Rose of the Mists (19 page)

“Bastard!” he whispered. Somehow, he would find a way to kill any man who dared touch her!

*

The first light of day brought Meghan awake. It was a terrible awakening, a sudden jolt of awareness that raised her up from her mantle with a pounding heart and her hand on her skean. Someone had screamed. Her eyes moved quickly over the ground she had been unable to see the night before. In the distance she saw tents of myriad sizes and shapes. Closer in, there was nothing, no one, save Ualter, who weighed down her feet in his sleep.

Meghan blinked back the cold sweat that ran into her eyes. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached out to bring the mantle up over her shoulders. Then suddenly darkness swamped her, making her shiver with anticipation. Giving in to the sensation, she stared sightlessly, concentrating on the blackness enveloping her.

The vision did not resolve itself into recognizable images. Vague impressions without shape or form skulked along the edges of her consciousness, like a wolf stalking its prey, something unseen yet feared. The choking sensation at the base of her throat tightened. Never before had she felt so vulnerable.

Never before had a vision remained unknown, left no concrete afterimage of itself, once it overtook her.

The cry rose again, and then ended abruptly.

Meghan blinked and the blackness vanished, leaving her staring at Ualter, who rose to his feet with a whimper.

“Revelin!” Meghan sprang to her feet. It was a man’s voice that had cried out in agony. She flung off the mantle, unsheathed her skean, and ran toward the settlement.

The camp had been roused by the cries, and Meghan followed the people streaming past the tents toward one end of the clearing. Her feet seemed hardly to touch the ground as she sped past the stragglers. No one even glanced at her, for they were all too eager to join the noisy crowd that had gathered on the grass in the clearing. As she pushed at the wall of men’s backs that shielded her view, she wondered what blood sport was taking place. Using her elbows, she fought through the avid throng until a small space opened before her and she spied the hastily erected corral made of branches stripped from the nearby woods.

Inside the enclosure, a herdsman lay face down in the grass; a puddle of blood soaked the sod beneath him. A second man knelt nearby, clutching his torn tunic as blood flowed between his fingers.

“He’s bewitched!” Meghan heard the man next to her murmur.

“Aye, ’tis Beltane when like picks like,” another muttered and crossed himself. “There’s nae a man else will brave it after this!”

Confused by their conversation, Meghan pushed closer and the men parted. Standing in the middle of the corral was a full-grown bull, pure white except for red markings on its ears. Its head was lowered, its strangely light eyes rolled up until the whites showed. The animal trembled as if buffeted by a strong wind and its sides heaved like a bellows.

The wounded man struggled to his feet, his eyes fixed on
the animal as he took a halting step toward the fence. The bull emitted a snort of agitation that sent a shiver along its length, then tossed its head and pawed the ground. Frightened, the man paused.

“Run!” one of the crowd called to him.

“Aye! ’Tis certain we cannot help ye,” another added.

Meghan saw the wounded man glance about, his eyes dazed with pain, then he looked back at the bull, which had gored him. “I cannae!” he whispered desperately. “I’m bad hurt!”

A sound like a sigh passed through the crowd but none went to his aid.

Meghan drew back a little and sheathed her blade, relief swamping her. This was not her battle. Revelin was not here.

“Da! Da!”

A boy, no older than three, who had slipped out of his mother’s grasp, ducked under the makeshift fence beside Meghan. His mother screamed in alarm and a like cry went up from the crowd, but when she lunged toward the barrier, bystanders grabbed her to keep her from going after the boy.

Before anyone else could react, Meghan leaped the fence. She ran across the space and scooped up the boy toddling toward his wounded father. The bull bellowed its rage at this new invasion of his territory, but Meghan did not pause to look back as she turned toward the fence with the squalling boy in her arms.

The shouts of the crowd were her only warnings that the animal had charged. Her heart lurched as the pounding of hooves neared. The fence was more than an arm’s length away. Even if she reached it, she knew, she could not climb the barrier in time. In desperation, she lifted the child and tossed him into the pair of arms stretched across the barrier. As she did, she misstepped, turned her ankle, and went down with a moan of despair. A fraction of a second later, she felt the fetid breath of the deranged bull as he passed over her, his hooves miraculously missing her.

