by Nene Adams ©1998 - All rights reserved

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Cathelin had gone, called to some early evening conference with Wolf McLeod and Michael Drury in the barracks. Madrigal was alone in the master's chamber when there was a discreet scratching on the door. 

Calling, ''Enter!'' Madrigal saw a red-nosed, bleary-eyed maidservant with cornsilk yellow hair. The woman's face was scarred from the pox, and her figure stick thin. The Muslim had never seen her before, but with winter hard upon the land, some of the folk from more isolated areas had come to Inishowen for shelter. 

''Yes?'' Madrigal asked kindly; the maidservant looked like a timid mouse, eyes darting at shadows. 

''Beggin' yer pardon, Mistress,'' the maid said with a clumsy curtsy, ''but Master McLeod sent me ta tell yer ta come down ta outer court straight away. Been an accident.'' 

Accident? Madrigal heaved herself off the bed, cursing slightly under her breath, and waddled across the room, grabbing her cloak. Her back had been bothering her all day, with pains that came and went with increased frequency. 

''What sort of accident?'' Madrigal asked sharply, fastening her thick woolen cloak with a brooch. 

''Somethin' ta do wit' a horse is all I knows,'' the maid said, wiping her runny nose with one hand. ''Ta Lady needs yer, s'all I were told.'' 

Oh, Allah! Madrigal thought, and hurried as quickly as she could out of the chamber. Lady Cat had recently been gifted with a fiery destrier, a war-trained mount half-jokingly named Shaitan. That beast had already savaged one stableboy, and Madrigal knew that her love was determined to train Shaitan to her hand no matter the cost. 

She has probably broken her leg or her head, Madrigal thought, carefully picking her way down the stairs. Her heart almost stopped when she considered that Lady Cat's wounding must be more acute than she had first suspected, for Master McLeod had not sent one of the kerns to help her down the stairs - per the Lady's strict order. 

Madrigal swept through the halls, not noticing the curious glances of the servants. All her thought was solely concentrated on Cathelin. 

When she let herself out the gate, it was so dark she couldn't see a foot in front of her face. Carefully she listened - for the screaming of a horse, the shouts of men, the curses of her Lady, but she heard nothing. 

Madrigal's moment of confusion was short-lived. Suddenly, a sack was pulled over her face and she screamed, but her cries were muffled by the rough cloth. She struggled, but was picked up and slung on the back of a horse, and a man's hard body settled in the saddle behind her, arms like iron bars squeezing her rib cage until she thought she would vomit. 

The horse pounded away from Inishowen, while Madrigal screamed and cried and clung to the mount's mane - until the pommel of a dagger struck her sharply behind the ear, and her head exploded with pain... then blackest oblivion. 

Cathelin's face was grim. ''How many men does he have, Wolf?" she asked. 

Wolf McLeod looked at his Lady, ice blue eyes bright. ''Two hundred or so,'' he answered. ''Th' bulk o' th' men trained soldiers, but a few o' our own among 'em.'' 

Cathelin sighed and closed her eyes. It particularly hurt that some of the would-be invaders were her own people. Still, she thought, if I tried to please everyone, I would please no one.''And their plans?'' she asked aloud. 

''Our people inside were s'posed ta open the gates an' cause a distraction in th' hours o' early morn. Their warriors would slip in an' th' fightin' would begin.'' 

Cathelin grunted. Wolf had kept her appraised of his spy operation - he had noted Sorcha's attention fixed on one particular man in the crowd the day of her hanging, and instructed a pair of kerns to follow the individual. They had tracked him to the sea-overhanging cliffs that lay six miles away... and discovered it was the exiled usurper, Francis Westfield. Since then, daily reports had come from the spies - and three hours ago had come the last. Things were coming to a head; Westfield and his borrowed army, with the help of Cathelin's enemies, were to attack Inishowen a few hours after dawn. 

This was the last little detail she needed. Instead of a surprise attack from an invading army, she would lead her kerns to the opposition's staging area, and catch them by surprise, neatly turning the tables. They would be outnumbered nearly two-to-one, but Cathelin's men and women had survived Outremer - a war experience that had toughened them like no other. And she had one ally in particular who thirsted after the O'Kennedy's blood, so the odds were not too bad. 

She pushed aside the parchment maps that littered the table and took a swallow of well-watered wine. Rising, she said, ''Have my squire Thomas meet me in the armory,'' she said, ''and gather the army. Full weapons, winter cloaks and shields. Pick a few of your best horsemen and issue them mounts from the stables; they'll be breaking trail for the rest. Have you heard from the O'Fierna?'' 

Wolf nodded, his expression fierce. The O'Fierna clan was closely connected to the O'Camerons by blood, and Lord Bran O'Fierna had responded enthusiastically to the Lady's request for aid in her campaign when the usurper's plans were first known. Francis' ally, the O'Kennedy, had long ago made an enemy of O'Fierna over a woman and a deadly insult. 

Wolf had sent the message bird himself scarcely two hours ago, instructing the Lord in where and when the fight would take place, and the reply had been thrust into his hand right before the war council. 

''Aye, Lady,'' he responded in his rough, deep voice. ''The O'Fierna's agreed ta bring another thirty men as weel as himself; t'will be meetin' us at St. Wilfrid's Ford.'' 

Cathelin nodded, and Wolf bowed and hastened away to begin the preparations. The Irishwoman turned to her chief man-at-arms, Neith Owen. ''You're in charge of the castle defenses whilst I'm away,'' she said. ''Have the archers line the walls and ready the oil pots. God willing, we will defeat this enemy, but if not, then it's up to you, Owen, and your men, to see Inishowen safe for my heirs.'' 

Neith bowed deeply, rusty red mustache stained with purple wine. He had been called from his dinner to join this conference, and with a sigh, he mentally consigned the remains of his meal to the cookfires. There would be no time for a leisurely meal tonight. 

Michael Drury cleared his throat. ''And me, Lady?'' he asked. 

Cathelin looked at him with cold amber eyes. ''My will,'' she said simply. ''T'is locked in my desk, and Bishop Rudolphus has a copy. In the event of my death, you're to see to its lawful execution.'' Seeing the confused look on Drury's face, she explained, ''Madrigal's children. She and they will inherit Inishowen; I have no time for long ceremony, but you men bear witness: At this moment, as chieftain of the O'Camerons and Lady of Inishowen, I formally swear that she is kin to me and mine, and an equal of the blood.'' 

Taking up a small paperknife, Cathelin made a careful slit in her forefinger, allowing blood to drip down on the earthen floor of the small war room attached to the barracks. ''This do I vow, by earth and blood,'' she declared solemnly with both men watched, ''That Madrigal, child of none, is here this day of the clan O'Cameron. St. Brigit watch over her, Mother of God keep care of her, and may the Good Lord smite without mercy if I, or my inheritors, or other kin of the name, ever dishonor her. So be it.'' 

Drury and Owen murmured, ''So be it,'' to complete the ceremony. True, it was far less elaborate than the usual adoption; that was more like a festival celebration. But their Lady was correct - Inishowen was on war footing, and there was precious little time to waste on ritual. Later, that blood-soaked bit of earth would be scooped up with a silver sickle, and mingled with Madrigal's own blood. The result would be flung into a fire made of three sacred woods - oak, ash and rowan - and there would be a grand party to welcome Madrigal into her new clan. If there was a later... 

Cathelin left the room, heading towards the family chapel that lay in the center of a small formal garden close to Inishowen's back walls. She had much to do, but first, she had to confess and be shriven, and then she would say her goodbyes to Madrigal. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Madrigal was terrified. She had wakened in a smoky cave, lying on the filth-encrusted stone floor; from a short distance away, she heard a voice she recognized, and it sent a chill of horror down her spine. 

Lord Francis was saying, ''We'll march out at early dawn. By the time we arrive, the gates should be open, and we'll be able to take the outer courtyard before the alarm is raised. Sir John, do not forget - Lady Cathelin will be in her Blacksunne armor, so you should be able to spot her easily. If not, ask - the three commanders know her on sight.'' 

Madrigal tried to curl up into a ball but was unable to. Suddenly, a sharp pain rippled through her stomach and she bit her lip to stifle a moan, both hands around the swollen mound. She knew what was happening - her children, eager to see the world, had decided it was time to begin the business of being born. 

Footsteps approached, and Madrigal squeezed her eyes tightly shut, pretending to still be unconscious. A boot toe prodded her arm, and she rolled with it, keeping her limbs limp despite her pain; then the foot drew back and kicked her viciously in the thigh. Madrigal fought to remain still but feared the next kick might be to her vulnerable belly. The pain eased as the muscles of her womb rested to prepare for another contraction... 

She opened her eyes, squinting a little in the bright light of the torch Lord Francis held above his head. ''So,'' Francis said, a slight cold smile on his face. ''The bitch is awake, eh? Good... I promise you, slavey, you'll not die just yet. First, you must live to see your whoremonger mistress' head on a pike. And after...'' His lips stretched into a death's-head grin. ''I'll kill your brat. Would you like to hold it once before I smash its head apart on the walls?'' 

Madrigal shuddered. His eyes... Lord Francis had never been entirely sane, that she had known. But now - he has been possessed by an evil djinn, Madrigal thought with horror. He is as mad as a foaming dog. Allah preserve me.

