by Erin O'Quinn
The story of how I met Glaed and how he became my vassal would take many scrolls to tell. Actually, I thought I may set it down someday, if ever I learned the arcane art of writing. But it was the behemoth Glaedwine and his men whom the Romans mistook for an invading Saxon army, and it was Glaed whom my cousin Milo had come to drive from the battlements of Ravenscar.
He was driven from the tower walls, yes—but not by the stolid, siege-mentality tactics of my ox-headed cousin. Jay Feather the dwarf and his tiny friend Caylith made him yield by the sheer force of thirty-pound swans, using their battering-ram knobby beaks on him and his Keepers. Thus ironically was the giant Glaed brought low by two tiny people and by a bank of angry, nest-guarding swans. And so impressed was he by our stratagem that he pledged himself and his men to me forever in a solemn pledge of fealty.
Glaed straightened and wiped the sweat from his face, wondering no doubt what had happened to Liam. When he saw me, he waved and grinned. His long, gold-streaked brown hair fell around his bearded face, so I could see no expression. But his long mustache twitched and jumped. That was how I knew he was giving me a broad smile. I waved back and turned to my husband.
“A mo thaisce, my darling, I see your work is coming along well. Show me.”
He put his arm around my waist, and we started to walk along the trench works. I motioned to Thom and Glaedwine both to join us, in case I needed a deeper understanding of what I was seeing. The trench had been conceived as a unique way to protect our bally. It was to be defensive, made so that a horse or swimmer could not ford the steep sides. And yet it would channel the swift river Foyle when it was completed, so that it would look not like a ditch but like a charming river running around the perimeter of our settlement.
I asked Thom, “How many feet can be dug and rock layered each day?”
“Well, Caylith, that depends on the workforce at hand. Since I started a few months ago, we have been able to dig almost twenty feet a day. The rock work is slower by half, for it is an art all by itself. Say, ten feet a day of stonework.”
It was an art that Liam knew well, for I had seen him lay in the random river stones so that they fit as though they were a solid rock wall. I stopped and ran my hands along a portion of the inlaid stones. Looking up at Liam, I said, “An-dheas. Very nice.”
He smiled down at me and reached down his hand, bringing me to my feet. “Go raibh maith agat.” That was Gaelic for “thank you.” I did not often say it, for it twisted my tongue. It sounded like “Gu-ra my ah-goot.” I told myself I would practice it every day until I could say it right. Besides, it felt good to be thanked, I thought as I flushed with pleasure at his words.
“How much more time, do you think?” I asked Liam and Glaed.
“To finish?” asked Glaed. “Another year, perhaps. Or less, depending on how many new pilgrims settle here and end up working the trench.”
“B’fhéidir,” said Liam. “Maybe longer.”
I laughed, remembering a conversation I had once had with Liam and Ryan. I had asked then why the people of Éire had no one word for “yes” or “no,” but a nice short one for “maybe.” Ryan had replied that they were a people of “maybes,” and perhaps that was the source of their resilient strength.
“B’fhéidir,” I said. “Maybe I am satisfied by that answer. It is time for me to leave.”
I tipped my head up to give Liam a little kiss, and he smiled into my face. Then he looked down at my form-fitting tunic and said quietly, “Tá tú iontach álainn. You are altogether beautiful. Wear that tonight, Cat.”
“Go raibh maith agat. I will.” We kissed quickly, and I left to mount my pony.
* * * *
That night after supper I asked Liam to bring out his mouth organ and to sing and play for me. He settled down on our expansive bed, legs crossed, and wrapped his mouth around the little, comblike instrument. One hand held it while the other seemed to imitate the wingbeats of a graceful bird, making the sounds flutter and almost wail.
Then, putting the organ aside, he drew me close and sang the same tune, the one that had become my favorite.
She wore a brat as red as her hair
me maiden from Dun-Leary.
The blackbirds called and whistled to her
me maiden from Dun-Leary.
A rose of red they laid on her thighs
an’ a wave of the sea they tipped in her eyes.
