Storm Maker [The Dawn of Ireland 1] Read online

  “I do not believe the druids. I think they will do or say anything to discredit Father Patrick. I think he wants what the people want—to be protected and loved by almighty God.”

  “If that be true,” Liam said slowly, “then I could follow Pádraig’s words and not be damned by the almighty powers.”

  “I think you should try, Liam. That is all Father Patrick would ask of you. Just try. If it is not right, you will know it, and you can follow the words of the druids instead.”

  He looked at me fully. It was almost as though Ryan were not translating, for Liam seemed to speak privately, to me alone. “I have never believed them, Caitlín. I believe me own heart. What ye are telling me sounds like something I could trust. I will wait, an’ I will decide.”

  We all three rose then, and we left. But I could still feel the pull of the buried bones until I was well away from their ancient summons.

  I thought about what Liam had told me. “I will wait and decide.” That made twice in one day that Liam had told me he would wait. I marveled at his ability to seize complicated ideas and turn them over in his mind slowly and carefully until he solved them to his satisfaction. I myself was more likely to seize upon new ideas and accept them until they proved not so wise. Perhaps I could learn a bit of patience from my lover, and more besides. I willed myself to stay open to what he might teach me.

  Ryan told us as we rode that this sacred place was called Machaire Rátha, a site sacred to the druids and close to an old circular fort.

  “That name scratches at my memory,” I told my companions. And then I remembered. This place began the easternmost boundary of my new holdings, so pronounced by King Leary at Tara almost a year ago.

  We had entered a region full of deep ravines and scrub gorse and heather. Ryan had told us that we were more than halfway to Derry, but we needed to slow our horses so as not to tire them climbing the canyon land.

  There were a few small, shallow streams coursing the land, and once in the distance I saw cattle and a few riders.

  “Our own clans,” said Ryan shortly.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “I saw the signature in the smoke earlier today,” he said. “They keep watch on the cattle, and on us, too.”

  “But why? What or who do we have to fear?”

  “The history of our land is the history of conflict, cailín. There seems always to be someone who would seize our cattle, or our land, or our very clansmen for whatever advantage it may bring.”

  “Then I am glad your three great families are allied together.”

  “Yes. It has proved to be our strength, Caylith. Now perhaps we shall have your people, too, as our confederates.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “I mean by the power of marriage—the deep troth of legal partnership.”

  I felt my face burning, but I did not deny or confirm what Ryan had said. Ryan was silent then, and I saw through my lashes that Liam was looking straight ahead, his face impassive. If he had put his cousin up to talking about troths and pledges, he was not revealing it.

  We decided to encamp near one of the small brooks that cut through the landscape of ravines and gorges, all somehow held together by the roots of deep-growing heather and grasses. I deeply responded to the wildness of this area. As I filled our wineskins with water, I waded across the stream, my skirt pulled high into my belt.

  I saw pockets of sundew and loosestrife flowers, the purple of heather and bright yellow of daisies, many of them somehow growing in rocks and crevices. I looked up and saw Liam wading across to me. I handed him the wineskins so that I could fill the skirt of my tunic with the flowers and herbs that grew here so profusely.

  Before I could bend to gather flowers, Liam set the wineskins on the ground and opened his arms to me. “Come. Here,” he said softly. I stepped into the circle of his arms, missing his embrace, for I had thought about it all day that day.

  He held my back, stroking it as he kissed my entire face. My hands were on his chest, feeling the way his muscles bunched and moved as he caressed me. His nipples, when I fingered them, stood up straight exactly like my own would. When his mouth settled over mine, it moved up and down in such a suggestive way that I broke away from him, hardly able to breathe.

  “Oh!” was all I could say. Laughing, he drew me close again. “Later,” I promised, slipping out of his grasp. My hands were shaking as I gathered plants into my gathered tunic. Why was it that every time he was near me I seemed to lose not just the strength in my legs, but my very resolve?

  And why was that so bad? I laughed at myself, for I thought every woman should be so fortunate as to have a handsome warrior lover who wanted only her.

