“Aye, Father,” she said, frowning at her tea. But the cost was high.
“Michaelmas is held on the twenty-ninth of September to celebrate the harvest.”
“Aye, it’s the same at home… I mean Stranraer.”
“Everyone attends hereabouts, from grandmams to suckling babes. It’s something we look forward to during the growing season. Along with giving Christian thanks, we feast, dance, and race. This year will be especially happy. The harvest was good, and you’re here. It’s a miracle. One of our own restored to us. There’s much to celebrate.”
Curran perched on the edge of the bed, crossing his legs and knitting his fingers through hers. “Next Sunday is Carrot Sunday. All the women come together and dig for wild carrots. Then they bake strùans… a holiday bannock. Men slaughter lambs for the feast and steal horses. On Saint Michael’s Day, we attend church, show honor to our ancestors, and feast. We hold the carrot giving and the oda. There are other sports as well, much like the Highland games, and the normal mischief and drinking.”
“Mischief?” Morrigan said, lifting a brow.
Hugh’s lips twitched. “It’s traditional to ask your true love to become your wife on the night of Saint Michael’s. Sometimes there’s the sort of revelry we clergy frown upon.” He attempted to appear disapproving, but his infectious grin triumphed. “One man watches the crops and circles the town, guarding it from evil spirits. These customs come from a time long ago, when folk believed in gods and witches. Few understand nowadays the old meanings behind what they do. They perform the rites because they grew up seeing them done. I doubt there’s many left who could tell you Saint Michael used to be the god Michael, once upon a time.”
Morrigan shifted to ease an ache in her hip. “How did he become a saint?”
“It’s the same with Brigit, who used to be Brigentis, goddess of wisdom and poetry, long before she became Christ’s foster mother and a saint. Changing their designations made the new religion easier to stomach, centuries ago when Columba converted pagan Scotsmen to Christ. That way, there was no need for folk to abandon their gods and goddesses. They merely addressed them differently.”
“So… they were tricked?”
“Aye, well,” Hugh said, shrugging, “what does it hurt in the end, when folk are saved to go to Heaven when they die? After time, when memories of the old beliefs faded, the new and more proper Christian order took over.”
“But which one is true, then?” Her breathing shortened in warning. She knew instinctively she was leveling a challenge towards a man far more powerful than she would ever be.
“Morrigan.” Curran frowned.
Not only had she cast doubt upon the priest and his beliefs, she’d embarrassed her husband. When would she learn to keep quiet, especially on subjects about which she knew nothing? “Pardon me, Father,” she began, but Hugh lifted a hand.
“Please don’t chastise her. It’s truly like her mother is sitting here in front of us. Hannah questioned everything as well. I miss her. I miss her still.” His voice was so muted Morrigan barely heard him. “Hannah Stewart sparked life in all who knew her.”
When Hugh looked up, Morrigan glimpsed tears in his eyes. He blinked them away, smiled, and said, “Your own name comes from the Celtic war-goddess.”
“I’m named after my grandmam I think, Father.”
His smile widened. “Yet before your grandmam, child, there was the Goddess Morrígan, or some call her Morrígu, the great queen of the Irish Tuath Dé. It’s said she visited battlefields as a raven, and cast spells from dead men’s blood. Why, I remember reading in an old Church tome on ancient myth that the Morrígan and the Greek goddess of wisdom, Athene, were sisters.”
A thrill ran through her. “I’m named for a goddess?” Of all the Immortals of Greece, Athene was her favorite.
“Look what you’ve done, Father,” Curran said, laughing. “There’ll be no telling her anything now.”
Eleanor came in, shielding a cup from drafts. “Hand this to your wife, please,” she said, giving the cup to Curran, who passed it to Morrigan. “It’s a new mixture I’ve brewed, to assist in calming the womb.”
Morrigan thanked her and sipped the tea as Curran said, “I’ve heard The Morrígan called Queen of Nightmares.” He pulled up another chair for Eleanor.
“She sounds bauld and ferlie,” Morrigan said.
