by Delle Jacobs
The sun warmed her hair, while an airy breeze cooled her face. The curly red strands that blew before her eyes were close enough for her to see the brilliant rainbow colors of sunset and gold that hid in its strands. She had forgotten how the sun could do that.
Years ago, she would have been awed by the view of dark, sparkling water, and its memory still made her heart beat faster. Now it looked like the fluff of a dark ewe's newly sheared wool. Soft, springy. Like the wonderful down blanket Egil described.
She could fall, fall, fall, and not know the danger until it was too late.
Nay, she knew the rocks were there.
Strange, that for so many years she had just wanted to die. Only the love for Liam and Arienh had kept her from this. Now, she wanted so much to live. She wanted...
She wanted Egil. She wanted what she could never have, could never take. How had he become so dear to her?
Nay, that was no surprise.
Even at a fair distance, now, she could recognize him by his shape and the way his blurred image moved, and by the red slash of the leather sling for his sword. But not until she was close enough to actually touch him did his blue eyes become beautifully distinguishable.
For a moment, she paused, suddenly grateful that she was still able to see how wonderfully handsome he was. Perhaps long years hence, long after her eyes had failed, she would still be able to remember how she had savored all that there was about him. But what if she would not be there, long years from now?
Did she love him enough to do this?
She could make everything all right again.
Once again she peered over the edge, searching, for what she could not see, for the rocks that were there, yet not. Tightness gathered in her throat as she blinked at hot tears.
Nay.
Aye. She must. She loved them. She could not let them suffer for her sake.
Birgit swiped at the tears on her cheeks with her hand, and took a deep breath.
Nay. She could not. She was too selfish. She could not help wanting to live.
"What are you doing, Birgit?"
She should have known. Of course he would follow her. His presence behind her was like the warmth of the sun. It sparkled in her like the memory of the clear water below.
"Come away, Birgit. You will get hurt."
He knew. As if he had read her mind. Why hadn't he let her go, then? Didn't he realize how much better things would be?
Egil's gentle hands touched her waist. He stood behind her, barely, just barely, touching with his body. His scent was warm and clean, and sweet to her as newly cut hay. She remembered. He didn't like heights.
"You frighten me, Birgit. Come, let's move away."
Once more, she peered over the edge. "It's like a cloud below," she said.
"It isn't a cloud. The rocks would break you in pieces."
"There is no good way to die. You do not understand, do you?"
His arms slid around her waist and his warm breath stirred her hair. "Nay. And I will not allow it."
"I have thought of it for a very long time. I keep everyone from what is best for them. You do not need a wife who cannot do her duties, nor does Liam need such a mother. You are right, he needs a man to teach him to be a man. My sister cannot be a wife when she must take care of me. The others, too, wait because of me."
"Do you Celts think of nothing but sacrifice? Do you all imagine yourselves as Christian martyrs? Do you not realize how much pain you would cause?"
"We have all suffered many losses. It would pass."
His arms tightened around her, and he bent his head to lay a cheek against hers. The warm moisture of his tears slid onto her cheek. "Nay, this would be the worst of all. Arienh would never recover from it. To lose all she has fought for, Birgit? How could you do that to her? Liam would never get over it. He would always blame himself, for he would know you did it for him. And I would not. If I must lose you some other way, I would have to accept it. But not like this. I love you, Birgit."
She shook her head."You don't want a blind wife, Egil."
In a disgruntled huff, he lifted her up and carried her back several paces. He turned her to face him, cradling her face forcefully between his huge hands. "I don't want anything bad for you, Birgit. Not blind or deaf, not to lose a child, nor die in childbirth. I would not want to leave you a widow. But some things we cannot help, and who knows what the future will bring? We will have to work harder, but I will not live without you."
"It is not fair to you." Hot tears stung her eyes and rolled shamelessly down her cheeks. Birgit buried her face into his chest, her arms encircling him as if she clung to him.
