Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (6 page)

What did it mean?  Alistair had
gone dead pale and his eyes were wide as he listened to the tale unfold. He
looks like a man hearing his own fate told, Deirdre thought. Then she shivered,
knowing she had hit upon the truth.

"His
hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's ta'en another mate-o,
So we may mak our dinner sweet-o."

Deirdre listened with growing horror as the birds went
on discussing the dead knight, planning how they might make use of him.

"Ye'll
sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny gray een;
Wi' ae lock o' his golden hair-o
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare-o."

She glanced at Alistair, at the
wide gray eyes and golden hair, and before she knew it she was across the room,
laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. His fingers gripped hers hard, but he
didn't take his eyes from the bard as the tale reached its mournful end.

"Mony
a one for him makes moan,
But nane shall ken where he is gone;
O'er his white bones, when they we bare-o,
The wind shall blow for evermair-o."

The song ended and the bard stopped his fingers on the
harp.

"The twa corbies?" she asked, her voice sounding
shrill to her own ears. "Are they with you still?"

He glanced at her, surprised, and with a rueful smile
unloosed his grip upon her hand. "Aye, they are. And now we both ken
why."

"Nay," she whispered. "It means naught,
'tis just a song—"

"Just a song?" he repeated with a lift of
one brow. "Music has its own magic, lady."

She bit her lip and made no answer, for he was right. But
now, even knowing all she knew of him, she could not accept it as the truth. How
many nights had she stared with aching eyes into the darkness, reliving every
detail of her Beltane dream? How many days had she clutched its memory against
her as she went about her work, the marks of Brodie's hand upon her skin?

And all that time he had been a living man, warm and
strong and real, not a dream and never hers at all.

"Well, I have neither hawk nor hound—nor lady
fair-o, for that matter," he said with a wry twist of his lips. "Perhaps
'tis not time yet."

"How can you jest about it?" she asked in a
horrified whisper.

"How can I not?" he answered with a shrug of
his broad shoulders. "I've known since spring they boded me no good."

"The lady—in the song—she must have known the
knight was dead if she took another mate so quickly."

"Murdered by his lady's will," Alistair said
thoughtfully. "And the man who made the song—'twas he who did the deed, no
doubt. Weel, then, I'll just have to steer clear of taking a wife who'd like to
see me dead."

Deirdre wrapped her arms about herself and shivered. "Don't
say that," she whispered. "You mustn't joke of it."

"I'm sorry," he said at once. "I didna
mean to worry you."

"You did
that
just by walking in here
tonight."

"Dinna fear, lady," he
answered with a grin. "I'm not the kind of fool who goes about babbling
his every dream."

"It was
my
dream."

He laughed, his eyes lighting
with amusement. Such beautiful eyes he had, the very color of the morning mist
in Donegal. And his voice was beautiful, as well. The Scottish accent she had
thought so harsh and ugly fell softly from his tongue. She dragged her gaze
from his and glanced about nervously. "I cannot stay—"

"Aye, I know," he said gently, and now his
eyes were dark with confusion and regret. "God go with ye, lady."

When Deirdre reached the passageway, she looked back
to see Brodie holding forth in one part of the room, surrounded by a crowd of
men. His fleshy face was red with ale and the excitement of the coming battle. He
is Maeve's father, she reminded herself sternly. My husband. With a little
shudder she slipped through the door.

D
eirdre heard the sounds of her daughter's screams
before she reached the chamber. Maeve had been a delicate child from birth,
prone to sudden fevers, and this last one had left her with a terrible pain in
her ear.

When Deirdre hurried into the room, she found Anice,
the nurse, spinning by the fire as Maeve screamed in her bed.

"How long has she been crying?" Deirdre
demanded, scooping the child into her arms.

"Not long," Anice answered stolidly. "If
ye but leave her lady, she'll settle back to sleep."

"Hush, wee one," Deirdre crooned, smoothing
the damp tendrils of black hair from the baby's flushed cheeks. "Hush, now.
Have you given her onion I left?" she added to Anice.

The servant snorted. "Onions! Yer haverin',
lady."

Deirdre didn't bother answering. She quickly sliced
the onion and wrapped it in a bit of cheesecloth, then bound it tightly against
Maeve's ear.

"There, sweeting," she said. "Soon it
won't pain you at all. Have courage."

