Faerie Fate (8 page)

Odhran swallowed the
bread he’d been chewing. “Consider yourself blessed, cailín,” he sighed,
looking her up and down. “What I wouldn’t trade to have back the body of my
youth.”

Becca’s face flushed
a deeper shade of red. Odhran’s leer was much too reminiscent of the looks
Ciaran gave her. At the thought of him, her heart constricted. “Who is he?” she
whispered. “Why do the too-ah...the twah...the faeries care what happens to
him?” She couldn’t quite get her tongue around the Gaelic words, not fully
realizing she’d been speaking Gaelic since she’d first fully awakened in
Ciaran’s bed.

“What do you mean,
Becca?” Siobhan asked, her gaze and voice both sharp.

“Those voices, the
ones in my dream. They spoke of him. They said he’d know what to do, that
things had gone wrong before because I was too young.” Becca paused, deciding
how much to reveal. “They talked about a covenant. Some sort of binding.” She
watched Siobhan’s face closely.

“
’
Tis the
truth, then,” Siobhan sighed. The woman glanced at Odhran who still stared at
Becca.

His gaze remained
focused on Becca, trying to read meaning into her hesitant confession as he
looked into her soul. “What else did they say, child?” he persisted.

“That Ciaran would
die...and that he could not die without issue,” she whispered, the words
dragged from the very depths of her soul. “They didn’t want him to leave until
we’d...” Becca hesitated to finish the thought out loud. “Tupped,” she finally
admitted, choosing the local terminology.

Siobhan and Odhran
watched her like two cats waiting at a mouse hole. “Have you?” Siobhan asked
pointedly. “Could you be with child?”

Taken aback, Becca
was insistent. “No! We haven’t and I’m not. In fact, I’ve never...” Her voice
trailed off. She was distinctly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.

“You
are
still a maiden,” Siobhan confirmed, smiling.

“Old maiden,” she
groused.

Siobhan burst out
laughing. “How did you survive to the ripe old age of fifty with no one
plucking your fruit? Either you were a hag or the men of your time were without
wits.”

Becca was indignant.
“I was not a hag. As a matter fact, when I was younger, I looked pretty much
like I do now, thank you very much. And it wasn’t for lack of trying on the
boys’ part. I just never found the one I wanted...” Her eyes clouded over with
memories from her previous life. She managed a shrug meant to show she didn’t
care. “Then, it was too late.”

Odhran patted her
hand, the gesture meant to comfort. “Tell us, child.”

“I was in a car
accident,” she began then realized the others looked confused. “A car. A
vehicle with a motor. Uhm, a wagon that moves by itself without horses... Oh,
God. I just did it. I just screwed up the space-time continuum. I can’t do
this,” she wailed.

“Hush, cailín,”
Siobhan comforted her. “Tell us of this accident.”

“The car...uhm, the
wagon went off the side of a mountain. I was pinned in the wreckage and it took
forever to get me out. The doctors... The healers said I wouldn’t live, but I
did. Then they said I’d never walk again, but I did. It hurt like hell, but I
kept getting up every morning and surviving one more day.” Her voice dropped to
a whisper. “Day after day, for twenty-five years, I kept surviving. I went to
sleep on my fiftieth birthday and woke up here.” She shivered. “Who am I,
Odhran?” Her voice cracked and she had to clear her throat before she could
continue. “Am I in someone else’s body? Is their soul in my body back in the
twenty-first century living my life as I’m living theirs?”

Odhran shook his
head. “Nay, cailín. You are who you are supposed to be. Ciaran and Becca were
destined to meet. I suspect you’ve been sent back to right a wrong which
occurred in this lifetime.”

“Oh, God,” Becca
complained. “Trying to keep the space-time continuum straight is hard enough.
Now you’re talking about parallel universes and lives. Stop it, Odhran. You’re
making my head hurt!”

Odhran stood up.
“Sleep, cailín. We will talk again.” He shuffled to the door and let himself
out.