"Ah, love, I do not care about fairness," he said, tucking hot kisses about her face, bending to catch the lobe of her ear gently between his lips. "Only that I want you and no other. We have everyone to help us, and you have much to give, far more than you realize."
"But there would be babes, and I could not look after them properly. Without Arienh, I could not have handled Liam."
"But we have her still, and my mother. Gunnar will soon be gone, and Wynne will need grandchildren then, to help her through her grief. Will you give her that comfort, love? And for Gunnar, a child of his blood, before he dies?"
Could she? Was it possible? Did he truly love her so much? Slowly, she lifted her head to search his eyes and saw his anguish, those wondrously beautiful eyes as blue as bright bluebells, stung with pain and longing. Could she fill him with happiness? She could not recall when she had thought of herself as anything but a burden.
"Be my love, Birgit. Be my wife."
His lips found hers, fiery passion fitting them together perfectly, every inch of their bodies molded to each other. So many times, she had wanted to explore the feel of him, to feel powerful muscles tauten beneath her fingertips, to test for passion rippling through his body and hers.
A flicker of fear crept up her spine, remembrance of that long ago horror, and she had to break the kiss to look again at his face, study his blue eyes, and run her palm over the bristling flesh of his cheeks. This was Egil, and she was safe. Safe to let the past go, free her passion just for him.
A silly smile sneaked onto her face. "You lied to me, Egil. Before when you kissed me, you told me it would be the sweetest kiss I ever got. And it wasn't. This one was."
His chuckle was like the gentle hum of honeybees. "There will be many sweeter even than that. We will find a way, love, I promise you."
She smiled. "Aye. Aye, my love, I'll be your wife. At Beltane, you will be mine."
He laughed, startling her, as he suddenly sported a wide and wicked grin. "Glad you mentioned that. We're going to need your help. And Liam's."
***
Arienh woke to an odd collection of indistinct memories that seemed to throb in her head like a muffled drum. Vague ones of being carried, with her arm fierily aching, and burying her face in Ronan's strong chest. Memories of Birgit dosing her with her own tonics to make her sleep. Memories of waking, reaching out for Ronan, and learning he was gone.
Of course. She had forgotten how she had chased him away.
Once again he had come to her aid. He had even offered to give up his hand to that malicious uncle of his for her life.
What had happened after that? Her mind felt like it was full of fog. Was Ronan safe? Or had the Viking chopped off his hand? But he'd carried her back. He could not have done that without his hand, could he?
Arienh shook her cobwebby head and forced herself to rise.
"Wait," said Birgit, and Birgit's arm slipped gently beneath her to ease her up and slip pillows behind her. Arienh didn't remember having so many pillows.
Birgit reached for the tonic.
"No more," she said, waving Birgit away. "Where is Ronan?"
"Gone. With the other men."
"Is he all right?"
"Aye. Are you?"
Was she? Her shoulder ached and burned like fire. "Aye. I think so. Do you know what happened?"
/> "Egil told me some. Ronan forced the Vikings back to shore with his longship, then there was a fight. He took the women to fight with him, Arienh. It must have been something to see. Egil said you tore your shoulder escaping. They killed all the Vikings."
Familiar flickers of scenes floated through her mind, of Ronan walking like a god out of the sea, of a sharp blade pricking her nape. She wished she could have seen the rest.
"When is Beltane?" That would tell her how long she had been asleep.
"Tomorrow. Arienh, it could wait, couldn't it?"
"Tomorrow. I've lost two days. Why didn't you wake me? There is so much to do."
Birgit gently pushed her back as she started to rise. "Nay, it is done. We have not failed you."
"And the Vikings?"
"Who knows? They stay on their side of the stream. They know, Arienh."
"Know? About you? But how?"
"When Liam and I had to run back to the village. It was hard for them not to notice when I ran into a tree and knocked myself senseless."