Madrigal knew she would be missed eventually, and prayed that her Lady would be able to track the abductors. But if what he says is true, she thought, there is a some kind of army outside. Even so, my Lady Cat is the greatest warrior in the world. Surely, she will find a way. And if not, then I pray to Allah and all the saints that I die before she, and before my children.

Francis drew back his foot and kicked her thigh again, making her wince as the blow landed in the same place as before. ''What, no words of love?'' he asked in mock disappointment. ''Did you not miss me? I should think that warming my cousin's bed wouldn't hold a candle to the things I did to you, slavey.'' 

Hot tears filled Madrigal's eyes but she struggled to maintain control. She would not beg - she knew this was what he wanted - and within her heart, she held her Lady's words, repeating them over and over, ''I love you'' and ''You are free.'' She would never be a slave again; Lady Cat had taught her about true freedom, and Madrigal, having at last discovered pride and love, would never be forced to that place of abject slavery again. 

I must continue, she thought as Francis stared down at her, frowning. I must be strong. I must not give in to fear. My Lady will come.

Abruptly, Francis turned away, tired of the game. A true sadist, if his prey did not respond with fear, he became bored. 

Earl O'Brian cast a worried glance at Lord Francis. ''D'ye think it can be done?'' he quietly asked Sir John, who adjusted a shoulder vambrace on his armor and replied, ''Yes. As soon as we take the castle, I'll kill him. But I'll expect half my payment in advance, my Lord of Kinslainne. And the other half when I deliver Lord Francis' head to your tent.'' 

''Aye,'' O'Brian answered, and handed the other man a bulging pouch. ''But why wait?'' 

Sir John weighed the pouch thoughtfully in his palm before tucking it into a fold of his surcoat and smiling slightly. The mail coif he wore over his head framed a seamed, weathered face, criss-crossed with scars, and his light brown eyes met O'Brian's. ''Because, my Lord, I am an honest man... I can be bought only by one master at a time.'' 

Cathelin took the stairs two at a time, hurrying at breakneck speed. She'd spent far longer in the chapel with Father Paul than she'd intended, and her kerns had almost finished gathering in the forecourt. Her goodbyes to Madrigal would have to be brief. 

''Madri?'' she said hastily as she skidded into the room... But there was no reply. 

Cathelin's eyes searched the chamber, but there was no sign of Madrigal at all. Spinning about on one heel, she noticed the other woman's cloak was missing from the hook beside the door. 

Where in God's name can she be? Cathelin thought, beginning to get irritated. Surely she's not gone to the jakes on a night like this! She walked to the close-stool that sat in one corner behind a screen and lifted the lid. Nay, the pot's empty and the ash clean. 

Her dark red brows drew together in a frown. If she's down in the kitchen again, I'll be skinnin' her alive, she thought darkly. ''That woman'll be the death of me yet,'' Cathelin muttered aloud. ''Disappearing to God alone knows where, and me with my war band freezing in the forecourt.'' Not to mention her squire Thomas waiting in the armory to help her on with her suit of plate armor. 

The sound of wild weeping drew her attention. Coming down the hall was Wolf McLeod, his face grimmer than usual, ebony brows drawn so closely together they appeared to march in an unbroken line across his forehead. In his tight grasp he pulled along a crying, stumbling maidservant, her cornsilk yellow hair straggling across her pock- marked face. 

''What this?'' Cathelin said, annoyed. If Wolf wishes me to discipline a servant at this late hour, she thought, I'll be throwing my hands up and surrendering to the world's madness! I've no time for such now! 

Wolf paused at the threshold, then thrust the maidservant inside the chamber. She fell to her knees, wet face buried in both hands. ''One o' the new maids, my Lady,'' he said. ''T'was showin' this about in th' servant's quarters.'' He cast a handful of silver coins down to ring and chime on the stone floor. 

''I questioned her, for one so poor ta have so much is beyond an honest man's ken,'' he continued, then paused. This news would be no easier to deliver than it had been to hear. ''Mistress Madrigal's been ta'en.'' 

For a moment, Cathelin was certain she had gone deaf, or mad, or both. ''What?'' she asked in confusion. ''Taken? What do you mean?'' 

''This one,'' he said, prodding the maidservant with one toe, ''is handfast ta Simon Fletcher down in th' village. He's one o' them we've been keepin' a peeled eye on.'' Wolf waited, hoping he would not have to explain further. 

Abruptly, comprehension dawned, and Cathelin closed her lips tightly against a bellow of pain and rage. MADRI! she thought, that bastard Francis has taken my Madri! 

She grabbed the maidservant by one shoulder, hauled her up off the floor and shook the hapless girl like a rag doll. Cathelin's lips had peeled back from her teeth in a snarl of pure animal fury and her eyes were as hot as the gates of Hell. ''Where is she?'' she shouted, oblivious to Wolf's protests. ''WHERE IS SHE? What have you done with my Madri?!'' 

The maid could only stammer and wail, and finally, Cathelin threw her back down to the floor in disgust, struggling to control the instinct to draw her sword and hack the girl into a dozen or more pieces. She panted, trying to think, but her mind would only circle back to the same terrible thought - her Madri back in Francis' power. 

Suddenly, she calmed. It was as if a cloak of pure ice had been drawn over her swirling, blood-maddened emotions; dimly, Cathelin was aware that she was in the grip of the profoundest anger she had ever known. Not since Irizin's death had she felt this way, but instead of heat, all she felt was cold... the chill craving for revenge, and more than revenge. 

''Tell me,'' she said through gritted teeth to Wolf McLeod. 

He ran a shaky hand through his black hair. ''Fletcher's wit' Francis' army. Th' maid tol' me a 'friend' gie her th' coin ta bring a false message ta Mistress Madrigal. Thirty pieces o' silver he paid. Tell her, lass.'' 

The maidservant keened, ''I were only tryin' ta earn enow fer th' banns! An' he were tellin' me it were a jape. S'all, Lady, I swear ta yer!'' 

Cathelin knelt down and forced the maid's head up. Her terrified, bleary blue eyes stared... and the maidservant abruptly realized that her life hung in the balance. ''Who paid you?'' Cathelin asked, her tone dangerously soft. ''And what did you tell her?'' 

The maid swiped one hand across her runny nose. ''I dunno his name, Lady,'' she replied with a sniffle. ''I only knows I were s'posed ter tell yer woman ter go down ter outer court, an' tell 'er it were somethin' about an accident wit' a horse, an' that yer needed her.'' 

Cathelin sat back on her heels. ''That's all?'' 

''Aye.'' The maidservant was terrified; she knew full well there had been something more behind the man's excuse of a jest. No one paid good coin in a hard winter for a mere joke, but the silver had been too much to resist. She knew her life was forfeit and shivered, lips forming a plea for mercy that she dared not voice. 

Cathelin rose. Her face might have been carved from granite; her lips were pinched and white with strain. ''I'll be down within the half-hour,'' she told Wolf. ''Have the men ready; we ride as soon as I'm armored.'' 

''An' what of this one?'' Wolf asked, looking pointedly at the shivering maidservant. 

Cathelin was already on her way out the door. ''I'll deal with her on my return,'' she replied over her shoulder as she walked away. ''Give her to Father Paul and tell him to pray for her soul.'' 

The maid burst into a fresh shower of tears as those ominous words struck deeply - and Wolf McLeod bestowed on her a look of angry satisfaction. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The army marched. 

Through a blanket of pristine white, their breath foaming in the air, woolen cloaks held tightly against the cold, wolfskin boots crunching down the snow-clotted trail. They needed no torches; the moon shone brightly down on the scene. 

Cathelin rode in front with Wolf McLeod, Becca Half-Tongue and four others, their horses' hooves breaking up huge patches of snow - and Cathelin thanked God and St. Brigit there had been no freeze as yet. The snow was packed but not iced, and easy to break through. 

Cathelin was in her full Blacksunne armor, and the smoke of her breath streamed from behind the grilled visor of her war helm, making her resemble a steel dragon from ancient myths. The mighty broadsword of the O'Camerons was on her hip, and behind her saddle hung a quiver of javelins with leaf shaped tips of razor-sharp steel. 

Wolf carried aloft the O'Cameron banner, a bright crimson flag with a white and silver phoenix rising from ebony flames, and Becca proudly fingered her new badge of office - Cathelin had promoted her to the officer ranks. It would be her task to stay with the Lady during the fight and blow battle signals with the ancient ivory horn of the clan. 

Cathelin had not said a word when she'd arrived in the forecourt earlier, looking like the Morrigan herself - the Battlecrow - in her black enameled armor. Her new war horse, Shaitan, had bucked a little as she'd swung into the saddle but her fist between his ears had put an end to his fractiousness. 

As they marched, the kerns softly sang an ancient war song, although the pipers and drummers were silent; scouts had been sent ahead to deal with any sentries the enemy may have posted, but Cathelin had promised to hang any who lost them the element of surprise. So the army marched and chaunted quietly beneath their breaths: 

''Every day and every night 
That I say this prayer of St. Brigit, 
I shall not be killed, I shall not be harried, 
I shall not be put in a cell, I shall not be wounded. 
No fire, no sun, no moon shall burn me, 
No lake, no water, nor sea shall drown me. 
Come, Daurdabla! Oak of Two Woods! 
Come, Coir-cethair-chuir! Four angled music! 
Mouth of pipes and bags and drums! 
The White Host above me, 
The Queen of Heaven about me, 
And my sword to the service of God! 
May the blood of my lord's enemies 
Be as a river beneath my feet, 
And may that red water, 
Be mingled with the tears of their women...'' 

