When they returned, Eolande was stirring the pot and served them both another bowl of stew. Temuirr was snoring in his tent, the rhythmic sound shaking the fabric at regular intervals. Yana, Tam, and Finnegan filtered in, the evening’s performance evidently a success. They ate their stew with muted enjoyment. Orlagh spoke to no one but holed up in Eolande’s tent to sleep.
Her friend curled up behind her some time later, keeping Orlagh’s back warm and hugging her close. Eolande hummed her Faerie song again.
The next day dawned bright, with birdsong waking Orlagh from a fitful sleep. Her dreams had been disturbing, and she’d gotten little rest. The evening’s events kept running through her head with alarming variations. One time, Temuirr’s lover became a bean sídhe, screeching her curses to all who gathered. Another time, Temuirr and Cam battled to the death for her affection, each one using a herring as a weapon. Once Eolande turned into an avenging goddess and took Temuirr’s head from his shoulder with a single sword cut.
What sort of mushrooms had Eolande put into the stew?
Once she’d washed last night’s salty tears from her eyes, relieved her full bladder in the night soil bucket, and dressed for the day, Orlagh opened the tent flap. Temuirr was sitting on a bench near the firepit, his head bowed low and cradled in his hands. No one else stirred.
She didn’t want to talk to him yet, but she needed to be outside. Reluctantly, she emerged and sat on another bench. She stirred the banked coals and added some kindling until the fire revived. Echoes of trilling birds filtered through the morning mists.
Orlagh stood to fill the smaller pot with water, her hand on her back to ease the ache. Temuirr glanced up and looked sufficiently horrible. His eyes were still bloodshot, and his face was drawn. Lines she’d never seen before etched his face. For a moment, deep pity coursed through her. Then she steeled herself and grabbed the pot. She stalked down to the creek.
Footsteps behind her made her clench her jaw. If he thought he could just win her back with some sweet words…
He put his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck. She whipped around and knocked him on the ear with the heavy iron pot. The chilly water splashed over him, and he cried out, holding his head.
“Orlagh! That bloody hurt!”
She brandished her pot, swinging it several times, testing its balance. “Good! Touch me again, and you’ll get another.”
He rubbed his head and touched it several times, looking at his hand and checking for blood. Seeing none, he smiled. “Orlagh, mo chuisle, please just listen to me?”
“Why should I listen to you? I’m sure that woman last night listened to you. Look where it got her!”
He rolled his eyes. “I talked to her, Orlagh. I’ve made arrangements for the lad’s care. She’s well satisfied.”
“I’m certain you were well satisfied, too! How many other women have satisfied you?” She took aim and swung the pot again, but this time he danced out of the way.
“Orlagh, please put the pot down and listen!”
She pursed her lips and stopped her swinging, but kept hold of the pot.
“Come, sit by me. I will tell you everything.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Everything?”
“Everything you want to know.”
Several awkward moments passed before she nodded curtly. She placed the pot next to her and gingerly sat on a mossy rock. He sat in front of her, cross-legged on the ground. He took both her hands in his. “Orlagh, I’ve been a traveling bard for many winters. I spent winters in the Oak Grove, learning the lore. When I left, I loved going from town to town, bringing the stories and the histories. Along the way, I met people I loved. I spent time with them. Yes, some were women, and some of those were lovers.”
She tried to pull her hands back, but he held them tight. “How many lovers?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t keep a tally, Orlagh. But my heart knows each one, and I cherish them all. I’ve never bedded a woman I didn’t love, Orlagh. I’ve never bedded a woman when I was with someone else. You are my wife, Orlagh, and I love you dearly. You are the only one for me, from now on. That’s what I vowed, and I will keep my vow.”
“How many have you married?”
He frowned. “Married?”
“Yes, Temuirr. How many wives have you had? Are we even legally married?”
“Oh! Yes, of course we are legally married. I have exchanged formal vows exactly once before you. She was my first true love, but Failend died within a winter from a fever. Our unborn baby died with her.”