Arienh studied Birgit's face carefully, but her sister had already shuttered down whatever it was she felt. "What did they say?"
"Nothing, really. They were too busy trying to figure out how to rescue you. I had to explain later."
"What about Liam?"
"They have not said. But I am resigned to it."
"Well, I am not."
"It is not for you to say." Birgit had an uncharacteristic deepness to her voice that resembled a growl. This time, Arienh suspected, Birgit would not tolerate interference.
What would they do now? She would help Birgit, as she always had, but their failures would be obvious. It would not be long, then, before the men stepped in and took Liam.
And they stayed away, on the far side of the stream. So Ronan had enough. This time, she had made him angry enough that he would never want to take her back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In the stone circle, the bonfires waited to be lit, and an ox was already roasted for the feast.
The Northmen kept their word and gathered all the herd animals to drive between the fires. But they kept to the far side of the stream as if they feared they might contract leprosy.
Arienh had always loved Beltane, the time when bright summer was ushered in with the joy of dancing and singing, the time when men and women came together and formed the bond that would be solemnized at midsummer. Not this time. She wished the whole thing were over.
Never had she felt so helpless, or unneeded.
The truth was, the Vikings had won. But they no longer seemed to care. So perhaps the women had won. Now that they no longer wanted to.
Perhaps for the others there would be some reconciliation, but it was clear Ronan didn't want her anymore. Nor did Egil show interest in Birgit. She tried to imagine what that would mean, a future village in which she and Birgit had no place, for who would want a woman to plow and hunt when she had men to do it for her?
Just as she had the past three years, Arienh led the Beltane procession. Women and children, draped in spring garlands, walked in pairs along the stream that led to the Bride's Well, singing ancient tunes with archaic words. Arienh sang, too, trying to recapture the joy she had felt in years past. She felt only aching loneliness.
At the pool, they stopped, circling around its bank. Birgit stepped forward and tied a rag on the branch of the beech tree that overhung the pool. This place was named, as Birgit was, for the Saint, so Birgit had always gone first. Everyone, down to the youngest who could understand its purpose, tied a rag onto a branch and made a secret wish, as people had always done.
The day's brightness faded, blue sky turning to dusky silver, the way a Viking's blue eyes softened with coming night. The little procession once again entered the forest, followed the streambank, then ascended through groves of ashes behind the crescent of cliffs that marked the ancient pool of wishes. Across the grassy plateau stretched parallel rows of low standing stones, like guardians of the past, leading to the taller stones of the circle. Arienh led the Celts between the lines of stones, Birgit and Liam beside her, and Elli close on the other side, along a lane worn deep by the passing of people and time. The spirits of the past began to merge and walk with the living.
Ahead, the sounds of cattle lowing, the whinny of horses and bleat of sheep heralded the arrival of the animals from the pastures of the upper valley. Dogs and men worked the herded creatures within tight, flowing circles.
In the west, beyond the hills, the sky reddened in streaks, and darkened. All the fires in the village were extinguished, and on this night a new fire would be started.
Mildread, the oldest among them, since Old Ferris still pouted and refused to come, assembled her tinder and kindling and knelt close to the gathered heaps of wood. Just as well. Arienh doubted if the old man had enough left in him to make a spark.
Mildread rubbed the spindle in her hands. The smell of smoldering wood scented the air. She rubbed faster. Smoke rose from the wood, as the tinder glowed and Mildread teased the coals with her breath. The smoky aroma tickled Arienh's nostrils. It sparked, then burst into flame.
A cooing admiration rumbled through the crowd. The new fire. The kindling caught, then ignited a rush torch soaked in fat. Arienh held the torch to the old leaves and twigs at the base of the first pile of brush until it roared to life. Then the other.
In the deepening night, a new song rose to mingle with the fires. Joining hands, the women circled one fire then the other, chanting and skipping the way it had always been done. When they finished, they looked to the Northmen.
