by Jianne Carlo
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Published By: Taliesin Publishing, LLC, PO Box 155, Sanford, MI 48657
www.taliesinpublishing.com
Branded by Etain
Copyright © 2013 by Jianne Carlo
Digital Release: December 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62916-013-9
Cover Artist: Georgia Woods
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Table Of Contents
Author’s Notes
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
That Pearly Drop by Jianne Carlo
Princess Étaín of Caul Carlinne remains unsullied by her violent past. When she chooses Brand of Bärvik as her mate, has she brought havoc and destruction to her people?
Author’s Notes
Caul Carlinne is fictional.
That said, being spatially and directionally challenged (left, right, north, south—it all bedevils me), I need pictorial references for my fantasy worlds. For anyone who’s interested, this is the area I used as a basis for the settlement:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carlingford_Lough
For the actual castle, I amalgamated the location above with several of the castles my mum and I visited on our Mother/Daughter Jaunt Through Europe (I did a DVD of the pics and that’s the title) to come up with King Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh’s demesne. The idea for the river and the kitchens I stole from Château de Chenonceau. The whole layout, practicality, and the architecture of this “country house” of King Henry II of France and his mistress, Diane de Poiters, blew my simple mind:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ch%C3%A2teau_de_Chenonceau
The limerick Prick Her Well is a product of my imagination, though the history of the region speaks of many locally famous ditties of the sort.
Consolation of Philosophy is an actual work by the monk Boethius and is considered one of the most influential treatises on Medieval and early Renaissance Christianity. More information on this extraordinary piece of literature and the man who wrote it can be found at:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Consolation_of_Philosophy
The isles of Bá Brestá, Rathane, and Sceirdiúil, are pure fantasy.
While Lúnasa or Lughnasadh is actually an ancient Celtic festival marking the beginning of the harvest, I have bastardized it to my own purposes. Matchmaking was believed to have taken part during the festival, but The Choosing is entirely my wishful fancy.
Chapter One
Étaín twisted this way and that, frantically searching the crowd milling about the market. She held her breath.
He had to be here.
The brisk icy wind buffeting her brat, the new emerald-hued cloak she had commissioned for this very day, did naught to chase away the blazing excitement heating her from within. The tips of her fingers tingled. She tiptoed and peeked ’tween two of the five guards surrounding her and Cedilla.
Where was he?
She knew he was here. Only his presence drove her to a giddiness she had not felt since Eachan stole her youth.
Scarlet and gold streaks blazed across the charcoal horizon of the settlement, Caul Cairlinne, famed for its rich soil, abundant forests, and rumored hoards of fairy gold. ’Twas the end of the festival of Lúnasa and the last moon market of summer.
Dozens streamed around the ring of guards protecting her, men on horseback, peddlers pushing carts, women heaving oversized baskets, and children skipping, shouting and dancing with unbridled energy. The hordes thrummed with exhilaration and anticipation.
Roosters crowed, piglets squealed, cows lowed, and ponies brayed.
The yeasty aroma of bread baking tangled with the briny scent of the sea and the mouth-watering smell of meat roasting all combined to tempt the palate, but Étaín craved not food. Though she had not broken her fast this morn, Étaín hungered only for a glimpse of him, the warrior she had dreamed of since their eyes first met at the Spring Market.
In the beginning, he haunted only her nights, but after their encounter two months ago, he had come to her in daylight too. Through his eyes, she learned of his dismal, barren land and the fire-spewing mountain he both abhorred and feared. She tasted both his grief and rigid determination.
Today, she would speak with him, the warrior fated to be hers, if only for a year and a day.
The man she intended to wed, whether Da approved or not.
She rocked on her heels and tilted her head to the side to see around Gavin’s broad back.
“My lady, is aught amiss?” Gavin demanded and shifted so he blocked her view entirely.
Étaín stopped fidgeting at once, for she had glimpsed him ducking into the shop right ahead of them.
Cedilla poked Étaín’s shoulder. “Aye. Why are you hopping about like a hare scenting a fox?”
Étaín could not risk alarming either her old nurse or her guards. “I fancy a currant cake from Auld Fitz. But he’s no in his usual corner.”
Cedilla’s teeth gleamed when she grinned. She rolled her eyes and planted plump hands to her pudgy hips. “The Lord be praised. You are hungry, me lassie? ’Tis about time after these past fortnights of pushing food around your trencher. Well, Gavin the Good, what are you waiting for? Find Auld Fitz and get your mistress a dozen or more cakes.”
Étaín stared at the rock-strewn path and chewed the insides of her cheek to prevent a broad smile. She fought the urge to clap her elation. ’Twas perfect. None of the other guards were as diligent as their captain, and she knew exactly how to distract them.
The moment Gavin left on his mission of finding Auld Fitz, Étaín firmed her chin and spoke to the remaining soldiers. “We needs hurry back to the castle to prepare for the feast this eve. Take the cart, and collect the wine casks, Larkin. Monroe, hie you to the traders’ ships, and barter for the spices. Do not forget the cinnamon. Nigel, ’tis the chandler for you. Cedilla and I will await you at the blacksmith’s. Rory will accompany us there.”
