CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Up in the master's chambers, Cathelin lay in bed covered only by a thin sheet, listening intently to Lugh's story. When he finished, she turned her amber eyes on Wolf. 

''Is this true? O'Brian's gathered his clan together for war?,'' she asked. 

Wolf nodded. ''Aye. Our spy in DaDerga said he'd more than a hundred men, all veterans, some o' them hired mercenaries. Well armed an' trained. I figure O'Brian means ta lay siege, as Master Sod... I mean, as Lugh has said.'' 

Cathelin nodded. She had taken a draught of Ignatius' pain-alleviating potion upon returning to bed and was feeling, if not completely better, at least well enough to be able to think. ''And the pudding?'' 

''I had Mistress Shevaughn test it on a stray dog outside. Th' beastie kicked heels an' died. Brother Sebastian come up on my summons; t'is his opinion th' puddin' was laced wit' hemlock.'' 

Madrigal said, ''Hemlock? Do we know who would do this thing?'' 

Wolf looked grim. ''Aye. I asked th' Hearth Chief which o' her scullions had th' makin' o' th' puddin'. T'was a fairly new servant, a man - John Loegaire.'' He chuckled slightly. ''Mistress Shevaughn was most put out over her puddin' bein' spoilt. He confessed right quick when she threatened ta slice him into collops an' roast him over a slow fire. I didna have ta torture him at all.'' 

Cathelin smiled at the image of her enormous Hearth Chief, a woman nearly as big around as she was tall, shaking her knife beneath the nose of a scullion/spy. ''Well, I'll be sitting in judgment on Loegaire soon enough,'' she said. ''What did he tell you?'' 

''He received instructions from DaDerga this mornin' by messenger bird, tellin' him the plan had been put forward an' ta poison th' evenin' meal. No doubt O'Brian's already on the march to Inishowen an' will be here by th' morrow.'' 

''Why did he poison only the pudding?'' Madrigal asked. 

It was Lugh who answered. ''I think it would be impossible to poison every dish. Too many servants in the kitchens, too many witnesses. Tainting the dessert was a good idea; sweets are few and hard to come by most days, so virtually everyone at the feast would have some.'' 

Madrigal nodded. ''And the kitchen staff and household servants, as well.'' She looked at Cathelin. ''What do we do about this army, Lady Cat?'' 

Cathelin and Wolf exchanged glances. ''As Lugh has told me his brother has no mangonels or other large siege engines other than small catapults, I dare say Inishowen can withstand a siege. O'Brian dares not let it drag on too long, and we've plenty of food and our own water supply behind the walls,'' Cathelin said. 

''I'll issue the call now,'' Wolf said, ''an' summon the country folk to the castle. No need ta leave them out ta be burnt or kilt.'' 

''And send someone to the abbey with the news,'' Madrigal added. ''Abbot Dominicus may want to shelter some of the villagers within the protection of the church.'' 

''What of Lugh O'Brian?'' Wolf asked. 

Cathelin stared at the young man until he blushed. ''If what he tells us is true, then he deserves our further gratitude. If he proves false, however...'' Her golden gaze hardened. ''...then I'll personally be sending him back to his brother - one piece at the time.'' 

Lugh gulped nervously. While he prayed that his brother would give up his mad plan for revenge - On the other hand, I don't want to die. ''My Lady,'' he said, ''believe me, please. If I did not think my family's honor more important than obedience to my brother and clan chief, I would not have risked my life coming here.'' 

Cathelin pursed her lips. ''So you say. Until the matter sorts itself out, one way or the other, you'll stay in your room with a guard at the door. Don't try and run, Lugh. T'will only get you a cell in the dungeon.'' 

Lugh nodded. Confinement to his room was only to be expected. After all, he thought, they really have no reason to trust me. ''Thank you, Lady,'' he said, rising, ''I understand your need for caution. I will pray for your continued health, and also for my brother to abandon his quest for revenge. I bid you good night, ladies,'' he continued, bowing politely both to Cathelin and Madrigal. 

After he was escorted from the room by Becca, Cathelin looked at Wolf. She was tired, her wound still pained her somewhat, but she would do what was necessary to preserve the lives of her people. ''Tell me, Chieftain of War,'' she said to the Scotsman, ''what preparations need to be made for siege...'' 

Despite Madrigal's attempts to get the Irishwoman to sleep, Cathelin and Wolf stayed up until nearly cockcrow, and the messengers flew from the castle thick and fast. 

Desmond O'Brian pushed back the visor of his war helm and stared at the silent castle of Inishowen. 

The village had been completely deserted; only a few stray chickens barred his army's pathway. The troops lent to him by King John were a disciplined lot, as were his own men; warned that looting or burning was strictly forbidden, they had reined in their impulses and behaved impeccably. 

The Earl muttered to his second-in-command, Dunstan Shave-Pate, ''Have the siege engines brought up to the front, and have some of the men look for a suitable tree in the woods hereabouts to use as a ram.'' 

Dunstan scratched his head. ''Do you not expect little resistance, my Lord?'' 

''A good commander expects the unexpected, Dunstan. We'll not need it for certain, but go ahead and have it done anyway. And bring those engines up fairly close; I don't want the foot soldiers overtaking the catapults in a forward assault.'' 

The second-in-command nodded, then rode away, shouting for a work detail. 

No smoke from the chimneys, Desmond said to himself thoughtfully. No defenders on the walls. The lack of villagers is troublesome, but no doubt when the folk began ailing last night, every able hand was drafted to help care for the sick and dying.

The Earl confidently expected that the spy within his walls, a former peasant farmer from his lands named John Loegaire, had carried out his poisoning mission. Loegaire had been condemned by Desmond to be hung for stealing a pig, and he had been pardoned in exchange for his ''services'' in the Inishowen household. 

The information the man had sent the Earl had proven to be invaluable; it was how Desmond had learned of Cathelin's wounding before the man's communication from the O'Cameron estate had ceased nearly eighteen days ago, only to be renewed with a single, simple message received the evening of the Earl's departure, acknowledging his orders and giving a few details about the castle's defenses. A messenger on a fast horse had delivered the message scant hours ago. 

Inishowen is defended by a woman, a heathen who most likely knows little or nothing about such matters. O'Cameron's warchief is a wily old fox, but hopefully he's either dead or too ill to be of much use. The survivors of the poisoning will be ill-organized without a leader... Yes, Desmond thought with satisfaction, this day the O'Camerons will lose their chief and I will gain a jewel in the crown of the O'Brians.

Tilting down his visor, he said to his standard bearer, ''Sound: archers advance.'' 

The teenager, full of pride to have been selected for this important task, put a bronze horn to his lips and blew a series of notes that shattered the cool spring morning with a brazen blast of martial sound. 

The war drums began to beat, and the army of the O'Brian's marched to castle Inishowen. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The castle was quiet and still; not a single living thing could be seen, although the great, iron-studded door was shut tight. The gate to the village had been left open, almost as if those whose duty it was to bar the gate at night had been derelict, or ill. 

As soon as the catapults rolled into position, however, with the O'Brian archers behind, the illusion of peace was abruptly shattered. 

An ululating wail pierced the morning, and dozens of men and women with bows materialized on the parapets of Inishowen as suddenly as if they had been ghosts summoned from Hell by a warlock necromancer. 

A hail of arrows was launched at the attackers, many of whom fell wounded to the ground. The entire crew of one catapult was lost to a man; the other two engines were severely depleted of personnel by woundings as well as death. 

The Earl, mounted at a safe distance, cursed behind his visor. ''Sound: retreat behind the lines,'' he said to his trumpeter. 

As the trumpet's notes emblazoned the air, the O'Brian's men ran from the field, many of them either dragging or carrying wounded comrades. The dead were left behind. 

''May God damn and blast you!'' Desmond shouted at Dunstan, ''You had the engines pulled up too closely!'' 

''My sorrow, Lord. But you seemed so confident your plan would succeed...'' 

Was that a gleam of reproof in Dunstan's mild blue eyes? Belatedly, the Earl remembered that he had ordered his second-in-command to pull the catapults up close. He harrumphed, unwilling to admit he had been wrong. 

''No matter. I'll have the men begin shelling the castle with stones from here; as soon as that ram is ready, we'll go in under cover of shields. Make sure the ladders are prepared; we'll assault them on two fronts - the door with the ram and the walls with the ladders. Once I get some men up on the parapets and take care of those archers we'll have no further trouble.'' 

Up on the roof of the castle, Madrigal was walking back and forth, issuing crisp commands. She was dressed in boy's leather trousers and a simple shirt that was much too big for her; even with the sleeves rolled up and tied with thongs, she looked like a little girl wearing her older brother's cast-offs. Blue-black hair twisted into tight braids and a linen headband to keep her eyes clear, Madrigal looked - and acted - every bit the confident commander. 

There was a strung bow over her shoulder and a quiver of arrows at her hip. Madrigal had been practicing archery for the last two years and had become an excellent shot. Several of her arrows had pierced the attackers. ''Send some men down to the kitchens, Wolf,'' she said. ''Have them bring up that barrel of rancid oil Mistress Shevaughn has been saving.'' 

Wolf sent four men racing away, then looked down at Madrigal. ''The kettle is already heatin','' he said, nodding his head to the huge iron pot that hung on crossbars over a crackling fire on an iron plate. ''As soon as that oil arrives, we'll get it ta boilin'. T'will be a nasty surprise fer th' O'Brian.'' 

''Good. Lady Cat was right; the O'Brian pulled back his forces after the arrows. If she proves true again, he will begin using his catapults and will bring up a ram for the door.'' 

''An' that's when those lads'll have th' second bath o' their life,'' Wolf said with grim humor. 

''Make sure the archers who will be shooting have their torches lit. It will take some time for the oil to heat, but it is best to be prepared.'' 

''Aye.'' Wolf stalked off to see to this little duty. 

Madrigal watched him go, outwardly calm but inwardly wishing she could run, run as fast as she could to her Lady Cat and let someone else take command. But, she thought, this I cannot do. If I give up, Lady Cat will feel she must be here to take charge, and I fear it will kill her to do so. So, I must be strong.

It wasn't easy; she could feel the myriad eyes that crawled across her skin, the dozens of people who looked at her for cues to their own conduct. If she panicked, the kerns who trusted her would lose some of their confidence and the day might well be lost. 

I will put aside my fears and do what I must. She squared her small shoulders. My Lady Cat, my children - all the people I have come to know and love depend upon me and I will not disappoint them.

She did not know it, but the sight of the O'Brian's army had put a small seed of fear into the kern's hearts. They were used to carrying battle to the enemy on their own terms; having to defend the castle behind its walls was, to them, much akin to being fish waiting to be speared in a barrel. Madrigal's confidence, her willingness to fight alongside them, had bolstered their own spirits; privately, many of Cathelin's soldiers thought of Madrigal as Scathach, the legendary female warrior who had taught war skills to the hero Cuchulainn. 

