by Erin O'Quinn
“Are there other tasks we need to complete before then, Milady?”
“We will need a teach for Michael and Brigid, one for Ryan, and I think one for Father Patrick, too. For soon they will all arrive.”
Glaedwine spoke with Liam as we walked, and I saw Liam nodding and smiling. I heard him say, “We…use your men.” Liam really was trying hard to learn my tongue, perhaps more diligently than I was trying to learn his. What I needed, I decided, was a friend to help as a go-between, just as Liam had Glaedwine as a friend and workmate, someone who could naturally teach him and learn from him as he went through his day.
Glaed spoke to me again. “Liam has suggested that we take half of the Glaed Keepers from their various duties and set them to house building, along with several pilgrims. It would take less than a fortnight to complete three clay houses.”
“Perfect!” I told him, and I smiled at Liam. All my plans had started to come together. We stopped at the edge of yesterday’s work, and I surveyed the progress.
The trench was to wind itself around our private holdings, regardless of the rise and fall of the terrain. It started at the river farthest from our current little house, near the place Mama shared with Glaedwine. The men had hauled river rocks to lay in the wide trench, keeping the walls about three feet high and sloping outward, so that if indeed someone were to enter the moat, the water-slick rocks would make it almost impossible to climb back out.
But the trench was constructed in such a way that it would look like a delightful little stream, part of the lovely wooded setting, once the river was diverted to flow through. I was already planning what kind of wildflowers would grace its banks once the project was completed.
I knew my eyes were shining in joy as I turned to Liam and Glaed. “Yes, it is perfect. This is what my imagination saw, and you have built it.”
Glaed did not have to translate, for Liam smiled down at me with the same happy expression. We joined hands and stood for long moments looking around at the beautiful setting.
“Er, time to work,” said Glaed gently.
Standing on tiptoe, I kissed Liam on the top of his silky mustache where it lay between his lips and his nose, teasing him, before I quickly bit and pulled at his warm lips.
“Slán agat, ” I told them. “Good-bye.”
I went back to our teach to finish currying the horses. My curry comb was one of the few treasures I had carried with me from Newport, where every morning I would stroke and comb NimbleFoot. Now I curried our newest horses, the ones given to us by the Murphy clan, enjoying the way their flanks rippled and moved as the brush itself moved.
“We meet again,” said a familiar voice, drily ironic, half teasing.
This time when I whirled around, I had no long knife in my hand, although I wished I did.
“You,” I grated. “How dare you return here?”
MacCool stood lounging against the straw haggard, looking at me boldly. “I have seen the error of me ways,” he said. His blue eyes, identical to his brother Michael’s, swept my body, from my breasts to my legs and back up again. His hair, almost as red as my own, seemed a very fire around his impudent face.
“And you are also a liar. You are not welcome here. You must leave immediately.”
“Would Liam tell me the same, Caitlín?” he asked, deliberately using Liam’s name for me, although I had asked him not to a long time ago.
“You need to ask him. Go away.” I began to edge away, still facing him, as though he were an armed enemy set to destroy me. If only I could make it into my teach and bolt the strong door…
“Me brothers tell me ye mean to wed Liam. Sure an’ I did not hear an invitation from ye, cailín. When is the happy occasion?”
I continued to back myself toward my little house, never taking my eyes off his smoldering eyes. I readied myself for any attack. And then he began to walk toward me, his hands at his sides, as if nothing at all were amiss. I saw his gleaming shillelagh swing with every footstep.
I began to draw in air, slowing my breathing, until I held him in sharp focus, as though he were a gleaming knife blade in front of me. Part of my mind surveyed my surroundings, seeking a weapon. I was standing near scattered river rocks, and I selected one of them in my imagination, one that just fit my hand like a pestle. I stopped there, the designated rock within an easy reach of my arm.
“I wish ye no harm, Caitlín. For I still love ye.”
“Your love is like bitter gall. I puke and retch to think of it.”
“Do not provoke me. For I be quick to anger sometimes.”
“What will you gain by hurting me, MacCool? Revenge? Tell me.” I tried to keep my voice level and reasoned. I decided I had made a mistake by using words like puke and retch. Be smart, Caylith.
