Father Byrne began the service in Latin, which most understood well enough.
Éamonn glared at the ceremony, numb with indecision. He couldn’t let this happen, could he? Didn’t the hero always swoop in and save the damsel in distress before she succumbed to a fate worse than death? He must save Katie.
Father Byrne called for rings. Éamonn couldn’t take it anymore. He had no plan. He just needed to grab Katie and take her away. At least, that’s what he tried. Ruari gripped him on one shoulder and Ciaran on the other. He wrenched free of his cousin, but his brother wouldn’t let him go. Despite his injured arm, which still appeared red and bandaged, he was the stronger man by far.
“I’ve got to take her away! It’s my last chance!” He sobbed, but Ruari wouldn’t budge. His shouting drew angry glances and comments from the wedding party. He saw Katie glance over at them. He struggled harder.
“You can’t do anything, Éamonn. Look, it’s done.”
He didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to see Katie given to… to that feckless Scot. He didn’t want to imagine her with him—
He wrenched himself free but didn’t go to fetch Katie. Ruari was right. It was done.
The priest said, “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Oh, God, how had he let it happen!
Before he bawled before hundreds of onlookers, he rushed out of the crowd and headed… where? Where could he go to ease the pain?
Ciaran’s poitín bottle was the easiest answer. Though only late afternoon, Éamonn didn’t want to remember this day at all. He found his cousin’s wagon and rummaged through the mess to find his hidden stash. The man had brought out at least one bottle each night, sometimes two. He must have an enormous supply hidden away somewhere. Éamonn flung things around the space. Soiled clothing, a bridle which wanted mending, a half empty food bowl, hay for Ciaran’s mule. Where would he hide the precious cargo?
With a click of his tongue, Éamonn climbed out of the wagon and crawled under it. He tapped several sections until he found one which sounded hollow. Then he carefully examined the edges of the wooden planks, pressing and pushing until he found what he was looking for, a clever little trap door hidden in the base. A click and a slide revealed two lonely bottles of the strong spirit. That would do for him.
He had just risen with his purloined treasure when Ciaran, Ruari, and Turlough arrived. Their faces were all set in grim lines.
Squaring his back, he refused to say a thing. The fact his cousin had caught him stealing was bad enough. Stealing alcohol was worse. Almost as bad as stealing a horse. Or a bride, he thought, with a cynical snort.
“Éamonn, that’s not the answer. Here, let me take those for you.” Turlough reached for a bottle, but Éamonn pulled it back. Ciaran plucked it neatly from his hand, having gone behind him. Éamonn’s shoulders slumped. He couldn’t even do a liquor raid properly.
“Éamonn, there are channels of complaint. She ought to have been given a chance to refuse, by our customs. I will take it up with the council on your behalf if you still want to, after—”
“After he beds her, you mean? He’s probably doing so as we speak.” Éamonn spat in the dirt beside his feet.
“No, not yet,” Ciaran spoke quietly.
Éamonn rounded on his cousin. “What? Why not? What do you know about it?”
“Katie’s refusing him until they get back to his home. She screamed as much after the ceremony. She’ll not give her maidenhead until she’s met his father. And he’s back on Skye!” Ciaran smiled smugly to impart this juicy piece of gossip.
“Oh, ho! Well, there’s hope then, isn’t there, son? Marriage isn’t official until it’s consummated!” Turlough clapped him on the shoulder.
Sure, a hope. A slight one, to be sure, but a hope after all. And there were worse things to do than cling to a slight hope in one’s pierced heart.
“So, what’s the plan?”
“I’ll stay here and fight the marriage contract with the tribal council as it was against her will. When they leave, you follow them. Try not to catch up to them, not yet. Not until they’re almost to their home. I’ll send word with what I’ve been able to do. If I can get a decision before they reach Skye, that’s grand. We can’t stop them from going, but if the marriage is deemed invalid, you can just pluck her away from them and be done with it.”
