by Nene Adams ©1998 - All rights reserved

CHAPTER TEN

Brother Ignatius' wrinkled face was grave as he wiped his bloody hands on a rag. ''Aye, two broke ribs, but I bent 'em back and strapped 'em down, so that'll be no difficulty; should heal well. Skint up as well; like to have took off all the hide twixt knee an' hip. Her brain pan's no cracked, but she took quite a knock. The wee lass'll probably be out fer the day, at least. But,'' he added, ''there's more, an' it's no good news I'll be tellin'.'' 

Cathelin stared at the still form on the bed and her mouth worked. After a moment, she rasped, ''What is it?'' Her face was pale and her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. 

Brother Ignatius studied the woman in front of him. ''Sit ye down, Lady, an' have a swaller 'er two o' wine first.'' 

Cathelin turned on the old monk, amber eyes blazing. ''Tell me, damn you!'' she shouted. ''Or by St. Brigit...'' 

Ignatius held up one hand. ''Dinna threaten me with damnation, Lady. Do as I say, or not another word I'll be tellin' ye.'' 

Infuriated almost beyond her control, and sick to her stomach at the sight of Madrigal's unnaturally pale face, Cathelin whirled around and threw herself down in a chair. Brother Ignatius padded over, brown robes swaying, and poured them both mazers full of wine from a nearby decanter. 

He waited until she had taken a long swallow, then said, ''Madrigal's with child. And very close to losin' it, she was. No all the blood on yon dress was on count o' her scrapes. But the bairn's secure for the nonce.'' 

Cathelin stared at him in shock, the metal mazer clutched so tightly in her hand it creaked. Then she swallowed. ''With... with child?'' she stammered, trying to force her reeling brain to absorb the information. ''But... how?'' 

''The usual way, I'm supposin','' Ignatius chuckled, patting Cathelin's hand. ''I knew, o' course. When I come up afore to see to her belly-gripes, I could feel the bairn movin'. But the wee gal asked me to tell no one, includin' yerself.'' 

Cathelin blinked. Rapidly, she brought up and rejected scenario after scenario of Madrigal dallying with one of the castle servants or even a kern. Suddenly, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she knew. ''Francis...,'' she breathed. 

''Aye. So Madrigal said.'' Ignatius took a gulp of wine and wiped his lips on one long sleeve. ''T'is my belief that the Good Lord was watchin' o'er her this day, but she's no out of danger yet, Lady. Rest is what the lass needs; she should no more be clamberin' up and down the stairs all day. Not until the bairn's born.'' 

Cathelin's lips tightened. ''May God damn you straight to Hell, Francis,'' she said aloud; then her face grew troubled. ''Brother,'' she said, ''why did she not tell me?'' 

Ignatius looked into Cathelin's eyes, the gold now clouded with pain. ''As to that,'' he replied kindly, ''I believe she meant to tell ye, Lady. But she was afeared.'' 

''Afraid?'' Cathelin shook her head, wild locks of dark crimson hair fluttering. ''What has she to be afraid of? Surely she didn't think...'' 

''She knew how much ye hated Lord Francis, Lady Cathelin, may God forgive us both fer the thought.'' 

Cathelin frowned, toying with the mazer. ''But I cannot believe...'' Her eyes abruptly filled with tears as the full knowledge of the stressful situation Madrigal had been struck her. ''Oh, my poor Madri!'' she exclaimed, biting back a sob. ''All this time, and I never knew...'' 

''Dinna fash yersel', Lady. The lass was happier these few weeks than I'd e'er seen afore. T'was your doin', no mistake.'' 

Cathelin burst into fresh tears. Brushing past Brother Ignatius, she flung herself down on her knees next to the bed, taking Madrigal's small hand in her own. ''Can you forgive me?'' she pleaded quietly. ''Please, please, wake up, sweetling...'' I'm here, she added silently. Don't leave me.

Brother Ignatius gathered his things and prepared to go. ''While ye're down on yer knees, Lady, remember - a prayer or two won't hurt.'' 

Cathelin nodded, still crying, as the old monk left. I've been blind, so blind! she castigated herself. I knew something was troubling her and I did nothing! 

She remembered teasing Madrigal about her growing weight; although her frame was still slender, the Muslim had filled out some. Cathelin had noticed the growing bulge of the other woman's tummy, and put it down to rich foods and Madrigal's enormous appetite. 

And all the while she was with child, Cathelin thought, berating herself for a fool. What a burden to have to carry on her shoulders, and I, who should have been helping - I've been acting like a fornicating swine, I have, and t'is a wonder and a marvel to me that Madri hasn't left my bed afore now.

Although Cathelin had sternly resisted the urge to make her growing feelings of attraction evident to the other woman - she would not force herself on someone who was incapable, by her past slavery, of refusal - nevertheless, waking up in the morning with Madri snuggled in her arms had quickly become Cathelin's favorite part of the day. 

She found herself thinking about the Muslim when she was outside the castle, hunting or harvesting, or helping her people, and her servants and kerns adored Madrigal, despite her faith and origins. She's certainly made herself at home, Cathelin thought, and for that, I'm glad. 

And whenever she came home, Madri was always there with a smile, a cup of wine, and those delicate, thoughtful attentions; in fact, it had come to seem as if Madri was able to anticipate Cathelin's needs, always on hand instantly with whatever was required. 

Aye, Cathelin thought, she's very nearly my own right arm, she is. And I'll never forgive myself if she comes to harm. 

Tears streamed down Cathelin's face as she bent her head and humbly whispered a fervent prayer to God and St. Brigit not to take Madri away. 

Madrigal's eyelashes fluttered as she slowly rose from the well of darkness and into the light... 

She gradually became aware that her hand was being held gently... that her Lady was there; she could hear the other woman's voice, whispering... Madrigal's free hand went instinctively to her abdomen and she was reassured by the still bulging presence of her child. 

''Lady?'' she whispered. 

Cathelin's face immediately swam into her vision as the Irishwoman leaned over her. ''Madri?'' she asked, a tentative smile lighting up her red-rimmed eyes. ''How do you feel, sweetling?'' 

''Thirsty...,'' the slave rasped, and a mazer of cool water was touched to her lips. Madrigal drank, the water sliding down her throat more welcome than the nectar of Paradise. The cup was taken away and she whimpered, wanting more, but Cathelin soothed her. 

''No more, Madri. You'll be sick.'' Cathelin wiped Madrigal's face with a damp cloth. ''You fell down the stairs, sweetling, and fetched your head and ribs quite a crack, but Brother Ignatius says you'll be fine.'' 

Madrigal's head was pounding as if a horde of djinns had taken up residence and were tunneling through her skull. ''I...,'' she began, then gulped as a wave of nausea swept through her. 

Cathelin hastily fetched a basin in time and supported the other woman while she retched helplessly. Laying Madrigal back down gently, Cathelin wiped her lips and perched carefully on the edge of the bed. ''I know you're with child, Madri,'' the Irishwoman said simply. ''Brother Ignatius told me.'' 

Madrigal closed her eyes, feeling depleted and drained. At any other time, she might have been panicked, but now... she waited, her emotions exhausted, mind numb, head dizzy and throbbing with pain. 

Cathelin took Madrigal's hand again and squeezed it carefully. ''T'is all right, sweetling. You've not lost your place here; I still want you... to serve me, if you'd like. You do still want to stay, don't you?,'' she asked anxiously. 

Madrigal opened her dark purple eyes. Her long, blue-black hair had been braided up loosely, and a few stray locks curled onto her cheeks. A tear trickled down her face. Her Lady was looking at her with those amazing amber gold eyes. ''Yes,'' she whispered. ''Yes, Lady, I want to stay.'' 

Cathelin put the back of Madrigal's hand against her face. ''Well, you're to rest, sweetling, at least for a few weeks. T'was a near thing on those damned stairs; you like to have lost the babe, and your life besides. So, no more cleaning, no more gallivanting about; stay in bed. All right?'' 

Madrigal nodded carefully. ''Yes, Lady,'' she said. A warm glow suffused her soul; she felt like dancing, felt like singing, but the pain was too great for that now. She had no more fears - the Lady had spoken. She and her child were welcome in this place she had come to regard as home. 

As Madrigal closed her eyes and sank slowly into the bliss of peaceful sleep, she felt her Lady's lips brush tenderly against her brow... and the slave smiled.

Cathelin walked downstairs to the dining area. The hall was vast and high ceilinged; the banners of her family's enemies hung on the walls, as well as their swords, axes, shields and spears. The long, T-shaped table was crafted of heart oak, so dark with age it seemed almost black in the uncertain light of rush torches in the iron cages that lined the stone walls. 

Waiting for her was one of her kerns, a dark-haired Scottish warrior named Wolf McLeod. The crimbeul that drooped above his upper lip hung down to the sharp angle of his jaw, and his eyes were the icy blue of sunlight seen reflected in a mountain loch. 

He bowed his head respectfully, murmuring, ''Lady?'' He was dressed in a tartan kilt that exposed scarred knees, and a billowing-sleeved shirt beneath a leather vest. The vest was covered with bone buttons - they would not be enough to stop a sword blade, but would suffice to turn aside a knife thrust. 

''Wolf, I have a task for you,'' Cathelin said as she joined her kern at the table and poured them both goblets of wine. 

Wolf wet his lips with the spiced wine and waited politely. He was not quite as tall as Cathelin, but more powerfully built, as muscular as a young bull. A torc encircled his thick neck, the finialed ends set with cabochon beryls. 

Cathelin took a long swallow of wine. ''You've heard of what happened to Madrigal earlier today?'' When Wolf nodded, she continued, ''Well, what's not generally known is that the step was greased.'' 

Wolf raised one black eyebrow at this information, and rumbled in his deep, gravelly voice, ''Assassin?'' 

''Aye.'' For a moment, Cathelin's amber eyes flared with anger, but she immediately regained control. ''I want the one responsible found. And soon.'' 

''Could it have been meant for another?'' 

Cathelin shook her head. She'd taken the time to do something with her hair, and a pair of dark crimson braids wound with black leather ties hung on either side of her face. ''Nay. The servants go up and down those stairs all day. Whoever it was knew what time Madrigal usually came down to help Meagan in the sewing room. It was meant for her... And I want that person FOUND!'' Her fist struck the top of the table hard enough to make the goblets jump. 

Wolf reached out a hand to steady his cup and looked at Cathelin with steady blue eyes. ''Aye,'' he said, ''Me as well. With your permission, Lady, I'll get to it directly. We're all rather fond of wee Madri in the barracks; there'll be no dearth o' volunteers for a turn at the rack when we catch the bastard who hurt her.'' 

He and Cathelin exchanged a savage smile. Madrigal had endeared herself to the fighters when one of them had heard her singing. At his request, every day after that Madrigal took time in the afternoon after weapons practice to sing to the men and women of Cathelin's private army. Although at first shy, after being presented with a small, battered hand harp, she had grown in confidence, blossoming under the kern's surprisingly gentle attentions. 

Wolf knew that neither man nor woman of the Phoenix would harm Madrigal; in fact, just the opposite. ''Well, Lady, I'll be taking my leave,'' he said, rising, ''Have I permission to question the house servants?'' 

Cathelin waved a hand. ''Of course, of course. Do whatever is necessary, Wolf. T'is a free reign I'm giving you. Only...do not fail me in this. I want him.'' Her lips skinned back from her teeth in a wolf's grin. ''Or her.'' 

After Wolf left, Cathelin sat at the table for a moment, absently adding water to the wine in her goblet. It wouldn't do to get drunk; she had too much to do. Abbot Benedict was waiting in her father's office - a rarely used room since she herself preferred to do business from her master chamber. 

Cathelin got up, shoving the bench with a thrust of her knees, and stalked away, resentful of any time she had to spend away from Madrigal. 
 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Abbot Benedict was a tall, beautiful, infinitely proud man with a mop of silver hair, a high ivory forehead and a patrician nose that seemed built for his cold gray eyes to stare down. ''I wish to discuss the matter of the heathen slave, Lady Cathelin,'' Benedict said in his round-toned voice as soon as Cathelin walked in the door. 

Cathelin sat down and crossed her legs at the knee. ''What about Madrigal?'' she asked, irritated. The Irishwoman and Abbot Benedict had never gotten along; he was convinced that his destiny was to be Archbishop, and so he assiduously sought out sin, as avid in his self-proclaimed duties as a starving ratcatcher. Only once had he attempted to chastise Cathelin for her sexual proclivities; after Bishop Rudolphus, his direct superior, received the rich gift of an emerald crucifix with the Lady's compliments, Benedict had been instructed to leave Cathelin strictly alone. 

Benedict looked down his long nose at the woman he privately termed the ''Whore of Inishowen.'' 

He despised Cathelin; not the least because she refused to allow one of his own priests to take over the parish duties in her own household, preferring a doddering old man named Father Paul who had been young in her grandfather's time. And, of course, because she was a sinner of such magnitude, she would surely roast in Satan's own fire - but she got away with flaunting it in what Benedict considered the most brazen manner imaginable. 

''It has come to my attention that Brother Ignatius has been treating your slave; this will stop.'' The abbot crossed his arms, sliding his hands within his sleeves, and his gray eyes were as hard as river stones. 

Cathelin stared at Benedict, her own eyes beginning to catch fire. ''She's no more a slave than you are, Father Abbot. Less, in fact, since she does not bind herself to a vengeful and intolerant God. What of the compassionate God? The Lord of mercy who suffers the little children to come to Him?'' Cathelin raised a brow and waited; she and Benedict had chewed this old bone before and it was a major point of contention between them.. 

Benedict's eyes flashed. ''Do not speak of the Lord Our God so blasphemously!'' he chided, then stopped and composed himself. ''But I am not here to chastise you for your many sins, Lady Cathelin. Brother Ignatius is bound to obey me - and it is my will that he come to Inishowen no more, if his patient is to be a Saracen heathen.'' 

