by Erin O'Quinn
“I will start right away, as soon as I finish this sword. But the tub will have to be fashioned of wooden staves, Caylith—not of metal, like a cook pot. We would need a forge the size of Vulcan’s own just to make you a copper bathing tub.”
“Whatever you fashion will be treasured by the both of us, dear Luke.” I grinned, imagining Luke as the giant Roman god of fire, bending his massive hammer to the task of making a metal tub in the bowels of Mount Etna. How would Vulcan look with his hair standing all on end?
“Tell me, how is Liam doing? I have seen him only once or twice since your marriage a few months back.”
In fact, Luke had made us a large elevated bed as a wedding gift, and I blushed to think of the ways we had taken advantage of its size and height. Thinking about Liam gave me a warm glow, and I readily answered my friend. “He seems happy, Luke. That is my main concern.”
Luke pretended not to see my flush. “And why not? He married the most beautiful girl in Derry.”
I heard a familiar voice behind me. “An’ I have said it often, lad. If ye would be wealthy, marry a smart woman. If ye would be a pauper, marry a beauty.”
“And what of a man who marries a comely woman with brains besides?” I asked tartly.
“I should be so fortunate as me cousin Liam, straddling two at the same time.”
Ryan Murphy and I embraced warmly, both of us laughing. There was often a hint of bawdiness in Ryan’s words, and I was almost used to it. He clasped Luke’s hand firmly. “Lad, ’tis good to see ye. I have brought me silver bridle, hoping ye might mend the break.”
Ryan, some four or five years older than Liam, had spent most of his life somewhere in a saddle. He was a cattle drover by profession and by choice. Around six feet, he reminded me of the tawny brown expanses of the grazing land he so loved to ride, for he was brown of hair and eyes, with sunbrowned skin. He sported a short mustache similar to Liam’s but had no beard. To suit the cold weather, he wore leather riding breeches, bríste leathair, and a heavy woolen mantle or brat. His leather riding boots completed the picture of a man very close to his precious cattle.
Next to him, Luke did not seem short at all. In fact, I thought he might be a few inches taller when I measured the strands of hair standing straight up here and there. His eyes and hair were so dark brown as to seem black with shifting hues of steel blue. He wore his customary long bib of leather to protect himself from his own forge work.
I stood listening to my two friends for a while, enjoying Ryan’s light banter and Luke’s more philosophical comments. After ten or so minutes I murmured my farewells and left the two of them talking about silverwork and the future of crop farming.
The chestnut mare shook her head restively when I walked up, her red mane flying in the cool wind. “I am sorry, pretty lady,” I crooned and stroked her muscled neck. Macha disliked being tethered in an unfamiliar place, and I had left her for at least half an hour. “Come, let us go home.”
Back at our holdings, I found Michael and his crew of workers, who were laboring to make our brugh. I had first seen a real brugh, a large multifamily dwelling, when I traveled a year or so ago to the cattle lands of Owen Sweeney, the villain who had held my mother as a slave, flouting the new laws of Éire. His extensive holdings, including Derry itself, were now mine, ceded to me and all the immigrants in my name by the High King Leary.
While I was at Sweeney’s, I had become very familiar with the way the homestead was surrounded by defensive trenches, and how the several buildings were integrated to make it a small town within a town. The large home itself contained separate sleep chambers. The outbuildings even included a cook house devoted entirely to the preparation of meals.
My plans for our own brugh went much further, and I had sat with Michael one night going over the details.
“First, Michael, I must have windows. Many windows. And I want them to be just like the ones in your own teach—made of a substance we can see light through.”
“Caylith, that is called ‘glass.’ It is not my own invention, but it is not often made, for we need a large amount of sand. I have rarely seen it outside of small vials and other trinkets.”
“Can you do it?”
“I can try.”
I told him other plans I had imagined. I would have window boxes outside each window where I could grow colorful plants and flowers. I wanted three or four bedchambers, private from the rest of the house. Shining wooden floors. A large fire pit, constructed of beautiful river stones. A roof not thatched but wood shingled, like the king’s mead hall in Tara, with a skylight of “glass” so that I could watch the moon and stars at night. A room built on top of the brugh itself that would be a large private sleep chamber for Liam and me.
