Misfortune of Song: Druid's Brooch Series: #5

by Christy Nicholas

  “Will you be looking for my good-sister, Warchief? I’m afraid she’s rather occupied at the moment. Perhaps your message would wait for the morning?”

  Maelan didn’t bother answering the woman. Instead, he went from tent to tent, ripping open each tent flap to find his granddaughter. The first three tents were cold and empty, but low firelight flickered in the fourth. He paused before he flung the door wide, trying to calm his rage and failing. Utromma dropped a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

  * * *

  Orlagh glanced around Temuirr’s tent. The place was cleaner than she’d ever seen it before. Not that she was inside often, but the few times she had, the inside had been a chaotic mess. A small fire burned in the center. Yana must have cleaned and prepared the place in anticipation of the night. She sent mental thanks to her new good-sister for her foresight and consideration.

  Temuirr led her to the cot, and she sat. Orlagh didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she held them clasped in her lap, her feet together in a demure position. She remained acutely aware of Temuirr as he walked around her, grabbed something from the table, and returned, kneeling at her feet. “My bride, would you like some more mead? The night might go a bit easier. I know you’re yet innocent, and I promised Eolande I would be gentle. Still, a bit of lubrication goes a long way, aye?”

  She nodded and took a gulp of the proffered drink. The sweet honey wine burned down her throat, but made her warm all the way to her toes, despite the damp evening chill. Orlagh took another gulp. Her head grew dizzy.

  “Hey, now! Not so fast, there. I don’t want you to pass out. That’s no fun at all. Why don’t you lie down, and I’ll lie next to you? The cot isn’t very wide, but we’ll be cozy.”

  He helped pull off the precious silk clothing and hung it on a peg with care. Then he pulled off her undergarment, and she stood, naked in the cool tent. She shivered, and he undressed, putting his bare arms around her. His embrace was warm and comfortable.

  She stretched out on the narrow bed, and he did the same, his long legs tangling in hers. He put his arm under her head and hugged her. “Now, that’s not so bad, is it? Come, mo chuisle, and be one with me on this night, the night of our union.”

  She nodded, and he kissed her. He tasted of wine, honey, and salt, and she eagerly met his lips. He kissed her cheek, her neck, and down the front of her chest. Goosebumps rose all over her skin, and she giggled, suddenly ticklish.

  He grinned and kissed lower, down her belly, and to the cleft between her legs. He glanced up once with a roguish grin and gently pried her legs apart.

  With a catch in her breath, she opened her legs. His tongue was hot and wet as he licked between her legs, causing tingling sensations wherever he touched. He licked inside her, around her cleft, kissing the inside of her thighs until she pushed his head back to her center. She wasn’t giggling now. She yearned to feel more of him inside her. He probed softly with his fingers, sliding one and then two inside her. He fluttered his fingers, making her both giggle and gasp.

  “I want you inside me, Temuirr. Come, make me your wife.”

  “Have you no patience, mo chuisle? I relish the sounds you make when I touch you.”

  “Now, my lover.”

  He gave her a half-smile, almost invisible in the flickering fire. Lifting himself up to be level with her, he kissed her again, placing his member against her cleft, but not going in. She cried out in protest, but he simply rubbed against her. Kissing her neck, her breasts, her ear, she wriggled, trying to angle herself right. Still, he resisted until she found him with her hands and guided him in. She wanted him all now, the whole thing, but he just slid in about an inch and pulled out again.

  Orlagh bucked her hips, hoping to take more of him, but he rode on the edge of full penetration. In and out he slid, just a little bit. She growled and grabbed his hips, wanting to pull him all the way inside. Suddenly, he pushed and it hurt. She whimpered, and Temuirr grunted, his face contorting. He stayed inside her, not moving. She didn’t move either, not wanting more pain. Then he rocked back and forward again. That hurt, but also felt good.

  He continued to rock gently, oh so gently. “Orlagh? Do you want me to stop?”

  “That’s the worst part done?”

  He nodded, still rocking gently. She matched his movements with her hips. “But it will still hurt.”

  She gulped. “I want the rest.”

  Giving a rueful grin, he rocked back a bit more, and in again. She grimaced, and he paused, but then continued when she said nothing.