“And what if you can’t break the marriage?”
“Ah, well, we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, won’t we?” Éamonn was glad at the twinkle in his father’s eye. This fight gave him vigor. “Besides, I must stay here anyhow. Fionnuala’s got a fever, and I must stay with her.”
“Fionnuala? She felt fine the other night at the dancing—”
“She’s been running hot. Malachy hasn’t left her side in two days.”
“But I should stay… she’s my sister—”
“You will not. You go chase your bride, Éamonn. I’ll take care of things here.”
“I’ll come with you, Éamonn.” Ruari’s bear paw settled on his shoulder, and he got a warm glow at his brother’s loyalty.
“Me, too.” Ciaran put his own hand over Ruari’s.
* * *
Lochlann couldn’t believe his luck—either the good or the bad part. The good part, of course, he was now married to a beautiful little fireball. The bad news, she had a tongue like a viper and a will of iron.
Donald and Lochlann were both Travelers, but their winter home was on Skye. Their father, Calum, lived as settled folk, but their mother had Traveled before she married. The boys continued her Traveler ways and traded horses up and down the Western Isles. This trip had been the farthest they had ever ventured. It hadn’t been without perils and problems, but they enjoyed the life.
He sighed and packed the mess in the wagons. They had a lot to do before they began their homeward journey. There were several trunks with clean clothing, and a neat pile with the dirties. The few dishes and pans they had recently used were already clean. Most of the trade goods were in the second wagon, while they were sleeping in this one. They would have to shift things now for a third person. He’d have to survey what they could move. Stepping from the covered red-and-blue painted wagon, he stopped to look at his bride.
Katie sat on a stool in front of his wagon. She still wore the pale blue woolen dress she’d married in, but her hair was no longer pulled up. Red curls danced in the breeze. The thin rope from the marriage ceremony still dangled from her wrist. They had untied his wrist before leaving the altar.
She had her arms crossed and refused to look at him as he organized the trunks and cases. The muscles in her jaw worked as she held her tongue. That was a relief, at least. The scene directly after the wedding had been painful.
He had brought his lovely bride back to the wagon after the ceremony. She had walked beside him but refused to touch him in any way. She wouldn’t take his proffered arm, nor even his hand.
Donald had taken exception to this. “You’re his wife now. Behave like one.”
Katie had ignored his command. Lochlann didn’t wish to push the matter.
“I’ll leave you two alone for a couple hours, but we’ll have to start packing soon.” Donald surveyed the campsite. Lochlann usually kept it tidy, but the wedding preparations had disrupted his routine.
Katie’s voice had sounded sharp. “You needn’t leave us alone. There will be no ‘wedding night.’”
Lochlann had stood, flabbergasted. “What do you mean, no wedding night?”
“Exactly that. I refuse to submit to you. I am in this marriage against my will.”
Donald had spit to one side. “Lochlann, just take the wee bitch into the wagon. She’s tiny. She won’t be much trouble.”
Lochlann had shaken his head. “Donald, I don’t hold with rape, even of my wife. She’ll come around.”
“Command her! She has to obey. It’s the law. Good God, ya bampot! Get yerself a backbone, will you!”
“And what
sort of marriage will that be, then? No, it may take time, but it’ll come.”
Katie had snorted. “Don’t hold your breath, now.”
Donald had growled under his breath and raised a clenched fist.
The girl had blanched but stood her ground. Donald had stepped forward slowly. She’d flinched back.
“Fine! I’ll bed him, but not until I meet your father. It’s only proper, after all.” She had raised her chin in defiance.
Lochlann had shrugged, glancing at Donald.
“Hmph.” His brother huffed away.
With a sigh, Lochlann had turned to his bride. “Don’t antagonize him, Katie. Really. He’s got a fearful temper.”
“And so it’s your duty to protect me, is it not?” Her haughty tone had been hard to bear. His patience had run thin.
“And if you goad him, you’ve yourself to blame when he snaps!” With that, he’d gone into the second wagon.