She paced back and forth before the hearth, then
walked to the window and flung the shutter wide. "See?" she said. "All
the stars are shining tonight."

Maeve drew a hitching breath and lifted her head to
follow her mother's pointing finger.

"Look, sweeting, see how bright the stars
are?"

Maeve began to let out another wail, then broke off to
yawn.

"There's the dog star," Deirdre went on
quietly. "A fine faithful hound he is. But instead of chasing rabbits, he
chases the comets through the sky. And when he's lucky, he'll catch one by the
tail and swallow it down whole. He has the whole sky to run through...and when
the chase is done he lies down to sleep at his master's feet."

Maeve's head drooped against her shoulder and the
child yawned again.

"Star," Maeve mumbled sleepily. "Sir
Star." 

"That's right," Deirdre said, smiling a
little, remembering her own mother telling her this story. "Sir Star is
his master, and he is a wise knight, kind and very brave. Sometimes, when the
moon is full and bright and there is none to mark his going, Sir Star slips
down to earth to fight for those who have no champion. His sword is made from
starlight and his cloak is woven from the mist...he can summon the mist at
will, my love, bid it come or go as he pleases. He travels often under its
disguise..."

Lost in her own story, Deirdre started as the door
flew open. Maeve sat up and began to cry.

"Can ye no' shut the brat up?"

"Hush, Brodie," Deirdre said. "She's
near asleep."

Brodie stood swaying by the door, his feet set wide
apart and a scowl upon his face.

"Hush, ye say?" he demanded truculently.

"Here, Anice."

Deirdre pushed the child into the nurse's arms, tears
stinging her eyes as she pulled the screaming baby's hands from around her
neck.

"I'll quiet her," Brodie said, taking a step
forward.

"Now, there's no need to upset yourself,"
Deirdre said, forcing herself to smile as she took her husband's hand in hers. "You
must get to sleep and rest for the battle."

Brodie glared at her, then at the child crying in her
nurse's arms. Deirdre held her breath, waiting to see what he would do next. From
the moment of Maeve's birth he had shown no fondness for the girl but only rage
that she had not been born a boy. But thus far he had been content to take his disappointment
out on Deirdre.

Deirdre could bear what she must—she had chosen to wed
him, after all, and would keep her part of the bargain. But on the day he
lifted a hand to Maeve, Deirdre would kill him, even if she hanged.

"Well, keep her quiet," Brodie muttered.

"Anice will," Deirdre said, steering him
through the door to their own chamber. "And now you must rest, Brodie. 'Tis
very late. Are you not pleased with the muster?" she went on quickly. "They
seem good men all..."

He allowed himself to be led to the great bed and fell
backward upon it.

"My boots," he ordered.

"Aye, Brodie, I have them," Deirdre said,
pulling the first one from his foot and turning her face away from the stench
of his woolen hose. She'd made him countless pairs over the years, but he could
seldom be convinced to change one for the next.

By the time she tossed the second boot aside he was
snoring heavily. Deirdre breathed a quick prayer of relief.

She went to a small table set before the window and
poured water from the pitcher. She washed her hands and unbraided her hair,
combed it smooth and plaited it into a shining rope, then bound it tightly
beneath the coif.

Brodie did not like for even a wisp of hair to show. He
seemed to think the very sight of it might drive a man to lustful thoughts,
which would perforce be Deirdre's fault. It made no sense to her, for surely a
man was responsible for his own thoughts and actions, but she had learned not
to argue with what in Brodie passed for reason.

The chamber was small but snug, warmed by the fire
burning in the hearth. For a moment Deirdre remembered her own chamber in
Donegal. She had always been cold there, for it had no hearth at all, and the
fresh sea wind whistled through the chinks in the old stone walls. When it
rained they went about placing buckets to catch the drips from the gaping roof.
In the last two years before she left the drips had turned to steady streams
and even when the rain stopped, the smell of mold had clung to every chamber.

Well, it must be mended now, she thought. Even if
Father is a wee bit reckless with a coin, he is not completely without sense. At
least part of Brodie's gold must have been put to good use.

She turned back to the table and washed her hands
again, then held them up, still dripping. How ugly they were! Twenty years old
and look at her, worn to nothing, with hands as rough and brittle as a crone's.
Her lips curved in a mirthless smile as she remembered Ronan Fitzgerald singing
praises to her milk-white hands. But that had been four years ago, in another
life entirely.

