Enchantress Mine (3 page)

She whirled and her generous mouth turned up into a welcoming smile. “How is it, Dagda, that such a big man can tread so lightly?” she demanded of him. “My ears are as sharp as the fox’s, and yet it is rarely that I hear you come.”

Dagda, who stood seven feet in height, and had a mop of unruly silver-colored hair, smiled down at the litte girl. It was a smile that crinkled the corners of his deep blue eyes and was filled with his deep love for Mairin St. Ronan. He had raised her even as he had raised her mother long ago in Ireland. He thought of Mairin as his child even as her mother had been his child. Just before she had died Maire Tir Connell had begged him to care for Mairin as he had once cared for her. Of course he had agreed, and she had given him his freedom, unfastening the slave collar from his thick neck with trembling fingers, touching gently with a sad sigh the scar tissue that had built up from the chafing of the collar in the first years he had worn it. Dagda had caught at her hand and kissed those dainty fingers, the unashamed tears rushing down his face.

Maire Tir Connell had died then. She had died in the comforting cradle of his big arms, the breath fleeing her slender body in a soft whisper, but he had continued to hold her for the longest time because he could simply not believe that she who had always been so loving and so filled with life was truly dead. Finally the old women had come, and with sympathetic hands that had loosened his hold upon Maire Tir Connell, they had taken the body away to prepare it for its burial. That had been almost five years ago.

When Mairin was a year old her father returned to Ireland for his wife and child. Ciaran St. Ronan was first shown his wife’s grave and then shown his beautiful daughter. He had wept bitter tears for Maire Tir Connell. Then he had gotten drunk, and stayed that way for a week. Finally pulling himself together he had gone to speak with the king, his late wife’s father. It was decided that Mairin would go with her father to Brittany. When they departed Dagda had accompanied them. He had made a promise to Maire Tir Connell, and only death would make him break his word to her.

It had been a pleasant life these last few years in Brittany, for Ciaran St. Ronan, the Sieur de Landerneau, was a good man. He had never once questioned his late wife’s dying wish with regard to their child. Dagda had raised Maire Tir Connell, and she had been perfect in Ciaran’s eyes. He expected that his little daughter, Mairin, raised by the same gentle giant, would be no less perfect. So despite the wagging tongues of the goodwives, and the shaking of heads by the elderly remainder of Ciaran St. Ronan’s family, Dagda had remained as nursemaid and guardian to the Sieur de Landerneau’s only child.

Looking down now at his precious charge, Dagda shook his shaggy silver head, and thought that it was indeed fortunate that he was Mairin’s watchdog, especially since the lady Blanche had entered their lives.

Ciaran St. Ronan’s second wife was a spiteful and cruel young woman. She reminded him of a golden rose, full-blown and totally perfect until you bent to sniff its fragrance, and discovered that it was rotten.

Aye! Mairin needed him now.
Particularly now.
Bending, he lifted his little mistress into his arms. “Your father,” he said quietly, and without any preamble, “has just died. Whatever happens now, I don’t want you to be frightened for I will be with you, my little lady. Do you understand me?”

The child’s face crumbled with her grief. She had known before he had even spoken what he had come to tell her. Her father had left her, and she was alone. A small sob escaped her, but then recovering herself she said, “Did he want to see me, Dagda? Did my father not ask for me at the end?”

“He did, but
she
pretended that you could not be found, and her uncle, the wily bishop, then began fussing with your father over his last confession, and the absolution.”

A tear slid down the child’s beautiful face. “Oh, Dagda,” she said brokenly, “why does the lady Blanche hate me so? Why did she keep my father and me from our farewells?”

“She is jealous of you, child. How could she not be? Your father loved you above all people including the lady Blanche. Now she will seek to strike out at you in order to protect the child she will bear in a few months’ time.”

“But I would not harm my sister, Dagda,” said Mairin in her innocence.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he replied soothingly, “but that is not why she fears you. You are your father’s heiress, Mairin. With Ciarin St. Ronan, the Sieur de Landerneau, dead, my child, you become the Demoiselle de Landerneau. The lady Blanche and her child will be obligated to you for their very living. This is what the bitch fears.”

