Across the Sea (Islands in the Mist Series Book 2)

by J. M. Hofer

  Garanhir nodded, dismissing him with a brusque flip of his hand, as if he were an annoying horsefly.

  Seithenin pounced on him the moment Bran was gone. “Forgive my boldness, my lord, but this savage has visited grievous shame upon your daughter! You must exact goodly payment from him!”

  ”No doubt you have a suggestion.” He knew Seithenin had surely been stewing a thousand ways to make Bran suffer for his crime.

  “He must return the dowry and match it, for one!” Seithenin began hotly. “And the lady Mererid loves his bard, Teirtu—so much, she insisted on bringing him here. She has a well-known talent for music. Demand that he leave the bard behind, to serve in your court and tutor her. Of course, we should also receive payment for the bard’s room and board. Most importantly, I would make him forfeit his share in the first trading voyage, if not cut him out altogether.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” Garanhir yelled, causing Seithenin to jump. “You’ve obviously forgotten what it costs to run this house, and a trading voyage. We need his gold, you ass—and his men! That’s why this has all come to pass! Or have you forgotten? Get out of my hall. I’ve heard enough.”

  Seithenin did not argue and rushed out, leaving Garanhir to ponder his thoughts alone. He took his worries outside, climbing the stairs in the nearest tower to the top of the sea-facing wall. He often did so, to get away from the clatter and noise ever-present within the castle. He grew winded as he neared the top of the spiral staircase, and it vexed him. I’m getting old. There was no denying it. There was a time he could ride the length of the day, drink the length of the night, and still satisfy four women before the sun rose. Those days were decidedly over. His long legs, which once carried him elegantly through the world, now seemed mere spindles, barely capable of propping him up.

  He welcomed the bracing wind that kept his banners ever-flying. It helped clear his head as he walked along the wall, watching the churning of the waves as they crashed against the rocks far below.

  What shall I do, dear Mererid? She was truly his most beloved child, and the thought of her feeling shamed and humiliated broke his heart. He knew she loved Bran. He had seen it in her eyes. They danced whenever she looked at him. If there was one benefit to age, it was wisdom, and he knew a woman in love when he saw one.

  “Damn you, Bran of the Oaks!” he cried out to the sea, pounding his fist against the wall. Bits of lichen and stone broke off and tumbled toward the sea.

  He walked the entire length of the wall to the opposite tower. There, he stopped to look down on the houses in the small village that enjoyed his protection. Beyond his walls, he could see the shipyard and the camp where the Oaks lived. Men were crawling all over the skeletons of the two ships that were being built, busy at their tasks, and smoke rose steadily from the forge. He sighed, somewhat calmed by it. Industry. Industry is good. It was the way to take care of the two children he had left to him.

  He found it nearly impossible to believe that with all the women he had bedded in his youth, he had somehow arrived at the end of his life with only two living children, and no grandchildren. All the others had been taken with sickness in their cradles, killed in battle, or taken by the sea. He thought Arawn a most cruel, greedy god, for the children had not been enough for him—no, Arawn had insisted on taking his beautiful wife as well.

  Ah, Sirona. I still miss you, my darling. More than anything. Mererid had been Sirona’s parting gift to him. Perhaps that was why he loved the girl so deeply—she reminded him so much of her mother, his beautiful Gallic bride from across the sea. She grew more like her every day.

  He wanted Bran for Mererid, but he knew it would doom her to a marriage of obligation and a compromised position for her sons. He had grown sentimental in his old age, and would not do that to his daughter. She deserved an honorable and wealthy king who would love her madly, as he had loved her mother.

  Garanhir paced the wall until he had made all of the decisions he needed to. Then he descended the tower, heavy-hearted, and sent for his daughter.

  ***

  “But why, Father?” Mererid asked, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Because he has filled another woman’s belly with a baby, that’s why.” He realized he was being harsh, and reached for her hands. “That woman is a Sister of the Isle, and if she bears a son, he will become chieftain in Bran’s place, and your children will get nothing. I’m sorry, but I cannot tolerate it. Not for you. This was not known to me when I agreed to this marriage, and Lord Bran says he was unaware of it as well. He has only just found out.”