Cathelin drew in a breath. ''What of Christian charity, Father Abbot?'' she asked mildly. That calm tone was a sham; inwardly, the Irishwoman was seething. 

''I'll not have Ignatius wasting his time, talents or anything else on some... bed slave,'' Benedict replied, and the scathing disapproval in his voice was like a spark on oil-soaked kindling. 

Cathelin stood up. ''Exactly what do you mean by that,'' she asked, stalking towards the silver-haired abbot. Her blazing amber eyes met Benedict's gray, and the older man shuddered a little, but rallied. 

''I mean, Lady,'' he said with thinly veiled sarcasm, ''that you will have to hire a leech to tend to your lightskirt. Brother Ignatius will not be coming here any longer.'' 

Abbot Benedict turned to go, but Cathelin's hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. The voice behind him was a deadly purr. ''Leaving so soon, Father Abbot?,'' she said. ''We've not yet finished this matter.'' 

The taller man was spun around; Cathelin's grip on his shoulder tightened until it wrung a gasp from Benedict. ''Now, you'll be listening to ME, Father,'' Cathelin continued through gritted teeth. ''Your abbey squats on land my ancestors donated for the purpose. Be assured, Benedict, if you defy me in this thing, the King - who is a very good friend and a comrade at arms - will not hesitate to grant me back the use of my own property. And what use has the Our Holy Mother, the Church, for a priest who lost her a valuable tract of land, and hope of more besides?'' 

Benedict's gray eyes widened. ''Surely you would not...,'' he faltered, then gulped when he realized she did. This... this... this foul, unnatural bitch-whore, with her red lips and redder hair and sword skills, would not hesitate to take over the abbey's land grant and toss all the brothers out on their ears - himself, especially. And what would the Bishiop say? The Archbishop? Indeed, what would Rome Herself say?! 

Sullenly, Abbot Benedict yielded, mentally vowing to flagellate himself more thoroughly than usual tonight to cleanse himself of the Whore's contaminating touch. ''As you wish, Lady,'' he said with freezing dignity, ''I will not forbid Brother Ignatius. But he must not miss any Masses, and he will be required to carry out his normal duties.'' 

''Fair enough.'' Cathelin released the abbott's shoulder. ''And DO NOT think to threaten me again, Father Abbot. I have far more friends at court that yourself, and that's including your own Bishop. Now,'' she drawled, adding a final insulting touch as Benedict turned to leave, ''you have our permission to withdraw.'' 

Benedict hissed through his teeth and gathered the skirts of his brown robes in both hands, hurrying from the room with the shreds of his tattered dignity gathered around him. As he swept away from the scene of his humiliation, he renewed his vow to see to it that Cathelin suffered - and soon. He did not see Sorcha, hidden in the shadows, who watched him go with a small, satisfied smile. 

Cathelin grimaced. She'd disliked the pompous Benedict ever since the old abbot, Father Sulien, had died. Why Bishop Rudolphus appointed such a self-righteous jackass is beyond my ken, she thought, then scrubbed her face with one hand and sighed. 

A glance at the thick striped candle that quietly marked time in one corner showed her it was nearing the night meal hour. Cathelin stood and stretched; she'd be taking Madrigal some of Shevaughn's rich venison broth. And feeding every drop to her with my own hands is what I'll be doing, she thought with a smile. 

Cathelin left the room, in a far better mood than she had been when she entered. 

A month passed. 

To Sorcha's consternation, Cathelin kept herself so close to Madrigal that the chatelaine had no opportunity to carry out her Lord's deadly instructions. She could not even poison the slave's victuals; one of Cathelin's kerns tasted every dish. Sorcha had endured Lord Francis' fury at Madrigal's recovery - indeed, she still shuddered when recalling his inventive displeasure - but then, when she had told him of the pregnancy, he had smiled. 

Sorcha rubbed her hands up and down her arms and shivered. That smile... he had told her to leave Madrigal alone for now, but his hazel eyes had burned with an insane fire. It was clear that he had other plans for the slave. The chatelaine could almost have felt sorry for the girl, if she had not hated her so. 

Sorcha had also told Lord Francis of Abbot Benedict's hatred of Cathelin; the two men, united in this cause - with Sorcha acting as intermediary - were plotting the overthrow of the Lady of Inishowen. 

Sorcha passed down the hall quickly, skirts fluttering, and nearly ran into Wolf McLeod, who shot a narrowed blue glance at her retreating back. Both Wolf and Cathelin suspected Sorcha of playing a large role in Madrigal's accident; however, without proof, she could not be bound over for justice, and thus far, the Lady had forbidden a confession by torture. The warrior gripped the hilt of his sword tightly and renewed his vow to keep searching... and to keep a very close eye indeed on the pretty blonde chatelaine. 
 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Up in the master's chambers, Madrigal's forced convalescence - at Brother Ignatius' strict orders - had nearly driven her to tears of frustration more than once. 

For the past month I have lain here, the Muslim thought, picking at the fur coverlet. I feel well; my head no longer aches, I am no longer ill, my child grows well. But still the Lady treats me as if I were a sickly infant!

In truth, Cathelin was fully enjoying the role reversal. She waited on Madrigal hand and foot when she was there, and had appointed one of her own kerns to act as bodyguard and nurse - a curly-haired girl with a charming gap between her front teeth named Becca Llediath, or Half-Tongue, because she'd taken a sword stroke across her face in Outremer that had carved a piece from her tongue and left behind a hideous scar. 

The injury did not prevent Becca from speech; in fact, Becca talked incessantly, and from her Madrigal learned many of her new land's oldest tales, including the hair-raising story of Lludd and Llefelys - about fierce dragons; the heroic myth 'The Wooing of Etain;' and many others. 

Madrigal had passed her time by listening to Becca; singing and practicing on her little harp; and sewing and mending, the only two chores Cathelin and Brother Ignatius would allow. But now that she was feeling better, she wanted to do more than sit, or take small walks in the garden. She longed to go back down to the sewing room with Meagan and her women, to talk and gossip of small matters; to go to the soldier's barracks and see her old friends; to show Shevaughn how to prepare more of her country's spicy dishes; and most importantly, to take care of her Lady again. 

Madrigal sighed as Becca nattered on. The Lady had not slept in the same bed with her since the accident, having a rope cot brought in for her use. The slave found that she missed her Lady's presence in the night, the feel of strong arms wrapped around her, the warm breath against her neck... 

''Madrigal?'' Becca asked anxiously, ''Are you feelin' all right? I swear, you've not heard a word I've said in the past five minutes.'' 

Madrigal sighed again. ''Forgive me, my friend,'' she replied. ''I am well. It is just that...'' She spread her hands out helplessly. 

Becca grinned, showing the gap between her teeth. ''Aye, I know how you feel, truly. When I got this,'' she waved a hand at the thick scar that ran from her left temple, across cheek and lips, and ended at her chin, ''I was with the bone barbers for weeks. Nearly went mad, myself.'' 

Madrigal nodded. ''Yes. But the Lady...'' 

Becca grinned again, this time conspiratorially, and her brown eyes twinkled. ''Well, if you're of a mind, I suppose I could escort you downstairs myself. But you have to promise the minute you get tired to come back up. Lady Cathelin'll have my head on a pike if you strain yourself. Mind you, I only do this on count of she's not here.'' 

Madrigal threw the bedclothes back eagerly. ''Oh, yes,'' she said, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, ''Please. I would be so grateful.'' 

Becca helped her rise. Madrigal's pregnancy was far more advanced; thanks to good food (Shevaughn had outdone herself in providing delicacies for the Muslim's burgeoning appetite - much to Sorcha's disgust) and a great deal of loving care. Brother Ignatius thought the child would be born sometime after the next three moons, before the winter Solstice. Cathelin privately thought her Madri was waxing like a new moon, and was determined to see her delivered of the child safely. 

The kern helped Madrigal don a dress whose front panel had been let out to accomodate her growing belly; the weather had turned cooler, and the gown was of lightweight wool dyed dark gold. The Muslim had embroidered a pretty pattern of black and crimson running hares all over the bodice, and around the sleeves and hem. Madrigal smoothed her skirts while Becca twisted up her blue-black hair into three braids held together at the ends with a carved wooden slide; the braids hung below her knees. 

Cathelin had left Inishowen on an errand for a few days, leaving the seneschal, Michael Drury, in charge. The harvest was in, and soon it would be Samhain, the pagan festival still celebrated by many of the Irish, despite the Church's frowning on such activities. Madrigal was looking forward to the autumn celebration; there would be singing and story-telling contests, and she would play a special song for the occasion. 

Despite Madrigal's protests, Becca made her sit down on the edge of the bed while the kern pulled soft house slippers of tanned deerhide on the slave's feet. Then Becca rose and offered her arm jauntily. ''Where to first, mistress?'' she said with a grin. ''The sewing room? The kitchen? Or the garden?'' 

Madrigal took the offered arm and rose with a grunt. She had less of her usual grace; the small of her back often ached, and when she couldn't sleep, Cathelin massaged her with warmed oil. Although Madrigal enjoyed these attentions, they still made her uncomfortable. I should be serving my Lady, she thought, abashed, I am her slave, not the other way around. 

Cathelin's nightmares were becoming less and less frequent, although Madrigal still sang to her Lady in the night watches. But the Muslim missed her Lady's smiles when she performed some service that pleased or surprised her - and mostly, she missed feeling as if she were part of a community that revolved around the strong figure of Lady Cathelin. 

''The kitchen, I think,'' Madrigal replied aloud, and was rewarded with another cheeky smile from Becca. 

''Now, why did I think you were going to say that?'' Becca said, cocking her head to one side. ''The babe must be hungry again. I think he's all stomach, that one.'' 

The two women walked from the chambers, and Becca kept a careful grip on Madrigal's arm as they descended down the stone stairs. Cathelin had not let Madrigal walk down the stairs since the accident; she carried her, much to the other woman's embarrassment, and everyone else's amusement. 

The Chief of the Hearth, Shevaughn, beamed when Madrigal and Becca entered the steamy kitchen. ''Well, look what the cat dragged in!'' she said, laughing so hard her jowls shook. ''If it t'isn't wee Madrigal! Here, child, come an' sit a while,'' Shevaughn continued, hastily clearing off a bench near a small table. 

Madrigal started to sit down, but was prevented by Becca. The kern re-arranged the table and bench so that the dark-haired woman would sit with her back to a corner; then Becca took a chair and sat down at an angle to the slave, to keep her own self between Madrigal and the rest of the world. 

Shevaughn watched these proceedings with a frown. ''Are ye thinkin' that's so necessary, Becca?'' she asked. ''Surely none'd harm wee Madrigal in my own kitchens.'' 

Becca shrugged. ''I take no chances, Mistress,'' she replied, ''I've no wish to be chopped into dogsmeat by Lady Cathelin, nor Wolf McLeod besides.'' 

Shevaughn considered that a moment, then laughed again. ''Aye, ye've the right o' that,'' she said, black eyes twinkling. The Hearth Chief's salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short around her face, leaving only a small tail in the back that was kept tightly braided and wrapped in leather thongs. She turned back to the fireplace, basting a haunch that was being turned slowly on its spit by a pot boy. 

''How goes the gathering of winter's food?'' Madrigal asked. She was worried, but only because Cathelin still fussed over the state of Inishowen's supplies. 

''Well enow,'' Shevaughn answered, sprinkling a simmering iron pot with a dusting of herbs, ''T'will be a hard winter, no doubt o' that, but Master Drury brought back a plentitude o' foods and such, an' the harvest was not near as bad as first thought ta be.'' 

Madrigal sighed with relief. She knew, from what she had heard from her Lady and others, that Inishowen's folk were not only the castle servants and villagers. Small farmers and woodsmen lived in cottages sprinkled throughout Inishowen's vast tracts of land; Cathelin had worried that they might not survive the winter, and had been working diligently to make sure the castle's supplies could bear an influx of people if the season were particularly harsh. 

Shevaughn continued, shrugging her massive shoulders, ''T'is thankin' God I am, that the neighborin' lairds allowed the Lady to hunt on their lands. We've put up meat a-plenty, both dried, smoked an' preserved; t'will be enow.'' 

''What price did she have to pay for these favors?'' Madrigal asked curiously. 

The Hearth Chief opened her mouth to reply, then stopped and bellowed at a hapless undercook, ''Nay, ye mincin' foplocked mullet! Make the sallet, then stuff the partridges!'' The man began hastily slicing roots, and Shevaughn muttered, ''Saints preserve me from madmen and fools!'' She shook her head, then replied to Madrigal's question, ''No price as yet. The debt to be repaid in four years time, or so I've heard. We need time to replenish the herds an' such.'' 

Suddenly, Madrigal's stomach growled loudly, causing her to cover her lips with one hand in embarrassment. 

Shevaughn had heard the rumble, however; the ultimate mistress of her domain, she missed nothing. ''Oh, ho!'' she said loudly with a smile, ''I hear a hungry babe!'' 

As Madrigal blushed, the other kitchen servants laughed, even the disgraced undercook. 

Shevaughn quickly scooped a bowl of honey-sweetened porridge from the soot-encrusted pot that hung in the back of the fireplace, and slid it in front of Madrigal. In a moment, the Muslim also had a plate of sausage rolls, a chunk of sharp cheese, and a mazer of light ale. 

As Madrigal ate, Sorcha swept into the kitchen, the jangling chain of her office with its many keys fastened around the waist of her dark brown dress. ''Mistress Shevaughn!'' she said self- importantly, ''T'is time for the monthly inspection of the pantry.'' 

Sorcha noticed Madrigal and shot her a poisonous look from deadly green eyes. Becca immediately shifted her position on the chair and stared back at the blonde chatelaine, one hand lingering on the hilt of her belt knife. Her steady gaze said, That far. No further.

