Captive Heart

by Erin O'Quinn

  “Speak,” I said levelly.

  I expected a laugh, for I could see myself as a stranger would—a very short, very pregnant young woman challenging a much superior opponent.

  “Please do not attack me,” he said, his tone as level as my own. “I am come to visit wi’ me kinsfolk, the cenél Niáll.”

  “Then you have met one such person, although related by marriage only.” I slowly rose from my defensive position and stood as tall as my short stature would allow. “I am called Caitlín O’Neill, wife of Liam, whose father is Lóeghaire Mac Neill. And you, sir, are—”

  “An’ I am Flann O’Connell. At your service, young Cate. Me father is Connall Gulban, brother of King Leary an’ a king in his own right.”

  He dismounted in one fluid motion and walked toward me, not so quickly as to alarm me but deliberately, with his hand extended. As I extended my own hand, I thought of a similar meeting a year or so back, when first I had met Liam’s cousin Fergus MacCool near an early-morning fire site. Like Fergus, Flann was a redhead, and like Fergus, Flann rode a handsome, dark stallion. But there the resemblance ended.

  We clasped hands, then forearms, in the traditional gesture of friendship. And then he kissed me ceremoniously on each cheek, as Liam had done last night to Coinín “Bunny” Coyle.

  “I welcome you, Flann O’Connell,” I said with a small smile, and he returned the smile—one I would have recognized anywhere in the world—the ironic, twisted grin that seemed baked into the bone of all the Niáll clansmen.

  “You seem very, ah, similar to Fergus MacCool,” I told him, but as I said it, I noticed that his eyes were not blue at all but a green almost as fierce as my own. And he had only the merest beard and mustache, like Liam, rather than the full beard and long mustache of Fergus. And, most important, he did not have the bawdy tongue and roving eye of the red-haired MacCool.

  “Not to speak ill of me own kin,” he said, his grin widening, “but Fergus an’ I have little to like in each other. I have not seen me cousin for a few years, but he could not ha’ changed much.”

  “And perhaps he has, after all,” I told him, and I could feel my own smile widening. “For he is currently a penitent at the monastery of Father Patrick.”

  “Well, Cate, it seems ye have drawn me like a moth, for I would know that story, as well as the news of me kinsmen. Do ye mind if we go to your camp together?”

  “Not at all,” I said as graciously as I could. “Please bring your horse for a drink and a currying, too, if you like.” I turned and walked back to camp, and Flann followed me, leading his horse.

  When we arrived I saw that all three fires were blazing high, and I supposed that several Glaed Keepers and Forest Wardens had already gone seeking our morning meal. Liam was dressed, squatting by the largest fire with Thom, and he rose quickly when he saw me walking toward him, followed by a tall stranger.

  I stopped a few feet from my husband and announced, in my best formal manner, “Liam O’Neill. May I introduce Flann O’Connell, son of Connall Gulban, brother to Lóeghaire Mac Neill.”

  Liam’s entire face lit with joyful surprise. “Me cousin Flann? I have heard much of ye, lad.” And then Liam and Flann began to speak in rapid Gaelige, and I was unable to follow more than a few words. I watched the two men fall on each other, slapping each other’s back and planting large, wet kisses on each other’s hairy cheeks.

  I heard Bunny’s voice at my shoulder. “Good lord, I have not the strength to endure more cheek kissing this morning. Perhaps I should hide for a while.”

  I heard the humor in her tone, and we both laughed as we watched Liam and Flann settle back on their haunches, talking as though they were catching up on a lifetime of news. And perhaps they were.

  Chapter 22:

  The Unseen Road

  If Brother Jericho had not been among the travelers, the Sabbath would have passed unnoticed like another bright, windswept day on the unseen road to Tory. An hour after Flann entered our camp, I was sitting cross-legged, finishing a morning meal with Liam and his newfound cousin, when Jericho approached our fire. “Blessings of the Sabbath.” He smiled.

  “Thank you, Brother,” I answered gravely. “I wish you had a better congregation this morning.”

  “This assembly is blessed by their united purpose. And here is the finest church in all creation,” the monk replied, raising his head to the fresh morning.

