The Scottish Selkie
Page 17
“Prop m'lady up against the bed.”
Malcolm and Riona took the pelts and bratts off the bed and rolled them up. They sat them behind Bethoc's back so she was in a half sitting position. Then they rolled up more pelts and bratts and placed them under Bethoc's knees. Fodla pulled Bethoc's tunic dress up so the birthing area was uncovered.
At first the pains were hard cramps, not that bad. But soon they were so strong, Bethoc screamed with each one. Her muscles clinched tighter and she wanted to push.
The midwife smiled at her. “Yes, it is the right of it. Push m'lady. Push.”
From all the heaving and pushing, Bethoc suck in lung fulls of air in a hard pant and moist sweat clung to her skin, flushed in a rosy hue. She’d never felt this spent not even on the practice field.
“One push. Only one more push,” Malcolm whispered, encouraging her.
The expression of pride in his eyes renewed Bethoc's strength.
With all her might, she thrust every muscle in her body forward. She released a loud, half grunt, half scream. The baby eased out into the midwife's waiting hands.
The round-faced midwife, missing one tooth in the front, flashed a lopsided grin at Bethoc and Malcolm. “You have a fine son m'lord and m'lady.”
The red faced babe let out a hard, riveting wail.
“It is a Pict battle cry.” Joy bubbled in Bethoc as she met Malcolm’s broad smile and grabbed his warm hand.
Folda and Riona grinned as awe and admiration gleamed in their eyes as if they were listening to an angel's song.
Riona cradled the tiny, newborn as Fodla cut the umbilical cord with a whetted knife. Holding the babe snugly in her arms, Riona dipped him in the shallow laver bowl. After freeing one of her arms, she lightly stroked her fingers over his bare skin to wash away the blood and fluids of birthing. Fodla held another laver bowl and washed Bethoc, then gently patted the apex between her legs dry with a clean bratt.
“Here. Kiss your bairn.” Riona held the child to Bethoc who kissed the babe's tiny, red face. Then Riona held the child up to Malcolm who did the same.
“Talorc,” Bethoc animatedly announced.
Everyone looked at her with blank faces.
“His name is Talorc. After my da.”
Malcolm, Riona, and Fodla all exhaled a long, blissful sigh together.
“Talorc is a good name.” Still clutching her hand, Malcolm lowered his head to Bethoc's and he pressed his lips to hers as gently as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. The delicious sensation sung though her veins. Her lips still tingled as he slipped into the bed beside her.
After swaddling the skinny, squirming baby, Riona handed him to Bethoc. As she held Talorc in her arms, Malcolm gazed down at the sweet, pink-faced infant's dark squinting eyes, and scrunched up ears and nose.
“Bethoc, I am so happy. I cannot believe I have a son.”
“He is beautiful, is he not?” The babe’s flesh felt so smooth and warm in her arms and glow of blissful happiness flowed through her.
“Yes, Talorc is a true child of the new kingdom of Alba.” Malcolm declared.
Joy gushed through her every pore, joint, and muscle. “Life is incredible.”
Cradling Talorc in her arms, Bethoc's head swung lazily to the side to rest against her husband’s broad shoulder. “As incredible as you, Malcolm. In both the land and the sea.”
—The End—
Author’s Note
Though I have interwoven Celtic lore and mythology into this action-filled romance it is rich with historical fact and detail. The bow-wielding Pict Princess, Bethoc and the dark warrior/sea creature, Malcolm sprung from my imagination but Kenneth, his Gaelic name was Cinaed, and his brother Donald and the Pict earls were very real. An even stranger fact is during the long reign of the Mac Alpins, rumors abounded of selkies among them.
My tale began amid the turbulent power play between the ruling Picts and the Scot king Kenneth Mac Alpin. This legendary massacre depicted in the first chapter is known as Mac Alpin’s treason. Kenneth’s move to unite the Picts and Scots under his rule is seen by historians as a great advantage to Scotland as it prevented the Vikings from taking a hold on the country as they did in Ireland.