Sorcha patted her braids with one hand and decided to ignore both kern and slave alike. ''Well?'' she asked the Hearth Chief, ''I haven't all day, you know.'' 

Shevaughn, who topped Sorcha by a good head, and outweighed her by more than half again besides, sucked in a breath through her nostrils. ''Aye, Mistress Sorcha,'' she said sarcastically, ''If ye'll wait but a moment, I'll be with ye presently.'' 

Sorcha tossed her head, hands on her hips. ''Nay,'' she retorted, ''I've much to be doin' afore the day's end. T'is now, I'm thinkin' - or would you rather I fetched Master Drury  and told him you neglect your duties? A whippin' t'will bring you down a notch or two... common Cook as you be.'' 

Shevaughn stiffened. She reached out a massive arm - beneath the layers of fat there was a foundation of surprisingly solid muscle mass - and wrapped her strong hand around Sorcha's upper arm. The chatelaine winced as the Hearth Chief's fingers bit into her flesh. 

''Missy, ye'll no be talkin' ta me suchly in my own kitchen,'' Shevaughn hissed. ''Now, away wit' ye! If, and I say only if, I have the time tomorrow, I'll gladly open my pantry. But for now - GET YE GONE!'' she finished with a roar that made the copper pans on their hooks rattle against the walls. 

Sorcha tore herself from Shevaughn's grasp, green eyes alight with rage. ''T'is payin' fer that you'll be,'' she said, rubbing her bruised arm, ''someday when my Lord comes...'' Realizing she may have said too much, the chatelaine broke off with a gasp, whirled around and fled the kitchen, hot tears of anger on her cheeks. 

Becca watched Sorcha leave with a thoughtful expression. Now, she thought, where might the McLeold be at this time o' day? I'm thinking he'd be very interested in what I've heard.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When Cathelin arrived home several days later, riding easily on the back of a dun mare, Inishowen was in an uproar. 

After riding through the massive iron studded gates, Cathelin dismounted and grabbed one of the milling, shouting throng. ''What in God's name is going on?'' she asked. 

The man, a peasant farmer, recognized Cathelin immediately and hastened to tug his forelock in respect. ''T'is a hangin', Lady,'' he replied. ''A witch, I heard.'' 

Cathelin's amber eyes widened. A witch? ''Who?'' she asked, shaking his arm a little. ''Who's been accused?'' 

The farmer's attention had been caught by a group of gossipping elders; he snapped his eyes back to Cathelin when he felt her grip tighten. ''Why,'' he said, gulping, ''some woman, I heard. A-castin' evil spells on the folk, or some such like. Maybe even dancin' naked an' temptin' the good brothers of the Abbey...'' The man's eyes glazed at that thought. 

''Feh!'' Cathelin flung his arm away and led her horse through the mob in the castle's forecourt. Some enterprising businessmen had begun selling cheap clay mugs of cider and ale; others were hawking hot pastries and roasted potatoes. The scene reminded Cathelin of a festival, and her eyes grew hotter the more she took in the people's behavior. 

Finally, Cathelin managed to push her way through to the stables. Flinging the reins of her horse to an astonished stable hand, she quickly passed out the back gate, and in a long, ground-eating lope, ran to the postern gate and into the kitchen. 

The castle kitchen, at least, was an oasis of calm compared to the chaos outside. Spotting Shevaughn, Cathelin hurried over to the Chief of the Hearth, ignoring gasps and hasty bows from the other servants. ''Mistress Shevaughn!'' Cathelin yelled, getting the other woman's attention, ''What's going on? Who's being hung? And WHY, for the love of God!'' 

Shevaughn wiped her hands on the sacking apron she wore slung around her neck. ''Let's go someplace more quiet-like where we can talk,'' she said, and led Cathelin to a small room off the main kitchen area - the cool room, where stores were held in preparation of the day's cooking. 

Clearing her throat and feeling distinctly nervous as her mistress' hot gaze burned, Shevaughn said, ''T'was like this, Lady...,'' and explained about Sorcha's tongue-slip in the kitchens a few days ago. 

Cathelin nodded. ''Go on,'' she replied. Her face was grimy from road dust, and locks of dark crimson hair straggled down her back; the Irishwoman's dark brown tunic was stained, and her travel cloak muddy at the hem, but she presented a commanding figure nonetheless. 

Shevaughn went on to explain how Sorcha had been questioned by Wolf McLeod, eventually confessing - when the kern gave the chatelaine a tour of the castle dungeons - to the attempt on Madrigal's life. She would not, however dire the threat, say why. And she had refused to reveal any more about her 'Lord.' 

''...an' so,'' Shevaughn concluded, ''t'was the decision of Masters McLeod an' Drury to hang the woman for her crimes. Abbot Benedict, he protested somewhat strong, but t'was to no avail. As soon as the people heard... well, you know how the folk are about a hangin'. An' as all the world knows, gossip an' rumor flies longer an' faster than geese to a hard winter's haven.'' 

Cathelin nodded. Her people worked hard throughout the year just to survive. They'd take any excuse to stop their labors and have a festival, and a hanging - for whatever reason - was considered quite a treat. She did not condone such a party atmosphere, however. The application of justice was, and always should be, an occasion for solemnity and prayer. Cathelin made a mental note to have her kerns disperse the crowd in the outer courtyard. 

Just as she opened her mouth to ask another question, Cathelin heard a familiar voice coming from the kitchen, and she recognized it as Madrigal's. 

''Here,'' Cathelin heard her say, ''Why do you not rest awhile, James? I can finish the pastry.'' 

Shevaughn's black eyes widened and she flung out her hands at the look on Cathelin's face. ''Nay!'' she stammered, ''The lass is fine, I swear it! Only, wee Madrigal was tired o' sittin' all day, an' anyhow t'is no healthy for a bearing woman to be layin' about so, an'...'' Shevaughn's voice trailed off as Cathelin spun about on one heel and left the cold room. 

The Hearth Chief wiped her suddenly sweaty brow with the back of a hand. Well-a-day, she thought, I've rarely seen Herself in such a mood... Then her eyes widened again. "Sweet Jesus!" she said to herself as she grabbed her skirts in both hands and ponderously hurried from the room, "I'd best get there afore the Lady's spleen kills wee Madrigal!" 

However, as Shevaughn rounded the corner, she slowed her pace, for she could hear that she was already too late. 

''WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT OF BED?'' Cathelin roared. 

All was utter silence in the kitchen as the echoes of the enraged Lady's shout rolled back from the walls. 

Madrigal laid aside the rolling pin and dusted her floury hands on her skirts. ''I am well, Lady,'' she replied respectfully. ''There is no need to be concerned.'' Although outwardly she appeared calm, Madrigal's stomach fluttered with anxiety. 

Cathelin was not going to be so easily appeased. ''Did not Brother Ignatius himself tell you to stay a-bed? Did not I tell you to stay a-bed? St. Brigit, I'm gone only a few days, and my home is turned arse-over-crown, my chatelaine's about to be hung, and I find you in the kitchen laborin' like a common chop slut!'' 

Before Madrigal could reply, she found herself scooped up in Cathelin's arms, the Lady muttering, ''Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Madri! Stayin' off your feet you should be. No, not a word!'' Cathelin commanded. ''I'll not hear excuses. Back to bed you go!'' 

Madrigal put her arms around her Lady's neck as she was carried up the stairs. Part of her was still upset over having been caught disobeying orders, but another part marveled at the ease with which the extraordinarily muscular Lady was able to bear her weight up the stairs without even breathing hard. 

Cathelin kicked the door of the master's chambers open with her foot and stood there a moment, staring. Becca was seated cross-legged on the floor, sharpening a knife. When she saw the Lady, she immediately leaped up and bowed. ''G-g-good afternoon, Lady,'' the astonished kern stuttered. ''Was your trip well?'' she continued lamely, as Cathelin's scorching gaze swept her from heel to crown. 

Finally, Cathelin grunted, ''Well enough,'' and strode over to the bed, laying Madrigal down gently. ''Now, p'raps you'll explain whyfor I see you sittin' on your poxy, lazy arse instead of stayin' with Madri as you were ordered?,'' the Irishwoman asked Becca, who flushed. 

''Well,'' Becca said sheepishly, ''I thought with Sorcha taken and all, t'would be safe.'' 

Cathelin's lips tightened. ''Oh. You were thinkin' again,'' she replied scathingly. ''T'is a bad habit for a soldier. Might get you deaded someday.'' 

Becca flushed again, the scar across her face silvery-white in contrast. ''Aye, Lady,'' she said, bowing her head. ''I am in the wrong. I should not have disobeyed.'' She sank to one knee, preparing to formally offer her apologies, when Cathelin stopped her with an upraised hand. 

''I've no time for this now. Get you downstairs and fetch Master McLeod and the senschal. And you're to tell them both that there's to be no hanging until I've sorted this bloody great mess out myself.'' 

Gratefully, Becca rose and pelted out of the room. 

Cathelin sank down on the edge of the bed next to Madrigal. ''And as for you,'' she began, but was interrupted by a small moan. 

Madrigal had one hand pressed to her swollen belly, and her eyes were closed. Hastily, Cathelin leaned over and asked, ''Sweetling? Are you all right?'' 

A moment passed before the Muslim could answer. ''Yes,'' she finally answered. ''The child does well. Only...'' 

''Only?'' 

Madrigal chuckled at the anxious expression on her Lady's face. ''Only he is very vigorous, this one! I think he finds his room too small and wishes to enlarge his quarters by kicking down the walls.'' 

''Oh.'' Cathelin sat back, relieved. ''Well, then... will you promise me to stay in bed, Madri?'' she asked. ''You should not be running about.'' 

Madrigal sighed and interrupted. ''I must,'' she replied. ''The holy man is a marvelous healer, Lady, but he does not know much of woman's matters. I was a slave in the household of a physician; I have also been in the seraglio, where there were others who were both carrying and birthing children. My child is well, and grows strong; my ribs have healed, as has my head. Truly,'' she continued plaintively, ''if I stay here much longer, Lady, forgive me but I will go mad!'' 

Cathelin thought about that for a minute, then said resignedly, ''All right. BUT -,'' she continued sternly, despite the happy smile on Madrigal's sweet face, ''No heavy laboring. No going down those stairs alone. And if you feel tired, Madri, for God's sake, rest!'' 

Madrigal's dark purple eyes were shining. ''Yes, Lady,'' she replied, then much to Cathelin's consternation, swung her legs off the bed and rose. ''May I go back to the kitchens now?'' 

The Irishwoman sighed at the thought of all those steps, then reached out and dusted a smear of flour from the other woman's nose. ''Aye,'' Cathelin said reluctantly, ''but wait until Becca returns. I've must bespeak Wolf and Drury, and sort out all this hanging business.'' 

Becca returned shortly, accompanied by the tall seneschal and the smaller but bulkier warrior. Wolf nodded politely both at Cathelin and Madrigal, but Drury was twisting his loaf-shaped hat in both hands, obviously nervous. 

As Becca escorted Madrigal out of the room, Cathelin said, ''Well? Why is Sorcha to be hung? A man outside told me she was thought to be a witch, of all things. What, in Sweet Jesus' name, is going on?'' 

Drury looked expectantly at Wolf, then his shoulders sagged when he realized that he would have to be the one to explain. ''Lady Cathelin,'' the seneschal said, ''the kern Becca Half-Tongue overheard Sorcha make a remark about 'her Lord;' she seemed to imply that he would be revengin' her grievances - treason against you, Lady. So Master McLeod questioned her; she refused to tell us who this 'Lord' is, or what his plans are, but confessed to greasin' the step to kill Madrigal. So...'' He spread his hands helplessly. ''I ordered her hangin'.'' 

''I see.'' Cathelin crossed her legs and laced her fingers together over one knee. ''And you, Wolf? Have you nothing to say?'' 

The warrior's blue eyes stared into Cathelin's amber without flinching. ''Aye,'' he replied, ''I suspected th' wench from most th' start, as did yerself. This 'Lord' business chills my bones, but I would nae order torture, since ye'd fain made yer feelin's on that subject clear.'' 

Cathelin nodded. She could not condone torture; despite her initial rage at Madrigal's near-fatal accident, if she could have laid hands on Sorcha at that very moment, the worst she may have done would have been to kill her quickly. In Outremer, she'd lost her stomach for such bloody work. ''Where is she?'' Cathelin asked. 

''Locked in a storeroom, Lady,'' Drury said. 

Cathelin rose and removed the silver brooch that pinned her cloak to one shoulder, allowing the garment to slip to the floor. ''Take me to her,'' the Irishwoman ordered, amber eyes glittering. ''I must speak to her afore orderin' any hangings, today or any day.'' 

Both men bowed their heads in acknowledgement, then silently, led their Lady to the place where the chatelaine of Inishowen, Sorcha O'Reilly, awaited Cathelin's judgement... and her own fate. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Sorcha was defiant. ''So,'' she sneered, ''T'is the mistress herself come to pay a call. Well, Lady, had I known you'd be visitin' my humble dwellin's, I'd have laid out the Cloth of State.'' Her waved hand indicated the bare storeroom, holding only a rope cot, a chamberpot and a small, rickety table. 

Cathelin sighed and motioned for Wolf and Michael Drury to leave her alone with the blonde chatelaine. After the two men left, shutting the door behind them, Cathelin crossed her arms over her chest. ''Sorcha,'' she asked sorrowfully, ''why?'' 

''Why did I try an' kill your little slavey?'' Sorcha replied sarcastically, defiant although her hands twisted the folds of her skirt into a knot. ''P'raps only because she was there. T'is quite blood mad I am, as all the world knows.'' 

''Nay, Sorchi-fach,'' Cathelin said, using the other woman's childhood nickname, ''I want to know the truth. What did Madri do to you that makes you hate her so?'' 

