Legacy of Luck (Druid's Brooch Series 3)

by Christy Nicholas

He finished his own Brigid’s Cross and hung it from one corner of Fionnuala’s cot. She moaned and stirred in her sleep. He put his hand on her forehead, but it was as hot and dry as it had been all day. He placed another wet cloth on her head.

  “Please get better, sweet sister.” And he welcomed the headache which followed.

  * * *

  Katie felt numb.

  She had tried hard not to let hope blossom. Hope that Éamonn would come and save her at the last moment. That’s how it worked in the tales and legends, wasn’t it? The hero would sweep down and save the fair maiden from a fate worse than death.

  But he hadn’t. He hadn’t come, and she hadn’t been saved, and now she was married. And that’s the end of that.

  But she wasn’t dead, and it wasn’t Donald she was married to. And perhaps being married to Lochlann wouldn’t be a fate worse than death.

  This didn’t mean she resigned herself to it, though. She had at least bought time. With a great deal of cajoling, Deirdre had finally told her of Turlough’s plan. Katie had little faith in the council. They rarely interfered with a marriage already blessed by a priest. But it gave her a glimmering hope.

  She held onto that hope like the last strand of an ever-unraveling rope. She held on to it while Lochlann packed around her. She held on while he and Donald had a furious conversation in shouted whispers and furtive glances. She held on as she sat perched on a stool next to the trunk of her own clothing. She hadn’t bothered unpacking. It would just need to be repacked for their journey to Scotland.

  Scotland. A foreign land. Far away from her beloved emerald hills. Filled with savages and war. There was a Rising going just now, Lochlann had told her. A revolution to oust the current king of England from his throne, and replace him with the son of the former King James. The Bonnie Prince—what is the son’s name? She’d heard Donald talking about him. He’d said it in the Gaelic—Teàrlach mhic Seumas. Charles, son of James. There were battles and dangerous men all over the Highlands of Scotland.

  And they were going straight into it.

  It wasn’t as if Ireland didn’t have wars, but nothing major in her lifetime. The last major wars in the land had been during the enactments of new Penal Laws over fifty years ago. Since then, her people had either been too beaten or too hungry to fight the English. The Scots still imagined they had a chance.

  Traveling was no novelty, but traveling across the Irish Sea, and into the mountainous wilds of west Scotland, frightened her. Where was it Lochlann had said his father lived? The Isle of Skye? It sounded beautiful, but it was likely more a desolate, barren place. So far north, it probably got covered with snow much of the year.

  “Come on, girl. Get yer lazy arse up and help us load the rest into the wagons,” Donald growled.

  She hadn’t even noticed his return. He had left after the conference with Lochlann, and come back with their two remaining horses and the mule. She just stared at him for a moment, unable to move.

  “Get a move on! We’re leaving in an hour!”

  “Tonight? But it will be dark soon! I thought we weren’t leaving until tomorrow?” Éamonn wouldn’t know they were leaving. Could she get a message to him?

  “Now! Put your trunk over here. Get your cloak out. It’s a brisk breeze tonight, and I don’t want you dying before the night is done.” That hint of consideration was the most she had ever received from Donald. It almost humanized him.

  She got busy stuffing boxes into the two wagons. There would be little room inside either wagon for sleeping. Hopefully, they had tents for use while on the road. Sleeping unprotected outside in the cold rain was a depressing thought.

  “Here, I’ll take that… Katie.” Lochlann spoke her name gently. She still wasn’t certain what to make of this man, her husband. Husband. She tasted the word, rolled it around in her mouth. She had imagined her own wedding as most girls did. The reality had fallen far short of her fantasies. But Lochlann didn’t appear to be a cruel man, or an old, ill-favored drunk. He was young, attractive, and even sweet. He wasn’t strong-willed or ambitious. She might even control him well enough. She needed a partner, a man she’d live with as an equal, but she would have to work with what she had for now. Until Éamonn came for her.

  They struck out as the last of the day’s glow faded over the western horizon. A blanket of deep dusk curled around them. Fog rose to swirl between the horses’ hooves.