Cathelin gave a grim smile behind her war helm as the quiet verse reached her ears, and urged Shaitan with her heel to pick up his pace, while behind her, the army marched on.

Madrigal arched her back slightly as she was squeezed in a fist of pain; she had wrapped a stick in a scrap of cloth torn from her skirts, and her teeth were tightly clenched down on it to stifle her cries. 

The pains were coming more frequently now; she was bathed in sweat and beginning to believe there had never been anything in the world except this cycle of pain and purpose. Oh, Allah!, she thought as the agony eased and she panted quietly, protect my Lady Cat, and let my children be born soon! 

In the dark, campfires flickered fitfully as the men of Francis' army huddled in their cloaks, sharpening their swords or, in most cases, napping. A veteran knew to take his rest where and when he could. 

Small tents had been set up in the grove; most of those tents were quiet and dark. Lord Francis was in the commander's tent with O'Brian, O'Kennedy and Galbraith, going over their plans for the coming morn... 

Suddenly, the quiet night was shattered by nearly a hundred voices raised in the keening, hair-raising wail that was the Irish battlecry - and out of the dark, flaming arrows sizzled down to strike the trees. 

Francis scrambled out of the tent, the other three men on his heels, as several trees burst into flame, becoming gigantic torches that cast a surreal light on a scene from their worst nightmares. 

The pipers and drummers gave the beat as a horde of soldiers burst into the camp, screaming, swords raised, cloaks streaming behind, faces painted into devil's masks with sacred blue woad... and met with little resistance. 

O'Brian bellowed frantic orders as the terrible figure of Blacksunne slid down from her horse, the quiver of hunting javelins empty; Cathelin had hurled them expertly as she'd ridden into camp, and twelve of the enemy already lay dead. She drew her sword and whacked Shaitan on the withers, sending him flying from the fight, and settled down to begin wrecking destruction in earnest. 

Galbraith, his lean face pale, hastily jammed a helmet on his head and ran, legs pumping, to rally his own men to the fight, O'Kennedy hot on his heels. 

Lord Francis watched, entranced, as resistance was quickly organized and the fighting began in earnest. It was as if he dwelled apart, in a space alone, somehow above the battle, yet observing it all. His hazel eyes were wide with excitement, and he shivered as he watched a man's arm fly through the air to land steaming in the snow beside him. Then he slunk away from the scene to find a safer location to watch from; he knew his whore cousin's men would be looking for him, and he had no intention of dying just yet. 

Cathelin ignored the banging of swords against her armor and swept her own sword up and around, cutting a soldier in half. She was still in the grip of icy, almost detached calm. Behind the war helm, her face was rigid, lips skinned back from her teeth in a snarl. 

She pivoted, smashing the iron boss of her shield into another man's face and he fell, spitting teeth and blood. Cathelin stamped down hard on his exposed neck as she engaged another warrior, cracking the fallen enemy's windpipe; behind her, she heard the drumming of his heels on the ground as he choked to death. Always make sure of your enemy, her father's voice sounded in her ears. Never assume he's dead until you hear his death-rattle. 

She grunted, swinging her broadsword up and back until it lay in a straight line down her back. She milked the hilt as she had been taught, then, belly muscles clenching with effort, swung it down in the pattern Sir Giles had called the 'apple splitter.'' 

The soldier had been banging his sword along Cathelin's armored sides, seeking a seam he could penetrate. The blurred arc of her broadsword shot down like a bolt from Heaven, and he did not even have time to raise his shield in a futile gesture as the steel struck, and his head was cleaved literally in half, down to his breastbone. 

Cathelin raised one foot and kicked the convulsing body off her blade, and her head swung around, seeking another enemy to send to Jesus' arms. 

All around her, pockets of her own men and the O'Fierna's were engaged in battle. Bran O'Fierna himself was locked into a sword dance with the O'Kennedy, the two men exchanging insults over their shields. Cathelin spared a tiny corner of her mind to note that they were evenly matched, and sent a small prayer to St. Brigit that O'Fierna would not be too badly injured. 

Suddenly, a voice caught her ears; amidst the clash of steel, war cries and screams, it was barely audible, but to Cathelin, it had all the power of a shout from God Himself. Her eyes narrowed behind the steel grill of her visor as she searched for the source of that voice... and saw Madrigal on her knees at the entrance to a cave mouth. 

The ice that had held her soul in its grip fractured, then splintered apart into a thousand shards as the sight of the woman she loved hit her like a blow, and her blood began to flow again. Cathelin screamed, ''MADRIGAL!'' and began to hack her way through the clustered knots of fighting men, determined to reach her love... until she was halted abruptly by a bellow behind her. 

Turning, she beheld a giant of a man dressed in mismatched mail and leathers. He was nearly seven feet tall and bald, with a heavy blonde mustache, and his face was covered in woad tattoos. In his hands he wielded a heavy war maul, the leather covered head of the hammer covered in blood and brain matter. 

''I'll kill thee, Blacksunne!'' the giant roared, swinging his maul negligently and bashing a hapless soldier to the ground. ''Come an' die by Cormac's hammer!!'' 

Cathelin settled herself behind her shield, sword at the ready, heart pounding furiously in her chest. She controlled her breathing as she had been taught, but her thoughts were not on the coming battle... they were with Madrigal, and she was impatient to kill this Cormac and rush to her love's side. 

Cormac yelled lustily, then came at her, hammer swinging with deadly purpose.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Madrigal heard the ululating war cry burst from the night's silence, and then the clash of swords and ringing steel. She struggled to her knees, crawling across the cave floor to the entrance, compelled to witness what was going on. She had to know, had to find out if her Lady had come. 

Her knees and the palms of her hands were bloody, rubbed raw on rough stone, by the time she gained the entrance, but she did not notice. All of her attention was fixed on the swirling, flame-lit scene before her as she searched the skirmishing warriors for the one figure she knew would be there. 

Wolf McLeod thrust the crimson phoenix banner of the O'Cameron's into a mound of snow covered earth, then drew his longsword. He carried no shield, but in his left hand he wielded a hand axe with deadly efficiency, and he leaped into the fray with a blood-curdling scream... 

Becca Half-Tongue danced lightly beside the black armored figure of Blacksunne, her sword flickering like a serpent's tongue, and just as quickly. At Cathelin's muttered orders, she would raise the ivory horn to her lips to blow patterned notes in the code that would tell the Lady's men and allies where to gather and where to strike. 

Madrigal's eyes feasted on her Lady; she was enthralled by her battle prowess. My Lady is the greatest warrior, she thought, and her eyes shone with tears of love and pride. 

Soon Cathelin stood alone, separated from her men and embattled, but using her sword like an extension of her arm and will, creating an ever-outward expanding circle of death and blood around her. 

Madrigal watched, then felt her stomach contract again... She bit her lip until the blood ran, trying not to cry out as she was gripped by pain, curling over her bulging stomach, both hands clawing at the unforgiving stone floor, but at last, she threw back her head and howled the name of the one person she longed for: ''CATHELIN!'' 

Down on the battlefield, Madrigal saw, through a haze of agony, her Lady Cat's head swing around, and she nearly wept when the figure in black armor began methodically chopping soldiers out of her way, heading straight towards the cave. My Lady comes, Madrigal thought, and collapsed on her side, panting. 

The terrible pain eased. Madrigal sat up, and her dark purple eyes widened as she supported herself on her hands and saw something that made her heart nearly stop. Allah, she thought, the size of him! Her Lady was being challenged by a hammer-wielding giant, and Madrigal felt an icy chill of fear trickle down her spine.

''Oh, Allah!'' Madrigal breathed fervently, ''Let Your hand cover my Lady Cat; protect her, watch over her, let her come back to me safely.'' 

The Muslim watched with growing apprehension as her Lady and the giant exchanged blows, the giant's hammer smashing the Lady's shield from her hands. They circled and danced, the Lady fighting like a wolf, darting in to wound and leaping out of range; the giant like a mighty bear, closing in on his prey to smash and rend. 

Finally, however, the blood-covered giant roared in fury, and began swinging wildly, raining blow after blow down at Cathelin, who adroitly avoided the hammer and pricked him in the thigh. 

Then, to Madrigal's horror, the giant swatted Cathelin's sword away from him with one hand, the other bringing up the war maul underhand with all his strength... 

The hammer struck her Lady full in the chest, sending her flying backwards to land with a crash on her back. As Madrigal wept and prayed, her heart in her throat, the giant closed in for the kill. 

She couldn't breathe... 

Cathelin rasped for breath, but couldn't fill her straining lungs. The steel of her breastplate had been so severely dented, it acted like a vise, squeezing her grating ribs together. Spots danced before her eyes as she struggled to turn over. Get up, get up! she remembered her father saying, when as a child she'd fallen exhausted to her hands and knees after practice. His commands ricocheted through Cathelin's head, and her limbs automatically obeyed ingrained warrior training, lifting the broadsword in a shaking hand as she sat up with a hiss of pain and tried to gather her legs under her. 

Cormac bellowed in triumph. He swung the hammer up over his head, gripping the shaft tightly, muscles in his arms bulging like oak knots beneath the skin. His tiny eyes were red with fury, like a boar's; the earth seemed to shake beneath his feet as he rushed forward... 