Sorcha's green eyes were brilliant with hatred; she had refused to explain to Drury or McLeod, but now that Cathelin was here - Well, t'is best I get my vengeance where and how I can. 

''I despise that bit of heathen trash you keep for the warmin' of your bed, Cat,'' Sorcha said angrily. ''Aye, I beat her afore, did you not know that? Quite a few of the marks on her back were made by my own hand. An' then, what do you do save make her think she's as good as the rest of us... Fah!'' She spat, the gobbet of spittle just missing Cathelin's boot. ''Takin' up with some poxy foreign whore when...'' She stopped abruptly and turned away. 

Cathelin moved closer to the other woman. ''When what, Sorcha?'' she asked. 

For a long moment, Sorcha said nothing, just stared into space. Then, as if entranced, she replied softly, ''...when you could have had me.'' 

Cathelin was stunned. She and Sorcha were distant kin, and despite the fact that the blood between them was not close, she'd never considered that the blonde woman had any feelings for her other than familial ones. ''Sorchi-fach - I sorrow that you feel this way, but why did you not tell me? We could have...'' 

Sorcha's shoulders quivered as she struggled to control her bile. ''Nay,'' she interrupted. ''You are still blind. I never loved you. NEVER. You were the golden child, the favored one, always havin' anythin' you wanted. An' me? I was nothin' more than a servant, tho' one of the blood. Oh, I wanted you, t'is true. But only on count of you could give me more than I had. I wanted to be a grand lady, an' you could have given me that. But then, t'was givin' it all to your precious slavey you were. I wanted her dead, Cat. Both for the insult an' to hurt you as well.'' 

Cathelin's face was grim as a thought struck her. ''Sorcha, how did Francis learn of my father's illness?'' 

The blonde chatelaine whirled around. ''Why, for that I wrote an' told him myself,'' she replied with malicious glee. ''I'd hoped you dead in Outremer, an' Lord Westfield was quite grateful.'' She ran her tongue along her lips. ''He was a far better lover than you'd have been, an' gave me more besides.'' 

Cathelin felt sick. She'd wondered how Francis had found out about Sir Giles' sickness... now she knew. It had been Sorcha who had betrayed Inishowen to Francis' greed. ''Do you know what you have done?'' she asked. ''T'was bad enough to have tried to murder Madri, but this...? T'is no less than treason, and you know full well the penalty for that.'' 

Sorcha said nothing. She held her head high and stared at Cathelin with nothing but hatred, anger, frustrated ambition and insane envy glowing in her lambent green eyes. 

''Who is this Lord you spoke of in the kitchens, Sorchi-fach?'' Cathelin asked, wondering what else this women she had once trusted had done. ''What have you knitted up now? Another plot?'' 

''I'll say no more, Cat,'' Sorcha replied. ''That secret dies with me.'' 

''I could have you tortured, you know,'' Cathelin said. She walked to the other woman and gently took one of her hands. ''Tell me, kinswoman. Tell me what this means, and I promise to spare your life. Otherwise...'' 

Sorcha knew that Lord Francis would not be coming to her rescue. She had already resigned herself to her fate; death held no fear for her anymore. At first, she had wept and stormed and railed, but now, she was determined to protect her betrothed Lord to the grave. ''Torture me then, Cat,'' she said defiantly. ''Bring on the rack, the whips, the screws. I'll not betray my Lord, no matter what you do.'' 

Cathelin flushed. Although Inishowen's dungeons were filled with the equipment necessary for torture, they had not been used in decades. In truth, she was filled more with sorrow and pity than anger. Sorcha had always been discontented with her lot; Cathelin felt guilty that she had not noticed how the discontent and envy had turned to bitterness. ''No,'' she whispered, ''I cannot. I will not. Sorchi- fach, if you'll not tell me, I cannot force you.'' 

Sorcha sneered, ''No stomach for it then? I never took you for a coward, Cat, but I'm supposin' things can change.'' 

Cathelin tasted bitter bile in the back of her throat. ''So, you'd rather die than betray yet again? I find that passing strange, but no matter. God will judge you, Sorcha, not I.'' 

Cathelin turned to go, then stopped with her hand on the latch. Without turning around, she said, ''I'll have Father Paul come to take your confession. Make a full one, Sorchi-fach, and be shriven for your sins. You've left me small choice. Come the dawn, I must order your hanging.'' 

Sorcha hid her trembling fists in the folds of her skirts as Cathelin left and the door banged inexorably shut behind her. 

Madrigal hurried down the hall as quickly as she could despite her somewhat waddling gait. She'd heard that her Lady had confirmed Drury's orders for Sorcha's hanging. Allah!, the slave thought, barely acknowledging the nods from other servants she passed. She has ordered the death of kin! 

Cathelin had shut herself up in her father's office and refused to see anyone for any reason. She was in a savage temper; Michael Drury had already felt the stinging lash of her tongue and had fled in terror. Madrigal knew her Lady needed her, felt this knowledge in her bones, and hastened to answer the call. 

Reaching the door, Madrigal took a moment to smooth her hair and brush off her skirts. Then she diffidently knocked, calling softly, ''Lady? May I enter?'' 

There was silence, then Cathelin's voice croaked, ''Nay, Madri. Go on, then. I'll be calling if I need anything.'' 

Madrigal laid her face against the door. ''Please, Lady... let me in,'' she pleaded. 

Abruptly, the door opened and Madrigal nearly lost her balance, but Cathelin's strong arm caught her and put her back upright. The Muslim gasped at the sight of Cathelin's red rimmed eyes, elf-locked hair, and pale face. It was obvious that her Lady was in distress, and Madrigal ached to comfort her. 

''Lady,'' Madrigal began, but was interrupted. ''Go on, Madri,'' Cathelin said not ungently, ''Go help Shevaughn or Meagan. Or practice your song. Go on now, sweetling. I need to be alone.'' 

She started to shut the door, but Madrigal prevented it by shoving her full belly in the gap. As Cathelin's brows drew together in a frown, Madrigal laid a hand on her arm. ''Please, Lady,'' the dark-haired woman said, ''Let me in.'' 

Cathelin sucked in a breath, then released it in a sigh. She opened the door wider and motioned for Madrigal to come into the room. 

As the door closed behind her, Madrigal turned to face her Lady. ''I have heard that you have ordered Mistress Sorcha to be hanged.'' 

Cathelin sat down on a cushioned bench and leaned forward, hands dangling between her knees. ''Aye,'' she replied heavily. ''And aye, again. God knows I do not wish it... She hurt you, Madri, and I could not have forgiven her for that, but... Treason is treason, even if she is of the blood; she betrayed my father as well, and tried to steal a birthright that is not lawfully hers. I could have her quartered for it, or broken on the rack - I'd be within my rights as lord of this demense - but hanging... t'is swift enough, I think.'' 

Madrigal sat down beside Cathelin on the bench. ''This decision must have been very difficult for you, Lady.'' 

''Difficult? Ah, well, it could be put that way, I suppose.'' Cathelin's mouth worked a moment, then tears shimmered in her amber eyes. ''I'm at least in part to blame for this, Madri. I've known Sorcha since we were children. She's always envied me my place. Father thought by making her chatelaine, t'would be reward and rank enough.'' 

Madrigal scooted closer to Cathelin and laid her head on the other woman's shoulder. ''Envy is never satisfied, Lady,'' she answered, entwining her fingers with Cathelin's. ''Had you provided Mistress Sorcha with the moon and all the stars, she would have asked why you did not give her the mountains and seas as well.'' 

Cathelin chuckled in spite of her tears. ''You've the right of that, but still. T'is a hard thing, Madri, knowing that someone will die, and that by your own word and command. Oh, Sorchi-fach,'' she said softly, ''had I only known.'' 

Cathelin began to cry in earnest, guilt and sorrow etching her soul like acid. She felt Madrigal's arms encircle her, pulling her head down to the a soft breast, and felt the other woman's warm, firm belly pressing against her. Cathelin wept, tears of pity and rue, and Madrigal held her as if she were a child, rocking her gently and stroking her back. 

Eventually, through the boundless agony in her soul, Cathelin was startled to hear a familiar song. Her hands tightened their grip in Madrigal's skirts as the slave sang a soft Arabic cradlesong. 

Cathelin's head snapped up. Her face was shiny with tears, but her eyes glowed. ''Madri?,'' she asked, ''T'was you?'' T'was you who chased away my nightmares, she added silently, not daring to ask aloud. Your voice and your song that have helped me forget Acre. In my dreams, I saw Irizin, but it was always you.

Madrigal smiled shyly, then wiped her Lady's face with her hand. ''Yes,'' she replied simply. ''The Horse of Evening Ill often plagues you. I have tried to help.'' 

''Oh, Madri,'' Cathelin whispered, ''I never knew.'' She buried her face against Madrigal's neck, breathing the spicy scent of her blue-black hair. ''Thank you, sweetling,'' she murmured, ''without you...'' 

Madrigal placed on hand on the back of Cathelin's head and stroked her hair. ''It was my duty, Lady, and my pleasure.'' 

Cathelin sat up a bit, her face very close to Madrigal's. ''You mean so much to me, Madri,'' she said softly, searching the other woman's dark purple eyes with her own. ''I...'' She broke off, unable to continue, and began to cry again as sorrow welled up within her; first Sorcha, now Madrigal and Irizin... It was too much. 

Madrigal held her Lady, pulling her face down again, crooning softly as Cathelin desperately whispered through her tears of another land, another time... and a woman named Irizin. 
 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"I was young, so young and full of myself, a soldier of God in King Richard's army,'' Cathelin said softly, voice raw from weeping. ''There was a village near where we camped. I would go there sometimes in the dawning to watch the women draw water from the well. 

''They were so graceful, Madri, in their robes and veils, balancing clay jars on their shoulders, scooping clean water from the well in the lavender-gray light of early morning. They were more beautiful than anything I've ever known - and one was more beautiful than the rest. 

''Her name was Irizin, and the headman of the village was her master. Irizin was one of his concubines, but the first time I saw her, my heart was no more my own and I knew I could not rest until she became mine alone.'' 

Cathelin stopped as she remembered that morning, the first morning when she had realized that the flashing black eyes above the light veil that shielded Irizin's features were staring back at her... 

The Irishwoman sighed, and continued, ''Oh, I'd been in love before, Madri. Or at least I'd thought so. But Irizin was different. Soon, she began bidding me good morning. How daring her actions were, I did not understand at the time. I truly did not know, but ignorance is no excuse - I am as much to blame for her fate as any other. 

''Soon enough, we were doing more than bidding on another 'Good morrow.' Irizin would slip out of the seraglio at night and visit my tent; our sentries knew, of course, but that sort of thing was winked at. She was so beautiful, Madri. All fire and grace and beauty; I was out of my mind with love, and I begged her to stay with me. I had some wild notion, you see, that I could bring her back to Ireland... I was a fool,'' Cathelin said bitterly. 

Madrigal said nothing; she had already guessed the ending of the tale, and her heart ached for both the Lady and her lover. She held Cathelin, silently offering support, as the Irishwoman continued. 

''Well, I suppose the headman must have been suspicious. Irizin - she told me about the harem. All of it, Madri, and all of what I heard made me burn. I wanted to take her away from the pain, the slavery, the humiliation. Did you know she was circumcised?'' 

Madrigal closed her eyes. It was common in the East for a concubine to have her clitoris cut away; this was felt to guarantee faithfulness to her Lord and master. The circumcision of females was, thank Allah, something Madrigal had never had to endure herself, although she had known those who had been mutilated in that fashion. 

But Cathelin was continuing, ''The first time I saw her...'' She gulped. ''I was shocked. I could not believe - and then I was so very angry, Madri; I wanted to take up the sword and paint the village red with the headman's blood. But Irizin was not bitter; she told me it was Allah's will, and although I did not truly believe she could be so complacent about it, I laid my anger aside. 

''Then... well, I was a puffed-up peacock, Madri, so sure of myself - until I came out of my tent one morning and found Irizin there...'' 

Madrigal listened as Cathelin told her what she had seen. Irizin had been beaten savagely; the concubine was covered in blood, and there were signs of torture on her body. Her face had been left untouched as a final blow. Cathelin saw a bloody, mangled wreck of a human being, and it bore Irizin's face. 

Irizin had been alive, although just barely. She had died in Cathelin's arms, unable to respond to the other woman's desperate pleas. 

''I went mad,'' Cathelin said dully. ''I was prevented from killing the headman only by the direct command of the King. So, a few days later when Acre fell, I took up my sword with a vengeance.'' 

Madrigal caressed Cathelin's back as a flood of jangled, horrible details about the battle poured from her. Cathelin's voice was a hoarse croak by the time she'd finished. 

''I did not want to live, truly,'' Cathelin whispered. ''I took my leave of the King; he dismissed me from service - and I went to the headman's house. I took him out in the desert, Madri - and I made sure he was three days dying. For four years after that, I wandered through Outremer. Half mad I was, or more than half, drunk on blood and the sound of his screams, and Irizin's face, until I met a monk named Father Timothy. 

''T'was Father Timothy who helped me. He'd been a Crusader his own self, afore God called him to higher service. He listened, he understood, and he helped me understand that I was not a monster. And he gave me penance, which I sorely needed. I'd a goodly deal of gold and such from the siege; Father Timothy helped me send the bulk of it to the headman's family, to atone in part for their father's murder. The rest I've used for my own people's welfare; Father Timothy would take none himself.'' 

Madrigal nodded. Such holy men in her own land wandered from village to village, helping the less fortunate and doing Allah's will. She knew many stories about such saints; she had no doubt that her suffering Lady had been visited by one of the Christian angels, or perhaps by one of Allah's own angelic servants. 

Cathelin sighed. ''Ever since, I've been plagued with nightmares about that time, Madri. I thought it was a punishment from God for my sins. But...,'' She raised her head and looked deeply into Madrigal's eyes, ''now I understand more clearly. God sent you to me, sweetling. I'm as sure of this as I'm sure of my own name. And I will spend the rest of my life taking care of you. I swear it.'' 

