He glanced over the side, dismayed at the sight of large branches caught in whirling eddies. The river’s mood was changing. He braced his legs and folded his arms across his chest, keeping an eye on the water. Soon debris swirled around them; tree trunks, dead fish, and animal remains churned up by whatever lay ahead.
“The channel narrows,” Iago shouted hoarsely.
Getting back to the prow proved to be more difficult as the boat lurched and bobbed in the rushing waters. Sibrán worked his way along the hull, steadying himself with a hand on the broad shoulder of one oarsman after the other as they pulled hard to keep the craft steady. To a man they rasped, “My prince,” in acknowledgment of the honor bestowed upon them at being touched by a member of Gaelicia’s royal family. He’d handpicked the entire crew, confident of their unquestioned loyalty.
Iago held on with both hands, something he rarely did in the roughest seas. Sibrán deemed it better not to make any remark, accepting it as a confirmation of the warrior’s advancing age. He too reached for a handhold when he regained the prow. “How far until calmer waters?” he asked.
Iago hesitated, peering at the roiling river, his brow deeply furrowed.
Sibrán sought to allay his distress. “It’s been a long while since you travelled this way, old friend. No one expects you to remember every twist and turn.”
Iago grunted, his gaze fixed on the river. “Except me.”
Soon the channel widened and they were carried along on the rushing tide. Iago let go of the prow and turned to Sibrán. “Smooth sailing for…”
The boat shuddered when it struck a submerged rock. Water gushed into the keel as the vessel careened into the middle of the channel. Anger and disbelief contorted Iago’s face when he lost his balance, staggered to regain his footing, then fell backwards overboard.
Without hesitation, Sibrán unbuckled his sword belt and leapt into the river. It was his duty to save his faithful servant. Though he’d spent his life on the sea, Iago had never learned to swim.
Aislinn knew in her heart something dire had happened before she heard the shouts from the Bhearù. Lop pricked up his ears, then bolted in the direction of the commotion. She shifted into a wolf-bitch on the run as she followed, sending a silent order to her escort to hasten to the river.
By the time she arrived at the bank, Lop was paddling strongly towards two men who were being swept upstream by the tide. One had his arm clamped around the other’s neck. Her blood ran cold when she realized it was Sibrán struggling to save his navigator’s life. Lop might rescue one, but not both.
The boat had evidently struck a rock. The crew were frantically bailing out water, some with buckets, others with bare hands. Kair leaned precariously over the prow, shouting desperate encouragement to the drowning men. If Sibrán survived the upstream struggle amid the debris, the tide would turn soon and he’d be swept out to sea.
With a sinking heart, she recognized Moqorr’s handiwork. The High King had evidently grown impatient with her and decided to do away with the Iberian prince. She would face his wrath.
Then she inhaled deeply as fury shook her. The Prince of Gaelicia was a brave warrior, an honorable man who had done nothing to deserve such a fate.
Lop reached the men and Sibrán pushed Iago to latch on to the dog. Her pet struck out for the bank with his spluttering burden clinging to his neck.
Aislinn had a lifelong fear of water, but when Sibrán’s head disappeared beneath the surface she leapt into the river and paddled frantically towards him.
Choking on acrid saltwater, Sibrán broke the surface and filled his lungs with air. His wet hair obscured his vision and his heart lurched when he saw Lop swimming toward him. He’d assumed the dog had saved Iago, but it was impossible for the animal to have returned so quickly from the bank.
Treading water to stay afloat, he raked his hair off his face, turning his head just in time as a large tree limb crashed into his shoulder, forcing him under again. He had a sense the tide was turning. The prospect he might yet drown in the very sea he had recently crossed infuriated him.
He kicked hard, nigh on colliding with Lop on the surface. In his state of near exhaustion and frustration it occurred to him the water had turned the dog’s grey coat red, but he hooked his hand in the bronze collar and flung an arm over the animal’s back.
It was humiliating—the Prince of Gaelicia saved from drowning by a wolfhound.
