Celtic Skies, Book 3 in the Celtic Steel Series

by Delaney Rhodes

  “Wel...I…uh…well, I see that the mister is…uh…attendin’ to her at present,” he replied, barely containing his amusement. Nearly ten steps away and the missus was even louder than she was prior, railing and slamming her ham-sized fists into Mister Reid’s shoulder, before finally pulling him down with her. Wrestling like pigs in a muddy pen, the pair made quite a sight indeed.

  “Ye think they should employ the crank and ropes?” asked Airard, watching with amusement as the four bemused deckhands unsuccessfully struggled to raise the missus to her swollen feet.

  “Wait,” said Flynn, turning back towards the commotion. “Methinks he’s had enough!”

  “Nay!” exclaimed, Airard. “The mon is a saint!”

  Her shouts seemed muffled and the volume decreased. Mister Reid blew past them on the deck, and went skiing across the surface for a time when his boot caught a puddle, but he muddled on; a defiant look of resolve on his ruddy face. There lay ole’ Missus Reid, thoroughly exhausted, still as a corpse, with her husband’s cloak draped ceremoniously across her body; and noticeably covering her chubby face.

  “Rest in peace,” said Airard.

  “Rest in peace,” chuckled Flynn.

  The two men talked softly side by side as they strolled atop the deck. There was much to discuss upon landing in O’Malley territory, and Flynn had enjoyed the company of the elderly scribe since their brief stop at the MacCahan port. His cousin, Patrick MacCahan, had become Patrick O’Malley and the new Lord of O’Malley lands with his marriage to Darina O’Malley, several months prior. Flynn was Patrick’s distant cousin, but the two had never met. Airard, well, Airard was another matter altogether.

  Not only was Airard Patrick’s longtime friend and the former MacCahan clan scribe, but he was his mentor as well. Airard was also the brother of Lucian, the O’Malley clan scribe and archdruid in his region. Airard, Patrick and Lucian were the last of a hidden sect of mystical priests; known only as the Dragonians. They each wore a special ring, made of an unidentifiable substance, which by all accounts, was resistant to breakage, wear and molting. Patrick knew this first hand, as he had attempted on more than one occasion to decipher the element or, at best, re-create or identify it. Patrick’s first trade being that of a blacksmith, he was well-equipped and more than capable of doing such a thing; however, he was woefully unsuccessful.

  Airard told Flynn that he was advancing in age, and desired to see his friend and brother again, and would be retiring in O’Malley lands. It seemed as plausible an explanation as any, but Flynn knew that something was amiss, and he guessed that something had everything to do with the strange dragon ring on Airard’s right hand, and the way that he nervously twisted it almost constantly. Not one to pry, Flynn was satisfied simply to chat with the man, and discuss the findings of the wreckage of the Aban.

  There was actually very little left of the vessel. No survivors, very little cargo or stowage, just the telltale signs of floating sails, broken masts and a captain’s log still encased in its wooden chest with glass topper. Twenty-six lives on that ship unaccounted for. Twenty-six families would be seeking an explanation, and Captain MacGrath had no good idea what to tell them. From all indications, the ship had burned. Looking over the logs however, there was no indication they were carrying any flammable cargo, and it wasn’t common for ships to just burst into flames—was it?

  They had no idea how long the debris had remained afloat, only that the last entry in the captain’s log was some two fortnights prior—quite enough time for a search party to have come and gone. Doubtful that anyone would have just left the debris they found floating aimlessly in the sea. Yes, there were many questions to be answered, and even more remained to be asked.

  Flynn scratched his sea-weathered face, pulled at his overlong rusty-colored beard, and finally acquiesced to Airard’s good grace to “barber him properly a’fore their arrival” in anticipation of the very real prospect of “being presented a’fore the council and in the great hall”. Unable to thoroughly bathe, he had opted instead for a “bucket bath” of saltwater and sea sponge. Thankfully, his kilt and shirt were freshly washed and his boots were new. The youngest deckhand assisted him in tethering his shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair into a leather thong. By all accounts, he was a handsome man. Flynn was tall and strong with a defined look of determination about him. He wore his family’s plaid and was a sight to behold. It was when he opened his mouth, that the difficulty was evident. His strong Scots accent was not nearly as easy to hide as the rapid weight loss he’d experienced.

