by Lily Baldwin
“Let me hear the words”, he whispered.
“Ronan, please.” She twisted beneath him, trying to close her legs, but he pressed open her thighs, spreading them apart.
“Promise me,” he said.
She bit her lip as she tried to resist. His lips descended once more as he grazed her with a faint kiss. She pressed her hips into him, her body seeking the relief it craved. He lavished her with his tongue, causing her to quake and tremble. Then again he pulled away.
“Say it, Shoney.”
“I will not”, she cried.
Once again, she quivered at his touch. Then once again it was gone.
“Ronan, please.”
“Promise me you will stay, and I will ease your body.”
She was overcome with desire. She wanted to scream. She wanted to weep. She needed relief, but she could not bear to yield. She felt hot tears course down her cheeks as he once again set fire to her body. She shuddered as the yearning within her throbbed until it was all she could feel, and she could no longer fight her hunger.
“I promise”, she cried.
His body sagged on top of her for a moment as he loudly exhaled. Then he reached up and tore away the bindings from her hands and freed her legs. Her arms swept around his neck, and she cried out with relief as he swiftly took her. Her hips pounded against his as she sought release from the agony that gripped her. With each stroke, the searing heat spread until it was almost unbearable. Then finally her body succumbed as she clung to him. She shuddered with release as rapture tore through her, leaving her quivering and quaking in his arms.
Chapter 22
A morning of farewells and of tears, unfolded before Ronan as he watched his men comfort their wives and children. Maids gave Aidan and the other unmarried men flowers for luck, and they blushed when they received kisses in return. He sat stiffly on his horse, gripping the reins, his knuckles white from the strain. Maids approached his side, but then scattered when they noticed the deep scowl furrowing his brow. He paid them little heed. It was Shoney who interested him.
He stared at her over the sea of villagers. She warmly returned the greetings of warriors as they passed, and Ronan saw her flash Aidan a brilliant smile, but she did not spare him a glance. Her stance was as strong and enduring as the cliffs, but her true feelings were revealed by her hands, which, like his, were bound in tight fists.
The devil take her anger.
He invited her fury last night, and he certainly didn’t blame her for being vexed with him. He deserved her loathing, but he did not care. He had what he wanted: her promise to stay on in the village as Bridget. There would be time for him to soothe her temper and make amends when he returned—if he returned.
He shook his head. He did not doubt the power of Shoney’s gift, but he never put much stock in prayer, and he did not think visions differed so greatly. He believed men made their own destiny.
“The hour grows late”, The Mackinnon shouted. “Clan MacKinnon, our king fights to defend the sovereignty of all Western Isles against the tyranny of King Haakon.” The clan cheered in response.
“For Mull and for Scotland, we go to war”, the MacKinnon cried. Then he turned and looked to Ronan.
Raising his sword high in the air, Ronan sounded the battle cry of the clan, “Remember the Death of King Alpin.”
Then, as if one body, the warriors reached behind their backs, withdrew their swords in unison and repeated the cry with a deafening roar, “Remember the Death of King Alpin.”
“To the ships, lads”, The Mackinnon ordered.
The men mounted their horses and started toward the docks. Ronan rode alongside Aidan, his mind on the journey ahead, but he chanced one last glance at Shoney.
“God’s blood”, he swore. Her face had crumbled.
He spun his horse around and rode back through the lines of mounted warriors and the throng of villagers. He stopped directly in front of where she stood, leaned down and scooped her into his arms.
“I will return”, he whispered.
Then he kissed her long and hard and groaned as she dug her fingers into his flesh and pulled their bodies closer. As he pulled back, he gave her a lazy smile.
“Well”, he said, “our secret is out now.”
“Not entirely”, she reminded him.
“You are my pagan queen, Shoney”, he whispered.
She stared at him as silent tears fell. Her eyes reflected the ache in her heart, and Ronan knew her vision was to blame. She already mourned his death.
“Shoney”, he whispered into her ear, “I will return.”
