Celtic Shores (14 page)

O’Malley Lands

Darina rose from the cold, flowing river and squished the water down the length of her red hair until she expelled the most of it. “Do no’ turnaround,” she repeated for what seemed the hundredth time to a very impatient Payton. Grabbing her extra pair of truis and a tunic from her saddle bag, she jumped into the clean linens soaking wet. After she fastened her belt and secured her dagger and broadsword she punched Payton in the back, “Yer turn.”

Grabbing her horse by the lead, she made her way up the sloping hillside and beckoned, “I’ll wait up here. When ye are done, we are going to the plateau whether ye like it or not.”

The noonday sun was high in the sky and although she wasn’t certain she could make an audience with Covar, she knew it was her only hope of finding her husband. After all, hadn’t they both told her that Covar could find Patrick anywhere, if he was wearing his ring?
This has to be the way,
she thought. For the last six days, she and Payton scoured the Burke lands, and save for a close scrape with some vagrants on the main road to the castle, had found nothing. Nothing, that was, except an eerily empty monastery, an unguarded castle and no sight whatsoever of any Burke soldiers. Even the market was empty; it was as if all the people had vanished into thin air. Payton managed even to examine the armory, and there was no one at all. There were plenty of weapons, but not a soul in sight.

Darina spread out her cloak on the fresh green clover and removed the pouch of nuts, fruit and dried meats. Eating was a welcome break from the monotonous and unyielding search of Burke lands. Happy to be back in her own territory, she sent word on ahead that they were returned but had one more task to settle before they would arrive at the keep.

She hadn’t let herself cry yet, that was a part of herself she wouldn’t share with her husband’s brother. She saved those tears for her husband, to be unleashed along with her wrath at a later date. For now, her heart beat mostly for the brother she never knew. The true Lord of O’Malley lands, as young as he was, was her own flesh and blood, and she dearly hoped to find him before something horrible happened. She wasn’t able to tell her four sisters yet that they had a brother; and she wasn’t sure she could do so without bringing him with her.
No, it couldn’t end this way. Better to never tell them they had a brathair than to tell them and then mourn his death.

It was simply unfathomable that her mother was not told the child lived. How could her father have been so insensitive—letting the entire family, the entire clan, mourn the death of a child without a word? She would take that up with him in the afterlife, she swore to herself under her breath.

“What are ye mumbling about now, Darina?” Payton asked throwing himself down on the ground beside her and grabbing the last bit of cheese, shaking his wet hair about sending splashes of water all around them.

“I just don’t understand what me da was thinking sending Braeden off from the clan and his family. Look where it’s gotten us,” she sighed.

“I ken yer father was a wise man, Darina. I believe he knew what he was doing and I think that whoever has Braeden, doesn’t know who he really is and has no idea what they are dealing with.”

“What do ye mean?”

“Braeden is a warrior in his own right, Darina. Been trained with the best of them, he has,” he said, taking a big bite out of an apple.

“Trained, how?”

“Yer trained, are ye no’?”

“Of course I am, I had to be, there are so many women in O’Malley land, we all serve in the forces at some time or another. ‘Tis a requirement prior to marriage. Why?”

“Well because, I am no’ at all sure if ye know this or not, but Lucian from your clan is the brother of Airard from my clan,” he said.

“And?” she asked.

“And—it appears that Gemma kens my father somehow.”

“How do ye ken that?”

“I can’t rightly tell ye, but I ken it’s the truth. I believe that there was some planning going on between our clans with regard to Braeden’s…uh…learning. Me da insisted from the time he could walk straight that he be trained in self-defense and archery and sword use and the such. He is a very skilled combatant.”

“Well, that’s good then,” said Darina.

“So, that’s why I say—if he was taken, whoever has him has no idea what he is about. I wouldna be surprised if he’s already escaped and just can’t find his way back to us.

“I hope yer right, Payton. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out why we haven’t heard back from Patrick yet. That bothers me immensely.”

Payton stood up and readied his horse. “Don’t let that bother ye either, lass. Patrick is a smart mon. No doubt he has a plan and we’ll know the right of it soon enough.”

