She said, “Your cows must be bringing in a fearful amount of milk this season for a common cattleman to dress so.”
“It’s a potent bull I have, who sires many calves.” He lifted his booted foot from the tree root and took a step into the circle of trees. “And who are you, lass?”
“Can you not tell who I am by my trappings?” She spread her woolen cloak to show the full length of her mud-spattered tunic underneath. She twirled, letting the tattered hem whirl around her shins, and then she dipped low and bowed her head in mock obeisance. “I am the King of Morna’s much-beloved daughter.”
Her head was lowered, so all she saw were her dirty feet, but she sensed his mirth as one would sense the rising of the sun upon one’s face.
“The moment I laid eyes upon you dancing like a fairy-sprite, I told myself, this is no common bondswoman. Nay, no smith’s daughter. But what is the King of Morna’s much-beloved daughter”—his lips twitched—“doing dancing alone in the woods?”
“A king’s daughter can do as she pleases.”
“Have you no husband to keep you abed?”
“What need have I for a husband to cook for and clean after and treat me like a slave?”
“A woman who dances like you shouldn’t lack for company.”
“I like my own company.”
“Then for whom did you dance, bean sí?”
Fairy woman. She felt like one of the Sídh now, so full of restive energy that if she lifted her arms, she just might fly. It had been so long since she’d had company she could actually see; someone she could speak to who would talk back. Was this why she had been wound as tight as wool around a spindle these past days? She wondered, fleetingly, if this man were one of the legendary warriors of the Fianna.
“I dance for myself.” The soles of her feet tingled. “I dance for me and for the glory of the morning, no more than that.”
“I’m glad of it, for I’ve no stomach for killing before dawn.”
Her dance stopped mid-step.
“I’d have killed the man,” he explained, gripping the hilt of his sword, “who dared to deny you to me.”
She felt a strange, hot flush rise up over her face. She told herself that if this man had wanted to do her harm, he’d have done it by now. Certainly she had no reason to fear for her maidenhead. She had known since her first blood flow that she was destined for something greater, and no man could change the roll of fate.
“There will be no killing here,” she said. “No man can lay claim to me.”
“Then the men of these parts are all blind or fools.”
“The men of these parts know better than to give me trouble.” She was too proud to tell him that she had not lived among the villagers since she was banished from the tribe seven years ago. Instead, she shrugged one shoulder, as if it didn’t matter. “I am my own mistress. I go where I will, say what I will. And I dance for whom I will.”
His low and seductive laughter ignited an unfamiliar heat deep inside her.
She said, “You’re laughing at me?”
“Nay, lass.” He edged around the clearing, his sword gleaming dully in the growing dawn. “I’m pleased that you danced for me.”
Brigid felt the rise of her pride. Did this creature think, just because he found her unprotected in the woods, that she would just fall into his arms? Nay, not Brigid of the Clan Morna, by the gods. “Listen to you. You’re like a rooster who thinks the sun rises just to hear the sound of his crowing.”
“You’ve a temper as fiery as your hair, wood sprite. Good. I like my women as bold as they are beautiful.”
“Tell me, what would a king’s daughter be doing dancing for a common cattleman?”
“Bondswoman or king’s daughter, a woman so full of passion must have a powerful need for a man.” He eddied one step closer. His gaze dared her to back away. “You did summon me here.”
“It’s a wonder your head doesn’t swell to bursting. This meeting was not my work. It was yours.”
“My strength lies in my sword arm, not in magic. Had I the power to summon such a one as you, bean sí, I would have done it long ago.”
Secretive tittering bubbled from the outskirts of the ring of oaks, and suddenly she knew who had brought them together.
She said, “There’s a bit of mischief afoot.”
“Be it mischief or not, I’m glad of our meeting.”