Donald reigned after Kenneth and both ruled wisely. Kenneth is often considered the first king of Scotland. He did move the Lia Fail from Dalriada to Scone where it remained until King Edward I took it as a spoil of war in 1296, seven hundred years ago. He fitted it into a wooden throne and English sovereigns have been crowned upon it ever since. In 1328 in the Treaty of Northampton the English agreed to return the stone to Scotland, however it was not until 1996 the stone of destiny was returned and transported to Edinburgh Castle where it remains along with the crown jewels of Scotland. There is some controversy about this legend, some believe that no part of the Lia Fail ever left Ireland at all, and some believe that Edward I was tricked and the stone he took was fake and the real Stone of Destiny is hidden in Scotland.
In the fragmentary Annals of Ireland a verse has come down to us from ages past lamenting Kenneth's death, and showing us how beloved he was.
“858 K1. Cinaed son of Alpin, King of the Picts, died. It was of him that the quatrain was said: Because Cinaed with many troops lives no longer, there is weeping in every house; there is no king of his worth under heaven as far as the borders of Rome.
The fragmentary Annals of Ireland can be read online at http://www.ucc.ie/celt/published/T100017.html
About The Author
Cornelia Amiri is the author of 12 published books, she has researched the ancient Celts for over fifteen years and primarily writes Celtic/Paranormal/Romances of long swords, hot heroes, and warrior women. If you like Steampunk look for her Steampunk/Romances under her pen name of Maeve Alpin. She writes and resides in the sultry, southern city of Houston, as does her wonderful son and granddaughter.
Other books by Cornelia Amiri:
The Fox Prince by Cornelia Amiri
The Vixen Princess by Cornelia Amiri
Peace Love Music by Cornelia Amiri
The Wolf and The Druidess by Cornelia Amiri
Druid Bride by Cornelia Amiri
As Timeless As Stone by Maeve Alpin (Steampunk)
Druid Quest by Cornelia Amiri
Queen of Kings by Cornelia Amiri
Timeless Voyage by Cornelia Amiri
A Fine Cauldron of Fish by Cornelia Amiri
One Heart One Way by Cornelia Amiri
Steampunk/Romances under her pen name – Maeve Alpin
· As Timeless As Stone by Maeve Alpin
· To Love A London Ghost by Maeve Alpin
Anthologies with short stories by Cornelia Amiri:
Twisted Tales of Texas Landmarks
Romance of My Dreams
Sleeping With the Undead
A Death In Texas
Please visit her websites http://CelticRomanceQueen.com and http://MaeveAlpin.com for more information on her books, they are all available for reading on the kindle and the nook as well as other formats and most are available in print.
Cornelia loves to hear from my fans, you can reach her at:
Facebook
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The Scottish Selkie is about the Picts during the time of Kenneth Mac Alpin, if you’d like to read more about the Picts, Druid Bride is set during the time of the Romance Governor Agricola.
Available now from Eternal Press
Druid Bride
by Cornelia Amiri
Chapter One
The empty eye sockets of the white, weathered skull peered at Tanwen from the timber gate. She turned to the druid couple, Rhys and Sulwen. “I accept my destiny.”
Rhys nodded his gray head. “But we do not send you alone. These brave Silure warriors shall guard you well, at all times.” He pointed his gnarled hand to a short, muscular woman with spirals of blue woad painted on her face. “Huctia, take care of her.”
Then, he gestured to a man with the swarthy skin and curly black hair of the Silure tribe. “Gethin, guard her well.”
The two warriors bobbed their dark heads.
“It pains me, too,” Druidess Sulwen’s wrinkled hand patted Tanwen’s shoulder in comfort, “to see you go.”
Tanwen’s copper hair whipped her face as her gold-speckled and white cloak flapped loudly in the wind. She flung her arms around Sulwen’s shoulders and squeezed tight. “I will never see you, again.”
When Tanwen pulled back, Sulwen said, “We will miss you greatly, but your destiny awaits.” Her eyes were moist with tears.
Rhys’s gnarled fingers curled around Tanwen’s smooth hands. “Your future lies elsewhere, in Caledonia. Tanwen ferch Wena ferch Boudica, child of sacred fire, the gods are with you. Elen of the Ways will guard your path on your quest, and we send our finest warriors to aid you.”
