Battle Eagle

by Jayne Castel

  But Mael was struggling to accept her beloved Maphan was dead.

  Donnel’s face was hewn from stone as his gaze held Eithni’s. “What killed him?”

  “I don’t know,” Eithni replied.

  His mouth thinned. She could feel his disdain for her, could almost taste it. She had cured Donnel of a soured wound many months earlier. She had brought him back from the brink of death—and he had never forgiven her for it. She knew he resented her—that he thought her interfering—but she did not care. She would not stand by and let someone die.

  The Battle Eagle. He had earned that name while fighting to the south. It suited him, Eithni thought, for these days Donnel was at war with the world.

  It was hard to like Donnel of late, and yet there was something about him that fascinated Eithni. She often felt an odd restlessness well within her when he was near—a sensation she did not understand or welcome.

  Under Donnel’s left arm little Ailene was weeping piteously. “Da,” she wailed. “Wake up, Da!”

  Eithni stepped forward. “Give the girl to me, Donnel,” she instructed gently.

  He released Ailene without a word, and Eithni gathered the sobbing child in her arms. Ailene’s thin body trembled with fear; like Talor she was too young to understand what death meant. “What’s wrong with Da?”

  There were no words of solace Eithni could offer. She could only hold the child.

  Behind them the dwelling continued to burn. It had been a substantial roundhouse—one of the largest and most comfortable in the village. Maphan had built it just before he and Mael had wed three summers earlier. This house had been one of Eithni’s favorite spots. She had spent many an afternoon here gossiping with Mael as the children played at their feet.

  But now it was burning to ashes before them, along with Mael’s life.

  Still cradling Ailene, Eithni turned away from Donnel and closed her eyes. Tears escaped, burning down her cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry, Mael.”

  Tea pulled the sobbing woman into her arms and hugged her tightly. Eithni stood behind them, still holding a sniffling Ailene in her arms while Eithni’s elder sister, Tea, did her best to comfort Mael. Tea and her husband Galan—chieftain of The Eagle tribe—had rushed from their broch the moment news of the fire reached them. Tarl’s wife had also joined them; Lucrezia stood next to her husband, her face drawn as she gazed upon the smoldering ruins of the roundhouse.

  Galan’s expression was grim. He hunkered down before Maphan and regarded the warrior silently.

  “Maphan seemed well when I went eeling with him yesterday,” Tarl spoke up from behind Galan. “What could have taken him?”

  Galan looked up and grief flashed across his hawkish features. “Remember what killed our mother? Sometimes there are silent things at work within us that strike without warning.”

  Behind them Donnel snorted. He still gripped Talor under one arm, and although the lad had stopped crying, he wore a miserable expression as he hung there. Watching them Eithni realized that Talor most likely considered Donnel a stranger. In the one and a half years of his life, this man had not come near him once. Talor wanted the comfort of someone he knew and trusted. Likewise, Eithni saw the tension in Donnel’s broad shoulders as he held the lad. It was only the severity of this situation that kept him from casting the boy aside.

  “Don’t try to make sense of it,” Donnel growled, his voice harsh. “It’s just life, brother. The Reaper comes for us all.”

  Galan frowned. A tense silence settled over the gathered crowd.

  Eithni held her breath, waiting for Galan to respond harshly to Donnel. The two of them had done nothing but argue of late.

  When he did not, Donnel’s lip curled. He thrust Talor at Lutrin, who was standing to his left. “Here … take him.”

  Lutrin had just gathered the lad in his arms when Donnel turned and stalked away without another word.

  Eithni watched him go, outrage flowering in her breast.

  She was not like Tea; she had never been brave or forthright. Yet Donnel’s attitude riled her. How dare he? His behavior was unacceptable—especially when Maphan’s body, not yet cold, lay just a few yards away.

  Wordlessly, Eithni passed Ailene to Tea and hurried off after Donnel.

  She caught up with him, just as he entered the stone arch that led toward the broch.

  “Donnel!”

  He ignored her, and so she reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him up short. “Donnel—wait!”