His words robbed her of speech. No man had ever uttered such sentiments to her. Even when she had lived among the tribe, ripening into a woman, no man had ever courted her with pretty words. She had been feared as much, if not more, than her own priestess mother. She remembered many a day working in the corner of her hut, endlessly carding or spinning wool, listening enviously, head-cocked, to the flirtations of the others just outside the wattle-and-daub walls. For all his boundless arrogance, this man before her was treating her like a woman and not like a carrier of a plague. Her heart swelled at being wanted, even if only for a swift tumble in the dew.
He murmured, “What say you, woman?”
She glanced up. He had trailed a wide circle around her, like a warrior assessing the wiles of an unbroken horse. She toyed with the herb sack hanging from her hip. Suddenly, she stopped and dug her fingers into the calfskin. Foxglove.The enormity of the discovery filled her with excitement. The key to the door of the Otherworld lay in her hands.
“Come,” he coaxed, his voice as soft as fur. “The day is fine and my blood as hot as fire. Come and know me better.”
She wasn’t listening. Possibilities whirled in her mind. It would be glorious to go to the land of the Sídh, to live among the fairies. Perhaps her destiny lay therein and not in the silent loneliness of these woods. It would be glorious to belong to one world instead of forever living on the edges of two. All she had to do was coax this warrior-king to her side and then capture his soul.
She lowered her eyes, as she had seen the other young girls do, when she was living in the village. She eddied around him, wary. “You’re a bold one,” she murmured, “to speak so plainly to me.”
“I won’t simper and grovel and spout false praise like a poor bard at a king’s table.”
“If your loving is as blunt as your speech, sirrah, then you’ll have no more art than a bull.”
A grin blossomed on his face. “What the bull lacks in art, he makes up in other ways.”
Her steps faltered as color washed her cheeks. “Can you get your mind off your dangle for a moment?”
“It’s a dangle no more, rather a sword at the ready.”
She glanced at the iron sword lying against his thigh and ignored the other bulges of his body. “I wondered why a common cattleman saw fit to carry such a mighty weapon.”
“What matter? I wield it well.”
“Are you so sure of yourself?”
“I always get what pleases me, one way or the other.”
She tossed her head, willing him to come closer. “Would you take what’s not freely given to you?”
“Nay, I make sure it’s given freely.”
She should be frightened. He looked upon her as if she were a tasty morsel to nibble on before breaking the fast. She knew nothing of him and he stated his intentions plainly enough. A woman could lose her soul if she drew near such flames. But she knew it was he who should be frightened. For beneath her cloak she tugged at the ties of her calfskin sack and let the foxglove chain spill into her hand.
Such a chance as this came once in a hundred thousand lifetimes.
“You should not pluck a fruit before the branch willingly gives it up,” she warned, filling her palm with the knotted blossoms. He had wandered behind her. She refused to turn to him and thus show her fear. “The taste of unripe fruit grows sour in your mouth.”
“I like a bit of tartness in my women.”
“Seems to me you’ve a belly full then, so you don’t need me.”
“At the sight of you it’s like I’ve never touched a woman before.”
> She turned her face to him as he rounded to her other side. “You’re quick with the answers.”
“Has no man ever sung your praises?”
“Not in so sweet a voice. But I’ll listen to none of your deceiving. The emptier the drum, the louder the noise, and your rattling is deafening me.”
He threw back his head and laughed. The sound echoed through the woods and startled the Sídh into silence. His laughter was a roaring bellow, fearless and full of mirth, the laugh of a high king or a war god.
His eyes sparkled when he looked again upon her. “I’d wager a field full of cows that many a man has been bloodied from tangling with your thorn bush of a tongue.”
She tilted her chin, too proud to admit the truth, pleased nonetheless with his statement. “I don’t see a scratch on you.”
“I am not like other men.” His gaze ran swiftly from her hair to her muddy feet. “As you, clearly, are not like other women.”
“You’ve only just laid eyes on me.”
“Before this is done, I’ll know every sweet bit of you.”
An image flooded her mind, a forbidden, earthly image of the two of them wrapped up in each other, his muscular arms around her, his hips pumping against her spread thighs. She sucked in a swift breath as her body tingled with prickly heat from her scalp to the soles of her feet.