Then he smiled and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I would not rob you of your chance to punish me for last night’s cruel manipulation.” Straightaway, the hot fire he craved returned to her gaze.
“That’s right, Shoney. Stay angry with me. Your anger will fuel your strength.”
He kissed her again and deposited her back on the ground as the clan erupted into a new chorus of cheers, celebrating their kiss. The warriors also cheered as he rejoined their ranks, all but his father whose lips formed a grim line.
“You have made your choice then”, Nathair said.
“Aye, father. My choice not yours”, Ronan rejoined.
The MacKinnon shrugged, “The matter is no longer of importance…for now”, he warned.
***
Shoney watched as the men disappeared over the ridge. The quickest route to Largs was to sail south down the Sound of Mull, through the ocean around the mainland, and into the Firth of Clyde, but that would send them straight into the heart of the Norse fleet. Instead, they would sail north to Loch Linnhe where they would dock on the mainland, and then complete the forty league journey to Largs on foot. Morna said the journey would take most of a fortnight. They should arrive just as autumn took hold of the land and sea. Then war would begin, and Ronan would die.
Shoney choked on sobs aching for release. She was brimming with anger and sorrow. Ronan’s manipulation of her body to secure his will left her feeling hurt and betrayed, but she was also grief stricken, knowing she would never see him again. Her head began to spin, and for once in her life, she craved solitude, but everywhere she turned people stood nearby.
“Bridget, my girl, come here.” Morna took Shoney in her arms and stroked her hair. “Hush, do not fret, dear. He will return.”
“Mayhap”, Shoney whispered as tears coursed down her cheeks.
“His fate is in his own hands, Bridget, and no one’s hands could be stronger or more capable than Ronan’s. He will return to you”, she said, and then she smiled. “Now aren’t you one for surprises. No one knew you were sweet on each other”, she winked. “Now wipe your eyes. There’s work that needs doing.”
Shoney did as she was told. Morna’s faith in Ronan’s return gave her hope. Mayhap Morna and Ronan were right. Perhaps, ultimately, everyone determined their own fate. She would fight to fill her heart with faith rather than despair. And to keep her mind from visiting dark places, she reconciled to throw herself into work. She wiped her eyes, tossed her long braid off her shoulder and straightened the belt around her borrowed green tunic.
“Alright, Morna”, she said, “I am ready. Put me to work.”
“That’s my brave girl”, Morna said, smiling.
As they walked back to the village, Shoney counted twenty men walking toward the training fields.
“Why did so many warriors stay behind?” she asked.
“To guard against an attack from the south, of course. The MacLeans are just the sort to wait until only women and children stand between their thieving hearts and our full stores. The tall one there with red hair is Bhaltair. He is in command of the warriors while the others are away.”
“But women can defend their homes the same as men”, Shoney said.
“Oh, bless me. Bridget, the last time I took up a bow was never. The MacLeans are no match for our lads, but they are still trained warriors. ‘Tis best if the fighting is left to the men.”<
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“Why did the MacLean not answer the call of the king”, Shoney asked.
“Their loyalty lies where the least risk waits. If they thought the Norse would win, they likely would have backed King Haakon. They have chosen not to put their oar in with either King. Angus MacLean must not like the odds either way. They are cowards devoted to nothing and loyal to no one. ‘Tis wicked to castoff ones heritage so easily.”
Shoney dropped her head. Morna’s words shamed her. What would her mother think of her now? She was Bridget MacLeod, traitor to her birth and faith, deserter of her heritage.
Mother of all, her life was conflicted; she no longer knew what was right and good.
“Hurry now, Bridget. The bolls on the flax have turned brown. ‘Tis time we start the harvest.”
Shoney sped along to keep up with Morna. Perhaps she would find the answers she sought in toil, and if not, at least it would provide a distraction.
“Bridget”, someone shouted. She looked to see who called. It was the small lad who had teased Shoney and Una about the burnt bannock.
“’Tis mum”, he huffed. “The baby is on the way.”
