Lords of Ireland II

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  His sailors shuffled their feet, glancing from him to Iago and back, seemingly unsure whether to sheathe their weapons. It dawned on him how things must appear to them. Their prince had emerged from a woman’s palanquin, dressed in naught but a flimsy drapery.

  Aislinn pressed her breasts against his arm. “He loves you,” she whispered.

  He inhaled deeply, knowing she was right. “Call off your men,” he suggested to her, “lest we witness a blood bath.”

  She cleared her throat. “They are not used to hearing me give orders out loud.”

  He wasn’t certain how silent communication might work, but gave her an encouraging smile.

  “Tuathans,” she declared, pausing when every giant turned as one to face the palanquin.

  He feared they might not obey since it must appear to them she had consorted with the enemy.

  Aislinn gasped when to a man her guards knelt and bowed their heads before her.

  Aislinn was struck dumb. She’d never seen Tuathan guards prostrate themselves before anyone other than the High King.

  She was equally perturbed when their captain came to his feet and spoke to her in a deep voice that rumbled like thunder. “You have broken Moqorr’s spell.”

  “What is he saying?” Sibrán asked.

  “I don’t understand,” she replied. “He says I have broken the spell.”

  Sibrán stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Mayhap he means the torc,” he explained. “If you’ve broken free of yours, they can do the same.”

  She was the prophetess, the harbinger of the future, yet the courage and clear thinking of an outsider had dispelled the fog concealing the truth from the people of the Tuathan clan.

  She had believed Moqorr’s warning that removal of the torc would result in her death. Her guards evidently also believed it, and her appearance in the company of a man with the bearing of an immortal had apparently opened their eyes. Freedom was within everyone’s grasp.

  “Explain my words to them,” Sibrán said with authority. “Clan Tuatha and men of Gaelicia, there is only one man standing in the way of prosperity and contentment for both our peoples in this land of plenty.”

  He paused to allow her time to translate. Before he could continue, the mob cried out as one, “Moqorr!”

  “Moqorr,” he confirmed, putting an arm around her shoulder. “Inisfail cries out for a new High King. I intend to heed her plea and claim the kingdom. Beside me stands my queen.”

  Her heart swelled with pride as she interpreted his words.

  He thrust his fist in the air. “Will you give me your allegiance and help me oust the despicable tyrant from Tara?”

  She didn’t need to translate. Her voice would have been drowned out by the deafening roar of cheering as her fellow Tuathans grasped the ends of their torcs in meaty fists and broke them apart.

  Quicksand

  The rain began early on the morrow shortly after the united army of Tuathans and Gaelicians set out for Tara. Closer inspection of the damage to the boat resulted in the decision to abandon it. Iago was elated not to be left behind, and Sibrán deemed it preferable to keep his crew together.

  Aislinn suggested he travel in the palanquin with her, but he declined. A true monarch marched with his army. She made no comment about the rain being the handiwork of Moqorr, but he sensed she suspected it. The anxious faces of the Tuathans betrayed their belief the all-seeing High King intended to make their trek miserable. It seemed longheld fears and superstitions died hard.

  Lop padded along at Sibrán’s side.

  By mid-afternoon the rain had turned to a deluge and they were slogging through boggy meadows, each step more laborious than the last. The nearby Bhearù had narrowed to a fast-running stream.

  “It’s as well we continued on foot,” Iago conceded, rainwater pouring off the end of his long nose.

  Sibrán tightened the drawstrings of his sodden cloak. The downpour had turned the vibrant red to the color of blood. “This isn’t the warm rain of Gaelicia.” He cocked his head in the direction of his men following behind. “They are frozen to the bone.”

  Iago turned. “Whereas the Tuathans seem not to be bothered by this weather.”

  “Hard to tell. They still look like they are in a trance most of the time.”

  Lop barked, shaking water from his coat yet again. Sibrán laughed. “The hound is the only one enjoying the downpour.”

  A rare smile crept across Iago’s wizened features, but it disappeared when cries of distress came from the rearguard. Lop raced off in the direction of the shouts. Sibrán made to follow, but his comrade grasped his arm. “Beware, my lord. Best you remain here until we make sure there’s no mischief afoot.”