  The rocking was slow and painful, but also triumphantly wonderful. A wave rose within her, a sweet wave of pleasure, like riding a horse down a hill. Like that momentary feeling of weightlessness as she fell, only to slam into the horses’ back. Orlagh wanted it to continue, but then Temuirr shuddered and grasped her hips hard, digging his fingers into her flesh. She cried out, but he wouldn’t let go, quivering with a pained expression, his body tense. Then he groaned and deflated, landing on top of her. His sweaty flesh clung to hers with an iron grip.

  Orlagh was about to ask him to lift himself so she could breathe when shouts rang out. Temuirr grunted and moved to one side, his sticky member pulling from her with a sickening sound.

  The tent flap flung open, and a large man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the deepening twilight. A brief flare of the fire showed his furious, distorted face. With horrified recognition, Orlagh pulled the blanket to cover her sweaty, naked body.

  * * *

  Maelan took three steps to the cot and yanked Orlagh to her feet. The action made her drop her blanket, exposing her naked shame to him and Utromma, who’d followed him in. The bard stood up and swayed, his hand fumbling for a weapon.

  With a growl, Maelan flung Orlagh into Utromma’s waiting arms. The warrior woman grabbed a blanket and shuffled his granddaughter out of the roundhouse while Maelan turned to the bard with flaming rage in his eyes.

  Having found only a stringed instrument as a weapon, the bard backed up to the tent wall, inching toward the door. He put his hands out in a placating manner. “Now, my good man, Orlagh and I are well married. I’ve not dishonored your lovely kin in the slightest. She’s retained her honor well, and does you proud.”

  Maelan ignored his explanation and stalked toward him. The man scuttled to one side and then the other. The tent wasn’t large, and Maelan grinned as he got close enough for a good, solid punch. He pulled his arm back and threw the punch, feeling a satisfying smack as he connected with the bard’s jaw. The man rocked back and hit his head against the tent pole, and Maelan reached back to throw another… but couldn’t throw the punch.

  Startled, he looked back to find Eógan pulling on his arm. He tried to shake his friend off, but Eógan clung like a barnacle and refused to let go. “It’s done, Maelan. They’re married. I spoke to Yana. Blessed by a Druid, and witnessed by the gods. There’s not a thing you can do. If you hurt him, you’ll owe a huge fine.”

  Maelan roared in frustration. “It would be worth it!”

  The bard had taken his distraction as an opportunity to scamper out the door, and Maelan punched the wooden tent pole instead. The blow hurt. A lot. That was good. He punched the pole again, and then a third time, with satisfaction at the crunch of the wood finally giving way. As he prepared for the fourth, Eógan grabbed his arm again. Maelan resisted the urge to punch his friend instead of the pole, just to feel the satisfying give of flesh rather than wood.

  “Enough, already. No use injuring yourself or destroying the man’s tent. Come outside. Utromma will see to Orlagh.”

  Maelan wanted to hit the tent pole again. He needed to hit something, anything, preferably the bard’s smirking face. How dare the man defile his granddaughter? As far as calling some pagan ceremony a true wedding, that was beyond heretical. Bloody heathen. He would show the man how dangerous trifling with Maelan’s family would be. He stalked out of the tent and cast about for the craven creature.

&
nbsp; The bard was nowhere to be seen. Eolande, the bard’s sister, the two young men and the old man, stood around him in a half-circle, arms crossed and mouths set. Maelan blinked several times, his rage draining. What was this?

  He tried to shoulder past them, but they all stood firm. “Let me by!”

  The woman lifted her chin. “We will not. Orlagh is well taken care of. She’s legally married, and you’ve no say in her life. She told us about the emancipation. You would have had no power to take her away regardless of her marriage status. Now leave, Warchief. You are not welcome here.”

  Maelan glanced at Eolande. The girl’s lips were as set as the woman’s were. He would find no help there. Eógan stood behind him, and he glanced back, but his friend shrugged. Utromma’s voice was somewhere to the left, the reassuring tone she used to calm horses. He couldn’t make out the words.

