“But,” Faolan ventured, “you would not want to do that, I imagine? To reduce the house on the hill to a thing that exists only in tales and in dreams? The cat, the chickens, the little dog?”
“Dog? What dog?” She raised herself on one elbow to look at him across the sleeping form of Saraid.
“I did wonder,” he said, “if there might be a dog, provided the cat would tolerate it. When I was a boy in Fiddler’s Crossing we always had a dog.”
Eile had laid her head back on the pillow. When she spoke, he heard incipient tears in her voice. “It’s too hard, isn’t it? How can you do your job if we don’t live at court? How can we bear to have you away so much of the time?”
“Shh,” Faolan said. “We’re both too tired to work this out now. But we will. If I’m to be a father, I want to do it properly. If I’m to be a husband, I want to be the best one I can be. Do I still have to wait until a certain event takes place before I ask you?”
Her voice was small. “No, Faolan. You don’t need to ask at all. I can’t imagine any other ending to the story now. Didn’t the king call it a stirring tale of love? You know my answer must be yes, for me and for Saraid. Never mind the house on the hill. We can let that go, as long as we have you.”
“Such power,” he whispered. “At a snap of your fingers you can make a grown man weep. And you’re such a little thing, mo cridhe.”
“Sleep now,” said Eile. “Rest that knee. As for the certain event you mentioned, I expect that will happen soon enough. But not tonight. I feel as if I’ve been pummeled and pounded and shaken, like a garment washed in a mountain stream. Every bit of me’s tired. Shall we hold hands while we fall asleep?”
FAOLAN WOKE EARLY, well before dawn. He did not open his eyes, for that was to lose the dream, the loveliest of dreams in which he felt the whisper of her long hair against his skin, and the warmth of her next to him, and the gentle, tantalizing movement of her hands as she explored his body, stroking here, brushing there, until he felt desire pulsing through him. The chamber was warm; she was sitting beside him on the bed, her slender form clad only in a fine lawn nightrobe. Blind still, he reached to touch; his hand brushed her breast, small, high, perfectly round, and the tip hardened under his fingers.
“You can open your eyes,” Eile murmured.
He did, and it was real. She had remade the fire; set out the jug and goblets. Through the open doorway he could see Saraid asleep in the other room, under the green blanket, a candle on the little table surrounding her with flickering shadows.
“I moved her,” Eile whispered. “She was so tired she didn’t even stir.” Then she lay down next to him, her head on his shoulder, her fiery hair soft against his lips, her hand still working its irresistible magic, making his breath come quickly, bringing his manhood to sudden, urgent readiness.
Slowly, he ordered himself. Slowly, carefully. Don’t get this wrong. “Say no,” he whispered, “if there’s anything… anything at all…” And he began to touch, with fingers, with lips and tongue, remembering all the while how dear she was to him, and although desire made it difficult, love made it easy. Eile helped him. He had not expected she would play her own part, caressing his body as if it were a whole new world to explore. He had not expected she would untie his shirt and trousers, helping him to shed them, so they could lie heart to heart. He cupped her buttocks with his hands, pressing her close; she did not tense or flinch away, but relaxed against him, her own breath coming faster. He kissed her, using his tongue, tasting her, and with his hands he rolled her body against his, this way, that way. Perhaps not such a good idea; he wanted her so fiercely it was a physical pain.
Eile was still wearing her nightrobe. Its delicate fabric lay between them, a last flimsy barrier.
“Will you take this off?” he asked, his lips against her shoulder.
Eile’s cheeks flushed. “I know it sounds silly, but I feel shy,” she said. “As if I were doing this for the first time. Like a wedding night.”
“It is a wedding night, mo cridhe,” Faolan said. “Our first time; yours and mine. I just hope I can match up to the required standard. It’s a long time since I last—”
She kissed him, letting him know without words that she had no doubt at all he would fulfill this mission perfectly. She sat up a moment; took hold of the nightrobe’s hem and drew the garment over her head, discarding it. He watched her, loving the perfect smallness of her body, the lily-pale skin, the gentle curves, the neat triangle between her legs, the same enticing red as the long hair that fell across her shoulders and down over her rose-tipped breasts.