Madrigal, unaware of her heroic status among the folk she commanded, gave a small sigh... then went again to the walls to watch the attacking army's movements. 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

In his small room, Lugh chafed at his confinement. He had been told that his brother's army had been sighted, and the sound of the warcry and the hissing rain of arrows had confirmed that the Earl had attacked. He desperately wanted to get up to the roof, to see first hand how the siege was going. 

He turned guileless blue eyes on Becca, who leaned back on a chair against the door. ''Please, won't you ask Lady Cathelin if I might fight with her people? I'm not a knight, but I do have some battle experience.'' 

''Aye,'' Becca replied resentfully, brown eyes flashing. ''I seen you at the Battle of the Trees.'' 

''Oh.'' For a moment, Lugh was non-plussed. He had, on that occasion, snuck away from DaDerga without Desmond's knowledge or permission, secreting himself in the ranks of his brother's soldiers. 

Although he had personally killed no one, for the Earl had spotted his wayward sibling and ordered him off the battlefield, he had witnessed many of the momentous events of that fight. ''I just wanted to, well... please understand, Becca. I've practiced at fighting all my life, but my brother's never given me a chance to prove myself. I might have been at that battle, but I never fought.'' 

Becca snorted. She was bitter over being relegated to what she considered to be nursemaid status when she should, by rights, be up on the walls with her fellows helping defend the castle. ''If so,'' she replied sarcastically, ''then I'm the Dolorous Washerwoman at the Ford.'' 

Lugh grinned and bowed from the waist. He was seated cross-legged on the bed, a cup of ale in his hand. ''Welcome, oh mighty Babdh,'' he replied, invoking the name of the ancient Celtic goddess of death and misfortune. ''A drop of wine if you cross not your fingers and curse against me.'' 

''I'd sooner swallow my own tongue than drink with you,'' the curly-mopped kern said, curling her lip. ''As far as I'm concerned, O'Brian, you're still an enemy. If I had my way, I'd march you out to the walls and see if you grew wings before you hit the ground.'' She looked away. 

Lugh sighed. ''Becca, my sorrow you feel that I've offended you in some way,'' he said. ''Truly, I wish you and yours no harm. Did I not come here to warn your chief of my brother's plan, even though I knew I could be executed as a spy? And what of my own position within my clan? If Desmond survives this battle, do you think he'll forgive me for betraying him?'' 

He took a sip of ale. ''Surely he already knows that his plan failed, and as he's no fool, he's figured out it was I who ruined his schemes. I'll be lucky if he doesn't kill me outright; if I live, I'll truly become the wandering minstrel of low rank you all supposed me to be.'' He honestly did not believe this would be so; his brother was a hard man, but, after all, they were kin. Lugh waited to see if his bid for sympathy worked. 

There was silence for several moments while Becca considered. She was a reasonable woman, and after reflecting, realized that she was being rude to Lugh because she had been ordered to watch him by Wolf, when what she really longed to do was wet her blade with O'Brian blood. 

''My apologies,'' she said formally. ''I've insulted you for no reason. If you wish me to pay you an honor price, I'll do it gladly.'' 

''Nay,'' Lugh replied, waving a hand, ''no need of that. But will you ask permission of Lady Cathelin? Or will you take me there to make my petition myself?'' When Becca gave him a suspicious look, Lugh continued earnestly, ''Keep your blade at my throat if you wish; you know I'm unarmed and not a threat, but I'll consent to hostage-status if t'will make you easier in your mind.'' 

Becca rubbed the end of her nose. ''Well, if you give me your word you'll not be runnin' off, I'll go ask the Lady. But Lugh O'Brian, if you break your oath, know that you'll have to answer to Becca Half-Tongue.'' 

Lugh nodded. ''By God our Father, the blessed Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart of Jesus, I so swear: I will remain in this place unmoving until you return. May I be stricken dead, my rank dissolved and my name anathema if I am forsworn.'' 

It was Becca's turn to nod in satisfaction. ''All right, then. I'll be back soonest.'' 

She left, and Lugh uncrossed the fingers he had held behind his back. God forgive me for deceiving her, he thought, but I must see for myself what is going on! He pulled a tunic over his head and went out the door, running lightly down the hall.

As he ran, Lugh thought: I must be mad... I'm no hero of legend, no Conaire or Fionn. But, if I can prove my prowess in battle, prove my honor and aid Inishowen in defeating my brother - mayhap then Lady Cathelin will look on me with favor, and more besides.

His heart beat faster at the thought; but not out of fear... out of eager anticipation.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Another stone hurtled past, smashing into the peel tower and shattering, sending shards of rock flying. 

The kerns on the wall crouched down, holding up their shields, and many of them kept an eye on the figure who was shinnying up the wooden standard pole that towered above the floor of the roof. 

Wolf practically gnashed his teeth in rage. ''Get ye down!'' he hollered, oblivious to the head-sized rocks that were bouncing off the crennellated wall. ''Lady! Come down NOW!'' 

Madrigal, bow clenched in her teeth, ignored him, concentrating on climbing. When a child in Palestine, she had often climbed date palms to gather the sweet fruit. The principle was the same; sides of her bare feet used to push and hang on, arms pulling her up, hand over hand - and she knew not to look down. 

Many kerns had already been injured by O'Brian's catapults as they had become increasingly accurate - one woman would lose her leg, completely crushed and attached to her body only by a thin strip of skin - and there were also five dead. Madrigal, by Wolf's own admission, had the best long-range eye of any archer he had seen. So, she had determined to get to the highest point possible in order to try and pick off the catapult crews. 

She had rejected the top of any of the towers; she'd be too easy a target since it was clear that the catapults had been skillfully adjusted for range and aim and were rarely missing their mark now. But trying to hit something as small and slender as a flagstaff and a woman on it would be nearly impossible. Allah, she prayed, let my aim be true and theirs not. 

She was sweating by the time she reached the top of the pole, where the pennant flag of the O'Cameron's snapped and fluttered. Hanging on with one hand and gripping with her knees, Madrigal pulled a knife from its sheath at the back of her trews and sliced the top cord of the flag. It fell, drooping by the remaining rope - limp and out of her way. She would have preferred to remove it entirely, letting it drop to the roof below, but knew from what she had learned of her new country's customs, this would indicate that Inishowen was surrendering to the enemy... and that she would never accept. 

Clamping her thighs and calves around the pole, she leaned out a bit and pulled the bow from between her teeth. It was a Welsh longbow, and just a head shorter in length than she was. It would take all of her strength to pull it, but Madrigal had practiced with such a longbow last summer and knew that while difficult, the task was not impossible. 

Nocking an arrow, one the long ones called clothyard shafts, she raised the bow and drew a deep breath. Every muscle in her body quivered with effort as she pulled the string back with a grunt, teeth locked in a grimace. Sighting along the shaft and calculating distance and other factors, the feathers of the fletching tickling her ear... Madrigal released. 

The arrow sped up in an arc, disappearing from view as it descended towards the O'Brian's lines. Madrigal, squinting, could see a catapult crew member throw up his hands and collapse. 

She grinned fiercely, watching the milling confusion of the enemy, one hand clamped around the pole for balance, then let go and nocked another arrow. 

Lugh crept onto the parapet, hugging the far wall. Several soldiers were down, injured by flying rocks, and were being attended to by monks in brown robes who had come up from the abbey to stay in the castle during the siege to help tend the wounded. As soon as they could be moved, the injured would be carried to the castle's sickroom; for now, they remained behind the relative shelter of a stone overhang while the monks labored. 

One woman's face was set in a rictus, eyes bulging, as a monk twisted a tourniquet on what remained of her leg and began cutting off the mangled, bloody mess that hung below the knee. Lugh turned his eyes away, feeling sick. 

He noticed many of the kerns were looking up; emulating them, he saw someone clinging the standard pole. As he watched, an arrow flew from the bow the person held and arched down towards his brother's army. Shading his eyes with a hand, he saw one of the O'Brian men fall. 

St. Columba! he thought, Whoever that is up there is a mortal brave soul and a God-blessed shot besides.

A noise from down below his position attracted his attention. Looking between two of the stone crennellations that lined the roof like gapped teeth, Lugh was shocked to see several dozen men armed with ladders and grappling hooks sneaking along the back wall. 

Even as one ladder smacked into the wall and men began swarming up with drawn weapons, Lugh shouted, ''An attack! They're attacking here!'' and scooped up a halberd from the floor. 

Using the hooked bill of the halberd's spearpoint, he pushed the ladder back from the top of the wall, wincing at the screams of the falling men, but a round dozen soldiers still managed to scramble to the roof, swords at the ready. 

Lugh's dark blue eyes widened as he recognized the O'Brian badge each of the men wore on the left side of their mail shirts, and he hesitated for a brief second while his mind strove to decide between the lesser of two evils: to kill his own clansmen and compound his sin, or defend Inishowen, home and clan seat of the Lady he knew he loved and adored... 

This fatal indecision was nearly to prove his downfall. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

One of the O'Brian kerns casually swiped Lugh across the side of his head with his sword, sweeping the young man from his path and knocking him to the floor. The kern wore an arm badge over the sleeve of his jingling mail shirt that indicated he was a corporal. ''Attack!,'' he shouted, shaking his sword, blue eyes like chips of ice on either side of the noseguard of his helm. 

Several of Cathelin's kerns pounded up, led by Becca Half-Tongue, who was keening a warcry. With a clash of steel and a full-throated roar, the two groups smashed together into a blood splattering, wailing melee. 

Lugh was semi-conscious, blood running into his eyes from the cut on his forehead. He screamed as one of his hands was stomped on by a soldier, and he curled into a ball, trying to protect himself from the flashing swords and slamming bodies of the fighters around him. 

A hand shook his shoulder hard. ''Can you rise?'' It was Becca, the scar on her face standing out like a silver brand against the livid skin. He nodded cautiously and felt himself hauled to his feet. 

An O'Brian warrior popped up, sword raised, broken teeth showing as he snarled and prepared to swing. Lugh flinched back and Becca sprang forward, skewering the man through his belly and then kicking him off her blade. As he fell writhing to the floor, she cut his throat with one swipe of her sword and grabbed Lugh's arm. ''Come on!'' she shouted in his ear, guiding him away from the battle. 

As they stumbled clear of the fighting, Lugh wiped the blood from his eyes, blinking rapidly, and looked back at the fight - which was already over. Cathelin's kerns were hauling the bodies of the O'Brian to the front wall to be thrown over as a sign to the Earl that his rear attack had not been successful. A few were quickly binding flesh wounds, but it seemed that none of the O'Cameron warriors were seriously injured. 

As Becca steered him away, he realized she was talking. ''...for you I come up here afore going to your room,'' she said, giving him a furious glare over her shoulder. ''Otherwise, you'd've been dogsmeat, and that by your own clansmen.'' 

He held a shaking hand to the cut on his forehead, clenching his teeth against the throbbing pain. ''I had to see for myself, Becca,'' he replied, ''I had to make sure Inishowen was safe.'' 

