The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (52 page)

“A chuisle,”
he said.

She stiffened. “Don’t be cal ing me such things.”

“Would you have me curse you,
a chroi ?
” He moved so near that he could feel the warmth of her skin. “What would you have me cal you?”

“Nothing but my name.”

She shifted, and the cloak slid from her shoulders. He caught it and laid it over her, drawing it close around her neck. “Look at me, Séanat.”

“Leave me in peace!”

“How can I do such a thing when you have said I must give myself into your keeping?” She turned about, despair in her eyes. “Dress yourself,” she said, “but leave your armour behind. We go to the High King.”

It was exactly what Aodhan had hoped. He nodded and returned to his discarded clothing, careful not to let Séanat see that he was pleased . . . not only to be alive, not only to have enjoyed her, but to know he would soon have his honour back again.

Al the camp was rejoicing. Warriors sang of their exploits and drank sweet mead and ale until they staggered and fel into fits of laughter; women grinned as they fil ed bowls with great ladlefuls of stew; horses stomped and whinnied, pigs squealed and banners snapped in the sharp, bitter air.

Séanat would have given everything she had to join her sisters where they sat around a fire with the other warriors, singing songs of victory in high, sweet voices. The spears she carried over her shoulders, Goibhniu’s finest; the sword she had won with her own skil when she was barely more than a child; her armour and her finely wrought golden helm – al these, and more, she would have surrendered to change what had happened the night before.

But there was no going back. No undoing what had been done, no leaving Aodhan to his death.

The terrible thing was that she knew she could never have done aught but save him, not even had the Morrígan herself appeared to forbid it.

Forgive me.

“Where are we going?” Aodhan asked softly at her shoulder.

“Hold your tongue,” she whispered. “It is not for you to speak, but to be humble and silent.” She thought she heard him laugh, but the sound was quickly gone. Here he was surrounded by those who would cheerful y have kil ed him had they met him on the battlefield or found him alone afterwards. There were doubtless many who would stil be glad to spit him on the end of a sword.

Ruadán’s betrayal had not been forgotten.

But they would not do so as long as she vouched for him and staked her honour upon his behaviour.

“Séanat!”

Niamh, her black hair flying loose behind her, ran up to Séanat with a cry of relief and joy. She embraced Séanat with her strong arms, kissed her cheeks and stood back, laughing.

“We thought you dead!” she said.

“
You
thought her dead, Niamh,” Ríona drawled, coming up behind her. “I always knew she would return.”

Niamh made a face and embraced Séanat again. “How many did you slay?” she asked breathlessly. “I kil ed ten, and I would have slain four more if only—”

“Don’t believe her,” Ríona said, crossing her arms across her chest. “She always—” She broke off, looking over Séanat’s shoulder. “What’s this?”

Both women stared at Aodhan. He bowed and stood quietly under their inspection.

“I am looking for the Ard Rí,” Séanat said quickly.

But Ríona was not to be distracted. “I do not know you, stranger,” she said to Aodhan. “From which
fine
do you come?”

“Do you forget the laws of hospitality?” Séanat snapped. “He is my guest.” There was nothing Ríona could say to that. She frowned and pul ed Niamh aside.

“Lugh is in his tent,” Ríona said.

“Very wel ,” Séanat said.

As she began to walk away, Aodhan at her heels, she heard Niamh’s whisper. “She is not herself. What can be wrong? Who
is
he?”

They can feel it, Séanat thought. They know he is not of the Tuatha Dé
.

And indeed it seemed as if every man and woman they passed – cooks and smiths over their fires, warriors and pages, healers and poets – turned to look as she made her way to the great tent in the centre of the camp. Stil , no one stopped her, nor spoke except to welcome her back.

Perhaps it was only her imagination that their eyes fol owed her when she stopped before the warriors who guarded the new High King.

“Cathal,” she said, nodding to the larger man. “Fearghus. Wil you ask the Ard Rí if Séanat of the Daughters of the Morrígan may speak with him?”

“Our king rests,” Cathal said. He looked at Aodhan. “Is this an urgent matter?” Urgent? She might go to one of Lugh’s lieutenants and report what she had done. She might hope that Brighid would soon return from her mourning to speak for her. But it was Lugh to whom she must appeal, Lugh who had slain his own Fomóiri grandfather to save the Tuatha Dé.