  Yes, the stress was getting to him. It wasn’t his new commission, his new home, or even finally meeting his distant relatives in Ireland. It was the thought of losing his Aisling that kept him awake, and made it hard to choke down his sparse meals. She had not met him at the docks, and she had not boarded the Sarysin with him. Over the course of the past two weeks, in discussions with the Captain or with Airard, he had determined that her absence was his answer.

  She would not come. She would not be his wife. He would arrive to take his commission, meet his family and begin his adventure without her. And—he would have a lot of explaining to do. Starting with why his betrothed had not come with him, and why there would be no surprise wedding for her—the wedding he had asked Patrick to plan for him for the eve of their arrival.

  His heart was bruised. Of that there was no doubt. In time, it would heal. It was his ego that troubled him more. How would he explain her absence? What kind of fool had she made of him? What would happen if she never showed up and worse yet, what would happen if she did show up? Late? Would his wounded heart be able to bear the humiliation?

  ELEVEN

  O’Malley Lands—the Sick House

  There was only the faintest sound of a light, melancholy humming. It was the vibrations that startled her. Kyra could feel the pressure and sense a tingling, first—starting at her feet —and then—crawling up the length of her legs, until it finally rested in the middle of her swollen stomach, right atop her belly button. Patrick and Lucian stood clasping hands at the foot of her bed, humming and chanting, and Daenal was behind her, Kyra’s head resting comfortably in her lap. Daenal’s hands were clasped across her forehead now, pressing it downward, and massaging from temple to temple. She felt her eyebrows spasm, and thought she would faint.

  Galen had come and anointed her head with oil and prayed for her. Kurt MacArtrey had also come and joined Galen, and whispered words of comfort and courage before leaving to wait with the others in the main room around the hearth.

  Peace. She had found her peace. The pain was muted and duller somehow. Elise and Moya spoke in whispers in the corner, while the men and Daenal continued their ministrations. Darina was busy preparing clean linens and purified water, and her father and Murchadh waited with the others. She hadn’t screamed in some time. Unsure whether that was a good sign or not, Moya reassured her. The contractions were still strong and coming faster, and the babe was still moving—so things were going as well as could be expected.

  She heard them talking. First, Elise mentioned that having been married only seven moons, the babe was early. Moya countered with the obvious fact that she was rather large and swollen and her body was ready, so if the baby could be born, it would have a fighting chance. Just how that would happen, no one was sure. The babe was either too large, or breech, and they weren’t sure. She was fully dilated and should be ready to push, but her pushes were showing no progress.

  It was growing dangerously close to time for considering the worst. There was clear activity in between contractions, indicating the babe was still moving and doing well—for now. While Moya had taken foals by force, through incision, none of the mothers had survived more than a few days afterwards. Even though the body’s first response to such trauma was to escape into unconsciousness, the pain therefore largely averted—it was the survival rate that was the problem. Infection, fever, and general weakness led to their demise. Kyra knew and accepted that the
choice was between her life, or the life of her child, and she was willing to lay down her life willingly for her child.

  She just wished that Parkin was here to guide her through this, to tell him goodbye and to tell him—how much she loved him and needed him. How sorry she was that their time together had been cut short. Oh, there was so much to say. But—there was no time to waste. Not if she intended for this child to be born, alive and healthy, and to thrive in her absence.

  Her distracted thoughts centered once again at the cramping, which overtook her core. Her spirit awakened from its slumber, and she was brought back, for a second time, into the tiny sick house chamber. The smell of burning peat moss plundered her nose. She realized reluctantly, that Darina was swabbing her stomach and cleaning her up again. Preparing for something—the worst—she imagined. Daenal was still there, at the head of the bed, cradling her shoulders in her lap and whispering sweet words of comfort and soothing affection.

  Patrick and Lucian had gone, retreated to the safety of the ante-chamber and were whispering with Elise. Moya was examining items spread out on the table, and shaking her head. Her hands were visibly quivering, and there were tears running down her cheeks. Her resolve was wavering; and everyone knew that if they didn’t begin now, Moya may not be able to go through with it after all.