“Aye, lass.” His voice dipped low and throaty. “It’ll be better than you can imagine.”
In her momentary distraction, he had drawn closer to her, so close that if she reached out, she could touch the fine weave of his tunic. Coming so close to this man was like drawing close to the sun. His presence blazed upon her. Every blade of grass, every drooping leaf, stilled in the clearing. She could no longer hear the patter of dew from the trees. It was as if the drops hung suspended in air, waiting for the meeting of these creatures of two worlds.
A thought flashed through her mind, swift and disconcerting. It was one thing for mortals of this world and the immortals of the Sídh to converse; it was another altogether for them to reach across the veils and touch. Now that the worlds had drifted so far apart, surely such a thing went against nature; surely such an act would ripple the smooth fabric of life and have consequences beyond the moment. Hesitancy seized her. Her fingers froze over the chain of foxglove.
He said, “Tell me your name, or I shall kiss it out of you.”
To give a man your name was to give him a part of your soul. She felt the gossamer threads of her own web turning in upon her.
She said, “I am called Brigid.”
“Brigid.” He rolled the flavor in his mouth. “It’s a fitting name. The name of a goddess.”
Suddenly, the distant clang of monastery bells pierced the air. The clamor reverberated through the deepest shadows of the woods. The Sídh disappeared like smoke dispersed by a sudden wind. Brigid’s heart constricted. Och, those wretched bells must not drive him away. Her uncertainty dissolved. She seized his wrist and twined the chain of blossoms around it three times. She gripped the loose ends until the last echo of bells vibrated into silence.
It was done. He remained, earthbound, before her.
Bemused, he turned over his hand and looked upon the bracelet. “What magic is this?”
“A chain of fairy foxglove.” The blossoms looked pitifully weak around his muscular forearm, too fragile a chain to bind such a giant to the earth. “You’re bound to me now. You must do my bidding.”
His chuckle jarred her ears. “You don’t need spells and flowers for that, Brigid. I’d willingly do your bidding for no more than the price of a single kiss.”
The breeze gusted, lifting her hair from her nape and blowing a rogue strand across her check. A new suspicion blossomed in her mind. She felt his breath on her head. He radiated warmth and strength. He smelled as crisp and clean as any newly-bathed mortal man.
He commanded, “Look at me.”
The clouds above shifted, growled, and released a spattering of rain. With a quiver in her heart, she lifted her lashes.
Something jolted her from within. Brigid curled her fingers over the chain of foxglove. The clear, silvery depths of his eyes were as familiar to her as the morning mists, as the expanse of the white-bright winter sky. She would have known this man anywhere, though she’d never laid eyes upon him before.
He murmured, “What enchantment is this?” He scraped his finger down her neck to rest on a throbbing pulse. “Not a sprite. Warm as any woman. Flesh and blood and passion.”
His touch burned, but it was not the searing, forbidden embrace of creatures of separate worlds. This was an earthly fire, and she knew in that moment that all her enchantments were for naught. The foxglove chain slipped out of her hands. This was no gossamer creature of the Otherworld. His hands were tight on her shoulders, determined and possessive. A tingling rushed through her blood, the liquid swell of an unfamiliar longing.
“You’ve the Sight.” His eyes, those eyes of silver, crackled like lightning. “Your eyes could drain the soul from a man.”
Her eyes. Dread flooded through her. She had forgotten her wretched eyes.
She lowered her lashes and struggled away from him, stumbling back to glare at him at arm’s length. “Are you the one who’s afraid now?”
“I’d never fear a lass even if she wields the power of ten Druids.”
“You won’t be afraid that your cows will leave off giving milk? Or I’ll strike you blind or deaf? Or bring a powerful storm to muddy your way?” She waved to someplace deep in the woods. “You won’t believe that I’ll steal the seed from your wretched bull?”
He made a gesture of scorn. “Why would you waste your power on such mischief?”