Becca let of his arm and whirled around to face him. ''By God, O'Brian!'' she shouted angrily. ''You broke your oath and nearly got killed on count of you were curious?'

''It wasn't just curiosity,'' he replied a bit sullenly. ''I could have helped if things were going badly.'' 

The sword in Becca's hand raised, as if she were considering striking him down in sheer frustration... then lowered. ''You've no battle experience to speak of, and if you'd have just waited a bit, I could've given you the news myself.'' She ran her free hand through her hair and blew through her nostrils. ''I don't know whether to chain you in that room or keep you here so I can have an eye on you - either way, Lugh, promise me you'll stay out of the way at least. And no more false oaths. I shudder to think what Father Paul'll put your penance at for lyin' before and breakin' your word.'' 

Lugh allowed the woman to take hold of him again and push him down into a sitting position beside a robed monk. ''Stitch his head, Brother,'' Becca said, ''to keep what remains of his brains from falling out the hole. And stay here, Lugh. I mean it. If I catch you gallivanting about, I'll hamstring you.'' She stalked away, muttering beneath her breath. 

The monk began laying out needle and thread, a bowl of greenish salve, linen bandages and the like. His pale blonde hair was cut in a tonsure, a circle shaved from the crown of his head. ''I'm Brother Theosophus,'' he said with a small smile. ''Are you hurted anywhere else, my son?'' 

Lugh shook his head, distracted by the activity going on by the front wall. The stone shelling had stopped; it was clear that the O'Brians were attacking and the kerns were using arrows to pick off enemy soldiers. Some were already holding halberds to push away ladders, as he had done before, and others were waiting beside a smoking kettle, prepared to use spears to tilt the pot over and splash whoever or whatever was below with boiling oil. 

For some reason, his gaze was drawn to the door of the stairwell that led down into the castle. Lady Cathelin had come up, wearing a sleeveless jerkin and breeches, her feet bare and her dark red hair unbound. 

Her eyes tracked upwards... to the figure on the standard pole. ''MADRIGAL!'' she shouted anxiously. 

And Lugh felt a cold hand clutch his heart as the woman on top of the pole lost her precarious position and fell headlong into space. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

When she felt herself slipping, Madrigal threw her bow away and made a desperate grab for the pennant cord... and missed. 

The floor seemed so far away, but she knew it would be mere heartbeats before she struck the unforgiving stone. Madrigal sent a hasty prayer to the Compassionate Allah to lay His hand on her Lady Cat and her children, to protect them after she could not. 

Madrigal fetched up with a bone-rattling jerk halfway down, the dangling end of the cord she had cut having wrapped around one leg without her noticing. She swung upside down and struck the pole with a crack that made pain flare through her entire body. 

Her eyes were wide open and she stared at the scurrying figures below her, heart fluttering in her chest. 

Cathelin's eyes had turned to glittering pools of gold in her rage and fear. ''Get someone up there with a rope!'' she said urgently to Wolf, ''and tie it off above her. Make sure it's long enough to reach the floor.'' She began unlacing her jerkin and Wolf stopped her with a touch. 

''Ye cannot do this, Lady. Yer not strong enough,'' he said, as a young boy, a coil of rope over his shoulder, shinned up the pole like an agile squirrel. 

''Do not get in my way, McLeod!'' Cathelin hissed, lips drawn back from her teeth in a snarl. ''Madri needs me!'' 

''Aye,'' Wolf replied dryly, ''an' what use ta her will ye be if ye fall yerself an' burst like a ripe plum on yon floor?'' His pale blue eyes held concern for both women. 

In frustration, Cathelin growled deep in her throat and grabbed a double handful of her hair, pulling it savagely. ''Dear Sweet Jesus and St. Brigit, both!'' she shouted to the uncaring sky, ''Why do you afflict me so!'' She was half out of her mind with fear. It didn't help that she kept seeing Madrigal, in her mind's eye, a twisted wreck of blood and bone lying at the foot of the flagpole. 

A kern stepped up; Oengus Pryderi, a red-headed, short, squat man so thickly built he resembled an ox. His arms were overlong and bulged with solid muscle. ''I'll go, Lady,'' he said, spitting on both hands and rubbing them on the front of his bone-button covered jerkin. ''I'm strong enough, an' I'm a champion at climbin' the pole at the travelin' fair.'' 

Wolf nodded. ''Aye, Oengus is yer man. He'll get Lady Madrigal down safe. Go to, man. An' fer th' love o' Christ, Pryderi, dinnae drop her!'' 

Meanwhile, the kerns defending the wall sent up a shout; the boiling oil had been poured down on the besieger's log ram, and fire arrows launched. The huge tree, still covered in rough bark, went up with a roar of flame and a greasy fireball that nearly singed the eyebrows off those who hung over the parapets to watch. Shrieks and wails of agony from men being roasted alive in their mail almost drowned out the defender's roar of approval. 

The boy slid back down the pole, stopping halfway to reassure Madrigal, ''T'will be well, Lady. Do you hang on for a little while longer; yer lady be down there an' Master Wolf as well. We'll see ye safe.'' His brown eyes were sincere and he smiled, showing dimples in his freckled cheeks, as he slid down the rest of the way, his mission accomplished. 

Madrigal clutched the pole with both hands and prayed, wisps of blue-black hair fluttering in her face. 

Oengus solemnly peered upward, obviously judging the situation with placid contemplation, then toed off his boots. Taking hold of the pole with hands that were the size of small hams and covered in red hair, he began climbing casually, muscles bulging in his arms. 

Cathelin glared at Wolf. ''If he fails,'' she said darkly, ''I'll be having both your heads on pikes.'' 

''Aye, an' I'll lay my head on th' block willingly,'' the warchief replied mildly, never taking his eyes from the scene. 

Oengus reached Madrigal and said in his deep baritone, ''I need to get you loose, Lady, so don't panic and thrash about. If you stay still, t'will be easiest.'' He looked at her earnestly. ''Trust me, Lady. I'll see you down safe, you've my oath on it.'' 

''I trust you. I will not move,'' the Muslim woman replied through gritted teeth, her head throbbing in time with her pulse. 

Oengus grabbed Madrigal's arm in a bruising grip with one hand; with his other hand, he pulled out a small knife and sliced through the cord tangled around her leg. She swung down into space, ending rightside up and dangling from Oengus' big fist, too breathless to scream. 

The rest of the rescue was almost anticlimactic. As Cathelin watched, heart in her mouth, Oengus slid easily down the rescue rope, holding Madrigal's arm in his hand as if she were an oversized doll. As soon as her feet touched the floor, he released her, and she collapsed to her knees, gasping and trembling. 

While Wolf congratulated Oengus, making the red-haired man grin and swell with pride, Cathelin sank down beside Madrigal and embraced her tightly. 

''Oh, love, my sweetling... are you all right?'' Cathelin put her hands on either side of Madrigal's face and peered at her searchingly. 

In a small voice, Madrigal replied, ''Yes, I am well. Bruised but alive, thank Allah.'' 

''Then WHAT in the NAME of God were you DOING up there!'' Cathelin shouted, red-faced, unable to contain her fright anymore. ''You could have been killed!'' 

Unable to answer, Madrigal put her arms around Cathelin's neck and buried her face in her love's jerkin, weeping and shaking violently. Cathelin began to cry, too, stroking Madrigal's dark hair and weeping in sheer relief. 

Lugh, who had watched the whole thing, sat back with a sigh - both of relief for Lady Madrigal having escaped unscathed, and of regret for Lady Cathelin's continued and obviously unwavering devotion to her spouse. 

The two women clung together, the world and the war forgotten in their mutual need for comfort and closeness and love. 

I've not a chance, he thought ruefully, barely noticing the pain of the monk laying careful stitches in his forehead. Not a chance at all. Those ladies are soul-bonded, two-made-one. Lady Cathelin'll never give me a second look no matter what I do.

Tears filled his dark blue eyes as he felt his own heart breaking.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Earl of Kinslainne was furious. ''Send a detail to get those dead soldiers away from the castle door,'' he said, ''They'll block our access later.'' 

Dunstan cast a glance over his shoulder at the O'Brian kerns, who nursed their wounds and muttered darkly. ''That may not be the best idea, my Lord,'' he began diplomatically, only to be interrupted by Desmond. 

''God damn you for a coward! Do as I said, man!'' The Earl viciously backhanded his second-in-command across the face. 

Dunstan licked a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. ''Aye, my Lord,'' he replied sullenly. Turning around, he savagely kicked a lingering soldier, shouting, ''Move! Has your Lord not given a command?'' 

Desmond pulled off his helm and wiped his sweaty face with a dirty rag. The siege was not going the way he had planned, and he had to suppress the urge to scream until Inishowen's walls shivered and fell from the force of his shout of frustration and rage. 

''Oh, for the Joshua's Horn,'' he murmured to himself, ''to shatter these walls of Jericho in God's name.'' 

His cold blue eyes surveyed the smoking remains of the ram and its crew. I've been outwitted at every turn. Even the men I sent to attack in the rear were somehow anticipated. Without John the Bastard's troop here, I would be sorely under strength now. 

Desmond licked his lips. Great pleasure I'll take in killing that bitch with my own hands. He bunched his gauntlets into fists and stared angrily at Inishowen. 

The captain of King John's personal soldiers trotted up to the stirrup of the Earl's horse. ''Beggin' your pardon, my Lord,'' he said politely. ''If you please, a private word?'' 

Without replying, Desmond kicked his horse and guided the mount to a shady area where his command tent had been set up. The place was deserted. 

Looking down at the captain, he said coldly, ''Well?'' 

The captain, a native Londoner named Peter Godolphin, surveyed his nominal commander with a professional soldier's eye. He considered the Irish little more than Godless barbarians, even though they professed to worship Christ, and was frankly disgusted that his King had ordered him and his men to this heathen island to fight for a venal Earl who didn't know his arse from a mousehole. 

Even so, Godolphin thought, orders are orders, especially when they come from the King. ''My Lord, you've lost quite a few of your men without benefit. My miners have returned and tell me it would take months to tunnel beneath the walls of the castle, provided they weren't discovered or fall prey to counter-measures. His Majesty instructed us to be at your disposal for forty days only; at the end of that time, we return to London - with your pleasure or without.'' 

Desmond stared down his nose at the captain. Was this jumped-up lackey questioning him? ''I realize our time is limited, Master Godolphin. I've no wish to cool my heels at Inishowen any longer than necessary.'' 

Godolphin frowned. ''What are your further plans, my Lord?'' 

''We will creep over the walls tonight; the full moon will make torches unnecessary. No doubt the defenders will be sleeping and we can take them by surprise. Better if the men can get to the O'Cameron's sleeping chamber and cut her throat; without their clan chief, the rest of her men will be disheartened and surrender quickly.'' 

