by Brit Darby
“I see,” she mused. “I suppose you are disqualified. What a pity.”
Liam glimpsed a teasing light in her eyes, and the hint of a smile she kept at bay. “Indeed, I’d give my right hand to know a woman like her.”
“Would you? With only one hand you would make a poor thief, I should think.”
He grinned. “I’d adapt. We villains are rather resourceful, you know.”
Alianor’s smile broke through. “It’s a shame, though,” she added.
“What is?”
“A shame you don’t have the stone.”
He shrugged. “Don’t know what I’d want with it.”
“What do you mean? You’d be rich beyond measure. An emerald as big as boasted could buy easy lives for all who follow you. You wouldn’t have to steal anymore, or kidnap brides for ransom. You’d have the jewel and its wealth.”
“Even if I had the stone, I’d never sell it,” Liam shook his head to confirm his words. “Seòd Fios’s true wealth lies in its magick, its powers. Not its value as an emerald.”
“Oh,” she said. “I thought you didn’t believe.”
“What I said,” he corrected her with a smile, “was I would like to believe. And, maybe, deep down, I do a wee bit.”
“So what happens to the people of Connacht if the legend doesn’t come true?”
Liam heard the skepticism in her voice and shrugged, hoping she wasn’t mocking him or his people. “I don’t know. No one knows except the faeries, and they aren’t talking.”
Alianor chuckled. “I’m sorry, William. I find it all so strange. I don’t mean to laugh for it’s your heritage, your history. Part of me wants to believe, but I suppose I’m too English for my own good.”
“Aye,” he said. “I can’t wish you Irish — your Anglo-Saxon blood is too strong. ’Tis a futile effort and I must try no more.”
“But you’ll forgive me for it? For, truly, I know not what I can do about the shortcoming.”
Alianor looked at him, eyes twinkling, and pressed a hand against her lips. Otherwise, he was sure she would have laughed outright.
“I don’t know, milady. It may take some convincing for me to get over my disappointment.”
She leaned over and murmured, “What do you have in mind, my prince?” Her voice dropped to a husky, sensual whisper. Her lips brushed against his hair, seeking out his earlobe. Liam responded in kind and his arm crept around her shoulders. He was glad the others were distracted by Felicity’s stories.
He kissed the top of her silvery head. “I’m sure I can think of something, milady.”
She smiled, closing the book on her lap, knowing she would not be finishing it this night. “Doubtless.”
Liam took her hand in his. “First, why don’t you come to my room and pick out another book for your reading pleasure.”
IN THE NEXT FEW hours, the Legend of Seòd Fios was forgotten. Alianor could not even recall it. She forgot all as soon as Liam touched her again. They came together in bittersweet, hungry desperation, the yearning having not diminished one bit, in fact their days apart had only fueled its fire. Sated, they lay entwined in each other’s arms.
Alianor realized she hungered for Liam’s lovemaking. Rather than growing less passionate with each union, her need for him only increased. The more they loved one another, the more they wanted it. No, craved it, like a magical potion carrying them into another dimension. They seemed caught in a circle, whirling about in ecstasy, taking them higher and higher. They were unable to break the cycle, both eager participants to its will and whims.
Soon enough they must part company. Alianor did not delude herself with a different ending to this story. She was not the Irish lady of legend, come to bring love and unity to Connacht. Perhaps this was merely a touch of happiness granted her before — before what? A life of despair and hopelessness. The life of a trapped animal, the meager subsistence she knew awaited her as de Lacy’s wife.
It was true. What future would she have as the bride of Le Anguille, a man whose reputation as a cruel, vindictive man was unparalleled? No one trifled with de Lacy, a man who had accumulated too much power in Ireland to be dismissed. When Quintin de Lacy desired Alianor for a wife, none gainsaid him; even the King’s lust did not trump his need for an alliance.
Alianor felt a twinge of fear as her thoughts dwelled on her future and what it held, but determinedly she put it aside. To fear de Lacy lent him the power he sought over her, the power he needed to feed and prey upon those under his control. She would not give him the satisfaction.