“I ask to see him,” she said.

The warrior turned, drew back the tent’s flap and went inside. Séanat heard low voices, and then Cathal came out again.

“The Ard Rí wil see you,” he said gruffly, with another long look at Aodhan.

Séanat unslung the spears from over her shoulder and removed her sword and dagger, leaving them with Fearghus as custom dictated. Cathal nodded, and Séanat lifted the flap.

Lugh sat on a stool padded thickly with sheepskin, deep in conversation with his uncle Goibhniu, the powerful smith of the Tuatha Dé. Both men looked up as Séanat and Aodhan entered.

“Séanat,” Lugh said. His golden ha ir was as bright as ever, his eyes as blue, but his forehead was streaked with blood and the cuirass he stil wore was slashed and dented. “What do you ask of me?”

His weariness shamed her. “My lord,” she said, hesitating. “I ask a hearing.”

“For what purpose?” Goibhniu said. He looked, narrow-eyed, at Aodhan. “Who is this boy?”

“My lords,” Séanat said, “he is Aodhan. I have brought him under my protection.”

“Your protection?” Goibhniu said. “Why should he need—”

Lugh raised his hand, and the smith fel silent. There was a coldness in the High King’s face that chil ed Séanat’s blood. “I see why,” he said. “Come forwards, Aodhan.” Aodhan obeyed and bowed deeply. “My Lord King.”

“Your king is dead.”

Straightening, Aodhan met Lugh’s eyes without fear. “Many I knew are dead, or driven into the sea.”

“Fomóiri,” Goibhniu growled. He began to rise, but once again Lugh stopped him.

“Why is he here?” Lugh asked. “Why have you brought an enemy among us?” Séanat would not tel him of Brighid’s chal enge. She would not lay any responsibility upon the lady when it had been
her
choice and no one else’s.

“I came upon him in the forest,” she said. “He fought fairly and with honour. I spared him.”

“And brought him here?” Goibhniu demanded. “Have you so soon forgotten Ruadán?”

“I have not forgotten, my lord. But the Fomóiri are no longer a threat to us. They wil not return.

And Aodhan . . .” She took a deep breath. “It may be he is like the Ard Rí, as much of the Tuatha Dé as the Fomóiri.”

Lugh rose. “Is this your claim, Aodhan?” he asked.

“I do not know, my lord,” Aodhan said. “I was fostered to Fomóiri. I was raised as one, and fought for them. For this I make no apology.”

Goibhniu growled again. “You must not permit this serpent in our midst, nephew,” he said.

Séanat held her breath. Lugh was staring at her again, weighing, judging. She had offered her hospitality to Aodhan, which could not be withdrawn. He had three choices: to kil Aodhan, compel ing her to defend him unto death, even against the whole of the Tuatha Dé; to exile them both; or to accept her word of honour that Aodhan would do no harm. She would not have blamed him if he had chosen the easiest way: exile.

But he sighed and shook his head. “I do not understand you, Séanat,” he said. “It is not like the Daughters to show mercy in battle. If you have lost your taste for fighting . . .”

“Never, my lord!”

He searched her face again. “If our enemies stil had the means and wil to fight, I would not be lenient. But my judgment is this: he is yours, and whatever he does is on your head. You wil face
his
punishment should he flout our hospitality.”

It was the very best Séanat could have expected. She bowed low, avoiding Goibhniu’s piercing stare, and took Aodhan’s arm. He paused, gave a bow of his own, and fol owed her out of the tent.

“My thanks, Séanat,” he said.

She continued towards the Daughters’ tents without stopping. “You may not share our quarters,” she said. “My sisters wil not accept you easily. You may sleep by the fire outside, with the hounds.”

“Am I your hound, Séanat? Am I permitted to go freely about the camp if I wear your col ar?” His quiet mockery stung worse than any wound. “I have no use for col ars. Your honour binds you, as mine does myself. I wil see that you have blankets and food and ale.”

“But not your company?”

She gritted her teeth and didn’t answer. She pointed out the fire to him, where a pair of Daughters, Brónach and Úna, were warming their hands and talking quietly.

“This is Aodhan,” she said without preamble. “He is my guest. I offer him the hospitality of our fire and a share of our food.”

The Daughters exchanged glances, but neither chal enged her words. Séanat nodded to Aodhan, went on to the tent and gathered up her blankets. By the time she brought them back to the fireside, Aodhan was seated and the Daughters were walking away, casting sharp glances over their shoulders.