He didn’t want to go home. Going home would mean he would have to face his father. He hadn’t spoken to Calum MacCrimmon since they’d fought a year ago.
“But Da, the horses need selling. No one on Skye needs horses just now. We can’t just let them sit in this god-forsaken edge of the world!”
“You’re to serve with the MacLeods for the king, son. Do you defy my decision?”
Lochlann was loath to fight for the English king. His own conscience told him Prince Charles was the rightful king of Scotland. But it would have been useless to tell his father this.
“Da! It’s not a matter of defiance. I can’t even play the bloody pipes!”
“And you’d rather gallivant across the Isles and trade like a common merchant? Have you no pride in your name?”
“Mother traveled all her life, Da. You didn’t seem to think it beneath her.”
“Don’t you dare bring your mother’s good name into this! She was of the Travelers, yes, but she settled down to give birth to you. She mended her ways.”
“It’s not a crime! It’s a way of life.”
“Not for a MacCrimmon, it isn’t.”
They had left anyhow, without their father’s blessing or permission, taking the horses to Ireland to sell.
Their father had wanted them to pledge their troth to the laird and become his men. Lochlann and Donald had both refused.
On top of all that, their father wanted them to be part of the MacLeod’s army as soldiers. The laird supported the English government, and King Geordie in London. As much as he wanted to, Lochlann couldn’t bring himself to support the usurper. His heart lay with the Jacobite cause. He could never tell his father he believed in Prince Charles, but he couldn’t lie to his own conscience.
Katie’s sister, Deirdre, had joined her, and they were talking in low whispers when he emerged. They glanced up upon hearing him. If looks could freeze, I’d be a glacier. Katie would grow to like him. Everyone said he was a likable chap. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he got along well with most folks. He loved the horses he traded, and they responded well to him. Even Donald had his good traits, a strong fighter, and fiercely loyal to the family. His brother excelled at making plans, as well. Lochlann preferred to take things as they came but it didn’t always work. Like the current deal.
He hadn’t come to this festival planning to marry. The brothers had hoped to unload the grey stallion, Smúid, and get top price for the beast. They had a couple of mares as well, and one gelding. They were all fine cobs, but the stallion was the prize. But Donald had told him their father would be mollified if he came back with a wife, proof of his intention of settling down, so he had agreed to the match with Katie. He regretted that decision now.
Well, they were coming away with far more than they had bargained for. They had sold the stallion for a wife. The transaction bothered Lochlann, especially since Katie stood so opposed. But her father had agreed to the deal, and she still lived under his roof. He had the right to arrange her marriage. It would have been more proper if their own father had been there to make the negotiations, but his older brother would suffice.
Deirdre finally left, with one contemptuous glance over her shoulder, flicking her lovely black hair. Then he shook his head. He had a wife now, and his thoughts should linger on her, not her sister. He wished to do more than think about his bride, but she remained adamant about that as well. He sighed. It would be a long, frustrating trip home indeed.
He straightened from packing one of the trunks, putting a hand to the small of his back. It ached from bending over so much. A glance at Katie confirmed she still perched on the stool, staring into space like a statue.
“Katie?”
She looked up, listless.
“Never mind.” He went back to his packing with a guilty heart.
A boy ran to him, ragged and dirty. He carried a packet.
“You Donald MacCrimmon from Skye?”
“I’m his brother, Lochlann.”
“I have a message for Donald.” The boy, about eight, narrowed his eyes.
“I’ll take it. Here.” He flipped a doit to the boy. The messenger caught it expertly and handed over the packet.
He saw a leather wallet, tied with several pieces of twine, with an oilskin pouch tucked inside. Unfolding this, he found the letter.
He scanned it and blinked several times. He read it again, more slowly. Then he went to search for his brother.
Chapter Seven
Éamonn sat by the cot near the healer’s wagon. Fionnuala slept now, but her skin was flushed and dry as if stretched thin. He gently wiped her forehead with a cool, wet cloth.