Liam stirred at her side. “M’eudail,” he whispered in her ear. “My lovely Alianor — you’ve brought light to my life. Whatever shall I do without you? Turrean and I are doomed to wander alone in the darkness without our sailchuach liath, our little dog-violet.”
Her heart constricted. “You are merely drunk from loving, William.”
She shattered the enchanted spell weaving about them. It hurt too much to think about a future that would not, could not exist. Liam lifted himself onto his elbow and stared into her eyes, his own look soft but serious. Alianor wanted to look away and found she could not. His hand cupped her face.
“Is it love?” he whispered, wonderingly.
“Of course, dearheart. At least, as close as two passionate lovers can get, knowing they are fated to part. As I said, you are drunk in the moment. It will pass, like a bad meal twisting in your belly, and will eventually be gone.”
“You jest.” He frowned at her levity, eyes dark with emotion she dared not delve into.
“Of course I jest, William.” Alianor laughed, trying not to reveal the distress beneath her merry facade, or the fact her heart pounded so hard in her chest she almost couldn’t hear her own words. “How can it be more? Can enemies ever truly be in love? Can our chasm of differences really matter not?”
She knew Liam wanted to say yes to every flippant question she tossed at him. They both knew he’d be lying, though — to Alianor and to himself.
“You’re right, Alianor. I’ve merely lost myself in this delightful spell you have put me under. Be merciful, my sweet silver witch.” He grasped her chin and kissed her again. “Be kind to this Irish jester who cannot help but lose himself in your caresses.”
In turn, Alianor ran her index finger down his cheek, tracing the contours of his face. “I shall be every bit as merciful to you as you are to me, William.”
His dimple appeared. “If I demand you love me again?”
“Naturally I must demand, in turn, the same courtesy.”
Liam grinned. “You are insatiable, milady.”
“Stop talking,” Alianor whispered, “and get to work.”
ALIANOR MADE HER WAY through the thick trees and underbrush, shillelagh in hand. She veered from the well-worn paths criss-crossing Wolf Haven, and instead used her Irish walking stick to part the wild brambles. Destination unknown, she strolled along, the desire for solitude her only purpose. It felt good to stretch her limbs and escape the abbey for a time. She felt herself relaxing beneath the magic of a rare, clear afternoon.
She hadn’t intended to wander far, and escape never crossed her mind. She knew better than to try and elude her captors in the maze of forest surrounding them, or strike out in a random direction. She had no doubts if she did, Liam would find her, presuming she was not devoured by wild animals or struck down by footpads first. As she walked on, the landscape turned foreign, and the dense forest swallowed familiar markings she might have tried to guide herself by. Time seemed meaningless for her mind lingered in another place.
When Alianor came upon a gigantic, rounded mound of earth she snapped out of her reverie. She had never seen the likes of it before. She sensed it was a sacred place, an earthen fortress built by ancient souls. Curious, she explored the strange mound, but found no entrance or opening to its mysterious interior.
Not wishing to leave yet, and weary from her long walk, Alianor sat under a large oak. She propped her back against
its rough bark, studying the mound before her. What was the purpose behind this great pile of earth?
She yawned, the great distance she had covered catching up to her. She worried she had gone too far, yet she was pleased to have found this place; a sanctuary of sorts, a curious mound in the solemn circle of oaks and ash. Her eyelids grew heavy. She’d never been one to sleep during the day and couldn’t believe how she suddenly struggled to stay awake. Another yawn shook her.
“This place is Rath.”
A soft, feminine voice caused Alianor’s eyes to fly open. Startled, she looked about the clearing, but saw nothing, no one. “Who’s there?” she demanded. Surely she was dreaming.
“Rath,” the voice said, a sound like the trees themselves sighing in the wind. “’Tis sacred to the sidhe.”
No dream. She was wide awake. “Show yourself,” Alianor exclaimed. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed her walking stick. She whirled about in a circle, brandishing the shillelagh like a sword, but still saw no one.
“Do not be frightened, Alianor.”
“I’m not frightened,” Alianor hedged, lowering the stick and tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear. She called out again, her nerves still jittery though she tried to sound confident, “At least, I’ll try not to be afraid, if you’ll show yourself.”