Cathelin's vision had narrowed to a small tunnel of light surrounded by darkness. The point of the broadsword wavered as she watched the seemingly tiny figure of Cormac coming towards her. With her last conscious thought, she seemed to see the smiling face of Madrigal, her love, beckoning her onward, and behind her visor, Cathelin returned that smile. 

Becca downed another man, twisting aside fastidiously to avoid spurting blood, and whirled around to see Cormac the Giant, hammer in hand, standing above the Lady. The kern bent, snatched her opponent's spear from his convulsing hand and cast it without pausing, praying to God and all the saints that her aim would be true. Even as the spear hummed through the air, she ran to her Lady's side, still praying... 

Just as Cathelin lost consciousness and collapsed, Cormac stopped; the spear thrown by the desperate kern had thudded home and stood, quivering, between his shoulder blades. His eyes held a faintly puzzled expression, then a flood of dark blood spilled over his lips as he choked, then fell as heavily as a mighty oak hewn by woodsmen's axes, to land with a crash on top of Cathelin, his mighty hammer driving into the earth. 

Becca skidded to a stop beside her fallen commander. She snatched the ivory horn to her lips and blew a measure, then without waiting to see what effect this had on her allies, fell to her knees and began trying to roll Cormac off the Lady, sweating and grunting with effort. 

In a moment, she was joined by Wolf McLeod. As other soldiers pounded up to form a protective ring around their commander, she and Wolf managed to get Cormac off the Lady. Her squire, Thomas, wriggled his way through the massed warriors, waving a large rucksack. 

''Let me pass! Let me pass!'' he squealed, then getting through to the inner circle, hurled himself down to the ground beside Cathelin and rummaged in the sack, quickly bringing out a set of steel bars, pointed at one end and blunt at the other. 

''Here,'' he said breathlessly, passing the tools to Becca and Wolf, ''use these on the armor joints and break it apart. Hurry!'' He drew off Cathelin's war helm gently. Becca gasped at the sight of Cathelin's pale, still face; the Lady's lips were turning blue, and the kern knew it wasn't from the cold. 

The three of them worked quickly, first getting off the badly dented breastplate; Wolf whistled - the area of collapsed steel was as deep as his fist. Thomas, tongue between his teeth and a lock of reddish-blonde hair hanging in his eyes, expertly peeled the breastplate back. 

All around them, the men kept back Francis' rallying soldiers, using spears and swords and shields to hurl the enemy away. But they did not break rank to pursue - they dared not. If one enemy warrior broke through, it would take only a single swordstroke to rid them of their beloved Lady - and every man and woman there was determined to sell their own lives if necessary. The O'Fierna's men began attacking the enemy soldiers, and soon, Francis' men were trapped between two walls of sharp steel. 

The instant he could, Wolf laid his head on Cathelin's chest, probing her rib cage. She still wasn't breathing properly, only in shallow gasps, but there was no wheezing; it was as if her body had not yet realized it could take deeper breaths. He couldn't detect any sign of a collapsed lung. 

Calculatingly, Wolf drew back his arm and delivered a careful blow to Cathelin's chest, making her draw a sharp, deep breath of pain as his hard fist made bruises flare in anguish. The sound of that indrawn breath was sweeter than angel's harps to him, and a rare smile lit up his face. 

Cathelin's eyelashes fluttered as the pain, and the increased oxygen to her lungs, brought her up from darkness. In a moment, her amber eyes opened... and she beheld the smiling face of Wolf McLeod. ''C-c-cormac?'' she rasped, one hand clutching her aching chest. 

Wolf and Becca helped Cathelin sit up as Thomas worked on removing the rest of her upper armor. ''Dead,'' Wolf said simply. Cathelin's eyes moved to the giant's corpse and she smiled faintly. ''Whose spear?'' she asked. 

Becca flushed and could not speak, so Wolf nodded his head in her direction. ''T'was th' Half-Tongue,'' he replied. ''Good cast, lass.'' 

Cathelin raised one hand and touched Becca's arm. ''My thanks,'' she said. Then, her disordered mind began to wake, and she struggled to get up, amber eyes wide. ''Madri!'' she gasped. 

Thomas protested, ''Sit still, Lady! I've got to get the rest of this armor off you!'' 

Cathelin ignored him. ''Where's my sword, Wolf? Madri's up there!'' When the three paid her no heed but continued to unlace her armor, Cathelin snapped in fury, ''I've no time for such! Give me my damned sword, McLeod!'' 

''Nay,'' he said, concentrating on a knot, ''Just a few more moments, Lady. Ye canna confront th' enemy half-accoutered. I'm sure th' wee lass is safe.'' 

Fuming, Cathelin allowed them to get the rest of her armor off, then stood, swaying a little as the sudden motion caused spots to dance before her vision. Beneath the armor she wore only leather trews and a padded gambeson; the cotton shirt was rust-stained and stank of stale sweat and iron. 

Thomas pulled a mail shirt out of his sack and helped Cathelin draw it over her head, the steel rings jingling. Then, he drew out a helm, the noseguard in the shape of a phoenix, and the wings of the bird swept over either side of the dome. 

Cathelin stamped a few times, settling the mail into place, and pulled the helm over the coils of her dark red braids. Her chest felt as if she had been stampeded over by a herd of horses, but she could breathe, and while her ribs creaked, she didn't think any had been broken. Wolf pressed the hilt of her broadsword into her hand, and Cathelin nodded her thanks. 

Around them, the outer ring of kerns was holding strong. Cathelin pushed between two of them, nodding at her men's shout of ''The Sunne! The Sunne!'' as they beheld their Lady, and a mutual prayer of gratitude was whispered from a dozen throats, thanking God that their Lady was uninjured. 

Screaming, ''Attack!'' Cathelin led her kerns into another charge, and the slaughter began with renewed ferocity. She swirled through the battlefield like the Cailleach, Black Annis herself, harvesting the souls of heroes. In her wake was strewn the bodies of the dead and dying. 

Becca caught a riderless horse by the bridle as it pounded past, and helped Thomas load the Lady's precious plate armor onto a hastily rigged litter, then boosted the young man up on the mare's back. 

Seeing him safely off the battlefield and on his way to Inishowen, Becca smiled grimly and wrenched the spear out of dead Cormac's back, bracing one foot on the cooling corpse. Twirling it expertly between her fingers, the scar-faced kern chaunted a fierce war song as she danced back out onto the battlefield, eyes alight. 
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Abbot Benedict watched with growing dismay and alarm as the tide of battle turned against the defenders. Despite the best efforts of the Lords' combined men, they were no match for Inishowen's blood-hungry fighters. 

He picked up the skirts of his brown robe and hustled away, calculating, planning... Behind the false stone in the fireplace of his private study in the abbey, there was a sack of gold and jewels - his personal fortune, gathered over the years by skimming the offerings and taking bribes from local Lords to turn a blind eye to some of their misdoings. 

Benedict knew his dream of becoming a Bishop, or even Archbishop, was in jeopardy, but he was determined to play this out to the end. If he could only get away, perhaps to Rome itself, and be the first to tell the story. Well, then, he thought, dodging a snow-laden branch, it may yet be that I can put down the Inishowen Whore and all her ilk, and come away clean and ennobled by the Church as well. 

His steely gray eyes sparkled at the thought of Cathelin bound to a stake, being burned alive at the behest of infuriated churchmen. There were those elements in the Church, he knew, who would have no qualms about ordering such action, and the political consequences be damned. Even Bishop Rudolphus could not afford a breach with Rome, nor could he ignore a direct order from the Pope. 

As Benedict hurried away, his mind racing through plots and plans, he failed to notice an infuriated pair of eyes watching his exit. 

David Uileand, Master of Hound for Lady Cathelin, scrubbed angry tears from his face. The tall, scrawny man who had charge of the Lady's war and hunt hounds had seen the figure of the Abbot scurrying away, and his heart was swollen with fury. 

Just that morning, his youngest son, a ten-year-old named Gwion, had told him of the goings-on among the choirboys at the abbey. Gwion had spoken tearfully of rape at Benedict's hands, and his fears of being damned to Hell for, in the abbot's own words, 'tempting a man of God to sins of the flesh.' 

David had been appalled; at first, he had been inclined to disbelieve the child, but the story had rung all too true. Then his wife, Emer, had fearfully confessed to finding blood on the boy's sheets, and his doubts had exploded into rage. He'd wanted to grab up a hunting spear and kill Benedict before he drew another breath, but then his Lady's needs and his own vows to serve her cause had interfered. However, he now saw a God-given chance to repay Benedict and revenge his son, and all the village's children, of their hurt at that evil pedophile's hands. 

''Ssssa, ssssa, me lovelies, me fierce ones,'' he whispered to the two enormous hounds at his side. Although thin, David's musculature was sufficient to hold the dogs in check as they strained on their leather leashes. 

The gaze-hounds were shaggy, brindle coated monsters, bred to take down an armored foe with ease. Their shoulders were even with David's hips; they had blocky heads with feathered, drooping ears, and their eyes glittering with feral intelligence. They bayed, paws scrabbling at the snow, fangs bared, strings of spittle hanging from black jowls. 

David pointed to the figure of the Abbot; the hounds' heads swung around, their noses working to catch the scent. Unique among canines, gaze-hounds hunted by both sight and scent; once an enemy had been spotted, it took only a single command to set them on the hunt, and they would pursue that target relentlessly until they brought it down or were killed. 

