The Tale of the Nether Horn

Many followers of Celtic lore know that for centuries, “The Cattle Raid of Cooley” (Táin Bó Cúailnge) has been hailed as the Iliad of ancient Ireland. 

Like Homer, the singer of the Cattle Raid was not one man but scores of men--poets, ollahmhs, filí--whatever we call the people who sang the great meadhall ballads of warriors and maidens, gods and goddesses, those creative people with no name who spanned centuries.

While writing all the Dawn of  Ireland books, I was drawn to the rich folklore of Éire, and throughout the novels I attempt to capture some of the music, the heroism, and above all the bawdy spirit of the original tales.

In the following excerpt from The Wakening Fire, Caylith’s erudite friend Brigid has a plan to arouse her husband. She tells the company sitting around the campfire the tongue-in-cheek female version of the famous Cattle Raid.

 “It is time for a tale,” I said to the company at large. 

“Abair scéal,” said Brigid. “The ages-old cry for a story. What shall we hear tonight?” She settled back on the raised knees of Michael, her head thrown back and all her golden hair spilling over his legs.

“A tale of cattle,” I said.

“Then the teller must be me wife,” said Michael, stroking her soft curls. “Her namesake, the goddess Brigid, is the protector of cows.”

“Yes,” said Brother Jericho. “And tonight is her night, of all nights of the year. Um, to the local people, that is. Father Patrick is hoping to alter those old folk beliefs.”

She looked up dreamily to the top of the pines, where a few stars stood out against the black of the sky. “Tá go maith. I shall tell, for the many thousands of times over, the story of the great cattle raid. But from the point of view of a woman—the powerful queen Maeve.”

I knew the story, of course. It was one of the oldest in Éire, told by men as they quaffed their beer, recited by poets in the great mead halls of kings. For it was a tale of manly conquest, of warrior against warrior. The cattle raid itself was a mere excuse for a tale of bloody might versus might. I would enjoy a female version, and I settled back in the hollow of Liam’s shoulder to hear her story.

We all know that Maeve was a beauty, and she was the queen of all  Connaught. Her fortunate husband, Ailill, enjoyed a life of sensual gratification because of her ready thighs; and a life of ease because of her bounty. And he knew it. She was loath to remind him, as long as he remained loving and true—and as long as he did not challenge her wealth.

One night, Maeve and Ailill were lying back on their golden bed strewn with mink furs and nosegays of lavender, basking in the glow of their lovemaking.

“Darling,” said Maeve, “the size of your loins is as great as that of my strong, red- eared bull.”

“Really?” he murmured. “I would see this bull. For I say my great shaft is more like that of my own white-horned bull.”

“Challenge me not on this point, dear husband. How are you qualified to judge the nether horn of a bull?”

Ailill was rankled at her teasing. “Because I am a man,” he said. “Because White Horn belongs to me, and his size is a matter of pride.”

“Say you that your possessions—even a single bull—are greater than my own? Say you that my Red Ears cannot measure his horn against that of your White Horn?”

“Yes,” he said, convinced of his own manly prowess, blind to his wife’s growing vexation. For he was beginning to feel again the stirrings of desire, and his words amounted to an invitation to prove his proportions were worthy.

Now Maeve was no fool. She knew exactly what Ailill was doing and she, too, craved his nether horn for the second time that night. But she was also very competitive. She thought she would have his bull, and her own, too, thereby increasing her wealth and enjoying his dimensions at the same time.

“I propose a raid,” she said with a fire in her eye. “If you capture my red bull, I will give you the debate, and you may use that bull in any way you see fit. But if I capture yours, you must yield it to me any time, night or day, in any way I see fit.”

To unquenchable Maeve, this challenge was not just a competition—it was a way to ensure unheard-of gratification from her prodigious husband. But to Ailill, suddenly stubborn and proud, it was a way to best his overweening wife.

“By tomorrow night,” he said rashly, “your red-eared bull shall be mine.” 