***

Odetta sealed the missive with the candlewax and handed it to Reni. “Make sure that Dougal takes this straight to O’Malley lands. He is to speak with no one and to only return when he has a response. He is not to return without a response. Do you ken?”

“Yes, me lady. I understand,” replied Reni, wiping tears from her cheeks and bowing before her mistress.

“Now stop that weeping, it does us no good. Send him in now, and come back here at once, when ye are finished.”

Odetta rose from the table and fumbled with the fire in the hearth. The abandoned wharf was a good enough place as any to meet Dirk to discuss their predicament and she knew that Easal, who was now Eaton in reality, would never find them here. She had taken to spending her afternoon “naps” at the wharf and along with Reni, was making some considerable headway in undermining much of Easal’s destructive behavior.

The sound of footsteps broke her attention and she turned to Dirk, “Dirk, thank ye so much for meeting me here. Ye were not followed?” she asked.

“Nay, me lady. I was no’ followed,” responded the armory overseer. “Any word on our girls?” he asked forlornly.

“Nay. I’ve sent out me own sentries to search for then. Easal has refused to assist in the matter.”

“I see. What need have ye of me services?” he asked, absentmindedly running an index finger along the edge of the trestle table.

“I need to speak with ye privately, of a matter of most importance, and I need ye to do yer absolute best to believe what I tell ye. I say this because it may be verra difficult for ye to do so. Do ye understand what I’m saying?” she asked.

“Aye. I think I do.”

“Easal is no’ himself,” she started, and turned to pace with her hands behind her back across the rickety floor of the abandoned wharf.

Dirk nodded his agreement in confusion.

“I believe, and I’m not sure whether or not ye believe, but…oh well,” she sighed. “Dirk, do ye believe in spirits and such?” she asked tentatively.

“Aye. I do me lady, verra much so.”

“Well, Dirk, there is no kind way to say this, especially about me own husband, but I may as well share this w’ ye as it appears it affects us both.”

“Go on,” he bade.

“Dirk, I believe Easal, my husband, the mon I love, has been overtaken by an evil and malevolent spirit.”

Dirk gasped, grasped his sword by the hilt and swinging it away from his body still entombed in its belt casing, sat himself down upon a three-legged stool that nearly toppled under his weight.

“Ye don’t mean?” he asked, his face as pale as a ghost.

“I do, and I have no idea what can be done. Naelyn and I have tried everything, we even consulted with the priest from O’Malley lands and he confirmed our greatest fears. Easal is possessed.”

“Me lady, what can be done about this?”

“Dirk, I don’t know but what I do know is that we have to be verra careful. He doesn’t know I’m here, I am hiding from him and if he knew I was speaking with you, it would not be good.”

“Ye do no’ think he has anything to do with our daughters missing, now do ye?” he asked.

“Of course I do. There is no other explanation,” she replied.

“I’ll kill him!” Dirk shouted, causing the unsturdy stool and rafters on the wharf house to shake, pitching him to the floor.

“Calm down a bit. Ye won’t be able to kill the likes of him, at least not by yerself. Let me tell ye what I’ve done about it. Here, have a seat,” she bade, motioning for him to attempt the stool once more.

“I’ve had Reni, my maidservant, contact all of the Burke clans’ members with family in McTierney territory, and they have all gone for a little visit. Took our biggest sailing vessels with them, gets them there faster. I’ve asked that none return for two fortnights. Those with contacts with the McDermott’s to the east are doing the same, they are travelling on foot. There are only a few remaining in our territory then and what few are left, are not necessary to take up arms, I’ll be sending to the O’Malley lands for refuge.”

“O’Malley lands?” he gasped. “Ye think they will heed our request for sanctuary? They are our enemies, are they no’?”.

“Well, yes they are, they have been, I’ve no idea what they think of us now. Ye ken they have a new laird?”

“I had heard the O’Malley passed, but I didna’ know there was a son?”

“There wasn’t—at least to me knowledge. The eldest daughter has married the son of a Lord from up north and he is the new O’Malley. Took their name and all, swore an oath, he did.”

“Ye really think they will offer us refuge?”

“I think they will. I have sent Dougal on ahead with a missive and request. I have explained that me daughter and your daughter is missing, and we believe that Easal has been behind the childnapping’s all this time, and we intend to deal with him swiftly and severely from within our own clan. But, our people will need refuge until such time as that is accomplished.”

