Rose of the Mists

by Parker, Laura

  Turlough did not move so much as an eyelid, but behind his blue stare his cunning mind raced. So Butler could not be frightened into betraying one of his party to save his own skin. That was admirable, as far as it went. It did not follow that Butler did not know who was guilty.

  His mouth turned down slightly as he looked at the slight, freckled man with red-gold curls. Once he had seen the Englishman up close he knew him to be innocent. As for the other two… Turlough’s inscrutable gaze roamed contemptuously over the sober form of Richard Atholl. From what he had heard from his guards, this man mouthed oaths and prayers with nauseating regularity. No heart there for brutal murder. Finally he settled with concentrated intent upon John Reade.

  Here was a soldier. Reade’s square face with its heavy features bore the stamp of a man capable of any and all crimes. It was a face of virtue in war and vice in peace. Turlough had seen that look too often not to recognize it. Aye, Reade was his man. But how to smoke the fox from the brush?

  Turlough chuckled and reached out to take Meghan by the hand. He pulled her about to face him and with his free hand lifted her chin. “Ye’ve the power. I’ve seen proof of it in the mark laid so boldly upon ye and in the death of me bull. Do not fear that I would harm ye. I’ve a healthy respect for the workings of the fairies and the otherworld. But I tell ye now ye’re an O’Neill, lass, and yer allegiance is to yer chief. If ye’ve traffic with the fairies, make them give ye the name of the murderer so that yer lad can go free.” He leaned closer until his breath fanned hotly across Meghan’s face. “Sila tells me ye’ve the sight. I’ve given me promise, the murderer shall be named this night or all the prisoners must die.”

  The pronouncement struck Meghan dumb. How could he expect her to look into a face and read guilt or innocence? And murder? She had been told nothing of a murder. “I—I know nothing of murder, my lord,” she murmured so softly that none but Turlough heard her.

  He patted her cheek. “Ach! Then yer answer will truly have come from the fairies.” Gripping her by the shoulders, he turned her to face the four prisoners. He held her still with his heavy hands. “Look at each of them, lass. Look good and long. One of them is a murderer. Ye’ll be reading it in his face. Tell me which, and the others will go free.”

  Meghan shook her head wildly. “I—I cannot! Do not make me! There’s no magic in me! ’Tis an accident the bull died. I swear it!”

  Turlough shook her by the shoulders. “Dinna fret, lass. Ye’re troubling young Butler, and we cannot have that, can we?”

  Meghan stilled, seeking Revelin through the blur of her tears. He had advanced toward her but his way was blocked by a warrior. She saw in his eyes fear for her and an odd bewilderment. He’s remembering, she thought.

  Revelin was remembering. What had come to his mind were Meghan’s strange babblings the day her aunt died. She had blamed herself, saying that she knew about the death of some poor herdsman and that his companions had blamed her for it. Surely she had not been foolish enough to spread that tale here, not when even a single glance at her face was enough to repel all the most practical of minds?

  “My lord, she’s but a lass,” Revelin began. “You cannot hold her responsible for childish daydreams.”

  Turlough did not respond. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of Meghan’s shoulder as he leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “Ye’ve the sight, lass. I know! ’Twas not yer nurse’s name Una?” She jumped under his hands, and his grip eased. “Aye. Ye’re the one. Read their faces, all, and save young Butler’s life.”

  Meghan closed her eyes. She would try, if it would save Revelin’s life.

  She waited, becoming so still that she could feel the tremor of each heartbeat within her chest. She waited for the trembling, the shadow that always flooded her before the revelation of the dream that was not a dream. Nothing.

  “Open yer eyes. Study them,” Turlough encouraged, his lips on a level with her shoulder.

  Meghan slowly opened her eyes. This time she did not look at Revelin. She knew he was innocent. She saw Robin shiver as her deep blue stare encompassed him. He was afraid but innocent. The conviction came easily to her mind, without a heralding of foreshadowing. She took a deep breath and moved her gaze.