He turned his back then and slept, much to Maeve’s disgust. When he was snoring loudly, she crept from their fine bed and donned her leather slippers. Drawing her silken tunic around her ivory shoulders, she walked to the byres of Ailill where she knew a large white bull lay sleeping.

“O White Horn,” she murmured. “I have come to take you to my prize heifer, she of the lovely red shoulders, she who has never known the nether horn of a fine young bull.”

He opened one eye, loath to rise from the shelter of the byre and the plenty of the hay haggard.

“And,” said Maeve, “to sweeten the feast, my second virgin heifer waits for you, she of the deep black coat and milk-white chest.”

At these words, White Horn heaved himself to his hooves and began to beat his shaft against the sides of the byre in anticipation.

“Follow me,” she said sweetly, and he did. For Maeve knew the weakness of every male—and that is the promise of yielding thighs with no payment on the morrow.

As soon as White Horn entered her own byres, she shut the paddock firmly and called her strongest guards to stand sentry. “So that none may disturb you,” she told him with a broad wink.

And then she returned to her mink-soft bed to exact her payment.

Brigid stopped speaking, and she and I started to laugh—first softly, then louder, until I felt tears at the corners of my eyes. “Brigid, you are a poet. If you were not a woman you would stand by the shoulder of the high king himself as his ollamh.”

“Ah, I think the woman’s perspective may rankle even the most benign of kings,” she said, raising her eyes to look at her husband.

Michael looked as if his dinner were not quite settled in his stomach. “The next tale at this fire, young Brigid, will be told by Ailill.” He seized her shimmering hair and pulled her head toward his, and I could see that her story had aroused him deeply. 

The Wakening Fire follows Storm Maker  and is available beginning May 15 at the link below

my blog:   http://erinsromance.wordpress.com/
on Facebook: facebook.com/ErinOQuinnAuthor  
on SirenBookStrand:  http://www.bookstrand.com/storm-maker   (buy link)
                                    http://www.bookstrand.com/the-wakening-fire
                                   email:  erinsromance@yahoo.com

CELTIC ROSE WRITERS

For Saturday, May 12 I've opened my blog to the talented authors of Celtic Rose Writers.  This may also repeat next Saturday, May 19 as well if we do not get in everyone who would like to post.  In the comments section, they are welcome to leave blurbs, short excerpts and buy links for their many wonderful romance books--contemporary, historical, fantasy, even some Medievals (for which I know we have many readers, including me).  So for anyone who wants to post, browse, look for a good read--have a cup of tea and settle back.  Enjoy!

COMING ATTRACTIONS

I hope everyone is having a lovely and satisfying week.  I'm taking a short break to plan a trip to Ireland, but next week my nose will be back to the grindstone--not that I mind!  On May 15, Erin O'Quinn will bring you a special tale from her forthcoming release, "The Wakening Fire."  This is book two in her series about Ireland in the time of St. Patrick and I'm falling in love with the books as I read them, planning a pilgrimage to Croagh Patrick for late in September or early October.  Whether or not I make the entire three-hour climb is another matter!

Then, on the weekend of the 19th, The Celtic Rose Blog will be open to promotion from Celtic and historical authors.  We will feature a running list in our Comments section on which you can post or browse for contemporary, historical and/or fantasy books in Celtic or closely associated genres.  So if this is your interest, feel free to join us.

Meanwhile, here's a picture which is one of my all-time favorites and if I keep looking at it and reminding myself I'll be there in the fall...well, it helps!

DOES ANYONE WANT TO SHARE THEIR FAVORITE ATTRACTIONS, PLACES TO STAY, FOND MEMORIES OF IRELAND??  Many of us would love to hear them!  Feel free to share in the Comments section.

SUNDAY MOVIE

And how is everyone doing this lazy Sunday morning here in the U.S.?  It's damp and drizzly in my little corner of the world, the perfect time for a second cup of coffee.  Second breakfast wouldn't be bad, either, come to think of it.

This fall, I plan to head back to Ireland once more, this time researching prehistoric Ireland on the beautiful Dingle Peninsula.  I expect that research will find its way into another of my books!  Meanwhile, this video from my first book Confessions of the Cleaning Lady always makes me smile.  Maybe it will do the same for you.

