Chapter 3 #2
“Perhaps not so much for Kylin and Deidre as for others,” Bridget murmured. “For few know this land as they do.”
“That much is true,” Eamon said.
Sigurd looked to the sky. That night, the moon had risen in a full and beautiful glory. And while a gentle fog lay upon the land, the darkness of night wasn’t as complete as it might have been.
“What say you, Eamon?” Sigurd asked.
By then, Kylin and Aidan joined them. “Gathering as large a force as possible and as quickly as possible may be prudent,” her brother said.
“And you agree with this?” Eamon asked Kylin.
“I think Aidan’s wisdom on this may be best,” he replied.
“Then see to it. Aidan—”
“Aye, Father, I will see to our lookouts, but thus far, nothing has been spotted out on the seas.” He hesitated.
“None escaped in their boats—many died, and the longboats were set afire with their dead upon them. Those that have survived are cared for as you have taught, but they are injured and well guarded.”
“But perhaps they know something,” Sigurd said.
He looked at Eamon. “Before they leave tonight to reach the ard-rí, I believe I should talk to the men who have lived. From what I understand, they have behaved as if it was a single attack. Any such attack, however, has a leader. I think that I should go among them and see what can be discovered.”
Eamon nodded. “Aye, Sigurd! A fine idea.” He turned to Deidre and Kylin.
“Prepare what you might need for such a trip, though it should not be long. While others are on guard, you will need to return while our high king makes arrangements about the countryside.” He winced, looking downward for a moment.
“It is difficult, that we must allow the two of you to go. But the sword chose Deidre. The cauldron and the spear chose Kylin. We cannot argue with such powers, be they gifts from angels or the ancients, or if they are one and the same.”
“Take care!” Bridget said suddenly. But Sigurd was already moving to see what he might discover from the invaders who had survived.
“Ah, then,” Deidre murmured, “we will prepare.” Then turning, she spoke to Kylin dryly: “I must prove I have my own horse!”
He smiled and turned to look at Eamon. “We wait on my father’s word and, of course, your blessing, sire, for the journey,” he told Eamon, who nodded gravely.
Deidre hurried off for the stables. She did have a very fine horse, a massive chestnut she called Donal, an animal she had raised herself from the time he had been a small colt.
She had spent time with the animal when they weren’t riding, training him with affection as much as with the reward of special food treats, and he was, she thought, certainly a mount as worthy as Kylin’s Darragh.
“Too much pride!” she told herself, wondering why she felt that things must be a competition with Kylin when they were on the same side. She was wrong to doubt him, and still . . .
Their land was filled with legends, stories and history.
And it was true that far too often it had been Sigurd Anderson’s people who had brutalized the Gaelic peoples of the island.
But the stories raged that others had come before them, that man had been upon the island for several thousand years, that some of the revered burial mounds at Tara proved it to be so.
And with each new wave of invaders . . .
It had been the Gaelic people for many, many years now. And kings such as her father—and perhaps Sigurd—had sought peace and prosperity for all their people.
And Declan . . .
Declan had proven himself to be a noble ard-rí. Fair and just.
She knew that things could change in the blink of an eye—or that they could stay the same for many years. History was such that many wars would be waged in the hundreds of years to come.
But for her lifetime, she wanted her father’s way, and the way of the man who now sat as ard-rí.
And maybe the way of Sigurd.
She wanted peace.
They would be gone just a day, and they would travel fast and carry their strange gifts, therefore she had to bring very little.
She would find a clean tunic and trousers now, carry the fine belt her father had made for her with a sheath for the sword and her knife, take a woolen blanket for a few hours of rest, and nothing more.
She still felt as if she wore blood from the day before.
She hurried out to the stream to bathe in the cold water. Then, dressed, armed and burdened only with her blanket, she mounted Donal and set out for the village clearing to await Kylin.
Perhaps he had felt the same: his hair was wet; he had washed and changed. But like her, he carried nothing personal other than his blanket.
And, of course, he carried the great cauldron and the spear, which he quickly set upon the saddle, and the trappings atop Darragh.
“Time to ride,” he declared.