Becca stared at
Siobhan. “When am I, Siobhan? What year is this?”

Awestruck, Siobhan
shook her head. “You’ve come over a thousand years from the future.
’
Tis
nine hundred sixty-one, Becca. The twenty-seventh day of Mhárta, just before
the new moon of Aíbreán.”

Becca automatically
translated the date without stopping to wonder how she did so. March 27, 961.
Okay, so it was the tenth century, the beginning of the medieval period. She
could cope with this. She’d have to. She shivered and wrapped her arms around
her waist to keep from shaking apart.

The burly guard had
not reappeared, so Siobhan called for him and others to come as well. Becca
turned her back on the room, retreating to the window to stare out into the
inky darkness while servants emptied the cold water left in the tub and then
removed the tub itself. The fire in the hearth died to embers. Becca shivered
again, this time from the cold. Another servant appeared and stoked the fire.
In a few minutes, the fire blazed in the grate, and at last the room was empty
but for Siobhan and Becca.

The woman joined her
at the window. “Odhran is right, cailín. You need to sleep. This has been a
momentous day.”

“Will he be all
right?” Becca asked without turning around.

“Aye, cailín,”
Siobhan assured her. “Ciaran is the boldest, most cunning warrior in the land,
descended from the legendary Fenian Warriors.
’
Tis why King Conchobhar
comes to him first. Niall says Ciaran is charmed in battle. No enemy can touch
him. No weapon can harm him.”

Becca put her arm
around Siobhan’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Ah, yee might be
thankin’ me now, but wait
’
til tomorrow,” the other woman replied tartly
as she moved toward the door.

“What do you mean,
Siobhan?” Becca glanced over her shoulder and quirked a brow.

“Tomorrow you learn
how to be mistress,” Siobhan warned.

“Don’t count on it,”
she promised as the door closed behind the other woman.

****

The troop rode hard
all day. Cheery evening fires burned surrounded by tired men lounging near the
heat. Horses snorted and stamped in the dark. Bhruic lay next to Ciaran, his
head on the big man’s knee. The dog’s wide, soulful eyes stared up at his
master. “Aye,” Ciaran admitted to the wolfhound. “I miss her, too, though I
hardly know why.”

Niall finished
setting the perimeter guards, and he dropped to the ground beside his
commander. “All is quiet,
Taoiseac
,” he reported. His voice sounded as
tired as he looked. He wrapped his mantle tighter against the chill March
night.

Ciaran stared at the
fire but acknowledged Niall with a brief nod without looking up.

“
’
Tis only
the O’Brien,” Niall reminded his clann chief. “Bent on thieving cattle and not
much else.”

Ciaran lifted one
shoulder in a negligent shrug, his attention elsewhere.

Perplexed, Niall
pushed for an answer. “If not the O’Brien, then what troubles you,
Taoiseac
?”
Ciaran finally raised his eyes and stared at his second-in-command. Niall
sucked in a deep breath as he recognized Ciaran’s despair and for the first
time since Niall had known him, fear as well. He automatically reverted to his
role as mentor. “What troubles you, Ciaran?”

“Who is she, Niall?
Why has no one raised a hue and cry?”

“Becca?” Niall
asked, already knowing the answer.

Ciaran flashed him a
disgusted look. “Who else? She’s well-bred, though ill-used, and left to die.
Why has her clann not set the countryside ablaze looking for her?”

“Mayhaps, she comes
from too far away?” Niall gave the notion some thought. “Think you she is an
O’Brien?” That idea vexed him. Had the O’Brien come not to raid but to reclaim
their kin? That would mean an all out war for he was fair certain Ciaran would
not give her up.

“Mayhaps. But there
is something, Niall, something I can’t name.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

Ciaran stared into
the fire, marshaling his thoughts. “I first thought her witch, now...” Niall
waited without speaking, letting the other man form words from his chaotic
thoughts. Ciaran finally sighed softly. “
Tuatha dé Danaan,
Niall
.
I think she’s faerie.”

