Erinsong (41 page)

He fought the urge to inhale.

There! Light ahead. It
seemed to envelop him, wrapping him in warmth and shooting out of
his
toes and fingertips in rays of peace.
The nagging pain
in his ribs subsided and
he felt strangely calm.

Dying isn’t so bad, after all.

Moira paced the small
chamber but Brenna sat motionless, hugging her grief tight as a
worn shawl. She watched wordlessly as Father Armaugh
dipped his thumb in oil and smudged the sign of
the
cross on Jorand’s still forehead. The
priest removed
his stole, kissed it
reverently, and secreted the sign of
his
office in one of his capacious sleeves. He laid a thin hand on
Brenna’s shoulder.

“Your husband has had the
blessing of Extreme
Unction, my child. Be
at peace,” he said softly.

“Is there nothing more to be done?”

“There is but one thing ye
can do.” Armaugh
sketched a benediction in
the air before her. “Ye must
leave Jorand
in the arms of God.”

The priest closed the door
behind himself as he left
Brenna to keep a
silent vigil at her husband’s side.

The battle between
Thorkill’s raiders and the Irish warriors disguised as virgins was
over by the time Brenna saw Jorand’s body rise in the moonlit waves
beside the swaying ship. After Moira’s guards managed to retrieve
him, one of them thumped Jorand’s
back
repeatedly, trying to drain the salty water from
his lungs. Brenna felt a thready heartbeat
beneath his
breastbone and his chest rose
and fell of its own ac
cord, but his open
eyes were unseeing. The rest of the
fallen
Norse were abandoned to the untender mer
cies of the sea, but at Moira’s order, Jorand was
bun
dled in a cloak and brought to the
monastery on St. Patrick’s island.

Even when Armaugh dug the arrow’s tip from
his side, Jorand didn’t twitch a muscle.

Brenna took one of his
hands and pressed it between hers. His fingers hung limp and cold
as she
clasped them. She traced the thin
scar running across
his palm, the token of
their handfast. He’d wanted to remember her always. Brenna planted
a soft kiss on
the scar.

Father Armaugh had eased
Jorand’s eyelids closed,
but they were
tinged an unhealthy blue and a dark hollow lurked beneath each
socket. Jorand’s skin
was pale and waxy. A
tiny network
of blue veins pulsed at his
temple. Only the slight rise and
fall of
his chest betrayed the fact that he was a living
man and not a prone statue carved of
moonstone.

“Reminds me of when we
first saw him washed up on Donegal’s beach. Even now, Brennie,”
Moira rested
a hand on her sister’s
shoulder. “Even now, I think your Northman is the bonniest lad I’ve
ever laid eyes on.”

“Aye,” Brenna said, not
shifting her gaze from Jo
rand’s
motionless features. “And too late I learned he
has a heart to match his fine face.”

Moira pulled up a
three-legged stool and plopped
down beside
her. “I wish it was that pox of a husband
of mine lying there instead of Jorand. By Heaven, I
do.”

“Moira, ye can’t mean it.” Brenna looked at
her sharply. “Something’s wrong then. I did think it strange for
Fearghus to send ye on to St. Patrick’s, despite the danger, but I
supposed it was so ye could still make your prayers for an heir.
Has your husband mistreated ye, then?”

Moira’s lips curved into a sad smile. “If
ever Fearghus of Ulaid gets an heir by me, ‘twill either be by a
mortal sin on me soul or a miracle of immaculate conception. I’ve
been married all these months and I’m yet a maid, sister. Fearghus
is ... I have no idea what to even name him.”

Moira stood and circled the room like a caged
lynx. “Ye’d think I was a toothless crone the way he avoids me bed.
But any child, boy or girl, under the age of ten isn’t safe from
his lechery.”

Brenna pulled herself away
from her own grief to feel a little of Moira’s. “Leave him, then.
No one would blame ye. Come home to Donegal with ...” She started
to say
Jorand and me.
With a hollow ache, she realized she’d very likely be burying
him on this tiny island. “Ye know Da would not hear of ye being
treated so.”