“Verra clever, me lady,” he said as he bowed.

“Now, what I need from ye is this,” she began.

Isle of Women

Kyra rattled off a list of items she would need for her interrogation of the prisoner. Gorman, the elderly butler, and one of only a handful of males permitted to live on the isle, nodded his aging head and scampered off at the last of her requests.

“Ye sure ye know what yer doing?” asked Gemma with a look of confusion.

“Whatever ye do,” added Shadrae, “do no’ look him in the eye.”

“What do ye mean?” asked Kyra.

“Do no’ look him in the eye, lass. Trust me,” said Shadrae and took off down the corridor towards the stairs. “Call me if ye need me.”

Gemma and Kyra looked at each other and laughed. “She always was a very dramatic one, wasn’t she?” Gemma chuckled.

“That she is,” added Kyra. “Now, ye can station a guard outside the door, but tell them they are not to enter. Under no circumstances, no matter what they hear or don’t hear, they are no’ to enter unless I bid them to, ye ken?”

“Aye,” said Gemma.

“Ye gonna be alright, Kyra?” Gemma asked, as she watched Kyra remove all of her clothing, except her thin yellow chemise. She twisted her shoulder-length hair into an almost-bun and secured it atop her head with a hair comb. Removing her leather slip-on boots, she began wiping her body down with a damp cloth and then applied lavender and sandalwood body oils up and down the length of her long, muscular legs. She opened one of the decanters Gorman left her and plopped a rose petal soaked laurel leaf into her mouth, chewing ferociously before spitting it out and rinsing with water.

“Uh…Kyra, what are ye about?” asked Gemma.

“I mean to
torture
the mon,” Kyra smiled.

“I don’t understand…” Gemma began.

“Ye want information, do ye no’?” she asked

“Aye, we must have information Kyra, but what do ye…”

Kyra interrupted again, “Shadrae has no idea how to get a mon to talk, let alone wield any power of him. I will simply give him an…uh…incentive,” she smiled wickedly. “Now, wish me success.”

Gorman led the way into the storage room and lit two additional candles, which he secured atop the long table to the left of the doorway. The prisoner grunted and fumbled about, obviously in and out of some type of deep slumber or suffering from a small concussion, she wasn’t sure.

Kyra spoke softly and slowly, unseen behind the prisoner’s back. “Gorman, would ye please assist the
gentleman
in relieving himself and washing up? I will return shortly to attend to his…uh…other needs,” she said as she handed a chamberpot to the elderly butler. “There is no need for him to remain tied up at this point, there are plenty of guards around, he’ll no’ get far,” she added. “Oh…and see he has a bit o’ that fish and some oatcakes.”

Some twenty minutes later or so, Gorman exited the chamber and nodded to Kyra that the prisoner was well-fed, had attended to his privileges and was more alert, therefore ready for whatever she had in mind.

With one last visit with the lavender oil, Kyra stepped through the doorway and barred the door behind her. The man was still seated on the stool facing the furthest wall, his back to her. She stood still, less than three feet from the man and waited. She twisted her body about causing her chemise to swing back and forth sending the scent of lavender and sandalwood flowing through the room.

He grew rigid on the stool and sat bolt upright, senses reeling. She stepped towards him and repeated her sinuous moves, the muscles in his neck and shoulders clenched and she could make out what a truly fine specimen he was.
Pity I’ll have to torture ye,
she thought.

She laid a warm hand on the back of his neck and shoulder blade and he jumped, nearly toppling over as he did so.

“Do no’ be afraid of me,” she said. “I am here to attend to yer needs,” she added, placing the other hand on his other shoulder. His breathing grew ragged and he stiffened further under her touch.

“I do no’ intend to hurt ye. That is, unless ye should force me to. There are guards about, prepared to handle ye in a manner which is not as pleasant as mine. Ye would do well to cooperate,” she added as she began massaging his neck and shoulders gently, after having thoroughly drenched her hands in the lavender and sandalwood oil. Up and down she kneaded his neck and shoulders, and she reached over ever so lightly to draw her hands across his cheeks to feel the day-old stubble.