“I am ready.” Tanwen lifted the skirts of her blue novice robe and druid cloak as she headed down the steep rock path, putting space between her and the Silure hill fort.
All the way to the shore, she heard the footsteps of her two warriors close behind. Tanwen took a deep breath and stepped into the small, ox hide boat, as did Huctia and Gethin. “We shall travel down the coast and walk the rest of the way to the Caledonii village.”
Gethin rowed, focusing his gaze on Tanwen. “Druidess, do you go to Caledonia to gain allies to battle the Romans?”
The hope she saw in his eyes hurt, because her words would crush it. “No, the battle here is over. If we keep fighting, there will be no Celts left in Britannia.”
“Now that Romans have taken the land of the southern Caledonian tribes, a new battle begins.” Huctia drew back on the wooden oar, then pushed forward.
“Druidess, if there is any tribe who can keep their land free of the Romans, it is the Caledonii. Chief Calach is as brave and strong a warrior as Boudica herself,” Gethin said with a firm set of his chin.
Tanwen smiled back. “You believe Calach can halt the Romans?”
“I do.” A spark of conviction gleamed in Gethin’s brown eyes.
Tanwen clasped her knees to her chest as the small boat gently rocked back and forth. “I go to Caledonia to wed Calach’s son.” She swallowed, then added, “The spirit of Boudica
declared this my destiny.”
Neither of the guards questioned this, as they both spoke to their ancestors daily.
Gethin nodded. “It is good. As a druidess, you will be welcomed there.”
Huctia leaned closer to Tanwen. “What type of man is Calach’s son?”
Images sped through her mind. One of a young, tall, muscular man with a generous mouth, a straight nose, and long, auburn hair. Next, she envisioned a short, pudgy man with kind eyes and a humorously bulbous nose. She then imagined a small-boned man of medium height with a sensitive face and dark hair. Suddenly that image faded, and she thought of a big and powerful man who towered over everyone. “I know not.”
“You know nothing of him?” Gethin’s brow furrowed.
“I’ve been told little.” Her body had vibrated with energy she couldn’t contain when her grandmother’s spirit had appeared to her in the Cave of Draigs. Eye to eye with the ghost of the warrior queen, Tanwen had accepted her destiny...to wed Calach’s son. “He has not been told of me at all.”
“Only that he is to wed you?” Gethin pulled out a leather bag of grain cakes and an ale skin.
A jolt of hunger shot through Tanwen at the biting scent of ale and the homey aroma of oat cakes. “Boudica sends me to wed him. There is no betrothal agreement. Neither he nor his father know I am coming. Nor that I wish to marry him.”
Gethin’s eyes grew wide. “This will be a surprise, then.” He handed an oat cake to Tanwen.
“Yes.” This is madness, she thought. What if Calach’s son is already wed? “I must heed the wisdom of my ancestors. Boudica would not send me to wed him if it was not to be.” Her stomach churned. She swayed with the rocking of the tiny boat.
“This is so.” Huctia bobbed her dark head.
“Well, they will know soon enough,” Gethin added. “Any man would want to wed you. As far as Calach’s son, all I know of him is he is a fierce warrior. All the Caledonii are.”
Huctia cocked her head. “And of the Caledonii, I know the oldest of the gods are with them.”
Tanwen no longer had an appetite for the oat cake, and handed it to Huctia. “We may need that ancient power to keep the Romans out of Caledonia.”
Gethin agreed and took a swig from the ale skin before passing it to Tanwen.
As the druidess gulped from the leather bag, the warm, soothing brew ran down her throat. Though the salty, fishy smell of the sea assailed her nostrils, she grew calmer with the sway of the boat. Her clenched stomach began to relax.
Soon, moonlight glistened on the water. As the oval boat bobbed on the ocean like a walnut floating in a puddle, her mind swayed to and fro. Drowsy and eyes heavy, she drifted to sleep and nodded off for moments at a time, only to awake with a start
and causing the boat to jerk. When she awoke fully, she gazed up at a rock-strewn coast. They’d come to shore.
Gethin scanned the area as if he expected trouble.
Tanwen climbed out of the coracle. “Is something amiss?”