  I raised my head also, seeing the sun making its lazy way up over the lakeshore, watching the random groups of birds circling and diving overhead. We had encamped so close to the shore of the Swilly that the sounds of the rising birds created a huge rousing and rustling, and I could almost feel the air stirring and whirling in currents as they soared and landed,

  “Will you all three join me in a brief prayer?” he asked, but he was looking at Flann.

  “I will, Father,” he replied quietly, and he bowed his head, as Liam and I did also.

  “Heavenly Father, we celebrate your grace and your majesty, and we thank you for this glorious day which you have vouchsafed to us. May your wisdom and your love combine within us to finish our mission in a way pleasing to you, O Lord. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the three of us chorused.

  After Jericho left, wending his way among the travelers with a word and a prayer for each, I turned to Flann. “How is it you are a Christian, O cousin?”

  “Me own father was baptized by the man who will be saint—that is, Patrick himself. An’ he sent us a baldish monk, young as Jericho, to help us build a bally church south of here, where the sea meets the land in a kinder fashion. That was Brother Ezekiel, who taught me what little of Britonnic and Latin I know.”

  “I am thunderstruck by your knowledge and your fair way of speaking, Flann. I myself am no student of language…”

  “And yet your heart is full of much more worthy knowledge, lass. Knowledge of kindness and fair play. Else none of us would be here today, here on the rugged shores of the Lough Swilly, and not a fishnet in sight.”

  He quirked his mouth, and he crinkled his eyes so kindly that I was suddenly flustered by his praise. Before I could frame an answer, Liam looked up from his next mouthful of rabbit haunch.

  “She be fair as a judge, an’ beautiful besides.”

  “Nonsense,” I told them. “It is time for us to ride. May I ask you, Flann—or rather beg you—to ride with us? Your knowledge of the land would be a boon to us, and your obvious warrior skills, too. I am sure Liam has told you of our purpose.”

  “He has, a cailín, an’ I am deeply saddened by the plight of the captive women. I would gladly wrap me hands around the throats of the freebooters. Me own Tyrconnell is fouled by the stink of them.” He stood then, and I saw that his fists were clenched.

  Flann looked at his cousin for affirmation, and Liam’s answer was immediate and heartfelt. “I would not lose ye, now I ha’ found ye,” he said shortly.

  “Tá go maith,” the clansman said. “I know something of Tory Island. I will ride with your lead party this morning an’ share with them a few ideas.” And with that, he strode away as if not wanting us to see the expression in his eyes.

  Liam leaned over and kissed me deeply, running his hand along my chin and down to my throat. I answered his kiss with a ready mouth, for I had awakened again this morning with a deep longing for his touch. It seemed lately that the more heavy with child I became, the more aroused I was even by looking at my striking husband.

  “Let us put out the fires and leave, a chuisle,” I told him fondly. I caught one of his fingers and brought it to my mouth, wishing we had more time to ourselves.

  “Let me show ye how to put out fires,” he said with frank lust, and he guided my hand to his groin with nary a thought of possible onlookers.

  Mortified, I snatched my hand back quickly. “You are taking advantage of my heaviness.” I pretended to pout. “I cannot get up and run away without your help.”

  He stood then and pulled me to my feet. We embra
ced quickly, Liam tenderly stroking my distended belly, and then it was time to saddle and ride. Later as I rode I wondered, for the many-thousandth time, how Liam could stay so close to arousal always, and how he had handled his needs before we met. I laughed to myself, knowing I would never ask. It was all part of the mystery of Liam that had attracted me and that I loved so much.

  I saw by the sun that our party had begun already to veer to the west, even though Thom and his comrades’ scouting report would have us continue more northerly for another day. I urged Macha forward until I was riding beside Thom and close to Flann and Liam.

  “My friend,” I called out, “are we changing our course somewhat?”

  Thom looked at me with almost surprise in his eyes. “Aye, Caylith, we are. Your kinsman has explained how we may ride more directly while avoiding the worst of the highlands. It may save us close to a day of riding.”

  Flann’s voice was kindly and without any sign of impatience. “You see, lass, to the west? How the mountains rise all gray an’ lonely?”