  Katie hadn’t been able to catch anyone to send Éamonn a message. She hoped Deirdre had gotten him the planned route so he could follow. That remained her only hope.

  Progress was slow. The horses were tired, and so were the brothers. Katie remained numb. This morning she had been full of plans for Éamonn, and now she was wed another. She still couldn’t get her head around the whirlwind of change.

  The mule brayed beside them just as a bird flew out of a disturbed bush. The mule’s name was Clarence, well-laden with food and other provisions for their journey. The horses were called Ceanndána and Righin and were both a deep roan color. Neither were like the stallion Katie had been sold for.

  Her anger grew again at the idea of being trade goods. She had heard of horses being part of a dowry or a bride-price, but never against the girl’s will. It seemed obscene, like cannibalism or blasphemy. But, technically, her father’s duty was to find her a husband. She remembered her prior suitors. Perhaps she should have accepted one of them. At least then she could have stayed in Ireland.

  After a couple hours, they stopped to rest. The wind picked up, and Katie was glad she had her cloak. It would be a bitter night. Lochlann started a fire, so she should make supper.

  “Where are the provisions? I can make soup.”

  Donald nodded towards the mule. “Up near her shoulder, the one closest to the fire. There’s soup from yesterday in the pot, with bread on top. It just needs heating up.”

  She nodded and retrieved it, a sort of pease porridge. It didn’t smell tasty. She couldn’t detect any seasonings or herbs. That wouldn’t do. She had good, plain cook skills, but no supplies. Her mother hadn’t even given her the normal dowry of cooking implements. Unless they were stuffed in her trunk? She didn’t want to go rummaging for it now. Surely the brothers had bowls and spoons.

  Stuffing the iron pot into the coals next to the cheerful fire, she stared at it. Her hands were chilly, so she put them out to gather warmth from the flames. They mesmerized her. The dancing figures in the fire always had. As a child, she had imagined there were Fire Folk within the flames, dancing a merry dance, and beckoning for her to join them in their warm realm. She had never dared do so. She’d always heard tales of folks who visited the Fae realms and never returned. Her despair, shoved away all day, finally hit her. She longed for the release the fire might bring her, but stood, too frightened to take the leap.

  The gloppy mess of the stew bubbled, and she stirred it with one of the spoons Lochlann had gotten for her. He had retrieved the bowls, cups, and a bottle of small ale, as well. She tasted the stew—yes, she’d been right. No seasoning whatsoever. Not even salt, and they were only a few leagues from the ocean. Salt was cheap in Ireland, as no place lay too far from the sea. Sheer laziness to have none for your stew.

  “You’ll like Skye, Katie. It’s beautiful. When the mists roll down off the mountains, you would swear you were in heaven.”

  Mountains and mists. Poetic, but not practical.

  “The house we have is a decent size, with stables and a kitchen garden for you. It’s not too far from the ocean and commands a great view. There’s a herd of wild horses not far away, on the lands near Dunvegan Castle.”

  Horses. The earlier surge of anger welled up again with a vengeance. She spat in his soup.

  “Hey! Why’d you do that?!”

  “Because you bought me with a horse. Like I’m a mule or a bolt of cloth. I’m a woman! Not some… trade goods which you can just pass around like a pipe of tobacco!”

  “Most marriages are made with some sort of arrangemen
t like that—”

  “Not without the woman’s consent, they aren’t! I’m a slave, is what I am. I had no choice, sold to the highest bidder. So, what is your next command, master? Shall I shine your boots for you? Or lick the soles? Or perhaps you would like to rest your weary feet on my back?”

  Lochlann stared at her as if she had grown another head. Her hair was a fright, and it hadn’t been helped by the windy night. In the firelight, she might look like an incarnation of the Morrigan, a goddess of war intent on defeating her enemy. The idea almost made her laugh, but she wouldn’t allow that. She stood her ground.

  Concentrating her fury on Lochlann in front of her, she was unprepared for the blow from behind. Donald knocked his fist to her head, and she almost fell into the fire. She rolled away as best she could, beating out the few sparks which landed on her skirt. Her head pounded. Glancing up, she saw her brother-in-law looming over her.

