Captive Heart [The Dawn of Ireland 3]

by Erin O'Quinn

  I told her about Murdoch and about the practice he called “going on a booley.” It would be a kind of religious quest, but a hunt for an island instead of for enlightenment—or for cattle pastures.

  “Brindie, I am almost certain that Murdoch will find the island for us. And once he does, we need to—”

  “We need to have a plan, and a team in place ready to go there immediately. You and Liam, of course. Thom and I. Who else, Cay?”

  I reached across the table, and we joined hands. She gripped me so hard I winced with pain. “Oh, Brindl, I knew I could count on you.”

  “Caylith, I will tell you the truth. I have wanted to hunt down those savages from the first day, when Father Patrick told us the story with tears in his eyes. And later, kneeling by the crude wooden memorials—”

  I remembered seeing her small figure huddled in the memorial field next to the abbey, kneeling next to the hasty markers that had been laid over the graves of Bert and his parents. I had cowered in the background, not wanting her to see me, afraid to interrupt her moments of private grief.

  “I need to tell you, dear one. Mama and Liam will not tolerate physical punishment. We must not touch them. We must bring them back to Father Patrick. Those are the terms of our adventure.”

  Brindl sat for a few minutes, thinking about my words. “Of course, my first impulse is to run them through with my spatha. But then there is the prospect of having to dig holes and bury the brutes. Very tedious.”

  She paused, and I began to laugh in spite of the seriousness of our discussion.

  “I accept those terms wholeheartedly, Cay. I think they need to pay for what they have done. But Father Patrick will know what to do with them better than we could possibly know.”

  “Then Brindie, let us begin to form plans. Are you sure Thom will want to be involved?”

  “Ha! I think that is what he—what both of us—have been needing. He has begun to get almost despondent. He misses the life military. He wants to be a spy. Let us give him a good spy assignment and watch him burst into life.”

  “I feel that our hands are tied—not to play on the words—until we learn where the island is located. That fact will tell us how many supplies to take and thus how many packhorses. Actually, Brin, the shore of Inishowen is rocky and treacherous, at least in the area I was, so I know not whether taking many horses is even a good idea.”

  “I think—do you mind if I speak out, Cay?” I shook my head, and she continued. “I think the key to our adventure will be something rather dear to your heart—currachs. If the small island could be approached with a larger vessel, then the raiders would have expanded their trade. But from what you have told me, they must approach it carefully, using all their skills, avoiding the currents and the rugged rocks.”

  “Yes, Brin. You are right. I never thought of that. What we need are not horses, not great hulking Glaed Keepers—but small currachs and a small, light army.”

  “Of my own marines,” she said quietly. “Thom’s marines—our former Harborton friends.”

  “Brindie, you are brilliant. I wonder how many of our former currach paddlers are here in Derry? And how many of them would join us in a small adventure?”

  “Let Spymaster Thom find out for us.” Brindl smiled.

  “I still do not know when we would leave,” I told her. “Everything depends on Murdoch’s booley. And he cannot leave Inishowen until Michael is ready to take over the brugh he is building for Owen and his family. Every little detail depends on another little detail.”

  I answered Brindl’s mute questions by telling her of Michael’s sudden field promotion to master builder of the homestead on the Bay of Trawbreaga. “Michael cannot just drop the work on my own holdings and his work on Owen’s special cart. But, Brindie, I think that he can be ready to leave in about two weeks. Maybe three.”

  “Three weeks. Not so bad. After all, we have waited for more than three years.”

  I stood, and Brindl stood next to me. We hugged each other, excited about the future and about going on our first adventure together since the days before the pilgrimage to Éire. I had undertaken my own adventures—the “freeing” of Mama from Sweeney, the capture of Sweeney in Inishowen—but Brindie and I had not been in danger together since our time at Ravenscar on the Saxon shore.

  “Have you told Claudia?” she asked me as I stood next to Macha, ready to mount and ride.

  “Yes. It was important to get Mama’s approval.”

  “And she approved?”