“My lady, the king bid us stay at your side,” Larkin the Log protested.
“My da ordered you to do my bidding,” Étaín replied, arms akimbo, and neck craned to squint at the soldier.
Larkin snorted and opened his mouth.
Étaín stamped a boot-clad foot and demanded, “Did Da not command you so?”
Looking as if he yearned to tar her backside, Larkin said, “Aye, milady. He did do so. Rory, be a tick on the princess’ back.”
Étaín wrinkled her nose at Larkin’s too-descriptive command, but held her tongue until the three soldiers departed. A stiff wind rattled the shingle attached to the shop into which he had disappeared. She hugged her arms, pretended a shiver, and mimicked a sneeze.
Cedilla gave her a sharp inspection. “Rory, run after the cart, and fetch milady’s wool brat. Make haste and return to us.
Did I not say ’twas too cold for that summer brat? Your da will have me whipped if you catch a chest chill again.”
“Aye. You had the right of it, Cedilla. I should have donned my heavy cloak. Forgive my stubbornness. Look, we are at the baker’s pasty shop, and his ovens fair heat the air. Wait here for Rory while I warm my chilled flesh inside the shop.” When Cedilla frowned down at her, Étaín added, “I will be but an ell away from you, and the door is open. I will come to no harm.”
Before her nurse could utter a word, Étaín ducked into the shop. ’Twas here she had seen him these past months, here and on the piers, but never had she dared enter when he was there.
Shadows lay heavy in the hut’s corners, but she ventured into the deep darkness, drawn by his unique scent, man, the sea, and some arousing, unknown spice.
“Good morn, milady.” The pasty maker’s wife squatted to throw two logs under a brick oven. “What have you this day? Venison or swede pasty?”
“She will have one of each.”
Étaín could not draw a breath when he stepped out of the shadows and into the flickering light of the oil lamp hanging from a rafter. His voice brought to mind an image of the giant oaks found in the Fathomless Forest overlooking Caul Cairlinne, deep timbered, gruff, and compelling.
He wore a raven-blue cloak pinned at his throat by a brass brooch in the shape of some mythical creature with wings, horns, and clawed hands and feet. It was a beast with ferocious features, yet she felt no timidity, no anxiety. Instead, her heart swelled and galloped, fit to burst out of her chest.
She linked her fingers together to stop their violent trembling and gawked at him.
The dark hood concealing his features fell away. He took two great strides to the pasty maker’s counter laden with steaming pies.
Étaín memorized his face the first time they stared at each other across the congested quay. The sun had woven its rays into the burnished chestnut of his hair, which fell in waves to the cusps of shoulders too broad to span in one glance. The bump in the middle of his nose spoke of battles long since waged.
Dark brows pinched together when he drew coin from a purse and tossed the round metal onto the wooden counter.
The pasty maker’s wife wrapped two pies in a large green leaf and handed them to him.
He spun around.
She marveled at the poetry in the way he moved, all supple animal, arrogant, and contained, like a fierce dragon crouched to pounce.
“For you, fair lady.” He sketched a courtier’s bow, and she wondered if he too was of royal blood.
“My thanks.” Étaín’s knees quaked, and she blushed under his intense scrutiny. She accepted the pasties, balanced the broad leaf in one hand, and tore it in half. Concentrating on her task but aware he studied her every action, she divided the pies in two, folded one of each into a leaf half, and offered him the larger portion. “Will you break your fast with me, my lord?”
“I am yours to command, my lady, in any way you should choose to do so.”
His answer sparked a fire low in her belly. Woman parts previously ignored had awakened and demanded attention since she laid eyes on him. She dreamed of his arms holding her tight, his mouth suckling her breasts, and his hands soothing the persistent ache between her thighs.
Transfixed by the heat flaring in eyes so blue as to rival a perfect summer sky, she nigh dropped the pasties from her outstretched hand, but he anticipated the fall and scooped them, leaf and all, as the food tipped out of her palm.
Embarrassed by her clumsiness, Étaín studied the dirt floor and attempted to gather her scattered wits. Pride and the regal training drummed into her from birth came to her rescue. “Allow me to return your generosity, my lord. This eve we celebrate our festival of Lúnasa. All are welcome at Castle Cairlinne.”
“I learned of the festival when I visited the blacksmith last eve, and pleased I am to accept your kind invitation,” he murmured.
She loved his accented Gaelic, the slight burr that sprouted goose bumps on her arms. For long moments, the meaning of his words eluded her. The blacksmith, he had spoken with the blacksmith, and he was pleased to accept her invitation. Never had she felt so thrilled. Fate had decreed all events to align.
“I am Brand of Bärvik, my lady.” He bowed again.
Brand, his name was Brand. She had never heard of Bärvik. Who to ask about this place?