  He turned, his dark eyebrows rising in surprise. Not for the first time, Eithni was struck by just how handsome he was. The plaid breeches and leather vest he wore showed off his tall muscular body. His chiseled features, beautifully molded mouth, straight nose, and long eyelashes were breathtaking. All three of the brothers—Galan, Tarl, and Donnel—were attractive but, to Eithni, Donnel was the most striking. Yet bitterness had cast a harshness over his features.

  She had set eyes on Donnel mac Muin for the first time nearly two years earlier, at Tea and Galan’s wedding. He had been married then, his lovely wife Luana heavily pregnant. Even so, Eithni had been captivated by The Eagle warrior. How she had wished to find a man so handsome for herself.

  But that was before she had returned home to Dun Ardtreck—before Forcus.

  “You can’t keep doing this,” she gasped, out of breath from running after him. “It won’t bring her back.”

  His gaze narrowed. “What?”

  “You have to let your anger go. Talor needs you.”

  His expression turned thunderous. “We’ve had this conversation before, Eithni. I don’t need to hear this again.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Clearly, you do. Talor has just lost his uncle—a man he sees as a father.”

  Had she imagined it, or did Donnel flinch at that?

  Headless she pressed on. “Mael is on her own now. She needs your help.”

  A dangerous light ignited in those slate-grey eyes then. All three of the brothers had those eyes, the color of a stormy sky.

  Donnel stepped forward, leaned down, and pushed his face close to hers. “I never thought you to be simple-minded,” he growled, “but today I swear you have the brains of a goose. Heed me, woman. I do not wish to see the lad. Stop meddling and leave me alone.”

  He turned then and strode off, crossing toward the steps leading up to the broch.

  Eithni did not follow him.

  She dropped her hands from her hips, the fight going out of her. She suddenly felt shaky and close to tears. Confrontations were never easy for her at the best of times, but Donnel’s grief had given his temper a vicious edge. He had left her badly shaken.

  Eithni inhaled sharply and dashed away a tear that rolled down her cheek.

  Enough. Don’t let the man get to you—don’t waste tears on him.

  She should not have followed him—she realized that now. She had to accept that there were some things she could not heal. It tore at her heart to think of Talor growing up without a father. One day he would learn that the man who had sired him could not bear to look upon him. Donnel did not seem to realize this, or to care.

  Yet Eithni now understood she could not make him see sense.

  Chapter Two

  After Sunset

  ON THE EVE of Maphan’s death there was a spectacular sunset. Eithni had been helping Mael prepare the warrior’s body for burial. She emerged from the hut to be greeted by the sight of pink and gold ribbons decorating the western sky. She paused on the threshold, and her gaze swept over the heavens.

  It seemed out of place that something so beautiful should appear on such a sad day. She pulled the door closed behind her, muffling the gentle sound of Mael’s sobbing. She wanted to leave her friend alone for a while; Mael needed to say goodbye to her man.

  Eithni walked away from the hut. Her steps were heavy this evening, as her feet felt leaden, her spirits low. Around her the air smelled of warm earth and grass, and of cooking. It had been a bright
summer’s day, and the colorful sunset promised another warm day to come.

  The mood was subdued inside the fort, although the folk of Dun Ringill were making the most of the last of the light. Women brought in washing from the lines outside their homes, and children played in the dirt. Men washed their hands in water beside the stone well in the center of the village after spending the afternoon gutting and hanging the venison and boar they had brought home from their last hunting trip. It was an everyday scene, and a reminder that death only drew these hardworking people from their chores for a short while.

  Life went on all the same.

  Eithni liked Dun Ringill—she was happy here. She had once been happy at Dun Ardtreck too, where most of her kin still lived. Life had been good there—until her mother had died. After that her father turned vengeful, her sister bitter, and her brother withdrawn. Her brother, Loc, had become chief when their father died, and tried to forge peace. He had succeeded, until Forcus ruined it all.