Niall snorted.
“We’ve both touched her, Ciaran. She’s real. She’s flesh and blood!” He paused
while formulating another argument, finally adding, “Had she been a daughter of
Danu, think you a mortal could have so abused her?”

Ciaran pondered
that. All but immortal and powerful, the
Tuatha dé Danaan
were full of
magic. They could scarcely be harmed by mortals. Then an unrelated thought
struck him. “Suppose she was outcast?”

Niall opened and
closed his mouth several times, but no words of wisdom tripped off the tip of
his tongue. Finally, he could only shrug, waiting in silence once again for
Ciaran to continue.

“She spoke strange,
Niall, when we first found her. And, even now, she does not seem to fit in.
Odhran sensed a trace of power in her.”

Niall shrugged
again. “You and I, Ciaran, we’ve kept the old ways longer than most. Me,
because of Siobhan. You? You, I think, have a bit of the fae about you
yourself.”

Ciaran started to
interrupt but Niall stayed him with a raised hand. “Nay, hear me out, lad. I
knew both your sire and his brother, and I tell you true. The clann would have
been better off if Fionn had lived to be
An Taoiseac.
You are much like
him, Ciaran. You know the tales, for I told them to you when you were but a
lad.”

He nodded,
remembering the stories Niall had told him. Tales of the great battles between
the
Tuatha dé Danaan
and the
Milesians
and
Fir Borg
.
Stories of how mortal humans had been caught in the middle. He’d thrilled to
the legend that one of his forebears was a Fenian Warrior and saved the life of
one of the faerie. To repay that first MacDermot, Finvarra, a king of the
Tuatha
dé Danaan,
had gifted the clann with a covenant. Once in each generation,
the clann would be honored with the birth of a true warrior to guide and
protect them.

Niall knew that
Fionn had been given the gift, but he’d been killed by treachery. None could
prove it was Aralt behind his brother’s death. Aralt had been a bane to the
clann. Niall recognized the gift in Aralt’s son and sought out young Ciaran,
teaching the lad what he needed to know to become
An Taoiseac
when Aralt
finally passed. There was one part of the legend Niall had never divulged to
his charge. The gift from Onagh, Finvarra’s consort. The warrior was to be
blessed with a true mate, one he could bestow the MacDermot Knot upon. The Knot
was a brooch of gold and silver intertwined through eternity and sealed with
the faerie’s tear. A brilliant stone, shot with fire, the likes of which none
had seen before or since.

Legend had it that
Onagh herself wove the knot from a lock of her long, golden hair and a thread
from her silver gown. As the knot was finished, she shed one tear of joy, and
that tear hardened into a precious stone caught forever in the web of the
eternity knot. Once the MacDermot warrior gave his heart to his true mate and
gifted her with the Knot and the binding words, their lives were bound
together, beginning without end, until the end of time.

Fionn died before
he’d found his mate. Aralt, not having the gift, traveled from bed to bed never
able to scratch the itch that annoyed him. Niall watched Ciaran eschew the
favors of the cailíns, knowing almost from the beginning that he’d received the
gift. Now the woman left behind in Ciaran’s bed was more than likely the
fulfillment of the covenant between faerie and mortal. All Niall had to do was
keep his clann chief alive long enough to woo and win the woman.

Chapter Six

Becca spent the next
several weeks learning to find her way around the castle and grounds and, more
importantly, the nuances of the language and customs. Though she still thought
in modern terms, the archaic words for them rolled more easily off her tongue.
Siobhan spoke of moons rather than months, and fortnights and sennights,
meaning two weeks and a week. Becca slowly released the self-portrait she
carried around in her head, that of a fifty-year-old woman too crippled in body
to enjoy life. For whatever reason, she’d been granted the use of this young,
lithe body, and she planned to exploit it to the fullest.