“You’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered. “And that from a man who’s done more than his share of traveling. I’ll wait. Tell me when. Or, if you want, we can just…” Just what? Lie here together while desire drove him out of his mind? Gods, he wanted her.
“Now,” Eile said, moving to lie over him, her legs parted, her hands on his shoulders. “Do it now.”
“Are you sure?” He couldn’t breathe. He felt how open she was, moist and ready. Let this be real. Let this not be the dream.
“Of course I’m sure.” She touched his cheek, a gesture of tenderness and trust, and then they moved together, and whether it was he who entered her, or she who received him, all at once their bodies were locked tight, and they were breathing hard and moving in a dance of passion and wonder, and Faolan knew it was going to be all right. It was the good dream that had been the truth, not the other one after all. He tried not to thrust too hard, not to release himself too soon; he held back, using his hands to help her, murmuring words of reassurance, listening to her breathing, hoping she would tell him if, suddenly, she was afraid. He took himself to the brink; knew that if he must wait much longer the battle would be lost, for he had desired her long, and even a man of iron-strong discipline has his breaking point. Then Eile’s body tensed, and she made a little sound, an astonished sound of pleasure, and after it she gave a sigh, and an instant later his control was utterly lost, and he felt his seed pump deep inside her as the moment of fulfillment drove out all thought.
He lay spent, wordless. She curled against him, her head on his shoulder, her hair a soft shawl over his chest. He felt her breathing gradually slow. After a little she pulled up the blankets to cover the two of them. Then came her voice, a tentative murmur. “Was it all right?”
“You ask me that? It was wonderful, Eile. I have no words to describe it. I don’t know if I dare ask you the same question.”
She was silent long enough to set him worrying that he had misinterpreted the signs and sounds. Then she said, “It was… it was completely different. Not at all like… there were so many things I didn’t know about. I can’t believe…”
“Give me a simple answer, dear one. My mind is not capable of much right now.”
“Faolan, it was… lovely. You were lovely. It makes me wonder why I was so afraid. Only… I think it did take all that time, you and me, the journey, the things we shared, good and bad… Without that, this couldn’t have been what it was. With you, I wasn’t afraid at all. That’s what love does.”
He held her closer. “You never quite said it. About love.”
“I don’t need to, do I? You must know how much I love you, Faolan. More than the moon and stars; more than flowers and trees and all the beautiful things on earth. You must have seen it.”
“A man likes to hear it, all the same.”
“Then I’ll keep on saying it. I’ll say it when we’re old and wrinkly and Saraid’s a grown-up woman with children of her own. Faolan?”
“Mm?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
“You didn’t eat your supper. Shall I go and see if there’s anyone up yet? Procure some supplies?”
“Not yet,” Eile said. “I don’t think I can bear to let go. Will you fetch me a drink of water? Then come back to bed so I can hold you while we wait for dawn. When Saraid wakes up, we’ll all go in sear
ch of breakfast.”
BRIDEI CALLED HIS formal audience with Colmcille for three days after Broichan’s return. Now that his court druid was home and his wife and son restored to him, there seemed no reason for further delay. Besides, there was Keother to consider. When the king of the Light Isles, summoned to a private meeting to discuss his cousin’s shocking misdemeanors, confessed that he had long known the girl to be somewhat unstable, Bridei was filled with a fury beyond what he had believed himself capable of feeling. To have set little children and young women at risk, to have brought to Fortriu a force of such amoral mischief was unthinkable as the act of a responsible leader of men. Bridei was a king; he controlled his anger. He made his opinion known to Keother nonetheless.
There was little the king of the Light Isles could say in his defense, and nothing at all in Breda’s. He offered grave apologies. He did not make excuses. He mentioned that he had anticipated, on setting out from home with his cousin and their entourage, that Bridei would require a hostage in place of the now-married Ana.