  Sibrán pulled free. “Someone is in trouble. These men have pledged to me. They are my responsibility.”

  As he made his way through the mud, young Ebric staggered towards him and fell to his knees. “My prince,” he sobbed. “The swamp…has swallowed my brother.”

  Sibrán’s gut clenched. Ebric and Amergin were the sons of a prominent Gaelician nobleman who had proposed they accompany the expedition, though they had seen fewer than fifteen summers. The rest of the crew had taken the lads under their wing. Even Iago treated them with uncharacteristic lenience. If Moqorr was responsible for whatever had happened, he’d struck directly at the vulnerable underbelly of the army marching to oppose him.

  He shoved aside such thoughts and hastened to catch up to Ebric. Amergin had fallen into a bog—not an unlikely thing to happen given the terrain, the weather and the boy’s inexperience. Chances were they’d soon pull him out with ropes from the boat.

  When he arrived on the chaotic scene his gut tightened. “Quicksand,” he muttered under his breath.

  Only Amergin’s head was still visible. Terror haunted his eyes as he strained to keep his chin out of the mire.

  Gaelicians and Tuathans stood around looking helpless.

  “We tried rope,” Glas exclaimed, pointing to fragments floating on the top of the quicksand. “The palm fibre wasn’t strong enough.”

  Ebric wailed his brother’s name.

  Lop ran back and forth at the edge of the swamp, barking loudly.

  Shaken to the core by the stricken boy’s pleading gaze, Sibrán looked about, desperate to set eyes on anything that might be of use for a rescue. “Cut down sturdy tree limbs,” he shouted. “We’ll fashion a ladder.”

  Glas shook his head. “He’ll have been sucked under before we have it ready, my lord.”

  “Nevertheless,” Sibrán insisted, striding to a nearby tree.

  He turned when he heard Moqorr’s name cried in anguish. Gaelicians were hastening to stumble away in every direction. Tuathans dropped to their knees. Sibrán covered his ears as a loud whooshing sound filled the air. A strident cawing raised gooseflesh on his nape. He looked to the sky and his heart stopped.

  A creature he’d seen only in papyrus drawings hovered over the doomed boy, talons outstretched.

  “Gryphon,” he murmured in awe, his disbelief in the mythical monster crumbling.

  Leaves swirled and twigs snapped in the wake of the wind stirred by the massive wings. It might have been mistaken for an eagle except it had hoofed hind legs.

  Ebric stared openmouthed.

  Lop sat silently on his haunches, watching the hovering creature.

  Amergin wailed as sharp talons grasped his shoulders and dragged him out of the bog. Sibrán braced himself against the backdraft and wiped the splatters from his face as Amergin was borne away.

  Ebric retched into the mud.

  The Tuathans slowly came to their feet and silently watched the mysterious bird disappear into the clearing sky.

  Scarcely able to breathe, Sibrán hoped his suspicions concerning the gryphon were correct.

  Aislinn carefully deposited the witless boy on the ground outside her litter and concentrated on regaining her human form. Shifting into a forest animal was relatively simple, but she’d realized only a
bird of mythic proportions would be capable of extracting the lad from the muck. Ironically, it was Moqorr who had shown her the drawings of the creature he called a griffin.

  It had taken some extraordinary conjuring, and she wasn’t sure she had the hind legs quite right, but the talons had done the job.

  Changing back was easier than she’d anticipated and she was kneeling beside the filth-covered wretch when Sibrán and the others hurried into the clearing. The slight twitching of a smile at the corners of his mouth told her he knew she had been responsible for the rescue.

  “Is he alive?” he asked.

  “Yes, but he needs care.”

  The men gaped at the lad.

  “How did he get here?” Glas growled. “A giant bird carried him off. The Tuathans claimed it was Moqorr.”

  Ebric appeared and leapt on his brother, heedless of the muck. “Amergin! I thought you were lost forever.”

  Amergin blinked open his eyes, coughed, then stared at Aislinn. “A bird saved me,” he muttered.