  Forcus. How easily he crept into her thoughts, even though she had done her best to cast him out. Nearly two years on the thought of him still made Eithni break out in a cold sweat. Her heart began to race.

  Clutching her basket of herbs close, Eithni hurried down the last slope toward the south-eastern perimeter of the fort. She had to get home, to her sanctuary, where thoughts of Forcus could not reach her.

  Eithni’s hut sat just a few yards from the bandruí of Dun Ringill’s ramshackle dwelling. Ruith, the fort’s seer, had a wild but bountiful garden surrounding her hut, full of herbs and vegetables. There was also a messy enclosure which housed fowl. As it was dusk, the birds had gone indoors to roost; the soft sounds of their clucking drifting out into the soft evening air.

  Eithni’s garden was very different to Ruith’s. She made her way to the front door, past neat beds of primroses, daisies, and foxglove. Honeysuckle grew up the stone wall of her hut. Eithni inhaled its sweet scent; the smell gave her solace.

  This was not a day she wished to relive. Her home was a welcoming sight. It was an ordered, clean, and manageable world. Here, death, grief, and anger did not exist.

  Opening her front door, Eithni stepped down into a small space. The pink-hued light of the sunset filtered in through the open door, illuminating a neatly-kept home, with a pile of furs in one corner, a long wooden bench along one wall, and a stone hearth in the center. The air smelled of heather, for she had sprinkled flowers amongst the fresh rushes on the floor.

  Eithni went inside and sat down heavily upon a stool by her unlit hearth. A lump of peat lay in the fire pit. However, she would not light it until tomorrow morning, for she needed a fire then to cook her morning oatcakes.

  Just twenty winters, and I feel as weary as a crone.

  These days she sometimes felt as if she carried the weight of the world upon her shoulders. She had once laughed easily and often, but of late she felt it difficult to rouse a smile.

  Today had not helped though—today had reminded her just how fragile, how short, life was. She would be glad to crawl into her furs later and leave it all behind.

  Eithni sighed, rubbing her hands over her tired face. Supper was approaching; soon she would go to the broch and join the others. She was not in the mood tonight and would have preferred to eat at home. Yet she had no supper prepared, and her belly ached, reminding her that she had not eaten since dawn.

  The interior of the broch rumbled with voices and bustled with activity as Eithni entered. Outside, the glorious sunset was starting to fade. It was late, for this time of year the setting sun and the rising moon almost overlapped. They had long passed Bealtunn—the spring equinox—and were now heading toward Mid-Summer Fire.

  Eithni padded across the rushes, past the people who were taking their seats at the long tables that formed a square around the great hearth. She saw few smiles on the faces around her though; everyone had been saddened by Maphan’s death. Dun Ringill was a tight-knit community. They would all feel the warrior’s death keenly.

  Inside the hall the air was heavy with peat smoke and the rich aroma of venison stew. It took some getting used to after being outdoors in the fresh air, and Eithni was pleased she lived out of the broch. The chieftain and his kin resided in the alcoves that lined this wide circular space while many of his warriors and their families simply slept on the floor each night. When Eithni had come to live here, Galan had offered her an alcove; but she had chosen to have a hut of her own, like Ruith.

  She spotted the seer now. Ruith, a small, wiry woman with greying dark hair braided into long plaits, was sitting at one of the long tables. She raised a hand to greet Eithni although her usual spry energy was missing this evening.

  Maphan had been her nephew.

  Eithni favored her friend with a sad smile and continued on her way across the floor. Stepping up onto the platform at the far end of the hall, Eithni edged around the chieftain’s table. This was where the chief of The Eagle, his kin, and favored warriors ate their meals. As Tea’s sister, Eithni was expected to join them.

  Galan and Tea were already seated. Their son Muin—oblivious to the pall of grief around him—perched, gurgling upon his mother’s knee. Already Eithni could see the lad would grow up to be the image of his father. He had the same striking features. Galan and Tea’s heads bent close as they talked, their faces solemn. Watching them Eithni felt warmth suffuse her.

  She was so glad her sister had found a man like Galan to love.