“And, Michael, I want you to visit Gristle’s teach. He has had it built on three levels, following the contours of the land. And he even has a small stream running through. That is what I want, too.”
I had saved the most important for last. “I will be the first in all of Éire to have a Roman-style bath in private rooms. Michael, I will have my mosaic baths, and Jay Feather’s clan will design and build the mosaic.”
Michael sat shaking his head, his blue eyes alight with mirth. “Do ye remember, lass, when ye asked me to build a fleet of longships, and ye would give me one whole year to complete the work?”
“Are you saying I may not have the house of my dreams, dear Michael?”
“I am saying ye need a small army and a large fortune.”
“Ah, Michael, I have both. When can you start?”
And so Michael had brought his betrothed, the lovely Brigid, some three months back, and Father Patrick himself had performed the rite of holy matrimony for both couples. Liam and I had seen that Michael and Brigid had a new teach to live in while he built our homestead. Indeed, he could live in it any time he wanted to stay in Derry.
The building of simple houses was not difficult, for the workers simply erected clay-and-wattle structures, whitewashed to resist the weather. The workers had also built another teach nearby for Ryan to stay in whenever he was in town. Right now, Liam’s brother Torin was staying with Ryan. Thus Liam’s kin had a place to live close to us. I would make sure there was room for his entire large family as time went by. My own kin were another matter entirely…
Now I saw Michael squatting, drawing with his finger in the dirt, talking with a small group of workers. I dismounted. “Dia duit, a chara,” I greeted my friend.
Michael looked up, his brow still furrowed with the task at hand. “Ah, Caylith, ’tis good to see ye. We are trying to decide how to create a small waterfall right in your comfort room. I may need to look again at Gristle’s ingenious plans.”
“I am here to make sure you have enough money, enough workers. Is all going well, Michael?”
“It is, cailín. I am not a shy man. When I need, I will ask.”
“Brother Galen is coming to supper with us tonight. I wonder if you and Bree would join us?”
He stood. “I will answer for me wife an’ say we will, an’ thank ye.”
“One hour past sunset,” I said. “Seámus is bringing barley beer.”
“Thank ye again—for the warning. I will try to keep both me boots on this time.”
I looked up at my old friend, at his laughing blue eyes and dark hair, and I reached out my hand partway to his face, betraying my fondness. Michael’s expert boat making had brought us to these shores, and I cherished his friendship. “That is not so bad as your cousin Ryan. He seems to misplace his left foot.”
We laughed and hugged each other in parting, and I rode to the little teach that Liam and I called home.
Chapter 2:
A Wildness Inside
The teach where Liam and I lived had been built for me more than a year ago when I first moved with the rest of the immigrants from Emain Macha, Father Patrick’s monastery. My friend Magpie and her sisters had found a way to mix plant dyes with the lime and chalk to give the home a soft saffron color, uniq
ue in all of Derry.
The house was otherwise plain and very small. It contained but two windows—one east, one west. We had three benches and a table to accommodate guests. If more were present, some of us sat on the floor. It did boast a large oak bed, fashioned by Luke, built to rise almost two feet. In fact, the bed was so large that it had to be brought into the house in three pieces and bolted together in place.
Other furniture included my own tiny clothes cabinet and two other pieces made by Luke—a large chest and a large cabinet where Liam and I kept our clothing and other personal belongings. A table near the bed held a water basin and ewer. Our weapons were arrayed not in a rack but against a wall. Besides a round, stone fire pit that stood in the middle of the teach, there was nothing more to adorn our tiny home.
I had not asked Michael when the new homestead would be finished. First, I did not want to rush the man. But my second reason was more superstitious. I felt that asking was the same as inviting ill fortune. A home was ready when it was ready, pure and simple. Besides, the construction work was only two months old.
I unsaddled Macha and curried her glistening coat. The wind had not abated, and the manes of the palomino pony and the two mares lifted and flew in the stiff, cold breeze. As I curried, I sized up my thriving garden some fifty feet from the horse stalls, thinking about tonight’s supper. I decided to harvest onions and carrots and a head of cabbage. Later I would sink my line in the Foyle and see what kind of fish we would enjoy tonight.
