The Scottish Selkie (24 page)

“But you are so far along.” Riona’s eyes were wide with surprise.

“Yes.” Bethoc flashed a knowing smile. 

Riona's mouth dropped open. “This eve? Samhain eve?” Riona’s gaze met hers as they shared a warm smile. “Oh, m'lady.” Riona slammed her hand against her own chest, right above her heart. “A babe born on Samhain is truly blessed. The child will have second sight for certain.” 

“Yes. My bairn is blessed.” Bethoc brushed her fingers down her belly as she gazed upon the swollen bulge with love. She held one finger to her lips again. “Do not tell Donald.” 

“No.” Riona set the pile of clothes down on the moonlit shore. Picking up a tunic dress, she slipped it over Bethoc's head and gently pulled the fabric down to cover her. “I am glad I brought a baggy one. Your old garments would not have fit.” 

Bethoc picked up the bratt and shook it as bits of sand scattered in the wind. Wrapping the plaid cloak around Bethoc's shoulders, Riona pinned it with a round, gold brooch. “This bulky bratt will keep your condition hidden until you are ready to reveal your secret.”

“My thanks, Riona.” Bethoc nodded her head toward Donald and Malcolm, who still had their backs turned. “I am finished.” 

After Malcolm pulled a tunic on over his head, he and Donald spun around to face the ladies. 

Malcolm strode toward Bethoc. “You cannot walk all the way to Scone.”

 “I am fine.” Bethoc placed her hand on her hip. 

But Malcolm scooped her up in his arms. Riona and Donald walked at his side, toward the dark cloud of smoke from the Samhain bonfire. 

Bethoc turned her gaze from the meandering Tay River to her husband's handsomely rugged face as they neared the walled city of Scone. She basked in the warmth of his embrace as he carried her. Together they had made a child. Soon a new life would come into the world. The flesh of their flesh. 

They passed the out-lying huts where hides hung out to dry from the autumn slaughter. She thought of feasting on beef and mutton from the slaughter as well as stag and boar from the hunts the men took part in for Samhain. Bethoc could almost taste the juicy, fire-spitted meat on her tongue. She had abstained from all fare except fish for too long. 

“Do you feel well?” The warmth shining in Malcolm's eyes softened his features. 

Bethoc smiled up at him. “I am hale and hearty, Malcolm.” She looked ahead as the gates of Scone opened. 

The air was filled with an exuberant din of singing, chattering, and further Samhain merriment. Her child would be born on this day, which fell betwixt the old and new year. A day without time. 

Malcolm grinned at Bethoc as he carried her through the city streets. “A selkie, a Scot, a Pict, and born on Samhain; this will be a special child.”

 “A child like no other.” Bethoc cupped her stomach as Malcolm took her to the same hill Kenneth was crowned on just eight months ago. 

“Our child.” She gently patted her belly. “Are you ready to be born, sweetling,” she whispered to the new life within her. “It’s time for you to come out,” Bethoc cooed to the unborn babe as Malcolm bore her uphill to the tall, blazing fire. 

Long branches were piled upright and set aflame. Smoke was thick and the smell of ale hung in the air. Bethoc noticed a crowd of people gathered around one man. Malcolm set Bethoc on her feet and as they stood next to the bonfire, she heard several men in the crowd. 

“It is the selkie, Malcolm.”

“The king's own cousin and his fey mate have come for Samhain.” 

“We will truly be blessed.” 

“Yes, there are selkies among us.” 

“Brother, we have guests for Samhain,” Donald called out. 

The man who seemed the center of attention waved and yelled, “Hail Malcolm. Welcome, Lady Bethoc.” The crowd parted to let the king pass. 

“Good to see you.” Bethoc felt a warm glow in her heart as she gazed at Kenneth. Until seeing her friends again, she hadn't known how much she’d missed them. 

Malcolm leaned his head back and took a long, assessing look at his cousin. “You have not changed Kenneth.” 

“No. I am the same man.” He grinned at Malcolm and slapped him on the back. “And you look hale, but for Lady Bethoc.” Kenneth bent his head down to hers and pressed a soft kiss upon her cheek. “You seem tired m'lady. Do you need to rest?” 

“No. I am fine.” Bethoc flashed a knowing look at Malcolm. 

He smiled back at her. Kenneth would soon find out why she looked tired. It was time to tell him. “We have tidings for you, Kenneth.” Malcolm wrapped his arm around Bethoc. 

“Yes, good news indeed,” Bethoc added in a cheery tone. 

“In truth?” Kenneth's green eyes twinkled. 

“Yes.” Malcolm glanced at Bethoc who nodded, then he turned back to Kenneth. “We shall not be leaving Scone for a long time. We are staying on land for the next thirteen years.” 

“Do you mean it?” Kenneth leaned in closer to them. 

“It is so.” Bethoc wrapped her arms around her belly. 

“It is good tidings, in truth.” Donald patted Malcolm heartily on the back. 

“Thirteen years?” Kenneth muttered as his eyebrows rose in a high slant and his jaw dropped. “A selkie child does not transform until his thirteenth year.” 

Malcolm nodded. 

“Do you mean to say you are with child?” Donald's eyes widened. 

“Yes. So I am.” Bethoc felt buoyant, having shared her good news with her friends. 

“We are having a baby.” Malcolm grinned. 

With a shrug, Kenneth threw his hands up. “When is the bairn due?” 

Bethoc opened her mouth and let out a hard scream. 

“It would seem my wife's time ... is at hand.” Malcolm tightened his hold on her. 

Kenneth glanced at Riona, who stood quietly by during the conversation. “Riona, I command you to do something. Lady Bethoc is in pain.” 

Malcolm leaned his head down to his wife. “Is the babe coming?” 