  She feared the boy might yet die while the others pondered the matter of the strange creature that had rescued him. She had tried to be gentle, but talons left deep wounds. “Obviously there are forces at work here that are stronger than Moqorr,” she said. “We must get him out of these clothes and make sure he is dry and warm.”

  Sibrán immediately understood her concern and commanded Amergin be borne to the river to be bathed.

  “Then bring him to my litter and I will tend his wounds,” Aislinn commanded.

  Amergin rallied quickly once Aislinn salved the deep punctures on his shoulders, but she insisted he ride in the litter for the remainder of the day.

  She gave permission for Ebric to travel with them, and he teased his brother endlessly that from henceforth he would be known as Bird-Boy. She’d enjoyed their banter on the trek to the spring, but now found Ebric’s near-hysterical laughter irritating. She had to keep reminding herself that flapping his arms like wings and cawing was simply a manifestation of his relief at his twin’s rescue.

  She’d never harbored any hope of bearing children, but now she conjured a vision of nursing a babe. Her nipples tingled in response and she was filled with an urge to stretch like a contented feline.

  She may have purred, but became aware the lads had fallen silent and were eyeing her strangely. She sat up abruptly, concerned she may have been in the throes of actually turning into a cat. “Ebric,” she said sternly. “Your brother must rest. Time for you to march with the others.”

  He pouted, but obeyed and left after kissing Amergin first on one cheek, then the other.

  It was a curiously endearing custom.

  Night

  Sibrán sat on a cold rock beside Iago enjoying the heat from a blazing campfire. He would rather be lying with Aislinn in her palanquin, but the injured boy still slept there. They feasted on fried perch and tench. The Bhearù had softened her watery heart and yielded a bounty, especially after the Gaelicians learned from the Tuathans how to spear fish with their lances.

  He fervently hoped Aislinn wouldn’t venture into the clearing; every man in the camp had stripped off his wet garments and boots. Clothing hung from the low branches of trees or on wooden drying racks constructed from saplings lashed together. The air was redolent with the smell of damp wool.

  The Tuathans and Gaelicians sat around separate fires, but it was apparent the talk in both groups was of the miraculous rescue and the mythical bird. Though they spoke different languages, each clan seemed to comprehend the other’s observations about the event. Ebric’s repeated reenactments brought cheers from every quarter.

  “This is a strange land,” Iago said gruffly. “The sun’s going down, yet it’s warmer now than it was in the forenoon.”

  Sibrán tossed a fish head into the flames. “Good thing, else we’d be huddled over the fires freezing to death.”

  Iago grunted, gesturing to the naked Tuathans. “I expected they’d be made differently under all that leather and armor.” He cupped his sac. “But they are men like us.”

  Sibrán chuckled, wondering what manner of male member his navigator had imagined the Tuathans carried at the apex of their thighs. The gods had looked favorably on the giants—certainly more favorably than on Iago. “Except they are taller,” he quipped.

  Iago nodded absently, one hand still fondling his male parts, then scowled at Sibrán. “A real warrior needs more than a big cock,” he growled before getting to his feet and stalking off in the direction of his clothing.

  Sibrán sobered. He had to stop baiting Iago, but his navigator had no sense of humor. However, there was wisdom in the old man’s words. He parted his legs, leaned his forearms on his thighs and considered his manhood. The gods had been generous with his male endowments, but Aislinn came from a race of giants. Would he be enough for her?

  Aislinn only dozed for most of the night, content to listen to Amergin’s soft snoring and the hearty camaraderie outside. She was elated to hear the deep voices of her Tuathan guards who had barely spoken a word to each other on the journey from Tara. She was tempted to pop her head out of the curtains and command them to raise their voices in song. However, she suspected they’d removed their wet clothing.

  There was only one man whose naked beauty she thirsted to set eyes upon, but that pleasure would have to wait. If she and Sibrán had given in to their need for each other and joined their bodies, the boy sleeping peacefully beside her would now be at the bottom of a bog, his twin inconsolable. She chuckled at the sound of Ebric’s young voice raised in mimicry of the awesome griffin.