  Choosing the spot between one of the twins and the old man as the weakest link, he pushed through the two and headed toward Utromma’s voice. Eógan patted his shoulder. “We’ve little choice, man. I spoke with Yana. She’s well-loved here. Let her be.”

  Maelan’s vision turned to red. “Loved. Is that what they call kidnapping a young girl and raping her?”

  “I wasn’t kidnapped, Grandfa.”

  He spun around to see Orlagh, dressed in a plain, white léine and standing tall. “What did you say?”

  “I said, I wasn’t kidnapped, and I certainly wasn’t raped. In fact, I pursued Temuirr and his love. He finally consented to marry me, and we completed the ritual this night. They are now in a legally binding marriage. We’ve consummated, and the contract is done. There is nothing you can do, nothing you can say, to take me away from here, Grandfa.

  “Go home. Go back to your empty roundhouse and your cold bed. Go home to your demanding chief and his randy fosterling. I’m much happier with my new freedom and my new family than I ever was at Ceann-Coradh.”

  Tawnith cawed in agreement, and Maelan scowled at the raven.

  His granddaughter looked so much like his beloved Liadan at that moment, Maelan had to screw his eyes shut to banish her ghost.

  Maelan’s heart pounded, and he almost dropped to his knees, but he locked his legs and refused to move. He’d made poor decisions in the past, but he must do right by her. She detested him, and everything he stood for. He stared at her, independent and strong. At least he had managed to instill these qualities in her. He was proud of her, despite her hurtful words.

  The bard’s sister, Yana, stepped up and stood behind Orlagh, her hands on the girl’s shoulder. Eolande stepped up beside her and held her hand. Then the twin boys stood next to her and even the old man.

  The bard, Temuirr, stepped toward him warily. “You can see, honored Warchief, we are a family now. We will take good care of your granddaughter. You have my pledge as a trained and certified bard. She shall come to no harm with us.”

  Maelan didn’t want to admit defeat. This was his granddaughter, his flesh, and blood! But a hand on his shoulder made him slump. He turned to see Utromma. “I spoke with her privately, Maelan. She is happy. Can you deny her happiness? Can you truly live with yourself if you take her away from the man she obviously loves?”

  He flung his arm out toward the steadfast group. “But what sort of life is this? Living in tents and wandering the countryside? What happens when the winter comes? When raiders attack? When her precious bard is too sick or too old to sing? What then?”

  Orlagh sighed and said, “Then perhaps I will come to you, Grandfa. Would I be welcome back in your home if my husband should die?”

  Maelan choked back unmanly tears and looked at his granddaughter’s face. He tried to say he’d happily arrange the event, but Liadan’s eyes stared back at him, angry and proud. How could he ever deny her anything?

  He nodded and turned away, ashamed of his actions and his anger. Perhaps this was the best decision after all. Silently, Eógan led him away from the circle of firelight and into the misty darkness.

  He didn’t remember much of the journey away from the bard’s camp. His mind was numb, and at the same time, his thoughts raced with what he should have said or done differently. He stumbled several times in the darkness, but his two friends stayed fast by his side and kept him from falling.

  Eógan, Utromma, and Maelan camped along the coast. A storm angled across the ocean as dawn rose, creating an odd, muted light glittering across the ocean. The sunlight skipped under the lowering clouds, limning everything in an orange glow before surrendering to the gray. Silently, Maelan packed his tent and shouldered his bag. Utromma patted him on the back as they took the road southeast, back home to Ceann-Coradh.

  As he marched, he considered Orlagh. She truly did look happy. Why had he been so certain she’d been coerced into her truancy? Wishful thinking, surely. Pride and shame mixed within him as he remembered her standing, defiant, with her lover. No, her husband. They were legally wed. Not a Christian wedding, though—his grandfather would be horrified. Airtre had been a true God-fearing priest and considered anything pagan to be evil and satanic. Though he’d worshipped his grandfather when he was a young boy, his grandmother and his tutor had taught him more tolerance. Maelan was certain there was good on both sides. How could he do less, being in possession of pagan magic himself?

  The brooch. The magical brooch granted to his family from the Fae–he needed to give Orlagh the brooch. He shook his head. Not now, not until she was more settled. Perhaps when she bore a child of her own? Maelan still harbored doubts this marriage would last. He would bide his time for a while. She may yet come back to the fold.