He swallowed hard, and his eyes glistened. She didn’t know if he even realized it. Orlagh swallowed against her own sobs.
“But your lovers… they were marriages under Brehon Law. You’re a bard; you should know that.”
He nodded. “Yes, they were. However, they have all broken under common consent afterward.”
“The woman last night didn’t sound like she consented.”
“She was a special case. Neither of us realized she was with child when I left.”
It all sounded perfectly logical, but Orlagh wasn’t ready to release her rage and indignation yet, certainly not to anything as mundane as logic. “What arrangements did you make for your son?”
“I’ve agreed to send money for his care and education. I’ve agreed to sponsor him to the Oak Grove should he show interest and talent. I’ve also vowed to ensure his training as a warrior.”
She nodded. It was more than the minimum required for an unmarried father. It was reasonable and acceptable. The boy should want for nothing.
He turned her hands over and kissed her palms. She shivered from the frisson it sent up her spine, but she was still unwilling to forgive him just yet. He kissed her inner arms and up to her shoulders, shifting to his knees so he could reach. Orlagh didn’t want to react, but she couldn’t help it. His hair tickled her neck, and she giggled.
He pulled back and grinned, kissing her on the mouth. His lips were soft and warm. She could taste the salty tears he’d shed for his dead wife, and the taste of guilt almost overwhelmed her.
He helped her down to the mossy ground. He pushed her léine up and ran his hands across her bulging stomach, her waist, her breasts. She moaned in pleasure, and he kissed her again, pushing her legs apart with his. It was awkward with her pregnancy, but not impossible. Sooner than she imagined, he was within her, slowly moving her to a peak of pleasure. She cried out just before he did and they collapsed in the slick moss, exhausted in mind and body.
A sound in the distance brought Orlagh back to herself, and she realized the rest of the camp was stirring. Frantically, she pulled her clothing into place and brushed at the worst of the moss-stains. It was no use. She’d have to wash the lot. She looked at Temuirr and grimaced at similar stains on his léine.
He stood and offered his hand. “Shall we go face the music?”
Orlagh tried to clutch tight to her anger, but how could she remain mad at such a disarming smile?
They returned to the camp, hand in hand. Everyone sat around the firepit, getting their meal. Eolande narrowed her eyes at Orlagh. Her eyes flicked to the stains on their léinte but said nothing. Yana brought her some porridge.
With grateful hands, Orlagh took the bowl and applied herself to the meal. When she finally looked up, Eolande was gone. A glance showed Orlagh Eolande’s tent, and raven were missing as well.
She stood abruptly, searching the clearing for a trace of her friend. “Where’d she go?”
Yana looked around as well. Soon everyone was searching for the girl.
Finnegan grunted when he stood on the place her tent had been. “Bloody thing was here this morning. I never even saw her dismantle it.”
The twins glanced at each other. “Nor did we.”
Orlagh’s flesh crawled. Did her friend just disappear? She said she couldn’t go back to Faerie, so where could she have gone?
Chapter 12
With dogged determination, Maelan packed the camp.
Eógan and Utromma jumped to help but offered no arguments. He’d told his story in short sentences, ending with the news he’d received from the Fae girl.
“My priority is to find Orlagh and extract her from that bard, any way we can. She will come to great harm with him. I don’t know what other information they had. Perhaps he will beat her or is already married. Regardless, we shall find her.”
Eógan glanced at Utromma. “We’ve sort of kept track of their whereabouts over the last moons, while we waited for you.”
Maelan glanced up from his packing. “Kept track? How?”
Utromma grinned. “One of us stayed here each day, while the other traveled to villages in the area. We asked after the bard and his group. Keeping track became easy enough once the winter arrived. They don’t move as much as the nights grow cold, and they are remarkable and memorable. I last remember they camped near a harbor village on the bay.”
Maelan sighed with relief. He hadn’t known how he would find Orlagh. He thanked God for his loyal friends. Eight moons they had waited. A suspicion struck him, and he stopped. “How did you know to wait for me?”