She said nothing. She could not tell him that the people of Morna blamed her for every calamity.
“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “Now I understand why you dance alone. The men of these parts are cowards.” He scraped his sword out of the scabbard and held out the gleaming length. Swirling, pagan designs etched the metal hilt. “Me and mine have not blinded ourselves to the ways of the world, Brigid. And I fear nothing.”
She knew it was true. He still stared deep into her eyes, unflinching. She clung to his gaze, waiting for his mask to fall and the true extent of his horror to show, but still, he held her gaze, and a strange hope blossomed in her heart.
The Sídh, always full of mischief, had toyed with her by giving her foxglove and then leading her to this man. A chain of fairy foxglove would not bind a human to do her bidding. But there might be a gift in this meeting after all. This was the first man she’d ever known, besides her brother, who could hold her gaze for more than one terrified moment.
“Who are you?” she asked, huskier than before. “What are you doing here?”
He sheathed his sword. “It seems neither one of us is who we claim to be.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Suddenly, she heard a voice in the forest. She started and looked about, peering through the trees.
“I have been away too long. My men search for me.” He thrust out his hand, wide-palmed and strong. “We are well met, Brigid. Come with me.”
She skittered back to the protection of an oak. She’d face one man—she wouldn’t face a dozen. “I’ll go nowhere with you, not yet.”
“This meeting in the mists was fated.” He beckoned her with a curl of his fingers. “I command you to come with me.”
“Speak to me like that and I’ll have none of you.”
The voice in the woods called out again, joined by others, louder, closer, and she heard distinctly the name of the man they summoned.
Conor.
She froze. She dug her fingers into the furrowed ridges of the bark. His braid of a torque captured the first golden rays of the sun, and suddenly she knew exactly who stood before her.
“Conor of Ulster.” She stuttered the name. “You’ve come to claim Morna for the O’Neill.”
He smiled. “So you do know my name.”
�
��And a curse upon it.”
She swirled and raced into the dying mists, her feet slipping over the grass. She grasped her skirts in her hands, hiking them away from her scratched and muddy legs. The thunder of her heart pounded in her ears. She waited for the sound of his boots hitting the ground behind her, and the clench of his powerful hand on her neck.
He shouted her name, once, twice. The possessive sound lingered in her mind long after the echo faded into silence.
***
Steel clanged against steel. Conor roared with each swing of his sword, the bulk of his frame absorbing the impact of blade against blade before he pulled back, whirled the weighty weapon over his head anew. Sweat stained the wool of his tunic and dripped off his chin, but his legs stayed as firm as century-old oaks. His barrel-chested adversary staggered under each blow.
“Are you man or child?” Conor swung again, and his opponent’s knees buckled. “Fight, damn you.”
Blades clashed. The warrior stumbled back. Mead sloshed onto Conor’s sleeve as he barreled through the crowd of observers to drive his opponent against the rock wall of the ring-fort. Still Conor slashed, his teeth bared. The iron of his weapon shattered beneath a blow. His opponent slipped and skidded in the mud, ducking the splinters of metal. Conor thrust the edge of his broken sword against his opponent’s pale neck.
He demanded, “Yield to your better.”
The fallen warrior huddled against the wall, his breathing harsh. He opened his hands in defeat, and his sword clattered to the ground. The people of the Clan Morna who had paused in their work to watch the sparring of their new over-king now stood silently while Conor’s men cheered and sloshed their wooden cups of ale. Conor tossed his broken weapon aside and tested his opponent’s for weight and balance. A rivulet of something hot and wet slid down his face and pooled in the corner of his mouth.
“Who will spar with me next?” He eyed the surrounding crowd, searching among the artisans, the cattlemen in their bright green woolen cloaks, and the dark Pict slaves in their rags and chains, for the sword-bearing warriors of the Clan Morna. Even the most powerful-looking among them averted their eyes like maidens on their first foray to the Lughnasa fires.
[Celtic Legends 01.0] Twice Upon a Time Page 2