Garlanded oxen came first, patiently accepting the goading of the men. Behind them, cows with their calves.
The rams followed, then ewes and lambs, harried by the dogs which nipped and circled, forcing the reluctant animals between the flames. On the opposite side, they were released to graze. The sheep took it all in as if it were only one more ridiculous thing the humans expected of them.
The horses balked. Their eyes flared like huge round disks and the beasts bucked and snorted as two men forced each animal through separately. Some reared and flailed hooves in the air, fought to turn. But each was driven between the fires, until the last of the hoofed beasts had passed through the flames of Beltane once again. Protected yet another year.
Then the men left. Gone as if they had never been there at all. Vanished into the hills, returning their herds to their pens or loose into the higher summer pasture. But they did not come back. Hardly surprising, since they had not been asked.
The world, the cool night air, all felt empty. It was not like things had been in the past. Beltane was once again theirs alone. Silence replaced the accustomed revelry and joy, and the women sat down on pallets to watch the fires blaze.
All theirs. Alone. Lonely.
Stars scattered like jewels in the dark side of the sky, and the full moon shone from the south like brilliant silver over the ocean, coating the dancing crests of a quiet sea. Liam wandered off to play with Mildread's girls.
A lone pipe whistled the mournful tune of the Celtic dance, faint, hollowly echoing. Arienh glanced at Elli, for only she still piped the tunes. But Elli watched the fires as if she were lost in happier times, her reed pipe resting on the ground beside her. Arienh scanned the darkness behind them. But the music didn't come from there.
The echoing strands of a harp joined. No harp had played in this valley since her childhood. Arienh strained her eyes to see if the sound came from the tall hills behind the circle.
The flames danced where now there were no men. Nay, she saw them. The old ones. The spirits.
Didn't she? Arienh focused her eyes on the flames. It was an illusion. Shadowy and vague, undulating like the will-o-the-wisps in the bogs.
A young man leapt over the flames, a powerful, graceful leap, skimming just at the edge of danger. Admiring gasps hissed and skimmed across the crowd. Startled, Arienh, glanced behind her. Nay, not from this crowd, which was absorbed i
n its own doings. She turned back. The shadow figure leapt again, soaring over the licking flames. Niall. Beautiful Niall, who had been swept away in a Viking raid. Vanished forever.
"Niall. It's Niall!" she whispered. "He's come back!"
Interrupted from a sad reverie, Birgit jumped. She squinted hard. "Where?"
"Don't you see him?" Arienh's heart raced.
The figure of a young man, a different one, leaped and swirled before her, clear, yet oddly indistinct.
"Trevor!"
"Arienh, are you mad? Trevor's dead."
"Aye, I know." But they were there, spirits, yet somehow real. Ungarmented, faces without form, yet she knew them. It was Trevor's gentle, caring smile, the way she remembered the older brother who had thrown her into the air and ridden her on his shoulders, who had pulled her from the stream. She remembered the time when the rushing waters had suddenly frightened her, and she had stood stark still in her terror, certain she would be swept off her feet and battered by the raging waters against the huge boulders. It was Trevor who rushed to her aid that day, as he had many times. She saw him now, the loving brother she adored, not as he had died, crushed, in agony, in her arms.
Tears collected in the corners of her eyes.
Was it vision? Memory? Or was it real?
She saw her father, his arms laced over the shoulders of uncles, cousins, as the shadowy dancers circled. A heavy sob lodged like a wad in her throat, choking her, then burst forth, shuddering through her. His loving eyes beckoned her. She ached to run into the circle and throw herself into his arms. To dance, arm in arm, swinging wildly.
She was not a man. Women did not dance with men. She did not belong. Yet she felt their pull as if they tugged her hand. Weylin, her cousin. Grandfather. She had been so very little when he had died. Great-grandfather who had outlived them all. All of them, not as they had been when they died, neither old nor young, but without age.