"Ah, Ronan," she whispered sadly. "I do
miss you!"

She could not remember a time when she had not loved
Ronan, as well as any sister ever loved a brother. If only he could have been
content with that! But he could not, and she could not give him what he wanted.
Now she was alone in a strange land, cut off from everyone who cared for her,
entirely dependent on a man who was touched with madness.

A hard bargain, she thought, staring at her sleeping
husband, but she had made it for herself.

She ached for the old castle by the sea, to hear her
father's laugh and see her sister Siobhan again. If only she had not been so
hasty in her choice! Better she had jumped from the cliffs before doing what
she'd done.

She wiped impatiently at her wet cheeks and patted her
coif, making sure it sat straight upon her head, then walked back into the
nursery.

At least one good thing has come out of the wreckage
of my life, Deirdre thought, gazing down upon her sleeping child. Maeve's dark
curls were spread out on the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her sleep-flushed
cheek. Deirdre had never imagined herself capable of the fierce, protective
love she felt for her daughter, a love that grew deeper with each passing day.

"Angels guard your rest," she whispered,
kissing the child.

She considered lying down beside the babe to catch a
few hours' sleep, but a strange restlessness gripped her. It had been a mistake
to look back. It always was. She thought she had learned that lesson long ago. But
perhaps it was easier than thinking about the man who had walked out of her
Beltane dream into her husband's hall tonight.
He
could not be tucked
safely into the past. No, Alistair Kirallen was very much in the present and
all too real.

Taking her cloak from its peg on the door, she slipped
down the stairs and past the hall. It was dark now and the only sound to be
heard was the snoring of the men upon the floor. So many to be fed before they
set forth! It was hardly worth the trouble of sleeping now, what with all the
work to be started in just a few hours.

The thought of it made her head ache. What she needed
was fresh air and quiet. Then perhaps she could order her thoughts and feelings
into something approaching her usual resignation.

A
listair lay full length on his side, cheek resting on
one hand as with the other he tossed a pebble into the pool. He had found this
place easily, his steps leading him down the path as if he'd walked it all his
life. But even so he was still a little shocked to find it here, so exactly as
he remembered. Just as before, the corbies had been waiting.

He glanced up into the darkness of the branches. "I
hear ye," he said. "No need to make such a racket."

He was answered by a rustle of wings and a harsh croak.

"Aye, you're fine ones, are ye no'?" he
said, rolling over on his back and crossing his arms beneath his head. "Plottin'
and plannin' up there."

On impulse he pitched a pebble into the darkness
overhead. He knew it was useless, but it still made him feel a little better.

"Ouch!"

He sat up quickly and peered back along the path. Then
he smiled and lay back again.

"Did it hit you?"

"It did," Deirdre Maxwell answered. "I
thought the sky was falling."

"Mayhap it will," Alistair said. "It
seems these days anything might happen."

She hesitated on the edge of the treeline, her face
hidden by the shadow of her hood. He was annoyed by her hesitation, though he
knew she had good reason for it. Given all she must have heard of him, it was a
wonder she had not already taken to her heels.

"Well, step out, lady," he called. "I
willna bite."

"Are you sure of that?" she answered tartly.
"I've heard far worse of you tonight."

She remained just on the edge of the clearing, every
line of her slender body tensed, ready to turn and run at the slightest
provocation.

"Aye, well, I'm sure ye did. But for all my
wicked crimes, I'm no danger to the lasses."

"That's not what Jennie says," Deirdre
answered. "She said you were a terrible—what was it?  A doup
skelper?"

"Who, me?" he said, startled into laughter. "Blether,
pure blether."

"Hmm. Well, I heard you are a rare danger to
anything in skirts—and harder to catch than any unicorn."

"Jennie said that?"

"You needn't sound so pleased about it!"

"Weel, lady, 'tis nice to know that someone
remembers me as more than a banished man."

There, they had been said, the words that had been
hovering between them. Deirdre took a step closer.

"Can you never go back again?" she asked.

"No."

"What did you do?"

"'Tisn't what I did, lady, but what I wouldna do.
Jemmy Kirallen bargained for peace with the Englishman who murdered his brother.
I would not stand for it. And so," he shrugged, "I had to go."