  “So he doesn’t love me?” Mererid asked, hearing nothing else.

  “On the contrary, he loves you very much, and it pains him to let you go, but he, too, knows it’s unfair to you. It’s because he loves you that he has made me the noble offer of allowing me to break the betrothal. As a token of his love, he’s agreed to double the sum of your dowry, and Teirtu will remain here with you, to teach you to play the harp. My dear, with your beauty, and such a dowry and such talent, you can do far better than Lord Bran!”

  “No, Father! I couldn’t! I want to be his queen!”

  It was as he had feared, but rather than have her believe that Bran did not love her, he would have her believe he forbid it. Let her hate him for awhile. It would be worth it to not have such a young and beautiful girl give up on love before she had even bloomed into her womanhood.

  “No, daughter. I forbid it.”

  Mererid burst into tears and ran from the hall, and Garanhir let out a deep sigh. “Damn you, Bran of the Oaks!” he whispered again to himself. “Damn you for breaking my daughter’s heart.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Two Become Four

  Lucia told Bran everything, as she had promised. Well, almost everything. She told him she had chosen to leave her life on the Isle to be with him, but upon arriving at his village and discovering he was betrothed to another, she had returned to her villa instead. It was not exactly the truth, but she felt it was close enough. For some reason, she found herself very reluctant to tell him about the strange visitation she received on the Isle. As his village had obviously not been attacked, it seemed irrelevant, and she had wanted nothing to spoil their reunion.

  “This is what you want, then? To be my queen?” he asked her when she had finished.

  “Yes.” That, at least, was a question she could answer honestly.

  The next morning, Bran had gone to “settle things” with Garanhir, as he put it. Lucia watched the road every day for his return, until, finally, she spied his unmistakable bulk astride Gethen’s black shadow riding up the road from the south. She rushed out to greet him.

  He smiled as she approached, putting her worries to rest. “Lord Garanhir and I have reached an understanding,” he announced as he dismounted. He took her up in his arms and kissed her as if he had been at sea for a year. “I have something for you.” He beamed as he put the most splendid ring she had ever seen upon her finger.

  “Oh, Bran…” Beyond that, she was speechless, turning the gem back and forth in the sunlight.

  He kissed her palm and took her hand, and together they walked back to the villa. Gethen followed them closely, his head between them like a dark guardian. As they crested the hill, they spotted Aveta and Colwyn in the garden together, laughing.

  “She’s finally happy again,” Lucia smiled. “Colwyn is fully to blame.”

  Bran laughed.

  “He asked her to marry him after returning from your village. A week later, we had the hand-fasting right there, down by the lake.” She motioned to the grove of trees at the water’s edge. “All the villagers and the farmers came. It was lovely. Just a small and quiet hand-fasting.”

  “I wish I’d known,” Bran said with a pained look. “I would have brought more gifts.” He glanced toward the lake, as if picturing the event. “Our wedding will be much bigger.”

  Lucia could not tell if he was excited by the idea or dreaded it, but she did not care. She was
happy theirs was to be a grand wedding, with feasting and dancing and music. When she had married Camulos, she had been nervous and fearful of her wedding night. The gaiety and food had been wasted on her. This time would be different. She enjoyed picturing it in detail as they took Gethen to the stable.

  Colwyn was there waiting for them, and Bran smiled at him. “Congratulations are in order, I hear.”

  “Aye, Aveta’s made me a happy man again.” He reached up and stroked Gethen’s neck. “I trust your journey was a success, Lord Bran?”

  “Yes,” Bran confirmed, unloading his things and slinging them over his shoulders.

  “Glad to hear it.” Colwyn winked at Lucia, as if to say, I told you so. “Now, let me have that beautiful beast. I’ll get him some oats.”

  Bran handed over the reins. “Thank you, Colwyn.”

