Lion of Ireland (20 page)

Another sign of degenerate weakness! Excessive bathing indeed, as if one’s own good sweat were a poison to be washed away.

Before he threw himself down on the bed he took careful aim and spat squarely in the basin.

He lay open-eyed in the dark, gradually becoming aware of the faint strains of music being played in some distant part of the royal residence. The music was soft and warm, and inexpressibly melancholy. It made him think of summer rains, gentle things, the princess Deirdre with her Irish grace ...

Deirdre. She had scorned him. Scorned him! What gave

that haughty little black-haired wisp the right to refuse a son of Amlav!

She took shape before him in the darkness, a slender willow of a girl with silver combs in her night-black hair and a cloak of purple fleece thrown back from her gleaming white shoulders. He watched, holding his breath, as she raised her eyes to him in his imagination as she had never done in actuality. He saw her smile, saw her curve her lips in that secret way of women in heat, and knew the invitation was for him.

The bed was hot, the chamber oppressively still. To spend one more night in sleeplessness was unthinkable, when there were servant girls and even women in the village below the Rock who would welcome a virile man.

He went out into the courtyard of the fortress and prowled, but when a possible maid passed him, carrying a tray of jars, he did not notice her. She was plump and flaxen haired, and his eyes were filled with a slim and silvery vision.

The harper in the hall, the moonlight lying thick upon the cool stones in the courtyard—these things called to Deirdre. Barefoot, she too had left her chamber and gone in search of something, although her desires were not as clearly pictured as Ilacquin’s. She drifted along the quiet passageways, mostly free of guards now that the guests had departed, letting her fingers trail the walls as she framed snatches of poetry about a faraway champion. Virgin in mind and body, Deirdre dreamed of love.

She floated like the echo of a song between the clustered buildings, moving in and out of the moonlight, filling her lungs with the soft night air and her head with extravagant fantasies. Her only companion was the beautiful faceless prince for whom she waited in an ecstasy of yearning.

Surely he will come to Cashel some day, she thought. For some reason, some day, he will ride up the road to the Rock and we shall see each other for the first time. I will save myself for him, for him only, and if I am good enough and true enough he will come to me. I know it, I know it!

Without noticing, she had passed into the dark shadow of the new round tower, built as a watchpost against marauders. No sentry stood at the tower door this night; the only Northman at Cashel was the brother of Ivar of Limerick, and he, last of the guests to depart, was expected to leave in the morning.

Deirdre walked close to the base of the tower, humming a little song to herself.

Something blacker than the blackness grabbed her, clutched her, clamped across her mouth, and twisted her body around. She fought to draw a breath but she could not, as inexorable hands bent her backward and an unseen face, pressed down upon her own. The hand across her mouth moved and was replaced with hot lips, writhing against hers like slimy worms. His teeth grated; she felt him trying to force her mouth open, poking at it with his tongue. The taste of nausea rose in her throat and she fought in silent desperation. He hooked a leg behind hers and dropped her to the earth, falling heavily on top of her. The breath left her lungs in an agonized whoosh, and a roaring filled her ears; it was like the sea, coming to engulf her, pounding over her, dragging her down . .. Through her pain and terror she tried to think of a name, a precious name, and call it out .. . cry out for rescue ... but cruel hands were tearing her clothing and hurting her tender body, it was so hard to think... .

Rough hands rasped over her breasts and she shuddered with revulsion. “No!” she gasped, turning her face to one side so that she could draw a breath for screaming. But he guessed her intent and had his hand over her mouth once more, his iron fingers pinching her jaw closed so that she could not bite him.

He was on his knees above her now, fumbling with his clothing, and then she knew who he was.

He hurled himself against her body, ripping the silken barrier with a cataclysm of pain. Never before had Deirdre been hurt; it was incredible that anything could feel like that! Her soul tried to burst free of her body in one great convulsion of agony and outrage, and then the roaring sea swept over her, carrying her away to some distant world that smelled of roses. Darkness . . .

