The Irish Warrior
Page 35
“It happens all the time,” she’d said, smiling through her tears on the night she understood.
“Aye, it does,” he’d agreed.
She was thinking of it now, he knew, and a moment later was proven right when she said quietly, “A week along is all I was. Ofttimes, one never even knows so soon.”
“No.” He kissed the top of her head again, and rubbed his palm over her upper arms, warming her. “We will have children, Senna.”
She smiled. “You will give me children.”
He paused. “I’m fairly certain I’m supposed to say that to ye, lass.”
“But,” she went on, lost in thought, “if I do not quicken right away, that will do for now. I must get my sheep over to Ireland, and the king has told me of your astonishing weavers. I believe we can gain them franchise in the towns. But, before all, I must meet with the mayor of the wool staple in Dublin.”
“Och, well, the woolly mayor it is, then,” he said lightly.
She narrowed her eyes. “Therefore I do not understand why you wish me to learn the names of the poets—the file?” She lifted an eyebrow to question if she was pronouncing the term correctly. He shook his head. She narrowed her eyes again. “Why must I know the names of poets from so long ago?”
“Because it matters,” he said. And he said it in such a simple, calm way, she believed him.
He was including her in every aspect of his life, his heritage and his future, sharing everything with her, accepting her involvement as natural. Desired. Which was, Senna realized, what she’d wanted all along: to be cherished, as she was.
In return, she was willing to offer much, including attempting to learn the names of centuries-dead poets. Or the entire Irish language. It was a beautiful tongue, but perilous, she realized with trepidation as she waded in to lessons each afternoon. Finian was a patient teacher. She tried to be a patient student. Her fingers had healed. Pentony was dead.
“I hope he did right by himself,” she murmured, her gaze drifting down the sloping hill below them. “I do not like to think of him suffering anymore.”
In part, she wished that because if Pentony was not suffering anymore, despite his sins, then perhaps Finian’s mother was not either. And one day, that thought might bring Finian peace.
He stood near her, towering to his full rangy height. Black, windswept hair fell across his shoulders, and he was as magnificent to her now as when she’d first laid eyes on him.
“You sent a trunkful of coin to his illegitimate child in England, didn’t you?” she said abruptly.
He started shaking his head, but she held up her hand.
“I know you did. I heard Alane speaking of it.”
He shrugged. “Ye’ll believe what ye want, Senna. Ye always do. I’ve given up trying to change ye.”
“You never began.” Her breath caught in her throat. “You are a good man, Finian O’Melaghlin.”
“And ye,” he whispered close to her ear, “are the most beautiful woman I ever did see.”
She feigned shock. “You say nothing of my goodness.”
“Aye, for I’ve nothing good to say of it.”
She laughed as he pulled her back into his embrace and they both looked out over the walls. He breathed into her hair as the chilled winds swept up from the hills below.
“Yer father asked me for something, Senna,” he said quietly a moment later. “Before he died.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Indeed? What was that?”
“To help save Scotland.”
She looked away sharply. “You owe my father naught.”
He turned her by the shoulders and peered down with those dark, perceptive eyes. “Just so. This is not a matter of a debt or a duty. Ye taught me that much.”
She nodded solemnly. “I see. Will the king allow it?”
He nodded gravely. “We’ve already spoken of it.”
“But I thought—You were to be…” Her words trailed off.
“I’ll never be king here, Senna. I made my choice.”
She stared at the castle behind him, then forced herself to meet his eyes. “A choice between a woman and a kingship. Some would say ’twas an easy choice.”
“Oh, aye. Simple enough for me.” He ran his palm over the side of her head. “I suppose ye’ll have to make yer choice now, Senna, knowing I’m not to be a king after all.”
She pursed her lips, as if considering the matter. “I have always heard ’tis best to keep royalty at a distance.”
“Have ye?”
“You, I shall keep close.”
He slid his hand to the back of her head and pulled her forward. “Will ye, now?”
She rested her arms around his shoulders. “I made my choice in a stinking old prison. I’m fairly certain you were there. Do you not recall?”
He smiled faintly, but, still cupping the back of her head, looked down into the valley below. “A prison is a prison. Free air has a different odor. I’ve seen men in cellars make vile, regretful choices.”