“But I would take nothing from them!” protested Mairin. “Has not Père Caolan taught me to honor my parents, and is not the lady Blanche my stepmother?”

Dagda sighed deeply. How could he possibly explain to a sweet and totally innocent child like Mairin the greed and venality of the world? Mairin’s wisdom was of a different sort, and in a sense he was responsible for he had encouraged her to learn the ancient ways of their people. She had never been exposed to selfishness or avarice, but these were qualities that he knew the lady Blanche possessed, and he feared for the little girl in his charge. He would protect her with his life if need be, but right now he knew not from where the first blow would come.

“We must return to the castle,” he said. “If we do not come soon they will wonder where we are and send others after us.”

She snuggled into his arms. “Please stop at old Catell’s cottage, Dagda. I found some capers, and would leave them with her for I know not when I will see her again.” Abruptly Mairin shivered, and she cried out sharply. “Stop, Dagda!”

“What is it, my child?” He slowed his pace.

“Let me down,” she begged him, and when he did she looked up at him, her little face dirty with the tears that ran down it now, and she said, “
I will never see this place again, Dagda!
Suddenly I know that. I shall not come to these woods again.”

“Are you threatened?” he demanded, not for one moment doubting her words.

She thought for a long moment, and then replied slowly, “Not my life, Dagda. No, not my life.” Then running a little ways back along the path to the dark pool she said to the trees and the water, and the rocks, “Farewell, my friends. I shall not forget your kindness to me. I will remember you always!”

To Dagda, who stood watching, it seemed as if the trees bowed their branches to her, and the waters in the normally still pond wavered distinctly. She is magic, he thought. She has the touch. If we remain here perhaps old Catell could teach her some of the old ways, for my little enchantress needs more than I can give her. Feeling Mairin slip her little hand into his large one he set his steps toward the castle once again. Old Catell was now forgotten for the day was beginning to wane and there was no time left.

They met Mairin’s old wet-nurse, Melaine, hurrying along to find them. “Quickly, quickly, my precious.
She
is already in a rage that you are not found. We must go to her swiftly!”

“Not until demoiselle is washed, and properly dressed,” said Dagda firmly.

“Sweet Mother Marie! How am I to hold her off then? She insists that the petite mistress be found!”

“She was not so insistent when the good Sieur Ciaran lay dying. She would allow no one to seek out the demoiselle then that the child and her father might make their farewells. She is evil, that one! Whatever it is that she wants, at least let the demoiselle Mairin face that woman at her best.”

Melaine nodded her agreement, and crossed herself for luck. She had heard terrible gossip from her sister whose daughter worked as a dairymaid for the bishop of St. Brieuc. She knew that Dagda had not heard the rumors for during the last few weeks he had spent his time being particularly vigilant over the little mistress. Melaine wondered if the Sieur St. Ronan had heard the gossip. If so he had not refuted it, so perhaps then it was true. Whatever the truth, her former nursling was in for a great deal of difficulty from the lady Blanche.

“I will distract the guards at the portcullis while you and the child pass by them,” said Melaine, and then she chuckled at the idea of Dagda sneaking by anyone.

Yet with her help they were able to gain entry to the castle quickly, and without being noticed. Carrying Mairin, Dagda made his way up the stairs to the tiny room that belonged to the little girl. Lowering her he pushed her into the cubicle, hissing after her, “Hurry! Wash, and brush your hair. Put on
both
shoes and clean clothing. We have little time!’

Not a little frightened, Mairin splashed water from a pitcher into her little silver ewer, and scrubbed the dirt from her face, hands, and neck. Stripping her clothing off she opened her trunk, and pulled from it a clean light-colored linen chemise, and a pale gold silk tunic dress which was embroidered at the neck and lower hem with blue and green silken threads and tiny pearls. The sleeves of the tunic were long and full, and just above the child’s hips was a belt matching the embroidery. Mairin slipped her little feet into a pair of soft shoes that had been made of an especially finely tanned butter-soft red leather. Then taking her brush she quickly worked the snarls free from her thick hair, and neatly rebraided it with pretty green ribbons. She slipped about her neck a necklace of heavy red gold and Celtic enamelwork, and then hurried to exit her room, escorted by Dagda, who had patiently awaited her outside.