Madrigal's heart nearly stopped and her dark purple eyes widened. ''No, Lady,'' she said desperately, ''You must not say such things...'' 

Cathelin smiled. ''Sweetling,'' she said, stroking Madrigal's cheek, ''I cannot forget Irizin - I never will. But I believe God has taken pity on me at last, for did He not send you to me?'' 

Madrigal shook her head. This was wrong. She was a slave, a servant, and Cathelin a great noblewoman. ''Lady, I...'' 

Cathelin leaned forward, the bulging curve of Madrigal's belly pressing into her own flat stomach. ''Ah, sweetling,'' she said, amber eyes soft, ''don't fret so. I... I love you, Madri. I need you, like song and wine and air. I love you,'' she whispered, eyes wide and wondering, and her lips captured Madrigal's in a gentle kiss.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Madrigal was stunned. She could not move, could not breathe, as her Lady kissed her; not with passion, but with infinite tenderness and care. 

Involuntarily, Madrigal's hands slid to Cathelin's broad shoulders... then she turned her head away with a gasp. ''Please, Lady,'' she said shakily, ''I am too far below you...'' 

Cathelin chuckled. ''Nay, sweetling. At the moment, you're in exactly the right place for me to kiss you again.'' 

Madrigal put one hand across Cathelin's lips. ''Lady,'' she said seriously, ''I am a slave. It is not proper to love such as I; I am too humble, my station does not equal yours. It would be an embarassment to you, a humiliation, and I do not wish you to be harmed on my account.'' 

Cathelin slid off the bench and knelt before Madrigal. She felt as if a gigantic burden had been lifted from her shoulders; despite the lingering sorrow over Sorcha, despite her regret and guilt over Irizin... she knew this was right. Madrigal had helped to heal her as much as Father Timothy, but what she felt was not only gratitude. Cathelin realized that she had begun to love - truly love - Madrigal for some time; she had just not admitted it to herself until a few moments ago. 

''Sweetling,'' Cathelin said, ''if I wished to take a sheep into my bed, my own folk would keep their wagging tongues to themselves. I've a fierce reputation, you know, and I give not a broken reed for the opinions of strangers.'' 

Then a thought struck her. ''Madri,'' she asked anxiously, ''I don't wish you to feel you have to do this. True, I love you, but if you feel you cannot... you are NOT a slave. You're free to do as you please. I'll not force you into something...'' 

Madrigal interrupted. ''And since I am free, as you say - what if I wished to tell you no?'' 

Cathelin bit her lip. ''As I said, I'll not force you. Oh, I'll woo you a-plenty, sweetling, if you've a mind to accept such. But if you absolutely want me to let you be, I will.'' 

Cathelin held her breath as she waited for Madrigal's reply. 

Madrigal was carefully examining her own feelings. She greatly respected and admired her Lady, that was true. But love... with a growing sense of disbelief, Madrigal realized that she had come to love her Lady with more than a servant's devotion. 

I am happy when she is happy, Madrigal thought. If I were able, I would take all her burdens on myself, to spare her the load. When she holds me in her arms, I have never felt safer or more cherished in my life. When she touches me, I feel the stirrings of feelings I did not know I possessed. When she is gone, it is as if a part of myself is gone as well.

If this is love, she thought, disbelief turning into wonder, then I, too, am caught in its weaving. 

Madrigal made a decision; it was not an easy one. All her life, she had obeyed the commands of others, but this woman, her own Lady, waited patiently, not pressing or demanding, for her to make up her own mind. At the urging of her heart, Madrigal surrendered. 

''Lady,'' she said at last, reaching out one hand to touch Cathelin's face, ''I... I love you as well. I am still a little unquiet in my heart of hearts, but perhaps with time, that will pass.'' Seeing Cathelin's eyes fill with tears of anguish, Madrigal hastened to explain, ''I was raised a slave, Lady. It is all the life I have ever known. It is difficult for me to overlook the difference in our stations, but I do love you. And I need you as well. Come - let me show you.'' 

Madrigal took Cathelin's hands in her own and gently tugged the other woman back to the bench. This time, it was Madrigal who leaned forward and kissed Cathelin, delicately running her tongue along the other woman's lower lip, wanting to invoke the passion she knew lay just beneath the surface of Cathelin's tenderness. 

Cathelin pressed herself against Madrigal as tightly as she dared, her mind reeling; the scent of the Muslim's hair, the softness of the body that touched her own, nearly overwhelmed her. But she was careful; she controlled herself, not wanting to hurt Madrigal or the child she carried. 

Madrigal's eyes were closed, but she felt her Lady's mouth open against her own, strong hands touching her back with infinite care. Madrigal explored Cathelin's mouth, tongue fluttering and sliding, her own hands pressed against her Lady's face. 

Finally, when both women were out of breath, they parted, although Madrigal kept her hands on Cathelin's cheeks. 

Cathelin blew out a breath and smiled radiantly. ''Well... if that's how you feel when you're unquiet, sweetling, I'd better start eating liver and such, to store up 'gainst the time when your confidence grows.'' 

Madrigal returned her Lady's smile, pleased she had been able to give her happiness again. ''I am content,'' she answered simply, then rose with a slight grunt. ''Please, Lady,'' she said, holding out a hand, ''come lie with me.'' 

Cathelin leaped to her feet. ''Are you sure, sweetling?,'' she asked nervously, ''What with the babe and all - well, I'm of a mind to rather wait until the child is born for that, if it's all the same to you. Not that I find you undesirable as you are,'' she explained hastily, ''but I don't want to hurt you, or him besides.'' 

Madrigal laughed. ''I understand. Then will you sleep with me again? I miss you in the bed, Lady.'' When Cathelin started to demur, Madrigal replied, ''You will not hurt me. Please, Lady. Will you do this thing? It will give me great comfort.'' 

Against that argument, Cathelin had no defense. She bent over and kissed Madrigal's swollen belly. ''As you wish, sweetling. But - t'is back to the cot I'll be going if you wish it. And don't be shy about telling me, Madri. God knows I've never borne a babe myself, but I've heard stories.'' 

Madrigal smiled and laced her arm through Cathelin's. ''Do not fear, Lady,'' she answered. ''As I said... I am content.'' 

Cathelin escorted her love from the room, the Irishwoman's heart feeling much lighter than it had been; Madrigal feeling as if she had begun to stretch her wings, and for the first time in her remembered life, cherished the heady sensation of true freedom. 
 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When Madrigal woke the next morning, Cathelin was gone. Quickly, the Muslim donned a dress and with considerable effort, managed to pull on a pair of soft house shoes. 

Twisting up her blue-black hair as she hurried down the hall, Madrigal met Becca, who was coming heavily up the stairs. ''What is it?'' Madrigal asked, spotting the worried look on the kern's face. 

Becca replied, ''Lady Cathelin sent me to tell you to stay within. She doesn't want you seeing this. Sorcha's about to be hung and the Lady's up on the battlements with McLeod and Drury and Father Paul.'' 

Madrigal hesitated; on the one hand, she felt that she must obey this order - and on the other hand, she desperately wanted to be at her Lady's side during this ordeal. Madrigal thought furiously, and made her decision. If she was truly free, as her Lady had said, then she should act on her heart, not on the blind obedience that had been ingrained within her. 

''Please. Take me to her,'' Madrigal asked. 

Becca shook her head. ''Nay, lass,'' she answered, ''I'll do no such thing. I'd end up swinging right alongside Sorcha, and no mistake.'' 

Madrigal laid her hand on the other woman's arm. ''Please?'' she asked. ''The Lady needs me - and I wish to be with her.'' 

Becca sighed and rolled her brown eyes. ''Oh, all right,'' she conceded, ''I'll take you up. But I'm expectin' you'll shed a few tears when Lady Cathelin tears out my guts for harpstrings, truly.'' 

Madrigal gave the kern a reassuring smile. ''I am sure she will not mind.'' 

Becca took Madrigal by the arm and led her to a narrow, inner staircase that accessed the roof of the castle, muttering, ''Aye, she says t'will be all right, but she's never seen the Cat in a temper. St. Brigit protect me!'' 

By the time they had wound their way around the stone spiral staircase, Madrigal was out of breath and her back was aching. They paused at the door a moment, Becca asking anxiously, ''Are you all right? Shall I fetch one of the men to carry you?'' 

Madrigal struggled to control her breathing and finally, the tight pain in her ribs eased. ''No, I am well,'' she said, ''Let us go on.'' 

The day was overcast, although the sun peeked bravely through the dark, sullen clouds that littered the sky. A chill wind whipped across the battlements, snapping and fluttering the pennants that reared on poles above the towers. 

Madrigal shivered a little. She should have thought to bring a shawl, but had been in too much of a hurry. 

Cathelin was standing with Wolf McLeod and Michael Drury. The old priest, Father Paul, was administering the Last Rites to doomed Sorcha. The chatelaine stood bravely, the rope already about her neck, blonde braids hanging on either side of her pale face. Her hands had not been bound; this had been at her own request. 

Becca escorted Madrigal to Cathelin, mentally praying to St. Brigit, the Virgin Mary and any other saint who might be listening to spare her the Lady's wrath. 

Madrigal reached out and touched Cathelin's arm; the Irishwoman jumped a little, then turned her head. Her amber eyes widened when she spotted Madrigal. 

''What are you doing here, sweetling?'' Cathelin said in a low tone, not wanting to interrupt the priest's droning Latin prayers. ''I thought I told Becca...'' 

The curly-mopped kern backed away slowly, hoping to get out of her Lady's sight before she was spotted.

Madrigal caught Cathelin's attention before her Lady could spy the sheepish soldier. ''I wanted to be with you,'' she said. ''I did not want you to face this alone.'' 

Cathelin sighed, shaking her head, then opened her cloak and drew the smaller woman against her side, covering Madrigal with the thick wool. ''Madri, I would wish you not to do this. Hanging's not a pretty death. But if you insist, I'll allow it. Just please - if you feel faint, tell me.'' 

Madrigal nodded, insinuating herself beneath Cathelin's arm, her sweet face poking out of the front of the cloak. She put her arm around the taller woman's waist and looked up at her. 

Cathelin's dark red hair was held back from her face by a leather band, then allowed to fall unhindered down her back nearly to her knees. She wore her full regalia as an Irish chieftain - a pair of silver earrings set with amber, a heavily carved torc around her neck. Around her eyes, blue woad had been dappled in a cat pattern that to Madrigal, made her Lady seem to be a figure of legend come to life. 

Beneath the cloak, Cathelin wore a black tunic covered in crimson and gold knotwork, black trews, and crimson boots. Besides the torc, she also wore a crucifix on a long silver chain, and a scarlet baldric stretched from shoulder to hip, bearing the phoenix insignia of her family, the black sun on its field of gold that was her personal standard, and a red cross on a white background, signifying her status as a former Crusader. 

Father Paul finished, making the sign of the cross above Sorcha's forehead. The blonde chatelaine's eyes looked out over the crowd that had gathered in the outer courtyard, seeking one face in particular. 

This crowd was a more seemly lot than they had been before; there was none of the festival air that had offended Cathelin before. Instead, the people were somber and grave, for the Lady had caused it to be known that if any of the spectators became unruly, they would be summarily ejected, if not punished themselves. The presence of her fully armed kerns around the fringes of the assembly made it clear that she was not to be denied in this command. 

Sorcha's green eyes locked on a ragtag figure who stood shoulder to shoulder with a group of peasant farmers. Even from this distance, she could pick out the figure of Lord Francis, and took an odd sort of comfort in knowing that her betrothed would watch her die. 

The rope around her neck was of twisted hemp and scratched her delicate skin. Sorcha clenched her fists into her skirts and forced her trembling knees to be steady. She would be damned if she would show fear now. 

Cathelin drew off her cloak and tucked it around Madrigal. Then she strode forward into the sunlight to stand in front of Sorcha. ''T'is not too late, kinswoman,'' Cathelin said gravely. ''Confess to me the name and deeds of the one you call the 'Lord' and you can be saved yet. Come, Sorchi-fach, I've no wish for you to die. Mayhap exile, but surely you've other kin who'll take you in.'' 

Sorcha's mouth worked a moment, then she spat full into Cathelin's face. ''A pox on you and your mercy!,'' she cried. ''Know that I die this day filled with nothing but hate for you and your leman! My curse on you and all you have or own. May you rot in Hell, Cathelin O'Cameron, and I pray to the Dark Ones that you'll never have a moment's peace or happiness till my Lord and my death are revenged!'' Her voice rose into a high-pitched shriek that cut across the wind like a bean-sidhe's wail. 

Cathelin wiped the spittle from her face with a shaking hand. Taking a deep breath, she said, ''So be it,'' and stepped up between two of the massive stone blocks that lined the top of the roof like blunted teeth.

''Inishowen!'' Cathelin shouted, and every eye in the outer courtyard turned towards the figure of their Lady. She continued in a clear voice that had been trained to carry across a battlefield, ''I call ye forth to witness! Sorcha O'Reilly, chatelaine and kinswoman of the O'Camerons, has been adjudged guilty of treason. Her crimes were that she betrayed Inishowen to the usurper, Lord Francis Westfield; and further, that she attempted the life of one of our own. For that, I have ordered her life be forfeit; this day, she shall hang, and may God Almighty have mercy upon her soul.'' 

All below crossed their breasts piously as Sorcha was helped up to the Hangman's Leap - a single rectangular block of stone that jutted out from the battlements like a stunted finger. The other end of the rope had been fastened an iron staple set directly into the stone; when she jumped, or was pushed, she would fall directly above the outer courtyard - the height was more than sufficient to guarantee an instantly broken neck. 

Cathelin nodded, and pipers began to blow a plaintive melody; it was a lorica, or prayer of protection, and as they played, everyone began to chant softly in time to the music. 