Lop struck out for the bank, paddling strongly. Sibrán kicked to help propel them both to safety.
He heard the cheers of his men as he crawled up the muddy bank and collapsed onto his back. He closed his eyes against the dousing as Lop shook the water from his coat. When he opened them, the dog had disappeared. He rolled onto his side and coughed up foul-tasting river water. Once his breathing steadied, he looked up the bank, astonished to set eyes on Iago being helped to his feet by two Tuathan giants. “I thank you, my prince,” his comrade panted. “You saved my life.”
Sibrán shook his head as he sat up. “Not I. But I don’t understand how the dog saved us both.”
Iago shrugged off the help of the guards who melted away into the bushes without a word. “He didn’t. There were two hounds. The bitch swam out to you.”
Sibrán pulled off his water-logged boots then stood, rubbing his sore shoulder as the crew labored to shove the damaged boat to the bank. Inisfail was certainly a land of mystery. Ferocious storms arose in clear blue skies. Raging rivers suddenly calmed. One dog could turn into two. And then there was the elusive fawn.
He was relieved Aislinn hadn’t witnessed his humbling rescue by a dog, a bitch at that. The Tuathans had obviously known of the accident, been aware of who was in difficulty in the Bhearù, yet Aislinn hadn’t been concerned enough to appear at the river.
Your Hair is Wet
Aislinn nodded her thanks to the silent Tuathan warrior who wrapped her shivering human form in a blanket and carried her to the litter, though he risked Moqorr’s wrath by touching her.
Her limbs had turned to ice when Sibrán grasped hold of her collar and allowed her to save him, no doubt believing she was Lop. Only Moqorr terrified her more than deep water.
Isolated since childhood within the settlement at Tara, she’d accepted her fate—until now. Some inexorable alchemy forced her to acknowledge the truth. If Sibrán of Coruña had drowned, she would have followed him into the depths.
Instead she’d saved him and his navigator from Moqorr’s foul intent. Iago was a seasoned mariner who would never have fallen overboard unless he’d been the victim of sorcery.
Sibrán’s leap into the swirling waters to rescue his comrade only confirmed her opinion of his courage and worth. If her actions caused Moqorr’s censure to fall on her, so be it. His reign had brought only terror and oppression.
The Gaelician had declared his intent to establish his own kingdom, with her as his queen. He was right. Inisfail cried out for a new High King who would rule with integrity and love. The land and the people would prosper under such a monarch, if only she had the courage to break free of Moqorr’s tyranny.
Sibrán’s boat sat half submerged in the muddy shoals. He and his dejected crew surveyed the damage.
“It can be remedied,” Kair offered.
Sibrán scratched his beard. “We’d lose several days, and hasty repairs wouldn’t survive the next rapids we might encounter.”
Aislinn had said the river would take them close to the Fort of Kings, but he had to face the reality that traveling on foot might prove to be the better plan. He should discuss the matter with her, but she’d failed to come to their aid. Mayhap Iago was right and she didn’t intend for them to reach Tara.
If they lost their boat to the ravages of the unpredictable Bhearù, there’d be no means of a quick escape from Moqorr’s court.
“Remain here,” he told Iago. “Pick a skeleton crew to make repairs. The rest of the men will accompany me overland.”
Iago bristled. “I’ll not be
denied my chance at revenge for Nith’s murder,” he growled. “You will have only Aislinn to guide you if I am left here.”
Sibrán put a reassuring hand on his navigator’s shoulder. “You must agree we cannot proceed much further by water. I need you to supervise the repairs and ensure we have a means of retreat if things don’t go as planned in Tara.”
Iago stared at his wet boots. “I will obey, my prince, though I fear for what awaits you if you place your trust in Aislinn.”
Despite Iago’s warnings and Aislinn’s apparent lack of interest in his near drowning, a steady voice deep in his heart assured him she meant no harm. “I’ll take a contingent to the Tuathan camp to apprise them of our new plans. Get shelters set up here and send out the hunters.” He smiled in an effort to ease Iago’s fears. “I’ll expect hearty fare when I return and a roaring fire to dry my clothing.”