An’ never was there a lass so fair
as me maiden from Dun-Leary.
“Me fox,” Liam said in my ear, “me red fox from Dun-Leary.” He put his hand up under my tunic and stroked the little mound of red hairs. “A rose of red they laid on her thighs,” he sang softly. His tongue lifted and fell in my ear as if he were playing it like his mouth organ. I spread my legs and thrilled to his silky stroking as he sought both my mouth and the wetness between my legs.
“Right there,” I said as his fingers caressed my opening and his tongue thrust deeply into my mouth. I sucked it, very slow, and his other hand stroked the top of my breasts, just where they began to thrust from the red pelt.
“Suck my nipples,” I said into his mouth. “Suck me. Go mall. Téigh go mall.” Oh, go slow, Liam.
The very anticipation of his mouth on my nipples made me arch up toward him. As soon as his hot mouth closed on one nipple, I gasped and tremors seized me. “Yes. Suck me. I love it.”
No matter how many times his mouth sought my nipples, it was as though for the first time. There was something deeply sensual about his finding them somehow, lying deep within the animal-hide pelt like cunning little foxes hiding and waiting. The skin around my nipples was full and taut, for I could feel the blood pounding almost on the surface.
At the first sensation of his hot mouth, I felt spasms in my groin, and I told him all about it. He moved to the other nipple, and I was almost crying in my need for more. “Liam, I need your hot mouth. Suck me more. I feel you all the way up inside me. Do it forever.”
With every expression of my passion, Liam seemed to become more and more ravenous, more urgent. It seemed that I had loosed a beast, for he was straddling me now, his breeches still on as though he would burst through the leather. I took his breeches by the waist and almost tore them from his hips. Then we were joined, deeply joined, and he was telling me what he wanted. The words were rough, and descriptive, and no equivalent words existed in Gaelic.
His words and his moans of pleasure made me crest with waves of passion. I could hold back no longer. “Now. Anois!” I was almost shouting as he, too, reached the peak and pummeled me deeply, over and over, moaning his need even as it was spent.
At last we settled back on the bed, holding each other. It was too early to sleep, and so after a while we whispered to each other about what was on our mind. Soon he was telling me how he loved the feel of the stones, putting them together.
“Ye know, Cat, ’tis almost like skin, the touch of a stone. An’ sure each stone is different, each from the other. Ah, I love the colors, the feel. The way I can make them fit, each into the other.” As he spoke, he stroked my arm and shoulder very gently. I marveled at how well he expressed himself tonight. Partly, I knew, it was working with Glaed and Thom. And I thought it was partly because he really did love the tactile experience of working with stones. I, too, responded deeply to stones, and at some level I understood the pleasure he felt from them.
“Will you make us a large fire pit, Liam? For our new brugh? All stone, fit together in lovely patterns…with a place for me to prepare meals. Tall and wide.”
I could not tell if he understood it all, but he stroked my hair and smiled. “Fire pit. Our brugh. I…make it beautiful.”
Then I told him about my “lady triús” group. “Brigid is good, Liam. She will be a warrior. Brindl is already a match for any man. I think Swallow and Magpie will surprise everyone—b’fhéidir, maybe even themselves.”
Liam laughed softly. “Good. Five beautiful women. All with weapons. I am frightened already.�
�
“You need to show me more with the shillelagh,” I murmured, “so I can show the Triús.”
“More bata?” he asked, and his groin began to move against me, already hard again.
“Yes,” I whispered. “More bata. More and more.”
This time I did not wait for him to caress me. I put both my hands at his waist and stroked his thighs and as much of his buttocks as I could reach while lying on my side. “You are like silk, Liam. Soft and hard, too.”
He said nothing, but he put his hands at my shoulders and drew off my tunic, sliding it down to my waist and waiting for me to raise myself a bit so he could pull it all the way off. It was a heady feeling, baring my nakedness so openly, something I rarely allowed. And yet tonight it felt right.
“Do you know why I hide my breasts?” I asked him, putting my forefinger on his mouth.