Ilacquin was not aware that she had fainted, only that her laughingly feeble struggles had ceased. “I knew you’d want it,” he panted to her, thrusting deep, “that’s why I stayed behind when the other guests left—to be with you.” But the wetness between them was not the slick welcoming fluid of desire; inside she was dry and cold. He felt cheated. She was so small beneath him, so unmoving; it seemed as if he were performing the act all alone in the friendly shadows. He plunged into her again, clamping his mouth on hers once more and kissing her in a frenzy as he tried to elicit some response, but then there was no more time. The heaviness in his loins contracted violently and exploded outward, arching his spine and contorting his features.

“Aaahhh ...” He let his weight collapse on her until the intensity of sensation faded. He gradually became aware of one of her curls, twining itself around his finger. He raised up a little to try to see her face in the darkness, see if she was smiling at him at last, and then he realized that he was truly alone. She had escaped him after all.

Trembling, he put his hand to her throat and felt the faint pulse still beating; at least she was not dead. He looked quickly around but saw no one. They were unobserved, then, and surely he had given her no chance to recognize him in the moonless night of the shadows. He drew away from her and tried to straighten his clothes; his fingers felt the sticky smear of blood. If he went back inside, it was possible that someone would see him and notice it.

Well, Ivar said go to Thomond, didn’t he? What better time than now? When the girl awoke and told of her experience, she would never be able to identify him, and if she did, what difference would it make?

They were only Irish, after

all. Ivar would understand, and they would have a good

laugh about it in the hall at Limerick.

He started off hastily and then paused, just for a heartbeat, to look back. The moon had moved past the tower now, banishing the shadows, the edge of its path just reaching the crumpled figure lying on the paving stones. She looked no more substantial than a small drift of snow.

So delicate, so silken. The only unflawed beauty he had

ever known.

With a dry, wrenching sob, Ilacquin ran from her toward the stables. Toward his horse, and a watering trough where he could wash away the condemning blood.

She awoke to pain. She came up through layers of gradually intensifying feeling with the pain always ahead of her, leading her, guiding her to itself. She tried all along the way to stop and go back, but the outside world was pressing in upon her, intruding on the dark place where the sea roared and the roses were fragrant, so that at last she had to go forward and meet it.

When she opened her eyes she knew all at once and with no doubt what had happened. She had seen other women restored from fainting spells, disoriented and confused, but her mind was quite clear. Her aching body bore ample testimony to the way it had been invaded; her memories were as sharp in her mind as reflections in still water.

She tried to move but fire burned between her legs, so she lay still, and stared with unblinking eyes at the dazzle of stars above her. “I’ve been hurt,” she said aloud, faintly, to no one, but the sound of her own voice provoked no emotion. Where shock and terror had been, all was numb.

Time passed, and the warm ebb of blood from her body roused her again. This time she was able, with great slowness, to sit up, then bend forward with her head down until the dizziness passed. She waited patiently. She imagined going to the hall and rousing the guards’, telling the story over and over while everyone stared at her and whispered. Fithir, Donogh. The nobles, the servants, her maids, even the lowest class daoscars who begged at the gates. All would know. For the rest of her life.

She stood up and leaned against the comforting strength of the wall behind her. A tower. The watchtower? She tilted her head back and looked up, her lips quirking. Raped by a Northman at the foot of the watchtower. Stones do not protect.

The sentences her mind formed were very short, the phrases of a child. In part of her brain she knew that, as she knew that a terror was beginning to well up in her, a terror of the dark shadows crouched at the edges of the moonlight.

She must get inside. Before anyone saw. Not tell. Not be .. . shamed. If she could get to her chamber.

By herself. Wash. Never tell. Never. Never.

The winter came again, as winter will. Colder, longer than before, freezing fast the ducks who floated unsuspecting in the shallows. For Brian there were raids and counterraids, attacks and skirmishes, and an increasing number of reluctant departures. “I have to think of my own family,” someone would say, bowing before him in sorrow. “It is a rare bad cold spell, and my old mother is weak and has no one to cut wood for her. I’ll be back in the spring.”

“I’ll be back ...” They all promised that, and went away with many backward glances, but they did go.