Slowly and cautiously, a beautiful woman emerged from the trees. A glowing light encircled her, casting her in ethereal spray. She was clad in a tunic of forest green, or mayhap it was the deepest of blues. Alianor wasn’t sure. The shadows of the trees cast a wavering half-light over everything. It was hard to make out her exact features, but the woman’s cascading hair was a swirling mixture of honey-gold and rich brown earthen hues rippling in the wind.
Astonished and fascinated, she stared at the woman. “Who are you?”
“To you, I am Turrean.” The woman spoke, yet her lips never appeared to move.
Alianor tried to laugh off her unease. “Turrean’s a wolfhound. You are nothing like Liam’s dog.”
The woman called Turrean sighed and stepped closer. In the mist descending upon the clearing, it looked as if her delicate feet never touched the earth. “I must tell you my story, so you will understand. Long ago, the evil Uchtdealbh turned me into a wolfhound and imprisoned me in Galway Bay. My brother, the warrior chief Fionn MacCumhal, eventually rescued me and my sons, but I still choose the wolfhound as my familiar from time to time.”
“I see,” Alianor said, when in truth she didn’t. She didn’t understand at all. She regarded the woman warily, wondering if this was a jest Liam or another played upon her. To make fun of her disbelief in their faerytales.
Turrean smiled, her golden-brown eyes sparkling in the glade. “Believe me, Alianor, in time everything will become clear.”
Alianor nodded, not knowing what else to say or do.
Turrean lifted her hands and a gentle breeze rushed over her, calming her. “You will remember what was forgotten; it still lingers deep within your soul. You will understand.”
“What memories? What do you mean?” Alianor felt desperation grip her. The need for answers overwhelmed her. The woman’s prophetic words frightened her. She started to call out again, but the woman was gone. She had melted into the shadows of the forest. “Turrean,” she cried in despair.
“Trust — you must trust it will all come in its own time.”
A breeze rustled the oak leaves above Alianor as the woman’s voice faded away, leaving Alianor alone and confused. “Turrean,” she whispered.
“Turrean,” echoed another voice, this one familiar.
Alianor heard a dog’s bark and opened her eyes. She found herself slumped back against the tree. She bolted upright, the shillelagh still clutched in her hand. Across the clearing, Turrean sat on her haunches watching her, head cocked to one side as if puzzled.
“There you are, Turrean.” Sounding exasperated, Liam appeared from the tree shadows and crossed over to where the dog scratched behind one ear. Alianor watched from her pillow of soft moss upon the ground. He patted Turrean’s head, mumbling something to the dog she could not hear.
Meanwhile, Alianor shook off the strange dream. For dream it must be. She still sat upon the ground, didn’t she? Therefore, she must have only dreamed she’d gotten up and talked to a woman named Turrean.
She looked at the wolfhound, marveling at her fancies. She reassured herself it was only a daydream. The dog gave a huge yawn, got up and loped over to her. Turrean stretched out beside Alianor in the grass, resting her brindle muzzle upon her legs.
Liam walked over and joined them under the oak. “You shouldn’t have wandered so far from camp, Alianor. You might have gotten lost.”
Looking up at him, Alianor shook her head, distracted. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time is all.”
“Well, it’s getting late. There’s a celebration planned tonight. We’d best head back to camp.”
Liam offered his hand and pulled her up. She brushed out her rumpled skirts, noticing he looked especially handsome in a deep green tunic, the exact color of his eyes. His long dark hair was plaited out of the way, and she knew he had been out hunting with his men. He had asked if Goliath might like to stretch his wings, and she agreed, realizing only after he left she had never trusted anyone with her bird before. It seemed a portent, if not of love, at least trust.
“How did you know where to find me?” she asked him.
“I didn’t but Turrean did. I said, “Let’s find Alianor,” and she barked and dashed off in pursuit. I had one hell-of-a-time keeping up with her.”
Alianor looked down at the dog. She could have sworn those half-closed eyes twinkled.