“I told ye. I cannot hurt ye. For then what would be left but tears and blood?”
“My own, or yours?” I asked softly. I saw his intent as clearly as if he had acted it out in front of me, and in the moment before he sprang for me, I reached for the rock and smashed it into his face with all my pent-up fury. He fell like a brick.
I stood over his limp form and seized his shillelagh. Then I walked to the horse stalls and selected the stoutest, most rough-tarred rope I could find. Then I bound the wretch, starting with his hands, then his ankles and legs. Finally, satisfied that he would not squirm loose, I walked inside to find my pouch of healing powder.
I took my time, for somewhere inside me I took pleasure in his pain. I measured out a bit of powder and, kicking his inert form face upward, I knelt and poured a measured amount of it into his ruined eye.
“Ye be fortunate, lad,” I grated between my teeth, mimicking his own cadence. Thinking about Father Patrick’s gentle ways, I told him, “Fortunate that I am a good Christian woman. And fortunate that I love your cousin. Else ye could rot in hell, blind as any mole.”
He answered me with a piteous moan, and, carrying his own shillelagh, I walked away. When I returned, it was with Liam and Glaedwine.
“Behold your gentle cousin,” I said to Liam with a venom I could not control. Yes, there was still an open wound somewhere inside me—the fact that Liam had believed this monster instead of me.
He stood looking down at Fergus MacCool, and his eyes were harder than I had ever seen. “Why?” he asked. “Cén fáth?”
“Glaedwine,” I said. “I want Liam’s and MacCool’s words to be filtered through me also. I would know what lies he intends to tell his cousin. Will you help me?”
“Of course, Milady,” my pledged Saxon armsman said gravely.
I sat down on the rocky earth to listen. Glaed did an admirable job of translating almost every word of Fergus, and Liam, too.
“Liam, I beg you, please untie me. For I am falsely accused.”
Liam’s voice was cold as the River Foyle. “Ye stand not accused.”
“Ye mean that woman—Caylith—did not tell ye that she attacked me for no reason? And then trussed me like a rowdy calf?”
“If she meant ye harm, why then did she heal ye?”
“Ye best ask her, Liam. Though I would not trust her words. Be careful.”
Liam stood for a very long time, gazing down at Fergus. I saw a tear track his cheek. At last he spoke. “I love ye dear as me brother. But I have seen for meself what happened with Michael and Brigid and how your lies almost destroyed me chances with Caitlín.”
Then he squatted beside his cousin, almost at eye level. “There lies a monster inside ye, lad. I know not how to vanquish it, though I would if I could. I think ye know not how to slay that monster. But I know of someone who may help ye.”
He walked over and sat cross-legged next to me, bidding Glaedwine with his eyes to translate his words. “Caitlín, do ye think Pádraig could help Fergus?”
I was astonished at his insight. Liam had arrived at the right answer. The solution may lie in the redemption of Christ, for I thought there was no earthly man who would forgive Fergus, perhaps not even saintly Patri
ck himself.
I spoke slowly. “I think your insight is wondrous, as if it came into your heart from Christ himself. Yes. Father Patrick can and will help him. I know it.”
Liam rose and approached Fergus again. “I would strike a bargain with ye,” he said.
“Then sit me up, cousin, for I would look ye in the eye when I answer.”
Liam somehow rolled and pitched his trussed-up kin until he sat on the rocky soil facing him.
“I will forget this occasion, never mention it to any of our kin. An’ sure ye know they will believe me, whatever I tell them. But I will remain silent.”
MacCool almost sneered in answer. “In exchange for what? For me cattle? For me land?”
“For the monster inside ye. I would have you go to a man who will extract it and slay it. Will ye trust me?”
“What choice have I?” he asked bitterly. “If I say ‘no,’ ye will tell me kin that I let a five-foot wench turn me upside down.”
“Better yet, she will tell them herself, Fergus. For now she has met even your own brothers, and they love her as I do.”
“Ye have a bargain,” said MacCool. “Now untie me.”
