by Nene Adams ©1998 - All rights reserved

CHAPTER ONE

Lady Cathelin, chief of the O'Cameron clan and lord of castle Inishowen and its lands, glided through the forest silently, brushing aside branches laden with wet leaves, stealthily stalking her prey.

She and several of her kerns were boar hunting, seeking a feral pig that had already savaged several farm tenants. Her boar spear clutched tightly in one hand, Cathelin cocked her head to one side and crouched down, barely breathing, as the belling of hounds wafted from close by. 

Blessed Jesu! she thought, motioning to her men to fan out. I hope to get this day's business over with and return to my Madri. She smiled when she thought of her handfasted mate, a former Muslim slave; now chatelaine of Inishowen and honored mother of the Irishwoman's adopted children. 

Much as I enjoy hunting, if I had my druthers I'd be home playing with Dragon and Honeycat, tho' that boychild is a double handful of mischief, as all the world knows. Her smile grew broader, but vanished entirely when her mind was snatched from the vision of home and hearth by wavering howls and a wild thrashing in the undergrowth that was moving towards them rapidly. 

Cathelin wore a simple deerhide tunic and breeks, and her long, dark red hair was done up in dozens of braids that had been wound together with leather strips into a thick club at the back of her neck. She shifted the cross-barred spear in her hand and waited for the hounds to drive the boar into the clearing in front of her and her waiting men. 

The forest was ancient, filled with oak, rowan and ash trees that had been old when her people still danced naked around fires in limestone caves. Thick brush sprang up from a carpet of last season's leaves, wetted thoroughly by that morning's rain; smaller plants, flowers and herbs, enriched by the spring warmth and dappled sunlight, flourished beneath the spreading branches. Sniffing, Cathelin thought she'd never get over how fresh, how green were the scents of her homeland; she filled her lungs gladly until she tingled from heel to crown. 

The day was still overcast, but the sun had peeped out from behind dark clouds to lend enough light to the hunt. A brisk wind blew from the south, ruffling a leafy branch against Cathelin's cheek, making her amber eyes narrow. 

The yelping canine cries were getting closer, so close Cathelin could hear, as if directly beside her, the unmusical blatting of the cow's horn which her Master of Hound used to guide and command his charges. The Irishwoman had not wanted to use the more massive gaze-hounds for this task; those shaggy beasts were capable of bringing the pig down all by themselves. Instead, she had chosen to use dogs only to herd the tusker, harry it to earth so that her hunters could take it down themselves; risky, but a necessary excitement after an idle and boring winter. 

Suddenly, without any warning, an enormous boar burst into the clearing, eyes red with fury, long white tusks curving from its lower jaw. It stamped, squealing, absurdly tiny tail whisking back and forth; it was the biggest wild pig any of them had ever seen, and the sheer size of it was enough to cause several of the men to make the sign of the cross and grip their weapons harder. 

Cathelin waited a heartbeat, then with a fierce warcry she leaped into the clearing, followed by her men, the broad steel head of her uplifted spear flashing in the dull sunlight. 

Although the boar fought savagely, it was no match for the six skilled hunters. Wolf McLeod, dark-haired captain of Cathelin's kerns, bare to the waist and clad in a tartan kilt, struck the deathblow with a yell of triumph, his spear cleaving the boar's heart as it lay pinned to the forest floor by the weapons of the others. 

The huge animal quivered, hooves pawing up dirt, head futilely thrusting back and forth in an effort to revenge itself against its tormentors, until finally, with a heaving gasp, the furious light in its eyes dimmed, it let out a long snorting sigh - and the boar died. 

David Uileand, Cathelin's Master of Hound, stumbled into the clearing. The pack of dogs circled the bloody scene, yelping and pissing in excitement but knowing better than to interfere in the kill. They threw back their heads and howled, tails wriggling between their hind legs, coursing back and forth, nostrils working to take in the smell of fresh blood. 

The scene was one of controlled chaos; the boar was being butchered, its flesh loaded up onto a litter to be carried back to the castle, including the tusked head, which would be cooked whole and served to Wolf in a special dinner ceremony; the beaming captain being slapped on the back and congratulated by the others; David whistling and calling to his hounds; and Cathelin stood a little ways apart, panting, her handsome face speckled with blood. She leaned on the long spear and watched her people, taking pride in the way her clan worked together to achieve a common goal; a necessary survival trait, for Ireland was often as harsh as it was beautiful. 

It wasn't until she felt the hammer-blow in her back that she realized anything was wrong. 

Cathelin struck the forest floor so hard it knocked the breath out of her, and searing agony shot through her body. Her eyes flew open, mouth gaping in shock, as wave after wave of pain, incredible pain, tore and ripped at her. Cathelin barely heard the shouts of, ''It had a mate!'' and ''God! To the Lady!'' before she felt herself sucked along a dark, whirling path... and lost consciousness entirely. 

CHAPTER TWO

Madrigal hummed to herself as she repaired one of her Lady's tunics. Although the two women had undergone a handfasting ceremony a little over two years ago, she still thought of her love as ''Lady Cat'' - which amused Cathelin no end. 

And after this, Madrigal thought, hands busy at her task, I will go down to the kitchen and ask Mistress Shevaughn to bake some of those little honey cakes that my Lady Cat enjoys so much. And perhaps I will also have her bring up a flask of that sweet wine from Rome.

A shrill scream of protest from the floor caused her to look up from her labors. Her son, Padraigh Giles O'Cameron, known as Wee Dragon or just Dragon, was trying to pull a carved wooden doll away from his sister, Bridgit Cathbadh the Honeycat. 

The boy's face was red and he screamed again, tugging at the toy, while his sister merely tightened her grip and smiled placidly. Madrigal sighed and began to stand up, but the children's nurse, Crimthan Oengus, shook her head, making her corkscrewing orange curls flutter. 

''Leave 'em, Lady Madrigal,'' the nurse said, a broad smile on her round face. ''Dragon needs ta learn he can no win every battle, even if t'is only one o' the nursery.'' 

Madrigal sighed again and sat back down, the shirt forgotten in her hands as she watched her children. They were such opposites, despite being twins - Dragon was fierce and uncompromising with a will of stubborn iron; he had been the first child to walk, his baby face bruised as he fell and rose to fall again, but never giving up. 

Honeycat followed her brother's lead but Madrigal noticed that, although more passive than her fiery sibling, Cat, too, had a will of her own, quiet and peaceful but just as strong. A wild summer storm against a mountain of stone, Madrigal mused. 

Finally, Dragon gave up trying to release his sister's grip on the toy and got to his feet, attempting to deliver a kick to Honeycat's leg but falling over in the process with a heavy thump. His face screwed up into an ugly grimace, but Crimthan hurried over and picked him up, settling the child against her hip. ''Now, Dragon mite, no tears! You should no be hittin' yer sister; yer s'posed ter protect her. Are ye no a brave and fearsome knight? What honor in strikin' a helpless girl?'' 

Dragon looked at Crimthan gravely, tears forgotten, one hand screwed into her orange curls. ''Mine!'' he said, pointing with his other hand at the toy clutched tightly in Honeycat's hand. 

''Nay, youngling, that's yer sister's playpretty.'' Crimthan toted the child across the enormous master chamber that served as Madrigal and Cathelin's bedroom and solar. She bent over and scooped a rag toy from the floor - a colorful collection of scraps ingeniously fashioned into the shape of a dragon - and handed it to the child on her hip. ''There,'' she said, plopping Dragon down on the wolfskin covered bed, ''play wit' that, there's a good lad.'' 

Dragon's lower lip pushed out as he considered pouting but his attention was quickly diverted by his namesake ragdoll. He babbled to himself, giggling, as he made the cloth dragon swoop through the air. 

Madrigal bent her head back to her task, but felt a small tug on her skirts. Honeycat, wooden doll tucked beneath her arm, was pulling on her linen dress, wanting to be held. 

The Muslim set aside her sewing and picked up her daughter, settling her in her lap, smelling with pleasure the wondrous scent of fresh, clean baby. Honeycat smiled broadly, showing tiny white teeth, and held up the doll for her mother to admire. 

''Yes, little one, very pretty,'' Madrigal murmured, stroking Honey's soft hair. Both children had inherited their mother's fine, blue-black locks, but although their eyes had been nearly black at first, they had soon lightened into dark green, the color of emeralds. Madrigal felt her belly muscles clench momentarily when she remembered that their father's eyes had been hazel. 

She thrust that unwelcome memory aside. Sir Francis Westfield, her former owner, was dead, killed by Cathelin's own hand during the legendary Battle of the Trees two years ago. He would never torment her again. 

Madrigal rocked Honeycat on her lap as Crimthan began picking up the toys that were strewn across the floor of the chamber, returning them to a reed basket. Cathelin was due home soon, and while she thoroughly enjoyed the children's presence in their chamber, she had often made her displeasure known when she'd bruised her heel on a forgotten toy. 

Shouting from the courtyard made Madrigal lift her head, dark eyes narrowed. She rose briskly, ignoring Honey's muted whimper of protest, and handed the little girl to Crimthan before crossing to the arrowslit window. 

Since it was spring, the slit in the castle's stone wall was uncovered by tapestries, and the bottom of it was almost wide enough to allow Madrigal to perch on it as a seat. She stuck her head through, looking down into the courtyard, where the hunting party was returning through the gates, bearing a litter... 

Madrigal felt her heart literally stop with a thump; her mouth went dry with shock, and if Crimthan hadn't been right behind her, she might well have toppled from the window. 

The nurse's fist was knotted in the back of Madrigal's skirt and she heaved the other woman back into the room. ''What in the name o' St. Bridgit has possessed ye, Lady? Ye nearly fell...'' 

Madrigal gasped for breath, finally managing to get out, ''Lady Cat!'' before whirling around and darting out of the chamber, her footsteps echoing down the hall as she ran at breakneck speed for the stone stairs. 

Crimthan stuck her own head through the narrow window, then, her face pale, turned back to the room and gathered the protesting children up hastily. ''Hush, now, wee ones,'' she said, taking them back to their nursery, ''Yer momma can no play now. Shhh, bairns, t'will be all right.'' 

But the nurse, remembering the pale, still form being carried in, worried that it would not. 
 

CHAPTER THREE

Madrigal burst out of the door, pushing frantically through the crowd that had gathered, and came to an abrupt halt when she ran into the tall warrior, Wolf McLeod. 

His hand shot out to steady her. ''Lady Madrigal,'' he said solemnly, nodding his head. His ice-blue eyes were sad. ''T'is Lady Cathelin,'' he continued, ''she got a woundin' in th' hunt.'' 

Madrigal's eyes were wide and she flung out a hand as if to silence any further news. The litter, carried by four kerns, was making its way towards her. At her first sight of Cathelin's face, blood splattered and ice white to the lips, Madrigal could not suppress a cry. 

She went down to her knees beside the litter, grabbing Cathelin's hand and holding it against her cheek. Wolf moved behind her, his lean, scarred face lined with grief and guilt and woe. ''We kilt th' boar an' were butcherin' it...'' His lips twisted. ''Didnae know it had a mate. Th' she-pig come afore we knew it an' savaged Lady Cathelin; she ne'er had a chance to defend herself. We fought it off, th' men an' I, but t'was too late. She's bad hurt, Lady Madrigal, I'll no lie to ye. I sent one o' my men down to th' abbey for Brother Ignatius an' Brother Sebastian... an' th' Half-tongue's on her way to fetch Father Paul.'' 