“It seems they care no more for my company than you,” he said.

Séanat grunted. “They spend little time with men.”

“Are you forbidden to take lovers then?”

Her skin grew hot. “Not forbidden. It is easier when . . .”
Show no weakness.
“You are not my lover, but my guest.”

“Wil you tel them what you told the Ard Rí?”

Never had Séanat had cause to lie to her sisters. But she
had
lied to Lugh when she’d said Aodhan had fought with honour. He had not fought at al .

But to tel them that he was Fomóir, in every way that mattered . . .

“Let them think what they wil ,” she said harshly. “Stay here. I wil bring meat.” He stayed, and afterwards she spent a little time sitting and eating with him to show that he was, indeed, her guest and not to be troubled. She knew how easily rumours flew around any war camp, and she wanted his position secure before the questions came.

They came soon enough. Séanat had just sought her blankets in the tent she shared with Ríona, Niamh and Brónach when the three warriors burst in.

“It’s true, then?” Ríona demanded. “He’s Fomóir?”

Casting off the blankets, Séanat sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “He is,” she said wearily.

“Here!” Brónach exclaimed. “In the very camp of the High King!” Séanat got to her feet. She could tel them he was almost certainly half Tuatha Dé, but she was too angry.

“You speak of the Ard Rí,” she said. “I have seen him. He has granted me the life of this warrior, whatever he may be.”

Ríona glared, her arms tight across her chest. “You’ve gone mad, sister! Send him away! He wil bring only sorrow!”

Brónach muttered agreement. Niamh moved her hands as if to soothe the anger that bubbled like a cauldron near overflowing.

“Séanat is no fool,” she said softly. “There must be good reason.”

“Is there?” Ríona asked. Her eyes narrowed. “You have a smel about you, sister. The smel of a lover.”

Niamh gasped. Brónach sneered.

“His lover, are you?” she said. “Can you stoop so low, Séanat? A
Fomóir . .
.”

“Thus did Brighid take Bres the Beautiful, and Cian take Ethlinn,” Niamh said, “to bring peace

—”

“Which never came!” Ríona said. “And there is no need for conciliation when the Fomóiri have been driven from Inis Fáil!”

“There is even more need,” Niamh said, “and our king has given his blessing.” She approached Séanat with a gentleness that Séanat could hardly bear. “You have your reasons, Séanat, even if only your heart knows them. I wil stand beside you.”

A look of pain crossed Ríona’s face. Brónach continued to sneer. Séanat pushed past them, walked out of the tent and went straight to the fire.

Aodhan was sitting almost where she had left him, knees drawn up and hands dangling between them. He was so intent on the fire that he didn’t hear Séanat until she was almost on top of him.

“Get up,” she commanded.

He rose slowly, watching her face warily. Séanat heard the others come up behind her. She seized Aodhan by the shoulders and kissed him as hard as she could, feeling the shock of his surprise and then the eager response. She pushed him away and spun to face the others.

“Does that satisfy you, Ríona?” she asked. She stared at Brónach. “Now you truly have reason to despise me.”

Pale with anger, Brónach stalked away. Ríona lingered, glanced at Niamh, and fol owed with a heavy tread.

Aodhan stood unmoving, his body tense with anger. Niamh would not meet Séanat’s eyes.

“I wil stand with you,” she said. “But it would be wise not to provoke—”

“I’l provoke whom I choose,” Séanat snapped.

With a gentle shake of her head, Niamh went into the tent.

“Did you find that amusing?” Aodhan said behind her.

“I found it necessary.”

“To prove myself your property?”

“You are not my—” She broke off as Aodhan’s hands settled on her shoulders, stroked down, came to rest on her hips. She could feel the heat of him through her thin sleeping shift.

“Prove it,” he murmured. “Where can we go to be alone?”

Her bel y ached with desire, but she knew better than to give in. “Go to sleep,” she said.

* * *

Aodhan didn’t sleep. He was angry and lustful and bewildered al at once, thinking of Séanat in the tent, of her breasts and thighs and firm lips and green eyes. He thought more than once about creeping into the tent, finding her sleeping place and lying down beside her. He could begin his lovemaking before she woke, and then there would be no protests. He would make her beg for his caresses.