''Derga, Culain,'' David said, and the hounds pricked up their ears a little at the familiar names. Their bodies quivered with eagerness as the Master of Hounds unbuckled their leashes, careful to avoid being pricked by the heavy, steel-spiked collars they wore. Both hounds knew this action portended the Word, and they were impatient to begin their lawful work. 

David was sure the hounds had been fixed on the abbot; both Derga and Culain had the tail down, ferociously concentrating look he had come to know well. 

He drew a breath and said, grinning fiercely, ''Brave ones... SEEK!'' he commanded, and both hounds shot away, bellies low to the ground as they howled after their prey. 

The Hound Master smiled to himself as he trotted after his charges. He would not miss this slaying for all the world. 

Abbot Benedict's boots crunched on the snow as he turned in the direction of the abbey, following a small, frozen stream that he knew ended behind the abbey's walls. He had gone far enough from the battlefield that the sounds had faded; he pushed aside an icicle strewn branch and picked his way carefully, trying to avoid a slip. If he broke his leg now, it would cost him his life. 

Suddenly, shockingly near, he heard the baying of hounds. Benedict's heart froze in his chest; surely he had to be mistaken... But the howls drew nearer and the abbot panicked, running, stumbling, catching himself against the boles of trees in his headlong flight. 

He had no real warning; one moment, he heard panting and the thudding of paws along the ground; the next, he was falling forward, screaming thinly as massive jaws gripped his shoulder in a bone-crushing grip, and nearly fifteen stone of muscle and fur sent him crashing to the ground. 

Derga snarled and shifted his grip, grinding the abbot's arm into a splintered, bloody mess. Benedict wailed again, his good hand clawing at the snow covered earth in an instinctive effort to get away. 

Culain's head darted forward and she seized Benedict's buttocks in her slavering jaws, teeth penetrating deeply. Derga leaped off the prey, and Culain picked up the squealing abbot and shook him, blood splattering the snow and spraying into her face. 

Benedict's eyes were closed as excruciating pain exploded through his body. He had never felt pain like this before; even flagellating himself with a barbed whip had never caused such unbelievable agony. Both hounds seized mouthfuls of his flesh and began their work again, tearing chunks away which steamed in the cold air as he screamed and screamed and screamed... 

A shrill whistle caused Derga and his mate, Culain, to back away from the whimpering Benedict and sit down in the snow. Both hounds' muzzles and faces were dark with blood, and they panted, tongues lolling, waiting for their master. 

David Uileand trotted up, a cross-barred boar spear swinging in one hand. Benedict rolled over with a massive effort, uselessly bloody arm flopping to one side. The abbot whimpered when he saw the grim expression on the other man's face. 

David's dark green eyes shone with a satisfied light as he surveyed the hounds' work. Derga and Culain slunk over to him, and he patted and praised the dogs before turning his hot gaze on the horribly injured abbot. 

''I'm knowin' what ye did ta me boy, ye pederast barsted,'' David spat viciously. ''An' th' others. Ye'd best pray fer God's mercy, ye pig-dog, fer ye'll be gettin' none from me an' mine.'' 

The abbot blubbered, tears of pain and humiliation spilling down his face. He wept and begged, but David's face was as hard as stone. He said, ''I hopes ye burns in Hell, ye poxy whoreson. Ye'll no more make a catamite out o' any childer again.'' Derga and Culain whined as they waited for a further Word from their master. Their black eyes were locked on the figure of the pleading abbot and they snarled, roused by the smell of blood and fear. 

David smiled, a heart-stopping grin of such ferocity that the abbot's mouth clicked shut, and he began whimpering the Lord's Prayer. David pointed to the abbot and commanded, ''REND!'' 

''Nooooo!,'' Benedict screamed, a high, thin wail of disbelief and awful torment as Derga and Culain leaped upon him with a howl and began to tear him apart piece by bloody piece, taking their time as they had been commanded, instead of killing their prey quickly... 

David watched in satisfaction as his charges evoked further screams from the abbot. Eventually, there were no more, and the blood-splattered scene was quiet except for the hoarse panting of the hounds, and David's jaunty whistling as he drew a broad bladed knife and set to work himself, taking a trophy from the ripped-apart corpse to show to his traumatized son. 
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Madrigal bit down on her stick again, belly heaving. She had propped herself up against the stone wall of the cave, and her legs were spread wide apart as she pushed, grunting with massive, muscle-straining effort. 

Finally, the pain slacked off and she relaxed with a sigh, legs spraddled on the floor. Her face was beaded with sweat despite the cold, and her limbs trembled with exhaustion. She knew she had a while to go yet before the birth was imminent, and she wondered if she would survive. 

Below her, Cathelin was frantic. It seemed that an endless parade of enemies blocked her path to her love, and although she mowed them down relentlessly, they kept popping back up, anonymous faces with all too real weapons who had to be swept out of her way. 

At last, though, she disposed of a final warrior, and her eyes darted back and forth, seeking another, but there were none. The clear call of a horn flowed over the battlefield and Cathelin looked around. Galbraith had taken his surviving men and fled back to Carbery, to lick his wounds and pray for Inishowen's downfall; the Irishwoman knew it would be a frozen morning in Hell before Sir Duncan came against her again. 

The O'Kennedy was dead, his head tied to Bran O'Fierna's saddlebow, and his warriors had been slaughtered to a man. O'Brian had been captured, and even now knelt in the snow, waiting judgment and possible death at Cathelin's hands. His men had surrendered and had been let free by Wolf McLeod, to bear the news back to the O'Brian clan. 

Where is Francis?, Cathelin wondered, then allowed her gaze to sweep back up to the cave where Madrigal waited... and she caught her breath as a wave of pure fury overcame her. Her cousin was there, his fist wound in Madrigal's blue-black hair, and he was dragging her further into the cave. 

Cathelin let out a scream of rage, and bolted towards the cave, casting off her helm and dropping her broadsword, her only thought to tear Francis apart with her own two hands. 

She was not noticed by her men; they were busy giving the grace stroke to badly injured enemy warriors and organizing litters to carry Inishowen's wounded to the leeches who waited to tend to their hurts. 

Madrigal yelped as Francis dragged her across the floor. Her hair felt as if it was being ripped from her skull, and she supported her belly with both hands as she was scraped across the stone. 

Finally, Francis flung Madrigal down in the back of the cave and drew his knife with his left hand. It was dark, but the Muslim could see ripples of light shimmering down the length of the steel. She gave a small sigh of relief when Francis used the dagger with a bit of flint to light a torch on the wall, then slid it back into the sheath. 

She was lying against something - brittle, with an odd, musty-sweet smell... Madrigal craned her neck to see and bit her lip hard to smother a gasp of shock. 

Sorcha's body lay behind her, the woman's lips drawn back from the ivoried teeth in a hideous grin. Her eyes were hollow sockets, and she was virtually unrecognizable as the vibrant chatelaine of Inishowen, except for the two long, blonde braids that had been her hallmark when living, and now served to identify the dead. 

The corner of the cave was dark, but Madrigal could detect a salty flavor to the air. There was a hollow roaring, as if she held her ear to a seashell, and the Muslim squinted against the torchlight, straining to see. Yes, she thought, those shadows seem less dark than the others. That must be a blind corner, and an opening to the sea beyond. 

Francis was muttering, ''Whore! Whore! You stole my land, you stole my Sorcha, you stole my army, you'll not steal my life!'' 

He squatted down abruptly and laid a hard hand on Madrigal's belly. ''I have no time to play anymore, sweet slavey.'' The knife glittered in his left hand again, and he grinned, the pupils of his hazel eyes expanding with excitement. ''I'll have to end this more quickly than I expected. Too bad I can't stay to see the look on my bitch cousin's face when she comes to find you gutted like a pig and still squealing.'' 

Madrigal trembled, then she was swept away in a ferocious burst of pain. Not now! was her last conscious thought before pure instinct took over, and her hands squeezed the rags of Sorcha's dress. She whimpered, helplessly tossed in a whirling storm of agony. 

Francis looked down at Madrigal's grimacing face and with a start, realized she was in labor... Then he grinned widely. He'd never cut a pregnant woman before, and he wondered if her womb would still convulse with the effort of birth after he ripped her belly open. 

He pulled his knife out of the sheath slowly, licking his lips with anticipation. Madrigal's eyes were closed as she pushed against the rigid muscles of her abdomen, panting heavily. 

Francis lightly trailed the point of the knife along a fold of Madrigal's dress, and he whispered, ''Sweet slavey... I'll take your heart with me when I go.'' 

He pulled his arm back and up, his manhood growing hard in his breeches as he prepared to strike. 

Cathelin skidded into the cave, nostrils flared, breathing hard. It was empty - then the faint flickering of a torch at the back of the cave caught her attention. 

The Irishwoman walked carefully towards the light, feet making not a sound on the dirty stone floor. When she rounded the shallow corner, her amber eyes flared with renewed rage... 

Madrigal lay on the floor, twisting in pain, with Francis above her, a knife poised to strike. 

Cathelin's mind went up in flames. 

With a roar, Cathelin tackled Francis from the side, rolling him with her momentum across the floor, fetching up with a bang against the opposite wall, her hated enemy on top. Francis was stunned for a moment, then he felt Cathelin bury her teeth in the tender flesh of his throat. 

Cathelin growled through the mouthful of flesh, jaws grinding, and Francis screamed, striking out with his knife. The point was deflected by Cathelin's mail shirt, but the force of the blow made her release him. She sprang to her feet and waited, holding her bruised ribs with one hand. 