  We walked back to our camp fire and saw Ryan sending the “all is well” signal. He handed me the blanket, silently bidding me sign my smoke name. I emptied my skirt of plants and stood with the blanket, wondering how to re-create what I had seen him do two nights before.

  I bent and found a handful of damp grass, and I threw it onto the open flames. At once, darker smoke started to billow, and I waited until it had grown lighter and rose into a tall column. Then I seized the blanket at one end and drew it through the smoke column once, then again. The column seemed to waver, then broke cleanly once. Then again. I had done it. That special formation said, “Caylith.”

  “Well done, lass,” said Ryan.

  “Thank you. Now I would ask you to teach me how to say those very words. Thank you.”

  He smiled. “We say, ‘Go raibh maith agat.’ Say it.”

  “Go raibh maith agat,” I repeated. “Gu-ruh MY ah-goot.” I went to find Liam for my shillelagh lesson while Ryan prepared our supper.

  Liam stood behind me as I held the shillelagh at an angle about thirty degrees to my midriff, and he kept fingering my wrist until I held it more and more lightly, so loosely that surely it would fall from my grasp. He angled it downward also, pointed roughly at my left foot. Then, standing in front of me, he reflected the mirror image of my stance.

  I saw how the stance would fool an opponent into thinking that the weapon bearer was weak and unsure. I also saw how the looseness of my wrist made it possible to direct the weapon to any angle, and quickly. But where was the strength to come from?

  Again, he stood behind me and grasped my arm, showing me where and how to strike. It was to be a swift blow to the groin area. We did it several times. Then he stood in front of me again, this time as my opponent, and he signaled me to use the strike he had showed me—but lightly, a mock blow. And so I did.

  I saw immediately that the angle and the speed combined was the source of the strength, not the muscle of my arm and hand. That was a revelation to me, and I knew I had learned something very valuable.

  We stood in front of each other and practiced again, then again and again, each time making the counterfeit blows closer and closer, faster and faster.

  Finally, I stopped and backed away. I raised my eyes to his and smiled. “Thank you. Go raibh maith agat.”

  I was startled to see that his eyes at that moment were ravenous, pulling me in, promising something beyond brief satisfaction. I had to turn around, for I felt like I was being consumed. He stood for a while regaining control of his breathing. And then we went back to the fire to enjoy our supper.

  As we ate, I brought up again the subject of rangeland security. “Who do you think we need to fear for our land and cattle?” I asked the men.

  Liam answered, and Ryan translated. “The obvious scoundrels are the Sweeney swill—the leftovers from when the table was cleared last year.”

  I was surprised. “But the high king has declared their interest null and void. He has stripped the clans of all land rights for one hundred years.”

  “Yes, but me father will not live one hundred years, Caitlín. The lands and the cattle will pass to the strongest clans, as they always have.”

  “I still see no issue here, Liam. I met Sweeney’s men. You are right. They are swill.
They are both weak and stupid. And the law is on our side. I know enough from Father Patrick to know that the law of the Brehon is very strong in Éire. And let us not forget the folkmoots, the regional assemblies. Surely they would never allow the Sweeneys to regain a foothold.”

  “An’ sure I hope ye be right, lass. But remember—the weak ones you met were hired drovers, not his own clan. He still has children who live close by. There is no harm in being prepared.”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “All the better reason for us to keep our warrior skills sharp.”

  Ryan said, “Ye can add me to your store of weapons. I will bring me own boys from the Lough Neagh if we need reinforcements.”

  I was almost sorry I started talking about the subject, for I thought that surely our troubles with Sweeney were ended. The high king had ordered the cripple’s chair that Sweeney was tied onto to be thrown into the North Sea—fit ending for a murderous, slave-holding criminal. As far as I was concerned, the story was over. Sweeney could never hurt us again. That particular scroll had been rolled tight and tied with a steel ribbon.