His mouth opened and his tongue rolled around it, then brought it inside. “B’fhéidir,” he said, with a small smile tugging around the corners of his mouth. He sucked my finger for a while, then said, “Tell me, Cat.”
“It started as modesty. I grew up hiding my nakedness. That is natural, I think.”
I paused, thinking about my own feelings and motivations. “I still feel shy, showing myself. But now…it is also part of the passion. Hiding, then being found. Very satisfying.”
I stopped talking again, letting his mouth explore my finger, marveling at how it made my groin tighten in excitement. “And your mouth sucking my finger. Taking in a small animal from the cold, into your warmth. Very sensual.”
He reached around behind his head and found a smooth marten fur. Placing it tenderly against my breasts, he murmured, “Now. Hidden…Find them later.”
“Oh, Liam. I love you.” I leaned forward and put my head against his thighs, not sucking but just licking and stroking his skin. I wished we could kiss and suck each other all night long, and I told him so. He held my head, then began to stroke my hair. His motions became a certain rhythm, and I knew it was time to fill my mouth with his tireless bata.
“A Cháit. A mo ghrá.” I grasped his buttocks and began to squeeze, hard, until his thrusting became so frenzied that I had to hold his bata while I sucked. “Make me come. Now. Want you now.” His love talk, his moans were so insistent that I almost climaxed myself. When it was over, I was even more aroused than usual, knowing that I had given him such pleasure.
He reached for the marten skin that I had drawn back onto my breasts. “Later, Liam. Tomorrow. Find them tomorrow.” He drew me into his large chest and held me very close. Listening to the hammering of his heart, feeling the heat from deep inside him, I struggled to stay awake. Unable to love him with my eyes open, I closed them and slept.
Chapter 9:
Hidden Treasure
January was drawing to a close, and I expected bitter, cold days and colder nights. I was surprised every day to find that the temperatures were much warmer here, even so close to the great, chill sea, than I had experienced in Britannia. I had been told that yes, the snows would come. And yes, icicles would form wherever water had a chance to collect and drip. Livestock would huddle with their noses against each other. But except on the few days when I felt the rain slanting down, driving its harsh needles into my skin with the force of an angry wind, I found the days to be cool but pleasant.
Today, the day before the Sabbath, was such a day—chill, a little windy, almost cloudless. The dazzling blue sky was almost too bright, and I faced away from the morning sun as I bent and rose, bent and rose in the garden, extracting stubborn winter weeds that had found purchase in the fertile soil.
I had collected a sizable stack of clump grass and weeds, and I set it aside. I picked up the cultivator that Liam had made for me, and I began to attack a new patch of ground with an enthusiasm born of love for the land. I idly wondered why I had neglected my garden for the past few months. Usually, even very cold weather would not keep me from working with the fragrant earth.
In the past, it would have been natural to release my pent-up spirit on a training field, or on a long walk, or on an enthusiastic romp astride my Welsh mountain pony. Or in the garden, as now, turning the hard clumps of earth again and again, and working in bits of straw and limp weeds, making a crumbly soil to plant in. But now, with Liam infusing my life with his wild nature, I was beginning to channel my exuberance in other directions.
I reminded myself that I could, and should, do both. I should enthusiastically welcome each new day, exulting in my new life, and yet still continue to share my high spirits with my husband. I could even daydream about our deeply satisfying love play, all the while performing a well-loved task. The back and forth, up and down of my movements soon lent themselves to memories of this morning.
I had awakened early, an old habit that I hoped would never change. Early as it was, I saw that our fire was glowing brightly and a lit candle stood on the table near our bed. I also saw that Liam was not next to me.
“I…cook today,” I heard his voice over my shoulder. I turned my head and saw him, dressed in an unbelted léine, standing on the other side of the bed. I reached my hand out to him, still not fully awake, and he took it, then eased his long body next to me.
He pulled the woolen blanket up to my chin, teasing me. “Now ye covered,” he said. “I…try to find mo thaisce, hidden treasure.”
