Rose of the Mists (21 page)

Meghan followed the stooped woman out onto the bank of
Lough Neagh, carefully lifting her skirt over the rocks and damp places. The swish of the lovely gown and the rustles of ribbons in her hair made her feel almost beautiful. If she dared kneel on the bank and look at her reflection in the lough’s surface, would she see a new person? She touched her left cheek and sighed. No, only the clothes had changed. Meghan O’Neill had not.

*

Revelin sat in the grass beside his three English companions, listening with half an ear to a poet’s epic tale. For more than an hour the man’s melodic voice had droned on, evoking battle after battle won by the O’Neill clan, while the chieftain and his retinue feasted on trenchers of meat and goblets of wine. Such boastful tales had a long and honored history in Ireland. Even Anglo-Irish lords were not above approving recitations in their honor. But the narrations were often tedious and lengthy…and boring.

Near bursting from inactivity and a gnawing anxiety over Meghan’s absence from the gathering, Revelin gritted his teeth and waited. The celebration of Beltane had begun. They would not die this day. But where was Meghan? What could they have done with her? His gaze combed the crowd over and over, seeking her, but Meghan was not among the hundreds gathered in the clearing.

Giving up his effort for the moment, he turned his attention to the chieftain’s table. Turlough sat at the head, enthroned in an ornate chair of gilded carved wood that would have been more appropriate in the regal dining hall of Whitehall than in this outdoor clearing beside the Lough Neagh. Surrounding him were lesser chieftains and officers of his retinue. They were for the most part warriors, still dressed for battle, and their chain mail winked in the late-afternoon sun.

One man in particular caught Revelin’s eye, and he noted that the man, in turn, seemed inordinately interested in him. He was staring openly, contemptuously, and the scar saddling
his nose made his face unforgettable. Revelin’s eyes narrowed as the Scotsman raised his goblet in mock salute. This was the man who had bludgeoned him into unconsciousness the evening before. He was also the man who John claimed lusted after Meghan. Was he the reason she was absent?

Chafing beneath the burden of his chains, Revelin jerked his arms angrily, then regretted the movement, for the faint jingling of his bonds attracted the chieftain’s sharp eye.

Turlough frowned slightly as his gaze met the prisoner’s. He had sent for the English captives but was in no great hurry to interrupt the festivities for their sake. Besides, the lass had yet to appear.

“What’s the wizard expounding upon?” Robin questioned under his breath as he leaned toward Revelin’s ear.

The poet, in his long tunic, flowing white hair, and beard, did indeed look like a pagan wizard of yore, but Revelin knew better. “He introduced himself as one of the brethren of a distant monastery. No doubt he hopes to gain a small stipend for his efforts.”

“A facile man with words,” Robin murmured thoughtfully. “Perchance his skills are for purchase in other quarters? We could use a barrister’s skills in ridding ourselves of these cursed chains. Dammit all, Rev, I’ve a pressing need for a bush, yet here I sit unable even to open me codpiece!”

Swallowing a laugh, Revelin asked, “Have you seen Meghan?”

“Sorry, Rev. Not a whisker.” His voice dropped even lower as he said, “Do you suppose they did away with her? Because of the mark, I mean?”

Revelin shook his head. “The Irish are not as eager as the English to murder witches and sprites.” He smiled tolerantly at Robin’s astonished look. “They believe there are good people among the fairies. Your head is still securely upon your shoulders. If you’ve any doubt of the cause, let me enlighten you: Meghan is responsible. Even John reasoned as much. Being
discovered in her company is what saved us. I only wish I knew where she was,” he added grimly.

Robin looked appalled. “You mean you believe Meghan is a fairy?”

Revelin said levelly, “I do not. But I won’t argue with the man who does. I’m beginning to believe Meghan’s my talisman.” Even as he said her name his eyes began searching for her once more.

The oration ended with cheers and much stomping of feet and hand clapping. The noise grew until the ground seemed to shake beneath them, and then the O’Neill battle cry rose from hundreds of throats.

“God’s life!” Robin exclaimed. “I think I hear the voice of Hell.”