At last Macha seemed settled, and I fetched a few dried apples from our little root cellar to treat her, Clíona, and NimbleFoot. Finally, I sought the warmth of the house. This morning’s fire had almost guttered out, and I stirred it to rekindle the flames and fed it with stout pieces of oak. When a nice fire was blazing, I set a cauldron of water to boil for tea and changed my clothing.
This morning I had worn a simple but pretty léine of heavy wool. Both men and women in Éire wore them—full-skirted tunics with multicolored sleeves that trailed almost to the ground. The tunics were belted, and extra material was gathered into the belt to whatever length the wearer wanted. The result could be baggy or attractive, according to the cut of the tunic and of course the one who wore it. To be extra dressy, a woman would wear a gúna or gown over the tunic, sleeveless to allow the sleeves of the léine to emerge.
Under my woolen léine today I had worn a plain, ugly undertunic that Magpie had made for me as a deterrent to love play months ago when Liam and I were struggling to abstain. I used to call it my “hair shirt,” but I had to admit it was warm on a cold morning. Shrugging off both layers of clothing, I pulled on my winter leggings. I had never seen a woman wearing triús—trousers—but I had decided long ago that men were more practical in their clothing style than women. The triús were molded to fit the lower legs and thighs rather tightly, but they flared out at the hips. Like my other garments, these had been fashioned by Magpie and her talented sisters.
Over the trousers I wore a short leather tunic, belted, and I slipped a pair of laced leather bróga on my feet. Now I was almost ready for the winds of January. I sat drinking a heady infusion of mint tea, thinking about my frisky play with Liam this morning.
We had awakened to a cold room, so cold that I huddled next to Liam’s body to soak up his warmth and pulled our woolen blanket up to my chin. He was facing me, and his groin woke instantly, an adamantine force to reckon with. I felt his silky mustache on my face, and his soft, little beard, rubbing gently, teasing. “Maidin mhaith, a ghrá,” he murmured into my ear. “Good morning, love.” He licked it then caught my earlobe between his teeth and nuzzled it, pulling and sucking.
Still cold, I strained closer to him and turned my head just a bit, wanting his pliant tongue. I opened my mouth a little and took it in, not ready for the way it began to thrust insistently, rhythmically, while his loins took up the same urgent motion.
I had never liked sudden satisfaction, for it never was, not for me. “Fire!” I managed to gasp, and I rolled over, out of his reach. I pulled one of the animal pelts from the bed and, holding it against my nakedness, I walked to the fire pit. The embers were long dead. I sighed and reached for the woodpile next to the pit. Before I could build a pile of kindling, Liam was next to me. He quickly built an interlaced structure of wood pieces and struck the stone and flint he had taken from the tinderbox.
I stood back a bit and watched him. Never a slave to modesty, Liam proudly wore his nudity like a king’s mantle and his erection like a shillelagh. At more than six feet, he seemed to tower over me, and I had to stand on tiptoe to give him a thank-you kiss.
The teach had been dark, but the fire pit’s flames cast a light that bathed him in a flickering, shifting glow. I loved the way the dark-auburn hair at the crown of his head fell in soft, curling strands against the lighter golden brown of the rest of his hair. His nipples showed up brownish pink against his large chest, and the hairs around his groin were a short, downy version of his auburn crown.
I was drawn to his stiff nipples as though they spoke to me of some inchoate need. I began to lick and suck them, going from one to the other, slowly at first then more and more hungrily. He held my back and shoulders, moving me in a rhythm he liked, and I heard him utter a soft moan that immediately kindled my entire body.
He stooped and gathered me into his arms and carried me back to the bed, laying me on my back. He took a tall candle back to the fire pit and tipped it into the flames, then set it in a holder on the table next to the bed. He stood there a moment, looking at me. Then he straddled me, resting on his elbows, and lowered his mouth to mine again, this time more unhurried. He knew I liked to start slowly, and his soft little bites on my lips and tongue made me start to move up and down against him. Slowly, slowly, his mouth made its way to my breasts, and that is when I could not help a sudden moan. “Oh! There,” I said when his hot mouth took my nipple and half the breast besides.