  “My pleasure. It’s an honor to have such an animal in my stable.” He patted Gethen on the side and then pointed to the kitchen. “Aveta’s made a right beautiful stew. I’ll meet you up there shortly.”

  They made their way to the house, the smell of Aveta’s cooking beckoning to them. “Gods, I’m starving,” Bran sighed, clutching his belly.

  Aveta greeted them at the door with an expectant expression. “Lord Bran, good to have you back. How did you fare in Gwythno? All is well?”

  “It is.” Bran nodded with a half-smile, his expression darkening.

  Lucia noted the shadows under his eyes for the first time. He looked as if he had not slept at all the night before. Her joy withered. Is there something he’s not telling me?

  Aveta did not seem to pick up on it. She ushered him in and sat him down at the table, eager to hear the details.

  Lucia poured him some ale and sat down across from him, where she could study him. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, leaning over his ale like a mountain and resting his elbows on the table. She was getting a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, but did her best to ignore it. “Tell us what happened.”

  He heaved a deep sigh and rubbed his eyes. “Garanhir’s very upset, as I expected, but he understands why it cannot be. I plan to do all I can to make amends to him and to the Lady Mererid. She’s a lovely girl, and deserves much better than this.”

  Lucia stiffened, Bran’s comment sending a surge of jealousy through her.

  “Of course you will.” Aveta gave him an encouraging nod, and shot Lucia a cautionary glance.

  Just at that moment, Colwyn appeared in the kitchen doorway. “And what’s that you’ve brought, my friend?”

  “Well, if had I known I was to be visiting a couple during their honey moon, I would have brought far more, but this will have to do.” Bran grinned and set a small cask on the table. “Garanhir’s got a good store of it—best ale you’ll ever drink. Paid him double what it’s worth, but I would’ve paid triple.”

  “Well, I, for one, am glad you did,” Colwyn winked.

  Lucia was glad to see the change in Bran’s mood, but it still concerned her. She would have to ask him about it once they were alone.

  The four gathered around the table to enjoy Aveta’s stew and Garanhir’s ale. They spent the evening laughing and talking about blissfully ordinary things—the harvest, the weather, horses, foolish things they had done when they were children, and so on.

  When the ale was gone and the fire had died, Bran stood up. “We’ve a long journey tomorrow,” he announced, holding out a hand to Lucia.

  “That we do,” Aveta agreed, smiling. “Good night to you both.”

  Lucia stood up, and Bran led her to her bed. He undressed quickly and collapsed with a long sigh. “Gods, I’m tired.”

  She crawled up next to him and laid her head on his shoulder, feeling pensive. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close, but the energy coming from him was tense.

  She propped herself up on one elbow and looked into his eyes. “Thank you for what you’ve done. I know it wasn’t easy. And I know there may be trouble from it.”

  He picked up her hand and kissed it, but volunteered nothing.

  “Bran?”

  Hm?

  “I know something’s wrong. What is it?” She held her breath waiting for him to answer.

  He took a deep long breath and let it out. “I broke my word, Lucia.” She could feel him grappling with his shame in the dark. “For the first time in my life, I’ve broken my word. You have to understand that, although I would do anything for you and our child, this is no small thing. It weighs heavy on me.”

  Lucia felt a wave of heat run up her face and neck. I’ve let everyone down—first Grandmother and the sisters, and now Bran. She could still hear Elayn’s voice that day they left for the Isle: “You must be certain, child.”

  Bran had sacrificed his honor for her indecision—something she prayed he would not resent her for, though he had every right to. “It’s my fault. I’m so sorry it’s come to this. I wish there were a way I could make up for it.”

  He squeezed her close. “Just love and honor me, and do all you can to give birth to a healthy child. That’s all I ask.”

  “Of course,” she whispered. That was something she knew she could do.

  ***

  The next morning they set out early for Mynyth Aur. Everyone agreed Lucia could not ride in the saddle. It was too risky. Bran would ride Gethen and lead the way, and Colwyn would drive the wagon so that she and Aveta could ride comfortably.