“Morna, I have been taught much about childbirth, and I know many remedies for complications, but I have never myself even witnessed a birth.”
“You are always one for surprises, Bridget.” Morna chuckled. “Whoever heard of a healer that never attended a birth?” Then she turned to the lad. “Come along. Take us to your mum.”
***
“Push now, Una. Push with all your might.”
It seemed to Shoney the Mother of all had heard her prayer—she found little time to think over the past several weeks. She delivered two babies since Ronan’s departure, and she was in the midst of a third, but this little one was resisting her entry into the world. Shoney was growing increasingly concerned over the well-being of the child and her mother.
“Morna, she is bleeding out, and I cannot stop it. We must help her push, or she will not survive.”
Shoney threw aside a pile of rags soaked with blood. “Morna come here to catch the child. Anwen you and I must massage her abdomen.” Shoney moved to kneel beside Una’s bulging belly.
“Lay your hands flat right here beneath her chest, and massage in a downward motion, applying pressure as you go. Increase the pressure when her pains come again.”
As Shoney rubbed, she called to Una so that she might hear her through the mire of pain and fatigue.
“You must push with us, Una. Push.”
“I see its head. He is coming”, Morna cried.
“Did you hear that, Una? Your baby is coming.” Shoney said. Then she turned to Anwen, “As soon as her next pain begins, start again and do not stop applying pressure until the babe arrives.” Anwen nodded. Just then, Una started to writhe against a fresh pain.
“Now”, Shoney cried.
She leaned into Una’s abdomen, firmly stroking down over and over again. She heard the struggles of the other women as they strained in unison.
“That’s it, Una. That’s it. Oh, Bridget, he is coming”, Morna exclaimed.
Shoney groaned from the strain, and then suddenly the tension in Una’s abdomen released. Shoney burst into tears as she saw the babe spill forth into Morna’s awaiting arms.
“He has arrived”, Morna cried. “You did it, Una. At long last, he is here.” Soon the wailing cry of the new babe filled the hut, but Shoney did not look up. Una’s life was still in jeopardy.
“Anwen bring more clean rags and some dried quickgrass and mugwort oil. Mix the two into a thick salve, and be quick. I will need it the moment Una releases the birthing sac.” Una managed one more push at Shoney’s request, and the sac slid from her body.
“Quickly, Morna, pass the nettle brew from the table.” Shoney poured the contents over Una’s swollen flesh, “It will ward off infection.”
“Here is the salve, Bridget.” Anwen handed her a small dish. Shoney scooped the paste and smeared where Una’s skin was torn. Shoney looked up to see Morna place the swaddled baby in her mother’s arms.
Una smiled weakly. “He is so beautiful. Is he not, Morna?”
“Aye, Una, surely he is the sweetest babe I have ever seen.”
Shoney moved to kneel on Una’s other side and felt her forehead.
“He is perfect”, Shoney said, “but you are a little warm, love. I will brew a tea to cool your fever. But first drink this broth. You must eat for your milk to come.”
Una grabbed hold of Shoney’s hand and brought it to her lips. “I will call him Guthrie, but had I bore a baby girl I would have called her Bridget. Truly you are an angel sent from heaven. God bless you. And dear Morna and Anwen”, Una turned to the other women, “May all the saints and angels bless your hearts.”
Shoney smiled and kissed her dear friend’s cheek, “Let little Guthrie suckle, and then you must rest.”
“You should also rest, Bridget.” Morna said. “I will sit with her a while.”
“And you, Morna, do you ever sleep?” Shoney asked.
“Don’t you fret about me, Bridget. There will be plenty of time for me to rest in the hereafter.” Morna pressed a kiss to Shoney’s forehead. “Go on dear, you seem pale to me.”
“I am feeling a little lightheaded. Thank you, Morna. Fetch me if her fever worsens.”
***
Shoney awoke to find her hut cloaked in darkness. She wondered how long she slept. She still did not feel altogether well. Pulling herself to her feet, she trudged across the ground and out the door. The village was quiet. It must have been the middle of the night.