“And you are, my lady?”
Jolted out of her scheming, Étaín blurted, “I am Lady Étaín.”
“My lady, what do you do?” Cedilla barked as she stomped into the hut.
Shocked and startled, Étaín stumbled to the right, and tried to shake the guilt from her expression. For two long breaths, her mouth refused to form words. “The pasty maker was so kind as to offer me a pie to break my fast.”
Étaín tensed and waited for Cedilla’s barrage of questions. She spread her lips in a smile and squared her shoulders hoping to block the warrior who topped her height by a head and a half from her nurse’s view.
Cedilla looked to the cottage’s roof. “Did you forget Gavin went for currant pies for you?”
Étaín’s eyes widened, and she dared a surreptitious peek to the back of the hut.
He was gone.
Disappointment swamped Étaín and a hot wetness dampened her palms. She glanced down and realized she had squeezed the pies into a gooey mess of pastry, stewed venison, and swede. Before Cedilla’s sharp gaze saw too much, Étaín stuffed the food into her mouth and chewed.
“No matter, Gavin has not returned as yet, but Rory is here with your wool brat.”
Étaín swallowed the last morsel. Her mind raced as she sought to distract Cedilla. “I needs visit Margie’s privy.”
Margie, her boon companion these past ten summers and more, had recently married Darren the blacksmith and now lived in a thatched cottage not far from New Chance River.
“You dinna fool me, lassie. What are you up to?” Cedilla wagged a finger at Étaín.
She hopped from one foot to the other. “We must make haste Cedilla, or I will ruin my new shoes with pis—”
“You are not too big to be paddled, lassie,” Cedilla warned.
Étaín marched out of the hut, turned her face to the rising sun, and grinned like a fool when Rory draped the thick brat around her shoulders. “My thanks.”
She had met him. Spoken to him.
Brand. She said his name under her breath.
The fates showered approval on her choice, otherwise they would never have met on such an auspicious day, the day of The Choosing.
Unable to resist, she skipped a few steps, glanced over her shoulder, and glimpsed Cedilla waddling after her at a fast and furious pace. The word piss spoken by a princess, she’d learned, defeated the sensibilities of warriors and nurses alike.
’Twas an incredible morn. The morn she had met her mate.
She yearned to throw her arms to the heavens and whirl around and around; instead she slowed to a walk and allowed Cedilla and Rory to catch up with her.
“How fares your wife and the new babe?” They turned off the main street and onto a dirt path paralleling the river.
“My Dorie is well, milady. The babe is wee, but pretty as a peach. We decided to name her Siobhan. My ma is grinning like a banshee, to be sure.”
Étaín fair melted under Rory’s brilliant smile and the tender, faraway look in his black eyes. That a newborn babe transformed such a ferocious soldier warmed her heart. “’Tis an honor for your ma to have the babe named after her. Is Dorie well enough to attend the feast?”
“Aye, milady. She and the babe will be there.”
The last hint of the sea’s scent vanished when the winds changed direction, now blowing from the mountains in the distance and carrying a woodsy fragrance. The sun climbed fully above the horizon and cast their forms in fat shadows to one side. Étaín shaded her eyes and scanned the wide bay.
“Seven ships. I have ne’er seen so many in the harbor. Do th
e three with the red sails belong to Lord Irvin?” Étaín couldn’t keep the quiver out of her voice. Her mother’s step-cousin, Irvin, made her uneasy.
“Aye, milady. He has brought three ships and several scores of warriors for the feast.”
Unease draped Étaín’s nape. The fine hairs there prickled.
Why had Irvin come? He had not visited since her mother’s passing, and then he had only stayed for the funeral rites.
Her worries vanished when she glimpsed Margie sweeping a broom across the front yard of her cottage. Yellow and white daises crowded the tiny garden fronting the thatched dwelling. The shimmering petals danced in the morning breeze and glimmered when the sun’s rays plucked at them.
“Étaín.” Margie set her broom to the wall and opened her arms wide.
“Margie.” Étaín broke into a sprint and flung herself into Margie’s embrace.
“I know who he is,” Margie whispered.
“So do I.” Étaín wanted to howl her exuberance. “Brand. Brand of Bärvik. Know you this place? Has he asked about me?”
“Shush,” Margie muttered. “Do you want all to know? Is he the one? Will you choose him tonight?”
•●•
“’Tis a prosperous settlement.” Nikolas pulled the hood of his thick cloak forward.
“Aye.”
“How fared your meeting with Princess Étaín?”
“As planned. We are invited to feast at the castle.” Odin’s luck had been with Brand the first day he set foot on Caul Cairlinne.
He had encountered his prey, Princess Étaín, and captured her attention with one heated glance. Every night since then, he had woven his way into her dreams and filled her mind with images of the two of them in bedsport. Timid visions, to be cert.
It had taken all his discipline to keep the images tame. To tamp down his burning desire to bedevil her with carnal pleasure until she did his bidding with not a moment’s hesitation.