“I know not, but I have to go to the privy.” 

“I will carry you there.” Gently he lifted her into his arms. 

“Malcolm, follow me,” Riona said. “I will show you to the privy.” 

Kenneth led the crowd into a procession around the bonfire, circling it nine times while reciting a chant of old. He included the health of Malcolm's and Bethoc's babe in his request of blessings for the New Year.

As Riona led Bethoc and Malcolm away from the fire, she called to Donald, “Bring the midwife.” 

The three entered the palace and went down the long hall, lighted by torches set in iron sconces. 

“Here is the privy.” Riona pointed to a wooden door. 

After Malcolm set his wife down, she entered the smelly room and shut the door. Bethoc noticed the waste she expelled didn't have the odor it always had before. The flow was odd as well. She had never held so much water before. It had gushed out. “Burst,” she muttered under her breath. “Ah, my water has broken.” 

A sensation of rapture and bliss floated from the pit of her belly to the top of her heart. She couldn't recall ever feeling so joyful. She felt buoyant, floating, reminiscent of when she walked on clouds in a wound-fever
dream. 

“My baby.” Bethoc patted her belly in a fluttery motion. She lowered her head so her lips almost touched her belly. “Are you ready to come little one? I cannot wait to see you. My sweetling.” She sighed as she remembered Malcolm. “I must tell Malcolm the bairn is coming now.” 

Rising from the privy seat, she smoothed her tunic dress down around her. Bethoc unpinned her bratt, folded it across her arm, and closed her fingers around the brooch in the palm of her hand. Upon opening the door, she handed those to Riona, then waddled into Malcolm's arms. “The babe is coming.” 

“Coming now? How do you know?” With his arms draped around her shoulder, Malcolm gazed into her eyes with an expression of disbelief. Now that the time had come, he wasn't ready. 

“My water broke.” Bethoc rubbed her belly. 

“The babe? The baby is coming now?” Malcolm's brows arched high. 

She smiled back at him. “Yes Malcolm, it is time for the bairn to come to us.” 

“Make haste, Malcolm, come with me,” Riona ordered. 

He picked Bethoc up and followed Riona into the chamber. Malcolm laid Bethoc on the high, narrow bed. After setting the bratt and brooch down on the table, Riona grabbed the laver pitcher and poured water into a large bowl. 

An older lady, with specks of gray in her dark brown hair, entered the room. She looked askance at Malcolm. “What is a man doing in here? I thought there was to be a birthing.” 

“There is.” Riona turned to Malcolm and Bethoc. “This is Fodla, the midwife.” 

“Fair you well Fodla. My wife is having a baby.”

“I can see that.” Fodla rolled her eyes. 

“Malcolm, you must leave. A man cannot be present at a birthing,” Riona chided.

Bethoc slid her hand into Malcolm's and squeezed his fingers. She looked Riona in the eye. “No. Malcolm stays. We are in this together.” 

“It is not done, but far be it for me to argue with one of the fey on Samhain,” Fodla said with a shrug of her shoulders. 

“Good.” Riona smiled warmly at the midwife. “Tell us what we can do to help.” 

“Prop m'lady up against the bed.” 

Malcolm and Riona took the pelts and bratts off the bed and rolled them up. They sat them behind Bethoc's back so she was in a half sitting position. Then they rolled up more pelts and bratts and placed them under Bethoc's knees. Fodla pulled Bethoc's tunic dress up so the birthing area was
uncovered. 

At first the pains were hard cramps, not that bad. But soon they were so strong, Bethoc screamed with each one. Her muscles clinched tighter and she wanted to push. 

The midwife smiled at her. “Yes, it is the right of it. Push m'lady. Push.” 

From all the heaving and pushing, Bethoc suck in lung fulls of air in a hard pant and moist sweat clung to her skin, flushed in a rosy hue. She’d never felt this spent not even on the practice field.

“One push. Only one more push,” Malcolm whispered, encouraging her. 

The expression of pride in his eyes renewed Bethoc's strength. 

With all her might, she thrust every muscle in her body forward. She released a loud, half grunt, half scream. The baby eased out into the midwife's waiting hands. 

The round-faced midwife, missing one tooth in the front, flashed a lopsided grin at Bethoc and Malcolm. “You have a fine son m'lord and m'lady.” 

The red faced babe let out a hard, riveting wail.

“It is a Pict battle cry.” Joy bubbled in Bethoc as she met Malcolm’s broad smile and grabbed his warm hand.

Folda and Riona grinned as awe and admiration gleamed in their eyes as if they were listening to an angel's song.

Riona cradled the tiny, newborn as Fodla cut the umbilical cord with a whetted knife. Holding the babe snugly in her arms, Riona dipped him in the shallow laver bowl. After freeing one of her arms, she lightly stroked her fingers over his bare skin to wash away the blood and fluids of birthing. Fodla held another laver bowl and washed Bethoc, then gently patted the apex between her legs dry with a clean bratt.

“Here. Kiss your bairn.” Riona held the child to Bethoc who kissed the babe's tiny, red face. Then Riona held the child up to Malcolm who did the same. 

“Talorc,” Bethoc animatedly announced.

Everyone looked at her with blank faces. 

“His name is Talorc. After my da.” 

Malcolm, Riona, and Fodla all exhaled a long, blissful sigh together. 

“Talorc is a good name.” Still clutching her hand, Malcolm lowered his head to Bethoc's and he pressed his lips to hers as gently as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. The delicious sensation sung though her veins. Her lips still tingled as he slipped into the bed beside her.

After swaddling the skinny, squirming baby, Riona handed him to Bethoc. As she held Talorc in her arms, Malcolm gazed down at the sweet, pink-faced infant's dark squinting eyes, and scrunched up ears and nose.