Entering the hall of the castle she went quickly to her stepmother, and knelt before her saying, “I grieve with you, my lady Blanche. I shall miss my father too.” Mairin saw that the bishop of St. Brieuc sat next to his niece, his pig-sharp eyes devouring her.

Blanche St. Ronan, attired in her favorite blue, a silvery gauze veil over her golden head, glared down at the beautiful child who knelt so submissively before her. How dare the little bitch appear before her in such fine clothes! “You are to leave Landerneau this day,” she said coldly. “Too long have I been forced to tolerate your presence. I did so for the deep love I bore my husband, but now that he is dead I do not have to suffer his bastard to live within
my
walls.”

Confused the child looked up at her stepmother.
“Leave Landerneau?”
she said. “Madame, I do not understand you. I am the heiress to Landerneau. I cannot leave my lands.”

“Heiress to Landerneau?” Blanche sneered. “You are not your father’s heiress, you brat!” How dare the wench challenge her authority! Her voice rose in pitch. “You are nothing but his bastard! His get upon the filthy body of some savage Irish whore! His heiress indeed! It is my child who will be the heir to Landerneau!
My child!
”

Mairin scrambled to her feet. Her eyes were mirrors of both her anger and her fright. “I am not a bastard!” she said furiously to the seated woman. “I am as true-born a child of my father as the babe you now carry, madame, and unless that child is a son, which it is not, it is
I
who am the heiress to Landerneau! You cannot send me away!
I will not go!
”

Blanche St. Ronan struggled to rise. This was not the scenario she had planned. It had been her intention to send Mairin from Landerneau, and that was to be the end of it. That the brat dared to defy her enraged her mightily.
“You will not go?”
she shrieked. “Indeed you most certainly will go for you are not so stupid that you cannot understand what I am about to say to you. There is no proof of your mother’s marriage to your father, and because of that the church has declared you bastard born. Would you dare to argue with the church?”

“The church?” said Mairin scornfully. “More than likely, madame, you mean your uncle, the fat bishop of St. Brieuc who even now sits by your side with his hands that are forever stroking, and grasping at you. I may be naught but a child, but I am not a fool!”

Blanche St. Ronan’s light blue eyes grew round and bulged from their sockets. Her face was suddenly mottled red and white, her mouth flapped open like a fish gaping in the air. Clutching at her belly she screamed, “Get that brat from my sight! I never want to see her again!” And she fell back against her uncle gasping. “The bitch torments me in my grief. She will put the evil eye upon my child!” and she crossed herself dramatically.

Dagda reached for his little mistress, but Mairin brushed the giant aside, and suddenly to all those in the hall she seemed to increase in height. Her eyes, which had darkened with her anger, now appeared to flash with fire. “You may send me from Landerneau, madame, but all your scheming with your uncle will not gain you that which you actually seek. Power! Landerneau will never really be yours, and you will never find true happiness!” She raised her child’s arm and pointed her finger directly at her stepmother.
“You are doomed, madame.”

Blanche St. Ronan shrieked in terror, but nevertheless she cried out, “Get the bastard witch from my sight! Never allow her entry into my presence again! I want her gone from Landerneau before nightfall!” Then she slumped into her chair, and her women clustered about her clucking sympathetically, and pressing a goblet of wine to her lips.

The hall which just moments before had been totally silent but for Mairin’s young voice now erupted into a cacophony of sounds. There was not a servant or retainer there who had not known Mairin since her father brought her from Ireland five years before. Each had heard Ciaran St. Ronan speak of his beloved first wife, Maire Tir Connell, on numerous occasions. They found it hard to believe what the lady Blanche had just said. But if the church was involved they could not gainsay it. Those who might agree with the child’s accusation with regard to the lady Blanche’s uncle would keep silent for they were bound to Landerneau by service, loyalty, and tradition. The grieving widow could make their lives a veritable hell should she choose. With eyes lowered they turned away from the child, ashamed, but also afraid.