She leaped from the ground as the bull pulled up short and then turned with remarkable agility. From the corner of her eye she saw two men jump the fence at the far side and help the wounded man to safety. Grabbing a sturdy limb that had fallen loose from the corral, she faced the animal. The stench of its sweat filled the air, and she realized it was ill. Perhaps that explained its maddened state. Then all thoughts fled as the animal lowered its head and charged a second time.

For a moment, fear held Meghan immobile. She saw the madness reflected in the small red eyes of the beast bearing down on her and heard the shouts of the people, but her legs would not move. Then, at the last moment, she threw the stick as she flung herself out of the path of the charging bull. The branch landed a glancing blow on the bull’s back and the animal veered away, missing her a second time. Crawling on her hands and knees, Meghan reached the fence; then, unexpectedly, she was lifted from the ground by arms that encircled her waist and hauled across the fence like a sack of meal.

“God’s foot! Can ye no’ mind yer own business?” boomed Colin MacDonald as he set Meghan on her feet.

Her natural shyness forgotten in the extremity of the moment, Meghan clung to him, torn between laughter and tears. “Where were ye, brave Scot, that a mere lass must see to a man’s business?”

Colin gaped at her, then his laughter drowned out that of the men about him.

When Meghan realized that she was gripping Colin by his waist, she released him. Immediately she was stunned by a heavy slap on her back.

“There’s a braw lassie for ye!” the congratulator exclaimed. “Ye might do worse than learn a thing from her, Colin.”

As more laughter ensued, Meghan glanced about and saw that she was surrounded by Colin’s red-shanked Scots comrades.

“She were a wee thing, Col, but I’d no’ so mind were she
to end me cloistered days,” offered a red-haired boy who Meghan guessed could not be more than a year older than she.

She gazed at his grinning face in amazement, and when he reached out and pinched her cheek she gasped softly in astonishment. Automatically her hand moved to her left cheek, where she found the answer to the stranger’s friendliness. Her face was smeared with mud from the fall she had taken inside the corral. Her mark must be concealed.

“So much merriment and the feast not yet begun.”

At the sound of an Irish brogue, Meghan turned and saw that a giant of a man had joined them. He was dressed in the finest of clothes. A torque of gold encircled his broad neck. His full-sleeved tunic, the color of a buttercup, was belted at the waist to form an elaborate array of pleats that reached to his knees, where supple leather leggings covered his calves and ankles. A short jacket of buttery smooth calfskin topped the tunic, and over all was draped a mantle of the purest yellow, lined in moleskin and with a hood of fox. Meghan knew that only chieftains were allowed to dress in such finery. This must be Turlough Luineach O’Neill, the newly elected O’Neill. Curious, Meghan gazed up into his face.

He was a giant of a man. His head, set on broad shoulders, bore rough features that just missed handsomeness. A great mat of black hair, shot through with the first threads of silver, framed the ruddy complexion of a man fond of
poitin.
There was no need to guess it; the breath he expelled was heavily laden with the aroma of raw whiskey. Beneath black bushy brows, bright blue eyes stared down at her. They were so at odds with the rough bulk of the rest of him that Meghan wondered at their beauty.

“As ’tis the custom on Beltane, my herdsmen were bleeding my animals as an offering to the fairies.” There was a twinkle in his fine eyes as he added, “My bull was bent on a wee bloodletting himself. Who are ye, lass, that ye would presume to make him see matters differently?”

His
cattle. Meghan swallowed her fear and lowered her eyes. “If ’tis yer beast I struck, then I beg yer pardon, only…” She paused, struggling against honesty.

“Come, lass ye’ve saved a lad and his father as well. Ye’re entitled to a say,” the huge man encouraged.

Meghan raised her eyes until she spotted a small grease spot on his jerkin about midway up his chest. “I wonder why none came to the wounded man’s aid.”