The captain raised his eyebrows. ''Isn't a night attack somewhat... unconventional?'' he asked delicately. In fact, the custom was that when darkness fell, both armies retreated from the field, and truce was established long enough to gather the wounded and bury the dead from both sides. Further, a sneak attack of the sort that the Earl described would be considered dishonorable in the extreme, and Godolphin wondered if the King knew exactly what his new ally's character was. Shit and more stinking shit, the captain thought. 

''That's why it will be a surprise,'' Desmond replied, narrowing his eyes. ''In the meantime, withdraw your troops to that hill and let them rest. I intend for your men to carry out tonight's attack, so they should sleep now while they can. And captain? Do not fail me. Or else the consequences will be very unpleasant.'' 

Godolphin spun around on his heel and walked away, troubled and angry. He didn't like the idea of his men used as war fodder, and in the dark, too, when it would be difficult to distinguish friend from foe in face to face combat, if it came to that. He also didn't care for being threatened by a heathen who was destined for hellfire... and he really didn't like the Earl's dishonorable plan. 

I would send to His Majesty for instructions if I were able, he thought. But there is no time. 

Bitterly, he repeated to himself, Orders are orders... and went to tell his men the news. 

Becca squatted down beside Lugh, handing him a loaf of coarse bread filled with smoked sausage and cheese. ''Here, eat,'' she said, settling herself beside him, back against the wall. ''And I've got well-watered wine as well,'' she continued, patting the leather jack at her side. 

Lugh tore into the meal hungrily. A bandage was wrapped jauntily around his forehead, the knot above his ear. There had been a respite in the attacks; for the last several hours O'Brian's men had remained at a distance, and according to the keen-eyed lookouts stationed on the roof of Inishowen's four towers, appeared to be preparing for the night. 

Cathelin limped over, one arm draped around Madrigal's shoulders. ''Are you holding up, Lugh?'' she asked, a small crease between her brows the only outward sign of her pain. It was clear that she and her beloved were closer than ever. 

''Aye,'' he replied around the bread and meat, swallowing hastily. ''Well enough for now.'' 

Cathelin frowned, looking out to where her enemy's army was encamped. ''Any idea as to what your brother will be doing next?,'' she asked bluntly. ''I know you've loyalty to your clan to consider, but...'' 

She was interrupted by a shout from the walls. A herald dressed in the O'Brian livery of green and silver had come to within calling distance of the castle, white linen flag fluttering from the lance he held balanced in his stirrup. 

Cathelin and Madrigal moved to the front wall, looking down, with Becca and Lugh not far behind. 

''I bring word from the Earl of Kinslainne!,' the herald said in a loud voice, controlling his skittish mare expertly. ''Hear the words of the Earl of Kinslainne!'' 

''Speak!'' Cathelin shouted down. 

''Desmond O'Brian, sworn clan chief of the O'Brians and Earl of Kinslainne and all its lands and goods and chattels, hereby declares that his half-brother Lughaid O'Brian, son of the old Earl Graham, and his second ladywife Blanaid, is no more a child of the clan O'Brian.'' 

The herald withdrew a white-fletched arrow from the folds of his surcoat and snapped it in half, throwing the broken arrow to the ground. ''His name is from this time forward stricken from the ancestral rolls; he is declared fudir and daer-fudir, clanless and landless and nameless. Thus sayeth the Earl of Kinslainne, kin no more to Lugh the Betrayer.'' 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Half-eaten roll clutched forgotten in his hand, Lugh felt his heart literally stop from shock. Becca put a comforting arm around his shoulders. ''I'm truly sorry,'' she said compassionately, squeezing him against her side. 

Lugh couldn't reply; he could only stare blindly as his life crumbled to dust and ashes in front of his very eyes. In the space of a moment, he had gone from the ranks of the nobility to a man who had not even a clan name. Lower than the lowest peasant, who at least could claim - no matter his poverty - that he belonged to someone, and take pride in that fact. 

I never believed Desmond would go that far, he thought. Or to be honest, I never even considered the possibility before I set off on this mad course. I've acted the very picture of the preening, empty-headed peacock my brother always claimed me to be.

Lady Cathelin spoke quietly. ''You've done me and mine a few good turns, Lugh. You saved our children's lives, and by warning us of the attack on the rear wall, you may even have saved Inishowen itself. There's a place for you in the O'Cameron clan if you wish it.'' Sincerity shone in her amber eyes. 

''I... I... I am honored, Lady,'' he stammered, moved, flattered and shocked anew all at the same time. An adoption into a clan for one who was nameless and shamed, was so rare an occurrence that it had happened only a handful of times in all the ancient history of Ireland. Clanless men were outlaws and treated little better than criminals, no matter if they had committed a crime or not. For Lady Cathelin to say this, and moreover to mean it, was surprising in the extreme. 

Sensing his confusion, Cathelin gave the young man a smile. ''Don't fret, Lugh. Even if you choose not to adopt the clan name, you'll always have a home at Inishowen.'' 

Lugh nodded, still speechless, then withdrew to think about this turn of events and consider his options, while the herald began speaking again and the others turned their attention back to the O'Brian's mouthpiece. 

''Further word of the Earl of Kinslainne!'' the herald called. ''Desmond O'Brian challenges Cathelin O'Cameron, both Chiefs of the Name of their respective clans, to a duel muscular, to be held at DaDerga in seven day's time. The issue to be determined: the revenging of the death of Robert Artgal O'Brian, sole heir of the body of the Earl of Kinslainne, foully murdered by the O'Cameron; and the insult given to the Earl over his ransoming after The Battle of the Trees. May God strengthen the arm and lend the might! To the victor go the spoils - all lands, goods and chattels contained within the demesne of the defeated. How say you: Do you accept?'' 

Madrigal clutched Cathelin's arm and hissed, ''Do not, Lady Cat! You cannot duel with this man, not even in another week! Your wound will not be healed enough!'' 

''Aye, sweetling, but if I accept, the siege will be lifted. No more of my clanfolk need die needlessly or be crippled for life.'' It was clear that the few losses they had endured had hit Cathelin hard. 

''Then I will fight him! Does not the challenged have the right to choose weapons?'' Madrigal begged Cathelin with her eyes not to accept the Earl's proposal. ''Let him meet me with bow and arrow!'' 

''Nay, Madri.'' Cathelin hugged her mate and kissed her cheek, ignoring the way the other woman stiffened in her arms. ''T'is a formal challenge, knight to knight, Lord to Lord. You cannot accept, nor would I allow you to do so.'' 

Taking a deep breath, the Irishwoman shouted down, ''I accept the Earl's challenge and his terms! In seven days I will meet him in single combat, and may God have mercy on his eternal soul!'' 

Madrigal, infuriated beyond speech, whirled around and stalked back into the castle. 

Lugh was back in his room, idly strumming his harp. His head bandage was stained lightly with blood, and he was already half-drunk, having avoided dinner and instead drinking mazer after mazer of strong ale. 

A tap at the door made him look up. ''Aye?'' he called. 

Becca entered, carrying a bowl. ''I brought you some stew,'' she said, crossing the small room to perch on the side of the bed. ''Here; eat before it turns cold as a stone.'' 

Lugh took the bowl and set it aside on the table by his bed. ''I'll eat later,'' he replied softly. 

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, then Becca laid a hand on his knee. ''For what it's worth, Lugh...'' She took a deep breath. ''T'is not easy for me to say this, but I'm so very sorry about your exile. What you did, coming to Inishowen and warning the Lady - t'was a brave thing and honorable besides. I for one think no ill of you for it; nor do any of the castle folk or the kerns. And you have the good will of Lady Cathelin; that's worth much.'' 

Lugh snorted and took a long drink from a square-sided metal cup. ''Not in this life, Half-Tongue,'' he replied, ''nor, I think, in any other.'' 

Becca's brows drew together in a puzzled frown. ''What d'you mean, Lugh?'' 

He banged the mazer down on the table hard enough to make his bowl of stew jump. ''I mean that she is no Macha Red-Mane and I am no Cimbaeth,'' he replied bitterly, referring to a pair of famed lovers of Irish myth. 

For a moment, Becca was too startled to speak, then she realized what Lugh was saying. ''Oh, laddie,'' she said sympathetically, near tears, ''you're in love with Lady Cathelin...'' 

''No more.'' Lugh lashed his fingertips across the harpstrings, drawing a jangling chord. ''If I accept adoption, she will be my clan chief and far above me. Besides, does she not already have the love she desires? Why should she look at me - a coward, a treason, a man who has no respect for his own... for his former clan? I am only Lugh the Betrayer, after all.'' 

Becca scooted closer to him. ''You're a good man, Lugh,'' she said insistently. ''A gifted musician, brave enough to face a bear full grown with only a knife rather than walk away and let two children die. Loyal enough to cry warning on an underhanded attack and save lives... respectful enough not to press your suit on the Lady as many men would and have, sure that their worth is beyond price by the mere fact that God made them male. Oh, Lugh, you're a fine, good man that any woman would be proud to call her own.'' 

Lugh searched Becca's face. The scar that cut across her features was not distasteful to him; being raised in a martial household, he had seen scars more mutilating. She was pretty enough; he even found the small gap between her front teeth to be an asset rather than a disfigurement. With a growing sense of startlement, he began remembering what Becca had done for him in the short time since he'd known her. 

Has she not, at nearly every turn, aided me within the boundaries of her own honor? Did she not save my life when it would have been easy indeed to turn a blind eye and allow me to die by O'Brian swords? True, it has only been two days, but...

He had seen so much already, and suddenly Lugh realized that the ''love'' he had felt for Lady Cathelin was nothing more than an illusion, crafted of hero worship, false adulation and an idealized image of the Lady that he had somehow created inside his own mind. Infatuation at first sight. It was like the courtly love of the troubadours for the ladies of the King's palace; pretty words and flowery compliments, a formalized dance of romance that, in the end, meant nothing. 

Thank God I did not make of myself more a fool.

But Becca was different. 

Laying aside his harp, Lugh sucked in a breath and gathered his courage in both hands. For the first time in his life, he truly believed he had met a woman he could love, and he somehow felt that this was right. I think we were meant for each other, but time enough for that later, he thought. First, I will have to convince her I'm not a bumbling puppy latching on to the first sympathetic shoulder I can find. I must put aside the boy and become the man.

He smiled sweetly, dark blue eyes aglow. ''I could use some company tonight, Becca Lleidath. Will you share my pillow? Will you share my bed? I know we've not known each other long.'' 

If Becca was surprised or shocked by his proposal, she didn't show it. ''Aye,'' she replied, leaning forward to stop up Lugh's mouth with a kiss. ''And aye again.'' 

They tumbled onto the bed together, and no further words were spoken for a while. 
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The moon had risen high, glowing like a wheel-pin of silver in the midnight sky. 

Cathelin was awakened from a sound sleep by the sound of clashing steel in the hall outside her bedchamber. 

Pushing Madrigal's head from her shoulder, Cathelin sprang from the bed, urgency overriding any pain she might have felt from the stressing of her wound. Snatching a light sword from the wall, the Irishwoman threw open the door and leaped into the hall, already assessing the situation even as she ducked a swing from an opponent and laid his thigh open with the edge of her blade. 