''God with me lying down, God with me sleeping. 
Evil be far from my sleeping and dreaming. 
The cross of Brigit be under my feet, 
the mantle of Mary about my shoulders, 
the protection of Michael over me, taking my hand, 
and in my heart, the peace of the Son of Grace. 
If malice should threaten my life 
then the Strong Son of God between me and evil. 
From tonight till a year from tonight, 
and this very night, and for ever, and for eternity. 
Amen.'' 

There was absolute silence as the wailing of the pipes took a more martial air and a drummer began the beat. Sorcha stood still on the Leap, skirts whipped by the chill wind, and kept her own eyes on Lord Francis'. 

Finally, Cathelin nodded again, the muscles in her jaw rippling beneath the skin. Wolf McLeod approached the Leap and prepared to vault up to the finger of stone, but he was stopped by Sorcha. 

''Nay, whore's dog,'' she said to the warrior proudly, ''ye'll not be sendin' me down. My Lord, I kept your faith. Avenge me!'' she continued loudly enough to be heard, and closing her eyes, stepped off the Leap and into space. 

The snapping of Sorcha's neck was shockingly audible. 

Cathelin stood stock still, her lips drawn into a tight line. She waited while Sorcha's body was hauled up, and her kerns began to disperse the folk in the outer courtyard. One of the young priests from the abbey, Father Reuben, had come to bear witness for Abbott Benedict; he threw a length of clean white linen over Sorcha's twisted features after she was laid down on the roof stones. 

Cathelin walked over to the corpse of the one she had called her kinswoman, then knelt down and softly kissed Sorcha's forehead. ''God will judge you, Sorchi-fach,'' she whispered, ''for I cannot.'' 

Then she stood and went back to her place on the wall. ''Inishowen!'' she cried, ''I have called ye forth to the place of execution to witness justice! Look upon this work, and remember this day - the law shall not be broken!'' 

There was a roar of approval from the folk who were being herded out of the gates, and from Cathelin's kerns, and the castle folk who had stopped their duties to watch the rare execution. 

As everyone went about their duties, gossiping and chatting, Cathelin walked back to Madrigal. Her face was stony, her amber eyes dull, and her breath came in harsh gasps. 

Madrigal immediately hurried over, and reached the Irishwoman just as she thudded to her knees, face buried in her hands, keening in a high-pitched wail. 

Wolf McLeod, Michael Drury and the others quietly carried Sorcha's body away on a litter to prepare her for burial. Cathelin reached up blindly and buried her face in Madrigal's skirts, sobbing uncontrollably. 

Madrigal put both hands on her Lady's head and spread her legs apart for balance as the Irishwoman wept... 

At last, the storm of weeping eased. Cathelin raised her face; streaks of woad ran down like a jester's face paint. ''Oh, Madri,'' she whimpered, ''what have I done?'' 

Madrigal had closed her eyes when Sorcha had leaped; she had not watched the body being drawn up. She understood the burden her Lady was under - as the mistress of Inishowen's domain, justice and the keeping of the law were in her hands. Truthfully, Madrigal was somewhat relieved at Sorcha's death; that woman had been the cause of a great many of her hurts, and the former slave felt she had gotten only what she deserved. 

''Lady,'' Madrigal asked, ''did not Mistress Sorcha break your laws?'' 

Cathelin nodded dumbly. 

''And did she not betray your father, and yourself?,'' Madrigal continued. 

Again, Cathelin could only nod. 

''Then what you have done this day is justice, not revenge. Be at ease in your heart, Lady. In my country, criminals receive far worse, as you know. At least, her death was merciful, if deserved.'' 

Cathelin was shocked. ''B-b-but sweetling!'' she protested, ''Sorcha was kin! You do not understand what you are saying...'' 

Madrigal interrupted. ''If all were permitted to receive no punishment for their crimes, then the world would burn in the fires of chaos. There must be laws; there must be punishments; there must be justice. That is all. Kin or not, if she broke your laws, and you have said that she did, then let Allah be merciful if He wishes, for you cannot. Are you not required to follow the law as well? Did you not offer her chance after chance? Surely, none could have done more.'' 

Slowly, the throbbing ache in Cathelin's chest eased. She still grieved over having ordered Sorcha's death - never in her life would she forget that awful moment when her kinswoman stepped into God's arms - but at least, that death was justified. She had tried to be merciful, but had she allowed Sorcha's crimes to stand... Well, that I could not do, Cathelin thought. I will pray for the deliverance of her soul, and hope her death is not counted as sin against me when I go to my own judgment. That is all any one of us can do. 

Cathelin stood, then looked ruefully at the dark blue woad stains on Madrigal's dress and her own cloak. ''I've ruined your pretty dress, sweetling,'' she said. Then she continued with a sigh, ''You're right. I do only what I must. Even as lord of Inishowen, my obedience of the law is no less required than that of a peasant.'' 

Madrigal nodded. In the physician's household, she had come to know many of his patients, and some were judges in the caliph's own courts. She had heard this argument before, about the justification of dealing death to criminals; she was glad that she had remembered enough to give her Lady some freedom from guilt and pain. 

Cathelin said gravely, ''For what she did to you, sweetling, I could have slit her throat myself, truly. But... revenge is not lawful - justice is. The folk must have justice.'' 

She held Madrigal's hand tightly as she walked across the lonely battlements, and the only sound they heard was the cry of a hunting hawk high above the castle, and the snapping of pennants in the wind. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was Samhain, the Feast of All Saints, and Madrigal proudly smoothed the front of her new gown. Made of heavy wool dyed with purplish blackberry stain, the Muslim had sewn tiny bone buttons in the shape of flying birds all over the bodice, and the full skirts were decorated with braided loops of bright ribbonwork. 

Cathelin walked into the chamber, carrying a mysterious sack over one shoulder. ''Well, sweetling?'' she asked with a grin. ''Are you ready for the festival?'' 

The Irishwoman wore the teal blue, silver-knotworked tunic Madrigal had repaired, and a pair of light tan leather trews. Her cloak was pinned at one shoulder with a round brooch set with a cabochon beryl. 

Madrigal returned her Lady's smile and settled the silver chain of her precious necklace over her head. The agate with its intaglio design of a phoenix glowed against the purple-black of her dress. ''Yes,'' she answered, ''I am ready.'' 

''Hmmmm.'' Cathelin cocked her head to one side and studied the other woman. ''Sweetling, I'm thinkin' you're a mite underdressed.'' 

''Underdressed?'' Madrigal looked down at herself in confusion. ''I do not understand.'' 

For answer, Cathelin reached into the sack and withdrew... a harp. Madrigal caught her breath. The lap harp was made of dark wood heavily carved with leaping dolphins set with ivory. It was the most beautiful instrument Madrigal had even seen. 

''T'is for you, Madri. Had it off a Sassenach trader a little while back. He played her for me - she's got a sweet sound, and t'is only God's truth that she'll match your voice marvelous well.'' 

Madrigal reached out nd took the harp, then ran one finger across the strings. The tone was high and pure, like a young boy's voice. The Muslim sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and propped the harp against her bulging belly. Her skilled fingers quickly plucked a rippling melody and she smiled. Not only did the instrument have the sweetest sound she had ever heard, but it was perfectly tuned. 

Madrigal rose. ''Thank you, Lady,'' she said, walking over to Cat to bestow a kiss on the other woman's chin. ''It is beautiful, and a fine gift. I will play it tonight in your honor.'' 

Cathelin leaned down and kissed Madrigal's lips before the other woman could move away. ''Will you not call me Cat, Madri? T'is what my friends call me, and my kin mostly, and you're both and much more, besides.'' 

Madrigal smiled shyly. ''I will try - Lady Cat,'' she replied, compromising a bit, and was rewarded for her effort with another kiss. 

''We'd best get going, sweetling, if you're not to miss the contest. Don't forget your cloak - t'is as cold as a witch's tit outside, even with the fires.'' 

Madrigal chuckled and pulled her cloak off the hook. Cathelin fastened it around her shoulders, taking time for another kiss or two. 

Cathelin insisted on carrying Madrigal down the stairs, which did not embarrass the Muslim anymore. In truth, not only did she enjoy the sensation of Cathelin's strong arms bearing her lightly, but she also tired more easily these days. 

There is only one small thing that makes my happiness incomplete, Madrigal thought as Cathelin put her down at the bottom of the stairs and escorted her to the outer courtyard. And that is that my Lady still fears to touch me with passion rather than tenderness. 

Although Cathelin had begun to sleep with Madrigal again, she had attempted no further intimacy other than a few kisses. The Muslim woman was growing annoyed at this reticence - Cathelin had assured her that she found her beautiful and desirable, but... I know she had not visited the barracks, Madrigal thought. Surely, her need must be strong, but her will is stronger. I must think on this thing and decide what to do. 

Both the inner and outer courtyards of Inishowen were filled with people. Samhain was an important festival, for it marked the beginning of winter. Rush torches and bonfires had been lit, and the walls of the castle were hung with colorful buntings and branches of pine and rowan. 

All around there were tales and song. Inishowen's hospitality to minstrels and bards was legendary, and some had come from as far away as London to participate in the contests and entertain the folk. 

Cathelin led the bemused Madrigal to the inner courtyard, where the song contest was to be held. Already, the space was filled with both contestants and interested spectators, milling about, drinking beer, ale and cider and tuning their instruments. 

At the moment, the story-telling contest was winding down. An old woman with a hooked nose and tiny eyes set like raisins in the wrinkled skin of her face was concluding the ghost story, ''The Adventures of Nera.'' 

''...and so Nera, mighty hero, vanished into the sidhe... AND WAS NEVER SEEN OR HEARD FROM AGAIN!,'' the old woman concluded with a hair-raising cackle. There was a whoop of appreciation from the spectators, and the judges smiled. 

Cathelin led Madrigal to a bench that had been set up against one wall. It was crowded already, but as soon as the Lady of Inishowen was spotted, a space was hastily made to accommodate the Muslim woman. 

''Sweetling,'' Cathelin said, bending down to plant a kiss on the other woman's brow, ''I'll be on the judge's dais. Don't be nervous or upset; just play and sing as if for my kerns and all will be well.'' 

Madrigal smiled and fingered her harp as Cathelin strode away. She had been working on a very special song for her Lady. At first, she had thought to do one of the provocative songs of her homeland that had been popular in the harem, but had ultimately decided against it. Surprisingly, it had been Wolf McLeod who had recommended a particular song, and Madrigal was grateful for his help. 

Her dark purple eyes searched the crowd for familiar faces. She saw Becca Half-Tongue, dressed in brilliant crimson and dark blue, hanging onto the arm of a handsome minstrel; and Wolf McLeod, somber in black and gray, eating a roasted apple and talking to a gray-bearded old man who held a branch of wood hung with tiny bells; Shevaughn was regaling a group of children with a ghost story. 

Madrigal sat and waited her turn, listening to the other performers. Most were talented amateurs, but there were one or two whose polished performances were breath-taking. These would be the ones that Madrigal would have to outshine. 

Finally, her turn came. Rising, she came forward, and seated herself on the small bench that sat on the dais. The judges sat to one side behind their long table; all eyes turned to her as she adjusted her cloak, and began to play an ancient Irish air which described the virtues of a hero. 

''She is pure gold, she is a heaven round a sun,'' Madrigal sang, 
''She is a vessel of silver with wine, 
She is an angel, she is wisdom of saints, 
She is a sweet branch with its blossom, 
She is a vessel full of honey. 
She is a precious stone with all its goodness, 
She is a brilliant sun round which is summer, 
She is a race-horse over a smooth plain, 
She is a chariot that is driven under a king, 
That bears off prizes in the east. 
She is the moon that glories holy heaven, 
A woman for whom the great King is thankful; 
She is a temple, prosperous, noble, 
She is a shrine which gold bedecks. 
She is an altar whereon wine is shed, 
Round which is sung a multitude of melodies; 
She is a cleansed chalice with liquor therein. 
She is white-bronze, she is gold. 
She is my beloved; her virtues are untold.'' 

For a moment there was silence, then the crowd burst into wild shouts of approval. Most knew of Madrigal, though many had never met her. But all knew enough to recognize the Muslim's song as a tribute of love to Lady Cathelin, and although some disapproved of Madrigal's religion, nevertheless they had to acknowledge the honor she had done their Lady and themselves. 

Cathelin brushed aside a tear. Madrigal's achingly pure voice soaring in that beautiful love-lilt had touched her deeply. Glancing around, she saw from the expression on the other judge's faces that they had been affected as well. 

Madrigal rose and bowed her head, then stepped lightly from the dais. She had seen the look on Cathelin's face and the tear; she smiled to herself as she went back to the bench, pleased beyond all measure that her Lady had approved. 

Madrigal's performance seemed to take the heart out of the other contestants. In a short time, the judges were ready to announce the winner. Sir James ap Mathonwy, a man of middle-height and dignified bearing, came forward. In his hands he held a crown made of autumn leaves bound with grasses and wound with trailing scarlet ribbons. 

''As you know,'' Sir James said, ''it is the duty of a judge to be impartial. But many of us here tonight - nay, all of us - were so moved by a particular song that we could not help but declare our favor. Need I truly tell you who has won the crown?'' 

The crowd roared, ''MADRIGAL!'' as Sir James beamed and gestured for the Muslim to take her place on the dais. 

Madrigal was trembling but her face was wreathed in a glorious smile. Sir James laid the winner's crown on her head, and she turned to Cathelin, dark eyes filled with light and incandescent joy. 

Cathelin was so proud of her love she thought her heart would burst. She sprang to her feet and clasped Madrigal in her arms, kissing the other woman in full view of the crowd, which snickered, sighed and clapped wildly. 

Madrigal looked up into Cathelin's shining amber eyes. ''Are you pleased, Lady Cat?'' she asked. 