“Aye, that describes her well, bold and wondrous.” Hugh nodded his agreement. “Morrígu appeared in many forms, as a beautiful woman, a terrifying hag, a raven. Once, when the hero Cú Chulainn insulted the Morrígan, she vowed to appear when next he fought and wrap round his feet as a serpent, trapping him for his enemy. She was goddess of prosperity as well as death. Her nature was threefold, like our Holy Trinity. Have you ever heard the old Celtic lore about the Trinity?”
“No,” Morrigan said.
“Legend claims that long, long ago, the Trinity was feminine. Mother, Daughter, and Crone.”
It struck her that Hugh Drummond was very much like Louis Stevenson— tolerant and eager for knowledge, unafraid of where it might lead. “How do you know these things, Father?” she asked.
The pink in Hugh’s cheeks brightened and he grinned sheepishly. “I confess the old religions fascinate me. There’s no harm in studying them on a blustery winter’s night. It doesn’t surprise me though that you’re ignorant of your Celtic heritage. My brother, Oswold— he has a parish in Dumfriesshire— often laments the fact that Lowlanders are an over pious lot, dwelling on suffering and damnation over everything else faith can offer.”
“There were festivals and celebrations in Stranraer,” Morrigan said, “but I was never allowed to go. Papa called them rubbish.”
Curran sighed. “She was buried under endless labor when I met her, Father, far too much for one slip of a girl, but Douglas used her like a—”
“Curran….” Morrigan couldn’t bear anyone knowing the truth, not even her husband’s incomplete version. She’d die rather than have folk stare at her with curiosity or worse, pity.
He stopped, though his eyes darkened and his jaw tightened. He turned towards the priest. “I’m going to bring a physician to look at her. I know someone, a brilliant doctor. He treated my aunt.”
“But why?” Hugh frowned as he glanced from one to the other. “Because of this fall? Is it the ankle, lass? The babe?”
“Your wife is healing nicely.” Eleanor gave Curran a challenging glare.
“She’s been having… bad dreams. I want to find a way to stop them, and this man knows about such things.”
With the barest pause, Eleanor said, “She needs no fancy medical man, Master Ramsay. I can take care of her without interference. I wager I already know more about your wife than any city doctor could learn in a year.”
Morrigan half expected Curran to reprimand the woman, but he merely smiled and said, “Perhaps. We’ll talk about it.”
“Eh, well,” Hugh said, “I’ve heard of many unexplainable things happening to expectant women. Some do believe the odd dreams that come to a mother-to-be are memories of the unborn child’s previous life… not that I give credence to such fantasies. I am sorry to hear you’re not resting well.” Finishing the last of his tea, he said, “I’d best make my way to the rectory, or they’ll be sending out search parties,” and clasped her hand after completing the difficult chore of standing. “Visit me when you’re better,” he added, and allowed Curran to help him out and down the stairs.
“Goodbye, Father,” she called. What a dear man. Little doubt remained that he meant to be her friend, unlike William Watson.
Eleanor plumped Morrigan’s pillow and laid a hand briefly on her forehead. “Father Drummond likes you,” she said. “Now tell me about these dreams.”
Morrigan began reluctantly, but Eleanor’s intent interest and ability to listen without interruption soon loosened her tongue. She poured it all out, her fear, her suspicion that the people she saw in the dreams were real, the vividness of the exp
eriences, and most especially the violence they contained. Could they be her child’s memories? She placed a hand on her stomach, aware of the strange connection between herself and another human, in a way she’d never known could exist.
“You certainly need no proud physician coming in here and talking down his nose at you,” Eleanor said. “I’ll insist the master delay that plan until I’ve had a chance to work with you.”
“D’you think we can get rid of them?”
“I don’t know,” Eleanor said. “Let me ponder it.” She drew the blankets up, for the day was chilled and stormy. “Are you certain you truly want to?”
Morrigan started to say of course, but couldn’t. The dreams were always there, weaving through her, as much a part of her as her blood and skin. Now that she considered it, she wasn’t sure she could survive losing them. Would she even know herself?