  “Whistle us a cheery tune, Ryan,” I urged, and he brought out his bone whistle. Soon Liam and I were dancing a merry jig around the bright fire, and I laughed more than I had in a very long time.

  After a while, Liam and I settled back, leaning into each other. I saw that Ryan was lying some distance away, his back to us. I watched Liam’s expressive face by the light of the fire as he sang a slow, evocative song. I understood not a word, but I responded deeply to the way his voice caressed every syllable of the sensual language. As the song ended, he took my hand and brought it to his mouth palm up, and he proceeded almost to make love to it. I could not believe the pleasure he could evoke in every secret place as he suckled and licked my fingers.

  I felt a fire envelop me, starting at the tips of my toes, and I leaned into his chest, seeking his nipples. I sucked and licked, saying his name very softly, and he began to work the tunic slowly down from my shoulders to my waist. Then he lowered his head and began to devour my breasts, slowly and with a rhythm that made me gasp. He found my nipples and sucked one, then the other, with slow purpose, for he knew my secret—his deliberate, measured sucking was making my body frantic for more. I twisted and pushed against him as he sucked, and his hands found my thighs.

  I tried to stem the rising tide, but his tongue would not let me, and I suddenly arched my body against him. I was gasping, almost crying in pleasure. He held me close for long moments, until my breathing had become more regular, and then he kissed me gently on the mouth.

  “A mo chuisle, mo chuisle,” he crooned and sang to me. Ma-koosh-la, my own private song.

  After a little while, his voice started to wend its way into my throat, then my heart, then deeper and lower, until my body began to feel the flames all over again. Still lying against him, I put my hands on his breeches and untied the thong that held them tightly to his body. He helped me pull them down, and I lay with my head on his stomach, lightly stroking his thighs and his groin.

  Then, suddenly on fire for him, I knelt and began to suck and lick every inch, starting at his navel and working down. I was in no hurry, for I meant to taste every part of him. He held my head lightly, not forcing me to any one place, and I felt free to experiment with any amazing thing my mouth could find. His thighs and buttocks rose and fell like a relentless wave, and I could not stop. When he released, I also felt the hot wave roll over me and we both lay breathless, lost in pleasure.

  After a long while, we sat back up and rearranged our clothing, both of us laughing softly. Then we lay back down, our arms and legs braided and twined, and we slept.

  I awoke sometime during the night, feeling his chest rise and fall with his slow, regular breathing. I thought about my time with him. These last several days, starting with the first night on board the Brigid, had been without a doubt the happiest of my life. It was more than the fulfillment of physical desire, I knew. I had begun to delight in every moment, whether it was picking flowers, or huddled in the rain, or standing with a shillelagh, or waving a blanket over a fire. I felt a deep, pervasive contentment that I hoped would never end.

  Yes, it was time to join Liam in—what had Ryan called it?—a deep troth of legal partnership. I felt that now, finally, it was the right thing to do. I simply did not know how to tell Liam. Or Kevan, the man I had not much thought about since Liam had welcomed me onboard the Brigid.

  Chapter 9:

  Pack Me for Home

  Today would be our last full day in the saddle. I awoke to the feel of a light rain on my chest and face, and I groped for my tunic, pulling it over myself and Liam, too. The hour was so early that I could hear the hunting cry of owls somewhere in the night. Still asleep, Liam gathered me close in his arms, pulling my tunic over our heads, and I lay feeling his heartbeat next to my breasts.

  As much as I missed my new home in Derry, some part of me wanted to steal away into the trees with Liam so we could live like savages, wearing animal skins and eating our meat raw. I burrowed closer to his warmth, starting to fantasize about a wild existence in the peat bogs of Éire. I laughed softly into his chest, listening to the rain.

  When we returned, I would not have an easy way to talk with Liam as I had these last several days. I had been fortunate that his cousins Michael and Ryan were not only expert at translating, they were very close to Liam and understood him—his wit, his moods, his sometimes hidden intent. I would have to hone my skills at reading his face and his actions. I looked forward to it, and yet I feared it, too, for we had already proved to each other that a simple misunderstanding—a cruel, almost casual lie from the lips of MacCool—could cause a world of hurt.