She spent time in
Ciaran’s den. The room often overwhelmed her with male regalia and scent, but
it reminded her of him. Spending time there eased the ache of missing him. The
castle’s accounts were stored there, and Becca familiarized herself with the
ledgers. Siobhan taught her the inner workings of the castle, how each area was
its own small kingdom. The kitchens and larder were the demesne of the cook,
and none dared argue with the man. Since moving into the castle, Siobhan had
taken over the maids and serving staff though she nominally granted authority
to a man named Gair, a retired soldier who, though the castle’s steward, was at
quite a loss catering to the women now occupying the household. A small village
clustered around the walls of the castle where a tanner, a weaver, and a
blacksmith all enjoyed autonomy. Beyond the village, crofters and shepherds
lived their lives among their fields and herds.

Day after day, the
stables drew her. Eachan, the gruff Master of Horse, never noticed her presence
or perhaps simply chose to ignore her. Even though Siobhan was determined to
teach her the place of the mistress of the castle, Becca sensed ambivalence
toward her from most of Ciaran’s household. He’d not handfasted her in the old
way, nor formally betrothed her in the way of the Church before he left. Though
his men sensed his intentions toward the strange woman who now occupied
Ciaran’s chamber, they still remembered the peculiarity of her coming and the
illness that dogged her. Then there were the women. That was a whole other
situation, and Becca didn’t want to look too deeply into their motives. The
young ones were jealous. The old ones were skeptical. Becca was caught in the
middle.

Bhruic and most of
the wolfhounds had accompanied Ciaran and his troops. Two stayed behind,
though, and shadowed Becca silently as she passed through the busy days and
lonely nights. Often, the calico cat would also join her entourage. She started
calling the trio Winken, Blinken, and Nod. People often stopped what they were
doing to watch the odd parade go by. Becca, flanked by one of the big brutes,
followed closely by the second, with the tiny fluff of a kit dancing along in
the rear presented quite a sight. Those who sought the blessings of the Church
crossed themselves after she’d passed. Those who didn’t smiled, believing one
of the fae had come to grace their clann. Most had seen the look on Ciaran’s
face as he’d stared up at the window of his chamber before turning his horse to
ride away. He’d chosen the cailín with his heart even if he hadn’t voiced that
choosing.

Ciaran had been gone
close to a month, and the last remnants of winter dug tenacious claws into the
month of April. The day dawned raw and blustery with a north wind whipping
around the corners. Rain threatened to fall from thick, gloomy clouds.
Restless, Becca threw a mantle about her shoulders and braved the bleak
weather, the hounds at her side. As her feet often did, they dragged her toward
the stable. As she stood at the stable door hesitant to enter, two boys raced
out almost knocking Becca down. Both hounds bared their teeth and growled, but
the boys were gone too quickly for the dogs to retaliate. She heard shouting
coming from inside and peeked around the door.

Eachan was a huge
hulk of a man with red hair and a beard as wild as the mane on one of his
stallions. He bellowed at the top of his lungs as stable hands scurried
willy-nilly to do his bidding. The hubbub fascinated Becca until Eachan shouted
for a sharp knife. Curious, she crept forward until she could see into the
stall behind the big master. A beautiful mare was down on a bed of fresh straw.
Looking closer, Becca saw marks in the dirt made by the mare as she struggled
to get up. The mare’s distended belly indicated she was trying to foal but
something had gone terribly wrong. The horse had worn herself out and was down
now. If something weren’t done soon, both mare and foal would perish. The fact
that this mare looked just like her grandfather’s favorite horse didn’t help
matters any.

“Bring me that
knife,” Eachan roared. “We’ll cut the foal out.”

“You’ll do no such
thing,” Becca commanded, her voice cutting through the hubbub. There was dead
silence in the stable as every eye in the place turned to stare at her. Becca
swallowed hard, realizing she might have stepped on her poncho this time.
“Well, in for dime, in for a dollar,” she muttered. “I know the mare is down,”
she added quickly to Eachan. “But I might be able to save them both. She’s too
beautiful to lose without a fight.”