First one breast then the other was enveloped in his soft, wet, undulating mouth. I let the flames shoot through my body, wanting to prolong the feeling as long as possible. “More,” I demanded, barely a whisper. The pleasure was so acute that now, now I thrust myself against him and demanded satisfaction. He lifted his head from my chest, and I could see the half smile dancing at the corners of his mouth. Now, when my urgency was almost at its peak, he seemed to delight in staying it.
I dug my fingers into his back and his butt. “Anois, now, now,” I cried, furious with him for slowing down. Insolent in his reply, Liam slowly entered me, bit by bit, until I was frantic with wanting all of him. I thrust myself impatiently against his loins and then he could not help riding me harder, deeper, until we seemed to crest at the same moment.
I shook myself back to the reality of my mint tea. Why was it that neither Liam nor I seemed to completely exhaust our passion? Even only ten or fifteen minutes after complete gratification, both of us were always ready to smolder like tinder under the steel and flint of a simple kiss or touch.
I smiled as I pulled on my woolen mantle. Why should I question a stroke of great good fortune? We were made for each other, pure and simple. I think ye be the other half of me I have been seeking. That is what Liam told me in my vision, when he asked me to marry him. And I felt the same. Somehow, he completed me. And so my answer had been “yes.” The joy we felt in each other went far, far beyond the satisfaction of our bodies in a way neither of us knew how to explain.
As soon as I opened the door, a handful of wind snatched my hair almost straight up, and I ran back to find a kerchief to tie around my head and a rather large woven basket from a pile of baskets and earthen pots. That done, I ventured to the garden and filled the basket with a cabbage head, several carrots, and tender, new green onions. For good measure, I threw in a large sprig of rosemary and a bulb of garlic to rub over whatever fish I could snare today.
I set the basket aside and went again into the root cellar at the side of the house. Cool and dry, it was lined with s
mall river rocks. The floor was well-beaten-down soil. I had to feel for the turnips, for I had not bothered to light a candle, and I made a wide pouch of my mantle so that I could pile several inside. Once outside again, I put them into the basket. Feeding five people took a bit of planning, and I hoped I had gathered the right amount.
At last I headed down to the riverbank with the light, flexible fishing pole Liam had made for me from a young willow. The line was made from twisted plies of golden flax, strong enough to hold up to a ten-pound fish. The lure was no more than a bunch of tough clump grass, tied to look like a morsel of food, and hidden inside was a sharp, curved crow’s talon that would catch and hold. I found my favorite spot, where a large, flat rock jutted out over the rapid currents of the Foyle and caused the water below to eddy in a slower vortex.
Cold and windy as it was, I still preferred to sit here dangling a line rather than sitting inside the teach. I loved looking out over the huge river, watching its angry, thrashing currents hit against the rocks that jutted from the water near the shoreline. I had been told that the River Foyle was the fastest in all of Éire, and I could well believe it. Even in warmer weather when I ventured into its shallows along the bank, I could feel the force of the water smashing against my legs, threatening to keel me over and send me headlong down the river and into the lake beyond.
Indeed, the Foyle was so fast and dangerous that its western bank was a natural defensive wall, for no one could possibly ford it. No builder had been found who could span it with a bridge. Thus was our bally defense task cut in half by the river itself. Farther downriver, near the mouth of the Lough Foyle, the Áth Doir—the Derry ford—was our only means across the river, and there we had garrisoned a squadron of soldiers as a guard against invaders.
The guard at Derryford had not always been there. As recently as four months ago, Liam had been taken captive by men who worked for Owen Sweeney. They had ridden from the northern promontory and crossed into Derry from that one place where the banks were flat enough to allow horses to make the crossing, the one place where we had not set a defense. I still winced to think of the consequences. Liam drugged and wounded, almost dead. Owen Sweeney lying like a ravening wolf in his lair, seeming to wait for me. And the price for Liam’s release was abandoning all rights to Derry itself and to all the lands ceded to me by the high king.