With a discerning glance, Eleanor said, “There’s nothing like an afternoon nap on a rainy day. It’s good for you, and for the bairn. I’ll come again tomorrow. I think I can roust up an herbal that may help you sleep better, at least.”
“You seem to have remedies for everything, Mrs. Graeme.”
“Mrs. Graeme? I won’t have you calling me anything but Eleanor, mistress. Aye, I have many remedies and potions.”
“Have you something like dreaming bread, that will show the future?”
“Aye.” A smile flitted across Eleanor’s lips. “That’s a popular herbal, that and love concoctions.”
“You have those, too?”
“Why d’you sound so interested?” Eleanor’s gaze sharpened. “It’s obvious you possess the full love of your husband.”
“Oh, I know.” But keeping it could be harder, she didn’t say. “What of the past? Is there a drink for that?”
Eleanor paused. “There are brews that help with seeing the past,” she said. “The problem comes when things are seen that would be better left alone.”
After Eleanor left, Morrigan lay propped upon her pillows, watching the fire burn.
Soon Curran returned. Many hours they spent threading their fingers together, talking, or reading. She learned more of her husband than she had ever known before they married.
All this talk of dreams started her thinking about them. There was that one of the seal turning into a man. Though she hadn’t seen a face, she couldn’t help but associate it with Aodhàn Mackinnon, after so much gossip about him being a selkie. The man had certainly captured her imagination. But why? He hadn’t been welcoming, not like Father Drummond, or the crofters. He hadn’t even joined in the toasts. And he was old. She didn’t know how old, but the lines across his forehead and the grey in his hair revealed the truth well enough.
She’d told herself for years she loved Kit. Then Curran’s smile had liquefied her good sense into a puddle. Now it was Aodhàn Mackinnon. He’d seemed both angry and entranced at the wedding cèilidh. The man lacked any trace of Curran’s charm, and he didn’t possess two coins to rub together. Yet she kept thinking of him.
Perhaps she was what Douglas had called her when he’d caught her telling Kit goodbye. A whore.
Kilgarry’s library provided welcome distractions. Morrigan’s tastes varied from Jane Eyre to Robert Burns, from The Iliad to the works of Allan Ramsay, her kinsman by marriage.
Curran rose early on Friday and dressed in the half-light of daybreak. “I’m going out with the crofters,” he said, buttoning his sark. “There are drainage problems, as usual, in one of the oat fields.”
She tried not to admire her husband, those highly polished boots, the close-fitting kidskin breeks, or the width of his shoulders under a pristine white cotton sark. She’d like for him to come back to bed, but Eleanor had forbidden intimacies, and Eleanor Graeme unnerved her.
“I’ll bring you some Michaelmas daisies.” He bent to kiss her, snaring her in a heady mixture of shaving soap and autumn air.
Her fingertips traced up the front of his thigh, but he didn’t notice. If he was this disinterested now, how would it be when the babe puffed her out like a whale? She tangled her fingers in his hair and bit his lower lip none too gently.
He jerked away. “Why the bloody hell did you do that?”
“You kiss me like I’m eighty years old.” Morrigan glared at him.
He said nothing for a moment, merely frowned, his jaw clenching. “You think it’s so easy for me? Do you think I don’t want you, every second, every day? I could tear that gown from you and have you, four, five… a hundred times. Still I’d want more.”
“And yet you cannot kiss me like a proper husband.”
He bent, growling, “Devil take all women!” He seized her shoulders and gave her the kiss she wanted.
She forgot her petulance. He did want her. Thank God, he did still, but he extricated himself from her embrace and stepped away, leaving her confused, slow to realize she’d been abandoned.
“Are you pleased?” His hair fell over his eyes and he pushed at it impatiently.
“I didn’t mean to vex you,” she said. “I just… I miss you. And—”
“If I do what you so plainly want,” he said, “you could lose the baby.”
“And you’ll have wed me for nothing, is that what you’re trying to say?”
He snapped up his jacket and stalked from the room without another word.