  The tall, white-faced man held up the cross that he wore about his neck as she focused on him, and she heard him murmur a prayer. Amusement struggled in her, a senseless amusement caused in part by terror that she might at any moment be plunged into a vision and in part by a certain knowledge that it would not happen. She felt nothing as she looked at him, neither guilt nor innocence. Nothing.

  It was hard to move to the final man. She did not like him. She feared him. Looking into his black eyes was like gazing at danger. His smile was a beguiler’s smile. His strong face might be thought handsome by some, but to her his black beard and thick head of hair too closely resembled a predator’s pelt. His well-fed smile repelled her. She knew that, given the chance, he would eat her alive. Meghan looked away. Guilty.

  The thought flashed clearly and calmly in her mind. It was not a vision, it was a simple reading of the truth, and she wondered whether Turlough already knew the answer. Of course, he did. She was being tested; he would have to know the answer in order to know whether she had succeeded.

  “Well?”

  Meghan closed her eyes. “I do not know. I cannot tell.”

  “Turlough’s hands left her. That was not the answer he expected. He had felt the tension rise in her when she gazed at the one called Reade. Turlough himself had surmised the black-haired man’s guilt, though not the reason for it. She knew it, too. So why did she plead ignorance when Butler’s life hung in the balance? He smiled slowly. Perhaps she did not believe he would carry out his threat.

  Turlough gripped the gold hilt and freed the skean from his belt. He had carried it with him constantly since Colin had pulled it from Butler’s saddlebags. “If ye cannot name the murderer, mayhaps I can aid ye. I’ll remove a choice for ye. ’Twill make it easier.”

  Megan did not understand Turlough’s intent. She did not understand even as he moved past her toward the four chained men. It was only when she saw the long thin blade catch the King-Candle’s flame with its edge that she knew what he meant to do. Even then she was slow to react. He had stopped before Robin and grabbed the man by the hair, his blade lifted to plunge into the arched throat, when the power of motion came rushing back into her.

  “Not him! Not him!” She flew at the O’Neill chief, her hand outstretched to catch the powerful arm on its downward stroke.

  She leaped upon him, grasping his fist in one hand and the bare blade in her other, and wrenched the skean to deflect its blow. She felt no pain as the metal bit smoothly into the flesh of her palm. She was falling, tumbling into a black abyss without pain and without bottom.

  Chapter Ten

  The pinpoint light of the vision grew steadily brighter until its icy brightness stung like sleet against Meghan’s skin.

  The light flared and disappeared.

  The hissing grayness of a rain-darkened dusk replaced the brilliant light as Meghan found herself standing in the shadowy stillness of a rath. The room was not empty.

  Clad from shoulders to boots in a great mantle of saffron wool, a young Irish nobleman filled the doorway. His head was bare, in defiance of the elements that had plastered his wild black mane to his back. Above his raven-black beard his face was a fierce blend of feral savagery and mortal comeliness. Heavy brows formed ominous ridges over blue eyes so brilliant they resembled those of an osprey; sharp, inquisitive, and with the ceaseless roving of a predator.

  A low moan tore Meghan’s attention away from the man. From the formless shadows a naked young woman appeared lying on a bed of rushes, her knees bent and her back arched in support of her distended belly. Fever had painted a scarlet patch on each cheek and matted her beautiful flame-colored hair to her pale brow.

  Transfixed, Meghan watched the man move to the bedside. For the space of three
heartbeats there was only the girl’s harsh breathing as he knelt by her side. Then she moaned as a new birth pain began.

  Meghan began to shake like a wind-wrung leaf. It would happen now, something terrible, something she could not stop or prevent, something that might drive her mad!

  The girl’s cries rose higher and higher until the very room shivered with the long pealing screams of agony. Meghan pushed her hands against her ears but the cries were inside her, keening like a banshee’s wail.

  When the cries ceased, it was like the bursting of lungs. Silence rushed in to fill the void in a curious hiss like an expelled breath.

  Choked with terror, Meghan saw the man rise, anger turning his eyes dark as he gazed on the now-silent girl. The lightning flash of a dagger appeared in his hand, the same skean Turlough had drawn.