“Not until we have worked out a few more details,” Liam said with a sudden grin. He stood and reached his hand out to me. I took it and rose, standing beside him.
“Do you think we should untie this man?” he asked me, all the while really addressing his cousin.
“He will have a hard time eating evening meal with his hands bound,” I answered.
“How can we be sure he meets Pádraig?”
“The monk who lives here, Brother Jericho, knows your cousin well, and Patrick, too. He will make sure the two meet—this very week, in fact. Brother Jericho will agree to travel with MacCool tied onto his own horse, if need be.”
“Will ye ride trussed or untrussed, Fergus? Your choice.”
“I would be free,” he answered.
“Ye must promise to stay at the monk’s brugh in Emain Macha until released by Pádraig himself.”
“I do so promise.”
“Then your reputation will remain unspotted and pure as a mourning dove,” said Liam. He untied his cousin. I noticed that he took his time, as I had in applying the healing powder. “Mind ye, I cannot guarantee what Michael or Brigid will say.”
Fergus looked uneasily at the two of us. “A word from ye may help.”
“We will judge the progress of monster slaying,” said Liam with a small laugh. “For now, me intended bride has invited your miserable fat bum to supper. Be on time.”
“One hour after sunset,” I said. Then I left the three men to themselves. It was high time I found more benches, and I went to seek my dear friend Luke, he of the carpenter’s sure hands.
* * * *
Later that same evening, the three of us sat finishing a rather tasty, robust dinner of roasted duck, greens, and turnips. I had found not only an extra bench in Luke’s wood house but also about a dozen candles and holders that I scattered around the little house to make it bright and cheerful. MacCool’s presence reminded me uneasily of the dark corners of the cripple Sweeney’s brugh. I had given the traitor a candle stub once, in Sweeney’s holdings, bidding him to light the darkness.
“How is your dear mother?” MacCool asked me.
I knew that his question was sincere, for he had showed me the night we freed her that he cared about her well-being. “She is well indeed. Thank you for asking.”
“I heard that Sweeney has been dealt with justly,” he said after a while, and then he translated his remarks to Liam.
“I myself heard the high king pronounce his judgment. He was to be sent into the Northern Sea, bound in his invalid’s chair.”
“Sure an’ I was ready to separate his other extremities.” MacCool growled.
“Yes. I stood and watched with Brother Jericho as you and your clan surrounded him and carried him off in his own conveyance. A fit ending.”
He lowered his head and silently ate. “Caylith,” he said at last.
“Yes.”
“Ye will not believe that I meant ye no harm this morning. Me ways are as blunt as me cudgel.”
“You are right. I do not believe it.” My warrior instincts, honed by Gristle, could not have been wrong. I saw his attack as surely as if he had leapt upon me. Perhaps he himself did not know his own deepest urges. Or perhaps his attack had been meant to ravage me, not to bludgeon me. I would never know. To me, they were the same.
“I am sorry for what I have done to hurt ye.”
“I will wait and hear that same apology when you return from the Hill of Macha. Then I may believe it. Right now I still do not. Please make sure you translate that honestly to your cousin.”
I listened closely as MacCool spoke to Liam, and I could see by Liam’s face that MacCool had indeed told him my words.
“Where may I sleep tonight?” he asked the two of us.
“Anywhere but with us,” I said. Liam had been withdrawn the entire evening, but now even he laughed.
Liam told him something as he left and MacCool turned to me. “With your permission, I will meet you and Liam here at daybreak for morning meal.”
I nodded briefly and bade him good-bye.
After MacCool left, I sat on the bench closest to Liam. I held my hands out and he gave me both of his. “I love you, Liam.”
He looked into my eyes, direct and trusting. “Dia duit, I love ye.”
“Let us go to bed,” I said.
He walked around the little teach, blowing out the ten or so candles I had lit against the darkness. He left one candle flickering softly on the table nearest our bed. Slowly, he pulled down and removed his close-fitting breeches as I sat on the edge of our bed watching, not helping tonight. His body was exquisite, and I gazed on him with admiration and rising desire. Liam, not modest in the least, stood naked before me, a smile playing around his mouth.