“’Tis sweet music to an Irishman’s ears,” Revelin answered absently. Suddenly a new face appeared among the women arrayed behind the chief’s table, and the startling beauty of her profile captured Revelin’s wandering gaze. She was dressed in a gown of white that offered tantalizing clues to the curves of the young body beneath it. Under the tender teasing of the breeze, her blue-black hair garlanded with bright ribbons flowed softly down her back, the ends switching like a mare’s tail in the wind.

Revelin’s scalp tingled for a scant second before she turned toward him and he saw the blood-red rose shadowing the high ridge of her soft cheek. “Meghan,” he whispered. She was alive, and well, and beautiful! The sight gave him a jolt of pure joy.

He did not realize he had risen from the grass until he found his way suddenly barred by a six-foot ax swung across his path. He tried to shoulder past, but his hands were bound behind his back and he was easily and ignobly brought up short by a jerk on the chain that linked his wrists.

“Where do ye think ye’re going?” the warrior said with a chuckle. “Mine yer manners, lad. Ye’ve not been called for.”

Revelin lifted his head to answer the insult in kind, but then his eyes met Meghan’s across the short distance. She was staring at him with wide eyes. Faintly embarrassed by his humiliating position, he felt his cheeks grow warm. The feeling vanished as he realized that she was struggling to free herself. The reason for it thinned his lips with anger. The Scotsman held her by the wrist. As Revelin watched, Meghan turned to the burly, red-bearded Scotsman and spoke. The man released her at once, and she quickly rounded the table and ran toward Revelin. Joy made her face radiant as she crossed the open ground. Every man who saw her responded to her beauty and envied the dirty, mire-spattered Anglo-Irishman who had attracted her attention.

Revelin watched her too, wishing that he had better availed himself of the lake water he had been given in which to rinse his face and hands before being brought into the presence of Turlough O’Neill. He smelled of the bog and his own sour sweat, while in her white gown she appeared as pure as new-fallen snow.

Undismayed by his mud-caked clothes and fulsome aroma, Meghan saw only that he was alive and sound. “Revelin,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his face. Her brows lifted as her palm encountered dark golden stubble. “Why, ye’ve grown a beard!” she exclaimed, as if it were something miraculous.

A feeling of fierce tenderness unlike any he had ever experienced gripped Revelin as looked down into her artless blue gaze. He had spent a few hellish hours wondering what tortures she might have been put to at the hands of some lusty Celt. Yet, here she was smiling shyly up at him, smelling of heather and wild mint and… No! It was too dangerous to display vulnerability between them. Instinctively he took a step back, breaking their contact.

Meghan reached for him again, but the look in his eyes halted her fingers a scant distance from his face. It did not show in the arrangement of his features, but she saw in his
eyes a reprimand. She recoiled, her hand falling to her side as she backed away a step.

Revelin raised his eyes abruptly to look at Turlough O’Neill, but he could not tell how much the man had guessed from Meghan’s actions. He sat easily in his chair, one heavy leg thrown over the arm rest, a gold goblet brimming with wine in one hand. He reminded Revelin of Bacchus, the Greek god of wine. With a slight bow, Revelin addressed the chieftain by his English title: “My lord, earl of Tyrone. A word?”

Turlough did not respond at once. He had missed nothing. He had enjoyed the touching scene between the girl and his prisoner. Quite like a play it had been, with the lass near weeping with joy upon the sight of her lost love. He smiled benignly as his wine-mellowed gaze moved over Meghan’s womanly form. Just as he had suspected, she was bonny, despite her blemish. He liked the lass, that he did. It was fitting that she should show a womanly concern for her man’s welfare. It was fitting, too, that the man should spurn her maidenly display in public; he did not seem to be the weakling that MacDonald had claimed.

His heavy-lidded gaze swung to Colin, and he was surprised to see anger and jealousy in the highlander’s face. Colin’s eyes were fixed on Meghan’s back and his hands were clenched in tight fists. Turlough pursed his lips. The lass had made another conquest, it seemed.

Colin was one of his best soldiers, Turlough mused, a captain of his MacDonald
galloglaighs
and a man whose loyalty was to be courted. The girl herself seemed smitten with the Anglo-Irishman, while he…? Turlough’s long mouth twitched. The evening’s entertainment had just begun. He would do nothing to spoil it. But in the end he would decide the girl’s fate. “Release the Irishman,” Turlough ordered.