  “Well, Brin, she did not refuse. But it took a few moments to convince her.” I reached for the pommel and swung into the saddle. “Talk to your formidable husband, my friend. If you want to visit with me before our next Triús meeting, just come to our teach. I try to stay home in the afternoons.”

  I reached my hand down, and Brindl took it. We stood in almost the same way that I had with Brigid yesterday—two close friends, hands clasped, allied in a common purpose.

  * * * *

  Today had been fruitful, I thought as I curried the horses. My visit with Michael, then with Luke, had set in motion the finishing of a “chariot” travel cart, and Michael’s visit with Owen afterwards would be the first step in imagining Owen’s new holdings. My brief talk with Mama had been painful at first, then almost tender. And Brindl and I had recaptured the spark of adventure that used to send us on expeditions most perilous.

  Tomorrow I would see Brigid. I needed to make sure that my dear friend agreed to Michael’s sudden departure to Inishowen. What if she did not go, or could not go? What if she had other plans for Michael and herself? What if she thought the whole idea was insanely dangerous—or just insane?

  After I left two mares and a pony shining and content, I went inside and changed into my old tunic so that I could spend time in the garden, then perhaps in the woods for tonight’s supper. As always, I carried my widemouthed basket with me. Once in the garden, I knelt and began to remove stubborn weeds from the large patch of fertile ground.

  Michael’s familiar lilt made me look up, surprised.

  “Colleen, I have just returned from seeing Uncail Eóghan.”

  “Michael! I am glad you stopped to tell me of your visit. Do you mind if I work while we talk?”

  “A woman after me own heart. Not at all, lass.” Michael squatted easily, talking to me yet looking at the river. “Owen has told me what he wants. I am glad I had already laid eyes on the bay, an’ on his old, crumbling bally. As it turns out, me cousin Murdoch has put twenty men or more to the task of clearing the great rocks and making them into a kind of rath, a fortified wall. So no one has, ah, overcooked the stew. It is still an open space to work with.”

  “What about the old buildings?” The unlimed teach where Sweeney lived and the falling-down quarters of his former bunch of hired men were no more than crude temporary shelters.

  “Those will become the tinder of a great fire, Caylith. Fit only for burning. The first thing I will do is to build a temporary shelter—but a strong one—for Owen and Moc and a separate one for Murdoch and his brothers. They can stay there while I direct the men in the construction of a royal bally—a brugh fit for a king.”

  I paused in my work, looking up at Michael, and he brought his eyes from the river to me. “Yes, Michael. We must never forget that Eóghan Mac Neill is a king in his own right. This will be the first royal bally of many to come. For I am sure that once he has his chariot, he will travel to other parts of his new land and establish new kingdoms.”

  “Aye, lass. After talking with Luke, I think I can finish the chariot in a week.” He stood. “Owen’s new bally is already halfway built in me mind. After it is complete in me heart, I need to tell a competent builder, an’ I will be needed no longer. I will be there for a month, I think. An’ then I will come back an’ finish Ballycaitlín.”

  I rose also and stood next to the marvelous currach carpenter, architect of longships, chariot constructor, maker of royal bailes. “Michael, thank you again
. And by the way, our new holdings will be named not after me—but after our first child.”

  After Michael left, I gathered supper vegetables and carried them into the house and left the basket on the table. I selected my ancient bow and quiver from the assortment of weapons leaning against a far wall and left for the larches near the sounding river.

  Moving crab-like through the undergrowth, my arrow nocked and ready in my right hand, I cleared my mind of all concerns, focusing solely on bringing down a tasty supper for Liam and me. And when I emerged from the birch trees near our teach, I saw my husband at the hay haggard, just removing Angus’ saddle.

  He eyed my tunic, beginning to fray in several places, and drew me close. “Mmmn, me little Cat, what a beautiful hare ye have felled for us.”

  I took my time kissing him, starting with sucking his moving, sensuous lips and venturing inside with my tongue. He started to suck it slowly, rubbing my lower back and groaning softly. This was the way Liam liked to be greeted each day, the way we used to when we first moved here together.