Once the shivering ceased, Aislinn changed into dry clothing inside her litter, grateful for the privacy and comfort afforded by the heavy curtains. She rubbed some of the moisture from her hair with a linen cloth, then stepped outside, drawn by the heat of the crackling fire built by the guards. A nearby tree would provide a good place to hang her wet clothing. Lop lay next to the fire, his giant head resting on massive front paws. She chuckled. “Too lazy to get up, I see,” she teased. “Don’t worry. You deserve a rest.”
The dog closed his eyes with a deep, satisfied grunt.
Her captain approached as she was draping the wet chiton over a tree limb. “Prince Sibrán will come,” she told him, not surprised when he didn’t meet her gaze. “His boat is damaged and he will travel overland with us. Light more fires to dry the Gaelicians’ wet garments and prepare food for our guests.”
He bowed and hastened away to do her bidding. She watched him go, perplexed again about the giants in her escort. An obedient and servile armed guard was necessary, but these Tuathan warriors, like many she’d seen in Tara, were in Moqorr’s thrall. Apparently their individual magic wasn’t powerful enough to resist his control, any more than hers was.
Yet you have resisted, she thought with proud trepidation.
The Gaelicians made no effort to conceal their approach a short time later. Sibrán evidently wanted her to understand he came in peace.
An urge to rush to him filled her heart as he strode out of the trees. She wanted to tell him of her immense relief he hadn’t drowned, that the accident was none of her doing.
But anger creased his brow.
She held out her arms in a conciliatory gesture, suddenly aware she’d left the copper bracelets in the litter. “Welcome,” she said. “My men have lit fires and prepared food. Warm yourselves and eat.”
Sibrán came to a halt in front of her, legs braced, hand on the hilt of his sword. His scowl softened only slightly as his eyes roved over the fires, the guards, the chiton hanging in the tree, then back to her.
Several who’d accompanied him licked their lips as the aroma of roasting meat filled the air.
“We cannot stay,” he declared. “I have left men at the river. The boat needs repairs.”
A groan of disappointment rose from the crew.
“You therefore plan to journey overland with us,” she replied.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve already sensed as much.”
“Food will be carried to your men at the river,” she continued, desperate to keep him where she could more easily protect him if Moqorr struck again. “Please do not refuse my offer of hospitality.”
His crewmen held their collective breath. Though they stood behind him, he must feel their eyes on his back.
He smiled at last and bowed slightly. “Very well.”
Whoops of glee resounded as his men went off to the fires, steam rising from their wet garments.
“You have made them happy,” she murmured.
He stepped closer and combed his fingers through her hair. “No. You have once more done that.”
He narrowed his eyes and looked again at the damp chiton in the tree, then turned back to her. “Your hair is wet,” he whispered.
A peculiar notion flitted into Sibrán’s thoughts. Perhaps Aislinn had indeed been at the river and witnessed the near-catastrophic events. It would explain her wet clothing and damp hair. He hadn’t seen her because he’d been preoccupied with struggling to stay alive!
Perhaps she too had fallen into the river then fled back to her camp, though that didn’t make sense.
Or she wanted to spare him the embarrassment of knowing she’d seen him rely on a wolf-bitch for aid.
He glanced at Lop sleeping by the fire. “Your brave hound saved my life,” he told her.
“Yes,” she confirmed, taking his hand and leading him to the heat. “Lop is courageous.”
He shook his head, suddenly remembering the reddish tinge of the animal that had come to his rescue. “It was the other dog.”
She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held fast. “You didn’t tell me Lop has a mate.”
She averted her gaze. “Yes,” she murmured.
He heard the lie in her voice but didn’t understand the reason for it, and where was this elusive dog?
They stood hand in hand for long minutes, staring into the flames, mist rising from his garments and boots, his mind in a whirl. He prided himself on the care he took of his body and hated the stink of the river lingering on his skin.
