Mykyl pressed one final hard kiss against her lips before draping her tunic back over her body. “I will come for you, my love. I love you.”
Amoda stumbled as he left her grip upon his hand tight until he slipped out the door. Mykyl paused in the hallway, torn between the desire to go back to her, to make her his once again and the call to battle. Catching sight of Aed’s wife, he stalked up to her. “My lady, you are Aed’s wife?”
“Aye, my lord. I am Druantia.”
“One of my soldiers will remain here, to watch over her.” Mykyl glanced behind him, longing to return to her like a knife within his flesh.
The woman nodded quickly.
“Dress her in all the finery of an Irish queen.” Mykyl ordered, impatiently. “Ui Droria will have her back upon the throne.”
A collective gasp filled the corridor as Mykyl strode out to meet his allies. Mounting up, he paused and glanced toward the window where he saw Amoda standing, watching him. With a brief nod, he whipped his mount’s head around and kicked him into a hard, ground-covering gallop.
Twenty Three
Trotting past two guards, Mykyl and Aed Ui Naille kept the silence they’d ridden with as the men they’d brought flowed into the camp. The fires that spread along the ground like a living, breathing river of dancing gold and red kept the darkness at bay.
Men numbered like the stars as Mykyl caught a shadow moving to take his mount’s head. Dismounting tiredly, he gratefully surrendered the animal and glanced around him, pleased to see so many willing to ride under his banner.
“The others?”
“All but Fagen have arrived, and he should be here by mid-day tomorrow,” Cahal reported. “Fagen’s man begs an audience with you.”
“He shall have to wait. We wait for his lord to arrive before we begin to plan our victory,” Mykyl stated. “Find room for Naille’s men and horses.”
“Aye.” Cahal led the mount away with a nod at Naille’s eldest son who followed with his father’s army.
“What is to become of Ui Droria once you’ve reclaimed Woodstown?” Aed crossed his arms over his chest. “It is a territory divided amongst the lesser kings.”
“Are you concerned you might lose your lands? Mayhap, it would have been better to consider—”
“I merely wish to know what you plan to do once you have regained power. There are many Irish kings who would gladly see you off the throne.”
“My wife will be back on the throne.” Mykyl stepped around two warriors. “Where she belongs.” “Your wife?” The strong note of disbelief filled Aed’s voice. “Have you forgotten the woman you’ve taken as a wife came to you as a slave? She spent a good sum of time within your father’s court. The same kings might have issues with such a move.”
Mykyl nodded, “Aye, ‘tis true she spent time in my father’s court, but she was born to these lands. You will find her line stretches back a great distance. Take comfort in what meager offerings this camp has. My lord, tomorrow will be the start of a war.”
Stretched out by the fire, Mykyl struggled to find a moment’s rest. His body ached with need, chilled without the warmth of the woman he’d left in Naille’s women’s care. His chest burned with remembered sensations of her full breasts pressed against him.
Closing his eyes, Mykyl found a new torment as images of her walked through his mind. Falling into an uneasy sleep, memories danced behind his lids of the many nights they’d spent burning with passion. A muted, tortured groan escaped his control as he rolled over, smashing the fur beneath him in frustration.
~ * ~
Amoda rubbed gently at the swell of her abdomen, her eyes upon the slippery stones in the slow, bubbling stream she stood in. Slowly, teasingly the fabric of her skirt slipped over her legs to float with the current.
Soft, impatient, the snuffle of a horse drew her attention, and she turned to see what had caused the upset. The familiar figures of three of Aed Naille’s guards sitting on their mounts remained clearly visible, and atop a low rise, Vidor sat his sturdy sorrel stallion.
The weeks since the last messenger had come with news of the battles had dragged by, each another added torment. She delighted to hear that Mykyl faired well, but sadness clung to her with each passing day that he remained gone. Unease and worry kept her on edge, and she could feel the walls of the castle pressing in upon her. The babe had settled. She could feel the time of his birth close in, and she feared that he would come before Mykyl had returned.
“Amoda!”