  I drew my head back a bit from his questing mouth. “After supper, Liam, I will show you how I brought down this wild hare.” Then we drew together again in a long embrace, and I let the hare fall forgotten at our feet.

  Chapter 13:

  Beguiling

  I saddled Clíona the next morning while Liam was dressing—not that it took him more than a minute to pull his leather breeches over his long thighs and tie the thong, then put on and lace his low boots. I wanted to visit with Brigid while the day was still cool, the wind just a lover’s breath at the nape of my neck.

  I had gathered my hair up in a bodkin in the way of many Éireannach women. Because my curls were so thick, the long bodkin stayed firmly in place, sweeping my hair up the way I imagined a real duchess would wear hers. I cared not for beauty or fashion—but I cared a great deal about the excessive heat of a June day and how it made my sassy hair stand out at all angles.

  Liam and I had risen together that morning. He was first to waken, rolling next to me and twining his legs around my own, his mouth on the back of my neck, then in my ear. “Cat, Cat, come to me bowl of milk.”

  I turned lazily toward him, and a little shudder coursed through my body as I felt the hard length of him against my drowsing skin. “Dia duit, I love you,” I said, our traditional greeting ever since we became lovers.

  We started slow, just a searching kiss, and soon his fingers were toying with my nipples and my legs were wrapped around his hips. We ended at the other end of the bed, breathing hard, our arms and legs entangled in a lover’s knot.

  As I cinched the saddle of my roan mare, Liam walked behind me the way he loved to do, and again he kissed the back of my neck. “Love your hair this way…I can kiss more of ye.” His tongue and mouth started to travel down my back where the léine lay in soft folds, and I turned around and held him close.

  “And I want you to do it, I want it also.” Turning into him, I stood on the balls of my feet and reached for his lips. I put my mouth over his and sucked on it a little, the same way he liked to kiss me. I hoped it would make his groin tighten the same way mine did. Yes, I could feel it even through the skirt of my gathered tunic.

  Today I was wearing a pretty léine. Liam had teased me about it earlier. “Ye wear such finery to ride a horse?”

  “Yes, you scamp, because Brigid gave it to me. I feel guilty about sending Michael off to Inishowen. I want her to know how much she means to me, how I appreciate what she has given me.” Besides, my own guilty secret was that I loved the way the silk-like fabric caressed my skin—far different from the rough wools and stiff deerskins I usually wore. Mama would surely approve.

  Liam, like his brother Torin, disliked being late to the worksite. In his mind he had established a firm starting time—one hour after sunrise—and if he did not leave by then, he began to fret and complain. I gently reminded him, “After work, darling. Tá go maith?”

  “Ye be right, Cat.” His mouth stopped halfway to my breasts. “Then ’tis time to leave.”

  We rode together a few hundred feet, then we separated to go our separate ways. The bally trench where Liam labored each day was a few miles downriver and almost a mile from the riverbank—at least the portion of it where the workmen were now digging earth and laying stones. The teach where Michael and Brigid lived was downriver, too, but next to the Foyle.

  Last year, after Liam and I had journeyed to Derry, we set up the construction of two clay-and-wattle houses very close to each other, both in sight of the swift river. One was specifically for Michael and Brigid, who had promised to join us so that Michael could start building my new holdings. They had also boldly stated, even back then, that they would travel here to be the second couple in a double wedding ceremony. That was last July, when Liam and I were still getting reacquainted after a long absence, and I had been reluctant to promise anything of the sort.

  The second clay round-house, no more than three hundred feet from the other, was meant to be shelter for any of our family members who might visit us. Torin had been living there for several months. As soon as he had met Swallow, he gave up any notion of returning to Tara, back to living with his royal parents. Royal, yes—but a bit smothering, I thought, as I remembered his fair mother Máirín grasping and holding him like a truant schoolboy.

  Clíona trotted through the brush and wildflower-clotted ravines. With part of my attention, I guided her through the still-wild terrain. A smile played around my mouth as I thought of Liam’s reunion with his elegant mother last month at the Beltane ceremonies, the festive May Day celebration that brought thousands of visitors to the province of Meath.