The master stared at
her unblinking. Rumor had it that this was the
Taoiseac’s
chosen, and if
so, she’d be his mistress when the MacDermot returned. A shrewd man, he knew he
had enough witnesses if both colt and dam were lost. Their demise would not be
on his head but hers. He nodded, giving his permission. At this point he had
nothing to lose, and if the cailín could save them both, he had everything to
gain.

Becca knelt beside
the mare, crooning to her while running knowing hands across her swollen belly.
She could tell by feel that the foal was transverse, and if there were any
chance of saving them, she would have to turn it. There wasn’t much time left.
The mare was almost out of fight.

Becca stood up and
faced Eachan. “I’ll be right back,” she told the gruff man. She hitched up her
skirts and ran, tossing over her shoulder, “Don’t touch her!” She sprinted to
the castle.

Every man in the
stable stood there agog at the sight of her shapely legs. “
An Taoiseac
is a lucky man,” the master sighed, speaking for them all.

“Siobhan!” Becca
yelled at the top of her lungs as she entered the castle. “Siobhan, I need hot
water, soap, and rags.”

The older woman
appeared from the kitchens. “Slow down, cailín,” she cautioned. “Tell me what’s
wrong.”

Becca grabbed a
quick breath. “Hot water and soap, Siobhan, and rags. Lots of rags. There’s a
mare in trouble. The horse master wanted to gut her to save the foal. I can
save them both, but you’ve got to help me.” She took another breath. “And
you’ve got to do it now. There’s no time to waste.”

As Siobhan called
for the items, Becca sprinted back to the stable. Siobhan followed not too far
behind carrying an armful of soft rags.

Calmly, Becca
checked the mare. There’d been no change. She tried to push up the sleeves of
her gown but they were so tight she couldn’t even get them past her forearms.
“Where’s that sharp knife?” she asked the horse master. With a quizzical look,
the big man handed it to her. Becca passed the knife to Siobhan who looked a
little surprised. “Cut the sleeves off,” Becca ordered the other woman. “I
don’t have time to explain, Siobhan,” she implored. “Just do it.”

Siobhan cocked an
eyebrow, wondering what the cailín was up to. Wordlessly, she sliced through
the seams at the shoulders of Becca’s gown.

Impatient, Becca
ripped the first one free before Siobhan had finished. Several boys appeared
with steaming buckets of hot water. Becca ripped the second sleeve free. Moving
around the stall to get to the buckets to wash up, she caught her toe in the
hem of her gown and fell flat on her face.

“Bloody hell,” she
muttered, pushing herself off the ground. “I’d kill for a pair of jeans right
now.

Siobhan and Eachan
both stared at her, tasting the unfamiliar word. Becca fumed a minute. “Trews,”
she finally translated. “I’d kill for a pair of trews.”

That set everyone
within earshot to wagging their eyebrows. Unceremoniously, Becca reached
between her legs, gathered up the back hem of her skirt, and pulled it through.
Grabbing the front hem, she tied the two together. It wasn’t jeans but it would
have to do. She couldn’t waste any more time trying to con a pair of trews out
of Siobhan.

There wasn’t a man
in the stable with a closed mouth or without a lustful thought in his head at
the sight of the cailín with the tied up skirt. Every well-defined muscle in
her legs was there for them to savor, and they did so openly.

Oblivious to their
leers, Becca knelt by the mare’s head, talking to her and rubbing her neck.
Becca leaned away and washed her arms and hands in one of the buckets. Still
crooning softly to the mare, Becca moved to kneel behind the horse as she
carefully moved the mare’s tail. When Eachan figured out what she was doing, he
moved to stop her but Becca stayed him with a glare. With infinite gentleness,
Becca inserted her arm up to the shoulder and searched the mare’s womb to find
the colt. The mare tensed and she braced, but the contraction was so mild she
barely felt it. That was a very bad sign. After careful manipulation, she got
the foal’s head down between its forelegs. There wasn’t time to turn it.