''Sweetling, I am so pleased and proud t'is a wonder and a marvel that I can stand without falling arse-over-crown. Oh, Madri, I do love you so.'' 

''I love you as well,'' Madrigal replied shyly. 

Cathelin led Madrigal from the dais... unaware that amidst the throng, two pairs of eyes watched them, glittering with hate - and awful purpose. 

The two women wandered the festival, stopping now and then to hear a story, or speak to a visitor, or nibble a treat. Finally, however, Madrigal confessed herself exhausted. 

''I am sorry, Lady Cat,'' she said as Cathelin carried her back into the castle, ''Please, stay and enjoy the feast. I will do well enough.'' 

''Madri, don't fash yourself. The folk will get wondrous drunk and eat themselves sick, and on the morrow, we'll be lucky to have no broken heads or hearts to tend to. I had much rather spend the time with you.'' 

Madrigal smiled and snuggled her face into Cathelin's neck. She was tired, but not nearly as exhausted as she had claimed. In fact, she had some very good ideas about the way she wanted to spend time with her Lady, and all of them involved the bed, and none of them involved sleeping. 

Cathelin carried Madrigal into the master's chambers, kicking the door shut behind her with one foot. Carefully, she eased Madrigal down until the other woman was standing on her feet. 

Cathelin had just removed her cloak when Madrigal asked, ''Lady Cat? How is it that you have not been with Mistress Aoife these days?'' 

Cathelin nearly choked. Aoife, the rambunctious kern with whom she'd shared a night of tupping in the hayloft, had indeed let it be known that she was not loathe to test her commander's stamina again. Although Cathelin had been feeling deprived of late, she'd sternly curbed her libido. She did not want to hurt Madrigal by turning to another. 

''Er,'' Cathelin replied, stalling for time, ''Aoife? Who is that, Madri?'' 

Madrigal laughed, hanging up her own cloak. ''Why, have I not heard tales in the soldier's barracks of you and Mistress Aoife and a certain hayloft?'' 

Cathelin flushed. She really did not want to discuss her previous sexual partners with the woman she loved. ''Oh, that Aoife,'' she answered, then pulled off her tunic, boots and trews in quick succession. ''T'was not a matter of any great moment, sweetling. Only for one night, and before I loved you, besides.'' 

Madrigal stepped in front of Cathelin and her dark purple eyes slowly appraised the naked woman from heel to crown, lingering deliberately on her Lady's firm breasts and most especially, the gloriously red cluster of curls between her muscular thighs. 

''I can understand why she would wish for your return to her loft, Lady Cat,'' Madrigal purred, licking her lips, ''You are a very desirable woman.'' 

Cathelin was growing increasingly warm... and uncomfortable. ''Um, Madri?'' she said, ''Do you not want to go to bed, sweetling? You said you were tired...'' 

Madrigal pressed herself against Cathelin, and the other woman gulped as the fabric of the Muslim's dress brushed against her legs and belly. ''I do wish to go to bed, Lady Cat,'' Madrigal said softly, reaching up one hand and tracing Cathelin's bottom lip, ''but not to sleep.'' 

As Cathelin desperately tried to think of something, anything, to say (half of her wanted to ravish Madrigal then and there, the other half still feared hurting her)... there came a discreet scratching at the door. 

Biting back a curse, Cathelin strode to the door and flung it open... to confront the disapproving frown of Abbott Benedict.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The abbot's cold gray eyes flickered as he took in Cathelin's nudity. ''Lady,'' he said, reclining his head slightly, ''There are matters I wish to discuss with you, if you are not otherwise... engaged?'' He lifted his brow at this delicately phrased inquiry, and Cathelin blushed furiously - but in anger, not embarrassment. 

''One moment, Father Abbott,'' she replied and snatched her cloak from its hook by the door. Flinging it about her shoulders, she said shortly, ''What is it?'' 

Benedict stared down his nose at Cathelin, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his voluminous robe. The ebony rosary of his office was around his neck, heavy gold crucifix studded with rubies, sapphires and pearls. ''It is regarding Sir Alexander Wallace,'' he said tranquilly. 

''I see.'' Cathelin raised her own dark red brow and continued, ''What of the pig-dog?'' 

''You know the Church frowns on duels, my Lady,'' Benedict said, a slight sneer on his lips. Behind Cathelin, he could see the figure of her Muslim whore, on hand on her lips. The slave is obviously overawed by me, the abbot thought with smug satisfaction. Even such an unnatural woman acknowledges my authority in God. 

He drew himself up a little taller and continued, ''Nevertheless, I have been commissioned by Sir Alexander's surviving family to petition you for the return of...'' 

Cathelin interrupted. ''Whatever their request, I say them nay.'' 

Benedict's brows shot towards his hairline. ''Surely you do not mean to deny his family the comfort of a Christian burial?'' 

Cathelin waved one hand. ''T'was my sword took the bastard's life. I left them his horse, plate and weapons, as well as his belt pouch. What I did take was unimportant; tell them to bury the rest and not to grieve - if any deserved a slow death, t'was Alexander Wallace. They should count themselves lucky I did not reive his castle as well.'' 

Cathelin started to shut the door, but Benedict interrupted. His face was red and his eyes dark with anger. ''You would defy God, Lady? For I am one of his authorities on Earth, you know. Return what you have stolen, and I will make your penance light; refuse, and I will do everything in my power as a representative of Our Holy Mother Church to see you punished.'' 

Cathelin had been pushed too far. The good mood of the earlier evening had fled, replaced by stark fury. ''You forget yourself, Father Abbott,'' she hissed, ''and your place. Go back behind your walls, you gape-mouth, lolly-locked hypocrite. Do you believe I know nothing of your filthy secrets?'' 

Benedict turned pale and reeled back a step, dignity forgotten in the sudden flash of shock and panic. ''You... you... you know?'' he stammered. 

''Of course.'' Cathelin tossed her head. ''My walls have ears, Father,'' she replied with deadly sweetness, ''and my village as well. I've not told the Bishop yet, but I can have a messenger on a fast horse within the hour.'' 

''No!,'' Benedict said in a strangled voice. ''I... I... I withdraw my petition and my order, Lady Cathelin,'' he continued, ''Do what you will.'' 

''Why, t'is thanking you I am, for all your graciousness,'' Cathelin said sarcastically. ''Now, is this business done?'' In truth, Cathelin had no idea what the abbot's 'secrets' might have been, but she knew he was the type to have many; she'd used this sort of bluff before and was pleased that it had worked. 

''Yes.'' Benedict turned to go, then stopped. ''What shall I tell his family?'' he asked, shoulders slumped. 

''Tell them to be thankful I took only his bastard's head,'' Cathelin answered shortly, then shut the door. 

Benedict was shaken. How had she known? he thought as he walked down the stairs. I've been so careful. I'm certain none of the boys would have told their parents, not with the threat of hellfire and damnation hanging above their heads.

As the abbot walked through Inishowen, surprise and fear turned into renewed hatred - and a further resolve to see that the hammer of Almighty God struck the red-haired whore with all the power at his disposal. 

Madrigal stood in the middle of the room. She had overheard the conversation - she'd had no choice - and now, she did not know what to say or how to act. Her Lady had slain the Inglizi in a duel... The dark-haired woman didn't know whether to laugh, cry or faint dead away in astonishment and awe. 

Cathelin removed the cloak and hung it back on its hook. ''Sweetling...,'' she began, then stopped. 

Madrigal sat down in a chair next to the hearth and kept silent, her hands clasped over her swollen belly. 

Cathelin scratched her head. In truth, she'd rather Madrigal had not found out about Wallace's death just yet; she'd been saving the tale for a special Solstice treat, and had commissioned a minstrel to write a special song to be sung in the Great Hall during the winter celebration. 

''Er... Madri,'' Cathelin began again, seating herself in the chair opposite Madrigal. ''I did not want tell you yet. I would have, sweetling, only - well, I wanted to surprise you.'' 

''I am surprised,'' Madrigal replied, dark eyes wide. Her hands trembled slightly; she could not quite grasp that the Inglizi was truly dead, that he would trouble her no more in this life. 

''Did I not swear, sweetling, that I'd make a present to you of his head? When I went away those few days - you remember, when Sorcha was taken by McLeod - I went a-hunting for Wallace.'' 

''And?'' Madrigal asked, eyes downcast. She was still stunned. 

''And... I challenged him to a duel muscular - he'd no real choice after the insults I flung after him - and I won.'' Cathelin looked slightly ashamed. ''He was no real knight, Madri. All gone to fat, he was, and what little skill he owned had long ago been pawned away to wine. T'was like spearing trout in a wine tun,'' she concluded. 

Cathelin was not ashamed of killing Wallace - in her opinion, no man deserved death more - but she did wish he had been more of a real opponent. She'd skillfully peeled the armor off him in chunks, then with one blow of the flat of her blade, broken both his shin bones. As Wallace had toppled to the ground, bellowing in pain, she'd removed his head with one clean swipe. 

''Truly,'' Cathelin said anxiously, ''t'was a kinder death than he deserved, sweetling. I'm not much for torture myself, but if you'd rather I'd taken him alive, well... all I can say is that I understand. I'd even have sharpened the knives for you... but...'' Her voice trailed off as her amber eyes narrowed, seeing the past - another man's face amid sand and wind 

Madrigal felt a sudden swelling of emotion in her breast. It was not sorrow - she would NEVER be sorry the evil Inglizi was dead - it was vindication and triumph. When she had belonged to him, there had been many times when she'd fantasized about the Inglizi helpless, as she had been helpless, writhing beneath all the torments of a vengeful slave. But now, she was only glad he was dead, glad her Lady had killed him, and glad many times over that her Lady Cat had not been harmed by the Inglizi's evil. 

''No, Lady,'' Madrigal said, raising her eyes to look directly into Cathelin's own, ''I did not wish to torture him.'' She rose and walked around the small table. Leaning down, she put her arms around Cathelin's neck and kissed her cheek, murmuring, ''Thank you. I cannot tell you how much.'' 

Cathelin put one hand on Madrigal's back. ''No matter, sweetling,'' she replied softly. ''I know. I wanted to spare you. I've already told you of how I went mad after killing Irizin's master. I thought I should kill Wallace myself, cleanly, to spare you that agony.'' 

Madrigal pressed herself as closely to Cathelin as she could, but her stomach got in the way. ''I love you,'' she said simply. 

Cathelin stood up, and Madrigal's arms slid away. ''As to his head... it's at the goldsmith's. I'm having his skull made into a drinking cup.'' 

Madrigal's eyelashes fluttered. She had heard of some of the barbaric customs of her new land, but this?! 

Cathelin laughed at the expression on Madrigal's face. ''Nay, sweetling,'' she said, ''not for you to drink from. T'is a trophy is all. There's a whole cabinet full of the things down in the Great Hall. I've never drunk from one myself, but my grand-father did. T'is a custom, you see, to enshrine the remains of our worst and greatest enemies, so that our children do not forget where we came from and who we are.'' 

Madrigal nodded, although she was still slightly appalled. If it is custom, she thought, I will say nothing. Some of the customs of my homeland would seem equally barbaric to these Christian folk.

Cathelin stretched, and Madrigal's attention was immediately riveted to the play of muscles sliding smoothly beneath the other woman's skin. Exposure to sun and wind had given her a light tan on her arms, neck and face, but the rest of her body was as light as cream, blue veins visible on her breasts and flat stomach. 

Madrigal asked softly, ''Will you help me with my dress?'' 

''Of course.'' Cathelin helped pull the thick wool gown over Madrigal's head, and carefully folded it up and placed it back in the Muslim's own clothes chest - a tightly woven willow basket with engraved brass bosses on every corner. 

Turning around, the Irishwoman saw Madrigal combing out her incredibly long, blue-black hair... Her swollen breasts jiggled a little as she moved the wooden comb briskly though her hair, and proud, high curve of her belly jutted forward like brash new moon. 

Madrigal stopped combing when she realized she had her Lady's full attention once more. Flipping back the long strands of her hair, she laid the comb aside and put her hands on her hips. ''Did you not tell me once you found me beautiful?'' Madrigal asked. 

Cathelin's mouth was dry. ''Aye,'' she whispered hoarsely. 

''And I, too, find you beautiful,'' Madrigal continued with a tiny smile. ''Since we are two such beautiful women, should we not act upon this attraction?'' 

Cathelin could not say a word as Madrigal walked towards her; her love was not as inhumanly graceful as she had been, but... 

Madrigal stopped, allowing her belly to press against Cathelin. ''You will not hurt me. Nor the child.'' She picked up Cathelin's hand and placed it on the curve of her stomach. ''I desire you very much, Lady Cat. I wish to show you the depth of that desire. Come,'' she continued, gently tugging on Cathelin's other hand, drawing her towards the bed, ''let us see if I can guess what pleases you the most.'' 

With those words, Cathelin's passion erupted in an uncontrollable burst of flame. She swept Madrigal off her feet and laid her on the bed, crouching above her, legs on either side, supporting her weight on her hands. ''Do you truly wish this thing?,'' she asked, amber eyes burning with need. 

Madrigal reached up and grasped a handful of dark red hair on either side of Cathelin's face. Pulling her down for a kiss, she whispered, ''Yes.'' 
 

CHAPTER TWENTY

Cathelin bowed her back, fitting the curve of her body to Madrigal's, and pressed her lips against the other woman's, feeling Madrigal's mouth open to her. 

Cathelin slid her tongue into Madrigal's mouth, tasting cinnamon and cloves from the apple she had eaten, moaning slightly as the other woman's tongue slipped around her own, sparring slightly, flicking and dancing. 

Madrigal closed her eyes, her hands holding Cathelin's hair tightly, and they parted. Cathelin trailed soft kisses all along her cheek - those feather-light kisses sparked prickles of fire along Madrigal's skin. 