"But they say," Deirdre said quietly,
"that the Kirallens are doing well, that this peace has made them
prosper."

"Prosperity bought by the coin of their own
dishonor! If that is doing well, lady, then I'm best off where I am."

"I see," she said thoughtfully. "But...was
that not the laird's decision? I would think his son had little choice but to
do as his father ordered. And were you not bound to obey your liege lord, as
well, whether you agreed with him or not?"

She met his gaze calmly, with only curiosity in her
expression, not the condemnation he had thought to see there. For she was
right, of course. He
had
been bound, had given his sworn word to obey
his laird and foster father. And he had broken it.

"There are times when a man canna stand by silent
and let wrong be done," he said defensively. "I made my choice and
the laird made his."

"And now?  Do you still believe you chose
rightly?"

"I do. Of course I do," he said, though for
the first time he wondered.

She nodded thoughtfully and sat down at some distance
from him, plucking a blossom and tossing it into the pond. Alistair watched it
float upon the surface, a faerie boat bound for ports beyond mere mortal ken.

"I understand," she said. "I know all
about those kinds of choices. Once made, there is no turning back. Right or
wrong...well, they cease to matter, don't they?  The only thing to do is live
with what you've chosen."

Her voice was calm, detached, but he sensed the pain
beneath her words. And that was little wonder, given the choice that she had
made! But Brodie Maxwell was her problem, not his.

He regarded her with puzzled anger, wondering what
point there had been to their uncanny Beltane meeting. But then, what point was
there to anything? Life, that seemed to offer so much, in the end gave nothing
but disillusionment and disappointment. And love was the greatest deception of
them all. He frowned, gazing at her pure profile, outlined against the shadow
of the forest.

Was it love he felt for her?  He did not know, but no
woman had ever made him feel the things he was feeling now. He wanted to carry
her off on a fine white charger, to a place where no one had ever heard of
Maxwell or Kirallen and all the wrong choices they had both made could be
forgotten. He wanted to build her a tall strong castle, pile bright jewels in
her lap, slay a dragon for her sake... Was that love?  Or was it only madness? 
What
was
love, after all?

Whatever it is, 'tis not for me, Alistair thought,
flinging a stone into the pond and sinking the fragile blossom. Only a fool
would give his heart into any woman's keeping. That kind of love was nothing
but a trap, one that could break even the strongest man in the worst way, from
within. No, thank you, he thought. Married ladies—especially ones wed to madmen
such as Brodie Maxwell—were no concern of his. He had quite enough trouble as
it was.

Deirdre watched the ripples spread and lap against the
edges of her pond. But no, the pond was not hers now, not any more. It had been
spoiled for all time by the man beside her. This place would never feel the
same again, she thought sadly. Nor would she. A few words, a smile, one
kiss...and she had been changed forever. Never again could she resign herself
to life with Brodie Maxwell, not now that she understood all that she had
missed. She would not have even her dreams to sustain her, only memories of a
man she wished with all her heart she had never met.

"What brings ye here, lady?" he asked, an
impatient edge to his voice.

"Oh, am I disturbing you?" she answered
sharply. "I often come here when I am in need of solitude."

"And as these are Maxwell lands, I should offer
to remove myself?"

"Stay if you like. I am going. But I would ask
one thing before I leave you."

He glanced at her, his expression wary. "What?"

"That you say nothing to Brodie about our meeting
here, either tonight or—or that other time."

She felt the heat rise to her face as she went on. "If
I had known—that night—I would never have—I am a faithful wife, Sir
Alistair," she said earnestly.

"Aye, I know ye are."

"How can you know that?"

"You're still alive," he answered bluntly. "That
tells me you're either faithful or a very clever liar, and ye haven't the face
to hide your thoughts and feelings. What happened that night was—well, it was
no fault of yours, lady. 'Twas well beyond your ken. And mine, as well,"
he added with a rueful laugh. "Who would have thought—"

"—that you were real," she finished softly,
looking down at the flowers in her hand.

"Oh, I'm real enough. But no threat to your
happy
marriage. Believe me, lady, I am just as eager to forget last Beltane as you
are."

She rose swiftly to her feet, blinking hard against
the tears that stung her eyes. He was right. She should forget it. Beltane had
not been the shining magical encounter she had believed it. It had all been a
mistake, a terrible, shameful mistake. Coming here tonight had only made things
worse.