“Perhaps I do,” Bridei told him. “But whoever that may be, it most certainly will not be Breda. I’m counting every moment until your cousin is gone from White Hill. You’d best act quickly on that score. I cannot guarantee her safety after what has happened here.” Garth had spoken to him in confidence earlier, advising that while Eile provided a strong moderating influence on Faolan, his own opinion was that if Faolan happened to find himself face to face with Breda he might prove unable to refrain from physical violence. Both Garth and Dovran had seen Faolan’s hands close on Breda’s neck up by the parapet when Bridei’s right-hand man had believed his little girl pushed to her death. The look on his face would have turned the strongest man’s bowels to water.
“I understand,” Keother said, “and will take steps to remove my cousin from White Hill almost immediately. I had hoped very much to be a part of your audience with Colmcille. It’s plain that strategic matters relating to my own kingdom will be included in the discussion. To have traveled so far and to miss that opportunity…”
Bridei forbore from the easy answer: You should have thought of that before you unleashed your cousin on my court and on my family and friends. The fact was, it would be useful to have Keother present at the audience. On the other hand, three more days of Breda at White Hill, even watched over by enough guards to deal with the most difficult prisoner, was three days too many.
“I thought,” Keother said, “I might dispatch two boats tomorrow, with my cousin and a suitable number of guards and attendants. I’ve asked my advisers to set that in motion. The remainder of our party, myself included, could follow after your audience with the Christians. If you agree. Bridei, this is a sorry end to what I intended as a mission to build bridges between us.”
“In fact,” Bridei said calmly, “I would welcome your presence at the audience with Colm. I understand that Breda’s actions are her own, not yours. Nonetheless, you brought her here and are in part responsible. I have no great desire to speak with her again, after what happened with my son, but I believe it’s necessary that I do so. I must explain to her the significance of what she has wrought here.”
“In full council?” Keother’s voice was tight.
“I’ve no desire to make this any more public than it need be, Keother. We’ll have someone make a record of what is said. I’ll need you there, and Dorica, and a couple of guards, neither of which will be Faolan. Perhaps one of your senior advisers and one of mine. We can do it this evening before supper. Whether Breda is capable of understanding what I have to say, I don’t know, but I must say it. As to what occurs once you reach home, that is not for me to determine. Your cousin will never again be welcome in Fortriu. I will be dispatching messages to her sister and to Drustan of Dreaming Glen, letting them know what has occurred. I imagine Breda will not be accepted as a guest in that household.”
“Yes, my lord king.” Keother was pale and drawn; he seemed to have aged ten years in the space of a few days. “If I may be excused, I will go now to attend to the arrangements for her departure. This is a cause of great shame for me, Bridei. I thought my cousin only a little wild, a little wayward. I believed a sojourn at Fortriu’s court would settle her. This terrible lapse in judgment will haunt me long.”
Bridei nodded. “As king and as her kinsman, you retain responsibility for Breda. That is a burden you may well bear for the rest of your life. You’ll need patience. You’ll need judgment beyond the merely human. I wish you luck.”
LAMPS WERE SET about the small council chamber, and there was a jug of mead on the table, with fine glass goblets. The room looked warm and inviting, not at all like a place of judgment. Breda herself, when she came in with Dorica, seemed to have dressed for a grand supper, not for an accounting. Her hair was plaited elaborately and piled up on her head, with artful wisps escaping around the brow, and she wore a gown of palest cream with embroidered borders. The color in her cheeks was high; the blue eyes dared anyone to challenge her.
Keother and Bridei were already seated at the table, with Tharan and one of Keother’s councillors, Dernat. Tharan’s personal guard, Imbeg, stood behind the two kings; Garth came in with the women and took up a position by the door. At the far end of the table sat the old scholar Wid, with parchment and ink before him and an expression of studied neutrality on his face. The meeting must be recorded, in view of the delicate nature of the matter in hand.