Eógan laughed. “Your Fae girl came to us each fortnight. She said to bide, that you’d be back soon. A lovely thing, too. Did you get a chance to get to know her better? I’m sure she’d be quite the experience.”
Utromma threw a stick at him, but he ducked with a shout of mock protest. Maelan shook his head. His friend would never change.
The journey took two days, and when they arrived at the village, the place had been deserted. Even the tavern stood abandoned, and not just for the day.
Maelan stood in the small room, examining the empty shelves and overturned empty barrels. “What happened here?”
Utromma stooped by the doorway, examining a fresh cut in the wood. “Spear mark. Someone came raiding.”
Eógan held his spear in front of him, standing guard at the door while they completed their investigations, but they found nothing else. Armed and alert, they walked through the village. A few chickens clucked from a hidden farm, but no human stirred. Evidence of pillaging came to view as they left, including one thatched roof which still smoldered from a fire.
Maelan prayed Orlagh had been well gone from this place before the raid.
They continued eastward, as they had come from the west along the coast. Surely they’d have come across any refugees if they’d fled in that direction. Nothing but barren rocks lay inland. Maelan seemed to recall a small community of monks nearby, but he didn’t remember where. That may have been where the villagers found sanctuary.
Climbing the hill on a promontory, Maelan scanned along the east coast, searching for smoke. The chilly December wind whipped his brat so much the edges snapped in the gale, so he wasn’t certain he’d notice a plume of smoke. Even if he did, smoke might indicate either raided villages or refugees. He had no way of knowing from here. There, to the southeast, some white puffs were quickly snatched away by the sea gusts. Southeast was their best option.
A few more leagues brought them to the fires, and he breathed in relief when he noticed people milling about. They all lived in makeshift tents and lean-tos, working to feed animals, gather eggs, mend clothing, and gut fish. The camp sat right next to the water, an inlet from the bay which reached south into the land. The smell of rotting fish and salt was overwhelming.
They found a group of villagers around a firepit and stopped.
Utromma approached with a loaf of bread in her hand, offering the food to a woman with three young children. They looked worn and tired. “We’ve come seeking kin of ours, good woman. You look as if you’ve had a trying time. May we be of help in any way?”
The woman gratefully accepted the bread and broke the treat into bits for her family. After they were happily munching on the gift, she offered them all some water. “We’ll do well enough. This isn’t the first time raiders from Connacht have attacked, and it won’t be the last. Our men hit them last winter. The raids are almost a tradition.”
The border to Connacht lie very close, just past the next inlet. Maelan didn’t doubt her words, but her manner seemed so casual. Surely she feared for her children’s safety in such raids?
She must have seen him glance at them. “No, both sides are forbidden to hurt the children. We understand each other. Property and livestock are fair game, but no one harms the children.”
Maelan nodded. Honorable warfare by the Gaelic code. “Perhaps you have seen my granddaughter. She’s traveling with a group of bards. She’s short, seventeen…uh, eighteen, with blonde hair. The group leader is a very tall, thin man with curling brown hair. He goes by the name of Temuirr.”
She nodded. “Aye, I know precisely of whom you speak. They were here not three days past. They headed inland, so I believe. He has such a lovely voice! Have you heard him sing, then?”
Maelan nodded, but had no wish to be drawn into a conversation on the virtues of his good-son just now. He would much rather punch the man in his smiling face. However, this dear woman needn’t know such details. He thanked her for her help, and they turned south.
As they departed the coast on the inland path, they relaxed their guard somewhat. Not that raiders couldn’t come inland, but they were less likely to, as they had a more difficult time escaping on land. Water afforded the quick egress essential to such ventures.
They had difficulty crossing the rocky hills. Today the chilly wind added to their difficulty, whistling over the barren land with haunting vigor. Maelan had to keep his head down and fix his gaze on where he placed his feet. The wind burned and dried his eyes too quickly to stare into the distance overlong.