''To me,'' she shouted, and blocked a blow from another warrior with her sword, while throwing a punch with her free hand that rocked his head back on his shoulders and left him sprawled on the floor, unconscious. 

Her own kerns were fighting hand to hand in the hallway, struggling to reach their Lady. Finally, Wolf broke through and stood back to back with Cathelin, using the axe in his hand to his advantage in such close quarters. The warchief's face was speckled with blood, and he wore a simple breechclout wrapped about his loins. From the similar undressed state of the defenders, including Cathelin's own nakedness, it was obvious that the attack had come as a surprise. 

''What happened?'' Cathelin gritted, kicking another opponent away from her and cutting him nearly in half as he fell. 

''Th' guards I posted had their throats slit,'' Wolf replied coolly, cracking open another enemy's brainpan with his skillfully wielded axe, ''They come over th' walls in secret an' got down into th' castle itself. I've got some men searchin' Inishowen fer stragglers.'' 

Madrigal, a long knife in one hand, was standing at the threshold of the master's chamber, lips skinned back from her teeth in a feral grin. As a warrior stumbled towards her, she neatly spun away from his sword and plunged her knife into his face, making him fall back with a choked scream. 

Shortly, the attackers were dead or dying. Cathelin indicated the one she had knocked unconscious. ''Take that one down to the dungeon,'' she said. ''We'll be asking a few questions of him when the mopping up's done.'' 

A hand tugged insistently at her arm. Looking down, Cathelin saw Madrigal, who wore a worried frown. ''Has anyone seen to the children?'' she asked, strands of blue-black hair sticking to her face and nude body. 

''St. Brigit!'' Cathelin spat vehemently. ''Wolf!'' she called to the warchief, who was directing the removal of the prisoner, ''get some men to the nursery! And hurry, man, as you love life!'' 

Wolf took off at a dead run, shouting for several kerns to accompany him. Madrigal looked after him, dark eyes filled with concern. ''You do not think they will harm Honey or Dragon?'' she asked. 

Cathelin stroked Madrigal's hair. ''Sweetling, any man dishonorable enough to order a night attack after issuing a formal challenge is liable to do anything.'' Her golden eyes were incandescent with suppressed fury. ''God help Desmond O'Brian if the babes are harmed...'' 

Sword dropping unnoticed from her hand, Cathelin led her mate to the nursery - and Madrigal's heart beat faster, her imagination supplying horrible images that made her want to weep - and a growing fury igniting in her soul. 

Crimthan, with Honey clinging to her leg, narrowed her eyes, the point of the dagger she held in her fist never wavering. She had been awakened by Dragon's cries and had rushed into the children's room. Godolphin had already picked up Dragon, and she had hastened to snatch Honey from her little bed and keep the girl with her, accepting the hasty blow aimed at her face by Godolphin's fist rather than relinquish her charge. 

''Harm one hair o' that bairn's head, ye motherless bastard,'' Crimthan spat ferociously, ''an' I'll have yer jewels as earbobs!'' 

Godolphin had been with twenty of his men, sneaking through the halls to get to the master's chamber where they knew Lady Cathelin and her lover were sleeping, but the alarm had been raised by a naked woman with brown curly hair and a scarred face, who had opened the door of a room they passed and screamed bloody murder before attacking bare handed. 

Despite her lack of weapon, she had managed to disable two of his men before Godolphin himself had stabbed her and shoved her stumbling back into the room, straight into the arms of a sleepy young man with tousled blonde hair. 

Dragon stopped crying with a gulp; he hung limp in the captain's grasp, eyeing the man with pure hatred. Godolphin watched the nurse, who was circling left, looking for an opening and coming closer. 

He shook the toddler slightly. ''I'll kill the brat, I swear!'' Inwardly, he wondered where in God's name his men were. He'd gotten separated from them during the ensuing fight and prayed his second would be able to carry out their mission successfully. 

The door to the nursery was kicked open and a warrior entered, a large, well-built man with a drooping black mustache whose dark hair was fastened at the back of his neck with a wooden slide. ''Let th' boy go,'' he said, gesturing with the sword he held. ''Yer cut off from yer men, most o' whom are dead. Surrender now an' I'll spare yer life. Harm th' child an' t'will go worse wit' ye.'' 

Godolphin began to sweat, eyes darting back and forth. More warriors surged into the room, including a tall, incredibly muscular woman with dark red hair whose creamy hide was marred by tattoos and scars. The captain shuddered; to see a woman so perverted as to try and take a man's place on the battlefield made him want to puke. More evidence the heathen Irish had no place in God's perfect world. 

''Keep away!'' he said urgently, pressing the knife harder against Dragon's throat. ''Keep away from me or bury the boy!'' 

There was a much smaller woman at the taller one's side. By the thick scars that braceleted her wrists, Godolphin knew she must be a slave, but the look she gave him held nothing but contempt and hatred and rage. She held a knife and from the promise in her stance and her exotic purple eyes, the captain knew she'd take great pleasure in stripping the flesh from his bones slowly and with great attention to detail. 

He shook the sweat from his eyes. 

Suddenly, several things happened at once.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

With an infant howl, Dragon buried his teeth in Godolphin's hand, drawing blood and a curse from the man. 

Honeycat, with a shrill scream, launched herself at the captain, fastening herself onto his leg and biting his calf, while Crimthan hastily came forward and, dropping her dagger to the floor, grabbed Godolphin's arm, forcing the knife away from Dragon's throat. 

Before an astonished Wolf or the kerns could react, Madrigal and Cathelin moved as one, like hunting wolves, splitting up and flowing to either side of Godolphin. As Crimthan wrestled with the spitting, swearing captain, Madrigal grabbed Honey's arm with her free hand, shoving her to safety, swinging up her other arm to bury her knife in Godolphin's side. 

Godolphin's grasp on Dragon loosened, and Crimthan, with a gasp, let go of his arm to grab the toddler before he could hit the floor. She crouched down, shielding the child with her own body as the enraged captain aimed a kick, which never landed. 

Cathelin let loose a roar of pure animal fury and latched onto Godolphin's leg, wrenching it violently to one side. The great bone in his thigh snapped with a hideous crunch and he screamed, falling with a thud and a whining shriek as the broken bone in his leg was jarred. 

The whole thing was over in heartbeats. Godolphin lay on the floor, leg at an awkward angle, dagger quivering in his side, hand bleeding from the marks of Dragon's tiny teeth. Panting, Cathelin drew her leg back for a kick, aiming for his throat, but was stopped by Madrigal. 

''No, Lady Cat.'' The Muslim woman looked down at the prone captain, and he shivered at her bloodthirsty glare. ''Let him live to be questioned instead. Does he not bear the mark of a commander?'' 

For the first time, Cathelin noticed the badge the man wore. It was indeed the sign of the O'Brian clan, indicating the soldier's rank of captain. 

''He must've been in charge of the mission,'' Cathelin said. ''Take him down to join the other, Wolf.'' She turned to Crimthan, who was examining both children. ''Are they all right?'' 

''Aye,'' the nurse replied. Her lip was split and bleeding, but she seemed unhurt otherwise. ''They're no hurted save fer bruises.'' 

Grimacing, for her belly wound was beginning to throb, Cathelin knelt down and held out her arms. ''Come here, little ones,'' she said. 

Dragon and Honey flew into their mathra's arms, and Cathelin stood up with a grunt, the children clinging to her neck and staring at the injured captain with wide eyes. 

Madrigal took Dragon from her love and the two women carried their children back to the master's chamber, where a hastily assembled guard of four stern-faced kerns was already on duty, short swords naked in their hands. 

It wasn't until the next morning, after a sleepless night of comforting Honeycat and Dragon, that Cathelin and Madrigal learned of Becca's bravery and wounding in the fight. 

Madrigal, tying the belt of a green gown she'd hastily tossed over her head, hurried to the castle sickroom where injured kerns were being cared for by monks from the abbey. 

Brother Ignatius, despite his arthritic hands, was supervising. Upon seeing Madrigal, he drew her to one side. ''How's th' Lady?'' he asked, rheumy eyes filled with concern. ''An' yer bairns?'' 

''She is fine. No bleeding and the wound is healing well,'' the Muslim woman answered absently, eyes seeking a familiar form. ''Dragon and Honey were plagued by the Horse of Evening Ill, but that will pass.'' Then she saw Lugh seated on the edge of a bed, holding someone's hand. ''How is Becca?'' 

''Oh, she'll do well enow,'' the aged monk answered, smoothing his silver fringe of hair with one crippled hand. ''Stabbed in th' shoulder; looks much worse than t'is.'' He chuckled. ''Ye should've seen yon minstrel boy last night; come bawlin' an' weepin' wit' th' Half-Tongue in his arms, actin' like she were bangin' on th' gates o' Heaven. I had to gie him a draught ta calm him down afore we could bandage up th' woman.'' 

Madrigal gave Ignatius a fond smile, although she wondered at Lugh's behavior. ''I will go and talk with her,'' she said, ''and then, honored one, you should seek a bed and rest.'' 

''Ah, sweet lady,'' Ignatius said with a wink, ''when yer my age, ye learn that rest eternal comes all too soon. I'll sleep when I'm ready, dinnae worry.'' 

After patting his hand, Madrigal went over to Becca and Lugh. ''How are you feeling, Becca?'' she asked, sitting on the edge of the cot. 

The kern smiled. ''I'm fine.'' A bulky bandage was tied to one shoulder. ''I'm only glad I had to visit the jakes last night, otherwise those bastards might've gotten to your chamber and killed the both of you, and none the wiser.'' 

''And you, Lugh? How do you fare?'' 

The blonde young man turned sad eyes on Madrigal. He looked terrible; dark circles marred the pale flesh of his cheeks and he was obviously suffering. ''I should have done something,'' he moaned, clutching Becca's hand convulsively. ''They hurt Becca and I did nothing.'' 

Becca slapped his thigh with her free hand. ''Hold your tongue!'' she snapped, although her brown eyes twinkled. ''You did enough, to stop the bleedin' and carry me here, tho' you've so little meat on your bones I'd be surprised if a stiff wind didn't blow you clean away.'' 

Lugh kissed Becca's knuckles. ''Still...'' 

Madrigal intervened. It was obvious to her that the pair were lovers; whether their connection went deeper than that, she did not know, but she had a feeling that Inishowen would soon find out. 

''Lugh, you must not blame yourself. It was a dishonorable attack, the alarm was given in time, and while there were a few injuries, there were no deaths. You took care of Becca when she needed you; this is more important than fighting.'' 

A slight ray of hope shone in Lugh's dark blue eyes. ''Truly? You don't think I'm a base coward and a fool?'' 

''Nay, tho' you're behavin' like a right regular mince-locked molly-puppet,'' Becca said with a chuckle, brown eyes twinkling. ''Lugh, you've nothin' to be ashamed of. Now, stop all your belly-aching; t'is givin' me a headache I vow could shake the world.'' 