“Come to my litter,” she said, gesturing to a heavily draped palanquin, half-hidden in the trees.
He understood now how she traveled. He’d wager it took eight of the burly guards to carry the substantial conveyance. Her soft voice broke into his reverie. “You will have privacy to remove your clothing there, then we can dry it by the fire. There are blankets in the litter, and drying cloths.”
Once again she’d sensed his feelings and foreseen his needs. He should refuse but the urge to be rid of the wet chiton and boots was overwhelming. “Lead on,” he replied.
You are Killing Me
Sibrán stepped up into Aislinn’s palanquin and entered a different world. The litter was more spacious than the one that carried his mother wherever she went. However, the Queen of Gaelicia had a taste for lavish decoration. The interior of Aislinn’s conveyance was what he would have expected—simple and tasteful. It consisted entirely of a padded surface shaped into reclining seats that looked comfortable enough to sleep on. It was tantamount to standing in a cloud.
This was where Aislinn slept. It explained why she looked perpetually refreshed.
“I can send a servant to help you disrobe,” she said.
He came close to asking her to assist him to peel off the wet raiment, but avoided the trap. “No. Even a prince learns how to do these things after long days at sea.”
She smiled at his jest, and he was glad he’d chased the nervousness from her lovely face.
She bent to retrieve her copper bracelets from one of the seats. “I’ll take these out of your way.”
He took hold of her wrist. “Let me.”
She hesitated, then handed over the adornments. He slipped one after the other onto her slender arm. Still holding her wrist, he admired his handiwork, considering the notion of bestowing kisses the length of her arm. “These were crafted with love and care,” he remarked. “They are objects of great worth.” Despite his best intentions, his eyes drifted to the torc around her neck.
She flushed as her free hand went immediately to the inferior piece. “It’s bronze,” she murmured. “Not copper.”
“Why do you wear such a thing?” he teased.
She looked up at the ceiling. “I have no choice,” she whispered.
His breath caught in his throat as his eyes traced her long neck, but surely he had misheard. “You’re not a slave. Who forces you to wear this?” he demanded, though he suspected he knew the answer. “It’s a collar for a dog.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “You are a guest in our lands. It isn’t your right to question the way things are in Inis
fail. Moqorr rules here and I am his willing bondservant.”
He pulled her to his body. “Does this mean you do his bidding without question?”
She closed her eyes and nodded as tears rolled down her cheeks.
He clenched his jaw. It was time for the truth. He had to find out if she meant him harm before they set out on the overland trek. “I do not believe you.”
She sobbed and leaned her forehead against his chest. “He owns me.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away. “Open your eyes and look at me.”
After long moments, she obeyed.
He peered into the green depths. “Tell me truthfully, does Moqorr intend for us to reach Tara?”
She shook her head.
“And did he send you as the instrument of our deaths?”
She swallowed hard and confirmed it with a nod.
He tightened his grip, hoping and praying that what he suspected of her motives was true. “Then why have you gone out of your way to provide food and water?”
She closed her eyes. “Please,” she begged, “release me.”
“Not until I hear the truth,” he insisted. “Why have you not commanded your guards to slay us?”
Her eyes flew open as she looped her fingers in the torc. “Please,” she replied hoarsely.
“If you meant to drown Iago, why did you allow Lop and his mate to rescue us?”
She pulled frantically at the torc. “Please,” she pleaded hoarsely, “he will choke me. I wasn’t the one who caused Iago to fall overboard.”
His gut clenched as she gasped for breath and her face reddened alarmingly. He didn’t know if the torc was truly tightening around her neck, or if she simply believed it was, but he was convinced removing it was the key to her freedom. He pushed away her hands and grasped hold of the metal collar, gritting his teeth as he summoned his strength and pulled.
The rounded ends of the torc opened at her throat but not enough to slip the metal off her neck. She clutched his forearms and swooned into him. “You are killing me,” she choked.
Lords of Ireland II Page 65