  He was a warrior—and could be brutal when needed—but he had a noble, kind heart. Tea had hated him initially, for theirs had been a forced marriage to forge peace between their tribes. The people of The Wolf and The Eagle had been long-standing enemies, but this union had ended the blood feud.

  To Galan’s right sat his younger brother Tarl and his wife Lucrezia. They also spoke quietly together. Tarl was usually in good spirits, laughing or teasing at mealtimes, but he wore no smile this evening. As they talked Tarl reached out and stroked his wife’s cheek. Lucrezia held his gaze, her hand fastening over his arm.

  Eithni suppressed a sigh. Watching them reminded her that love existed. She would never know such happiness, but she was glad Tea and Lucrezia had found it.

  She took her seat at the table, next to Donnel, who sat to Lucrezia’s right. Eithni’s seat was the one that Luana would have once taken—but Eithni had been given this place at the table. She would have preferred to sit elsewhere. There had been times over the past year when she had made excuses to shift seats. However, her behavior had just drawn attention to the fact that she and Donnel did not get on. So she had continued to take this place at the table, swallowing her discomfort.

  There was nowhere else to sit anyway for Cal, Namet, Ru, and Lutrin—Galan’s four most trusted warriors—had joined them for supper this evening.

  Donnel did not acknowledge her as she sat down, and likewise she ignored him. It was a habit for them both by now; one she had grown used to. Eithni reached for the basket of bread that was being passed down the table. She had long-since given up trying to draw the man into conversation.

  Taking a bite of bread, Eithni caught the end of a discussion between Lutrin and Namet farther down the table.

  “At least The Gathering will take everyone’s mind off losing Maphan,” Lutrin said.

  Namet nodded, his brow furrowing. “Aye … it’ll be good to get away for a bit.”

  Eithni tensed. With everything that had happened today, she had forgotten that they were preparing to travel north, into the territory of The Stag. Their departure was only two days away. Every five summers The Winged Isle held a Gathering where all the four tribes of the island—The Wolf, The Eagle, The Stag, and The Boar—met for days of revelry, games, and feasting.

  “Do you remember Maphan at the last one?” Namet continued, his expression softening. “He left many Boar warriors with bloodied noses after that game of Camanachd.”

  Lutrin snorted. “Aye, but he won us the contest.”

  “And
drank so much ale that night he ended up in Urcal mac Wrad’s tent, challenging him to an arm-wrestling match.”

  This comment caused a ripple of laughter to go down the table, lightening the previously somber mood.

  A melancholy smile tugged at Eithni’s mouth as she listened. Maphan had indeed been a character, always in the thick of things at every festival. However, Eithni wasn’t sure folk would be in the mood to celebrate so soon after his death. She glanced back up the table at where Galan was eating, his expression introspective.

  “Galan,” she called to him, raising her voice to be heard over the rumble of conversation around her. “With Maphan’s passing … are we still going to The Gathering?”

  The question made conversation settle. All gazes swiveled to their chief.

  Galan frowned as he considered the question. Watching him Eithni reflected that it was a heavy mantle the chieftain of The Eagles wore. He bore the role stoically yet, in the past two years, there had been a number of difficult decisions for Galan to make. She supposed this one was easy compared to some.

  “We’ll go,” he said finally. “This Gathering is an important one for us.” He glanced over at Tea, his expression softening. “It is the first in many summers that both The Eagle and The Wolf will attend. The peace between our tribes is crucial … we should be there this year.”

  The snort beside Eithni made her start. She glanced left at where Donnel was glaring down at his bowl of stew. “The Boar will be there also,” he growled. “And I have unfinished business with them.”

  “There will be no bloodshed at The Gathering,” Galan replied. “It is a time of peace. You would bring the wrath of all the tribes down upon us if you broke it.”

  A hush settled over the table. Next to Galan, Tarl was frowning. “Just leave this, Donnel,” he warned, his voice low. “The argument between us and The Boar has ended. I killed Wurgest in a fair fight, and now we must move on.”