloak from her shoulders. Half-melted snowflakes showered to the floor. “Aye, and is it your time, then?” she cried. “Lie you down, mistress, and let’s bring you a baby.”
The pains were coming fast now, scarcely giving Morrigan a chance to breathe. She lay on the bed, clumping handfuls of the blanket in her fists.
“Well?” Curran asked.
“What are you doing here?” Eleanor replied. “You must leave. I’ll have no men underfoot.”
“But what of Morrigan?”
“I’m here now. Time to give way to what you cannot control.” Eleanor pushed him into the sitting room, chanting as she returned,
“‘Bride, Bride, come in,
Thy welcome is truly made,
Give thou relief to the woman,
And the conception to the Trinity.’”
She washed her hands in the basin. “The babe’s turned,” she said. “Don’t hold your breath. Breathe deep.”
“She— isn’t— breeched? That’s good— but— I’m only seven months!”
Eleanor nodded and frowned. “Aye, ’tis early, but don’t you fear, mistress. I’ll bring you through, both of you.”
Diorbhail came in. Morrigan beckoned to her and took her hands. “I’m afraid,” she said. “But you gave birth alone in a byre. Teach me how to be strong like you.”
Before Diorbhail could say anything, a horrific contraction splintered Morrigan from throat to knees, and shoved her body beneath the wheels of a roaring train. She opened her mouth and screamed.
* * * *
Curran froze. He heard Eleanor’s indistinct, reassuring voice. Tess ran past with hot water and a pile of cloths. Violet dallied by the door until Fionna ordered her sharply to be about her business.
Beatrice offered him a frown that seemed to say, See what you’ve done? His own wild imagining added, Rutting goat!
Two months early. Two months. Few babies lived who came this early. Many women died as well when they went into labor so long before the proper time.
Had he caused this, tonight, when he, when they’d… no, no, it was too frightening to contemplate.
The sound of Morrigan groaning came out of the bedroom. He couldn’t take this, couldn’t stand here, doing nothing. It was his fault she was suffering. His alone.
He poured a large helping of whisky and drank it in one bitter gulp, then stiffened as the room around him grew hazy. A memory of the old dream returned, the one he’d had so many times, where he was carrying a bleeding child with enormous black eyes. He saw himself running into a large open space, calling for help. A crowd of hostile, shouting people tore the child from him.
The memory swirled away. He looked down. The empty glass had fallen from his numbed fingers, and was rolling on the carpet.
He heard Diorbhail sobbing. Eleanor spoke firmly, confidently.
“Give me the chance to protect you,” he said. “Live, Morrigan. Live.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SHE’S SO TINY. How can she be alive?
Morrigan slipped in and out of consciousness, retaining no more than glimpses when she woke lucid and free of agony.
Fetch the minister. She must be baptized.
Our daughter is here, my darling. Will you wake up and see her?
Sweet Jesus, she’s no bigger than a carving knife. I can see her blood vessels.
She’s like a faery child. A toy.
Padraig has made a coffin.
Taigh gun chù, gun chat, gun leanabh beag; taigh gun ghean, gun ghàire.
Morrigan opened her eyes in time to see Eleanor wearily place three drops of water on the newborn’s forehead and a spoonful of earth and whisky in her mouth as she spoke the necessary words.
She thought she remembered seeing Diorbhail and Eleanor hold a basket above a cluster of burning candles. I’ll cover it with iron tongs, Diorbhail promised, and Morrigan remembered her saying that would keep away mischief-inclined faeries.
She longed to hold her baby. She cried out for her, and was told she could not, not until the fever broke.
“Livvy.” She tried to say the babe’s name, though sometimes it seemed she lost the name and called her Evie, and sometimes fancied her newborn growing older, old enough to walk and talk— talk too much, sometimes.
It seemed as though Curran sat beside her and kissed her hand as he described all they would do when she was well. There was something about holding the grandest celebration Kilgarry had ever seen, and names she’d never heard before. Sir George Napier and his wife Mhairi, Oscar Colquhoun’s family from neighboring Knoydart, Hamish Macgregor, his wife Elspeth, and Curran’s partners, Marcus and Thomas. She would enjoy the Donaghues the most. His friendship with Richard Donaghue was long-standing, since his days at Edinburgh Academy. Richard had gone off to London after they’d graduated. There he’d met and married an English woman four years older than he, which would make her eleven years older than Morrigan, but that mustn’t frighten her. Curran was quite certain she and Lily would get on famously, for they had the same wildness of spirit.
When he saw she was listening, he recounted other stories and interesting news of the day, his tales often revolving around the sea and ships. He described the mysterious disappearance of every passenger aboard the Mary Celeste, a ship found empty and adrift last November. Since the tender was missing along with her people, many continued to hope they still lived, perhaps stranded on a hidden island, but so far, nothing had been found.
Where do you think they’ve gone? he asked, and she wondered about the underwater castle, but wasn’t sure if she suggested it or not. Another name floated through her thoughts.
Inis Tearmann.
She wanted to ask him if t
hey might have gone there, but she didn’t know what Inis Tearmann was.
He went on trying to get her to talk. Do you want to travel when you’re well? We can go wherever you wish. Paris? America? Where d’you want to go, a ghràidh?
Later, she thought she might have said, Mingulay, but that could have been a dream.
She remembered thinking how awful he looked, exhausted, unshaven, his eyes red, the skin dark underneath like they were bruised. She felt sorry for him and tried to smile, then it seemed there was an interlude of cramping and screaming, of voices and faces she didn’t recognize, and someone talking again about the coffin.
Other times there was nothing but drifting silence.
Once she woke to Eleanor, sitting on the bed next to her. I’ll tell you what I saw now, she said as she placed a wet cloth on Morrigan’s hot forehead. When I chewed the mushroom, d’you mind? When you were vexed with us for doing it without you. That woman in the water, the one with the mark on her forehead? Her name is Themiste, and she has spoken to me many times. She told me that you are meant to live seven lives, and this is the sixth. Mistress, there is only one more for you after this one. If my visions are true, we’re almost at the end, and I vow I’ll be there, to help you however I can. Diorbhail too, she’ll always be with you, child. You’ll never be alone. But I don’t think now is the time for you to leave this life, this ‘labyrinth,’ Themiste called it. It doesn’t feel right. Please, m’lady, get well, so you can do whatever it is you’re here to do.
Morrigan wanted to say I’m trying, but she was never sure if she actually did. She pictured her baby lying in the crook of her arm, warm and content. You need me, don’t you, she imagined herself saying. Her daughter nodded and gripped her mother’s finger. You’re the only one who’s ever needed me. I need you, too. I’ll protect you. No one will ever hurt you.
Nicky’s voice echoed. I felt it in me, the violence. It strangled me sometimes. You fight it too, I know.
She remembered crying out her denials, her desperate vow to never harm her child as someone held her down and spoke soothing words.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 46