Abruptly, Cathelin swung her other leg over and settled herself beside Madrigal on the bed. She wanted to make love to Madrigal in the truest sense of the word. The fire in her blood gentled as she stared into the Muslim's dark purple eyes, heart swelling at the expression of trust and love she saw there. 

Cathelin bent her head and kissed the soft skin of the other woman's shoulder, breathing in the scent of spice that clung to her blue-black hair. Her own dark red locks slid along Madrigal's body as Cathelin shifted on the bed and put one strong arm across her love's body, supporting her weight as she leaned over to trace her tongue in delicate patterns all along Madrigal's breast. 

Madrigal gasped as she felt the warm touch of her Lady's mouth, and her hands clutched Cathelin's shoulders as those tender lips descended, capturing one of her nipples and sucking gently. 

The tight coiling of passion in Madrigal's lower belly vibrated more strongly and she moaned as Cathelin's lips tugged on her sensitive nipple, tongue flicking against the swollen nub. 

The Irishwoman allowed Madrigal's nipple to slide out of her mouth, and she smiled at the expression of desire on her love's face. She lowered her head again, putting more of her weight on her arm, and softly kissed her way to the other breast before giving it the same loving attention. 

Madrigal's legs had unconsciously spread; she felt a trickle of hot moisture flow from her center as Cathelin released her nipple and said huskily, ''Sweetling, I want to make love to you with my mouth...'' 

Consumed by desire, Madrigal whimpered as Cathelin's kisses trailed lower down her body. The Irishwoman kept shifting on the bed, moving her head back and forth, determined to cover every inch of Madrigal's skin with warm, wet kisses. 

Cathelin took her time, running her hands along the bulge of Madrigal's belly, and following those hands with her lips. She swirled her tongue around the Muslim's navel, and was rewarded with a small buck from Madrigal's hips as the other woman sought to bring Cathelin's kisses lower still... 

Finally, Cathelin positioned herself between Madrigal's thighs, drawing up the dark beauty's legs and resting them over her broad shoulders. Settling down with a sigh, Cathelin began licking the ebony curls that adorned Madrigal's mount in long strokes with the flat of her tongue, hands beneath her love's buttocks. 

At the first touch of Cathelin's tongue, Madrigal nearly exploded with sensation. She wanted to bury her hands in Cathelin's hair, but her belly was in the way. Instead, Madrigal clutched the fur coverlet in a stranglehold. Her hips shot off the bed when Cathelin's tongue probed her more deeply... 

Cathelin supported Madrigal's weight on her hands as she flicked her tongue all along the other woman's rosy folds, teasing and tasting. Like honey, Cathelin thought, and rarest wine... She stabbed her tongue deeper, seeking and finding Madrigal's font, the vermilion gate, and eagerly thrust her tongue in and out, as her love cried out, thighs quivering. 

Lowering her to the bed, Cathelin swept her tongue up and took Madrigal's small, sensitive bud between her lips, sucking and nibbling; Madrigal nearly screamed as the explosion of pleasure that coursed in trembling waves throughout her body became stronger, lifting her higher and higher... 

Finally, the dam burst and Madrigal convulsed, a star sprinkled sky of ruby and diamonds and gold coruscating behind her tightly closed eyelids, breath coming in shuddering gasps as she fell through a rippling sea of unbelievable pleasure and at last, fell again to ground, toes curled, sweet sensations slowly, slowly dying. 

Cathelin waited until she was sure, then gently kissed Madrigal's inner thigh. She could not see the other woman's face. Cathelin carefully lifted Madrigal's legs from her shoulders and laid them back on the bed, then flowed up to rest beside her love. 

Madrigal's face was covered in sweat; strands of dark hair clung to her skin. She opened her eyes and stared at Cathelin, trying to catch her breath. Her pupils were dilated so widely her eyes appeared black. ''Lady,'' she said, wonder in her voice, ''I have never...'' 

''What, sweetling?'' Cathelin asked, lazily tracing a forefinger along Madrigal's stomach, and was startled to feel the child moving against her touch, as if he, too, took joy in his mother's happiness. 

''I have never felt... such before. Is this magic?'' Madrigal still could not believe how she had felt. I have felt the stirrings of desire, the Muslim thought amazed, but I have never felt such sensations before. Truly, my Lady is a worker of miracles... 

Cathelin drew her brows together in a frown. ''Are you telling me you've never...?'' 

Madrigal shook her head. ''That such things existed, I had heard,'' she replied. ''But, to hear of a thing and to experience a thing - they are very different,'' she concluded, still marveling. 

Cathelin tried to wrap her mind around that. ''I can't believe...,'' she began, then stopped. Of course, she thought, my poor Madri. She was trained to please others, but never herself. Compassion warred with pride as the Irishwoman realized that in some things, she would never be Madrigal's first lover - but in this, she was the only. 

''I'm truly sorry, sweetling,'' she said, bowing her head to kiss Madrigal's cheek, ''but I take it you liked it?'' 

Madrigal chuckled throatily. ''Oh, yes,'' she replied, running her hand along Cathelin's arm, ''I liked it very much. Only...'' 

''Mmm?'' 

''Only... how long will it be before I can have another?'' Madrigal asked plaintively, remembering her training in the harem, and how men, having reached the pinnacle, sometimes required long periods of rest before they were able to become aroused again. 

Cathelin threw back her head and laughed. ''Why, sweetling,'' she said when she was able to speak again, ''You may have as many as you wish, as often as you wish... Would you like another now?'' 

''Oh, yes!,'' Madrigal exclaimed with the excitement of a child who has discovered a new and wonderful toy. 

Cathelin chuckled deep in her throat as she captured Madrigal's lips with her own and thought, Well-a-day. T'is going to be a fine, long night, indeed. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The seasons turned, autumn into winter, and snow roared down from the mountains, casting a chill white blanket over the demesne of Inishowen. 

It was nearing Solstice, and Madrigal's belly had ballooned and dropped, so that her heavy burden hung more closely to her knees than her breasts. She was having difficulty sleeping, and only leaning her back against Cathelin's strong body in bed, and being supported by her love's strong arms, allowed her to get any sleep at all. 

This morning, the village midwife, Branwen mac Nessa, a tiny, bird-like woman with the smallest, narrowest hands Madrigal had ever seen, spent a good half-candlemark with her ear pressed to the Muslim woman's belly, pale green eyes closed in concentration, fingers probing inch by inch. 

Finally rising, Branwen smiled at Cathelin, who had watched the entire ritual wide-eyed with excitement. ''Well?'' Cathelin asked eagerly. 

Branwen smiled more widely, showing several missing teeth, and flipped the hem of Madrigal's dress back over her swollen belly. ''Och,'' she replied with satisfaction, ''t'is twins; both male child an' female, or I'm no judge.'' 

Cathelin grinned. ''Hear that, sweetling? Twins, by God!'' She was nearly as ecstatic as a new father herself; in fact, she had come to regard the child (now know to be children) in Madrigal's womb as her own flesh and blood. 

Madrigal grunted. She was tired, so tired; it seemed as if all her energy went straight to her stomach, leaving none for herself. In the last month, she had not even wanted Cathelin to perform that amazing magic on her, and she had certainly not felt like giving pleasure, either. All she wanted to do was eat and sleep, and she was grateful that her Lady Cat did not press her. 

Madrigal struggled to rise from the chair, and Cathelin hastily helped her. ''Madri, sweetling, are you all right?'' Cathelin asked. 

''Yes,'' Madrigal answered shortly, brushing aside a lock of stray hair from her brow. ''I am hungry, though. Again.'' The Muslim woman was feeling a bit peevish this morning; she had to restrain herself from kicking the chair to relieve her irritation. 

She waddled over to the bed, Cathelin clucking behind her as anxiously as a hen with one chick, and Madrigal really had to restrain the urge to kick her Lady. She did not know why she felt so ill- humored and grumbly, but she knew she would be glad when the birth was finally over. 

Cathelin stifled a laugh at the petulance on Madrigal's face. At any other time, she might have tried to jolly the other woman out of her bad mood, or perhaps even given some in return, but... Well, she's got the mulligrubs, poor mite, she thought, and no wonder! Carrying twice the burden of another woman, and her so small too boot! 

Getting Madrigal settled, Cathelin drew Branwen out of the room. ''T'is worried I am about the birth,'' Cathelin said. ''Madrigal is so small...'' 

Branwen clucked. ''Nay, gie it no more thought, Lady. Yon one's hips be wide enow fer th' birthin'. Now, t'is her first, an' those be more difficult than others an' wit' twins. Hmph. I'll be comin' up ta stay at th' castle after Sunday, an' Brother Ignatius will be on hand as well. So, dinna fret. We'll see th' wee one through wit' th' Good Lord's help.'' 

Cathelin nodded, slightly reassured. As Madrigal's time grew nearer, she worried more and more. She had seen and heard of women dying in the birthing bed, each tale more gruesome than the last, and the thought of anything happening to her love was nearly more than she could bear. 

Abruptly, Madrigal's voice was raised behind her. ''Must I go to the kitchens myself for food?'' she yelled, thoroughly out of sorts. ''Will the djinn waft me down the stairs, or must I rub Aladdin's lamp first?!'' 

Cathelin bit her lip and her shoulders shook as she laughed silently. Oh, my sweet Madri is turning into quite the crosspatch beldam, she thought, amused. Then she lifted her own voice, ''Ho! A servant for your Lady!'' 

As a manservant pelted down the hall towards the master's chamber, Cathelin heard Madrigal grumble in Arabic, ''Children of she-camels and he-goats! I starve, and they all laugh at my distress! Allah, defend Your servant from this barbarian horde!'' 

The manservant was very surprised when the Lady laughed in his face. 

Six miles from Inishowen, in a cavern in a cliff, a group of men had gathered. 

Lord Francis had washed, cut his hair and trimmed his beard; he no longer resembled a woods-hermit. Instead, to the other men, he seemed the very image of a holy Crusader, for his hazel eyes still burned with a fanatic's light. However, it was the insanity in those same eyes that caused them to shudder and turn their faces away. 

Beyond their view, in the darkest shadows of the cave, a woman's body lay. It was Sorcha; Francis had dug her up under the cover of darkness and hauled her corpse to his den. After nearly three months, it no longer stank; the increased cold had helped. 

Francis liked to toy with Sorcha's long blonde braids as he sat by the fire, brooding; sometimes, he would even kiss her cold, worm riddled cheek and talk to her as if she were still alive. He had not loved her when she was living - he had only used her; but now that she was dead, he found himself growing increasingly fond of his former betrothed. To him, she had become the ultimate woman: quiet, obedient, and loyal to the end. The fact that she had become yet another means of revenge against his hated cousin gave her increased value in Francis' view. 

''Soon, my love,'' he crooned, casting his eyes to the corner. Abbot Benedict watched with narrowed gray eyes, but said nothing. He knew Francis was insane; he only hoped the Lord could maintain his grip on what little sanity remained to help put their plot into motion. 

Gathered in the cave were ten other men - three of them Sorcha's kinfolk from southern Ireland; they were hard-bitten sell-swords and thieves whose stake in the venture was more than revenge. They thirsted to loot Inishowen and fill their clan's purses, and they had pledged a dozen men to the venture. 

Three were Lords who, for one reason or another, had cause to be disaffected by Lady Cathelin. Benedict let his eyes wander from one to another as they talked. 

Sir Duncan Galbraith, Baron of Carbery; his grudge was that Cathelin's great-grandfather had, in his family's mind, cheated them of prime pastureland, and they had never forgotten or forgiven the insult; 

Edward O'Kennedy, head of a powerful merchant clan; Cathelin as Blacksunne had commanded a portion of Richard's army that had included his son, killed in battle at Acre. O'Kennedy blamed her for that death; 

Desmond O'Brian, Earl of Kinslainne, whose eldest son had been betrothed to Marguessen, Cathelin's younger sister. O'Brian had tried to force Sir Giles to betrothe Cathelin to his son Robert after Marguessen's death, but Sir Giles had refused. When Robert pressed his suit at his father's insistence, Cathelin had challenged him to a joust that had left the boy with a permanently twisted leg from a bad fall; 

Three of the other men were representatives of a certain element in the village that Abbot Benedict had been carefully cultivating. There were some who felt that Lady Cathelin was condemned to Hell for her unnatural sexual proclivities, and wanted her gone lest the same doom fall upon them by association. They were not many, and all peasants and woodsmen, but Benedict was proud of his contribution. Knowing the land as they did, these folk would be ideal for penetrating the castle's grounds and allowing an element of surprise; 

The last of the seven was a Knight Templar from England, Sir John Rivenoak. He was a hired champion who had fought in many jousts, tournaments and challenges. Sir John was a pragmatic individual who sold his sword to whosoever could afford it, and always gave satisfaction for his fees. Sir John would take care of Lady Cathelin while the rest of the men, and their personal soldiers, poured through the gates and took Inishowen. 

All of the men were quietly discussing their plans when Lord Francis spoke up. ''There is one more thing that must be done,'' he said, ''before we can proceed with the attack.'' 

Sir Duncan looked choleric. A stout man with a full beard and mustache of mink brown, he suffered from gout and was in a perpetually testy mood. ''What d'ye mean, sirrah?'' he asked angrily. ''The attack is planned for tomorrow morning! My men are shivering in the woods as we speak! Nay, we shall not wait upon you!'' 

In a move like a striking snake, Francis had his belt knife pressed against Sir Duncan's throat. A thin line of blood appeared as the razor-keen edge barely parted the flesh. ''You will wait,'' Francis hissed. The other men looked at each other then backed away. No one wanted to get between this madman and his prey. 

Just as suddenly, Francis' knife flickered back into the sheathe on his belt. ''Besides, it will not take long,'' he said with an ugly smile. ''I just need to reclaim something that was stolen from me.'' 

The others looked at him, and Abbot Benedict shivered, but not with fear. With glorious anticipation.

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