Sickness came, and hunger as the game grew scarce, and Brian saw the cheeks of the few men left him grow hollow. They camped in the damp caves, and the sound of coughing was more constant than the smell of cooking food.

Sometimes a friendly crofter, his snug dwelling tucked at the foot of a hill made secure by Brian’s presence, would provide a meal or a store of provisions for them. Or a thin deer would bolt from the rocks into their path, and be run down by the hungry men. When times were hardest Brian set aside his custom of making the men contest for their meat, and portioned it out equally among them.

“Here, keep this for yourself,” Ardan would bid him, offering a slab of half-cooked venison as they stood in a cave mouth, watching the dawn light spread frosty lavender and pearl across the sky.

“I’m not hungry yet, Ardan. You eat that.” “Not hungry! But you hardly ate anything yesterday.” “It was enough for me, I don’t need a lot of food. I fight better lean. If you don’t want it, give it to Neill; he has a starveling look about him.”

He walked among his men, smiling, exchanging small jokes or words of encouragement, and every eye brightened as he passed. At night they would return, cold and hungry and perhaps bloodied by an encounter, and still Brian would allow himself to give no sign of appetite or fatigue. He moved among them as if there were no limit to his strength, and he drew what nourishment he could from the admiration in their eyes.

Only when all of the camp was asleep, the sentries standing face outward in the long watch, did Brian seek his own blanket. He lay down and the exhaustion fell on him like a boulder, pressing him into the earth. He was stricken, unable to move, aware of every overtaxed muscle in his body, too tired to rest and too weary to think.

At last the leaden stupor faded a little, so that he was able to turn onto his side and draw a corner of his blanket over his head. With his fingers he scrabbled beneath his pack until he found the small parcel of meat he had hidden there.

Alone in the dark, crouched beneath his ragged blanket, Brian wolfed and tore at the food he had denied himself all day.

At Boruma, the cold was held at bay by a roaring fire on the hearth. Great piles of wood stood at the north side of Mahon’s hall, and the tenants on the Dal Cais lands saw to it that the stacks were never lower than a tall man’s reach. The silvery rain fell on the rebuilt compound, day after day, and if a man was dying a hideous death in the hills, his throat cut or a spear quivering in his back, at Boruma there was only peace.

Mahon’s home pleased him. It consisted of one large circular building—he did not yet require a separate wing for a wife and her babies—and the walls were good stout planking instead of wickerwork and plaster. Around the inside walls were sleeping couches, separated by boarded partitions, and benches for daytime use. Such seats were arranged with meticulous care, so that each noble who might visit could be seated according to his rank and order of precedence, close to or far from the warm central hearth.

The shuttered windows were protected with bars, an indication of growing wealth within as well as danger without. The doorposts and furniture were made of the finest grade of yew, beautifully carved and ornamented. In the souterrains beneath the domestic outbuildings were stored enough provisions to last the compound through the most severe winter, and the horses in their pens were well supplied with fodder.

In the king’s house a new harper was being auditioned, and the remnants of the evening meal still littered the tables. Mahon and his guests were just enjoying a fresh pouring of mead when the great door creaked open, letting in a blast of frigid air. Mahon looked up in annoyance to chastise whoever was responsible, then stopped in midgesture, his cup in his hand, and stared.

The man who strode into the hall without bothering to be announced was dressed in rags, and strips of rough learner bound more rags to his feet. Yet the servants fell back before him and no man contested his entrance.

Taller even than the king, his long-limbed body tapered downward from a pair of shoulders so broad that the women cut their eyes at him and chewed their lower lips as he passed by. The play of muscle beneath his skin was continuous, as if his tremendous strength and energy could never be quite controlled Years of dedicated training and fighting had produced a body as dangerous as it was beautiful.

But it was his face that stamped itself indelibly on the memory of all who saw him. The broad forehead gleamed beneath a sweep of red-gold hair like copper in the firelight. The cheekbones stood out, starkly prominent; the nose was almost Grecian in its perfection. The wide and sensual mouth had mobile lips that could turn in an instant into one thin, bitter line. The curling beard was of silken gilt, tempting to a lady’s fingers.