  “Kyra! Kyra!” the voice echoed through the sick house. “Kyra, where is Kyra?!?” From the commotion outside the chamber door, it was evident that someone was here to see Kyra, and they intended to see her now. The chamber door burst open and there stood Parkin, half-starved and crazy-eyed, held on each side by an O’Malley sentry.

  “Parkin!” shouted Patrick from the ante-chamber.

  “Parkin! Dear god, it’s Parkin,” repeated Daenal, holding Kyra down. “Dinna’ get up lass, dinna’ move now, he’s here.”

  Running to Kyra’s side, Parkin surveyed the condition of the room in one glance. Placing his right hand over her belly, he caressed the side of her sweat-laden cheek with his left. “Kyra, me love, I am here.” Turning to his left, he looked in horror at the contents of the trestle table. Flat blades and surgical instruments were laid out and ready. Moya was sitting on the bench with her head in her hands, and Darina stood at the foot of the bed, fastening leather straps attached to Kyra’s ankles to the bed frame.

  “What…what…what on earth do ye intend to do here?” he demanded, shock and horror on his face.

  “Parkin,” began Elise calmly.

  “Wait!” he shouted, wringing his head around in dismay. “Wait, ye canna’,”,he continued. “Dinna’ ye touch her!” he bellowed.

  Kyra winced through another hard contraction, and Darina reached down to check her progress. “Parkin,” she said. “Feel jest here,” she directed him. Placing his hand over the top of her belly, she showed him when the contractions started and when they stopped, the apparent position of the babe, and finally, she showed him how to check her dilation. “See Parkin,” she said slowly, “she is ready, the babe is in position, but ’tis either breech, or its head is too large,” she said. “Kyra is sufferin’ somethin’ terrible, and the babe canna’ last much longer.”

  “We have to take the babe,” said Moya.

  “We’ve no other choice,” said Elise, now standing beside Parkin.

  “Parkin, I’ve done this a’fore,” said Moya. “I can stitch her up jest fine. It willna’ take long, and most mercifully, she’ll pass out after the first cut,” she added.

  “I’ve got her legs tied down, Daenal is strappin’ her arms, and we’ll give her a leather strap to bite on,” said Darina. “Parkin, ye jest stand there next to her and hold her. She will be fine now that ye are here. She willna’ be scared, and we will work as fast as we can. If we dinna’, we canna’ guarantee that either of them will survive.”

  Parkin wiped the tears that flowed down his cheeks like a fountain. Hot tears shed for his precious Kyra in so much pain. The thought of losing her was more than he could bear. He had only just found her, the love of his life. He never believed in soul mates before, although his mother spoke often of such. He never believed that is, until he met Kyra. And he was not about to lose her!

  “Wait, wait…wait a minute!” he protested. “Let me check her, please.”

  “Parkin, there is nothin’ ye can do any different than the rest of us,” said Moya.

  “Where is Vynae?” he countered. “The healer,” he added sarcastically.

  “We had to send her off, Kyra didna’ like her.”

  “And what qualifications have ye?” he shot back.

  “Parkin, I’ve assisted many a foal in enterin’ this world. Some the easy, and quite a few, the hard way,” she added.

  “Same as I!” he spat.

  “What do ye mean?” asked Darina, confused.

  “P-Parkin assisted w-with the l-li-ivestock in our clan,” sputtered Patrick from the chamber door. “He w-was verra g-good w-w-with the anim-mals. Set a b-bone or two as well.”

  “I see,” muttered Moya, setting the blade down and backing away from the bed, hands raised in submission.

  “Dinna’ be silly,” spat Parkin. “I need yer help.”

  “O’ course, milord,” returned Moya. “What can I do for ye?”

  Parkin reached down with his right hand to check Kyra’s progress, while pressing down hard with his left on the center of her belly. Kyra groaned and kicked her right foot, but Parkin moved in time to miss a direct hit to the stones. Parkin met Kyra’s eyes. “Kyra,” he spoke softly. “I’m goin’ to get ye outa’ this situation, and Daenal and Darina are goin’ to hold ye down. We’ve no other choice, love.”