  The blade slashed through the air toward the girl’s defenseless abdomen. Meghan screamed. The downward stroke cleaved the vision. It ripped apart before her horror-filled eyes, spewing blood and darkness…and the mewling cry of a newborn.

  “No! No! The blood! There’s so much blood!”

  *

  “Meghan! Meghan, darling! ’Tis nothing. A mere cut. Open your eyes and see for yourself. ’Twill mend, lass, ’twill mend.”

  Revelin hardly recognized his own voice as he took Meghan’s face in his hands and kissed her again and again. He did not know how else to still her cries. Her lips were so cold that he feared she would die of shock. Yet, there was no reason for it. After he had carried her into Turlough’s tent, Sila had wrapped Meghan’s wound in clean linen. The cuts on her palm had been long but not deep.

  “Meghan, love,” he whispered, offering the heat of his breath to her frozen mouth. “Meghan, please open your eyes.”

  Meghan resisted the seductive call in the voice she remembered as Revelin’s. She knew she would go mad if the vision continued. And yet, she knew she could not prevent a single moment of it when it chose to return. She was cold, numb with the horror of its memory. What more could happen? She opened her eyes.

  Revelin thought he would be relieved to look down into her eyes, but facing the deep blue bruising that was Meghan’s gaze was like an unexpected blow to the stomach. His arms tightened convulsively about her.

  “Meghan, ’tis over. No one’s been hurt. Look here.” He reached for her hand. The bandage was spotted in places with rosettes of red, but the main bleeding had stopped. “See, love. You are not hurt badly.”

  Meghan gazed at the white expanse of cloth covering her hand before her eyes drifted back to Revelin’s face. “What happened?”

  “Don’t you remember? Well, ’tis not important.” Revelin lifted her from the rush-and-bough mattress that served as the chief’s bed and turned to Turlough. His heart had nearly stopped when he’d seen Meghan fly at the earl of Tyrone. Turlough was a soldier, capable of a death-wielding response before he knew his intended victim. Yet, her cry had warned him and he had not hurt her. Meghan had cut herself.

  Revelin tried to keep that in mind as he addressed the chieftain. “I think we’ve provided enough of a spectacle for one evening. With your permission, my lord, I will find shelter for the lass.”

  Turlough regarded the two young people before him with detachment. They were a picture of contrasts, the golden-haired lad and the girl with her delicate dark wildness. A more sentimental man might have wished them well and left them to their hearts. But he was a chieftain and warlord. They were pawns in his strategy. “Did ye understand the lass’s ravings?”

  The question took Revelin by surprise. What had Meghan said? There was something about visions of blood. “She said nothing of consequence, my lord. She was frightened. She has spells of imagination, that is all.”

  “Is it now?” Turlough looked down at the skean he still held. The girl had recognized it. He had seen her staring at it in horrified fascination before she had passed out. “There’s more to it than that, lad. Put her down.”

  Colin had followed his chieftain into the tent. Now he moved from the corner of the room, and the look in his eye betrayed his wish for any excuse to attack Revelin. After a short hesitation, Revelin placed Meghan back on the bed.

  “That’s a good lad.” Turlough moved to the foot of the bed and held up the skean by its blade so that the intricate pattern of the hilt was displayed. “What meaning does this have for ye, lass?”

  After one brief look, Meghan turned her head away. “Nothing.”

  “Ye’re a poor liar, lass, and I’ve little patience with a good one. Ye had a vision, did ye not? Aye, that’s better,” he said as she turned back to him. “What did ye see, lass? The truth.”

  Meghan shook her head in denial, but the words came tumbling out without her permission. “A woman, giving birth. And a warrior. He wore the O’Neill mantle but I—I did not know him. He had that. He—” Her eyes fastened on the blade. “He killed her! Plunged it into her belly.” Meghan’s hands flew up to cover her face as hard sobs racked her.

  “That’s enough,” Revelin said angrily. “You’re torturing a simple girl who cannot tell nightmares from reality.”

  “Can she nae?” Turlough replied, contemplating the weapon in his hand. He licked his lips nervously. It did not seem possible, but…the girl herself had described it all, just as he remembered it.