As he spoke, he saw that their two fathers were walking toward them from the dwellings down the lane, where the wounded enemies were housed.
“My father got a man to speak,” Kylin told her. “He thought he was dying. Apparently, he loves the concept of life more than his loyalty to a brutal jarl. And, most sadly, all that we have seen and feared is true.”
Eamon came to stand before her.
“Daughter, magic is upon you. That of the gods or the angels. Sigurd has spoken with a man who has informed us that there is a powerful jarl named Swen Jorgensen who has made a covenant with an Irish laird. The attack last night was to test our resistance. The next attack will come from north or south of us, where they now believe that the resistance will be lighter. None of our great or powerful kings keep warriors on guard in certain areas and thus, when they came in, scouting parties were sent out as well. The men who attacked you when you sought the cauldron were part of those groups. There are others scattered about, so, as Kylin is already aware, you must take the most care, be ever vigilant and wary.”
“But,” Sigurd told her, “these so-called scouting parties are groups of no more than two men, all versed in our language that they might appear to be of native residents of the island. Or, they are native, and part of an alliance between people here—and those who would invade from the northern isles.”
“But who here seeks this great battle to unseat the ard-rí?” Deidre asked.
“That is something that our wounded man didn’t know.
I believe that he spoke the truth to us—he was humbled by the fact that my daughters were tending to him, that they told him they were of the island and the north, that they loved their lives and that perhaps, just perhaps, he could stay if he lived.
When we spoke, I sensed something in him.
Something of the way I felt. I’m not a coward, Deidre.
I did not throw myself on your father’s mercy for such a reason.
And there are those in my native land who seek family, sustenance and peace.
But I was not born into such a family. This man who spoke with us .
. . he sailed and fought because there was no choice, lest he be branded a coward by his own. He has told us the truth.”
Deidre listened to him, nodding, and glanced to Kylin. “Then we should have time, good time, to reach the ard-rí, to give him the warning that could alert and raise so many to the defense of our land. Except that . . .”
She hesitated. Irish legend taught them that there had been ancient races of monsters upon the land.
The Tuatha Dé Danann had come and reigned, knowing of the arrival of man.
And then man had come and through the centuries, learned to work with metal, to build with stone.
But man had come from different places through the years, and there had been many who had come from the Northlands and made their home among the Gaelic peoples.
She believed now that Sigurd was truly loyal to her father.
But what of others?
And did it matter from where their ancestors hailed if they were ready to betray the man who sat as high king now, anxious to wrest away power and all that it gave?
She wished that the sword had given her greater wisdom as well as strength.
“We have one purpose now,” Kylin said, as if reading her mind. “To get to the ard-rí. We were close on the hills but now we must ride straight with one purpose in mind, simply to reach Declan.”
“I am ready,” she said, and leaped atop Donal.
Kylin was ready to mount Darragh.
With nods to their fathers, who lifted their hands in blessing, the two of them rode out of the village and out into the moonlit night.
THE LAST DAYS had been intense.
They had been riding for about four hours when Kylin noticed that Deidre was slumping farther and farther over her horse’s neck.
They needed to stop. Maybe not even sleep long but find somewhere to gain a few hours of rest.
“Deidre,” he said quietly.
She didn’t respond.
She just slipped lower.
He reined in and leaped from Darragh’s back, catching Deidre just as she began to slide from her mount.
She woke with a start, gasping and staring at him as he held her.
“Sorry. You were falling,” he told her.
To his surprise, she wasn’t angered by his touch or in any kind of denial.
“I’m so sorry!” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I didn’t think that I could fall asleep . . . I’m sorry! I won’t let it happen again.”
He smiled and eased her to the ground. He realized that he was sorry to let her go; holding her, just as riding with her before him the day before, had felt . . .
Good.
She might be the fiercest warrior known to man with her magical sword, but she was still a young woman, a beautiful one, and despite all that might arise between them that centered on antagonism, he was human.
There was no way to deny it: she played upon his senses.
He set her about an inch away, studying the earnestness in her face.
“It’s all right, Deidre, it’s all right. We’re going to stop.”
“No, no, I’m wide-awake—”