“Rope,” she said
softly, withdrawing her arm. “I need a rope with a noose on the end.”

The stable master
handed her a rope, and Becca washed it as well, causing eyebrows to rise again.
With the noose clutched in her hand, Becca plunged her arm back into the mare.
She managed to get the noose looped around the colt’s head and its forelegs.
She had to keep the colt’s head positioned between his forelegs so he could fit
down the birth canal.

“Draw the rope,” she
ordered. “Slowly.”

Eachan took the rope
in his big, calloused hands but pulled with gentle and steady pressure. The
mare shuddered, and Becca’s face turned white. That contraction completely
numbed her arm—a very good sign. Now, if the mare would fight, she might be
able to save them both. She crooned to the mare.

“Again,” Becca
whispered to the horse master.

In a short while, a
chestnut colt spilled into Becca’s lap. She tore at the amniotic sack and
pulled off the rope. Grabbing clean rags, she vigorously rubbed down the colt.
He lay still, not breathing. She said several very unladylike words under her
breath and shifted her weight. Grabbing the colt’s head, she covered his
nostrils with her mouth and blew. After several tries, the colt’s sides gave a
little heave, and he started breathing on his own.

A murmur rustled
through the gathered crowd. The horse master stood, hands on hips, completely
amazed. As he watched, Becca thrust the colt into Siobhan’s arms and told the
other woman to keep rubbing him until he was dry. Becca crawled back to the
mare’s head and cradled it in her lap.

“Listen to me,
Maggie May,” Becca whispered, naming the mare after her grandfather’s horse.
“You have a fine, strong son who, like most males, took the hard way into this
life. Now it’s up to you. You have to get up, Maggie. I know you’re tired but
the afterbirth is to come, and you need to nurse the little brute.”

Becca stood up and
tugged on the mare’s halter. The horse blew a gentle puff of air through her
nostrils but refused to move. Becca sat back down. “Okay, Maggie, here’s the
deal. I need new boots. Horse hide is supposed to make soft ones.” The mare
rolled her eyes and snorted. “Not to mention the fact that these barbarians
probably eat horsemeat.” With that, the mare lunged up and stood shakily on all
four feet. Becca scrambled up with her and hugged the horse’s neck. “Ah, sweet
Maggie,” she sighed in the mare’s ear. “You are the bravest, most wonderful horse
in all the land.”

The little colt,
shaky on his long, spindly legs, wobbled over to his dam’s belly and nudged
her. In a few moments, he found what he was seeking and nursed hungrily. Becca,
feeling as shaky as the newborn colt, walked over to a bucket of now-tepid
water and half-heartedly washed. Stained and ripped, her gown was in shambles.
The slippers she’d worn were completely ruined, too. She definitely needed more
durable footwear, wishing belatedly for a pair of boots.

Siobhan, always the
model of efficiency, was already on her way back to the castle calling for a
hot bath to be prepared in Becca’s chamber. Becca bent to gather up the bloody
rags. As she reached to snag one, a giant boot descended and trapped it.

“Nay, mistress,” the
huge horse master roared. “Yee’ve soiled yer hands enough this day. You’ll not
be picking up like one of the maids.”

Becca squared her
shoulders and faced the man. “I am quite capable of picking up after myself.”

The big man
guffawed. “Aye, cailín, you’re quite capable of most anything yee put yer mind
to, and
An Taoiseac
MacDermot has met his match this time fair certain.
Let the stable boys earn their keep. You’ve more than done so this day.
’
Tis
the best mare in the herd you’ve saved along with her fair son as well.” After
a long pause, he spoke again. “How know you to do this thing?” he asked, his
voice filled with wonder. He’d known the foal was turned wrong but it had never
occurred to him that something could be done to rectify it.