Revelin’s scalp tingled for a scant second before she turned toward him and he saw the blood-red rose shadowing the high ridge of her soft cheek. “Meghan,” he whispered. She was alive, and well, and beautiful! The sight gave him a jolt of pure joy.
He did not realize he had risen from the grass until he found his way suddenly barred by a six-foot ax swung across his path. He tried to shoulder past, but his hands were bound behind his back and he was easily and ignobly brought up short by a jerk on the chain that linked his wrists.
“Where do ye think ye’re going?” the warrior said with a chuckle. “Mine yer manners, lad. Ye’ve not been called for.”
Revelin lifted his head to answer the insult in kind, but then his eyes met Meghan’s across the short distance. She was staring at him with wide eyes. Faintly embarrassed by his humiliating position, he felt his cheeks grow warm. The feeling vanished as he realized that she was struggling to free herself. The reason for it thinned his lips with anger. The Scotsman held her by the wrist. As Revelin watched, Meghan turned to the burly, red-bearded Scotsman and spoke. The man released her at once, and she quickly rounded the table and ran toward Revelin. Joy made her face radiant as she crossed the open ground. Every man who saw her responded to her beauty and envied the dirty, mire-spattered Anglo-Irishman who had attracted her attention.
Revelin watched her too, wishing that he had better availed himself of the lake water he had been given in which to rinse his face and hands before being brought into the presence of Turlough O’Neill. He smelled of the bog and his own sour sweat, while in her white gown she appeared as pure as new-fallen snow.
Undismayed by his mud-caked clothes and fulsome aroma, Meghan saw only that he was alive and sound. “Revelin,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his face. Her brows lifted as her palm encountered dark golden stubble. “Why, ye’ve grown a beard!” she exclaimed, as if it were something miraculous.
A feeling of fierce tenderness unlike any he had ever experienced gripped Revelin as looked down into her artless blue gaze. He had spent a few hellish hours wondering what tortures she might have been put to at the hands of some lusty Celt. Yet, here she was smiling shyly up at him, smelling of heather and wild mint and… No! It was too dangerous to display vulnerability between them. Instinctively he took a step back, breaking their contact.
Meghan reached for him again, but the look in his eyes halted her fingers a scant distance from his face. It did not show in the arrangement of his features, but she saw in his eyes a reprimand. She recoiled, her hand falling to her side as she backed away a step.
Revelin raised his eyes abruptly to look at Turlough O’Neill, but he could not tell how much the man had guessed from Meghan’s actions. He sat easily in his chair, one heavy leg thrown over the arm rest, a gold goblet brimming with wine in one hand. He reminded Revelin of Bacchus, the Greek god of wine. With a slight bow, Revelin addressed the chieftain by his English title: “My lord, earl of Tyrone. A word?”
Turlough did not respond at once. He had missed nothing. He had enjoyed the touching scene between the girl and his prisoner. Quite like a play it had been, with the lass near weeping with joy upon the sight of her lost love. He smiled benignly as his wine-mellowed gaze moved over Meghan’s womanly form. Just as he had suspected, she was bonny, despite her blemish. He liked the lass, that he did. It was fitting that she should show a womanly concern for her man’s welfare. It was fitting, too, that the man should spurn her maidenly display in public; he did not seem to be the weakling that MacDonald had claimed.
His heavy-lidded gaze swung to Colin, and he was surprised to see anger and jealousy in the highlander’s face. Colin’s eyes were fixed on Meghan’s back and his hands were clenched in tight fists. Turlough pursed his lips. The lass had made another conquest, it seemed.
Colin was one of his best soldiers, Turlough mused, a captain of his MacDonald galloglaighs and a man whose loyalty was to be courted. The girl herself seemed smitten with the Anglo-Irishman, while he…? Turlough’s long mouth twitched. The evening’s entertainment had just begun. He would do nothing to spoil it. But in the end he would decide the girl’s fate. “Release the Irishman,” Turlough ordered.