She entwined her fingers behind his neck. “But, Finian, what you saw was a woman in a cellar.”
His blue gaze came back down, his smile deepending as his eyes searched hers. “Well now, that is so. And she was a fair staggering thing.”
She disentwined her fingers to wave her hand, her face flushing. “Enough of that.”
“Nay, not enough.” He ran his hand down her neck to her shoulders in a manner she knew far too well.
“Cease,” she protested, but she didn’t mean it, and he knew. He caressed her shoulders in deep, circular motions, massaging. A prelude.
She bent her head to the side and closed her eyes, but still said sternly, “You shall not be let off so easily. We were speaking of plans. Instead of being a king now, you shall be a spy?”
“Tend toward calling me a diplomat when we travel. It’ll sound less treasonous if anyone asks.”
She opened her eyes, smiling widely. “I am to come with you.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “For certes.” He ran his lips over her cheek, then slid them down to her jaw. “I’ve been looking for ye my whole life, lass. Dye-witch or no, I’m not letting ye go. Kings can want ye; I have got ye.”
“Good,” she whispered.
He bent to her lips but she put a hand on his chest stilling him.
“And are you never going to ask?” she said in a low voice.
“Nay.”
“You do not want to know how I did it?”
He was quiet, then reached into his fur and held up the small scrap of Wishmé-dyed fabric she’d carried out with her that day at Rardove’s, and given to him. A gift of nothing, she’d laughed. He had not joined in, she recalled.
“I think the dyes are a thing rare and astonishing,” he replied slowly, handing it to her. “Like their maker. Ye wish to tell me, so do.”
“’Tis a secret. You cannot tell a soul.”
He smiled faintly.
“I followed my mother’s recipe. ’Twas the simplest thing in the world.”
“Is that so? Five hundred years of Irish dyers do not agree.” He rested his hand between her shoulder blades, a gentle touch. Unconsciously, she was certain, he started rubbing.
“Perhaps they must not have been women,” she explained loftily. “One must have a willing woman.”
“Ah.” He kissed her cheek. “I like that.”
“I thought you would.”
He moved lower, kissing her earlobe. He seemed to be losing interest.
“Have you even a notion what that means?” she demanded.
“Nay.” He kissed her neck, and his hand slipped lower. “Keep yer secrets, woman,” he murmured into her hair. “I want only yer body.”
She laughed and turned, resting her hand on his upper arms, holding him slightly at bay. “Are you not the least bit curious?”
He pushed the warm fur away from her shoulder, pressed a kiss to her bare skin. She shivered. “For ye, I shall be the least bit curious.”
She smil
ed. “The secret of the Wishmés is that the woman has to be in love.”
He paused, looking vaguely impressed. “How?”
“Urea.”
“Fascinating,” he said after a moment’s reflection, and met her eye. “But then, willing does not always mean loving.”
She touched his cheek with her fingertips. Her heart actually hurt from the fullness of loving him, of knowing he loved her equally, of contemplating all the things that could be with this man.
“For the Wishmés, it means just that,” she said softly. “A woman must be deeply in love. No other will do.”
He pulled her to his lips once and for all, his arms tight around her body, his fingers tangling in her hair.
“I agree, lass. None other will do.”
Author’s Notes
Pronunciation and Translation of Irish Words
uisce beatha (fire-water—whisky) /eesh-kee ba-hah/
bhean sidhe (woman faerie) /ban shee/
a rúin (My love) /AH-rune/
Dia dhuit (God be with you) /jeeu which/
Onóir duit (Honor to you) /on-yay which/
Dyes
There are no Wishmé mollusks or dyes. But elements of them are modeled after something based in reality. And the rest is just pure fictional fun.
I based the color on the famed Tyrian murex purple dye of ancient Rome.
As far as its explosive nature, I modeled this after picric acid, a yellow dye that, in its powdered state, is explosive.
And the “chameleon” effect…that’s pure fiction.
A little about chameleons: They do not really “reflect” their environment. They have a limited repertoire of colors which change based on mood—they’re more like living mood rings. With three layers to their skin, light waves from the surrounding environment get filtered through these, bouncing off underlayers, reflecting some and absorbing others.