  “You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, woman! I’ll not tolerate such talk in my household!”

  “It’s not your household, it’s your brother’s!”

  “And I’ve charge of him, as he’s the younger. Now shut yer trap, or you’ll get another.” He raised his fist. She didn’t want to cower, but she knew this routine well and bowed her head. She couldn’t do it. Even if she managed to learn how to control her husband, this brute would always be her brother-in-law. He might ‘correct’ her behavior whenever he wanted to, and Lochlann obviously had no spine to stand up to him. Donald was much too strong for her to defy him physically. She would just have to escape.

  It wasn’t so hard, really. She would just run away and find Éamonn.

  Éamonn would be at the camp now. It would be the last time she would know for certain where he was. But she’d have to wait until the brothers were asleep.

  Lochlann set a tent for her. She had insisted on a separate sleeping area until she met the father; that made it easier to consider escape. The boys slept in a second tent.

  She slept in her dress, not even loosening her stays. Men rarely noticed clothing unless it revealed something, so she had faith Donald wouldn’t notice. Lochlann wasn’t clever enough to figure out what she was planning, even if he did notice. She thought about what she would be leaving behind in her trunk. Had it anything she couldn’t live without? There were likely heirlooms, clothing, and childhood memories. She could sacrifice them all.

  It was a long time until she moved from the cocoon of warmth and safety into the chill night air. The wind had died. She moved slowly, so as not to make a noise. She couldn’t risk taking one of the horses. They didn’t know her and might kick up a fuss. The mule might give her away. There were so many things which might go wrong, her head spun.

  Katie had only gone a couple steps from the tent when the mule sounded off. She caught her breath and froze in place. She heard a rustle from the tent.

  Donald stuck his head out.

  “What in the name of God are you doing, woman! Get back in your tent!”

  “I’ve got to have a pee.”

  He snorted. “You should have done so before bed. Go, then. I’ll wait for you.” She didn’t move. “Well, go, already!”

  She moved. She went into the bushes, made appropriate sounds, and returned in short order.

  “Hmph. Hardly seemed worth it.” He ducked his head back into the tent as she got into hers.

  Well, that plan had been a complete failure. She would have to find a way of quieting the mule—and the horses—to make good her escape. It wouldn’t be tonight, though. Donald remained too alert.

  The best course of action now was to sleep if she could. She didn’t think she would succumb, but after two very hectic days, eventually dreams overtook her.

  * * *

  Éamonn stared at the empty campsite. There were a few pieces of litter and rubbish, the blackened ring where their campfire had been, and an abandoned broken bucket. All other traces of the two wagons, the two brothers, and his beloved, were gone.

  He fought a rising panic. It was no mystery where they were headed. He just didn’t understand why they were going so soon. Éamonn had made all his travel plans for this afternoon. He would have to hasten his plans.

  Deirdre had said the MacCrimmons—he had to include Katie in that group, it was her name, after all—were planning on leaving the next afternoon to Skye. They were going to travel north from Ballyshannon to Stranurler, through Londonderry and Coleraine. They would take a boat from the harbor at Ballycastle over the Irish Sea to Scotland. Éamonn had been to Coleraine, but never as far as Ballycastle. He hoped he would be able to keep track of them.

  In Scotland, they should land at Campbeltown, and then north from there. Deirdre hadn’t been sure of the details after that, but Éamonn remained grateful for the information she had gotten. He carefully did not ask how she had obtained it.

  The information had come with a price, of course. He learned she never gave things for free. She wanted to come along.

  “Absolutely not! This is not a romantic adventure. This is a dangerous journey, and not suitable for young unmarried girls!”

  “She’s my sister! Besides, what happens if the marriage is broken? She shouldn’t travel alone with you. It wouldn’t be proper.” Katie didn’t have a monopoly on haughty.

  “And what makes you think it’s proper for you to come? You’ll be traveling alone with two unmarried men. I’m certain your parents would never allow such a thing.”