  “I do.”

  “Those are part of na Cnoic, the mountains we call the ‘Seven Sisters,’ for they are tall an’ fair, like haughty maidens spurning any swain. Ye want to steer clear, though, else be lost in outrageous beauty, for their charms will surround ye an’ pull ye under.”

  “I would see them one day.” I smiled at him, appreciating his bard-like description.

  “An’ I hope ye will, lass, upon a happier time. They have yielded up their charms to me more than once. Streams an’ waterfalls, bluffs an’ clouds of wildflowers…”

  “Our mutual kinsman Murdoch spoke of a—a pig-backed mountain.”

  “There is such. It is called Muckish, or Mucais, for its top looks like any barnyard pig, though one fit for giants. That is one of the Seven Sisters, the one closest to our destination. We will see it even, I think, on Tory Island, for it rises tall from the flattest of land all around it.”

  “Go raibh maith agat,” I told him with a smile, and I pulled Macha up next to Liam. We rode silently for the next mile or so while I looked around at the landscape. As we rode, I could not help noticing that all the horses’ manes, and our own hair besides, were beginning to rise and flap like wind-borne sails. In fact, the more we rode, the more the wind seemed to blow, until I found myself almost shouting to be heard.

  “Flann, is this wind an everyday thing?”

  “It is, lass,” he shouted back, grinning widely. “She is me constant companion in these parts. I call her ‘Béal Mór,’ for her mouth never seems to close like any proper lady. She screams in me ear always.”

  Liam laughed, and the marines were laughing, too, amused by Flann’s colorful speech, appreciating the aptness of his words.

  “Any more surprises?” I yelled at him.

  “Aye, Cate. Then we will meet Splanc Thintrí, the lightning thrower. He is the brother of Big Mouth, an’ just as lively.”

  “When?”

  “In another day, when we near the long, ragged coast. I will tell ye all soon enough.”

  I nodded and rode in silence again, wondering what other of nature’s wonders would rise up to surprise and delight us. And while I was brooding about the wind and lightning, the sky opened up, soaking us to the skin.

  * * * *

  That night, for the first time, I longed for my cozy fire pit and my pelt-laden bed. It had rained steadily all morning and most of the afternoon. None of us were willing to prolong our trip by seeking cover—and besides, there were no handy caves or overhanging rocks where we could crouch out of the fury of the slashing rain. We merely hunched our shoulders and rode, letting Flann’s ingrained sense of direction guide us, for there was no sun and no road to show our way north by west.

  When at last the clouds parted to show a bashful hint of blue sky, I saw that we were only an hour or so from finding an encampment. Again, I dug my heels into Macha’s side and approached Flann.

  He was talking earnestly with Liam and Bunny, and I waited until none of them were speaking. “Do you have any suggestions for where we should encamp?” I asked him. The wind had stilled quite a bit, and I did not have to shout for him to hear me.

  “We were just talking about a camp, Cate. The land here is full of small rivers, and there is many a stand of lovely trees. Ye may settle down almost anywhere an’ still be happy with all but the wet ground. An’ finding dry tinder for our fires.”

  “What do you think about using the tarred cloth, Liam?” I asked him, referring to the queen chair material. At his quizzical look, I said, “The cathaoir beanríon that Michael made.”

  “That is…yes, good idea, Cat.” He spoke to his cousins, and Bunny rode up next to me. “We can spread the tarred cloth on the wet ground and share it among all of us. The only drawback is that we would all have to sleep together like one huge, happy family.”

  “Well, are we not both?” I asked her with a grin, and she grinned back at me. “We are indeed.”

  And so as night gathered its dark cloak around us, we all sat as close together as possible around a very vigorous fire. The tarred cloth under our bums kept the wetness of the ground from seeping even more into our clothing.

  The Forest Wardens had procured a feast for us, from ground squirrels to plump, dark-coated mountain hares. Liam, as always, had immediately set about cleaning and stretching the skins. By the time we reached Derry, we would have a nice collection of pelts for our new brugh.