At the mention of Father Paul - the aged priest who administered to the religious needs of Inishowen - Madrigal immediately knew why the old man had been summoned and swallowed the urge to scream in protest. Cathelin's wounds were so grave that Wolf wanted the Last Rites given to ensure the Lady's entry into the unbeliever's Heaven... 

Madrigal stood shakily, Wolf's hand still on her shoulder. I must be strong, she thought, although every fiber of her being longed to cry out, tear at her hair and beat her breast, break down utterly in a storm of tears and heartbroken wails. As long as she still breathes, there is a chance, and I MUST be strong for my Lady Cat!

Scrubbing her face with one hand, Madrigal took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. ''Take her to the master's chamber,'' she commanded, much to the astonishment of the kerns and the folk, who had been eyeing the delicate looking woman carefully, expecting a collapse. ''As soon as Father Paul arrives, have him escorted up the stairs - he is an old man and tires easily. Wolf,'' she continued, turning around to tilt her head back and look up at the warrior, ''have Abbot Dominicus informed as well.'' 

As the litter was borne inside, shepherded by the warrior captain, Madrigal searched the faces of the crowd and lit on one she knew well. ''Mistress Meagan,'' she said, ''make sure we have enough clean linen cloths on hand; have a servant bring some up to our chamber.'' The silver-haired Mistress of the Wardrobe came forward long enough to squeeze Madrigal's shoulder before lifting her skirts in both hands and hurrying away. 

Turning to a kitchen servant she knew by sight if not by name, Madrigal continued, ''You! Go and tell Mistress Shevaughn to begin boiling water and to slaughter a young calf to make broth. Also, she is to check the herb stores - we will need coltsfoot, feverfew... she will know what to do. Whatever Brother Ignatius needs, she is to provide.'' 

As the servant pelted away, Madrigal pushed a stray lock of hair out of her face and glared at the rest of the crowd. ''Well?'' she asked, putting her hands on her hips. ''Do you not have labors of your own? Or do you intend to stand here all day, catching flies in your open mouths?'' 

Madrigal's tart tone was like a bucket of ice water; the assembled servants and villagers broke up into small clusters and walked away, murmuring and speculating, some moving automatically back to their tasks in shocked silence. 

The Muslim woman sighed, shoulders slumping for just a moment; then she straightened up, turned and went into the castle. 

CHAPTER FOUR

Brother Ignatius took a sip of the proffered wine and grimaced. ''I'll no sweeten my news wit' lies, Lady,'' he said to Madrigal. The old monk could barely grip the metal mazer in his hands; the previous winter, arthritis had struck with a vengeance, leaving his fingers twisted into useless claws. But there was nothing wrong with his mind - it was as keen as ever - and his apprentice, Brother Sebastian, was a quiet, studious lad with a skillful touch. It was rumored that Brother Sebastian would be elevated to the place of Infirmarian when Ignatius retired. 

At this moment, however, Ignatius supervised his apprentice's work, watching all the young monk did with an eagle's eye, barking instructions, criticisms and praise impartially. Despite advanced age, he was still the best healer available in Inishowen. 

Madrigal sat in a chair next to the bed, holding Cathelin's hand in her own. It was so cold, so bloodless. ''Tell me, honored one,'' she said softly, ''I must know.'' 

Ignatius sighed. Sebastian had been sent from the room on an errand for his master. ''She lost a lot o' blood, but thank God yon Wolf had sense enow to wrap her tight, otherwise she'd have died.'' Ignatius thought about the gaping wound that sliced across Cathelin's belly; if the captain had not immediately wound cloth strips across the woman's body, her guts would have spilled to the forest floor. 

He continued, ''Th' bowel's no cut, praise th' Good Lord, but th' wound still be serious. An' she's sure ta take th' fever, make no mistake. If she survives - an' I've nae strong doubts in th' matter, lassie, for Lady Cathelin is young an' strong as an ox - then she will, wit' God's help, recover eventually. But t'will be some time afore she can move; ye'll have to make sure she stays abed. I can no emphasize this enow - she musn't be gettin' out o' yon bed fer several seven-days, p'raps e'en so long as a moon or twa.'' 

Madrigal nodded, outwardly calm. ''Is there anything else?'' 

Ignatius sipped his wine again. ''I'll be leavin' ye some medicines. An' dinnae hesitate ta call me if ennythin' happens. Th' rest o' the Lady's wounds have been stitched an' poulticed 'gainst infection, an' Sebastian gave her some poppy electuary fer th' pain. Let her sleep fer now; but when she wakes, gie her th' medicines an' as fer th' rest...'' He shrugged. ''Pray.'' 

Madrigal nodded again. ''Thank you, honored one.'' She looked at the old monk and sighed. ''I would ask the blessings of Allah upon you as well, if you would not consider it an insult.'' 

Ignatius chuckled tiredly. ''Nay, lassie, no insult ta'en; a man as old as I has need o' every blessin' he can get.'' He rose, hooded brown robe spotted with blood. ''I'll have young Becca come in ter watch th' Lady fer a while. Ye need yer rest.'' 

''No.'' Madrigal turned back to Cathelin, fixing her eyes on the other woman's still face. ''I will stay here. Lady Cat needs me.'' 

Ignatius crossed to the bed and laid a gentle hand on Madrigal's head. ''Lassie, ye'll be o' no use ta th' Lady if ye collapses yersel'. Go an' get sommat ta eat, or see ta yer bairns. Th' Lady needs ye, t'is true, but ye can best help her by stayin' well an' strong an' seein' ta th' needs o' th' folk. I've already heard rumors in th' village that th' Lady be dead.'' 

Madrigal sighed again. ''I will have Wolf speak to the village hetman.'' Placing Cathelin's hand gently back on the bed, she rose. ''Now I must see to making sure that dinner is served on time... and other things.'' 

She rose, a hand going absently to caress the necklace she wore - a purplish-red agate set in silver, the face of the stone carved into a phoenix. It was Lady Cat's first gift to her, and the sole piece of jewelry that she never removed. ''Thank you, honored one. I cannot tell you how much I am grateful for.'' 

Ignatius interrupted her. ''T'will be well, lassie. All th' brothers'll be prayin' fer th' Lady's health, an' th' Abbot's plannin' a special Mass.'' He looked at her and his rheumy blue eyes twinkled a bit. ''Will ye no offer an old man yer arm? Fer I confess th' thought of goin' down all them stairs leaves me sommat breathless, an' that's God's own truth.'' 

Madrigal gave the old monk a tiny smile, then laced her arm through his and guided him from the chamber, casting a final look over her shoulder at Cathelin - who lay unmoving, dark crimson hair limp and dull against the white linen sheet.

CHAPTER FIVE

Pain... it seemed as if Cathelin swam through an endless sea of pain.. She burned and froze, plagued by nightmare visions that capered and gibbered and did things that caused her to twist away, fighting. 

''Hold her still!'' an uplifted voice rang in the darkness like a bell. ''Please, Lady Cat, do not fight, you will tear your wound open again!'' 

Cathelin thought the voice was familiar, but then a fresh wave of agony caught her and she spiraled back down into oblivion. 

Madrigal wiped her wet brow. ''Give me another pad, Becca.'' 

The curly-mopped kern handed the other woman a thick pad of folded linen and watched as Madrigal slid it beneath Cathelin. They had finished changing the sweat-soaked sheets, and Becca eyed the blood-stained bandages wrapped around the Lady's midsection with concern. 

''Shall I have Brother Ignatius fetched, d'you think?'' she asked Madrigal, who grunted in response, then replied, ''No. I do not wish to trouble the honored one, who is old and needs his rest. This we can do ourselves.'' 

Becca quietly helped the other woman change the bandages, smearing new linen with the infirmarian's thick concoction made with crushed marigold, coltsfoot and other herbs to promote healing and prevent infection. The edges of Cathelin's wound were red and puffy, swollen around the stitches and oozing a clear liquid, but to Becca's battlefield experience seemed to be healing well. 

Madrigal finished, wiping her hands on her skirts. Her long gown was spotted with food, blood and other things, and her blue-black hair, come half-down from its pins, was greasy and hung in limp strings that she pushed out of her face without realizing it. 

The Muslim turned to a bronze bucket left on the floor beside the bed; it held water cooled by ice. When Cathelin's fever had started two days ago, Madrigal had known that she must do something and would have sold her soul to Shaitan for a wagon-load of snow. It had been Brother Sebastian's idea to raid the coldhouse, a deeply dug underground pit that held blocks of ice cut from the river in winter and used to keep stored perishables from rotting. The apprentice's idea had been a godsend. 

Now, Madrigal dipped a rag in the cold water and used it to wipe down Cathelin's body, biting her lip as the fever-heated flesh seemed to soak up the chill liquid, absorbing it. Lady Cat tossed her head, crying out something in a language the Muslim did not know. She gave Becca an inquiring look. 

''She's... she's talking in Gaelic to someone named Irizen,'' the kern responded, brows drawn together in puzzlement. ''Askin' her forgiveness...'' 

Madrigal finished her ministrations silently and tucked the newly washed sheets around Cathelin before sitting down in the wooden chair she kept by the bed. ''Leave us,'' she said shortly, picking up Cathelin's hand and holding it against her chest. 

Becca opened her mouth to protest then thought the better of it. There was something in the smaller woman's tone that brooked no denial. Scooping up the dirty bandages, she left the chamber... and as she did so, she heard Madrigal's voice softly crooning a song. 

Closing the door softly behind her, the kern bit back a tear. 

John the Bastard, current occupant of the throne of England against his brother Richard Lionheart's return, leaned back and gestured at the man in front of him. 

''Tell me more about this O'Cameron woman,'' he said. King John had the dark hair and eyes of his mother, but his face was purely Plantagenet and handsome, if a bit puffy; John found life at court much to his liking and had been indulging in the favored vices of excessive food, drink and wenches since he had become Regent. 

Desmond O'Brian, Earl of Kinslainne, bowed and made an elegant leg. He wore his best court doublet of raw white silk, sleeves slashed to show the dark blue lining beneath, the expensive fabric criss-crossed with gold embroidery. A pearl and sapphire earring swung near his shoulder but O'Brian was no useless dandy, however well he may have dressed the part. 

''Your Majesty,'' he said, ''This is a private grievance betwixt myself and the O'Cameron. Surely Your Majesty does not intend to become involved in such a... sordid affair?'' He raised a blonde brow suggestively. 

King John grunted, reaching into a bowl next to him for a slice of ripe pear, and glanced at his favorite advisor, William, Duke of Northanger. William, a small, spare man who habitually wore stark black and was reputed to have many contacts within the Church, nodded and leaned forward to whisper directly in the king's ear. 

''I know something of the affair, Your Majesty,'' Duke William said softly. ''This could be an opportunity for the Crown to increase its holdings in Ireland without risk to the throne or yourself. Not to mention an opportunity for... other things.'' 

John and William locked gazes, then the king nodded and spoke aloud, ''Clear the room! I will be attended only by my Lords of Kinslainne and Northanger.'' As his guardsmen began to herd the brightly-dressed throng of sycophants and petitioners from the throne room, the King looked at Desmond and smiled. ''You have our entire attention, my Lord,'' he said when the last of the throng was gone and the doors had been closed, leaving the three men in complete privacy. 

Desmond's brown eyes looked into John's black, seeking and finding a kindred soul - and the Earl returned his sovereign's smile. ''I come seeking Your Majesty's favor in putting down a wretchedly sinful blot upon the landscape of our fair isle, and in the process redressing a grievous wrong,'' he began. 