How could he leave his sister like this?
“Her body won’t take much more of this. We’ve got to break the fever.” Éamonn had never seen Cormac so worried.
“What can we do?” Turlough paced back and forth, his hands pushing through his hair in frustration. Síle stood in a corner, singing to her sister in a clear, high voice. She sang a sad song about love lost. It brought tears to many an eye. Her voice broke, and she cried as well.
“Keep her cool, make sure she drinks the honey water, and pray. Pray to St. Brigid to heal her and give her strength. It’s about all we can do.”
Etain sat there with her husband, Tor. Tor appeared out of place in this crowd of Dohertys, but he brought food for those sitting vigil.
How could Éamonn even consider going off to chase a dream when his sister might die? Ciaran arrived, with Deirdre.
Éamonn frowned at Deirdre, but she simply smiled at him. Reluctant though he was to forgive her, he softened with her lovely smile.
Ciaran, on the other hand, had a dour expression, even more so than earlier. Éamonn cocked an eyebrow at his cousin.
Ciaran simply pointed up. Éamonn saw crows circling.
It didn’t seem relevant, but knowing Ciaran and his superstitions, Éamonn understood. Crows flying over a home meant death. This wasn’t precisely a home but a sickroom, and people dear to his heart were ill.
Ruari had already been here all afternoon, but not attending Fionnuala. Instead, he lay on the next cot, his arm burning with a fever of his own. The healer had packed it with honey and herbs, but the inflammation proved difficult. They worried he might lose his arm. That was as bleak to Éamonn as the idea of losing his sister. Ruari relied on his strength and muscle for his livelihood.
Síle finished her song and glanced up for further instructions.
“Why don’t you go make her a Brigid’s Cross, a leanbh? It will help the saint find her and send healing blessings down from heaven, aye?”
With a bound, the girl went off to find straw to weave the charm. Brigid had been a goddess before she became a saint. Both were healers, so it made no difference to Éamonn which were true. The Brigid’s Cross was a small thing made from rushes or straw. They were traditionally made on Brigid’s Day and hung in many kitchens to ward off evil or fire.
He had done some experimenting with his new-found talent during the day. He could give a simple request,
as he just had with Síle, and get no strange results. If he pushed with his mind, a tangible shove, he might get someone to go along with something, if only briefly. If he truly put his heart into it, he got full agreement, but it came with a cost, and sometimes he might see an image of the person’s emotions if they were strong. The rapport didn’t last long, and he invariably got a wicked headache afterwards, sometimes to the point of vomiting. Even a tiny push left him with a throbbing head. Some people were less susceptible to his suggestions than others. Donald, for instance, remained beyond persuasion, while Lochlann was more pliable. Just not pliable enough. Éamonn hung his head at his failure.
“Here, I brought enough for everyone to make one. We can make an army of them!”
Síle handed out handfuls of straw to each person. Deirdre took hers and knelt next to the girl.
“I don’t remember how to make them, sweetling. Can you show me?” They were simple to make, with a woven square in the center and four arms tied at each end.
Éamonn was grateful to her for keeping Síle occupied. She had been just a baby when her mother had died. Oh, please be to God, don’t make her watch her sister die, too.
The night was clear and warm, lucky since the patients didn’t all fit in Cormac’s tent. The stars were just beginning to peek out of the velvet indigo sky, one by one. They winked in and out, dancing behind the clouds. The starlight sparkled on the river. They reminded Éamonn of the dancing faeries at the standing stones. He shuddered at the memory. Had it been a dream, or had he actually seen the Fae dancing? The events of the day jumbled together into a confusing mess. He needed time to sort it all out, but time was in short supply.
He finished his own Brigid’s Cross and hung it from one corner of Fionnuala’s cot. She moaned and stirred in her sleep. He put his hand on her forehead, but it was as hot and dry as it had been all day. He placed another wet cloth on her head.
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