  Flann sat next to Liam as we ate, and I learned forward to see him better in the gathering dusk. He was wearing a dark band around his head, similar to the one worn by Black Knife. I thought I might fashion a headband for myself, too, as long as I rode in this wild part of Tyrconnell, to keep my hair firmly in place. On Flann it looked almost natural, and it brought his high cheekbones into sharp focus.

  “You spoke earlier about a bally, south of here,” I began, looking up at his sunbrowned face.

  “Aye, that is the one we call Ballyconnell, for we are very original.” He threw his head back and laughed—a genuine, rich kind of laughter that made everyone around him laugh, too. “Me father is a high chieftain, really a king over these lands that embrace the cold sea. Sometimes I wonder if possible outlaws simply let us have it, for it is difficult to gain a foothold on the stubborn rocks.”

  “O cousin,” I said. “How is it you were riding alone in this, ah, part of your country?” I had almost said “desolate,” but I did not want to seem disparaging of this beautiful part of Éire.

  “I often ride alone, lass. Stoirme and I are like old bachelors together.”

  “Stoir—ah, Stoirmi—” That pesky word was one I had encountered when Liam and I had first traveled from one great lake to another. Liam had thought my mouth made a storm in some naughty way I had not quite understood.

  “Call him Storm.” He laughed. “The stallion and I have long conversations about the paths to nowhere. I usually win, and that is how I have gotten lost many a time in the arms of the Seven Sisters. And that is how I have taught me horse to laugh.”

  “But why alone? Have you no home, outside of Ballyconnell? No, um, kinfolk to stay with?” I realized just then that I was probing a bit too much, the same as I had when first I laid eyes on the handsome Liam, wondering if he were married and how many children he had. I asked now from genuine curiosity, but I did not want Liam to think otherwise. “I am sorry, Flann. I do not mean to ask about your private life—”

  “Not at all, Cate. As I said, I am a bachelor. It pleases me to ride alone with the wind at me back. Although some nights I wish there were someone to sing while I play.”

  And then Flann astonished me by pulling a bone whistle from a pouch attached to his belt. Then I surprised him in turn by calling out, in the ages-old expression Brigid had taught me, “Abair amhrán! Play us a song!”

  Before long, Flann’s bone whistle was joined by several mouth organs, all played by the merry Glaed Keepers, and then by Liam’s fine, strong tenor voice.
<
br />   So kittle me kit an’ fiddle me bit

  I’m off to the fair tomorrow.

  An’ frolic me mare

  an’ diddle me dare

  I’m bound for the fair in the mornin’.

  That song, and the next, were straight out of the whistle of Liam’s cousin Ryan Murphy. That philosophic, ribald young man had played the bone whistle better than any I had ever heard until this very evening. Flann was just as accomplished, and his sound made all of us clap our hands as Liam sang.

  Whistle an’ sing, lad, whistle an’ play

  your colleen so pretty, by night and by day.

  Finger her whistle, finger an’ play

  an’ she shall come with ye, an’ ever to stay.

  Hey! Whistle an’ sing lad, whistle an’ play…

  hum a dee deedle, an’ hum a dee day!

  And then, out of the darkness, I heard a sound I thought I had left behind years ago. It was the vibrant thrum of a lute, and its voice invited Liam to sing a love song. As his voice rose, so did his cousin’s, a baritone, and their sounds mingled and floated in the night air, dying so slowly that we still heard its echo long moments after the song had ended.

  I loved a maiden

  a maiden so fair

  but now she has left me

  I cannot say where.

  A ghrá chaill,

  come back to me,

  a ghrá chaill,

  I truly love thee.

  I recognized the song right way. It was the song Liam was listening to when I first met him, when I had the impudence to squat near him and ask him, all bright eyed, to explain the song to me. The words were all in Gaelige, and the monk Brother Mark had replied to my question, “It is all about lost love.”

  The lute itself—ah, that was another matter. The player whose face rose in my memory was young and achingly handsome, with hair so blond it seemed almost white. That memory was even older than my memory of Liam’s first love song to me, and I had to shake my head a bit to clear it from my mind. The face belonged to Kevan—one I lost purposely in order to marry my Liam.