Both King and councilor listened avidly as the Earl told the story of the Battle of the Trees and of Lady Cathelin's treatment of his son some years previous, twisting the events to make it sound as if he were the injured party. O'Brian had a diplomat's gift of phrasing and a persuasive personality; he could make even the most unlikely lie seem plausible. His own people had nicknamed him The Tinker, for he had such a silver tongue that they said he could sell cream to a cow. 

King John and William knew the true circumstances of both events, of course; it was in the men's minds that Desmond had waited until the tale had ceased to be a sensation and been mainly forgotten in the wake of other scandals and gossip at court. 

When Desmond finished speaking, he waited with bowed head, mouth dry in anticipation. If all goes well, he thought, I'll be myself avenged against that unnatural bitch. He still burned with resentment and hatred over the handling of his ransom; captured after the battle and held hostage, the O'Cameron witch had asked for the insultingly small ransom of a mere head of cattle - a devastating blow to the pride of the O'Brian chieftain. 

John and William looked at one another, then William gave Desmond a tight smile. ''We are sorry to hear of your grievances, my Lord of Kinslainne,'' the Duke said. ''Come... it is His Majesty's wish that you and I and he speak further of this thing... in more complete privacy.'' 

Putting a friendly arm around the bigger man's shoulders, William led Desmond from the throne room, following the King. 

And Desmond had to suppress the urge to grin in satisfaction. 
 

CHAPTER SIX

At last, Cathelin's fever broke on the third day, leaving her soaked in sweat and limp with exhaustion. 

Madrigal had been persuaded to bathe and wash her hair by Becca, who had nagged and pushed until the Muslim woman had finally exploded, ''By ALLAH!! Will you not leave me in peace? You are more stubborn than a she-goat! Is it that in your barbarian tongue there is no word for 'no?' Or are you merely ignorant of such things?!'' 

Becca had given her a lopsided smile, the thick scar that snaked across her face preventing the muscle in her left cheek from responding properly. ''Ah, well, t'is only that I thought you might wish to smell a bit sweeter for the Lady, rather than like a stale piss-pot.'' 

For the first time, Madrigal had become aware that she itched; that her hair was filthy, her dress was filthy - in fact, the cleanest thing about her was her hands, which were constantly immersed in water. And she did, in truth, stink. Suddenly it was all to much. 

Sinking to her knees, Madrigal had begun to cry, only to be embraced by the kern, who murmured, ''Shhhh, Lady, don't fret so. I'll have the servants bring up the washtub an' plenty hot water an' you'll take a nice bath an' relax a bit. Th' Lady's out o' danger for the nonce an' I'm sure she wouldn't mind.'' 

The wine-cask tub was fetched, and for an hour, Madrigal soaked her body with hot water, as well as the tub with her tears. After she finished crying, oddly enough she felt better, more able to continue shouldering her back-breaking load; it was as if by pouring out her salty tears, she had poured in renewed strength. As chatelaine, she had to oversee the entire castle's operations as well as caring for Cathelin, and the last three days had been a considerable strain. 

Now, she was clean, her hair still damp and curling to the floor like a flood of spilled ink. She wore a clean dress, too, one of Cathelin's favorites - golden cloth the color of harvest corn, embroidered with red and black stylized deer. Madrigal sat in her chair beside the bed and closed her eyes; she was weary, oh so weary from her vigil, and worry, and work... 

Her breathing slowed and deepened, and Madrigal leaned forward with a small yawning sigh. Pillowing her head on Cathelin's hand, she drifted off to sleep. 

Morning turned to early afternoon, and Madrigal slept until she was startled from her nap by a familiar voice, but hoarse and scratchy, as if from disuse, and filled with weariness and pain. 

''Sweetling?'' 

Madrigal sat bolt upright, her hands convulsively clutching Cathelin's. Her Lady Cat's eyes were open, the amber color dulled. ''Lady?'' Madrigal managed to choke. 

''Aye, sweetling,'' Cathelin replied softly, wincing as her belly wound griped, ''T'is back I am from the feverlands.'' 

Madrigal bit back a sob, tears trembling on her lashes. At last, she could contain herself no longer. With a long, drawn out wail, ''Caaaaaaaaat!,'' she fell to her knees beside the bed, weeping out of sheer relief and unable to stop until she heard the hiss of Cathelin's indrawn breath as the other woman shifted on the bed. 

Sniffling, tears still flowing, Madrigal raised her head. ''No, Lady Cat, no! You must not move, the honored one has said!'' 

Cathelin grimaced, then being a bit more careful and less ambitious, managed to heave herself to one side of the bed and lay there, panting with effort, spots dancing in front of her eyes. By God!, she thought, if I'm only moving an inch and feeling like I've been beaten with an iron shoon, I'd hate to have to get up to use the close stool!

When she got enough breath back to speak, the Irishwoman turned her head to see Madrigal standing there, a look of intense concern and worry on her beautiful face. ''Sweetling,'' Cathelin said, trying to raise one hand and failing, ''come lie beside me. I want to feel you...'' 

Madrigal shook her head. ''No, Lady Cat,'' but was interrupted by Cathelin's softly slurred, ''Please.'' 

Carefully, trying not to jounce her Lady, Madrigal crawled up into the bed next to Cathelin. At the other woman's silent plea, Madrigal cast a silent prayer to Allah and lay down, putting her head on Cathelin's shoulder and gently embracing her love, her tears drying up at the feeling of sheer comfort in the closeness and warmth of the body next to her own. 

Cathelin sighed in pure contentment. ''Ah, I've missed that sorely, Madri.'' She closed her eyes a moment, then opened them and asked, ''What happened?'' 

Madrigal told her about the hunt and her wounding by the boar's mate. Cathelin listened, one of her hands inching up to touch the bandages around her middle. 

''Well,'' she sighed when Madrigal finished, ''t'is lucky I've been, for I could have been killed outright.'' Cathelin lay silently a moment, internally cataloging her injuries: numerous deep cuts on her back, both thighs and one arm, plus the near eviscerating-wound. She knew she'd be a long time recovering, but Cathelin vowed to send a fine offering to the Church in thanksgiving, as well as think of some reward to give Wolf McLeod for his quick action in the forest, which had truly saved her life. 

''Where are our children?'' Cathelin whispered. 

''With Crimthan, in the nursery,'' Madrigal replied, equally softly. Raising herself up on one elbow, the Muslim gently kissed Cathelin's chin, then her crooked nose and both eyes, murmuring, ''I thank Allah that He has kept you safe, Lady Cat.'' 

Making a massive effort, Cathelin managed to raise one hand and cup Madrigal's face. ''I love thee, Madri, my pearl beyond price,'' she said in Arabic, to which Madrigal responded, ''And I love thee as well, light of my soul.'' 

They looked into one another's eyes for a long moment, then Madrigal kissed Cathelin's lips. ''I must go, Lady Cat,'' the Muslim said reluctantly. ''My duties call me, but I will have Becca Half-Tongue keep watch over you until I can return.'' 

''Tell Crimthan to bring in the babes,'' Cathelin answered, tugging a lock of Madrigal's hair. ''I could use some mischief to keep me awake.'' 

Madrigal got off the bed and stood, arranging her skirts. ''As you wish, but only for a little while. And if you are tired, you must sleep, but first you must eat. I will send a servant up with a tray from the kitchen.'' 

The thought of food made Cathelin slightly nauseous, but she knew that to recover, she'd have to make an effort and eat. ''All right, sweetling, but please - no gruel! I'm not yet old enough or dead enough for anyone to be forcing gruel down my throat.'' 

Madrigal quickly twisted her hair into a braid, replying, ''No gruel. Good beef broth, perhaps some bread softened in the soup. No ale, no wine, no small beer. Water.'' Her dark purple eyes flashed. 

''Oh, but you're a cruel mistress indeed!'' Cathelin said theatrically, then sighed. ''You're right. No wine. No ale. No small beer.'' She sighed again. ''Remind me not to dwell in your sickroom too long, Madri. You're too mean by half.'' But the smile she gave her love took the sting from these words. 

Madrigal, her step lighter by far than it had been since the accident, gave Cathelin a quick peck on the cheek and left the chamber, a foolish grin spreading from ear to ear... 

Becca met Madrigal outside and grabbed her by the arm. ''The Lady?'' she asked, brown eyes wide. 

''She is awake, she does well. Watch over her while I see to her supper,'' Madrigal replied. ''Crimthan will be bringing in the children; I charge you to see that they do not stay long.'' 

Becca nodded, feeling her heart swell with relief. As Madrigal moved away, the kern wiped a tear from her face and said to a passing servant, ''Spread the good word, my friend! Lady Cathelin is awake, the fever's broke, an' all is well!'' 

The beaming servant rushed off, and Becca, her knees suddenly weak, slid down the wall and sat on the cold stone floor, head in her hands, ignoring the puzzled looks of passers-by as she prayed fervently, sending her thanks to God for preserving her Lady's life. 
 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lughaid, Desmond O'Brian's half-brother, was worried. The Earl had gone away to London to court, refusing to explain why. I wonder what business Desmond could have with the King? he thought. 

Lughaid was a strikingly handsome, some might even say beautiful, young man. Curly blonde locks fell to his shoulders in luxuriant waves; his eyes were dark blue framed by thick lashes; and he was slender instead of bulky, seemingly delicate and frail. Many women had swooned over his romantic good looks, and some had assumed him to be a lover of men, but Lughaid had made too many conquests among the female population of Kinslainne for there to be any doubts as to his sexual preference. 

Lugh disdained to commit himself even to a single dalliance with women of his own class, preferring to ease his physical needs with willing maidservants and kitchen sluts. Until he fell head-over-heels in love and lost his heart completely to a single woman, he wanted no angry fathers beating down the door, demanding marriage to their despoiled daughters. 

The trouble is, he thought as he tuned his harp in his sister-in-law's solar, that I'm too handsome by half. There were at least a dozen giggling, eyelash fluttering young women in peacock-bright gowns and jewels sitting in attendance on the Lady of Kinslainne - the haughty Eithne, his brother's wife; girls whom his sister-in-law paraded in front of him as if he were a prize bull, commenting on this one's dowry and that one's lands. 

I almost Eithne to show me their teeth and talk about good breeding stock, Lugh thought. The Lady desperately wanted her brother-in-law to make a good alliance, one which would enrich the O'Brian clan and by extension, herself. She lived and breathed politics, and was ambitious enough to imagine the consort's crown of England resting on her own head. 

Lugh stifled a sigh and sat up straighter as Eithne waved for silence. 

Eithne O'Brian nee O'Flaherty was a strikingly beautiful woman despite her forty-odd years. Her hair was the same rich brown it had been when Desmond had met her at court ten years earlier, her eyes the same peat gray. Ever morning she rubbed fresh buttermilk into her skin to keep it fresh and youthful, and she always carefully schooled her expressions lest frowning or smiling bring unwelcome lines. 

''Lugh, cariad,'' she said, plucked eyebrows raising. ''I think we'd like to hear the song about the stars.'' 

Lugh sighed again and plucked at the front of his scratchy doublet. 'No Star is Brighter Than My Lady's Eyes' was a popular troubadour's tune, and in the young man's mind, no more syrupy, sickeningly sweet melody had ever been written. 