While Revelin’s chains were being struck, Meghan stood a little apart. He had made it clear in a single glance that he did not want her near him. Even when he was freed he averted his eyes as the guards escorted him past her. Meghan blinked to keep from spilling the tears that suddenly welled in her eyes. She had been so proud and felt so beautiful when she had spotted his soft green eyes upon her. She could not have mistaken that look. It had beckoned to her and she had responded. Why, then, had he drawn back?
From the corner of her eye she saw Sila coming toward her. The old woman pointed to her head, then gestured at Meghan and winked. Meghan reached up and touched the ribbon streamer. The charm by which to catch a lover. She snatched her hand away. She would not use a charm to trap Revelin’s affections.
Sila took her by the arm, saying, “Dinna fret, lass. There’ll be another, better time.”
Meghan did not answer but she allowed Sila to lead her back to the chieftain’s table. Naturally shy, she lowered her head as she slipped into a vacant seat between two clansmen.
“Lift yer head, Turlough watches,” Sila muttered. When Meghan did not respond immediately, she pinched her arm hard. Meghan raised her head, anger rushing color into her cheeks, and Sila nodded approvingly. “Better. Childish ways have nae place here.”
Meghan glanced once around the table until her eyes came to rest on Revelin, who stood on Turlough’s right.
Turlough thoroughly studied the prisoner before him. Certainly the lad’s handsome face would have a softening effect on any woman’s heart. Well, he was no cloistered virgin and it would take more than a fair face to turn his head. He smiled beguilingly at his prisoner. “Who are ye, lad?”
“Revelin Butler of Kilkenny,” Revelin answered promptly.
“And of London,” Turlough added with a pointed look at Revelin’s English attire. “Yer Gaelic is not as smooth as a true Leinsterman’s. Ye’ve idled too long at the English court of the bastard queen.”
It was a direct, deliberate insult to his sovereign and Revelin knew he was bound by his loyalty to Elizabeth to defend her. Honor demanded it. Pride demanded it. “You’ve a curious lack of regard for a gentlewoman’s reputation, my lord. One might think you an ignorant damned Irishman, were it not for the fact your wit is well known.”
Humor flickered in Turlough’s gaze though it did not color his voice. “Ye think yerself clever. Are ye clever enough to evade the noose I’ve strung for ye?” His gaze shifted to a nearby tree and Revelin’s followed. No rope had hung there a minute earlier. Now a noose swung in the wind; a grinning Colin MacDonald held the free end.
A small smile bloomed on Revelin’s lips. The tactic did not dismay him. The Irish had no claim on intimidation. The question of how far the provocation would go concerned him more. If he was not more than clever, he might find himself challenged to mortal combat as part of the evening’s entertainment. “’Tis known far and wide that my uncle, the earl of Ormond, holds you in respect. I would be loath to be the cause of dissension between you.”
Turlough sat up straighter in his chair before he could stop himself. In an attempt to cover his move, he reached for the jewel-encrusted skean that lay conspicuously beside his trencher and eased slowly back into his slouch.
So this young whelp was the earl of Ormond’s nephew! He had guessed there was some connection when he had heard the name Butler. Of course, he could not have known that the lad was close kin. Thomas Butler’s reach was long and powerful. If one of his household had ventured into Ulster, there must be a reason other than the set of skillfully drawn maps they had found among the prisoner’s belongings. Turlough would learn it, in time. But first the lad’s metal should be tested further. “Tell me true, lad. Are ye not one of Ormond’s by-blows?”
Good, Revelin thought; th
e O’Neill had backed away from talk of a hanging. “Though it might endear me to you, my lord, I cannot call my mother whore. She was born Katherine O’Conner and became Lady Butler upon her vows.”
Turlough popped a chunk of meat into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. So a Butler had had the temerity to marry a full-blooded Irish lass despite the fact it was forbidden by English law for Anglo-Irish lords to marry the native Irish, no matter what their noble bloodlines. He relaxed a little and smiled. Three hundred years in Ireland had done more than change the Norman name Le Boitilej into the Irish name Butler; it had made them proud of their adopted homeland and perhaps more Irish in their views of the world than they realized.
“What brings ye to Ulster?” Turlough pointed a thick finger at Meghan and added, “And do not say ’tis on account of the lass.”