A trickle of Francis' blood stained the corner of her mouth and her tongue flicked out to taste it, an explosion of coppery sweetness that had the effect of sobering her somewhat. All too well do I know that taste, Cathelin thought, and she controlled the urge to attack her cousin like a wild animal. 

Francis got to his feet and touched the side of his neck to assess the ragged wound. 

''So, my whore cousin returns,'' Francis said sardonically, ''and such a kiss of welcome, too. Come for your little slavey, have you?'' He gestured with the knife towards Madrigal. ''You'll have to kill me first.'' His voice was hard, and his hazel eyes were alight with insane glee. 

Cathelin suddenly smiled, amber eyes as hot as molten gold. ''You'll be having your wish, cousin,'' she replied. ''You hurt my Madri, bastard whore's get. I'll kill you with my own hands, and great will be my pleasure in the doing of it.'' 

Francis darted forward, knife held professionally low. His right hand struck out at Cathelin's face, but she deflected it easily, and the point of the knife skidded across her thigh, drawing blood. 

Cathelin grunted, then drove her face forward, slamming her forehead into Francis' nose. Blood spurted as he reeled backwards, tripping over the sweating, panting Madrigal and falling to sprawl on Sorcha's body. Cathelin started towards him, and he scrambled backward, disappearing around the blind corner and out of sight. 

Cathelin paused and squatted down beside Madrigal. ''Are you well, sweetling?'' she asked, keeping her eyes on the blind corner lest Francis should return. She was still very angry, but her concern for Madrigal overrode other considerations. Besides, she thought, he'll not escape, save he learns to fly. She had explored these caves as a child, and knew the opening at the rear of the cave led to a sheer two-hundred foot drop, straight down to the white-foamed maw of the sea. 

Her love opened her eyes; the Muslim's contraction eased, and Madrigal replied hoarsely, ''Now that you are here, yes. But the children come quickly, Lady Cat. Finish it and come back to me.'' She bestowed a tired smile on her Lady, and mentally thanked Allah for protecting Cathelin. 

Cathelin leaned down and kissed Madrigal's sweaty forehead. ''Rest, Madri,'' she said softly, ''I'll be back before you even know I've gone.'' 

The Irishwoman stood, dark red hair loosened from its braids and flowing in tangled strands across her broad shoulders. She stepped carefully over Madrigal and Sorcha, and stalked around the corner, the muscles of her jaw writhing beneath the skin. 

Francis was waiting, outlined in the faint ruddy light of dawn that streamed in through the small cave mouth. His shirt was stained with blood, rusty stains spotted his sandy beard, and one eye was swelling rapidly shut, but his lips were peeled back from his teeth in a defiant snarl. 

''I'll kill you, YOU BITCH!'' he screamed, and rushed towards Cathelin, who ignored the twinge of pain in her thigh and prepared to meet him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The two warriors grappled, reeling across the small room. Francis drove his knife repeatedly into Cathelin's back, squalling in pain as the woman's arms tightened around his waist and she squeezed with all her strength. 

Cathelin ignored the pain of the blows against her back and heaved Francis from his feet, tightening the muscles in her arms into rigid bars as she tried to break his back with her grip alone. Her face was stony, lips pressed so tightly together they were pale and bloodless. 

Francis managed to free his left arm and drove the knife towards Cathelin's face; she dropped him to dodge aside. His right hand caught the Irishwoman a hard swipe across the throat and she gagged, staggering backwards, chest heaving as she tried to draw breath through her bruised windpipe. 

She felt her heels falter on the crumbling stone at the edge of the drop-off, and her heart hammered in her chest. Her arms flew out to brace against the sides of the opening, strong hands gripping the rock face convulsively. 

With a shrill yelp of triumph, Francis walked towards her and Cathelin knew she was going to die. It would take only a small thrust to break her grip and she would tumble backwards, windmilling down to the ocean and the black spines of rock below. 

Goodbye, my Madri, Cathelin thought regretfully as she prepared mentally for death. Although she still struggled to regain her balance, the stone beneath her feet crumbling and pattering away, she was also ready to take Francis with her into death. T'is damned I'll be if I let him live to torment my Madri again! Cathelin thought, as time slowed down to a crawl, and Francis came at her, knife upraised, sheer hate and elation mingled together on his face. 

Madrigal's pain eased, and she lay her head back on the cool stone floor. She was exhausted, so terribly tired. 

The grunts of combat from beyond the corner drew her attention. Something is wrong, she thought, worried. Lady Cat should have returned by now. 

Shakily, she crawled over Sorcha's body, wincing as the brittle bones of the corpse crunched beneath her weight, and managed to get around the corner, although her arms shook with the effort of holding herself up. Madrigal kept crawling, stubborn determination spurring her on. 

As she reached the small room beyond the corner, Madrigal's dark eyes widened in shock and fear and her heart thudded into her throat; silently, she keened Cathelin's name in her mind as she took in the horrifying scene. 

Lady Cat was poised on the very edge of the tiny platform that jutted out over the sea, and she held both sides of the rock face tightly. It was obvious that she was helpless, balance gone, and it was only her grip on the stones that held her there still. 

Lord Francis was stalking towards her Lady; his back was to the former slave, but she could sense his gloating delight. He was going to kill her love. 

Madrigal's hand desperately scrabbled on the floor, seeking something, anything she could throw to distract him. A stone, a stick, anything... better I die beneath his blade than my Lady, she thought frantically. 

Her searching hand alighted on something, and with a sense of disbelief she realized it was a short horse bow. She picked it up and noted with relief that it was not some old relic, but new, the bowstring taut and perfect. It must have been left by one of Francis' men, she thought. 

She hastily found an arrow, cutting her thumb slightly on the barbed head. Then Madrigal nocked the arrow, drawing back the string as her warrior father had taught her in those long-ago, barely remembered days of her childhood. She could not remember his face, just the feel of his callused hands on her own tiny ones as he taught her to draw the child's bow he had made for her. 

Her arms trembled with the strain of holding the bow, but from somewhere inside herself, she found a previously unknown well of strength and her wavering aim miraculously steadied. Madrigal closed one eye, sighting carefully, the feathers of the fletching tickling her cheek, and sent a prayer to Allah not to take her Lady Cat this day. She knew she would have only one chance, and her mind shuddered away from the consequences if she failed. 

Ponderously, Madrigal struggled up on one knee, knowing if this worked, she would have to act quickly. 

Francis wet his lips with his tongue and slowly drew the knife along Cathelin's cheek, a thin line of blood springing up along the path of the razored steel. Cathelin's muscles were taut as she held herself up by sheer strength of will alone. 

Francis whispered in sing-song fashion, ''Now you're going to d-i-i-ie,'' and Cathelin held herself poised, preparing to whip one arm out and fasten his tunic in her grasp, pulling him over with her as she fell. 

Suddenly, a soft sigh echoed from the cave walls as Madrigal released the arrow and got to her feet, already in motion, casting the bow aside as she hurried with all the speed she could muster. Francis felt the arrow bury itself in his back, the barbed head slamming into his kidneys and shredding flesh and organs in its passage. 

He screamed and toppled forward, but Madrigal was there, moving adroitly despite her clumsy bulk, fear for her beloved Lady lending wings to her feet. She snatched him by the arm and pivoted, hurling him away from her Lady Cat with a strength magnified by love and desperation. Francis slammed into the cave wall, the force of Madrigal's arm and his own weight pushing the arrowhead deeper into his body. 

As soon as she released Francis, Madrigal's hands buried themselves in Cathelin's mail shirt and the Muslim woman heaved with all her might, pulling her Lady forward and away from danger. 

Cathelin gaped as she saw Madrigal moving with grace and purpose despite her immense belly; her love's sweet face was frozen in a teeth-clenching rictus of effort, but her dark purple eyes shone with a ferocious light Cathelin had never dreamed she possessed. 

T'is as if she's been possessed by the battle madness, Cathelin thought in amazement as Madrigal sent Francis hurtling away with what seemed like effortless ease, then darted forward to seize the Irishwoman's shirt and pull, strands of blue-black hair sticking to her wet face. 

Cathelin found her balance and released her deathgrip on the rocks, but then was overbalanced by Madrigal's mad tugging, and fell, taking the Muslim woman with her; Cathelin absorbed the shock on the palms of her hands, keeping her weight off Madrigal only with a gut-wrenching effort that caused beads of sweat to spring up on her brow. 

Madrigal looked up at Cathelin. Now that the moment had passed and her Lady was safe, she felt another contraction coming on. ''Lady,'' she gasped, ''my children...'' 

Cathelin rolled away from Madrigal and sprang to her feet. She started to run towards the front of the cave, but stopped and retraced her steps. Always make sure of a fallen enemy... 

She walked back to the small room and over to Francis, who opened his eyes at her approach. The insane light within those hazel depths had dimmed, but he smiled with his blood-stained mouth. 

''God... damn... you...,'' he half-whispered, and a gout of dark blood bubbled from his lips. ''God... damn... you...to... Hell...'' 

Cathelin squatted down and put her arms around Francis, then stood, the injured muscle in her thigh quivering as her effort ripped the cut wider. She carried Francis to the small opening at the back of the little room, keeping her feet carefully away from the shattered edge. 