Madrigal smiled. ''I will leave you now,'' she said, rising. ''Lady Cat and the children need to break their fast, and then I must speak to Wolf about our prisoners.'' 

''Oh, Lady,'' Becca said, eyes wide, ''you're goin' to put them to the question?'' 

''Yes.'' Her eyes met Lugh's, and the young man shuddered; they were as cold and dark as icy amethysts. ''And we will learn of the O'Brian's plans... and stop him. We will. We must.'' 

With that dire pronouncement, Madrigal left the sick room. 
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Back in the master's chambers, Cathelin had finally gotten Honeycat and Dragon to sleep. Having left the children to the bed, she was seated in a chair by the hearth, spooning up porridge thickened with ham and boiled eggs. 

''Sweetling, those men...,'' she said, poking at the porridge with her spoon and shooting her mate a worried glance, ''I mean, hey may prove stubborn.'' 

Madrigal stared at Cathelin serenely. ''They may,'' she answered, pinching off a bit of bread and eating it. 

''We may have to use torture.'' 

''Yes. I agree.'' 

Cathelin's dark red brows drew together in puzzlement. ''Madri, I know what you went through before, what Wallace did to you, besides others. I'm thinking you've not the stomach for such work. You needn't pretend otherwise.'' 

''You are mistaken.'' For the first time, Madrigal allowed her mate to see the simmering rage and hatred that consumed her. ''They have killed or hurt my friends, people I have come to consider my family. They tried to harm my children. They would have killed you. Those men,'' she spat, ''have tried to destroy everything and everyone I love. Do I have the stomach to torture them? YES,'' she concluded in a hiss. 

Cathelin was taken aback. ''Sweetling, consider what you're saying,'' she replied earnestly. ''You of all people know what it's like. You mean to say you could truly - and I mean wholeheartedly - put someone to the rack? The pincers? The boot? Have their back whipped to ribbons and salted well? Without soul injury to yourself?'' She leaned forward and spoke urgently. ''I would not have you hurt further by this. In fact, I had liefer you stayed here with me whilst Wolf carried out the orders.'' 

Madrigal stood, her chair sliding back with a screech of wood on stone. ''You think me weak?'' Her eyes flashed as she shook back her sleeves and thrust thickly scarred wrists beneath Cathelin's nose. ''Could a weak woman survive what was done to me? Could one without courage have lived, and continued living, with the memory of hell that I have? You know I bear other scars than these.'' She shook her head violently. ''There are times, Lady Cat, when you do not understand me as well as you think. Now is one of those times.'' 

Cathelin grasped Madrigal's wrist. ''I think you should sit down and consider well what you mean to do,'' she said, amber eyes filled with concern. ''You've shouldered many heavy burdens these last few weeks...'' 

Madrigal interrupted. ''And now you think me mad as well?'' She laughed softly and the hair rose on the back of Cathelin's neck. ''I am no hysteric, Lady Cat. Nor am I possessed by the demons of revenge. Like you, I will do what must be done because there is no other choice. It troubles me not at all to think of torturing those men if it is needful. I will do what must be done. You cannot; I know you could not do this thing coldly, but I can... and I will. '' 

Madrigal left and Cathelin half rose, intending to follow her - then sat back down again, bowing her head. Blessed Virgin and St. Brigit, she thought, let not my Madri follow this course, but if she must, then let the burden of her sin fall upon my shoulders, for God knows I would spare her if I could.

Cathelin was no coward; indeed, had she not proven her courage on the field of battle time and time again? But after the Holy Land - after the siege of Acre long years ago - after waking up night after night, still hearing the screams of the man she'd tortured to death for the slaying of her beloved Irizen. Cathelin knew that never, ever again could she witness, or be a part of, cold-blooded torture. 

Nay, she thought, not even if t'were my own soul at stake.

So she sat, watching her children sleep, and silently wept, fearing Madrigal's actions would scar and warp her within - making a stranger of the woman she loved. 

Desmond gnashed his teeth, the grinding audible to his squire, who flinched. Damn them all to Hell eternal! the Earl thought furiously, wishing he could borrow the Hammer of God to smash Cathelin O'Cameron and all her ilk from the earth of the world with one swift, avenging blow. 

The sneak attack had failed and now Desmond had serious issues to consider. He'd only given the formal challenge as a sop, intending to lull the defenders of the castle into believing that the siege was over; after all, there wouldn't be any survivors who would gainsay the Earl's word. But it hadn't worked; not one of Godolphin's men, nor the captain himself, had returned. And this morning, the walls of Inishowen bristled with heavily armed kerns still. 

The remainder of the King's men had left as soon as the sun broke over the top of the hills. Despite Desmond's urging, pleas - and ultimately, threats - the soldiers had shouldered their weapons and marched away under the command of a corporal who had given the Earl an icy stare before replying with freezing dignity, ''Our captain is missing and probably dead. We consider it a judgment of God upon him and yourself. You, for your dishonorable tactics; Godolphin for agreeing to be a party to them. We return to London, my Lord of Kinslainne. Rest assured, the King shall hear of your deeds when we arrive.'' 

Desmond had sworn mightily and in a violent temper, had taken an axe to his lavishly appointed tent, destroying everything in sight and leaving the furniture in splinters. Finally, panting, he had buried the axe blade in the centerpole and stalked away, leaving his terrified squire to clean up the mess. 

The sweet, silvery sound of a trumpet caught his attention... hearing the excited shouts of his men, the Earl walked towards the disturbance with long strides, shoving soldiers from his path. What now, b'God?! he wondered, then... By'r'Lady!!

Mounted on a solid black destrier was King John himself, the horse's panoply of cloth-of-gold richly embroidered in silver and studded with precious rubies and pearls. The King's own tunic matched his steed's colors and jewels, and the dark sovereign wore a puffed hat on his head with dangling ribbons, pins of gold and silver, and merlin's feathers that danced in the breeze. 

''Ho, my Lord of Kinslainne!'' the King cried, catching sight of the astonished Earl. ''I've come to witness your little war!'' 

At the king's side was his advisor, William of Northanger, mounted on a spirited roan and dressed in his customary unrelieved black. ''Shall I have the servants set up your tent, Your Majesty?'' he asked. 

King John waved an unconcerned hand. ''So tell me, Kinslainne, how goes the siege?'' One of his black eyes trembled in a faint wink. 

Desmond watched with open mouth while a mule-train and wagons rolled into his war camp. King John never traveled lightly but in full estate, taking not only guardsmen, but dozens of servants, courtiers, and the like. His retinue was so vast that, on those rare occasions when His Majesty pleased to visit one of his royal subjects, said unfortunates were often forced to go to the Jewish moneylenders in London for relief from the gaping maws and outstretched hands of the king's men. 

Desmond realized the King was waiting for an answer, beringed fingers tapping impatiently on his saddlebow. He shook himself inwardly to gather his scattered wits. ''What an honor, Your Majesty,'' he said with a low bow. ''Your glorious presence has fair stricken the speech from my tongue; pray, forgive me, sire, for my earlier lapse. I was like a man who catches sight of the sun in all it's splendor, and is made mute by the beauty thereof.'' 

The King preened beneath the Earl's flattery. ''Attend upon me, Kinslainne,'' he said, dismounting and stepping down onto the back of a crouching servant, who grunted at John's weight. ''Shall we retire with His Grace of Northanger? I have many questions to ask you.'' 

Desmond looked around wildly and caught the stern eye of Duke William. The austere man yawned behind his hand, affecting unconcern. ''Yes, Your Majesty,'' William said. ''I believe you especially wished to question the Earl as regards the desertion of Your Majesty's troops from his service.'' 

''You... you've seen them? Talked to them?'' Desmond felt near to weeping; he had visions of himself on the chopping block, shaven neck bared for the headsman's axe, his wife wearing mourning black, the O'Cameron bitch smiling in triumph... this last thought made his soul burn, but he turned his attention back to the matter at hand, hoping no one had noticed his lapse. 

''Yes, my Lord Earl.'' William's eyes were as black as coal, and as hard as diamonds. ''We have. And we did.'' He, too, dismounted, but far more gracefully than the king, disdaining to use a servant as a mounting block. While the king's servitors and attendants, with much shouting and confusion, began setting up John's magnificent tent with all its fabulous accouterments, William walked up to Desmond and smiled. 

The Earl shuddered; the Duke of Northanger had the half-mad grin of a rabid wolverine that catches the blood scent of a wounded animal. 

''Come, Kinslainne,'' the King said and began leading the way to Desmond's own tent. ''Attend me. We will speak with you privily...'' He gave Desmond a significant glance, concluding, ''Right now.'' 

The Earl felt his heart turn to stone in his chest. Duke William laced his arm through the stricken man's and guided him none-too-gently away. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Madrigal looked at the naked, sweating men who were shackled in the little used dungeon of Inishowen. Iron cuffs encircled their wrists, chains leading up to a ceiling beam. They stood on their feet, a brazier of hot coals providing both light and heat, reflections of tiny flames gleaming on their skin. Godolphin's side had been bandaged, one leg roughly splinted, and he balanced on his good leg, swaying slightly, his face betraying not a single mark of pain. 

Despite her brave words to Cathelin, Madrigal prayed to Allah she would not have to do this thing. She felt sick at the thought of actually using the instruments of torture that had been cleaned and oiled in preparation. A poker had been thrust into the coals of the brazier and she stared at it in horror. 

Although she was still very angry, now that the heat of the moment had passed, she regretted her hasty words to Cathelin. It is true they tried to destroy my love, my children, my life, but no matter their crimes, they did not succeed, for Allah the Merciful was watching and His angels, too.

They are pawns, even as I was once a pawn, at the mercy of larger and more powerful forces. Even if I had the O'Brian here, I am not sure I could raise my hand so. Can I truly do this thing? Madrigal gulped, averting her eyes, careful not to let the men see her weakness. No. To kill in defense is one thing; to destroy a man's body with pain is another. But Allah! What a dilemma!

We must have the information... we must know who they are. What shall I do? What CAN I do?

Lugh had already told Cathelin and Madrigal that he did not recognize any of the men who had been slain, nor did he know the two survivors of the aborted attack. Surprising, considering they were supposed to be O'Brian kerns. 

It had become imperative to find out just exactly what was going on, how many lairds or others were involved, for it seemed that the scent of conspiracy was in the air. Madrigal steeled herself with an effort. She would hate herself later but it must be done. 

Even as she tried to find the courage to begin questioning the prisoners, with a sudden influx of light and hope, she conceived of a desperate plan. Oh, Merciful One, Madrigal thought, lend Thy daughter Thy wisdom and guidance. If not, then let this deed be swiftly done, and give Thy daughter the strength she needs to complete this task.

She stepped up to the captain, schooling her face into an expression of cold severity. ''Who are you?'' she asked in a hard, cruel tone. ''We know you are not of the O'Brian's. Who is your clan? Who is your lord?'' 