I got up and walked to him. Then I did the unthinkable. I removed my own tunic in front of Liam. And then my undertunic. Always before, I had been too shy to make that move. Somehow tonight, fired up by my confrontation with the deadly MacCool, I felt bold and sure.
I knelt on the bed and drew his thighs toward me as he stood there. I stroked his buttocks over and over, loving their satin smoothness. I buried my soft breasts in his very hardness and rubbed his skin with them. His hands were on my shoulders first lightly, then seizing me harder and harder.
I made the same movements with my mouth as he had on my breasts last night—taking in as much of him as I could then drawing my mouth all the way off, over and over again, until he cried out and held my head hard against his thighs.
I stood then, and I drew him down onto the bed, lying with my mouth on his, stroking his hair, until his breath finally became even, and he slept.
For some reason, I did not feel the fist-clenching tenseness I had felt last night, even though I was just as excited by tonight’s lovemaking. I was already drained by my own boldness and by Liam’s excited response to me. I quietly slipped from the bed and blew out the candle. Then I was back, lying in his arms, welcoming sleep.
Chapter 13:
The Healing
When I awoke, I saw that Liam had hardly moved during the night. It was too dark to see his face, but I liked the feel of his breath on my chest, warm and even. One leg was thrown over me, holding me to the bed—the one sensation I disliked, for I hated to be pinned like a butterfly. I eased it off me, very gently, so as not to awaken him.
This morning I had two tasks ahead of me. First, I needed to go with MacCool to talk with Brother Jericho. I hoped that Liam would go with me. Even if he did not, I already knew that I was no longer frightened of his rough cousin. He did seem somewhat penitent, but I still did not trust him. What would I do if he began to address me—and treat me—in the old brazen, disrespectful way? I decided that it mattered not. Whatever happened, I had proved to myself, and to him, that I could handle it well enough.
Second, today I intended to visit Magpie again, for I needed a favor from her and her talented mother and sisters. The Feather clan, especially the women, were master weavers and fashioners of clothing. Looking ahead to my wedding day, I wanted Magpie and her mother GoldenFinch to make me a pretty wedding gúna, in the style of the women of Éire, and perhaps a few other dresses besides.
When I considered my store of clothing, I almost had to laugh. Outside of the two léines and one gown given to me by Brigid, I owned one very tattered training tunic, a mantle, one dress Magpie had fashioned for me to look like a duchess on my trip to Sweeney’s holdings, and one léine she had made for my audience before the high king. Oh yes—and two undertunics. As my Auntie Marrie would say, I had chicken or feathers, and little in between.
I had spent so much time in the pursuit of martial campaigns or on my knees in a garden somewhere that I had begun to long for a bit of feminine softness. My mother usually kept up an unremitting monologue on the evils of smelly leather tunics, and her niggling and nudging was enough to keep me staunchly tunicked and armed with any number of pointed or bludgeoning weapons. Lately, though, she had eased up on her critical commentary. And as soon as she eased up, I started to come around to her opinions just a little.
I decided on the spot to take Mama with me to visit Magpie and the other Feather clanswomen. I moved very slowly from Liam’s side and got out of bed. I went to the fire pit still glowing from last night’s supper and lit a candle from the embers. Placing the candle on the table next to our bed, I stood gazing at him.
His long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and his hair, darker at the crown and around his face, was tousled and curly. I thought he might be nineteen or twenty years old. But at that moment, in spite of his short beard, he seemed years younger. As I looked at Liam, my heart set up a clamor that reached even into my throat. Far beyond physical attraction, it was the certainty and the wonder that I loved him very much.
Turning away reluctantly, I slipped into my underclothes and set more kindling to burning in the fire pit. Then I went outside with the water ewer to enjoy my morning bath. It was raining—a misty, light rain that I knew would leave a mantle of fog behind. Stripping off my shift, I stood in the river with water currents slapping at my calves. The rain—now, with the dawn, coming down harder—pummeled my head and shoulders. Someday, I thought, I will have my own Roman-style baths. I wondered if I could devise a way for the water to rain down on me just as it was doing at that moment.