As he hesitated, Eithne continued, ''Sometime this morning, if you please, sir.'' Although she did not frown, there was an air of displeasure in her tone that made him shudder. Lady Eithne in a temper was not something he cared to contemplate so early in the day. 

Lugh strummed his harp and began to sing, glorious tenor soaring to the rafters, while his sister-in-law's attendants giggled behind their hands and made great cow's eyes at him. 

The young man sang the morning away, one romantic tune after another, while Eithne nodded in satisfaction, no doubt plotting his marriage alliance and totting up advantages... but uppermost in his mind was a single thought: What could his brother Desmond be up to now?

Crimthan entered the master's chamber, a babe balanced on each hip. As soon as Dragon saw Cathelin, he let out a squeal. ''Mathra!'' he hollered, squirming in excitement, ''My mathra!'' 

Honeycat gave her ''mathra'' - as the children called the Irishwoman - a wide, serene smile, and asked calmly, ''Mathra better?'' 

Crimthan blew a curl out of her eyes and deposited both children on the bed. ''Aye, Honey, she's better. Dragon, be careful now, yer mathra's still sick. No bouncin', no wrestlin', no ticklin'. Ye dinnae want ta hurt your mathra, hmmm? Be a good boy an' remember what yer momma told ye.'' 

Dragon nodded eagerly, crawling across the wolfskin coverlet to sit beside Cathelin. ''Hurt?'' he asked gravely, pointing a finger at the bandage on Cathelin's stomach. The day being hot, she had thrown back the sheets and lay there unclad save for wrapped linen strips. 

She nodded. ''Aye, little one.'' 

''Hug?'' Dragon hesitated, unwilling to touch her. Cathelin frowned slightly and gave Crimthan a glance. 

The nurse said briskly, ''He understands ye've been hurted, Lady. He knows ta be careful an' not hurt ye more.'' The unspoken ''or else'' was evident in her eyes. ''Lady Madrigal explained ta both o' th' children that yer still sick.'' 

Cathelin snorted, saying to Dragon, ''Give your mathra a hug, boy. Don't be a-feared.'' 

Slowly and carefully, the tot put his arms around Cathelin's neck and squeezed, his sweaty, slightly sticky face pressed against her cheek. ''Mathra,'' he murmured, and Cathelin felt as her heart were being squeezed tightly as well. 

When Dragon sat back, clearly pleased, Cathelin motioned to Honeycat. ''Come here, dearling,'' she said. 

Honeycat shook her head, black braids bouncing. 

''T'is all right, my sweetness, you'll not hurt me. Come, give your mathra a hug. She's missed you sorely these last few days.'' 

Honeycat put her finger in her mouth and slewed her green eyes sideways at Crimthan, who nodded and made shooing motions. Finally, the little girl got down off the bed, walked around to the other side, and tried to get up again. After Crimthan boosted her up, Honeycat nestled against Cathelin's side and whispered, ''More better?'' 

''Oh, aye,'' Cathelin whispered back, pressing a kiss on her daughter's brow, ''Much more better indeed.'' 

Dragon talked for several minutes about seeing a 'flutt'ry-bye'' in the garden and playing with new puppies in the stable, his black brows drawn together in a serious frown. Cathelin listened, asking questions, stroking the quiet Honeycat's hair, until she felt her eyes beginning to close and she yawned widely. 

''All right, children, yer mathra needs ta sleep. Come along now,'' Crimthan said, and as Dragon protested loudly, ''Ye'll see her again later, I promise.'' Slyly, the nurse added, ''I hear Mistress Shevaughn's made honeycakes again.'' 

With the bribe of honeycakes firmly fixed in his mind, Dragon gave Cathelin an almost perfunctory kiss goodbye and toddled away purposefully, Crimthan following with Honeycat clutching her hand. As she exited, the nurse said over her shoulder, ''I'll just be tellin' th' Half-Tongue ta come in again an' keep ye quiet company, Lady.'' 

Cathelin nodded slightly, suddenly feeling more tired than she ever had in her life. After several more jaw-cracking yawns that made her belly wound burn, the Irishwoman fell asleep, not even waking when Becca tip-toed in and covered her with a blanket, a small smile curving the kern's lips.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Desmond rubbed his hands together gleefully. John the Bastard had come through with his end of their devil's bargain - a troop of his personal army, disguised as common mercenaries, were already camped in a deserted pasture on O'Brian land. 

Although it had been nearly two weeks since his fateful meeting with the king, the Earl had not allowed dust to gather beneath his feet. His own army, carrying the badges and standard of his clan - a silver boar on a field of green - was on war footing, prepared to march at a moment's notice. 

He sat back and gave a sigh of satisfaction. If all went well, by this same time next week, Inishowen would be in his hands, and Cathelin O'Cameron would be roasting in Hell. 

His wife, Eithne, swept into their bedchamber, the skirts of her elaborate purple gown billowing. ''Well, husband?'' she asked, pouring herself a mazer of wine. ''I've held my tongue these last two sennights, but now I think it's time you told me of your plan.'' She sat down in the chair next to him and fixed her gray eyes on his face. 

Desmond ran both hands through his blonde hair. ''King John has given me secret aid in my campaign against the O'Cameron. A full forty of his best men, tho' disguised, will fight on our side in the upcoming siege.'' 

''And?'' Eithne raised a brow. ''What does His Majesty expect in return?'' 

''Only that I pledge my own loyalty to his cause, to which I've made my mark on a secret agreement. While Richard Drag-Arse languishes in the Holy Land, the King seeks to gather 'round him a core of devoted peers, intending to depose Richard when he returns.'' 

''Treason!'' Eithne widened her eyes, then narrowed them in thought. ''Or not. After all, possession is nine-tenths of the law, and at this moment the crown rests on John the Bastard's head. But still... why such secrecy?'' 

''He cannot afford to let the other lords know of his involvement. They don't trust him as yet; if it were known His Majesty participated personally in a private feud...'' 

Eithne completed the sentence, ''...it could very well ruin his chances at a rebellion against the old king. Not to mention the fact that he'd be surrounded by a dinning horde of grudge-bearing leeches with their hands out, and he cannot afford to alienate anyone right now.'' She drank deeply if daintily from her mazer. ''Well, when Inishowen is taken, and the O'Cameron dies, what will John do then?'' 

''Nothing. If any of the other lairds protest, he will stall and stall and stall - promising much but delivering nothing. Eventually, the matter will be forgotten. And you, my precious pet, will be mistress of Kinslainne and Inishowen both.'' Desmond beamed at his wife. 

Eithne reached out a hand and touched Desmond's cheek, tracing her thumb against the narrow blonde mustache that adorned his upper lip. ''Husband, the question that comes to my mind is... why?'' At Desmond's frown, she continued, ''Why does the king help us at all? It seems great risk against small benefit, and the reward is in the future and speculative at best, to boot.'' 

''Our king is a practical man, pet.'' The Earl kissed his wife's fingertips. ''He had much rather a man he can trust in charge of Inishowen than a wild Irishwoman who has never even bothered to show her face in court. Whoever rules Inishowen is a power to be reckoned with and he knows it. John also bears his own grudge against Blacksunne; it seems our Cathelin once unhorsed one of John's favorites in a tourney, causing the Bastard to lose a pretty purse as well as humiliating him in front of his brother. Add this to the fact that the O'Cameron was knighted by Richard's own hand, and you may believe that His Majesty bears no love for her or for any of Inishowen.'' 

''When will the siege take place?'' 

''In another week's time. As soon as the castle is taken, I plan to execute the O'Cameron, her bedslut, and Westfield's bastard children. To make absolutely sure, however, I have a man on the inside, a spy, who will poison that evening's meal. By the time the sun comes up, a goodly portion of Inishowen's defenders will be either dead or too sick to fight. We should have an easy victory.'' 

Eithne leaned over to kiss Desmond's mouth lightly. ''I am pleased, husband,'' she purred, one hand sliding over the hose that covered the Earl's thigh. ''Well pleased indeed.'' 

The two kissed passionately, and thus did not hear the soft footsteps that headed down the hall, away from their bedchamber... 

As soon as he was safely away, Lugh rested his forehead against the stone wall, hands clenching and unclenching, jaw clenched, mind reeling. 

Dishonor! Treason! Murder! 

He gasped for breath, sweat breaking out on his face. An honorable fight against an honorable enemy I could countenance, he thought, but this?!! My brother plotting with John Lackland for the overthrow of the rightful King... planning to poison innocents to gain Inishowen... murdering children? Has he gone mad?

Lugh was sickened to the core. But what can I do?, he asked himself, desperately wanting to do something.. 

I cannot confront them directly; I wouldn't put it past Eithne to arrange for an 'accident' - like falling off a tower or getting spitted on a spear. But I can't let Desmond do this thing, either. Tthe deed he plots will besmirch our clan's name for all time to come.

Finally, however, he began to think... and soon an idea blossomed in his brain. An unlikely plan, perhaps, but one which, as he examined it, seemed his only course. The only honorable course, he corrected himself. Although I'm not yet a spurred knight, I believe in the truest meaning of chivalry. Desmond must be stopped! And I'm the only one who can do it without spilling blood, or so I pray...

Having made his decision, Lugh wasted no time. Returning to his room, he quickly exchanged his doublet and hose for an old patched tunic and worn-out trews that he usually wore to weapons practice. After tossing a few things into a saddlebag, he snatched up his harpcase on the way out and quietly made his way to the stables. 

Choosing a placid, jug-headed mare, he saddled her and mounted, grateful that the Master of the Stable was at his dinner and not hovering about asking questions. As a final touch, he pulled a moth-eaten old cloak from a hook in the wall and swirled it about his shoulders, fastening it with a broken bronze pin. 

Riding slowly, the hood of his borrowed cloak concealing his face, Lugh left behind the open gate of Castle Kinslainne and went through the village, not wanting undue attention, striving to appear normal... unremarkable... invisible. 

As soon as he was safely away from prying eyes, Lugh turned his mount's head in the direction of Inishowen... and said a silent pray to God that he would not arrive too late. 

CHAPTER NINE

Two weeks of being waited on hand and foot; two weeks of having every whim catered to by a doting staff; two weeks of not even being able to take a piss by herself, dress herself, feed herself - Cathelin felt as if she were going mad. 

The pure hell of it, she thought, is that I'm still weaker than a month-old kitten. Even trying to stand is an ordeal, but if Brother Ignatius clucks at me one more time, much as I respect his holy rede, I swear I'll beat the old man within an inch of his saintly life!

The old monk, fully aware of Cathelin's resentment, held his tongue and merely handed the Irishwoman a horn cup that brimmed with a foul concoction. ''Drink this, Lady,'' he said, avoiding Cathelin's simmering golden eyes. 

She took a sip, screwing up her face at the taste. ''By'r'Lady!'' she exclaimed, lips twisted in a hideous scowl. ''What's in this, Brother? Dead cat?'' 

''Only a little, an' only fer th' taste,'' Ignatius replied with a mock serious air. ''Dinnae sip, Lady. Just gulp it down an' I'll gie ye a sweetmeat ta take away th' sting.'' 

Cathelin made another face at the monk, this time for acting as if she were a recalcitrant child to be bribed by sweets, but obeyed his instructions, swigging down the bitter medicine with screwed-shut eyes and a grimace. 

''There, now,'' Ignatius said, removing the empty cup from Cathelin's hand, ''t'was not so bad as ye thought, was it?'' 