“I know he wouldn’t. But do
ye think I could break the peace me marriage guarantees between our
clans?” Moira straightened her spine and blinked back her tears.
“More Irishmen die fighting other Irishmen than die beating back
Northmen. No, I’ll not start a war over an empty bed. Why cover the
land with widows and orphans? Anyway, as long as I’m there, I can
protect the children at court as
best as I
may. Queen I am to the people of Ulaid, and
a queen I’ll be.”

Brenna leaned over and
hugged her little sister, realizing in their months of separation
that Moira
had changed. She was no longer
a giddy girl with ro
mantic notions of
royalty and courtly love. Now she was a sad young woman, broken of
heart, but not of
spirit. Moira had indeed
learned what it was to be a queen.

“I’m proud of ye, sister.”

“Oh, Brennie, ‘tis sorry I
am to be burdening ye with me sorrow when ye’ve plenty of your
own,”
Moira said. “I’ll leave ye now, but
remember I’ll be
close by should ye have
need of me.”

“I just don’t know what to
do.” Brenna sank back
down on the edge of
Jorand’s bed. “I’ve prayed till I can’t see straight.”

“Then don’t pray. But let
Jorand hear your voice,”
Moira said as she
stepped softly to the door. “May
hap his
spirit will follow the sound of ye home.”

The heavy oak door scuffed against the lintel
and Moira was gone.

“Let him hear me voice,”
Brenna echoed. “Aye, and
what can I say to
a man who’s not here?”

The tiny weight in her
belly fluttered for the first time in days. Even though she’d
missed a couple of her courses, she’d been unsure, afraid only the
diffi
culties of travel had thrown off her
body’s natural rhythm, afraid the slight quickening was only her
imagination, afraid to hope. She felt the stirring again and
finally knew for certain.

“Husband,” she began
softly. “I have something to
tell ye. Even
if ye are after leaving me, I’ll have a bit of
ye yet. Ye see, your child grows in me belly, Jorand,
and ...” Her voice broke at the thought of him
never
seeing the child of their love. “And
I thank ye for the
joy of the bairn. I’ll
make sure he knows of ye. He’ll
be a
prince and a poet and a warrior. A son to make ye
proud.”

Another thought struck her
and she rose to pace
slowly, fingertips
grazing tiny circles on her still flat belly. “Of course, the bairn
may be a daughter, and if
such be the
case, I can only pray she takes her looks
from her sire. I’ll raise her to be a strong, fine
woman.
I know ‘tis important to a man that
his seed lives on
and I want ye to know if
ye—” Her breath caught in
her throat and
she bit her lip for a moment before she
was able to continue. “Whatever happens, your line has not
died on the earth.”

Not an eyelash stirred on Jorand’s still
form.

Her throat constricted.
Tears welled in her eyes. A
sob fought its
way free.

“Damn ye, Jorand. Do ye not
care that ye leave me
alone? Do ye not
want to be here when your babe comes into the world?” She climbed
into the bed
with him and buried her face
in his shoulder, shaking
with grief. “Oh,
ye wicked, wicked man! Do ye not know that my life will be a burden
to me without ye? How
can ye leave me when
ye know that I love ye more than breathing?”

She sat up abruptly and
cupped his face in her
palms. “Open your
eyes, ye
Finn-Gall
demon!”

His eyes rolled beneath
their closed lids. Brenna gasped. A thin slit appeared in one of
them and he peered up at her. He blinked twice, then winced at the
light of the precious candle on the stand by his
bed. Then he turned his gaze back to Brenna and
she
saw intelligence spark in their blue
depths.

“Well, woman,” he said, his voice hoarse from
the sea, “when you ask that prettily, how can I refuse?”

“Oh, Jorand, ye’ve come
back to me.” She pep
pered his face with
kisses then sat back abruptly and
squinted
at him. “Do ye know me then?”