She needed to eat something, but the idea of food made her stomach twist. Toiling day in and day out for weeks had finally taken its toll. Every day she labored with the other women to prepare for the harvest. Each day also brought new injuries and ailments. When Shoney returned in the evening to her hut, there seemed to always be someone awaiting her healing touch. It was no wonder she was exhausted. Una’s labor drained what little energy she had left, but even still, she had not actually given birth herself—it was Una alone who deserved to be so weary. Worry for Una and little Guthrie distracted her as she wondered whether they rested soundly.
Remembering Una’s brush with death caused Shoney to shudder as she imagined Gribun without her beloved friend’s quick laughter and constant strength. She could not love Una anymore if she had been her birth sister, and to think she would have named her baby Bridget if it had been a little girl. Shoney groaned aloud with shame. Lies, lies, and more lies—such was the foundation of her newfound friendships.
A wave of nausea gripped her; she took deep breaths until the feeling passed. She looked to the moon for comfort, but the sight caused her to inhale sharply. It was full like a woman ripe with child.
“Mother of all”, Shoney cried as her arms crossed and encircled her waist. She missed her cycle but had been too busy to notice. She tried to remember back to her last bleeding, but she could not say for sure, which meant only one thing.
She turned back inside, closed the door, sunk to the ground, and sobbed. In her womb grew a babe, a babe whose mother was a fraud and whose father was fated to die.
Chapter 23
Ronan’s chest heaved, and his heart pounded in his ears. They set out every morning before the first light of dawn, pounding the earth with their leather clad feet as they tore through wooded path and open road and did not cease until the moon rose high in the sky. When they needed food, they stopped only under the veil of forest canopy and filled their bellies, gulping down the dried herring and crusty bannock, which had been prepared by the women they loved and sought to defend. Holes intentionally lined their shoes, allowing the water to drain and their feet eventually to dry so they could stay their course, heedless of streams or rivers.
At the king’s command, Ronan and his father formed two bands of warriors and took separate paths to conceal their numbers from enemy scouts. The land was alive with the threat of war. The flash of tartan coul
d be seen darting through every wood they entered. On several occasions, they met bands of warriors from other clans including the MacDonalds, the Fergusons, and the MacLeods. Ronan cringed when Guthrie asked the MacLeod chieftain if he knew a healer named Bridget, but Guthrie did not press the issue when the chieftain shook his head. The MacLeods had many territories and clans. Besides, every man had only one thought—war. They were almost to Largs and eager for battle, but they were careful to remember the king’s order to travel in small groups. They greeted each other, and then went their separate ways.
Near the outskirts of Largs, they remained inland to avoid being spotted by the Norse sailors whose ships were anchored in the Firth of Clyde. Standing beneath the vibrant canopy of the forest, Ronan admired the rainbow of colors; autumn had arrived. His nostrils were assailed by the scent of wet earth and rotting leaves. Soon, the winds would blow and churn the now peaceful waters of the Firth, and the skies would open, unleashing a fury of seasonal storms that would wreak havoc upon the Norse fleet.
The moon rose high, and the forest creaked with the rhythmic sounds of nightfall. They would sleep for a few hours and then advance into Largs at first light. Ronan sat beside Aidan who was chewing on some dried herring.
“We have done well, Aidan, arriving sooner than expected.”
“Aye, and my aching feet can testify to that.”
“You whine like an old woman”, Ronan grinned.
“I’ve never known an old woman who could match complaints with Aidan”, Dugald said.
Guthrie slapped Aidan on the back. “Aye, my ol’ granny would be mighty offended by that comparison.”
“His feet are as soft as lambskin, I’d wager, just like his face”, Dugald added with a wink.
Aidan smiled good-naturedly, “I pray the good Lord looks upon me with mercy and guides a Norse blade across my cheek to give me a fearsome scar, forever marring this mug of mine. That is, before I take the Norse fiend’s head clear off his body.”
“He could take your nose clear off, and you would still look like a maid”, Guthrie laughed merrily.