I was still drowsy, languid, and I let his hot tongue play over my ears and chin, at last finding my mouth. “Ooh,” I said when he seized my tongue and began to suck. I was usually the one who took his tongue as it thrust and withdrew from my ready mouth. Now I was excited by the reversal in our love play, and I pushed my own tongue in and out of his mouth.
He moaned a little, enjoying the new sensation. His excited response awakened every pleasure point on my body, and I rolled close to him, still tangled in the blanket. Liam was lying on his side, and he used one hand to play with the top of the blanket while the other hand stroked my cheek.
“What…under here?” he asked, moving his mouth to my chin. He began to pull the blanket slowly from my chin to my shoulder, then lower, until globes of soft skin began to emerge from their rough cover.
“Find them,” I murmured, and I could not help thrusting my breasts toward his mouth.
“Tell me,” he said, rubbing his downy beard on my chest.
“Find my nipples. Then suck them. Like you sucked my tongue.”
“Like this?” he asked, and he began to nuzzle one nipple very gently.
The more tenderly his mouth moved, the more I craved it. “Yes. Now harder.” Soon I was straining against him, moving my breasts in and out of his mouth as he licked and sucked one nipple and then the other. I would never know why the sensation of his mouth on my nipples sent me near to climaxing, every time. But instead of wondering, I long ago had decided to welcome it and give in to it, just short of reaching the crest of passion. I would save that until our bodies were joined.
As though he were playing his mouth organ, Liam seemed to know exactly where to move his tongue, when to suck and when to lick. He had to hold me now, for my entire body was thrashing and straining to get closer to his own. He rolled me onto my back and slowly settled onto my thighs, his full tunic billowing around him. I felt his erection, hot and very hard, against my stomach.
I tried to guide him inside me, but he held back. “Tell me, Cat. Tell me. What do ye want?”
“I want…your bata. Do it.” I was almost angry at his teasing, and again I tried to seize his groin and put it between my legs, so close was I to a pinnacle of gratification.
“Say it,” he said roughly, and I told him, words my mother would have punished me for saying years ago. The crude words set him on fire, and he easily penetrated me. I was so close to the edge that as soon as I felt his hot groin, I began to spasm, my inner muscles seizing him, and he cried out.
We were both moaning and still moving a bit, even long minutes after the tremors had ceased. I held him inside me and
reached under his tunic, stroking his long thighs as we slowly rocked back and forth.
“Oh, Cat,” he said at last. “I love ye.”
“A Liam, is tú mo ghrá,” I answered. We were both trying to use each other’s language, and the result was almost as gratifying as the love play itself.
I worked in the garden all morning, leaving only when I saw the entire rectangle neat and dark with newly turned soil. The rows of vegetables, starting with large heads of purple cabbage and gradually becoming very small—scallions, then radishes—gave it an orderly and colorful appearance.
I brought my earthenware jug to the river and filled it, then went inside. I poured the water into my largest cauldron and set it on the fire, then shed my mantle, suddenly too warm. Waiting for the water to heat, I moved our three benches and two tables outside. I pushed the clothes chest and the two cabinets close to the walls, revealing as much of the wooden flooring as possible.
When the water had heated sufficiently, I set the cauldron on the floor and began to scrub, using a square of old wool. Bit by bit, I uncovered the dust and wear that had hidden the gloss of the warm oak. I would like to have many windows, so the daylight could stream in and reflect off the handsome, burnished wood, no matter where the sun had traveled at any time of day. For now, I would have to be content with the two large windows I had, one facing the rising sun, the other on the side the sun would sleep after dipping below the window, then the distant trees.
I forced myself not to think about my brugh, for it would never be built quickly enough for my eager dreams. I did wonder, though, about the windows, the “glass” that Michael had told me was difficult to come by. I knew that he would need a large amount of sand. How far away, I wondered, would we have to go before we would find an expanse of sand? All the way to the ocean? And then, how would we transport it? And what other materials besides sand would be needed before the raw materials mystically became a hard, almost transparent substance?