Revelin deliberately kept his eyes from Meghan. He had Turlough’s attention and he knew he must keep it. “You’re right, of course, my lord. A man does not risk his neck for a spot to piss or to couple. They are but calls of the natural man and are easily accommodated to circumstance. But there are other matters which can make the difference between what has gone before and what may never be again.”
Turlough grunted. “Ye speak riddles, Butler. Speak plain or I’ll have the short truth choked from ye.”
Revelin turned his head to where Reade, Neville, and Atholl sat chained together, then deliberately turned back to the chieftain. “Eventide approaches, my lord, and yet not every man is sympathetic to tradition.”
“More riddles!” Turlough grumbled, but he had understood Butler’s message. Privacy was needed before they continued their interview. He rose and waved the men’s guard away. “Release the English but keep a wary eye on them. I’ll have the heads of the lot of ye if even one escapes this night. Ye, there,” he continued, pointing at a warrior who sat beside Meghan, “yield yer seat to our Leinster guest.”
He looked pointedly at Meghan and then at Butler. “Ye’ve the hospitality of the O’Neills for a night, Butler. Use it well.”
Revelin regarded the table with conflicting feelings of relief and chagrin, relief because he had passed some arbitrary testing and deep embarrassment because of his filth among the finery. His nostrils stung with his own stink. Instead of seating himself, he disregarded every rational reason to the contrary and spoke. “I would ask a favor, my lord.”
Mellowed by the greater part of the third bottle of wine, Turlough nodded in paternal indulgence. “Name it.”
“I do not reject your hospitality but I would prefer to bathe before joining those at your table.” He hesitated. He was no diplomat; he had no patience for it. Diplomacy was for elderly men with slow heartbeats and seasoned minds. Yet his next request must be delicately handled or he would insult the O’Neills. “I carried clothing in my saddlebags. If ’tis possible, I would make use of them.”
Turlough grinned at him. “Ye’ve nae cause to fret, lad. The womenfolk are fair to tripping over their skirts for a glimpse of ye.” He leaned forward with a leer. “They care not so much for the garments ye stand in but how well ye stand stripped of them!”
The jibe at his expense and the accompanying laughter pleased Revelin, for the chieftain had not taken his request amiss.
Collaring a servant who was passing by, Turlough said, “Give the man what he needs.” To Revelin he said, “Yer English friends had little of value, to my mind.” He glanced down at the table and smiled as his eyes lit upon the skean lying there and added cryptically, “Only one will answer for what he possessed.”
When Revelin had gone, Meghan glanced anxiously at the faces ringing the table. Most of them were unknown to her. When Colin took the empty place beside her, she smiled gratefully. Here was one who did not shy from her.
“’Tis a lovely sight, ye are, lass.” He grinned at her and reached for her hand. “Jealous the lot of them are, for ’tis Colin MacDonald who’ll take all yer dances.”
Meghan’s eyes widened. “Dance?”
“Aye, dancing, lass. There’s nothing so fine as a swirl of the pipes to lift a man’s spirits, unless it be the smile of a bonny lass.” His hand tightened over hers. “Me day would be complete this very minute if ye’d favor me with one of yer smiles.”
Somewhere deep within her, the woman who had yet to live stirred. The gown she wore made her feel beautiful for the first time in her life. Yet, Revelin had rejected her, and she was sorely in need of a man’s approval.
Why should I not smile at Colin? she thought stubbornly. But the wicked light in his laughing blue eyes made her slip her hand from his and reach for her meal. She felt as if she did not know herself. One moment she choked on tears, the next she longed desperately to be admired. But there was only one man’s admiration she sought, and he had spurned her.
*
Evening passed quickly into nightfall as the revelry grew louder and more raucous. Wine and whiskey flowed freely. It was the beginning of the summer, when milk and butter and cheese would be plentiful. No man, woman, or child must go without this day, or, legend had it, they would starve come winter.
There was little protocol among the O’Neills. No rank or order formalized the festivities. Every man held his head high and met his neighbor’s eye squarely, for each was considered as good as the next because he was blood kin of the O’Neills.
How wonderful it must be to be a part of so great a family, Meghan thought enviously as the evening progressed. Perhaps here, at last, she would be accepted.