“Go on,” she cried. “Go and enjoy yourself. Don’t come back unless you want to!”
Fury left her breathless. She picked up a beautiful— and no doubt expensive— vase that had traveled clear from India, and almost threw it. Almost. Instead she managed to set it carefully on the floor by the bed.
She must control her anger. It could hurt the child. She had to hold onto sanity, eradicate the insidious red tinge bubbling through the walls and sheeting the glass at the window.
Fisting her hands, she worked to slow her breathing and calm her heartbeat, and had only begun to succeed when there was a knock and Violet entered. “Seaghan MacAnaugh’s come to see you, mistress,” she said.
Morrigan nodded, and Violet quickly helped make her presentable. The maid escorted Seaghan in, then retired to the sitting room with a basket of mending.
He held an enormous bunch of amethyst-colored daisies in one hand, which he presented with a fancy bow. Morrigan thanked him and spread them over the bed, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremble that hadn’t yet left her fingers. The scent of moss, rain, and rich loamy earth filled the room. Smells of freedom. She inhaled wistfully.
“I couldn’t believe when I heard what happened.” His voice, even gentled, still rumbled like a train engine. “And the day after your wedding. What a shame.”
“The wean’s still here, so I’m counting my blessings, and looking forward to Eleanor allowing me out of this room.” Morrigan pasted on a faint smile and tried to pretend she had no emotions at all, like a true lady. How did they do it? No one had ever shared the secret with her.
“She has a magical ability to heal. You must do as she says.”
Heightened color crept up his neck and into his face; his gaze faltered. The topic of pregnancy and bedridden females, no doubt, or was it something else, perhaps the fact that this child was conceived before the wedding?
“True,” she said. “I suppose keeping the babe healthy is worth any amount of boredom.”
“She learned real medicine from her brother in Edinburgh. Then she spent a year with several old Highland wisewomen, learning their secrets. Folk come from all over, even the islands, to be treated by her. I don’t know what your husband did to get her here, but we’re all thankful for it.”
“She did say that if I improve enough, I could go out on Saint Michael’s Day.”
“That’d be grand. Are you familiar with our Michael’s Day customs, Mrs. Ramsay?”
“Curran’s told me a bit. Why are you calling me ‘Mrs. Ramsay’? You were never so formal before.”
He smiled, clearly pleased. “Now you’re wife to the laird, you know,
a grand lady. But you’re right. We’ve gone beyond such formalities, and I’m glad of it.”
“As am I.”
“If you’re no’ on your feet by Sunday, I’d be pleased to collect carrots for you.”
“Mistress.” Violet craned to survey them from the sitting room. “Tess and I are going to do it. We’ve already discussed it.” She slapped a hand over her mouth yet several giggles escaped, turning Seaghan’s face thunderous and sending him into nervous shifting, which in turn caused the chair he sat in to creak painfully.
“Thank you, Seaghan,” Morrigan said. “Fionna told me the carrot-gathering is a woman’s custom. I wouldn’t want to trouble you with it. Lasses give them to their sweethearts on Saint Michael’s Day?”
He shrugged. “Aye, they do, and I’d be pleased to help you any way I can.”
From the other room came more half-muffled giggling and Violet gasped, “I can see you, MacAnaugh, gathering carrots in the forest with your wee knife. Oh, what a picture it makes!”
Seaghan shook his head like an aggravated bull. “Well try not to choke on it,” he said, and changed the subject. “Has Curran told you of his name, what it means?”
“No. What does it mean?”
“Curran is carrot in the Gaelic. Agnes says the Sight told his da to name him so because every lass in the Highlands would want to give him her Michaelmas carrots. Your husband endures many a jest this time of year.”
“Every lass in the Highlands?”
Seaghan blinked, looked guilty, and clumsily backtracked. “In years past, of course. A few hearts are broken, I’d wager, now he’s so happily married.”
“Are they?” Morrigan wondered if any of those ladies would offer him comfort while she lay in this cursed bed, unable to give him more than kisses, which he didn’t want.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 33