Cathelin turned her head to glare at Brother Sebastian, who had both hands clapped over his mouth to prevent a snicker from escaping. With enormous dignity, the Irishwoman shifted her amber gaze to Ignatius. ''When are you thinking I'll be well enough to get out of this bed?'' 

Ignatius indicated to Sebastian to begin gathering up the medicinal supplies. ''P'rhaps this afternoon... I'll tell Lady Madrigal that yer ta begin takin' small walks, but...'' He shook an admonishing finger. ''NO gaddin' about the castle entire, NO goin' anywhere alone, NO walkin' up or down them stairs, an' NO swordplay! I've no wish ta be draggin' my old bones back here on count of ye fallin' an' showin' folk th' color o' yer insides.'' 

Cathelin nodded. ''Aye. I've been wounded before, Brother, and I've battlefield experience. I'll take care.'' 

Ignatius sniffed. ''See that ye do. G'day, Lady. I'll mention ye ta th' Good Lord in my prayers.'' He and Sebastian exited, the young apprentice deferring respectfully to his teacher. 

Cathelin sighed. Madri was down in the storage rooms, helping the seneschal, Michael Drury, take an inventory of Inishowen's food supplies. Crimthan had taken Dragon and Honeycat into the woods for an afternoon frolic. Even Becca Half-Tongue was busy, drilling new recruits on the practice field. 

And that's where I should be, the Irishwoman thought with another sigh. She pressed a hand to her stomach and winced; although partially healed, the area was still tender to the touch and flared with pain every time she moved. Her abdominal muscle had been deeply cut, and if the wound were torn open again - T'is tripping I'd be over my own guts.

She understood the need to rest, regain her strength, allow her body to heal, but it was still very frustrating. Cathelin let her eyes roam over the room, boredom settling into her very bones. 

Just as she was about to take another nap, the door of the chamber flew open, and Fergus Niall, the village hetman, stumbled into the room. ''T'is yer babes, Lady!'' he gasped, light red mustache fluttering with the force of his exhalation. 

Cathelin's eyes widened and her hands clutched the bed linens. ''What?!! What's happened? Tell me, man!'' 

Fergus panted; he was a paunchy man but still muscular, a former guardsman gone somewhat to fat with good living. ''Wee Dragon an' Honeycat's missin'! Wandered off in th' wood! Oh, Crimthan's a-wailin' an' carryin' on somethin' awful, Lady, so I come myself ta bespeak ya th' news.'' 

Cathelin sucked in a breath, then clenched her jaw. With a massive effort that left beads of sweat standing out on her brow, she slowly pushed herself into a sitting position, swinging her legs off the bed. Nostrils pinched and white, with a grunt she rose to her feet, hanging onto the bedpost for support. 

''Fetch me a pair of trews and a tunic, Master Niall,'' she said in a strained voice. ''I'll be going back with you to lead the search.'' 

Niall opened his mouth to protest, but thought the better of it when he saw the expression in the Lady's eyes. As he rummaged in the clothes chest, Becca ran into the room and skidded to a halt when she took in the scene. 

''Just where d'you think you're going?'' she demanded. 

Cathelin hung grimly to the bedpost. ''I'm going after my children, Lleidath. You can help or get out of my way.'' 

''No, you're not! Niall, put down those clothes! Listen to me, Lady,'' Becca said, coming closer, ''You're in no condition to be traipsin' through the woods. I just heard the news myself and was coming to tell you that Wolf's organizing a search party.'' 

Cathelin kept her eyes locked on the clothes that hung loosely in Niall's hand. ''Does Madri know?'' 

Becca shook her head. ''Not yet. I s'pose Mistress Meagan's telling her now.'' 

''Good.'' Cathelin took a deep breath, then let go of the bedpost and straightened up. Although the effort this took was not outwardly evident, she had to stand still a moment before the swirling room steadied. ''I'll get dressed and join them in the courtyard.'' 

''Lady, please! You can't go!'' 

''Listen to me, Becca Lleidath! I'll not be told what I may or may not do as if I were a child myself! Now, I'll be going with your help or without it, but BY GOD I AM GOING!'' 

The echoes of Cathelin's enraged shout made Becca's ears ring. Lips set, without another protest, she nodded to Niall. 

Cathelin managed to pull on her trews and tunic by herself, although she was soaked with sweat by the time she finished. Knowing she couldn't possibly manage boots, she merely stepped into a pair of soft leather sandals and somehow tied up the straps without fainting. Grabbing a spear from the wall beside the bed, she used it as a staff to help make her way across the room. 

When she reached the door, Cathelin turned her head and said, ''Are you coming?'' Without waiting to see if they were following, she passed slowly down the hall. 

Becca looked at Niall and shook her head. ''I know not which is worse... that the Lady might kill her stubborn self, or that Lady Madrigal might kill me for letting her!'' 

Niall twisted his mustache between his fingers and did not reply. 

Dragon held Honeycat's hand as the two children toddled slowly through the dense woods. 

It had been a fun prank, to hide behind trees and beneath rotted logs, giggling quietly while their nurse Crimthan had searched and called in increasingly frantic tones. Crimthan had gone away and they had wandered around for a while, admiring pretty leaves or flowers and chasing bugs. But now they were hot, tired, thirsty - and beginning to get scared. 

It was early afternoon, so there was plenty of sun, and it was warm and mild, a slight breeze rustling the undergrowth. Dragon wiped his face with a grimy hand and sighed. 

Honeycat suddenly came to a halt. Silently, she pointed along a deer trail. 

Dragon shook his head, dark hair flying in his eyes. Uncut since birth, it flowed across his shoulders in a mass of black curls. 

Honeycat tugged his hand, still pointing, and began moving towards the trail. 

Dragon frowned. ''Stop, Cat!'' he said stubbornly, pushing out his bottom lip and digging in his heels. ''No!'' 

''Yes! Want momma! Want mathra!'' Honeycat was equally insistent and pulled at her brother until both children fell over in a heap. 

Dragon's lip trembled as he thought about crying, but seeing Honeycat solemnly examining a scrape on her knee, he immediately forgot about tears. ''Hurt?'' he asked, brows drawn together in a frown. 

Honeycat shook her head... then her green eyes widened as they scanned past Dragon's face, focused on something behind him, and kept going up, up... 

Dragon jumped when he heard the roar behind him. He scrambled to his feet unsteadily and turned around to confront the enormous bear that stood above the two children, shaggy head thrown back, muzzle open to emit another roar. He bunched his hands into fists and shouted, ''Bad bear! G'way!!'' 

Honeycat sat there, frozen in terror, heart skittering as she watched the bear's beady black eyes narrow. The bear roared again, showing long downcurving fangs, waving its claws as it came closer and closer. 

CHAPTER TEN

He was close to Inishowen when Lugh heard the roar of an enraged bear, followed by the unmistakable tones of a child's shrill scream. 

Clapping his heels against the mare's side and startling her into motion, he guided the horse in the direction of the noise, keeping her tightly controlled as they skidded around trees and vaulted over a fallen giant of an oak. Lugh held a fold of his cloak over his face to protect his eyes as leafy branches whipped past, lashing him like thin whips. The mare obeyed but her eyes rolled wildly and she started to foam as they drew closer, the musky scent of bear making her skittish. 

As they burst into the clearing, Lugh was already in motion. Sawing at the reins with all his strength, the mare was brought to a skidding halt even as he dropped the leather leads and launched himself from the saddle, already drawing the heavy hunting knife from its sheath at his back. 

The bear stood at least seven feet tall, rough shaggy coat sprinkled with leaves and twigs, and long claws that he thought must measure two thumbs in length. It stood on its hind legs, muzzle agape and drooling as it menaced two children, mere babes, both of whom were now screaming; as Lugh moved across the clearing. The bear shambled closer to them. 

With a wild scream of his own, Lugh leaped on the bear's back, clamping his legs along its sides and twisting one hand into the fur at the side of the bear's neck. Knowing he would have only one chance, he wasted no time. Barely feeling the hot pain of the bear's claws raking one of his calves, he raised the knife and buried it to the hilt in the animal's eye, praying the blade would be long enough to reach the brain. 

Even as the bear squealed and pawed at him again, several arrows thudded home in its chest. Snuffling and roaring in rage, the bear dropped to all fours, blood pouring down its face, streaming across its muzzle. A javelin struck its side and stood out, quivering, and several more followed. 

Lugh rolled off the bear, keeping his own body between the animal and the children, and somehow managed to get to his feet. He stood there, swaying and empty-handed, not sure what he would do if the bear attacked, but knowing he couldn't leave the children helpless. In that wild heartbeat of moments, it had not yet occurred to him that he was not alone. 

The bear roared again but weakly, and toppled over onto its side, shuddering, fur stained with dark blood. With a quivering whimper and a massive sigh, the beast died. 

Lugh watched, panting. until a hand clapped on his shoulder made him start. He turned his head to see a black-haired warrior with a drooping mustache, whose icy-blue eyes looked into his with approval. ''Good job, lad,'' the warrior said. ''Ye've saved the Lady's kin.'' 

Lugh turned around to see a woman with dark red hair kneeling on the leaf-strewn dirt, both children gathered in her arms. For a long moment, she held them, murmuring softly; then one by one held them away from her and examined them for wounds. The little girl had a skinned knee that received a soft kiss, but other than a scare, it seemed as if they were all right. 

Then the woman raised her head to look straight at him, and Lugh felt her golden gaze hit him like a hammerblow in the chest. 

''Who are you?'' she asked, while he stood there as if stunned. ''I want to know the name of the brave man who saved my Dragon and my Honeycat.'' 

''L-l-lugh,'' he stuttered, feeling ten kinds of fool. ''Lugh, er, Sodath.'' 

Cathelin frowned. That last was no proper clan name; in the Old Gaelic, it meant ''comely.'' She decided to allow it to pass; by the look of him, and by the harpcase she could see strapped to the back of the ugly mare held by one of her kerns, he was likely a wandering minstrel. 

''The gratitude of the clan for what you've done, Master Sodath,'' she said, inclining her head graciously. ''You were on your way to Inishowen?'' 

''Aye.'' Lugh nodded. 

She waved a hand and turned her head to look over her shoulder. ''Becca, help me up.'' Another woman broke from the ranks of the warriors he could now see gathered behind the red-haired woman; this one had brown curly hair cut in a soldier's short crop, and her otherwise pretty face was marred by a thick scar. With something approaching shock, Lugh realized that the woman on the ground must be Lady Cathelin O'Cameron. 

Becca hauled the Lady to her feet, and Lugh saw Cathelin's face go white beneath her tan. Then she was up, both children clinging to her legs. Cathelin sighed. ''Just get me up on my horse and hand them to me.'' Becca loosened the children's clutching grips and picked them up, settling them against her hip. 

Cathelin grabbed a tall spear from another warrior and turned to go, but the warrior beside Lugh called out, ''And what of Master Sodath, Lady?'' 

''He goes with us, Wolf... back to Inishowen. With full guest-right and all honors; have the Mistress of the Hearth prepare a feast when we return.'' 

Lugh felt his heart begin to beat again. 

The warrior whom the lady had named Wolf sighed. ''Stubborn...'' Then he broke off and studied Lugh. ''We'll wrap your leg for th' trip home, t'will not take long. The abbey healer'll have a look at ye. D'ye need help to mount?'' 

''No. I don't... think so.'' 

''If ye do, ask one o' th' men. And lad?,'' Wolf continued, misinterpreting the look of anxiety on Lugh's face, ''Dinnae worry. Ye're a guest o' the O'Camerons, not a prisoner. An' if ye know any o' th' Lady, ye'll know she keeps to th' old ways for th' honorin' o' heroes.'' 