Godolphin spat at Madrigal's feet and replied insolently, ''Go straight to a deserving hell, heathen witch. You'll have nothing from me.'' He stared at her proudly. 

Madrigal glanced at the other man, a round-eyed teenager who danced fearfully in place, the chains that held his cuffed hands above his head jingling noisily. This was the one, then, a weak link. ''Do you wish me to torture this boy? This child in your service? Think, O captain. Will his screams keep you company in your own chains? Will the scent of his burning flesh be sweet as perfume to you? Speak, or the young one suffers and the guilt will be placed at your door.'' 

Godolphin's answer was to spit again, this time the gobbet just missing Madrigal's full skirts. ''Do your worst, witch. The Lord God revenges his own.'' 

But the boy stared at Madrigal, mouth working. 

His name was Hugh Wright. He was fifteen years old, and barely a month ago had been proud of his ceremonial induction into King John's private army. His mother had nearly burst when he'd told her the news. Now, his brown eyes were wide and he gulped, Adam's apple bobbing, as he gazed with absolute terror on the black-haired woman with the dark purple eyes who surely must be a demon from the very depths of Hell. 

Before that impossibly tall, impossibly muscular warrior-wench had felled him with a contemptuous blow the night before, Hugh had never seen a woman with battle skills. To his young mind, the people of this castle were hellspawn, godless creatures with otherworldly skills disguised as weak women but with the hearts and stomachs of men - and the very thought made his bowels turn to water. 

Madrigal fixed her eyes on Hugh, coming closer an inch at a time, and he danced more desperately and muttered a Pater Noster beneath his breath, praying for the protection of God from what must surely be one of Satan's dread lieutenants who wore a face and form of beauty to conceal the evil within. 

Madrigal reached out without taking her eyes from Hugh's face and grasped the handle of the poker. Drawing it out of the coals, she waved it tantalizingly in front of the flinching teenager's face, letting him feel the heat. ''Where first, I wonder?'' she murmured musingly, letting her eyes roam up and down his sweaty form. ''Here?'' In one swift move, she let the poker drop until it was a bare inch from his thigh and the stench of singed hair filled the air. 

''BlessedJesusprotectme,'' Hugh blurted, eyes rolling. 

''Perhaps here?'' The poker moved up, close to one of his nipples and Hugh tightened up on his toes, every muscle rigid. 

''DearsweetLordhelpme,'' the teenager moaned, wanting desperately to close his eyes but compelled to watch the red-hot iron even as whispered prayed spilled from his lips. 

''Or how about here?'' The cherry-red tip of the poker dropped lower, until it hovered over his shrimp-curled manhood. 

Whimpering, Hugh pissed himself, urine splattering on the dirt floor and droplets falling with a hiss on the poker. Madrigal did not move; she continued to watch the boy's face intently, and suddenly, reached out her free hand and grabbed his testicles, letting her fingernails dig in slightly. 

With a howl of pure terror, Hugh reared back, eyes so wide the white showed around the pupils, toes scrabbling as he tried to get away. Madrigal spat an Arabic curse and hastily snatched the poker away before the idiot could singe himself. Stepping right up next to him, even as he strained to hold his body away, she hissed, ''Tell me what you know, boy. Or...'' She let her brow raise suggestively. 

''Oh God, ohGodohGodohGod!'' Hugh sucked in a breath, blubbering, snot mingling with the tears running down his face. ''Please don't hurt me! Please, please, please don't hurt me!'' 

''Then speak, boy. Tell me all you know.'' Madrigal glanced down at the poker. The tip had cooled to black and while the iron was still hot, it was no longer as dangerous. 

Pressing herself right against Hugh - who danced at the end of his chain - she touched the poker briefly against one of his jiggling buttocks, hearing it hiss as the heat evaporated the sweat on his skin, and then snatched it away, knowing he wouldn't even have a blister to show for it. 

But by Hugh's reaction, he evidently believed otherwise. 

''JESUS!,'' he screamed, spittle flying, ''JESUS! Don'thurtme! Pleasepleaseplease! I'll tell! I'll tell! Oh, God!!'' He started weeping in earnest, pleading, ''Don't hurt me anymore, please! I'll tell you anything, just don't hurt me anymore!'' 

Madrigal stepped away, mentally sighing. She felt sorry for the boy; so young, so naive. But, she told herself, consider the alternative. He could have been hurt far, far worse; now, at least, he will live, if not unscarred within. I will ask Cathelin if provision can be made for him. Surely, after this, he will not wish to return to England.

''What is your name?'' she asked softly. 

''Hugh! Hugh Wright!'' It was clear the boy was desperate to please. ''Please, mistress. I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do anything! Don't hurt me anymore, please.'' 

''I won't hurt you, Hugh. Just answer my questions.'' Madrigal motioned Wolf forward. The Scottish warchief gave her an approving look, but settled his face into a stern expression when he turned to confront the heavily sweating, terrified Hugh. 

''Now,'' Madrigal kept her voice soft and low, ''who are you sworn to, Hugh? Who is your Lord?'' 

Despite Godolphin's shouts and threats (the captain was ultimately gagged, although he continued to mutter furiously behind the cloth), Hugh Wright babbled everything he knew in an unceasing stream of words mingled with pleadings and personal confessions and prayers - and broken expressions of abject gratitude that made Madrigal flinch, remembering a time when she, too, had begged a cruel master and been grateful when punishments had been light. 

In the end, they had to throw a bucket of cold water in his face to get him to stop, and even then, Hugh continued to whisper until Madrigal had him taken down and carried to the sickroom to be tended by the monks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Cathelin hugged Madrigal tightly. ''Oh, sweetling! Glad I am you did not...'' She broke off, unwilling to continue that thought. 

Madrigal whispered back, ''I am glad as well.'' She released her mate and stepped back, fingering a burned spot on the skirt of her gown. ''Hugh was only a scared child. What I did, though, in its way was as bad as the rack, the whip. I deliberately frightened that boy and broke him, Lady Cat. I cracked him as if he were an new-laid egg.'' 

''Well, at least his hide's intact. As for the other - the young heal fast.'' Cathelin seemed unconcerned, so Madrigal tried to explain. 

''Beloved - I, too, was once broken, as that child is broken. I pray to Allah his mind and soul will recover; it is certain he will bear the scars on his heart for a long time to come.'' The Muslim was troubled. 

Cathelin sighed. ''Madri, let the monks care for the boy. Give him time. If, and I say only if, he doesn't recover his wits, I'll give the good Abbot a hefty sum to pay for Master's Wright's care for life. The Brothers will see that he does not suffer or hunger.'' 

''That is not the point. One cannot purchase relief from guilt.'' 

''Aye and one can't purchase forgiveness, either.'' Cathelin embraced Madrigal again, rubbing her back. ''T'is a hard, cruel world we live in, sweetling. All in all, young Hugh got off lightly with a goodly lesson. He's no longer an innocent, true. But consider this: what if he'd been taken by someone less, well, kindly than yourself? They'd have broken his body and stolen his manhood and left him a bloody wreck, if he lived at all.'' She bent her head and kissed Madrigal's cheek. ''You've nothing to feel guilty about. The boy was old enough to swing a sword in the King's service; he was old enough to take his chances on the battlefield and kill his fellow man. Be at ease with yourself, Madri. You did what you had to; no more, no less.'' 

Madrigal kissed the underside of Cathelin's jaw. ''For your sake, I will try.'' 

''Nay, sweetling. For your own,'' Cathelin asserted. 

Madrigal stared into her Lady Cat's amber eyes and felt her burden lightened a little by the deep love she saw there. 

Cathelin blew out a breath, making Madrigal's hair flutter. ''I'd best be seeing Wolf and consulting with him about our course. John the Bastard's involvement in all this makes my small hairs rise.'' 

''I, too, am uneasy.'' Madrigal considered. ''Will you still fight the duel?'' she asked. 

''I don't know. The challenge was issued formally, but...'' 

The women were interrupted by a knock on the door. Becca came in, wearing a front-laced vest and breeches, her shoulder still swathed by a bandage. ''Ladies,'' she said, bowing her head. ''I've news. Guess who was seen enterin' the O'Brian's camp? I'll give you a hint - it weren't the Blessed Virgin nor the Holy Ghost, neither.'' 

Cathelin's eyes widened. ''The King?'' she murmured. 

Becca grinned. ''Aye. John himself in right royal state, the very picture of greasy curds and cream, and as fat and satisfied as a picket whore on payday. Now I find myself wondering... why?'' 

Madrigal and Cathelin exchanged a glance. It appeared as if the plot against Inishowen was thickening. 

''Has Meg returned yet?'' Cathelin asked. 

''Nay,'' Becca replied. ''No doubt she's still countin' her coppers or some such. Wolf expects Herring Meg sometime tonight.'' 

Cathelin moved to the chair and sat down, absently pulling Madrigal down on her knee. She needed to think about this. 

The Muslim woman leaned gently against her mate, arms around the other woman's neck, and Becca couldn't suppress a wide grin. 

Suddenly noticing the kern was still there, Cathelin said, ''Well? Be off with you, saucy baggage!'' Her smile took away the sting of her words. ''Tell me when the fishwife's returned, and for the love of God, have a servant bring me some food! Now, get you gone...'' Her amber eyes glinted slyly. ''...or p'raps your new laddie-love'll find himself a new appreciator of fine music to spend his evenings with, a-making sweet melodies and the like.'' 

Madrigal hooted with laughter. Apparently, Lugh and Becca's night of passion had been overheard by half the castle servants - and despite the dire doings of the attack, the folk were all a-buzz with gossip as usual. 

Becca blushed. ''Aye, m'Lady,'' she mumbled, leaving the room so hastily she nearly tripped over her feet. 

Madrigal bussed Cathelin on the lips, still laughing slightly. ''Truly, Lady Cat - how cruel to tease Becca!'' 

''Nay, for have we not been teased for our music making in the past?'' Cathelin arched her eyebrow, and it was Madrigal's turn to blush. They did sometimes get a little loud... 

The pair stayed together the rest of the afternoon, basking in one another's presence and reaffirming their mutual affection and love, the one no more soul-bound than the other, and reveling in the ties that had knotted their lifestrands into a single, strong thread that was unbreakable. 

With the connivance of the castle folk, Cathelin and Madrigal were left alone, until Becca returned much later to tell them that Meg had finally come home to Inishowen. 

CHAPTER THIRTY

Herring Meg was a short, bandy-legged fat woman with enormous breasts that bulged from the bodice of her tight wool gown. Some of her gray-streaked ash-blonde hair was twisted up in a half-forgotten knot on top of her head, the rest tumbled down her back in tangled elf-locks. Meg's face was as wrinkled as an winter apple, owing to the fact that she had no teeth. As a result, she tended to drool and kept a rag stuffed up the sleeve of her dress to mop up her chin when needed. 

Meg curtsied clumsily. ''Beggin' yer pardon, yer ladyships,'' she said in a voice as rusty as an old hinge. ''I'd not wanted ta disturb ya, but good Master Wolf here says as how yer wantin' ta hear me news.'' 