His hazel eyes widened and he whimpered fitfully, tossing his head back and forth in denial. Cathelin looked down at her cousin's face and searched her heart, but found no guilt, no mercy - just the remembrance of justice, and the meaning of the law. 

''You first, cousin,'' she said softly, then dropped him over the edge... 

Francis screamed shrilly as he fell, tumbling over and over through the air, and the wet splatter of his body striking the rocks below was overwhelmed by the rushing roar of the sea. 

Cathelin watched him fall, then turned away. No tears burned in her eyes for this death; only grim satisfaction at a judgment given, a punishment meted, and the thought that her Madri had, at last, been fully revenged. 

Madrigal cried out, and the sound of her voice jolted Cathelin from her reverie. ''Sweetling!'' she yelped, then absurdly blurted, ''Stay there - I'll fetch help.'' 

Madrigal grunted in acknowledgment as she pushed, her belly heaving up and down. Cathelin ran, ignoring the burning pain in her leg and the ache of bruised ribs, shouting at the top of her lungs for Wolf and Becca. 
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Madrigal strained, face reddening with effort, and Cathelin urged her to breathe. ''Come, sweetling, t'is not good to hold your breath so,'' the Irishwoman crooned. 

Madrigal's hands were fastened onto Cathelin's, and she clutched them in a bone-grinding grip as the pain went on and on. 

Cathelin looked up at the sound of horse's hooves coming towards the cave mouth. A troop of hastily assembled kerns had gotten a roaring fire going in a circle of stones, smoke wafting up through a natural chimney in the ceiling of the cave. Madrigal had been moved to the front room, Cathelin carrying her, and now reclined in a cushioning nest of furs and donated cloaks. 

Becca had been sent back to Inishowen on the fastest horse available, to fetch the midwife with all speed. Cathelin knew Madrigal could not ride, nor be carried, even in a litter, the six miles back to her own bed, so the birthing would have to be here. Wolf McLeod had been sent to the abbey on a similar errand - the Lady wanted Brother Ignatius in attendance as well. 

Madrigal relaxed as the contraction passed, gasping for breath. Her filthy dress had been cut away, and she was covered by a clean fur. Cathelin had melted snow in her helm over the fire and bathed the Muslim with a soft cloth, getting off much of the dirt and grime and making Madrigal feel infinitely more comfortable. 

Becca and Branwen hustled into the cave, the midwife already throwing a spotless apron over her head. The woman carried a leather sack in her hand, and she grinned widely. 

''So, I see th' wee lass' time is come,'' Branwen said. She said to Becca, ''Melt some snow ta boilin', then set is aside. I'm wishin' ta wash my hands o' horse sweat an' such afore I touch th' gal.'' She reached inside her sack and brought out a clay jar of soft soap and a piece of folded leather. 

Cathelin sighed in relief. She helped Branwen slide the softly tanned piece of bullhide beneath Madrigal, and smiled down at her love. ''T'will be all right, sweetling,'' Cathelin said, kissing the tip of Madrigal's nose. ''I love you.'' 

Madrigal returned the smile, although her eyes were glazed with exhaustion. ''I love you as well,'' she said softly, and Branwen chuckled. 

''Glad I am ta see these bairns be born ta such a lovin' household,'' the midwife said with a gap-toothed smile. When Becca indicated the water was ready, Branwen soaped up her narrow hands and lean forearms, and rinsed them thoroughly, flinging the slops out of the cave mouth. A idle soldier received the barrage full in the face, and Branwen ignored his muffled curses with dignity. 

Kneeling down between Madrigal's spread knees, the midwife said, ''Now, wee one, I'll be checkin' on yer progress.'' 

Branwen lifted up the fur to expose Madrigal's nudity, then carefully slid two fingers into her, probing delicately, head cocked to one side. ''T'is good,'' she said firmly. ''Not much longer now. You, Lady, get behind th' little mother an' let her rest agin ye. Yer as much a part o' this birthin' as she.'' 

Cathelin slid behind Madrigal, pulling the other woman up between her spread legs as Branwen directed. Her naked back was against the hard stone of the cave wall, but she did not complain. 

Madrigal rested her hands on her Lady's upraised knees, half- reclining, her head pillowed on soft breasts, feeling a vast sense of comfort at the feel of Cathelin's strong arms around her. Then another pain hit, and her hands dug into her Lady's flesh as she let out a strangled scream. 

Cathelin felt her own stomach muscles clench in sympathy. She had removed her mail shirt and gambeson, as well as her tunic as the cave had grown warmer, and the sweat-soaked strands of Madrigal's hair tickled her chest. She whispered, ''Softly, sweetling, heart's delight...'' She stroked Madrigal's brow with one hand as the other woman strained. 

Madrigal had never felt such pain in her life. As her contractions grew stronger and more frequent, she felt as if she were being torn apart. No longer fearing to raise her voice, the Muslim screamed, cried and cursed in Arabic, calling down the wrath of Allah on the one who had caused her torment, and on the breed of men in general. 

Cathelin stifled a chuckle and held Madrigal as the powerful contractions racked her small body. My Madri has quite the sharply pointed tongue, she thought. I pity the bard who tries to satirize her. The Irishwoman looked at Branwen, who was still kneeling between Madrigal's legs. 

''How much longer?'' Cathelin asked. 

''No much,'' Branwen answered, then passed a short bladed knife to the hovering Becca. ''Pass this through th' flames till t'is cherry red, then,'' she added, splashing liquid from a wineskin into a wooden bowl, ''put it in here.'' 

Becca sniffed at the bowl; it was pure usqueba, the potent water of life, and the scar-faced kern grimaced but obeyed her instructions, carrying the bowl back to the midwife when she was finished. 

Branwen looked up, pale green eyes alight. ''I'm seein' a head,'' she announced. 

Madrigal grunted, pushing with all her might, feeling as if her pelvic bones were separating. She wept, ''I cannot! I cannot!'' tossing her head back and forth against the pain. It was too much, she was too tired, she felt as if she had battling all day and wanted nothing but rest... 

Cathelin put her hands over Madrigal's where they clutched her knees, and said, ''Take my strength, sweetling. Let our children come into this world.'' She pressed her lips against the top of the Muslim's head, and closed her eyes, willing energy to the woman she loved and praying silently for St. Brigit's aid. 

Madrigal sucked in a shuddering lungful of air, then heaved with renewed effort. Those words - ''our children'' - had given her hope. She felt as if she struggled against titanic forces, but knew that as long as her Lady Cat was there, everything would be all right. 

Branwen grinned widely, hands busy beneath the sheltering fur. Cathelin opened her eyes but could not see what was going on. ''Well?'' she croaked. 

The midwife's eyes were narrowed in concentration. ''T'is comin','' she replied shortly. 

Madrigal screamed as the baby's head slowly emerged amidst a gout of blood and fluid. Then, Branwen guided the infant's shoulders out with practiced skill, and soon, a squalling child was cradled in the midwife's tiny hands, the bloody cord still attaching it to its mother. 

''A boy!'' Branwen crowed, tying off, then cutting the umbilical cord with the sterilized knife. The midwife laid the squirming child down on the fur between Madrigal's breasts; her son mewled, eyes tightly closed, tiny fists waving in protest at his abrupt transference from a place of warmth and darkness into the light of the world. 

Cathelin felt tears flowing down her cheeks, while Madrigal reached up one hand to steady her firstborn. Although streaked with blood, wisps of dark hair matted to his slightly misshapen skull, he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. 

Cathelin touched the baby's cheek with one finger and said quietly, ''He's lovely, our son. Must be taking after his mother.'' She kissed Madrigal's ear, her heart swelling with love and pride. 

Madrigal closed her eyes as another spasm of pain shot through her. In a few moments, Branwen said, ''An' here's t'other! Come along, lassie, yer mother's waitin'.'' 

The other baby emerged more rapidly than her brother had done, and instead of wailing, she trilled with seeming delight. 

''An' yer daughter! A fine, healthy bairn,'' Branwen announced. 

Soon, both babies lay wrapped in warm furs, sleeping in Madrigal's arms. Branwen had massaged the Muslim's belly to expel the afterbirth, then cleaned up. By the time Brother Ignatius had arrived, practically carried by Wolf McLeod, it was all over. 

''Well,'' the old monk had sighed, ''at least I'll be in time fer th' christenin'.'' 

Becca wiped tears from her cheeks as she took the astonished Wolf by the arm and led him away from the cave, Brother Ignatius and Branwen following. They left the two women alone, Becca already making plans for the birthing celebration. 

Cathelin took up the baby girl's hand and marveled at how perfect and delicate it was. ''Have you ever seen such tiny fingernails?'' she asked Madrigal, who sighed. 

''Yes,'' she replied softly, ''I have seen newborns before.'' Her dark eyes gazed down at her two children, and although she was mortally weary, she had to smile. 

Cathelin was still behind her, the hard-muscled body warm against Madrigal's back, and the Lady's arms were around her. Madrigal snuggled against Cathelin and closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep. 

Cathelin smiled and stroked a forefinger along Madrigal's cheek. Then with a sigh of her own, she rested her chin on top of her love's head and let her eyelids close, tumbling into Morpheus' dark-feathered embrace to dream of life and love. 

CHAPTER THIRTY

Two weeks later, Inishowen was the scene of a huge celebration, and the castle was crammed to the rafters with the clan, and visitors, and guests. The festival had a tri-fold cause - to celebrate the Winter Solstice, to welcome Madrigal and her new children to the O'Cameron clan, and to rejoice in the news that Lady Cathelin and Madrigal would be handfast next Beltain in a ceremony that, while it lacked the blessings of the Church, would nevertheless be considered valid by the laws of ancient Ireland.. 