Often her gaze strayed to the head of the table where Turlough carried on a steady stream of conversation, eating, and drinking. He had hinted that he knew something of her parents. When would he tell her?
Now he looked up and met her gaze and paused. She held her breath, waiting for him to speak. Instead he reached for the jeweled skean on the table before him and turned it over thoughtfully in his hand.
“Do ye know this, lass?” he questioned after a long moment. “The Butler lad had it in his possession.”
Meghan looked at the beautiful gold work of the hilt with its crystal stones and shook her head. “I’ve nae seen it before.”
Turlough knitted his brows. If the girl did not recognize it, he might be wrong—or she might have her reasons for lying. He lay the blade down and pushed his wine goblet toward her. “Ye’re not drinking, lass. ’Tis Beltane. Ye must put the warmth of spring in yer veins!”
Meghan took the cup and tasted a little of the dark red liquid.
Turlough nodded. “Finish it. The night has just begun and the wine will bind ye against a chill.” And perhaps it would loosen her tongue, he thought.
But Meghan had less and less to say as the hours passed. When Revelin appeared among them again, he was quickly spirited away by Turlough for a game of chess near the center of camp, where the King-Candle burned brightly. She noticed the Englishmen’s silent but wary interest in Revelin’s conversation, but, though they had been freed of their shackles, they were kept apart from the gathering by the O’Neill warriors.
When she had eaten and drank all she could hold, Meghan left the table and went to find a patch of mossy ground near where people were laying a bonfire. It was quieter there, and the evening air was a welcome change from the noise and heat. Stretching out on her stomach, she propped her elbows on the ground and dropped her chin into her hands. Soon the music began. Above the clamor of the crowd the drone of bagpipes came to life. After that the clear notes of a flute joined in. Last came the fluid melody of a great harp. The tune was old and familiar and she hummed along.
The sensation of wine was new to her. The warmth of it hummed in her veins, as the music hummed on her lips. She glanced up at the night sky liberally sprinkled with stars and felt as giddy and light as the single silver-edged cloud racing across the midnight-blue expanse.
“Will ye dance, lass?”
Colin looked down at her, his hand extended in offer.
Meghan grinned up at him but shook her head. “I dinna
know how.”
“Is that all?” Before she could move, Colin bent over, clamped a hand on either side of her waist, and lifted her from the ground. “I’ll show ye the way. The steps are easy!”
Propelled along by his insistent hand at her back, Meghan was soon in the middle of the dancing. His hand again found her waist and she was swept up in his embrace, her feet barely touching the ground as he swung her around the huge bonfire that had been lit on the summit of a nearby rise.
“That’s it, lassie! That’s me lass!” he cried as Meghan tried to match her short strides to his long ones. As he smiled down at her, his face was as ruddy as the flames and his breath told her that more than the fire’s glow flushed his features. Like all the company, he had drunk a healthy share of whiskey, and the liquor was calling a tune of its own for his body.
The music changed, and became a wild country dance with much squealing of pipes and pounding of drums. Faster and faster, the tempo gained speed until Meghan threw her arms about the Scotsman’s neck to keep her balance.
Far from being frightened, she rejoiced in the measure. The music filled her heart, pumping furiously to keep the rhythm of her feet. She tasted the joy of her own movement, the flow of her body to the insistent rhythm of life. When the music ended, the other dancers began leaping across the fire’s licking flames, and she was seized with a desire to join them. The desire seemed to answer some wild…wanton streak in her spirit that had too often been suppressed.
“Wait a bit, lass,” Colin cautioned, holding her back with a hand on her waist. “There’s more to come.”
Pausing reluctantly to catch her breath, Meghan soon understood why Colin detained her. A man suddenly appeared from the edge of the campsite bearing a pole. Mounted on the pole was a straw doll dressed in a fantastic gown made of ribbons and mayflowers and straw. Close behind her came a peasant man and a woman similarly dressed in brightly colored garments laced with straw and flowers. The music began again as the crowd made way for the procession, and Colin leaned down and whispered in her ear, “’Tis the May Baby and her family.”
Rose of the Mists Page 16