  His gaze switched to Meghan. She had the same dramatic coloring, the wild black hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. And the birthmark was real; he had touched it. And yet, it could be a trick to make his claim to Ulster less secure. There had been persistent rumors over the years. Perhaps the girl had been coached. There was Sila, of course, to school the girl in such tales. Sila was the one who had proposed the test of naming the murderer. But he was not so easily led. Turlough closed his hand on the hilt. He would need more proof of the girl’s gift of visions. He would begin again, from the beginning.

  “Ye’re nae a believer in fairies, are ye, young Butler?” he said after a moment. “Yer English upbringing makes ye deaf and blind to the nature of the blood that runs in yer veins. Yet, every man knows there are things beyond his mortal understanding. The lass is different. ’Tis plainly marked on her for all to see. If ye were a wise man, ye’d claim her for yer own. When I’m done, I may give her to ye that ye will make of her a proper wife.”

  “No!” Colin shouted. He strode into the center of the tent, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. “I offered for the girl this very morning. Ye promised ye’d consider it.”

  Turlough’s brows drew together at the tone of the Scotsman’s voice. Colin’s indignation held no weight but it angered him.

  He turned to Colin. “The lass is not for ye, lad. If she proves to be who I suspect, ye’ll be knowing it, too.” He walked back to the bed where Meghan lay. Her sobs had subsided, but tears dampened her cheeks. “Take this, lass, hold it tight. Ach! Don’t turn away. It will not pass ye by, ye must see that now.”

  He is right, Meghan thought as she stretched out her hand. The skean was a little longer than the one she had carried for years, but it seemed much more dangerous, evil. And it was warm to touch, as if alive. She shivered, and would have released it had Turlough not wrapped his big fingers over hers to hold it in her palm.

  “There’s a lass,” Turlough continued in an unexpectedly gentle voice. “The man ye dreamed, what was his form?”

  “Tall,” Meghan answered in a whisper. “And black like ye, but more handsome,” she added in innocent honesty.

  Turlough smiled. It was common knowledge that his cousin had been the more handsome of the two. “What of the lass?”

  As Meghan stared at the blade a dark shadow of the vision drifted through her mind. “Red-haired she was, and beautiful.” The vision crystallized, not with soul-quaking intensity but with the blunted edge of far-off memory. “He killed the woman. He plunged the skean into her pregnant belly. I heard the babe cry out in protest!”

  Maura Fitzgerald and Shane O’Neill. Turlough crossed himself, muttering a seldom-u
sed prayer. “Saints preserve us, ye’ve witnessed yer own birth!”

  “You’re mad!” Revelin broke in, reaching past Turlough and snatching the skean from Meghan’s hand. “No one dreams his own birth. You’re putting thoughts into her mind and she’s too frightened to realize it.”

  Turlough’s sharp gaze focused with new understanding on Meghan’s troubled face. “’Tis not I who led her, lad. There’s fairy business in this. It began seventeen winters ago.” Turlough wiped the sweat from his brow. “We should have known something was amiss. Shane and I were but lads together, basking in the heat of our lust, until he set eyes on Maura Fitzgerald. She was betrothed to an O’Donnell, but Shane was so taken with the lass that he stole her from under the O’Donnells’ noses. He wanted her child, and paid the priest to pray every day that the babe would be a lad.”

  “I’ve heard the story.” Colin jeered. “The lass died and the babe with her. They still talk of Shane running mad with the grieving of it. Ye can’t expect a man to believe this lass is the dead child.”

  “Can’t I now?” Turlough responded, turning on the younger man. “What would ye be knowing of O’Neill business, Scotsman? Aye, ’twas pain that maddened Shane, but not all for loss of Maura. The priest had promised him a son. When he realized Maura was dead and no child to show for it, he…” Turlough paused. How to tell what so badly shocked him, even now as a memory of sixteen years?

  He extended his hand to Revelin for the skean and received it. “This was Shane’s. He was wild with grief, ye’ll understand. I saw it, too—and the woman Una—the feeble kick within the dead womb. What was a body to do? ’Twas his heir. The babe had a right to life.”