The chieftain roared with laughter. “Lass! The herdsmen are but peasants. What matters the loss of a life or two? Why, ere the morrow more than one O’Neill warrior will have breathed his last in the drunken revelry of Beltane. A true O’Neill fears nothing but boredom or disgrace.”

A man sidled up to the chieftain, his voice low as his leader bent an ear to his whisperings. After a moment Turlough straightened, his eyes wide with amazement. “They tell that my stud bull is dead, that ye, lass, struck him with an elder twig before he died. The elder twig carries the power of death. Did ye curse him?”

Meghan blanched, the victory of the moment fading behind the specter of accusation. Now someone would remember who she was, and the trouble would begin again. She began to shake, tears of humiliation rising in her eyes. “I—I did nae such a thing!” She turned her head quickly from side to side, looking for escape, then the chieftain’s hand came down on her shoulder.

“There’s nae need for tears, lass. The great beast was gelded with age and mad with the knowing of it. I concede the loss, for it spared the life of one of my best herders. I’ve little complaint with the world.” He placed a finger under her chin and lifted it. “Besides, a face as pretty as yers was made for smiles.”

Meghan steeled herself for his reaction and was amazed when he did not release her. Instead, he grabbed her chin roughly, pinching the tender skin hard between his thumb and
forefinger as he turned her left cheek toward him for a better view and wiped away the concealing mud with his free hand.

“Who are ye, lass?” he questioned softly.

“Meghan,” she answered in a breathless voice.

“Meghan,” he repeated to himself, as if it had a special meaning for him. “Ye’re an Ulster lass?”

Meghan cast her eyes down, afraid of the avid blue gaze burrowing into her. He seemed to see too much. “Aye,” she answered.

Turlough traced the mark on her skin with a fingertip. His eyes widened briefly when he had wiped away the last of the mud, then his lids shuttered the blaze of recognition. “Who were yer parents?”

Meghan shook her head. Why did the question always arise? “I do not know,” she whispered.

Turlough grunted, as if pleased, and released her. “Ye say ye do not know. What would ye be thinking were I to say
I
know?”

Laughter erupted from him as Meghan’s mouth fell open. “Well now, I’ll not be saying more till Beltane is over. ’Tis nae good to stir winter memories in the springtime of the year.” He released her after a pat on her cheek. “I’ll be learning first if ’tis true ye’re the changeling yer mark claims. Ye killed me bull with an elder branch and yet saved two lives this dawn. The question remains, are ye marked for good or ill?”

Meghan said nothing, for, truly, she did not know.

“Colin MacDonald, find the woman Sila. She’ll nae fear the lass. Tell her to scrape the mud from her face and the brambles from her hair,” Turlough ordered. His gaze swept down Meghan’s tattered shift, pausing on the thrust of her breasts and again on the curves of her hips. “I’ve a suspicion of what these rags hide and I’ve a yearning for a lovely lass to dance with about the bonfire.” He turned away without another word and Meghan was suddenly alone with Colin.

“Where is Revelin Butler?” Meghan demanded of Colin, for he was never far from her thoughts.

“Ye’ve a long memory for so wee a lass,” Colin answered sourly and reached out to take her by the arm. “Ye’ll be seeing the English dogs when Turlough is of a mind. For now, ye’re to have the privilege of dressing up proper for our chieftain.”

Meghan slanted a look at him. “Are ye nae a Scotsman that ye call an O’Neill yer chief?”

Colin grinned at her, his scarred face more pleasing when set in lines of amusement. “Ye’re a saucy lass. Mayhaps at the celebration ye’ll learn what rules a Scotsman’s head and heart.”

Chapter Eight

Meghan could scarcely believe her luck as she squatted naked before the turf fire smoldering in the center of the tiny one-room hut. For the first time in weeks she was clean. Outside, Ualter was tethered to a tree, eating a bowl of porridge for breakfast.

She too had been given a bowl of porridge, and then a large wooden bucket and fern-ash soap with which to wash the mud from her body. The water had been icy cold, but when she had asked to have it heated she had been laughed at.