  “It’s permissible because I’m rescuing my sister. Besides, my parents would only care because they’d lose my bride price.” She pouted with her little half smile, peering at him from below lowered lashes. He closed his eyes, willing himself to resist the power of her petulance. Something didn’t work with her logic, but he was too flustered to suss it out.

  “You’ll slow us down.”

  “I can ride better than you can.” She laid a hand on his chest. He wished she wouldn’t do that, especially when speaking of riding. He carefully removed her hand. It was warm.

  “I doubt it.” His heart wasn’t in the argument, though. She had won.

  He went to her now and gathered Ciaran. Ruari wanted to come, but his arm still looked red and raw, and he remained pale.

  “Go, Éamonn. Find your girl. I’ll catch up when I’m doing better, I promise.”

  “No, Ruari. You stay here and take care of Da. I’ll manage. I have Ciaran, and we’ll move more quickly for being a smaller party. Take care of Fionnuala, too, will you?”

  “Of course. She’s my sister, too.”

  Fionnuala had more color, and that was the only reason Éamonn would leave her. She was on the mend. Perhaps his persuasion power had some good uses after all if it had done any good. He glanced at her cot. Her forehead was still hot, but she sat awake and smiling.

  Turlough came to his side.

  “Éamonn? A talk before you go.”

  He followed his father off to the fence behind the healer’s tent.

  “Da? Is something wrong?”

  “Besides your sister being ill, your brother about to lose his arm, and you set to run after your lost love into the wilds of Scotland? No, of course not.”

  His father usually didn’t give in to bouts of sarcasm. He must have been feeling the strain.

  “Son, I know you’ve your heart set on this. I promise I’ll do what I can, but it might all be for naught. There may be no decision from the council at all. They may rule against you. It may be weeks—even months—before they come to any sort of decision.”

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t go?”

  “I could never tell you that son. You must follow your dreams. They are all we really have, in the end. Just don’t pin all your hopes on it, that’s all. You must make your own fate.”

  Éamonn didn’t know what to say. His father wasn’t normally pessimistic, either. He usually woke up with the brightest of dawns in his heart, before anyone else had rubbed the sleep of doubt from their eyes.

  �
�Da, about what happened at the stones… I may have been wrong. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry at you.”

  “It’s grand, son, really. I do understand a lover’s heart. Remember, I loved your mother dearly.”

  Éamonn remembered, barely. Da had loved her so much he had run away when she died. Turlough still appeared sad when he saw Síle, the child whose birth had finally killed her.

  He heaved a deep sigh and hugged his Da.

  “Thank you, Da, for everything. I will come back, I promise.”

  “See that you do, son. We still need you, you know.”

  “I know, and I will.”

  “Taisteal ádh sábháilte agus go maith, a mhac.”

  Safe travels and good luck, my son. If only his safety and luck were in his own power, he would do so. Éamonn blinked back a tear.

  In short order, he had three steady horses which Ciaran had obtained, packs for provisions, and Deirdre, damn her eyes.

  “What did you tell your mother?”

  “Nothing. She’ll not know where I’ve gone.” She held her head high, making her black hair shimmer in the late morning sun.

  “What? You have to tell her! She’ll go mad with worry!”

  “Pfft. Not that one. She’ll be upset she didn’t get a dowry for me as she did for Katie. That’s about it. It’s all she cares about, really.”

  “Still—we don’t want your parents following the trail and interfering.”

  She rolled her eyes. “They wouldn’t stir themselves. But if you insist, I’ll leave a note I’m off with Katie, and I’ll return when she’s settled in. They’ll be glad of one less mouth to feed.”

  Éamonn didn’t like it but said nothing. She wrote her note, and Turlough promised to deliver it for her. With a nod to his father and to Síle, who had come to see them off, they set off past the marshes. It was the beginning of his quest. In the tales, there would be horns or drums to celebrate the milestone. He did hear a sound. Could it be the Fae music? He craned his head back and saw his father playing the tin whistle. A slow, martial tune, well suited for the steady plod of the horses’ hooves.

  * * *