“No,” Huctia whispered as she shook her head. “But Picts are the best of warriors and silent in their movements. I sense them watching us.”
“Once they find out who you are and why you’re here, they will not harm you,” Gethin said softly, as he offered a slight smile.
Alarms sounded in Tanwen’s head. Sand crunched beneath her feet as she followed Huctia and Gethin across the shore and onto a well-worn path into the forest, where she trod on grass and twigs. Loud grunts and yells assaulted her ears as a charging beast and warriors headed straight toward them. She barely managed to jump out of the way of a raging, sharp tusked boar.
A warrior burst out of the woods with more fierceness than the wild beast. He leapt like a deer. Beneath his short tunic, his long, lean, bare legs raced at the speed of a bird in flight. He pulled to a halt with the flexibility of a leather thong, bent back and then leaned forward to launch a long, black spear. The weapon soared through the air, struck hard, and impaled the beast. The boar’s high-pitched squeal tore through the forest air
as it twitched in its death throes.
Tanwen nodded toward the warrior and his prize. “Good throw.”
“My lady.” Danger shone in his alluring grin and the gleam of his eyes. “Do I know you?” Over his tunic, he wore a black cowl that fell to the elbows, leaving his forearms bare but for the blue tattoos of beasts pricked onto his skin in the way of the Picts.
“No.” The air crackled around him with masculine energy.
Tanwen’s breath caught in her throat. “I am from the Silure village on Eryri.”
“With the Romans afoot, few druids dwell in Britannia.” He stepped toward her.
Flames of fire licked the inside of her body as her gaze drank in the features of his evenly proportioned face and his hair, thick from lime wash and spiked like a hedgehog’s, with strands ranging from dark brown to a golden hue. A fire ignited in her belly.
“It is a long journey, with naught but two warriors for an escort.” He spoke in a melodic voice, sweet yet strong, like a bard and a war leader fused into one. “Why do you seek the Caledonii?”
Her gaze leapt to his bright eyes. “I fulfill a quest. I have come to speak with the son of Chief Calach.”
He stared at her, open-mouthed. “The son of Calach?” His eyebrows arched. “Do you mean Brude?”
She became uncomfortable. “Yes, if he is the elder.”
“What do you want with Brude?”
She wouldn’t let this stunning warrior’s intense gaze unnerve her. Tanwen wasn’t about to tell him she was wandering around the wilds of Caledonia to make her own match for a husband. It wasn’t her idea, anyway. Boudica had
called her to this destiny, and it was none of this warrior’s business. “It is a private matter.”
“In truth?” He stepped forward without taking his eyes off her, as if he enjoyed looking at her as much as she did him.
But she was here for Calach’s son, not a mere warrior. Her destiny had been chosen. The gods had decided her fate.
“How intriguing.” His ample lips opened to a smile, revealing an even row of white teeth.
“Yes.” It was hard to remember she had come for Brude as she gaped at the chiseled face of this man, with a high forehead, firm chin, and eyes like sacred pools that opened to the otherworld.
“Calach is my chief.”
“Then you must know Brude, as well?”
He chuckled. “You could say that.”
“Good, you may introduce me to him.” She was lost in his deep eyes, holding magic. Fire.
“I can.” His eyes narrowed and his voice grew softer, near to a whisper. “If I know who you are?”
His breath blew against her neck and left her skin tingling. “Oh, I am Tanwen ferch Wena ferch Boudica of two extinct tribes, the Iceni and the Ordovices.”
“Boudica.” His gaze was steady as he apprised her. “Granddaughter of the rebel queen, you are welcome in Caledonia.” He cupped her shoulders warmly. “Come, I’ll show
you the Caledonii village.”
Gethin and Huctia walked at their heels as the other hunters followed, carrying the dead boar on the warrior’s wide shield. As the path led out of the forest and into open farmland, she passed fields of wheat, rye, and barley. She gazed ahead at the capital of the Caledonii, the place that would be her home for the remainder of her days once she wed Brude. She wondered what he looked like, as her eyes scanned the village set along the banks of the river Tay. Stepping under the wide gateway, her gaze chased a group of gold-torqued youths racing chariots.