Lugh sighed, nodding... and limped over to his horse, thinking, Have I made a mistake? Can I do this? Can I avert a war?

But he was also thinking... Dear Sweet Jesu! I think Lady Cathelin's the one.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They rode slowly through the gates of Inishowen, the guards on duty saluting their Lady. 

Cathelin's face was the color of whey, lips pressed so tightly together they were bloodless. But her arms never faltered in holding her children tightly, for although Madrigal was their mother-by-blood, Cathelin had come to regard Dragon and Honeycat as precious as if she'd borne them herself. 

Riding up to the castle, Lugh could see a single figure standing in the forecourt. An uncommonly beautiful woman, petite but with generous curves and features that were exotic in this land. Her blue-black hair was twisted back into two braids, and her gown, while linen, was gorgeously embroidered with blackbirds and crimson berries. This, then, was a woman of some importance; when Lugh noticed the silver chain with its jangling keys that was looped around her waist, he knew this must be Inishowen's chatelaine. 

He composed his face into a smile, even though this leg had begun to hurt fiercely, but the smile died forgotten as the woman ignored him, concentrating her sole attention on the Lady and her children. 

''Dragon! Honeycat!'' she said fervently, snatching both children down, kissing them, then shaking them fiercely and kissing them again. ''You do not EVER run away from Crimthan again!! EVER!'' 

Dragon protested, ''Lost!'' but the woman silenced him with smack to his sturdy rear end. ''Enough!'' she said. ''Now go with your nurse, Dragon, and do not do so again! You frightened your momma and your mathra, both.'' 

Dragon began to cry and was handed over to Crimthan - a plump, freckled woman with wild orange hair. Honeycat stared up at her momma with wide eyes and the woman sighed. ''You go as well, little one.'' 

Honeycat whispered, ''Momma? Bear...'' 

''Not now, Honey. Go with Crimthan; I will hear about it later.'' 

Crimthan hustled both children into the castle, and the woman put her hands on her hips and turned flashing eyes on Cathelin. ''And may one ask what you are doing out of bed?'' she asked in a deceptively mild tone. 

To Lugh's surprise, the Lady gave the chatelaine a sickly smile and replied, ''Sweetling, they were lost...'' 

''Enough from you as well!'' the woman almost shouted. ''Get down from that djinn-possessed eater-of-straw and get back in bed! Allah preserve me! Is it that you wish to die?'' 

Cathelin's smile had become fixed, her eyes glazed. Slowly, she slid from the saddle, straight into the woman's arms, and both of them crumpled to the ground. 

Holding Cathelin's head in her lap, the chatelaine shouted, ''For the sake of the Prophet! Help me!'' 

Quickly, the kerns dismounted, Wolf organizing a hasty litter. In no time at all, Cathelin was on her way into the castle, borne by several sweating soldiers who rolled their eyes fearfully at the fuming dark-haired woman. 

Lugh managed to get down from his own horse and limped over. ''Is she all right? The Lady, I mean,'' he asked the chatelaine. 

''I pray to Allah she will be,'' she answered absently. Then, she seemed to notice him for the first time and smiled slightly, although the look of worry on her face never faltered. ''I am Lady Madrigal,'' she said. ''Are you a guest here?'' 

Becca had lingered in the background, carefully watching Lugh. Now she spoke up. ''Aye, that he is. Saved both babes, he did, an' the Lady's ordered a hero's feast.'' 

''Indeed?'' Madrigal's delicate brows rose. ''Come,'' she said, looping her arm through his. ''Come inside and have some wine. I apologize but I must see to my children and to my Lady Cat. Becca will keep you entertained and see to your hurt.'' 

Lugh allowed himself to be led into Inishowen... not missing the grimace on Becca's face. 

Brother Ignatius was so furious that his bat-like ears quivered. ''Are ye entirely mad? Did ye lose a mortal portion o' yer brains ta th' boar what gored ye? Did I not tell ye ta be careful?'' 

''Aye,'' Cathelin sighed wearily. ''That you did.'' 

Ignatius slapped a linen pad on Cathelin's stomach, ignoring her wince. ''Well, God was wit' ye, ya slack-witted, sword-maunderin' horse's arse!'' 

Brother Sebastian used the pad to mop up blood, then stood back so Ignatius could take a look at the re-opened wound. The old monk tsked under his breath and said, ''It no needs re-stitchin', praise God. T'is only a small tear. BUT,'' he added at Cathelin's sigh of relief, ''that no means yer ta be up an' about an' spear castin' an' killin' bears at th' drop o' th' pin! Yer ta stay abed this night, an' more nights besides, till yon wound has a chance ta heal! D'ye understand me, Lady, or do I need ta have ye chained there?'' 

Cathelin nodded. Muttering to himself, the old monk and his apprentice wound linen strips around her middle as a bandage. When finished, Ignatius said in parting, ''An' I'm sure yer own lady has words fer ye as well, ye obstinate child o' mules! An' yer no ta try an' run away, either! Ye'll probably end up tryin' ta fly from a parapet, or the saints know what... yer as mortal as th' rest o' God's children, ye know!'' His voice faded as he bustled down the hall, a smirking Sebastian at his heels. 

Cathelin sighed again, and steeled herself for the confrontation with her beloved that she knew would be forthcoming. 

St. Michael and the Virgin Mary protect me, she thought to herself. I'd almost rather face a cohort of head-hunting Picts than my wife when she's in a temper!
 

CHAPTER TWELVE

As predicted, the instant Ignatius was gone, Madrigal swept into the room. Fury has colored her cheeks and her dark purple eyes glittered. ''Well?'' she asked in a hard tone. 

Cathelin gave her a half-hearted shrug and said, ''T'is sorrowed I am that you worried, sweetling. But the children...'' 

Madrigal snorted. ''Did you not have a barracks full of warriors who were eager to search? Do you not trust Wolf with your life? And what of Becca? Does she not have experience in these matters?'' 

''Well, yes, Madri, but...'' 

''Do not 'but' me! What did you mean, getting out of bed, and still so weak, too! You could have died! I have been waiting here, half out of my mind with worry, almost convinced they would bring back a corpse instead of my Lady Cat!'' 

''Now, sweetling...'' 

''How could you do this? How?'' Madrigal grabbed her skirt in both hands and shook it. ''Is it that you wish to die? There are far easier ways to go about it! Shall I have a servant fetch your sword so you may fall upon it?'' 

''Madri, please - I had to do something. I couldn't just lay here...'' 

''Allah!'' For several minutes, Madrigal cursed Cathelin in Arabic, floridly obscene phrases spilling from her lips. The Irishwoman lay back with a sigh, putting her hands behind her head and watching her mate with a tiny smile on her face. 

When Madrigal began repeating herself, Cathelin said mildly, ''Did you not forget to call me an eater of swine's-flesh? The obstinate offspring of a she-camel? Not even to mention the debauched daughter of a wine-swilling prophet?'' 

Madrigal's face colored even further. ''Do not mock me, Lady Cat,'' she said warningly, coming closer. ''You have angered me greatly.'' 

Cathelin sighed again, her amber eyes never leaving her love's. ''Truly I am sorrowed, sweetling,'' she replied. ''Believe me, I've no wish to die. At least, not yet. But I've also no wish to see our children dead, either. Can you not understand that?'' 

''Of course I understand.'' Madrigal sat carefully on the edge of the bed. ''It is that I cannot bear losing you.'' 

Cathelin's brows rose, but she remained silent. 

Madrigal continued, picking up the Lady's hand and holding it against her cheek, ''Perhaps I am a bad mother and Allah will punish me for my thoughts. But although the thought of losing my children is painful, and part of my soul would die with them if anything ever happened, still... if I were to lose you, you who are my pearl beyond price - I would be soul-lost entirely.'' 

''Do you love me so much then?'' 

''Yes.'' Madrigal's dark eyes glittered with unshed tears. ''Without you, I am nothing. As much as I love them, without my children I could still find the strength to continue; without you, I could not. I would die to defend my children; but if I must choose between them and you... I would choose my Lady Cat's life and accept the consequences. These thoughts I will be damned for, I know; but I will gladly endure Shaitan's punishments in the next world if it will save you in this one.'' 

Cathelin rolled over on her side, suppressing a wince, and slid her free hand along the cloth that covered Madrigal's thigh. ''Thou art my oasis in the burning desert, my moon of gold, my cup of palm wine and honey,'' she said softly in Arabic. 

Madrigal sighed, then lay down beside Cathelin, carefully putting her arms around the other woman and resting her cheek on the Irishwoman's arm. ''For love of thee I would stand against the world.'' 

Cathelin kissed each of Madrigal's closed eyelids. ''Since I have known you I have been unmoved by all else, even though the sky were to fall or the sea to overflow,'' she whispered in Gaelic. Then switching to English, she continued, ''T'is all right, my sweetling. You'll not be damned, no less than I.'' 

Softly, Madrigal began to cry, tears falling into Cathelin's dark red hair, while her mate held her tightly and crooned, ''T'will be all right, sweetling. T'will be all right.'' 

Her face pressed against Cathelin's neck, Madrigal did not speak for a long while. And when she did, it was to reaffirm her love in the most unmistakable terms - and Cathelin replied in kind. 
 

Becca wrapped linen bandages around Lugh's calf and tied off the ends. ''Too tight?'' she asked, keeping her eyes focused on her task. 

''Nay, feels all right,'' he replied. ''My thanks. You've a light touch.'' 

Becca pulled his pants leg down over the bandage and stood, wiping her hands on the front of her trews. The cuts, while long, weren't terribly deep and hadn't needed stitches. She'd slathered them with Brother Ignatius' sovereign salve to prevent infection, and wrapped his leg in linen to keep it clean. The kern went to the sideboard to pour the stranger a cup of wine, watching him surreptitiously beneath her lashes. 

This Lugh Sodath is as comely as his false name suggests, she thought. Pretty as a virgin maid. I wonder if he's a man-lover - and I wonder what he was doing so close to Inishowen.

Bringing the wine to Lugh, Becca said, ''Are you hungered? Mistress Shevaughn's preparin' a feast, but that'll be for later tonight. I can fetch you some bread and cheese if you'd like.'' 

Having not eaten all day, Lugh suddenly realized he was famished. Wetting his lips politely with the wine (and raising his eyebrows that so fine a vintage should be given to one believed to be a penniless, wandering minstrel), he replied, ''You'd have the blessings of my belly, mistress. T'is small wonder to me that its not been making its emptiness known before now.'' 

Just as these words left his lips, Lugh's stomach rumbled loudly, making Becca laugh. 

''Aye, so I hear,'' she said. ''Take your ease, Master Sodath. I'll be back in but a moment.'' 

''Please, mistress,'' he said gallantly with a smile. ''Call me Lugh.'' 

''As you wish.'' Becca turned to go, and almost as an afterthought, added, ''And call me Becca, if you please.'' She exited the dining hall, leaving Lugh alone with his thoughts. 
 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lugh toyed with his winecup, swirling the dark red liquid around and around. 

His eyes roamed the huge, high-ceilinged room, with its walls of cut stone hung with the banners and flags of the O'Cameron enemies defeated in battle since Lady Cathelin's great-great-grandfather's time. Captured axes, spears, swords and shields also paid mute testimony to the war prowess of the O'Cameron clan. 