Once they were all seated, Breda opposite the men with Dorica beside her, Bridei made the speech he had prepared, listing Breda’s misdeeds in order. It was a statement of fact, plain and unadorned. He had sought advice from Broichan as well as Tharan and Aniel in preparing it, wanting to be certain his love and fear for his family were nowhere in evidence, for as king and arbiter he must be entirely fair and impartial, with emotion weighing nothing in the balance of his judgments. The list spoke for itself: the goading of the mare, which had led to Cella’s death and Bedo’s serious injury; the coercion of Breda’s handmaids on pain of further beatings; the cruelties she had inflicted on them, day by day and night by night, terrifying them into blind obedience. The injury to Eile and the abandonment in the well. The lies that had led to two children being left alone and helpless beyond the walls. The blatant attempt to murder Saraid, just three years old.
Breda sat impassive, hearing him out. Or perhaps not hearing; when he was finished Bridei asked her if she understood the gravity of her actions, and the girl simply stared through him. She was toying with an empty goblet, turning it absently around on the tabletop.
“Breda,” said Keother sharply, “this meeting has not been called to pass the time. I explained this to you; didn’t you take any of it in? It is important that you acknowledge your wrongdoing and express gratitude to King Bridei. As I told you, it is only his generosity that is allowing you to return home rather than face formal charges here in Fortriu. He’s under no obligation to exercise such discretion.”
Breda’s gaze turned to her cousin. It was startlingly without expression; looking at her, Bridei felt a prickle of unease at the back of his neck.
“If there’s been any wrongdoing, it hasn’t been by me,” Breda said crisply. “This place is ridiculous. I came here expecting a real court with everything done properly, but White Hill’s full of freaks and Gaels. All I did was try to make it the way it should be; to put things in their right places. I’ve explained that already. I have nothing at all to apologize for, and if you had any sense you would see that, Keother. Gratitude, well, I suppose I can say I’m grateful to King Bridei for sending me home. In fact, I can’t wait to get out of here. The only thing is,” she turned a new expression on Bridei, widening her eyes and smiling sweetly, “I am going to need my maids on the voyage, some of them at least. Not Cria; she’s really offended me. But one or two of the others. Keother says they can’t come with me. Will you speak to him, my lord? I’m sure you understand a girl can’t do without her attendants, not if she’s to endure a long trip
and look half presentable.”
Bridei could not summon anything to say.
“You’ll have a woman to attend to you, Lady Breda.” It was Dorica who spoke, disapproval written all over her severe features. “That’s been explained to you already.”
Breda tossed her head. “Some shriveled-up old thing, yes, I heard that. It’s not good enough. I want Amna or Nerela.”
“Your maids have no wish to serve you further,” Keother said. “The girls are all afraid of you. You must know why. They’ll be returning home with my own party somewhat later. This meeting is not for the purpose of discussing your traveling arrangements, Breda. I want to hear some words of contrition from you or, at the very least, some recognition of the gravity of what you have done. If you cannot understand the importance of that, I fear for your future.”
Breda’s glance darted down the table to Wid. “What’s the old man doing?” she demanded. “What’s all that scribbling?” Her fingers tightened around the goblet; a note of unease had entered her voice.
“Wid is making a record of what is discussed here,” Bridei said. He was starting to feel a deep longing for this to be over and the girl dispatched away from his kingdom forever. “That’s important. I know Keother has told you that, if you were not of royal blood and from beyond the borders of Fortriu, you would face a very serious penalty for what you have done here. The record is a safeguard against the future.”
“It could be all lies. How do I know what he’s writing?”
“If you wish, Keother’s scribe can read it to you when the account is finished.”
“Never mind. I’ll be gone tomorrow. I can get new maids back home. The trip will be tedious, no doubt, but I can endure it. When I reach the Light Isles I intend to forget all this completely. Thank the gods I didn’t end up like my sister, condemned to stay in Fortriu more or less forever. That would be quite unbearable. Worse than a death sentence. I can’t wait to see my favorite horse, and my court musician, and…” Breda had detected something in her cousin’s stare. “What?” she demanded.