  Maelan built up the fire while Utromma and Eógan set up tents. Once a small flame was burning in the lowering dusk, they set up the stew pot. Maelan threw in the last of their dried fish and onions.

  Utromma frowned. “I’ll hunt in the morning. I might be able to find rabbits in this desolate place. Not much else, perhaps, but rabbits would be a welcome change to the fish.”

  Eógan nodded. “I’m heartily tired of fish.”

  Maelan said nothing. His mind was still in turmoil about the events the night before. He’d wanted to kill the bard. Red rage had clouded his reason, and he’d ached to smash the man’s face into a bloody pulp. The urge was shameful, even for a Gaelic warrior. To kill an unarmed man in cold blood. The bard was just a man, not an enemy, not an honored warrior. However, Temuirr was a man who had taken his granddaughter, the one thing which still lit Maelan’s life. No matter, he shouldn’t have let his anger engulf his reason.

  Eógan and Utromma chatted while Maelan stewed. Finally, Eógan stood and punched him on the shoulder. “Wake up, Maelan! I swear you’re off with the Faeries this night. What you need is a good bedding. Utromma, what do you say? Could you pull him out of his mood?”

  Utromma smiled. “I could, yes. But he wouldn’t have me. He’s too honorable to take his friend’s mate.”

  Eógan blinked several times and stared at Utromma. “Mate? Who said anything about mate?”

  She just smiled more widely and stirred the coals with a stick.

  “Wait, what mate? We’re not married, last time I checked! Who’s been putting such foolish notions in your head, woman?”

  She continued to stir the coals, and the fire flared. “I need no one to put notions in my head, Eógan. I’ve my own mind, remember? Besides, there is naught wrong with a good marriage. In fact, it could be downright pleasant at times. Don’t you think?”

  Eógan grumbled something about uppity women and sat on a rock. Utromma glanced at him and pushed his shoulder. He shoved back. The shove quickly devolved into a play-wrestling match, and Maelan closed his eyes. He did hope they would at least go into their tent for their lovemaking. All he pictured was Orlagh and her bard in the tent when he burst in on them.

  Shame for his rage flooded back. He grunted and went into his own tent, leaving his friends to their amorous exertions.

  In the morning, Utromma went off on to hunt. Maelan crouc
hed and built up the fire. Eógan shrugged and followed Utromma.

  Maelan spent the day thinking. Thinking about Orlagh and her decisions, his own actions, and what Liadan would say. He pictured her lovely face in his mind, frowning at him. “She’s her own woman, Maelan, a woman grown and in love. You must let her make her own mistakes.”

  His heart ached with missing his beloved wife, even so, many winters after she was gone.

  Dusk fell quickly, and neither of his companions had yet returned. Maelan was just getting concerned when a step sounded behind him. “It’s about time. I was getting worried.”

  “Were you worried, human? That is kind of you, but you need not worry about us.”

  Maelan spun to see not his two companions, but two obviously Fae creatures. One stood tall and thin, even taller than Maelan. His skin was snow white and his hair as black as midnight without a moon. His hands were stained a dark, flaking red which might have been blood. The female creature was also tall and thin with black hair, but her skin was pale blue. Both their eyes were flat black and empty as if simply painted on. The voice had echoed across the stones, bouncing back until Maelan’s head ached at the sound.

  The female spoke with a musical voice like bells tinkling. “No need to worry about us at all.”

  Maelan glanced around, looking for his companions, but spied nothing across the rocky shore. Hills hid the rest of the countryside from sight. He was alone with these two Fae. He took a deep breath and crossed his arms. “I greet you with honor, Good Folk. I have no wish to cross your kind.”

  The male grinned, showing ragged, red-stained teeth. “That is good to know, Maelan. We have news for you.”

  Maelan’s blood grew cold. “You know my name?”

  “Of course, we do, Maelan, Warchief of Ceann-Coradh. Husband of the lovely Liadan. Such a pity she died, is it not? Son of Lorcáin, grandson of Étaín. Oh, how I miss Étaín. I still search for her. You are stubborn like she was, Maelan. Did you know that?”