The massive fireplaces on either side of the room were big enough to roast an ox whole; the T-shaped table, with the top bar of the ''T'' set on a dais beneath the canopy of state, was large enough to host a horde of guests. 

From where he sat, he could see the silver saltceller that dominated the upper portion of the table. The large bowl, with its fantastically crafted lid in the shape of a chariot drawn by two rearing horses, would indicate the relative rank of those seated at the feast. Those of high rank were seated ''above the salt,'' while those of lower rank were seated ''below the salt.'' Lugh was somewhat startled to realize that for the first time in his life, he would be below the salt at dinner. 

Well, t'is a necessary evil, he thought. I'll have to forget about my birth-rank until this is over. For now, I must pray that Lady Cathelin is all right and I can somehow make my brother's plans known to her without being executed as a spy. As far as what Desmond will do to me - he can hardly take the head of kin so closely tied by blood and birth, even if it seems I must commit treason to avoid a black stain on the clan name.

Lugh's thoughts naturally turned to Lady Cathelin... So tall, so strong, but not beautiful. No, not even handsome. Fierce, like an eagle, with an eagle's golden eyes. She's hardly the obscene half-man my brother describes.

Lugh rose and walked around the room, stopping at a large wooden cabinet that was against one wall. The doors were sheathed in translucent mica and he could barely make out shadows against the paper-thin stone. Opening a door, he found the shelves full of goblets made of human skulls. 

Taking one out, he examined it. The upside down skull had a stem of silver and a gold foot, both studded with turquoise. The skull itself was sheathed in silver, empty eye-sockets filled in with gold and two large pearls. The rim of the grisly goblet was likewise decorated with a ring of pearls. A Latin inscription around the inside of the cup read: ''Alexander Wallace, for whose crimes God hath judged, the Lady Cathelin O'Cameron as His Arm of justice. Thus was Madrigal O'Cameron avenged.''

With a shudder, Lugh replaced the goblet and shut the doors. The cabinet contained a round dozen or more of the things. He'd heard of such traditions in old-fashioned households, but his own O'Brian clan was too Christianized to pay much heed to the old, barbaric ways that had prevailed before St. Patrick's conversion of Ireland. 

Becca returned, bearing a wooden platter. Sliding it on the table, she said, ''Here's your bread and cheese, Master Sodath.'' She sat down on the bench opposite the one he had been sitting on and nodded. ''Come and eat; then I'll show you to your room.'' 

Lugh sat back down and broke open the steaming loaf of bread, inhaling the fragrance gratefully. He noticed that someone had also provided a lump of fresh butter, and a generous slab of pale yellow cheese. Taking a large bite of bread, he said around the mouthful, ''I didn't know Lady Madrigal was of the O'Cameron clan. What's her relation, may I ask?'' 

Becca gave him a shrewd glance, but decided the question just might have been an innocent one. ''She was once the slave of Sir Francis Westfield the Usurper,'' she replied, ''and the Lady freed her, and took her to wife.'' 

Lugh nearly spewed the swallow of wine he'd taken across the table. Her WIFE? Well, that explains the name in the inscription, he thought, mind reeling with the implications. ''So she's adopted by marriage?'' 

''Nay. Before the Battle of the Trees, Lady Cathelin formally adopted Lady Madrigal into the clan. Later, they were wedded. Lady Madrigal's children are the chief's children as well, and her heirs.'' 

Lugh nodded. The O'Brian's did not recognize such unions as legal on their own lands, but he'd heard that Inishowen was different. He'd never imagined just how different. ''Those were the children who were attacked by the bear?'' 

''Aye.'' Becca decided to give the minstrel a bit more information. She was suspicious, though without true grounds save an instinct that screamed at her that the pretty lad was not what he seemed. Not enough to take to Wolf or the Lady. P'raps if I pay out enough rope, she thought, he'll hang himself and save me the trouble. ''Lady Cathelin was wounded by a wild boar some weeks ago,'' she offered casually, ''and has been recoverin' ever since. She shouldn't have joined the search; she's still too weak. Gut wounds can be dangerous, you know.'' 

Lugh nodded in agreement. ''Aye, I've seen a man or two who thought his belly was stitched tight together get up and have his guts on the ground,'' he replied. ''So that warrior... Wolf?... would be in charge of the castle defenses now?'' 

Becca shook her head. ''Nay, for t'is the custom and law that the lady wife of the laird defend the walls if her husband's away or hurted. No doubt Lady Madrigal will see to it if necessary.'' This last question of the minstrel's had made her suspicions flame even higher; the kern was determined to go to Wolf at the first opportunity. Surely this minstrel needs a sharp eye kept on him, she thought. 

Lugh was astonished to notice that the bread and cheese were gone, the platter devoid of even crumbs. He felt better now that he'd satisfied his hunger. Rising, he said, ''My thanks for the meal, Becca.'' Looking down at his torn and dirty clothes ruefully, he continued, ''Might this castle boast a common bathing room? I'd hate to appear at the feast looking like a beggar.'' 

''Aye. I'll show you where it is, and where your room is. Then, I need to be gettin' to the barracks before the captain has my hide.'' Becca ran a hand through her brown curly hair and gave Lugh a smile, showing the tiny gap between her two front teeth. 

As Becca led Lugh out of the dining room, the man was determined himself to seek an interview with Wolf... and hopefully warn the warrior about the impending siege.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

At DaDerga, the O'Brian's hereditary castle named after a famous house of Irish myth, Desmond O'Brian paced in his bedroom while his wife looked on with faint amusement. 

''Where in God's name can Lugh be?'' he asked of the air. ''He's been gone two days!'' 

Eithne smoothed her dark hair with one hand. ''Are you sure he's not lying drunk in some field or ditch, husband? Or snug in a pretty maid's bed?'' 

Desmond gave his wife an evil glare. ''I've had my men turn the castle and village upside down. Not a trace of him has been found. And his harp's missing as well.'' 

Eithne did not frown but there was a trace of ill humor in her peat-gray eyes. ''Well, no doubt he'll turn up. Stop worrying so about that harp-strumming fop! Surely any mischief he gets up to can be dealt with after we take Inishowen.'' 

''True.'' Desmond took a gulp of wine from the expensive glass goblet he'd imported all the way from Hungary at his wife's insistence. ''It makes my blood roil, thinking about Lugh. Why now, of all times, does my brother choose to desert me?'' 

''He could not have known about your plans,'' Eithne soothed. Getting up from her chair, she pressed herself against her husband's back, her hands sliding to caress his bare chest. ''Forget the boy, Desmond. Forget everything except your war and how good it will feel to be avenged on the O'Cameron once and for all.'' 

Desmond sighed and reached up a hand, toying with one of the many rings that encircled Eithne's slender fingers. ''Aye, you've the right of it.'' He turned around and embraced his wife. ''You're right as always, heart of my heart.'' 

Eithne played with a lock of his hair and purred, ''Am I not always, my husband?'' 

A knock on the door interrupted their kiss. Desmond growled and strode to the door, flinging it open. ''What?'' he asked to the man who stood on the threshold. 

It was Matthew Dunstan, the captain of O'Brian's soldiers. ''I've news of Lugh, my Lord'' he said shortly. Dunstan was tall and spear-slender, with a bushy strawberry-blonde mustache and shaven head. His ears were pierced with several silver rings, and his left arm was covered in abstract woad tattoos. ''He was seen leaving the village on an old mare two days ago.'' 

Desmond frowned. ''To where?'' he wondered aloud. 

Dunstan rubbed his bald head with one hand. ''No doubt about his destination, my Lord. Master Lugh was headed in the direction of Inishowen,'' he replied. The captain's blue eyes betrayed no emotion whatsoever. 

With a roar of pure rage, Desmond hurled the precious glass goblet across the room, where it shattered against the stone. ''That betraying bastard!'' he shouted, turning to accept the leather tunic mutely offered by his wife and pulling it over his head. ''Fetch my horse and gather the men together. As soon as I speak to our mercenaries and prepare them, we'll be leaving for Inishowen.'' 

''So soon?'' Dunstan asked. 

''Aye. T'will take us a day to march to Inishowen if we stop not to rest but continue through the night.'' Desmond sat down to draw on his boots with a grunt. ''We've lost the element of surprise, but if we make haste, we can get there before the castle's defenses are fully prepared.'' 

Dunstan shrugged and turned to go, but was stopped when Desmond said, almost as an afterthought, ''And send a message bird to our spy in Inishowen. They're to drug the meal this evening instead of waiting. With any luck, my treasonous brother's not had time to fully warn them yet.'' 

Dunstan went out, and Desmond turned to Eithne. ''And you, my love, will prepare the pickling vat,'' he said, brown eyes flashing. ''When I return from Inishowen with the O'Cameron's head, I'll have my brother's fixed to my saddlebow as well.'' 

Eithne bowed her head in assent, but asked, ''How do you know Lugh has betrayed you? How can you be so sure?'' 

Desmond grimaced. ''Ever since we were children, my brother's been as empty-headed as a court lackey. Always prating about honor and chivalry until my belly was fair to burst with his nonsense; the fool believes that expediency is a sin. Make no mistake, Eithne. Somehow my puling brother, and God alone knows why He gave me such a weakling for kin, has heard of my plan and intends to spoke my wheels. Well, he'll not get the chance.'' 

Eithne nodded. ''He must have overheard you talking. I've seen him sneaking about the castle before, quiet as a cat.'' 

''Aye.'' The blonde Earl took his wife by the shoulders. ''I have tried to love Lugh for our father's sake, but this time, I cannot forget and I cannot forgive. He has betrayed the clan and his life is forfeit.'' 

Eithne kissed Desmond's chin. ''Do what you must, my husband,'' she said. ''Be revenged on the O'Cameron for her insult to you as well as the death of our son. And return to me safely.'' 

At the mention of Robert, his dead son, Desmond bit his lip. The young man had been injured by Cathelin in a tourney, leaving him permanently disabled. Last year, Robert, suffering from black depression over his inability to win a knighthood, had committed suicide by slitting his wrists, thereby condemning his mortal soul to Hell. The Earl blamed Cathelin for this, although he had refrained from telling the king about his private pain and shame. 

The one will pay for all, he thought savagely, already imagining the red-haired O'Cameron on her knees, begging for her life. 

Kissing his wife so hard he bloodied her lip, the Earl left the room, shouting for his sword. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The dining hall was full, the length of the table crowded. As he had earlier thought, Lugh was seated below the salt, wedged between a pair of the Lady's kerns. He sopped at his wooden trencher with a bit of bread, getting every scrap of juice from his slice of the roasted cow's side that had been brought in earlier. 

Lady Cathelin was at the high table with her mate, Madrigal, at her side. While the Irishwoman looked pale and wan, it was clear from the expression of triumph on her face that she basked in her people's shouts and toasts of approval. The Lady of Inishowen was obviously well loved by her folk. 

Lugh surreptitiously scanned the dining room, seeking familiar faces... and saw Becca Half-Tongue speaking quietly and earnestly to Wolf McLeod. He shook back a lock of blonde hair that had fallen into his eyes, and decided there was nothing sinister in the conference. 

Becca hissed, ''He's a spy, Wolf, I'm tellin' you!'' She shot the unsuspecting Lugh a dark glance. ''Asking about the castle's defenses, he was!'' 

Wolf stroked his mustache lightly with one finger. ''An' what did ye tell him?'' 