  “I’ve put down plenty of fresh hay and blankets for you two beautiful ladies,” Colwyn announced as they came out of the house. “You can sleep the whole way, and when you wake up, you’ll be in the mountains!”

  They thanked him and climbed into the wagon.

  “You can stay with us as long as you like,” Bran offered Colwyn as they set out, “and then I’ll fill that wagon of yours with goods to take home as a belated wedding gift—and please don’t insult me by protesting.”

  “Very kind, my lord,” Colwyn answered, heeding his wishes. “Very kind, indeed.”

  Soon, they were clambering down the road away from the villa, headed northeast along the river. The sunlight danced on the water, and the birds were seeking their breakfast along its banks. The wagon’s wheels rolled smoothly along the sandy road, and Lucia stretched out and settled in for the long ride. She took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, enjoying the fresh air of the morning. She looked over at Aveta, who smiled and patted her hand. “What a beautiful ring, Lucia,” she said, admiring it. “A queen’s ring, if there ever were one.”

  Lucia took it off and handed it to her so she could look at it more closely. Aveta held it up to the sun, tilting it this way and that, fascinated by how the light hit it from different angles, just as Lucia had been when Bran gave it to her.

  “Shall we see what it has to say about the baby?” she suggested.

  Lucia giggled. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, first we tie a piece of yarn to it, and then we hold it over your belly. If it moves from side to side, you’ll have a boy. If it moves around in a circle, you’ll have a girl.”

  Lucia thought it sounded like fun, and they had nothing but time. “Why not?”

  Aveta had brought a skein of yarn to knit with. She cut a piece off and tied it to the ring. “Now, lay back, and let’s see.”

  Lucia settled back into the hay, and Aveta held the string over her belly. After a moment, it began to swing back and forth.

  “A boy!” Aveta proclaimed, but as soon as she said it, the string began to swing around in tiny little circles. “Hmm. Or is it a girl?”

  “Maybe you didn’t do it right?” Lucia suggested. “The ride’s a bit bumpy.”

  “Well, there‘s not much to it – you simply hold the ring over…”

  The ring again changed direction, swinging back and forth.

  “My, my…very indecisive!” Aveta laughed, scolding the ring. As if to tease them, it instantly started moving in a circular pattern again. “Unless you’re having both, I suppose,” she
joked, putting her hand on Lucia’s belly.

  Taliesin’s faced flashed before Lucia’s eyes. “The twins and I have been captured, and we need your help…”

  “Stop the wagon!” Lucia cried. Colwyn reined the horses in and she leaned over the side to be sick.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Twins

  So much blood—Lucia had not realized there would be so much blood. Its metallic smell filled the room, mixing with the sharp smell of her own sweat, and it sickened her. She felt her abdomen tighten again and groaned, dreading the pain that was coming. It rose like a powerful tide, swelling up in her body, and she cried out wearily.

  “You’re doing so well, Lucia,” Aveta encouraged, sponging her brow with cool water. “Not much longer now. You can do this. Let’s see if your beautiful daughter has a brother or a sister.”

  Lucia looked over at the servant girl who was washing her daughter and longed to hold her.

  “I want this to be over.” She could barely hear herself say the words. She looked up at Aveta with tears in her eyes. She had suffered through the better part of the day, and the sun had long since set. She could no longer hold her own knees up. The girls had to hold them.

  “You’re almost there, Lucia—I promise you.”

  Again, she felt the pain swelling. I can do this. She gritted her teeth, summoning a fierce and angry strength and let forth a battle cry.

  “The head is out, Lucia! Well done!” Aveta praised. “One more push, and you can hold your babes! Come on, one more, just like that!”

  One more. Please, Great Mother, let it just be one more. She took a deep breath and pushed until she felt the jaws of the pain release and the babe slip out of her.

  “A boy, Lucia! It’s a boy!” Aveta cried, smiling up at her.

  Lucia sighed and laughed at the sound of her infant son’s cry. Relief washed over her, followed by a surge of euphoric contentment. In an instant, the pain that had tortured her for hours became a distant memory.