  A simple truth struck her; laughter and joy lifted the spirit. Her people had forgotten how to be happy. There needed to be more rejoicing in Inisfail. She envisioned Tuathan warriors exchanging kisses on each cheek, and fell asleep confident Sibrán would be a king to make hearts sing.

  Even naked Sibrán was still too hot in the muggy night air. Some forest creature chirped incessantly. The taste of damp wool had lodged in his throat. Midges nipped at his flesh. Frogs croaked. Men snored.

  He longed to be lying in the padded luxury of Aislinn’s nest, but the notion brought back the memory of the hideous gryphon. Did he have the courage to join with a woman who might transform into a monster without warning?

  He turned over onto his belly, determined to banish such doubts. How had they crept into his mind?

  He drifted into a fitful sleep.

  He’d never met Moqorr, but knew his face from Iago’s tales and recognised him when he appeared in his dream. Here lay the source of the doubt. “Be gone,” he shouted.

  Moqorr sniggered. “Aislinn belongs to me. She is still in my thrall, as are you.”

  Sibrán startled awake, sat up quickly and gathered a blanket around his shivering shoulders. Dread lay like a lead ball in his belly. He’d happily fallen under Aislinn’s spell, but never considered Moqorr might have cast it.

  Doubts

  The morrow dawned dry and sunny.

  Aislinn greeted Sibrán with a broad smile when he came to the litter. She parted her lips, ready for his kiss, but her joy turned to disappointment when he instead enquired after Amergin.

  She was taken aback when he furrowed his brow and declined her invitation to enter. She tried to read his thoughts but her own emotions stood in the way. “The boy slept well,” she conceded, “and wants to march with his brother.”

  He stared at the sky. “Is he fit enough?”

  “I believe so, but I will walk behind him for a while, just to be sure.”

  She extended her hand, thinking he would be pleased she intended to walk with the army, but he backed away as if she’d threatened him with a dagger. Her throat was as dry as a desert and she barely managed to whisper, “What is wrong?”

  He shook his head and put his hands on her waist. “Naught,” he replied. “I didn’t sleep. Let me help you down.”

  The heat of his skin penetrated the linen of her chiton as he lifted her to the ground.
The turmoil in her heart still hid his thoughts from her, but when she looked into his blue eyes, Moqorr’s mocking face sneered back.

  Her mind whirled. She had underestimated the High King’s power, never anticipating Sibrán would fall victim to his manipulation. She resolved in that instant to fight for the man she loved until she drew her last breath. The future prosperity of Inisfail and her own happiness depended on vanquishing Moqorr.

  When her feet touched the ground, she pressed her body against Sibrán’s. “I am Aislinn,” she reminded him. “I will not let Moqorr take you from me.”

  He frowned, as if not sure of her meaning. “Moqorr?”

  The fog slowly lifted from her mind. She saw the subtle seeds of doubt the clever High King had planted. She wasn’t a sorceress and would have to depend on the only magic at her disposal—her love for this brave warrior. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, delving her tongue into his mouth, raking her fingers through the hair at his nape. He responded as she’d hoped, cupping her bottom in his big hands and lifting her to his hard maleness.

  “My queen,” he growled, deepening the kiss.

  She smiled inwardly. The battle was on.

  Hours later, Iago mopped his brow and took a long swig from the water-skin. “We’re making good progress,” he gasped.

  Sibrán raised an eyebrow at the uncharacteristically positive remark. “Fair weather makes for firmer ground.”

  Iago spat and passed the skin. “The woman hasn’t succeeded in slowing us down.”

  After quenching his thirst, Sibrán wiped his mouth and looked over to where Aislinn walked among her guards, chatting with them as the army paused in its march to Tara. “She has kept up with our pace valiantly,” he retorted, though he wondered why she had insisted on walking the whole morning. Amergin was obviously fit enough to march.

  It seemed wherever Sibrán looked, there was Aislinn, smiling at him. It was as if she didn’t want to let him out of her sight.

  Only a woman in love would endure the rigors of such a march. It certainly lifted his spirits every time he set eyes on her.

  Perhaps she had some ulterior motive.