“
Ja,
Brenna, I know you and I love you.” he
said,
grasping her and pulling her down
for a long kiss. “You don’t think I’d forget my Irish princess,
do
you?” A serious expression erased his
smile. “But I
think you’ve got my name
wrong.”

“What?”

“Do you remember when I
told you I was two men
trapped in one
skin?”

“Aye.”

“I couldn’t live with that,
so I broke faith with Thorkill and the men of Dublin,” Jorand said.
“I’ve
turned my back on my people for your
sake, Brenna.
That makes me an
oath-breaker. Are you sure you still want me?”

She hugged him tight.
“There’ll never come a time
when I don’t
want ye.”

“Then Jorand the Northman
is truly dead.” He
kissed her softly and
pulled her in to snuggle next to
him. “I
guess you’d better call me Keefe.”

“Aye, that I’ll do.” Her
own handsome warrior home from the sea. His color was returning to
normal and his heart thumping solidly beneath
her palm. “Welcome back to the land of the living
then, Keefe Murphy. But I’ll warn ye of one
thing.”

“What’s that?”

She nipped at his earlobe.
“If ye’re after trying to
die on me again,
I’ll never forgive ye.”

The End

Hope you loved ERINSONG. Are you wondering
what happens to Moira now? You’re in luck. Here’s the first chapter
of her story, DRAGONSONG—the last Songs of the North novel.

Moira fought the clinging blackness that
draped her like a shroud.

‘
No, no, wait. I . . .’
The queen of
the clan Ulaid’s mouth moved, but nothing came out.

Voices muttered over her, their timbres
echoing strangely, but she could attach no meaning to the sounds.
The disembodied voices faded and she redoubled her struggle back to
awareness.

Where am I?

Her eyes fluttered open, but she saw only
macabre shadows dancing along slime-slick rock walls. She was lying
on her side, her hands bound behind her, in a puddle of wetness.
Blood?

No
, she decided,
Not sticky
enough.

Merciful Heaven, it couldn’t be her birth
water. The babe wasn’t due for some months yet. Her swelling belly
shifted, a light flutter reassuring her of the continued presence
of that beloved Other. She sighed and inhaled the salt tang of the
sea. She was lifted and lowered in a faint rocking motion.

A coracle.
She was in a small
boat.

“Someone help me, for Christ’s pity,” Moira
finally managed to say, her words slurring together as though she’d
drunk too much ale.

“Get ye gone, Seamus. The decision is mine.
I’ll see it through.” The thud of the servant’s booted feet on
stone steps reached Moira’s ear. The sound was joined by another
incongruous noise—the echoing boom of surf on unsubmissive
rock.

“Cedric?” Relief flooded through her as she
recognized the voice of the last speaker. Surely her husband’s
brother would come to her aid in this bewildering circumstance.
“Where are we? How came we to this ill-omened place? Me head is
spinning so, the last I remember is dining with ye in the main
hall. Ye put a silver cup in me hand and the torches started
burning too brightly and . . .”

Her voice trailed away with foreboding when
she realized she was no longer wearing the stiff court clothing
Fearghus had always insisted upon. Someone had borne her from the
hall and stripped off her finery, leaving her shivering in her
woolen nightshift. If she were ill, why was she not in her own bed?
Her head pounded with the effort of trying to think through the
haze in her brain. “What … why am I bound so?”

“First question first, dear sister.” Cedric
sank to his haunches on the sagging dock beside her boat. “Ye have
a right to know where we are, since few have been privy to its
existence, and only those of ruling blood. ‘Tis a secret as old as
Conaill Murtheinne
itself. We’re beneath the keep in an
ancient bolthole. In times of great distress, the kings of Ulaid
fled through this portal to escape mortal danger in exchange for
the untender safety of the sea. A swift current passes by our
coastline, ye see, bearing wayfarers far from land with no effort
on their part at all.” A wry smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
“Content yourself, Moira, that ye will follow the path of
kings.”