From behind, she could tell he was a brawny man indeed; chiseled, high cheekbones, prominent nose, strong chin, long elegant neck that housed a thunderous pulse—that grew more thunderous the more she rubbed his neck. He clasped his hands together in his lap so hard that she sensed they were losing feeling, as he was forced to release them and shake them, mayhap they had gone to sleep?

He grunted and leaned forward on the stool and she gave her attentions to his long brown hair, wavy and sun-kissed, it touched nearly to the middle of his back.

“I’ve only need of some information from ye, ye ken?” she asked, knowing he would not respond. “As soon as I have me information, dear sir,” she added, “I will be on me way and this
torture
, will stop.” He struggled to sit upright and she let him, backing away for a moment before the sound of ripping linen caught his attention.

Taking a piece of her thin yellow chemise, she raised it to her neck and wrapped it languidly about her, ensuring her scent and that of the lavender was ingrained in the fabric. She rubbed it between her breasts one last time before securing it about his eyes and fastening it behind his head in a crooked bow.

“I realize that yer hands are no’ tied, my fine sir, but I would request that ye honor me by not seeing my…uh …person. Ye will agree that most inquisitors maintain a bit o’ privacy by covering their faces?” she asked. “Ye see, it makes it hard for me to do my…uh…work, if
me
face is covered. Therefore, it only makes sense that should I wish to go unseen, ye would oblige me by not watching me and wearing this blindfold?”

He nodded in apparent understanding or submission or other some such acknowledgement, and grunted and sighed at the same time, frustration rising again through his body, sending him bolt upright and rigid on the stool. She walked towards the front of him and spoke in soft tones.

“As I said, I have no intention of hurting ye, although I am more than capable. It will be therefore, up to ye, sir, to trust me as we get through this unpleasant torture—together,” she added as she placed both of her hands on his shoulders again, this time from the front side.

“I am going to touch ye now, I do not want ye to jump, or be startled. I am going to take ye by both of yer hands,” she said grabbing his large strong hands in her own small delicate ones and turning them palm up by the wrist so she could look at them.

“I very truly hate to see what becomes of a mon’s hands when they are tied. It pains me so, the unnecessary force one must take when others will no’ simply cooperate.”

Still holding his hands by the wrist, she turned them and placed both of them on her hip bones, one on either side. “Now…let us get to know one another. Since ye canna’ see me, I think mayhap ye would like to know…at least…who ye are being tortured by.”

She inched towards him, standing between his knees, placing both of his hands on her hips and grew even closer. Her breasts were mere inches from his face, and he inhaled sharply at her scent. She raised his hands from her hips, up her sides towards her shoulders and resting them atop her shoulders, she let go.

“Now, see,” she said. “This is more fair, wouldya’ no’ agree?’ Ye know me size and where I am and I can see yer…uh…size from here, as well.” By this time, the man was turning white from holding his breath, and she reached down to touch his cheek with her right hand. He gasped and let out the long-held breath, causing himself to choke and go into a coughing fit.

“I dare say, me sir, that ye must breathe if ye hope to survive me torture,” she giggled, and placing both her hands at the nape of his neck, forced his blindfold covered face upwards. Grasping him by the hair, she nuzzled his neck with her check and whispered in his ear, “Is this becoming too much for ye now?”

He vehemently nodded otherwise and she relinquished her rein on his neck.

“Now then, I’ve need to make ye presentable to the council. That is should ye survive me inquest,” she added. Leaving the boundaries of his legs, she stepped to the side and began rattling about with the items on the table, her flowing shift rubbing his bare legs as she went by. Adorned only in his kilt, bare feet and all, she could see the hairs on his legs stand straight-on-end.
‘Tis working,
she thought to herself.

The muscles in his chest striated and heaved up and down with his every labored breath, growing more determined each second. As if the spell had been broken now, he unlocked the tight grip he had on his own fists and placed his hands on either side of his enormous thighs, unsure what to do with them.

Before long, the sound of dripping liquid across the floor revealed that she was coming back up behind him. He straightened his back and flexed his heels which were no doubt falling asleep, considering the position he had sat in for so long. Placing his feet flat on the ground, he crossed his arms across his chest and waited. For what, he didn’t know, but he waited nonetheless. More relaxed now, he took a deep breath.