  Turning towards Moya and Elise, he whispered and conspired, all of out of earshot to Kyra.

  “’Tis best we dinna’ warn her,” she overheard. “’Twill only take a second to relieve the pressure, and then the babe should come fast. Be ready to clear its throat.” he added and they nodded.

  “No’ that,” he continued, beginning a series of motions which entailed picking up, examining, smirking at, and then finally replacing—one at a time—the surgical instruments laid out on the table. “This will do,” he gleamed, examining his own dirk. “Patrick, will ye please hold this in the fire a bit?” he asked.

  Patrick consented, wrapped the handle of the dagger in thick cloth, before plunging it into the hearth and turning it over and over several times to thoroughly purify it.

  “I dinna’ understand,” said Elise.

  “I do,” replied Moya, under her breath. “’Tis genius,” she gasped.

  Parkin returned to examine Kyra once again, counting aloud between contractions, and pressing down on her swollen stomach with his left hand. With his right hand, he cleansed the area and pressed a warm compress to her opening. “Kyra,” he began. “We’ve only a brief time. On the next pain, I need ye to sit up and push, love. This is goin’ to be it. Do ye ken?” he asked.

  Kyra nodded her head in understanding, and Daenal helped her sit up, positioning Kyra against herself. Darina and Elise were on either side of her gripping her hands, and Lucian paced before the hearth, muttering and chanting in prayer. Kyra strained and let out a deep groan; intensity blazed across her face. Parkin felt the tension in her belly tighten, and sensed the babe lunge forward.

  “Now!” he shouted at Patrick. “Kyra, not jest yet, hold on jest a second,” he said patting her leg.

  “Oh god, please!” she begged him.

  “No’ yet, Kyra. Hold on.”

  Patrick thrust the dirk handle into Parkin’s trembling hands, and watched in amazement. Parkin slid Kyra’s backside upwards with his left hand, lifting her off of the bed. With his right hand, in one swift motion, he grazed the tip of the sharp blade across Kyra’s strained opening to the right—slicing a two-inch gash that at once released the pressure on the babe’s head. Kyra screamed in surprise and Parkin shouted, “Now, Kyra! Push!”

  It was mere seconds before the head crowned. Kyra panted, not only in determination but in
relief, as the babe was loosed from the canal. First came the head, then the shoulders and with one more determined push; Parkin held Kyra’s son in his hands. Chunky and pink, and with a full head of dark curly hair, the babe was screaming and sputtering before they could properly wash him. A cherub, he thought to himself. My angel has given birth to a cherub.

  Kyra, exhausted, lay motionless in Daenal’s lap as Darina wiped her face with a clean linen. Patrick and Parkin embraced, and Lucian kneeled at the foot of the bed, chanting. Murchadh, Atilde, and Ruarc, breathed a sigh of relief at the sounds of the babe’s cry, and braced themselves for news of Kyra’s condition. Moya and Elise worked feverishly cleaning him up to present to Kyra, and he fought them every step of the way. “Jest like his mathair,” giggled Moya at the stubborn little boy.

  Kyra passed out. Succumbing to the exhaustion and exertion, she lay breathing heavily, but unconscious, in Daenal’s arms. Daenal wept happy tears, and stroked her cousin’s forehead and brushed aside her sweat-drenched hair.

  Elise wrapped the babe in a clean blanket and handed the squirming babe to Parkin, “Tis a fine big boy ye have here, Parkin. Ye did a fine job there, laddy,” she said. “I reckon there is a grandsire eager to make his acquaintance,” she added, motioning to the chamber door with her head.

  “I ken ye are right,” he replied, toying with the tiny finger that wrapped around his own. “And we shouldna’ keep them waiting,” he added.

  “Them?” replied Darina.

  Parkin ignored her, and made his way through the chamber door and out towards the corridor, never removing his eyes from the precious bundle in his arms.

  “Them?” asked Elise, reflecting Darina’s comment. They soon shrugged their shoulders, and conspired at once to stitch up Kyra while she remained unconscious.

  “Her color is good,” remarked Moya. “Her breathin’ is fine, and she has not lost eversomuch blood.”

  “Methinks she will be fine,” gasped Elise. “Praise the gods!” she added.