''The truth, as much as I wanted him to know.'' Becca lowered her voice further. ''B'sides, I'm thinkin' I've seen him somewhere before.'' 

''Aye?'' 

''Aye. The Battle of the Trees, I think. I can't be sure, but I think I seen him there on the O'Brian's side. You and I both know the Earl's still lustin' after the Lady's blood over that ransom insult she dealt him, not to mention his son's death.'' 

Wolf looked thoughtful. ''Well, ye've the right o' that at least,'' he allowed. ''P'raps I should have a private talk wit' th' minstrel lad.'' 

''After the feast, then.'' Becca fingered the horn hilt of the belt knife she wore. ''I'll bring him to you myself.'' 

Wolf nodded. 

In the meantime, Lugh had risen from his seat and unslung the harpcase from his shoulder. ''A song!,'' he said loudly, ''A song to honor the Ladies Cathelin and Madrigal!'' 

Amid the cheers and banging of cups on the table, Lugh saw Lady Cathelin nod her assent. Taking out his harp and making sure it was tuned properly, he put one foot up on the bench and propped the harp against his inner thigh. 

Playing an ancient air, he sang the ''Immrama of Bran Mac Febel,'' the tale of a hero who makes a mystical journey to the Otherworld: 

''There is a distant isle, around which sea-horses glisten. 
Let thine intoxication overcome thee; 
begin a voyage across the clear sea. 
If perchance thou mayest reach the Tir Fa Thonn, 
The Land Under the Waves, 
thou shalt find the citadel of Manannan Mac Lir, 
the Emain Abhlach, 
but first thou must pass the Pillar of the Silver Net, 
even as brave Bran Mac Febel did in years past...'' 

Lugh continued the song, detailing Bran's adventures in the Otherworld and how he eventually escaped. At the end of the song, he stood flushed with pride  while the assembled people banged their cups and cheered, calling for another. Shouts of ''Play 'The Drunken Men of Ulster!''' and ''No! Give us 'The Faithful Fool!'' made the rafters ring. 

But before he could strike the harpstrings again and begin a new song, Becca said from behind, ''Come with me, Master Sodath. Wolf is wantin' to see you.'' 

Still feeling the heady rush of his audience's applause, Lugh put down his precious harp and followed the curly-haired kern, brushing at his tunic and thanking God that he'd taken a bath that afternoon and changed his clothes. 

Wolf maneuvered Lugh into a corner while Becca stood guard at the warrior's back to keep the curious away. ''What's your name, lad?'' he asked, and when Lugh stammered his false surname, the Scottish warchief sighed and shook his head in mock sorrow. ''Nay, boyo. Give me yer real name an' clan.'' 

Lugh pretended confusion. ''I don't know what you're talking about,'' he said. ''I'm Lugh Sodath.'' 

''Listen ta me. Either ye gie me yer true name or I'll have my men take ye down ta th' dungeons. Mayhap a taste o' th' rack'll loosen yer tongue.'' 

Lugh widened his dark blue eyes. Dungeon? Rack? Had he somehow given himself away? ''Please, Master Wolf,'' he replied pleadingly. ''Have I offended you somehow?'' 

''Becca tells me ye've a familiar look ta yer face. An' I hear ye've been askin' questions o' th' castle's defenses. T'is in my mind ye be a spy fer an enemy o' th' clan. Added ta that, I've news that th' O'Brian's mobilizin' an' armin' soldiers, an' I know t'isn't fer th' sake o' payin' a social call. So...'' The veteran warrior leaned in close, so close Lugh could see the barely detectable gray hairs in his luxuriantly drooping mustache. ''I'll have what ye know, one way or t'other.'' 

Lugh gulped, misinterpreting Wolf's words about his brother, and began thinking furiously. If Desmond was indeed on the verge of attacking Inishowen, then something must have happened to make him change his plans... and if his siege plan had changed, then perhaps so had his other - to poison Inishowen's people by tainting their food. 

But I don't feel sick, he thought, so maybe the spy doesn't know the siege had been pushed up... Or maybe it just hasn't happened yet. I must think!

Wolf poked Lugh in the chest with one finger. ''Well?'' he said belligerently. ''What d'ye say, lad?'' 

Lugh pushed back a lock of blonde hair with one hand. ''My bro... I mean, the O'Brian's mobilizing now?'' Oh, God, he thought, give me strength. I never figured he'd notice I was missing; normally, Desmond pays as much attention to me as to the meanest kitchen slattern. What can a spy poison among so many dishes to be sure of killing the most people?

Wolf's brows drew together in a frown, and he opened his mouth to reply, but Lugh, staring over his shoulder at the crowded table, suddenly shouted, ''NO!'' and pushed past the astonished warchief, headed for the dais even as eager hands reached out to stop him. 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lugh had seen the sweet course being served; a thin, shallow bowl of Trinity Pudding - red berry jam, cream and honey swirled together. It was an expensive dish and a rare treat... and it suddenly flashed on the young man that of all the dishes served that night, only the pudding was likely to be consumed by everyone in the hall, as well as the kitchen servants who would devour the leftovers. 

The perfect dish to poison, he thought, and his eyes sought the dais, where Lady Cathelin, smiling at something her wife had said, was bringing a horn spoon to her lips. 

''NO!'' Lugh yelled and shoved his way out of the corner, nearly knocking over Wolf McLeod in his haste. Shouting warriors and others rose from the table, long benches falling over with a crash, hands reaching out to clutch at Lugh as he sprinted past, pushing and ducking, even hitting one red-headed kern in the chest with his open hand and vaulting over her sprawling body. 

Wolf snatched an axe from the wall and prepared to throw, convinced that Lugh was not only a spy but an assassin. He cocked back his arm, ice-blue eyes narrowed in concentration. 

Becca Half-Tongue scrabbled after Lugh, belt knife drawn and held low for a disabling wound. She knew the warchief would want the young man taken alive if possible. 

Cathelin, her attention drawn by the commotion, got to her feet with a grunt and despite Madrigal's protests, put herself between her mate and the oncoming minstrel, who had a wild look in his eyes. 

Lugh scrambled up the steps to the dais, panting, ''No! Don't touch it!'' 

Madrigal had also risen to her feet by this time and was staring at him around Cathelin's arm. ''What do you mean?'' she asked, trying without success to get her Lady Cat to sit down again. Madrigal had seen that the young man was unarmed. 

''The pudding!'' Lugh nearly sank to his knees; his tunic was ripped and torn, blonde hair a mess of tangled curls. ''T'is poisoned!'' 

It was the hissing of the thrown axe that caught Cathelin's attention. Before Lugh could blink, the handle of the axe smacked into the Lady's hastily extended hand, the curved, razor-sharp blade stopping a hairsbreadth from his face. Lugh closed his eyes and trembled. 

Wolf and Becca pounded up the steps and each grabbed one of Lugh's arms. ''My apologies, Lady,'' the warchief said to Cathelin. ''I cannae believe I missed.'' 

''You didn't,'' Cathelin said dryly, holding out the weapon and sinking down in Madrigal's chair. ''I caught it. I'd much rather Master Sodath lived, being as how he may have saved all our lives.'' 

Madrigal said loudly, ''No one eat the pudding! If you have already partaken of it, then stay here in the hall. The rest of you leave; this feast is over.'' 

Although there was some half-hearted grumbling from the more drunken members of the party, eventually the room was cleared. No one had had time to eat even so much as a spoonful of the dessert. 

That sorted out, Madrigal looked at Cathelin and clucked her tongue. Lady Cat was pale and she had a hand pressed to her stomach. ''My beloved,'' Madrigal said, kneeling beside Cathelin and touching her knee, ''please go back to bed. You are overtired, I see it in your face. I think you should not have come down to the feast, especially after this afternoon.'' 

''I think you've the right of it,'' Cathelin replied, her forehead shiny with sweat. ''And my sorrow to have been so obstinate as to insist. If Becca'll help me, I'll go back to our chamber and rest a bit. Can you sort out this mess, sweetling? If not, just have Wolf toss Sodath into a storage room till the morrow.'' 

Madrigal rose and pressed her lips to Cathelin's cheek. ''It will be well,'' she said softly, gesturing to Becca. ''Sleep, moon of my delight,'' she continued in Arabic. ''I will join thee and kiss thy cares away before the stars are much higher in the heavens.'' 

Cathelin gave her love a shaky smile, then Becca was there, helping the Irishwoman get to her feet and half-carrying the larger woman from the dining hall, leaving Madrigal alone with Wolf and Lugh. 

Madrigal smoothed her knee-length braids with one hand, staring after Cathelin, then sat down, dark purple eyes seeking Lugh's. ''So tell me, Master Sodath,'' she said calmly, ''why do you believe the pudding is poisoned?'' 

Lugh did not immediately reply, so Wolf shook him hard by the shoulder he still held and growled, ''Answer th' Lady!'' 

Madrigal shook her head. ''Please, Wolf,'' she said, ''let him go. Sit down, Master Sodath. If what you say is true, then we will have all the more reason to give you honor.'' 

Lugh sank down in the chair next to Madrigal's, Wolf hovering a bare arm's length away. ''I don't think...,'' he began, then stopped. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. 

What in God's most holy name have I gotten myself into?, he thought. If Lady Cathelin hadn't been so quick to catch that axe...

Abruptly, Lugh realized how close he had come to having his head split open like a summer melon. Cold, greasy sweat broke out on his brow and he swallowed, suddenly chilled and nauseous. He closed his eyes, hands gripping the chair arms in a white knuckled grip. 

Madrigal recognized the symptoms immediately. ''Watch out, Wolf,'' she warned, holding out a hand as the warchief reached out to shake the young man again, ''he is going to...'' 

Lugh retched, tremors racking his body, then leaned over and vomited, strings of viscous drool and chunks of beef hitting the floor with a wet splat as Wolf backed away, a look of disgust on his face. 

Lugh continued heaving and retching until he brought up only greenish bile, then sat up slowly, face red and eyes watering. Madrigal handed him a cloth and a cup of water; he wiped his lips and drank gratefully, mortally glad that Lady Cathelin hadn't been there to see his disgrace. 

When he finished, Madrigal patted his hand kindly. ''Do you still feel ill?'' 

Lugh shook his head and took another sip of water. 

''Wolf, have a servant come and clean the floor,'' the Muslim woman said, and when the warrior scowled, clearly loathe to leave her alone even for a minute with the suspected spy, she continued, ''I do not think Master Sodath is a threat. Please go. I will be fine.'' 

Still scowling, Wolf backed off the dais and went to the door of the dining hall, keeping his eyes on Lugh until the last possible second. 

When they were finally alone, Madrigal said, ''Now, tell me what is happening here. Why did you come to Inishowen? Who are you? And what do you know?'' 

Lugh studied the woman who was the sworn mate of his already cherished Lady Cathelin. She was incredibly beautiful, kind and compassionate, but there were layers of steel in her soul, that much he could sense. She would make a dangerous enemy... and a powerful friend. 

''My true name is Lughaid Conchobor Michael O'Brian,'' he said softly. ''Half-brother to Desmond O'Brian, Earl of Kinslainne...'' He continued speaking for some minutes before Madrigal raised a hand to stop him. 

''When Wolf returns, we will go upstairs to the master's chamber. If Lady Cat is well enough, I wish her to hear your tale; if she is not, then Wolf must surely be made known of what is going on.'' 

Lugh nodded, relieved that, for the moment at least, he was believed... and that his honorable intentions would, hopefully, bear fruit.

Next Page ~~~~~>