  We had gone there for two reasons. First, we needed to forestall any dangerous confrontation between Liam’s father and the good bishop Patrick, who planned to light Paschal fires at the same time as King Leary lit his own purification bonfires. And equally crucial, we had come to reveal the true identity of Owen Sweeney as the king’s own half brother and to make sure his lands were restored to him.

  Liam had been away from home a bit too long, I gathered from the interplay between him and his doting parents. Máirín, especially, had him tied securely to her queenly apron as soon as he arrived. I laughed aloud as I rode, remembering Liam, red faced, kneeling before his father while Leary planted large, wet kisses on his bearded face.

  I rode into the expansive field that separated Michael and Brigid’s house from Torin’s. As I rode up I could not help but notice Fintan, unsaddled, tethered on the young rowans outside Torin’s house. Of course! I had forgotten that Torin had invited Murdoch to treat the teach as his own. He was undoubtedly sleeping there while he was in Derry. I found myself fervently hoping that Murdoch would not see that I was here. I still was loath to talk to him—or even see him—after our emotion-packed words a few days ago.

  Instead of tethering my mare in front of Brigid’s, I walked around a bit to the side and guiltily tethered her to a stand of birch saplings, out of sight. I reasoned that Clíona would feast on the uncut oat grass that grew there in bunches where the trees did not shade the ground.

  I walked around to the entrance, and Brigid welcomed me with a hug. “Come in, dear one. My, your hair looks almost regal. I like it. And of course I like your pretty léine.”

  I blushed a little, glad that she had noticed. The léine had been dyed very dark green, with sleeves in plaid designs of contrasting blue, yellow, and rose red. She had once given me several articles of clothing—all of them some shade of green to complement my eyes.

  Bree herself was dressed in a simple, light blue robe, almost a toga, gathered with a length of blue yarn. In spite of the early hour, her hair was brushed and gleaming, and it fell across her shoulders like a golden mantle.

  “A mo chara, I hope my early habits are not a burden to you…”

  “Nonsense, Cay! Michael told me to expect you. Early is good. Please sit and drink tea with me.”

  We settled at her
expansive table and sat enjoying each other’s company for a while. Then Brigid brought up the subject of Michael’s leaving. “Um, Michael tells me he is wanted at the beautiful Bay of Trawbreaga.”

  I was suddenly downcast. “Bree, I am sorry. I drew Michael into my own plans without even thinking of the consequences—and how you would feel, what you would do.”

  She laid a hand over mine in a consoling gesture. “Cay, this is the perfect time. It could not have worked out better.”

  Puzzled, I started to ask what she meant, but she answered before I could speak. “I have been festering these past few months about my father. When I left almost eight months ago, I was an unmarried woman traveling into the unknown with a former swain. Father could only shake his head and hope that I knew what I was doing, that I was safe and happy.

  “It is time for me to see my father, Caylith. Not that he is so old—perhaps ten years older than your own young mother—but I miss him. And now I want to change my home from one great lake to another. For I would dearly love to live in Derry next to you and Liam, never to return to Armagh except to see my dear father.”

  I was so taken by her words that tears began to well up in my eyes. “I hardly dared hope—”

  “Yes, dear friend. Michael and I are sublimely happy here. We would stay, and Michael would build us an addition to this charming little teach. I cannot even imagine living anywhere else, or having such a friend as you.”

  I supposed at that moment I looked like the quintessential madwoman, tears streaking my face while I laughed for joy. I could not imagine life without the wisdom, the humor, the unaffected friendship that Brigid brought to me.

  After a while, my emotions back under control, I asked Brigid, “But how will you travel, Bree? Surely you would not travel alone, without Michael.”

  “Why not?” she asked, genuinely surprised at my question. “I would travel with Michael to Inishowen and then take my namesake—the beautiful longship Brigid—around the east coast of Éire to the mouth of the Lagan. From there, I would travel with perhaps one Glaed Keeper, or even with one of Michael’s own kinsmen, to see Father. That is no more than a few days’ walk.”