In fact, cuttlefish are actually more chameleon-like than chameleons when it comes to camouflage, changing their chromatophores to blend in with their environment.
I started wondering, Well, why can’t this happen with wool fibers? Senna’s wool. What if a certain sheep’s wool had the capacity for such qualities? Tri-level cells that continue to “read” environmental input after fleecing, and shift in response. Of course, it would be impossible to create such an effect with dead wool.
Wouldn’t it?
Characters
None of the primary characters are real. Some of the secondary characters, including the the justiciar of Ireland (steward, governor) John Wogan, King Edward I of England (“Longshanks”), and the Irish tribe O’Melaghlin were real, vibrant peoples in Ireland in the late thirteenth century.
Weather
Autumn is often quite stormy in Ireland. I needed it to be calmer, and drier, though, so I played with this.
Illegitimacy and Suicide in Medieval Ireland
Illegitimacy had not yet gained the social stain it would in years to come, and already had in England. It was certainly no barrier to kingship; rival claimants to the princedoms of Ireland often were sons of kings by various mothers, fighting one another for supremacy, and no less legitimate for it. But while illegitimacy may not have hindered political aspirations, a mother abandoning her family would cause great pain, and shame, just as it would today. Particularly for a son left behind in the care of an enervated father.
Suicide, on the other hand, was cause for shame all around, and was a very public debacle. No burial in church grounds was allowed, and in fact, corpses were often debased, burned, and otherwise disgraced, a physical mirror of the abasement believed to have been done to the soul.
Fictional Kingdom
I wanted to base the Irish tribe in this story on a real tuatha, specifically the O’Neills. For years, in the working manuscript, that was my default kingdom and king. The O’Neills were the dominant Irish tribe in the north for thousands of years. All I needed to make it work for the story was a relatively stable period of kingship about the time that the Auld Alliance was being forged in Scotland.
Such periods are hard to find in medieval Irish history. If the story had been set a few years earlier, my aging king could have been Brian mac Neill Ruiad Ó Néill, who reigned in relative stability from 1238 until 1260. But alas, the Scots had not yet rebelled so openly, and Edward “Longshanks” was not yet king of England, so out with Brian mac Neill.
Set a few years later than Brian’s reign and I could have used Àed Buide. His term certainly endured the ups and downs of an Irish kingship, but in the end, he served as a relatively stable king, from 1263 until his death in 1283.
But following Àed Buide, there were too many violent transitions of power, too many coups, for me to have a “good king” who was old enough to serve as Finian’s mentor.
Thus was born The O’Fáil. The name Fianna, inextricably linked to fáil, has a long and rich history in Ireland.
A fian is group of soldiers. Mythically, the Fianna were a great tribe of Irishmen, known from the Fenian Cycle, led by the greatest Irish warrior, Fionn mac Cumhaill (pronounced Finn McCool). In ancient Ireland, the Fianna was also a name given to semi-independent warrior bands, often made up of noble-born men not yet come into their inheritance, who lived apart from society in the forests as mercenaries, and often bandits, but still served their ruling king in wars. And in contemporary times, the name Fianna has been used by a great number of organizations, right up to the Fianna Fáil, the largest and most influential political party in the Republic of Ireland.
Fianna Fáil is commonly and usefully translated as “Soldiers of Destiny.” But fáil is a rendering of the ancient pre-Christian word for Ireland.
Music I Listened to While Writing The Irish Warrior
“The Space Between,” Dave Matthews Band
“Hallelujah,” Jeff Buckley
“One Thing,” Finger Eleven
“You and Me,” Lifehouse
“Better Days,” The Goo Goo Dolls
“I’ll Be,” Edwin McCain
Far too many Irish songs to list
Bibliography
Annals of Innisfallen.
Barry, Terry B., Robin Frame, and Katharine Simms, eds. Colony and Frontier in Medieval Ireland: Essays Presented to J. F. Lydon. London: The Hambledon Press, 1995.
Otway-Ruthven, A. J. A History of Medieval Ireland. 2nd ed. New York: Barnes & Noble Books, 1980.
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