Chapter Seventeen
“WHERE ARE WE GOING, Liam?”
“To a Passing Over Ritual.”
“Someone has died?”
“Aye,” Liam said. “Rohan O’Toole.”
Alianor heard music and laughter as they approached the camp. “Are you sure? Everyone sounds so happy. It cannot be a funeral.”
“Not a funeral as you know it, mayhap, but an Irish wake. When our loved ones die, we believe in sending them off with feasting and drinking, revelry of all kinds. More a happy occasion than sad, a celebration of their passing on to a better place.”
“You celebrate a loved one’s death?” She could not imagine feasting, much less dancing, at Walter’s funeral. She was heartsick, locking herself away in their court apartment and weeping for days.
“Aye, we celebrate the beginning of their new life.” Liam stopped and looked at her, serious. “Surely the next world must be better than this one.”
“Is this world so terrible?”
“It hasn’t been pleasant thus far for many who have come here.”
“Make it better,” she challenged.
“How? I am but one man, a man without money, position or power.”
“You have one gift you can use to succeed where others have failed.”
“What’s that, milady?”
“A natural ability to lead.”
Liam scoffed in disbelief. “Who would I lead, and against whom?”
“You’re already a trusted and beloved leader here. You’re a man who can bring Ireland back to the Irish. Lead them against the English, against your own kings and chieftains who bow and scrape and kiss Lackland’s foot.”
Liam stared at her, seeming confused, even wary. He reached out and ran his finger down her cheek. “You speak as if you were Irish, Alianor. An Englishwoman of noble breeding cannot begin to grasp the needs of common folk.”
“Perhaps not,” she admitted. “It’s not important I understand, but you do. You know what needs to be done.”
“Nay.” He sounded troubled. “I do what little I can to ease their suffering. But it’s not enough … it’s never enough.”
“Well,” Alianor linked her arm through his and pulled him along with her, “come what may, let us celebrate the here and now, and Rohan O’Toole’s life beyond.”
/> Liam’s serious look vanished beneath a grin. “As milady commands.”
ALIANOR’S EYELIDS DROOPED. WEARY, she yawned, tired from continuous eating and drinking, and her legs ached from hours of dancing. The wine made her feel languid, and brought her at ease amongst the frolicking throng. They all stayed awake throughout the night, the festivities centered around a simple coffin raised on a bier draped in a linen shroud. Everyone gathered around a bonfire as friends and family gave farewell speeches to the dearly departed.
It was odd to experience merriment at a funeral. Walter’s passing still lay like a leaden weight in her heart. At first, it all seemed a sacrilege, and she looked on uncomfortably when the singing commenced, along with a generous portion of ale.
Yet the first hour passed, and the genuine respect of those in attendance drew her in. Friends and family gave heartfelt speeches and toasted O’Toole with mirth and love. As the night passed, she grew to admire their way of saying goodbye. Instead of oppressive sadness weighing them down, they chose to remember the joy, happiness and good times shared with him.
At one point, a young man with a clear tenor sang a ballad and everyone quieted to listen. Conell sang in Gaelic, but somehow, Alianor understood. Sadness overtook her, his words stirring, the pure emotion in them like a quivering arrow plunged into her breast.
Alianor closed her eyes, swaying, humming, the simple melody stealing her away to another time, another place. The song seemed familiar, and her lips formed the words in harmony with the singer:
Báidín Fheilimí, d’imigh go Góla, báidín
Fheilimí is Feilimí ann,
Báidín Fheilimí, d’imigh go Góla, báidín
Fheilimí is Feilimí ann.
When she started to sing, Liam stood on the other side of the fire but he moved to her side. Alianor’s eyes remained closed; she did not know he watched her. Rapt fascination engulfed him. Entranced by her singing, he listened to her sing low at first, then clearer and stronger as emotion carried her along.
Others heard her singing and they too listened. Even the balladeer Conall stilled; his lyrics trailed off and Alianor picked them up. Her sweet voice filled the night air, capturing each and every man, woman and child in her tale of Feilim’s little boat going off to Gola and Tory Island, only to be lost to the cruel sea.