Rolling her eyes, Amoda turned at the sound of her keeper’s voice and watched Druantia hurrying toward her. Druantia seemed frightened whenever Amoda managed to slip away, something that vexed both women a great deal.
“My lady, you shouldn’t run off so.”
“Lady Naille, I’ve hardly run off. You can see I am at this brook from nearly every vantage within the castle. I’ve four able warriors to guard—”
“What do men know of tending a woman round with child?” Druantia waved away her statement easily. “Come, quickly out of the water. Your lord would not wish for you to come to an ill end. The babe is close. You should stay within the walls of our hall.”
Exhaling sharply, Amoda started for the nearest bank. “I do not know why you are so vexed, Mykyl would hardly—”
“Your lord is the least of my concerns.” Druantia replied stiffly and waved a hand at Amoda in offer. “Come now. I’ve put a pot of tea upon the hearth.”
“Lady Druantia, you do not give enough credit to your men. They are able-bodied warriors.”
Slipping an arm through Amoda’s Druantia smiled suddenly. “Aye, but a warrior is not a midwife, and if you deliver out here they would have to tend you.”
Both women turned to look at the men who stared at them in dismay and horror, their tanned faces bleached of all color.
“Has there been any word?” Amoda whispered softly as they walked slowly back inside.
“None past the message that arrived these weeks past.”
“I do hope all is well,” Amoda whispered to herself, her gaze on the distant horizon, her mind miles away, on the man who held her heart in his hand.
Settled into a chair, Amoda glanced at Druantia’s aged healer who shuffled crookedly into the room. Her expression bore the now familiar smirk, and Amoda shook her head. “There something funny, old woman?”
“‘Tis humorous to see a queen being less than she is.”
“I am no queen,” Amoda muttered and bent awkwardly to pick up her mending. “Be off with you, I’m certain Druantia would welcome your ramblings.”
“Two people so in love and yet neither knows the truth.”
Amoda heaved a sigh, her mending falling into her lap as she turned to face the old woman. “What nonsense do you ramble on about? Leave me in peace. I’ve mending to do.”
“Amoda Ni Cormac, daughter of a king, sold like a common whore.”
Flushing at her words, Amoda stood, her mending tumbling to the floor, forgotten. Amoda stalked her tormentor, stopping inches away from her. “Be careful what counsel you speak. I may be a great many things, but I will not allow you to continue as you have. You will guard your tongue more closely, or I shall sever it from your head! And that is a skill I am quite adept at.”
Brushing past her hunched form, Amoda started for her room. Gasping, she clutched at her abdomen as a searing wash of pain unlike anything she’d ever felt wrapped itself around her body.
“‘Tis the babe!”
“Nay, I will not have him before his father’s return.” Amoda winced, her knees weakening as she slid down the doorjamb to the floor. “Do you hear me? I refuse.”
“I’m afraid, my lady, you have no choice in the matter.” She patted her hand gently. “Come. Bring the son of a Ri Tuath into the world.”
Both women glanced up at the scurrying of shoes upon the floor and the rustle of skirts to see several women hurrying toward them. Concern and fear evident in the young women’s faces, they sta
red at them for a moment before the younger of them darted back the way she’d come.
Waving off the women’s aid, Amoda grasped the doorjamb tightly, her knuckles white with the force of her grip. Slowly, she inched herself into an upright position. With a dark look at the small crowd, Amoda began shuffling toward her room.
“Creidne, what is the meaning…?” Druantia stuttered to a stop as she saw the women gathered around. “Amoda, come, let us get you to bed. You’ve a while to go.”
Amoda hissed out a painful breath. “I will not bring a child into this world without his father here.”
“Mykyl is on the battlefield. We know not which one,” Druantia soothed as she wrapped an arm around Amoda’s frame. “Come, let us help you.”
Amoda nodded weakly as they inched their way down the corridor. She winced as another pain wrapped itself around her abdomen and back, sending shards of agony in every direction. Grasping for the poster of her bed, she gripped it in a crushing hold, her breath coming in short, agonized gasps.
“Bring hot water, fresh bedding,” Druantia ordered quickly. “Fetch me a soft dressing gown for her to wear.”