Cathelin sat at the high table beneath the gold embroidered Canopy of State and watched the revelers with a smile. There had been a feast - Shevaughn and her crew had worked nothing short of a miracle to get all in readiness - and her people were dancing, singing, and making merry with high-spirited abandon. 

Madrigal sat at her right, blushing with shy pride each time one of the folk came up to wish her happiness, Merry Solstice, and praise her babies. She wore a dark crimson gown with contrasting black queen's sleeves that fell into a point at the wrist that swung nearly to the floor. The neckline had been trimmed with black ribbon knotwork, and around her neck, she proudly wore both her Lady's welcoming gift of the silver phoenix necklace, as well as a new gift: a heavy silver collar of intertwined swans set with amethysts, dark garnets and exotic black pearls. Matching earrings swung nearly to her shoulders as she softly thanked the excited clansmen and women for their kindness. 

Cathelin hitched at the hem of her own new tunic and sighed. The tunic was black with crimson trim, and Madrigal had studded the front and sleeves with white bone beads and embroidered silver moons. The Irishwoman's dark red hair swung in its customary twin braids as she turned her head and contemplated the children that had made such a difference in her life in such a short time. 

Currently, the babies were in the lap of the new nursemaid; a plump, cheerful, heavily freckled young woman named Crimthan Oengus, whose fiery orange hair exploded in a profusion of corkscrew curls over her shoulders, proving her mother had been right in naming her ''Fox.'' 

The boy had been christened Padraigh Giles O'Cameron. Madrigal had been very pleased when her Lady had expressed great pleasure over their son being named after her father. Though only two weeks old, the child had already earned the nickname of 'Wee Dragon', being quite fierce in his temperament, and not at all shy about expressing himself. 

The little girl, on the other hand, was sweetness itself. The naming of this baby had nearly caused the couple's first fight. Madrigal had insisted on naming the baby after Cathelin, who had categorically refused to countenance it. 

Cathelin sighed again when she remembered that argument. ''But sweetling,'' she had said, trying to be reasonable, ''t'would be too confusing, having two of me about the place!'' 

Madrigal had been stubborn and equally implacable. Finally, however, they agreed on a compromise; their daughter now bore the name of Brigit Cathbadh O'Cameron, but the folk called her ''Honey-Cat.'' She was a loving baby, and her dark eyes were constantly filled with wonderment and delight at all the marvels in the world. 

Privately, Cathelin was relieved that neither of the children had Francis' coloring or, in fact, anything of him in their looks she could detect. While it would not have made her love them any less, still... the reminder of their father would have been a hurtful one. ''Crimthan, lass, let me have my sweetness,'' she said aloud. 

With a broad smile, the nursemaid passed Honey to the Lady. She, and many others of the clan, found it a source of private amusement that their fierce warrior Lady should have taken so to the little girl, while shy Madrigal, who insisted she loved both children equally, clearly had a slight preference for the boy. Crimthan chuckled, plump freckled shoulders shaking. Aye, she thought to herself, th' Good Lord works in mysterious ways.

Cathelin cradled Honey in her arms, making nonsense baby talk and tickling the baby's snub nose with the end of one dark red braid. Madrigal smiled indulgently; she, too, found Cathelin's delight over the girl baby amusing. Crimthan raised one eyebrow at Madrigal, but the Muslim shook her head. Her breasts ached slightly, being full of milk, but the children were not yet hungry. 

While her Lady cooed and kissed the baby in her arms, Madrigal's dark purple eyes swept over the gathering. 

Wolf McLeod, resplendent in tartan kilt, sporran, blue tunic and his black hair in a braid, was engaged in a vigorous sword dance with heavy claymores against a visiting member of the O'Fierna clan - a well-muscled warrior with a pale blonde thatch of curls and charming dimples in both cheeks named Lugh. The two men yelled lustily as their swords flashed and clanged. 

Shevaughn was dancing a wild reel, the skirts of her brilliant crimson gown held high as her feet kicked and skittered, and the Hearth Chief twirled with unbelievable grace, face wreathed in a broad smile as her partner, a smaller woman with a fox-like face and wavy blonde hair named Ceridwyn, panted to keep up. Bets had already been taken among the kitchen staff as to who was seducing whom, and speculation ran rife as to whether or not Shevaughn and Ceridwyn would end up in the storeroom, the hayloft or perhaps even the wine cellar. 

Becca Half-Tongue sang along with a group of her fellow kerns to an old drinking song played with enthusiasm by a minstrel. She leaned her head on the shoulder of a one-eyed veteran, and ran one hand down his lean muscled chest, keeping time with her mazer of wine with the other hand. He leaned his head down and kissed her, and Becca wondered if the war room in the barracks was occupied. 

Even the hapless maid was there, drinking small beer and chattering with a group of servers, her bleary blue eyes alight with happiness. Cathelin had spoken to the pox-scarred maid for a long, long time, and having determined that the girl's crime was greed and inability to avoid temptation rather than true treason, had forgiven the girl in a burst of parental joy. 

But Father Paul had not been so lenient; the old priest had laid a penance on the maidservant - to clean his small house, and bring his firewood, and cook his meals - and generally kept her about the chapel, where he could keep a fierce eye on her doings. Her betrothed had been killed in what was now known as the Battle of the Trees, and while she had wept for his death, the maid was relieved that she had been forgiven by the Lady, and that the payment for her crimes was such a light one. She knew she would never do such again, and thanked God every night that her Lady and the Lady's beloved had not been killed or worse due to her lapse. 

Cathelin handed the now sleeping Honey back to Crimthan, leaned over, and kissed Madrigal's lips. ''Sweetling,'' she murmured, ''what about your song?'' 

Madrigal nodded. Her blue-black hair had been pinned into a coronet around her head, and a crown of gold ribbon-wrapped mistletoe was perched on her head. She pulled her harp into her lap and softly strummed the strings, the dark wood with its carved dolphins glistening in the torchlight. 

Cathelin stood and raised her voice in a bellow, ''Silence! Silence!'' she shouted until the merrymaking ceased, and all eyes turned towards the Lady. 

Cathelin smiled. ''Madri has promised to sing us a special song tonight.'' She paused for the wild whistling and clapping to die down, then continued, ''Now, let all be silent and respectful whilst she plays. Or else,'' she added fiercely, amber gold eyes raking across the throng. She sat back down, certain that even the hardened drunkards would pay attention. 

Cathelin nodded to Madrigal, who drew a lovely, slightly martial melody from her harp and began the six hundred year old Song of Long Life: 

''I invoke the seven daughters of the sea 
Who fashion the threads of the sons of long life. 
May three deaths be taken from my beloved! 
May seven waves of good fortune be dealt my beloved! 
May no evil spirits harm my beloved! 
In flashing corselet without hindrance, 
May her fame not perish! 
I invoke Senach of the seven periods of time, 
Whom fairy women have reared on the breasts of plenty. 
May her seven candles not be extinguished! 
She is an indestructible stronghold, 
She is an unshaken rock, 
She is a precious stone. 
May she live a hundred times a hundred years! 
I summon these boons to her, 
And may the grace of St. Brigit be upon her!'' 

As soon as the last strains of the harp died away, the assembled folk roared their approval, led by the new Abbot, Father Dominicus, who had lived in Inishowen as a boy before taking holy vows. He clapped enthusiastically, and even went so far as to place his fingers in the corners of his mouth and blow a shrill whistle of appreciation. 

Madrigal smiled at the new abbot; Father Dominicus was much more concerned with the welfare of his flock then Benedict had been, and furthermore, had very strong ideas of his own which contradicted Church policy. 

As he had explained to the Muslim upon their first meeting, ''I care not whether God's children love themselves, nor yet one another, save only that there is love somewhere.'' His merry blue eyes had twinkled. ''An' if you've ever a mind to convert, lass, then I'm your man. So...,'' he'd added with mock casualness, ''when will you two ladies be publishing the banns, eh?'' 

Madrigal had laughed, completely at ease with the middle-aged priest. They had already had a few long discussions over the chess table, and Dominicus' attitude towards her relationship with her Lady, not to mention the fact that the priest had a very sharp mind and a great deal of good-natured curiosity, had made the Muslim consider him a friend. 

Madrigal grabbed Cathelin's hand and gave it a squeeze. ''Tell me, Lady,'' she asked mischievously, ''are you full of magic tonight?'' 

Cathelin grinned and cocked one eyebrow. ''Aye,'' she answered, ''and near full to bursting with it, too.'' 

''We will have to do something about that, then,'' Madrigal said, then rose, tugging Cathelin to her feet. ''I do not wish you to burst just yet... but perhaps later... '' She ran her tongue along her lips and continued, ''Come, Lady Cat. Come walk with me, come lie with me, come and share my bed.'' 

''Sweetling,'' Cathelin replied, amber eyes beginning to shine with warm desire, ''You've no need to be asking me twice.'' 

The two women snuck away from the celebration arm in arm, while Crimthan rocked the babies on her lap and laughed softly. 

And all the people of Inishowen sent up a prayer that night, wishing their Ladies happiness, joy, and boundless love for ever, and ever, and aye. 
 

The End

<~~~~~ Return to the Library