“Do no’ move,” she whispered into his right ear, as she placed her left hand around his neck as if she would strangle him. He jumped at the familiarity and gulped.

“Do no’ move, sir,” she added, “else I will cut ye.”

With her left hand she began washing what part of his face was not covered by the blindfold. Thinking better to herself, she warned, “I’m going to remove this tie for a bit, do no’ turnaround.”

Tucking the blindfold around his neck, she washed his face from behind with a cleaning linen and warm soapy water. After rinsing, she gripped his jaw and turned it to the left exposing his neck. He flinched and she gently nipped his ear this time, “I said do no’ move.”

He stopped breathing when he felt the cold blade of the knife at his neck. She fisted his hair in her left hand and held it tightly, then ran the blade up and under his neck in one quick moment. She dipped the knife in a watery vessel then ran the blade up and under his neck on the other side, continuing this pattern on both sides of his ruddy cheeks until he was clean shaven.

“Ye are a brawny one, me good sir,” she said as she cleansed the remnants of her handiwork from his face and replaced the blindfold. He jumped under her touch when she returned with a large fabric and draped it about his shoulders. Grabbing his hair in both hands she insisted, “Now lean yer head back a bit for me.”

He did as instructed and muscle rippled into more muscle as his back arched like a jungle cat and his shoulders tipped into her breasts. He shifted abruptly and sat back straight up.

“I told ye to lean yer head back,” she whispered into his ear. Easing his back to lean his head against her pillows, she grazed her hands over his head and pulled his hair back and away from his face. With her right hand, she drizzled water from a pitcher down the length of his golden-brown locks and began to untangle the tresses. Reaching for a bottle on the table she poured a musky-scented concoction into her hands, lathered it and massaged it into his hair.

She grabbed his right hand and brought it up to his forehead, “Here,” she said, “hold yer head this way, so this willna’ get into yer eyes.” He complied, now holding himself atop the stool with his left hand splayed under the base of it and his right hand holding his head against his arching shoulders.

Continuing her assault on the length of his hair past his shoulders, she rubbed the tendrils together and against each other as the aroma filled the chamber. “I must apologize, I am sure this is most uncomfortable for ye,” she said as she reached his head to grab at the loose ends of some wayward hair. Rubbing her protruding nipples against his shoulders, she was sure her shift was completely wet at this point, and she knew that he knew it as well.

“I’m going to do something completely awful now, but I beg yer forgiveness me kind sir,” she added. “I must needs to rub on yer…uh…scalp.”

He blew out a long sigh and began to breathe deliberately. “Now ye can sit up if ye like, no need to strain yer shoulders. But if I am to make sure ye are good and clean—then I must get the top of yer head as well, ye ken?

He nodded and she warned, “I’m a going to leave yer blindfold off and I need yer assurance that ye willna’ look? Else, I may have to get rough with ye.”

He nodded again and clenched his thighs together as tightly as he could. To his shock, she walked around to his front. Unable to contain himself, he peeked through his eyelids just enough to make out the outline of a wet chemise hanging seductively off the peaks of round, bountiful breasts.

Clenching his eyes tightly, he made the sign of the cross in front of him and put both hands on either side of the stool, holding on as if for dear life. With her knee, she pressed his legs gently apart and stood in front of him to do her worst.

Long, lithe fingers glided mercilessly through his hair. Lathering the musky-scented oil through his hair and over his scalp she grew closer, closer, so much closer that he could almost bite her neck when she reached back to gather the length up on top with the rest.

“Here,” she said, “ye will fall off that stool if ye are no’ careful.” Prying his tense hands from either side of the stool, she raised them once again to rest on her hips. “That’s better. Just ye hold on to me and I won’t let ye fall,” she said.

Like a blind man searching for structure, he gripped her hips and relaxed, then gripped harder with each motion she made washing his hair. Unsure whether it was better to hold tight or loosely, he wavered between the two, sending chills up and down her spine.

She stepped back a bit and he loosened his grip on her hips. “Now, don’t let go, me prisoner,” she said, confirming her intention with a squeeze to his hands on her waist. “I must needs rinse yer hair now, and ye will need to hold on verra good, let’s ye tip over backwards and take me with ye.”