The shadows upon the floor stretched long, and the light in the windows had darkened to a shadowy blue and still the pains came. They came more quickly than ever, so that she could barely catch her breath. Several torches burned brightly around the room and a roaring fire crackled and hissed in the hearth. A large pot hung over it, hot water steaming merrily.
“You are doing well, child.”
“Curse his wretched hide!” Amoda panted. “I should have severed his head from his body!”
“Here, sip of this drink.” Druantia tilted the small wooden cup slightly. “It will help.”
Amoda gasped at the sudden change from agony to heat that spread throughout her body like the wash of warm mead. “It burns!”
“The babe comes,” Creidne declared, shoving sheets aside as she smiled at Amoda. “‘Tis time to expel the babe. Come now, you must push.”
“I shall kill him for this,” Amoda grunted as she struggled with the white-hot pain. “Stupid, selfish, vile son of a Gaill whore!”
“Curse him into the very sea, my child,” Creidne cackled, “but push.”
Amoda sucked in a breath, and she bore down again and again. The sudden welcomed relief of pressure and pain had her laughing as she met Creidne’s eyes. “A son?”
“Aye, you’ve given your lord a son.” Creidne laid him next to her and turned back to the matter at hand. “Come, Amoda, your work is not done yet.”
Her eyes upon her son, Amoda followed the prompts of the other women wordlessly. She barely felt them washing her with warm water or putting a fresh gown upon her. Rising to her feet, she let the servant girls change the bedding while she held her son.
A trembling hand traced over his features as she stared down into the face of Mykyl’s son. Blue eyes so like his sire’s stared back at her as he screamed his displeasure. Laughing softly, Amoda bit her lip and eased back onto the bed as Druantia piled pillows behind her. “A son, an heir…”
“Rest now. It’s been a long battle for you.” Druantia smiled as she brushed the hair from Amoda’s face. “‘Tis hard work bringing the son of a dragon into this world.”
“Aye, but worth it. Every moment of it,” Amoda whispered as she closed her eyes, sleep claiming her.
~ * ~
A soft knock on her door woke Amoda, who stretched, her arm reaching for her son. She bolted into an upright position, her gaze desperately darting around the room to find her child. She relaxed slightly when she saw Druantia slip into the room, her arms full of a woolen wrapped bundle.
“Good morning, my lady,” Druantia whispered, bringing the little boy to his mother. “I trust you slept well?”
“I did not hear him stir.”
“‘Tis no surprise. I took him last night whilst you slept. Exhaustion hung off you like a shift.”
Amoda reached for her son. She tucked him against her body, his little head turning to nuzzle at her linen-covered breasts. The little mewling sounds he made drew a smile from her face. Amoda shook her head slowly as a lone tear escaped her control to trail down her face. “He is beautiful. So like his father.”
“Mykyl will be proud of you.”
“He will love him,” Amoda replied as Druantia settled on the edge of the bed. “As I do.” Bringing the child to her breast, she gasped at the strong sensation of him suckling.
“Lord Mykyl loves you,” Druantia whispered, kneeling beside Amoda’s bed. “Else he wouldn’t risk everything he’s ever known to reclaim what is yours.”
Amoda turned her head at Druantia’s words and stared at her. “I don’t want a throne. I am not—”
“You were born to sit upon it. Your sisters have all married, with lives of their own. It is time to return you to yours.”
Amoda pulled away from her, a frown twisting her features with unease. “What are you saying? Mykyl called me his queen, Creidne keeps rambling on about nothing…”
Druantia bowed her head for a moment, her hands clutching at Amoda’s arm. “Years ago, Tyr came to these shores. He swore an allegiance to your father, the Irish king, and then he betrayed him. He attacked the very king he had sworn to aid. I do not know why he spared your life or why he broke his alliance. All this time, we’ve believed the line of Cormac gone, dead, then when we heard of a flame-haired woman brought back from across the sea, doubts, rumors began to grow. Have faith in your lord, my queen.”
Amoda watched Druantia rise and gather her cloak before walking to the door. “Where does that leave you?”