Cathelin nodded. ''Aye. You've been working the O'Brian's camp?'' 

''Aye.'' Meg whisked out her rag and wiped her chin. ''I've been makin' a bit o' coin from his soldier boys an' keepin' me ears open. But I can always do wit' silver instead o' copper, if yer ladyship takes me meanin','' the woman said significantly. 

Cathelin raised her eyebrows, clearly amused, but handed the old whore a purse whose weight made Meg suck in her breath. ''Now,'' Cathelin said, ''If what you've to say is as valuable as you told Wolf, then I'll be giving you another like it. But don't disappoint me, Mistress Meg. I've a sore temper these days.'' 

''Oh, well,'' Herring Meg simpered, curtsying again, ''no worries, yer ladyship. I were smack dab against th' Tinker's own tent, I was, swivin' a lusty guardsman, me heels in th' air an' dancin' merrily. But Ol' Meg keeps her ears open, she does; keen as a gazehound's, I vow, e'en when I'm urgin' a dallyin' gallant ta finish his business so I can finish mine.'' 

Madrigal stifled a laugh. Herring Meg was an Inishowen fixture; despite the fact that Father Paul regularly thundered from his pulpit about her ''sinful business,'' that didn't stop the village men from frequenting the old whore when they had a coin or two in their pockets. 

She had a dozen children by as many fathers, her oldest son Jack Smith having the distinction of being built like a brick wall and twice as thick, and the village blacksmith, besides. Few were the men or women who mocked Meg twice; her seven boys, Jack included, loved their mam and tended to use hard fists and harder heads on any who disapproved or were less than polite to the woman. And her girls had a reputation for sheer pig-headedness that outshone any mule born. 

''Aye, I've news a-right,'' Meg said, patting her tangled hair with one hand. ''I were hearin' ol' Tinker O'Brian a-speakin' wit' Himself th' King, an' oooh, but weren't th' Bastard sore as an arse-boil!'' 

''Well? What did he say?'' Cathelin knew that Herring Meg's excursions to the enemy camp had been motivated by mercenary concerns rather than an actual desire to spy, but nevertheless, she was one of the clan and in her own way, loyal to the family. But that old bawd'll be about it all night if I'm not pushing her on, she thought with a sigh. Meg'll be thinking she's a bard, next.

Meg sucked her gums thoughtfully, eyes screwed up as if she were trying to remember something of some importance. ''Ah, well, yer ladyship... t'were hearin' I was how Himself were angry at th' O'Brian fer issuin' a challenge or some sort. Himself allowed as how this challenge, bein' honorably accepted an' such, would have ta be takin' place as offered. An' weren't th' O'Brian close ta weepin' wit' rage! I vow he's a spleenish sort! Prob'ly not enow swivin' or wivin'. 

''Ennyhow,'' she continued hastily, seeing that Cathelin was shifting in her seat with impatience, ''th' King were sayin' that th' O'Brian'll have ta lift th' siege an' all... an' they was all makin' plans ta travel ta DaDerga fer ta get ready fer a tourney. I heard Himself tellin' ol' Tinker that he expects ta be paid fer a-lendin' o' his troops, an' when O'Brian wins... well, th' Bastard had Tinker sign a paper assignin' th' ownership o' Inishowen ta th' Crown. So I reckon if God ain't on yer side, yer ladyship, I'll be makin' me curtsies ta th' King by-and-by, hee hee hee,'' Meg concluded with a simper. 

Cathelin's lips twisted in a rueful smile. ''So, John expects O'Brian to win, does he?'' She looked at Madrigal. ''I'll have to donate a new altar cloth to the Church, Madri, and ask the good brothers of the abbey to include me in their prayers.'' 

Madrigal snuggled close to Cathelin and put an arm around her waist. ''Is there anything else?'' she asked Meg. 

The old whore scratched her chin. ''I reckon not, unless yer wantin' ta hear about me sister in Wales givin' birth ta another cross-eyed girl, er me Jackie-boy a-poundin' ol' Tom Cobbler fer givin' me an ill look this Sunday past.'' 

Hastily, before Meg could begin another round of gossip, Cathelin handed her another purse, which vanished in the layers of shawls and skirts she wore over her dress. 

''My thanks, Meg,'' Cathelin said. ''Go buy yourself a drink to keep you warm tonight, and I'd be grateful if you included me in your prayers.'' 

''Oh well, now,'' Herring Meg said piously, ''I'll be doin' that forthwith, yer ladyship. An' I'll even buy some fine beeswax candles ta donate ter th' altar o' St. Mary in th' abbey in yer name. I figures ye can use all th' help ye can get, hee hee hee.'' Gathering her layers around her and plumping up her extraordinary bosoms with both hands, Meg waddled away. 

Madrigal was silent a moment, then burst out laughing. ''Oh, Lady Cat!'' she exclaimed. ''Even your God must not approve of prostitutes! How could you ask her to pray for you?'' 

Cathelin grinned innocently. ''But sweetling, many's the time I've seen Herring Meg sitting in her pew on a Sunday morning, cracking walnuts in her fist and listening to Father Paul's sermons like he was a minstrel entertaining around a bonfire. I've even heard her make critical commentary worthy of an ard-ollamh - master poet tho' she's not - usually whilst Father Paul's still sermonizing.'' She waited until Madrigal's giggling ceased, then continued, ''She's not a bad sort, truly. She raised her children respectable; even her daughters are married to upright tradesman, despite their birth or lack of it. And I'm thinking that God listens to Meg's confessions with as much interest as the good father himself.'' 

The thought of the usually sweet natured Father Paul being scandalized almost to apoplexy by the confessions of Herring Meg was too much. Madrigal dissolved into giggles again. 

When she was finally reduced to gasping and wiping her eyes, the Muslim woman asked, ''There is one thing more I simply must ask. Why is she called Herring Meg?'' 

Cathelin's eyes took on a sly glint. ''Why, for in the summertime, being as how Meg's not fond of washing, she smells like a fishing village at low tide. T'is worth your life to get downwind of her.'' 

Madrigal's shout of laughter nearly burst the Irishwoman's eardrums. 
 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

With the siege lifted, and the O'Brian army returned to DaDerga, the lives of the folk of Inishowen returned to relatively normal - except for the daily fights between Lady Cathelin and her beloved chatelaine. 

''You will not fight!'' Madrigal shouted, beautiful face red with fury. 

''I must!'' Cathelin shouted back, equally flushed. 

Madrigal shook her fists in the air, absolutely enraged. ''You WILL NOT do this thing, Lady Cat!!'' Her dark purple eyes snapped with sparks. ''You will leave me a widow with two young children, defenseless against the O'Brian and the King! You will die and I will follow you, I swear to the Prophet!'' 

''I have NO CHOICE, you stubborn woman!'' On either side of her broken nose, Cathelin's amber eyes were haggard as a hawk's at bay. ''If I renege, then O'Brian can lawfully lay claim to Inishowen, and no one will be safe! Are you wishing to see your children and clan tossed out into the snow, clad in rags, without a crust to their names?'' 

''I wish only to preserve you! Allah! Daughter of goats and camels and mules! You are not well enough to fight! Choose a champion! Hire a Templar mercenary! Do something, Lady Cat, but DO NOT DO THIS!'' 

''I will. I must,'' Cathelin answered in a cold, silky tone that meant that as far as she was concerned, there was no more to be said. 

And Madrigal burst into tears. 

In Lugh's bedchamber, Becca and Lugh exchanged a glance. ''This isn't good,'' the young man said. ''They fight nearly all day, and from what I've been hearing, kiss and make up at night, only to start over again come the morn. Small wonder they're both in such a foul temper lately.'' 

''Aye.'' Becca nodded knowingly. ''The Ladies pretend there isn't anything going on, but all the folk, not bein' deaf, know there's troubles between them.'' She sighed and lay her head on the reclining man's shoulder. ''Lady Cathelin's wound is healin' well, but... in a joust, t'would take only one well-landed blow to send her flyin' and maybe kill her.'' 

''What can we do?'' Lugh stroked Becca's curly hair. ''Drug her, maybe? Keep her here? After all, in armor, no one will suspect a substitute, and can't one of the kerns take her place?'' 

Becca kissed his shoulder. ''Nay, for that the Lady's too proud. And none in Inishowen can fit Blacksunne's armor. We'll just have to join the abbey brothers and Father Paul in prayin' for Lady Cathelin's safe victory. B'sides, if someone were to drug her, I'd not be wanting to be in the same country when she wakened..'' 

Lugh sighed. 

Eithne scurried down the hall, full skirts held in both hands, dark hair billowing out behind her like a cloak. Servants leaped out of her way, for the mistress of DaDerga would stop for nothing. 

She made it to a door, then stopped and composed herself, laying a hand on her pounding heart. King John has summoned her to his guest chamber. Although it was in the late afternoon - and normally Eithne would be supervising the feast that would be given in His Majesty's honor that evening - when the King commanded, none dared say him nay. 

She scratched deferentially at the door and heard the King's deep voice respond: ''Enter.'' 

Eithne walked inside, closing the door behind her, and immediately sank down in a deep curtsey, the folds of her heavily brocaded skirt pooling around her on the floor. 

King John surveyed Eithne O'Brian. B'God! he thought. She's as beautiful a lady as rumor has insisted! He fingered the jewel encrusted goblet half-filled with strong wine he held in his hand. ''Rise, Lady Eithne,'' he said. 

Eithne stood up, hands clasped before her. ''How may I serve Your Majesty's pleasure?'' she asked with great dignity. 

John shifted on his chair. His puff-sleeved tunic of yellow, slashed to show the crimson lining beneath, was embroidered with griffins and unicorns in silver thread and dotted with winking garnets and diamonds. ''That is it, my lady,'' he replied, giving her a look from beneath his ebony brows. ''I am accustomed to the presence of the softer sex and have sorely missed their sweet company here at DaDerga.'' 

Eithne did not miss the look the look the King gave her; it was a heated glance, full of suggestion. ''Forgive me, Your Majesty,'' she said, heart beating faster. ''I have neglected my duties as hostess and crave your pardon for my lapse.'' 

John's lips lifted in a small smile. ''Come,'' he said, ''Will you not share a cup or two of wine with me, Lady Eithne? I vow, you are the most beautiful woman I have seen in all of Ireland.'' 

Eithne considered. On the one hand, she was satisfied with her husband Desmond, who had given her powerful clan connections, wealth, and the respect of many. On the other hand, she thought, the King can give me more. P'raps even a crown on my head.

''Aye, Your Majesty,'' she replied after no more than a moment's hesitation, her decision made. ''I'll stay awhile and keep you company. After all, we would not want you pining away from loneliness, or neglect of your needs.'' Her peat-gray eyes simmered with lusty promise and she slowly licked her bottom lip as she emphasized that last word with a husky purr. 

King John gave her a wide smile in return, feeling his manhood stir, and poured Eithne a cup of dark, sweet wine.