"Wait." 

He was on his feet as well, looking down at her.
"Forgive me," he said, and when he smiled, Deirdre's heart began to
pound. "I am as surprised as ye must be yourself, lady. But that is no
excuse for my rudeness. Of course I will say nothing to anyone of this."

The silence seemed to draw around them, cutting them
off from the familiar world. Slowly Alistair held up his hand and after a
moment Deirdre, moving as if in a dream, placed her own against it, palm to
palm. A shock ran through her at the touch, and when she heard his sharply
indrawn breath, she knew that he had felt it, too.

"You can trust me," he said, his voice
little more than a whisper.

She nodded, her eyes fixed on his. "I know."

"Deirdre, I—"

"Goodnight," she interrupted hastily, taking
a step back. "I hope one day you find your way home again."

With that she turned and fled. Alistair watched her
go, every muscle tensed as he fought the temptation to run after her. When she
was gone, he lay back on the hard ground and stared into the dark water of the
pond.

From the trees came the cawing of the corbies.

W
hen Deirdre lay down beside her daughter, she was sure
she would not sleep. Yet no sooner had she closed her eyes than she plunged
into deep slumber that lasted for an hour.

Then the dream began.

It started with a sound; harsh, insistent, echoing
strangely through a swirling mist. The corbies, Deirdre thought, an icy dread
striking to her heart.

The croaking seemed to come from first one direction,
then another. Deirdre wanted to run, but she was paralyzed by fear.

The mist lifted and the dark water of forest the pool
rippled before her eyes. The sound grew louder, closer, and all at once she
realized it was not a bird at all, but a heavy form crashing through the
undergrowth. 'Tis Brodie, she thought. He's awake, the potion didn't work. I
cannot let him find me here.

"Deirdre
!
"

Snap
. The
sound of leather on leather was one Deirdre had heard many times before, when
Brodie drew off his belt, doubled it over brought the two pieces together.
Snap
.
Deirdre's paralysis broke and she ran blindly through the forest, the sound of
her own breathing harsh in her ears. In the distance she heard soft music and
made for the sound, racing headlong down the path.

She came breathless to a clearing and there was Ronan
Fitzgerald, as dear and familiar as her own twin, sitting cross-legged on a
boulder. His raven head was bent over the harp in his hands.

He gazed up at her with sorrowful green eyes.
"Ah, Dee, how came you here? Why do you seek me now? I would have given
you all the world, but 'twas not enough."

"Deirdre
!
" Brodie roared
from the forest behind her. "Dinna think to hide from me."

"Ronan, help me
!
" she
cried, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

"Who is that?" Ronan said sharply, standing
and gazing over her shoulder. "Not your...? God's blood, Dee, what kind of
trouble are you in?"

She shook her head wordlessly and turned to flee.

"Wait
!
" Ronan called.
"Tell me--"

But Deirdre could not stay to answer. She was running
for her life now, and with every step she could hear Brodie gaining. She
chanced a quick glance over her shoulder and saw him just behind her, his face
flushed with rage. He reached out his hand and she screamed, then ran headlong
into something solid.

"Here, now," Alistair Kirallen said,
catching her in his arms. She buried her face against his chest with an
incoherent cry. "Dinna fear, lady," he said soothingly. "No harm
will come to ye."

She lifted her head and he smiled down at her, one
lock of golden hair falling across his brow. With a careless motion he waved
one hand and the mist descended like a curtain, hiding Brodie from her sight.

"I can summon the mist as I will," Alistair
said. "Bid it come or go at my command. Ye can trust me, lady, 'twas
written long ago. Do ye not know that?"

"Aye, I do," she whispered. "I do know
that."

He bent to her and she wound her arms around his
neck...

"Mam
!
"

Deirdre shook her head, clinging to her dream, even as
it dissolved like sea foam on the sand. With a sigh she rolled over and opened
her eyes to find herself staring into Maeve's face.

"Hungry, Mam
!
Hungry
!
"

Deirdre sat up and rubbed her eyes with shaking hands.
She summoned a smile for her daughter and kissed Maeve's dark curls.

"Feeling better, sweeting? I'll find you
something to eat, then."

She remembered the men below and jumped guiltily to
her feet, realizing dawn was almost upon them. Brodie would be up soon, and
judging by all he'd had to drink last night, his temper would be foul.