  I thought about Ryan’s quip, something like “the less said, the longer wed.” If that were true, Liam and I would be happier teaching each other rather than relying on a third person.

  As for being wed—I had already begun to look forward to it. I imagined Liam and me in an ingeniously constructed brugh, built by the talented Michael, with a large hidden bed and many pieces of shining, handsome furniture. I could almost see the unusual windows that let in the light even when closed, the weavings and rugs, the gleaming oak floors. I would make my garden even larger, and we would enjoy fresh herbs and vegetables with every meal.

  What would happen, though, if Father Patrick needed me and our little army? Would Liam want to come with me? Was it fair even to ask him? His father was well known for his aversion to Patrick’s teachings. He had not tried to hurt Patrick or to drive him from Emain Macha. After all, Patrick was under the protection of the provincial king Daire. And Leary was not eager to cause conflict anywhere among the clans.

  But Leary was a considered devoted pagan, and he was surely in the grip of the mumbling druidic priests. The druids had already tried to stir resentment against the well-meaning Patrick. To the druids, Patrick was an evil interloper, out to strip them of their power. What would be the high king’s reaction if Liam were to join the cause of his presumed enemy?

  My thoughts had reached a troubling level where Liam and I really did need to talk and plan seriously. I could not expect that somehow the future would take care of itself, that our love would solve any dilemma. If the opportunity presented itself today, while Ryan was still with us, I thought we should talk a bit about my commitment to Father Patrick and what it may mean for our marriage. The rain had ceased. I could see no moon or stars through the leafy canopy overhead, but I could hear the sky telling me, through the birds, that dawn was less than an hour away. Pulling on my riding tunic, I went to my blanket next to the saddle. Unrolling it, I selected one of Brigid’s pretty léines to wear and the lace-topped undertunic.

  Setting them aside, I started a fire for morning meal. Then I slipped off to the little stream where I had sat while Liam applied my healing concoction and where the last evening I had gathered wildflowers.

  The moon by now was low, a waning crescent, and it shed little light on the wa
ter. But all along the stream as it ran through the clearing, the stars stretched overhead like an immense pavilion of tiny jewels. I left my clothes on the bank and waded into the refreshing water. I knelt and splashed the water over my head, letting it stream down my shoulders and body, over and over again.

  Shivering, loving the sensation of ice-cold water running down my skin, I returned to the bank and sat a little while, combing through my tangled curls. Then I stood and slipped into the undertunic first, the one Brigid had given to me. It fit me better than I had expected. The skirt itself was shorter than I was used to, hitting me just above the knees. The bodice, too, fit a bit more closely than my other one. It was sheer, but the transparency was partly hidden by little swirls of soft lace, so that at least my nipples did not thrust through the light material. I decided I liked it very much.

  I bent to pick up the pale green léine, and suddenly Liam was standing in front of me. “Dia duit, a Cháit,” he murmured. I straightened up, close in his embrace, and lifted my face to his. A little embarrassed to be seen in my new, revealing underwear, I pressed close and kissed him, loving the tickle of his mustache. Then I tried to slip from his arms and put on my léine.

  As I bent, he picked me up into his arms and waded across the brook to the side where all the wildflowers waited. The dawn was just cracking open the sky, and the grassy embankment reflected back the soft pastel of the light. I thought of gossamer gowns shimmering in the paleness of daybreak.

  He sat me on the grassy bank, holding my waist and pushing me gently onto my bum. “Suí anseo. You…sit here, Caitlín.”

  I looked up at him, puzzled. He squatted in front of me, just as he had when I asked him to apply the horsetail paste to my thighs.

  He looked boldly at my bodice, where my breasts were swelling from the light material, and without even thinking, I covered myself with both hands. Leaning forward, he silently removed my hands, as he always did. Then he settled back on his heels, still squatting in front of me.