Druantia smiled softly, “Where I have always been, my sister. I am a queen with my own people and your loyal ally.”
Shock ripped through Amoda as the door swung shut, leaving her with the sounds of her son suckling and the fire crackling. Glancing down at her son, she closed her eyes, pain ripping through her. What could the meaning of such lies be? She was no queen; she had been a slave. Yet she’d been more once, long ago. She remembered the child she’d been before Tyr had come, the smiling slate eyes of a well-dressed woman, and the endless rivers of blood that had flowed beneath her feet. “Aye, long ago I was more, but to be a queen?” she whispered to her son, a sad smile crossing her face as she held him.
~ * ~
A heavy mist hung thick in the air as the sounds of men and beasts swelled in the dawn air. From the back of his stallion, Mykyl stared at the curtain of white and cursed the gods for it. Below him the tiny flickering of orange told a tale of men who’d come at his father’s command. Each flicker of flame angered him. The crop that this field would have yielded now destroyed, ripped from the coffers of his city.
“Your father has amassed more men.” Cahal shifted in his saddle as they studied the layout below them.
“Aye. It seems he can’t defend without bringing in more men from Bratthl’id,” Mykyl agreed as he shifted slightly. “How many are left?”
“We have thousands,” Aed replied, glancing at the Irish leaders he rode along side. “And we are gaining more. Word has spread of your wife’s return to our shores.”
Mykyl shrugged his gaze steady upon what lay before him. “Her people are loyal.”
“And you?”
Mykyl glanced at Fagen’s captain before turning back to the flames below him. “It is her throne.”
“So we fight or talk?”
“Fight.” Mykyl drew his sword quickly, his body tensing as he prepared to rush headlong into the battle. With a furious cry that echoed amongst the ranks of Norse and Irish, he sent his mount down the hill at a ground-devouring gallop. The sing of his blade filled his ears as he cut through the first line of men camped in the field.
Fast, bloody, the fight filled the morning. The screams of steel echoed with the cries of man and beast as the sun burned away Eire’s cloak of white. Dashing into the fray, Mykyl felt the sting of swords as they narrowly caught his flesh, swinging through the a
ir next to him.
Sweat gathered along the corded muscles of his shoulders, running in delicate tendrils down his back to soak his tunic and the band of his trousers. The sweat soaked wool bore the stains of blood that flowed around him. Hot, pulsing, the splatter of blood scorched his face, staining his beard and hair as Mykyl’s heavy blade severed the head of one young warrior before sinking into the throat of another.
His mount dancing beneath his knees, Mykyl swung in a wide arch, his gaze scanning the battlefield with a harsh, assessing look. His men fought on ruthlessly, flowing into the battle like the endless waves of the sea.
His father’s men scattered into the vanishing mist like chickens in the yard. Panting harshly, Mykyl watched them run, a sense of pride warring with the anger of still being so far from home. Answering the cries of victory, Mykyl wiped the blood from his sword upon the rump of his mount and sheathed it.
“‘Tis not long now, my lord.” Cahal wiped the blood and sweat from his brow with a stained sleeve which mirrored Mykyl’s. “‘Till we are once more within the walls of our long homes, our women by our sides.”
“We are still outside the walls of Woodstown,” Mykyl replied, snatching an arrow from a body and staring at it.
“If you wish to go—”
“I will not abandon my men,” Mykyl replied softly. “I will not go to her until I can bring her home. I swore to her I would come for her when I could, I’ll not break my word again.”
Cahal nodded and glanced around him. “I wonder of my wife and children. Will your father be merciful to them or will I find myself with no sons, no wife, nothing but a barren home?”
Mykyl turned to his friend, a hard, cold tone in his voice. “He is eaten with rage and hatred. It is hard to say what he will do. Know that I will ensure he pays for any ill that comes to them, just as I shall be generous in my vengeance for what has befallen my wife.” Indeed, Mykyl thought, he would see that Tyr of Bratthl’id suffered a great deal for his treachery. “Tomorrow we will ride against the walls of home. It is time to take back our city.”
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