While Revelin’s chains were being struck, Meghan stood a little apart. He had made it clear in a single glance that he did
not want her near him. Even when he was freed he averted his eyes as the guards escorted him past her. Meghan blinked to keep from spilling the tears that suddenly welled in her eyes. She had been so proud and felt so beautiful when she had spotted his soft green eyes upon her. She could not have mistaken that look. It had beckoned to her and she had responded. Why, then, had he drawn back?

From the corner of her eye she saw Sila coming toward her. The old woman pointed to her head, then gestured at Meghan and winked. Meghan reached up and touched the ribbon streamer. The charm by which to catch a lover. She snatched her hand away. She would not use a charm to trap Revelin’s affections.

Sila took her by the arm, saying, “Dinna fret, lass. There’ll be another, better time.”

Meghan did not answer but she allowed Sila to lead her back to the chieftain’s table. Naturally shy, she lowered her head as she slipped into a vacant seat between two clansmen.

“Lift yer head, Turlough watches,” Sila muttered. When Meghan did not respond immediately, she pinched her arm hard. Meghan raised her head, anger rushing color into her cheeks, and Sila nodded approvingly. “Better. Childish ways have nae place here.”

Meghan glanced once around the table until her eyes came to rest on Revelin, who stood on Turlough’s right.

Turlough thoroughly studied the prisoner before him. Certainly the lad’s handsome face would have a softening effect on any woman’s heart. Well, he was no cloistered virgin and it would take more than a fair face to turn his head. He smiled beguilingly at his prisoner. “Who are ye, lad?”

“Revelin Butler of Kilkenny,” Revelin answered promptly.

“And of London,” Turlough added with a pointed look at Revelin’s English attire. “Yer Gaelic is not as smooth as a true Leinsterman’s. Ye’ve idled too long at the English court of the bastard queen.”

It was a direct, deliberate insult to his sovereign and Revelin knew he was bound by his loyalty to Elizabeth to defend her. Honor demanded it. Pride demanded it. “You’ve a curious lack of regard for a gentlewoman’s reputation, my lord. One might think you an ignorant damned Irishman, were it not for the fact your wit is well known.”

Humor flickered in Turlough’s gaze though it did not color his voice. “Ye think yerself clever. Are ye clever enough to evade the noose I’ve strung for ye?” His gaze shifted to a nearby tree and Revelin’s followed. No rope had hung there a minute earlier. Now a noose swung in the wind; a grinning Colin MacDonald held the free end.

A small smile bloomed on Revelin’s lips. The tactic did not dismay him. The Irish had no claim on intimidation. The question of how far the provocation would go concerned him more. If he was not more than clever, he might find himself challenged to mortal combat as part of the evening’s entertainment. “’Tis known far and wide that my uncle, the earl of Ormond, holds you in respect. I would be loath to be the cause of dissension between you.”

Turlough sat up straighter in his chair before he could stop himself. In an attempt to cover his move, he reached for the jewel-encrusted skean that lay conspicuously beside his trencher and eased slowly back into his slouch.

So this young whelp was the earl of Ormond’s nephew! He had guessed there was some connection when he had heard the name Butler. Of course, he could not have known that the lad was close kin. Thomas Butler’s reach was long and powerful. If one of his household had ventured into Ulster, there must be a reason other than the set of skillfully drawn maps they had found among the prisoner’s belongings. Turlough would learn it, in time. But first the lad’s metal should be tested further. “Tell me true, lad. Are ye not one of Ormond’s by-blows?”

Good,
Revelin thought; the O’Neill had backed away from
talk of a hanging. “Though it might endear me to you, my lord, I cannot call my mother whore. She was born Katherine O’Conner and became Lady Butler upon her vows.”

Turlough popped a chunk of meat into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. So a Butler had had the temerity to marry a full-blooded Irish lass despite the fact it was forbidden by English law for Anglo-Irish lords to marry the native Irish, no matter what their noble bloodlines. He relaxed a little and smiled. Three hundred years in Ireland had done more than change the Norman name Le Boitilej into the Irish name Butler; it had made them proud of their adopted homeland and perhaps more Irish in their views of the world than they realized.