The next village was whole and prosperous, and Maelan sighed with relief. The raiders hadn’t reached this far yet. They found a tavern just as the sun set in the afternoon sky. Days were so short in the winter. Maelan was glad they’d found shelter before dusk fell.
The tavern was filled with people, and some were already quite in their cups. Eógan shouted in triumph and made his way through the crowd to the kegs in one corner, brandishing his mug. Maelan rolled his eyes and searched the faces. There were a few women with blonde hair, but none were his Orlagh. Nor did he see the bard. However, one face did seem familiar.
The old man sat in the corner, nursing a mug of ale and whittling away on a bit of pale wood, despite the clamor of people. The hook nose was unmistakable. Maelan felt certain he was the old man in the bardic group. With a nod in the old man’s direction, Maelan left Utromma to speak with him.
“Finnegan, is that your name?”
The man looked up and squinted at him. “Aye. Who’s asking?”
Maelan straightened his spine, putting all the power and gravitas of his station into his words. “Maelan, Warchief of the Ui Briain. Where’s my granddaughter?”
The man looked down at the wood in his hand and sighed. He picked up the mug, drank the second half in one gulp, and tied the handle to his belt. In a resigned voice, he murmured, “Come with me.”
Eógan caught Maelan’s eye and grimaced. He downed his entire mug, wiped his mouth and made his way back out of the tavern, pulling Utromma along. When they emerged into the cold night air, Finnegan grunted. “My bones hate the winter worse than I do. This way.”
He shuffled along a path into the hills. Maelan took his spear out and followed, trusting his companions to do the same. He held back slightly and whispered to Eógan, “I’ll try to lure her away for a talk.”
Eógan nodded. “I’ll back you up. Utromma will keep anyone from following.”
They found the camp before long, nestled in a hollow near a steep hill. The hill offered some shelter from much of the wind, but Maelan would not have wanted to winter there.
The firepit crackled high, and a woman sang a song. The high energy tune told of a man who got lost in Faerie. When he returned, he’d been cursed to forever speak the truth. The song was familiar to Maelan, but now had new meaning. He thanked God the Fae hadn’t given him tha
t particular gift. While he prided himself on his honesty, sometimes diplomacy required finesse rather than bald truth.
Maelan didn’t even know how he should approach Orlagh or her husband. He hated saying that word for this wastrel. How dare the philanderer marry his granddaughter? His rage bubbled up again, and he gripped his spear tightly.
When they approached, Yana stopped her song and stood, a broad smile on her face. “Welcome, good travelers! Join us! Oh, wait! I know your face, warrior.”
She turned to look at Orlagh, who simply stared at him with wide eyes. Maelan stared back. She’d gotten so fat! She’d never been slim, but her curves had been generous rather than obese. When she struggled to her feet, he realized his mistake. She wasn’t fat. She grew heavy with child.
His stomach dropped to his feet, and he took several deep breaths before he could speak again. “Orlagh. I… I would speak with you.”
The entire camp fell silent. Each face turned, waiting for her answer. Maelan held his breath in case she repudiated him again, and cast him out.
She nodded once with dignity and turned to walk from the firepit. He followed, trusting Eógan and Utromma to wait for him.
Eógan wasted no time and put his mug out for ale, which one of the twins quickly provided. Utromma stood guard with her spear in her hand, watching the group, declining the offer of a mug. Maelan followed his granddaughter out of the warm circle of light.
When they were well out of earshot, she turned around abruptly. “What are you doing here, Grandfa? I thought you were well back at Ceann-Coradh. I never expected to meet you again.”
In the darkness, Maelan couldn’t tell if she was angry or wistful. She sounded upset, that much he could tell. “I needed to know you were well, Orlagh. That your…” He swallowed before he could say the word, “husband treated you well.”
She patted her belly. “As you can see, he’s keeping me well. Is this all you needed? Will you leave now?”
Misfortune of Song: Druid's Brooch Series: #5 Page 21