FROM ENGLAND TO THE CELTIC ROSE - BILL AND SUSAN SEAFORTH HAYES

        Bill Hayes and Susan Seaforth Hayes

 

Brilliant and sassy Elizabeth Trumpet fantasizes starring on the London stage, but to become an actress in 1803 is tantamount to losing her virginity in the most debasing way.
After watching her mother die and her father lose his mind, the courageous sixteen-year-old must find a way to save her family. She scores her first acting job as a fencer - the deadly skill she learned from her brother training for the military. Blessed with talent and a rare singing voice, Lizzie pursues her career, learning from theatrical characters high and low.
When reckless actor Jonathan Faversham sets eyes on Miss Trumpet, he knows he's found the partner of his life. But Faversham carries ruinous baggage from a dark past. Entangled in lust and ambition, Lizzie gives him her heart and they reach the heights together. Until Lizzie gets more applause than he.

From the magnificence of Regency palaces and the Theatre Royal Covent Garden to the sun-baked pyramids of Egypt and the arms of a real-life Samson, Lizzie is never far from trouble. As her brother rides to glory with Wellington in the Napoleonic Wars, great events threaten her survival. Danger lurks behind stage curtains, when a madman sets fire to take her life and she lifts a sword in revenge.

Will this once innocent girl, with her rise to stardom, be remembered for her art? Or for her shame?

Book: TRUMPET

Authors: Bill Hayes and Susan Seaforth Hayes

Publisher: Decadent Publishing

PURCHASE LINK:  http://www.decadentpublishing.com/product_info.php?products_id=504&osCsid=lttu08e9b0tn4o9atai669umu5

Hello, Susan and Bill Hayes. Thanks for joining us today.

(1)  Your new release sounds amazing. How long did it take you to research and write?  We spent a total of seven years on TRUMPET, traveling the world from Waterloo to Egypt.  In London we spent long hours researching in the library of the London Theatre Museum, actually holding the newspaper clippings and playbills of Sadlers Wells, 1803. 

(2)  Do you have a set idea of how your work will turn out before it’s complete?  Always having an ending in sight, we still covered eighteen years of very eventful British history in this story. Whew!

(3)  Can you tell us about your muse? Does he/she have a name? Can you always call upon your muse to help you? Our muse calls us to put bottoms in chair, face to the keyboard, shoulder to the wheel. Months spent waiting for inspiration to fly in the window are months wasted. Work is our ethic. Of course we love it.

(4)  How did you come up with the title for the book?  Trumpet is the heroine’s family name, a fine old name having nothing to do with brass bands. It is the Anglicized version of Trombetta, her father’s Italian heritage transformed to fit into British society of the period.

(5)  If the heroine in TRUMPET was a cocktail, what would she be and why?  A rum fizz, tall and richly flavored. Because this lady is both.

(6)  Did you listen to music when you were working on the book?  Yes, Mozart and Handel. Of course we often listen to them, but during the final edit we noticed the combination of background music and our dialogue was very moving.

(7)  Who has the best line in the book and what is it? My dears, many of our characters are actors. They are loaded with good lines! Think of the egos, the grasp on unreality that show business invites. We read all our dialogue aloud to make sure it’s natural and sparky. Like the best soap opera (which is where we come from), the story is full of tears, spice and plenty of laughter. And, dare we say it? Wit.   

(8)  What is your desk area like?  Our desks are piled with papers, books are stacked knee high on the floor. Cascades of photos teeter in every corner, all snapped by us in museums. You see, in those portraits of people, long forgotten, we have found the faces of our characters.

(9)  What current advertisement on TV do you love or hate?  We love to read and enter other worlds. TV adverts interrupt the best drama, destroy concentration and generally ruin the mood of any show. We, unlike the audience TV favors, are not perpetually in a mood to buy.  (However. If there is a dog in the commercial, Susan will always watch).  

(10)        What is your favorite alcoholic beverage? Champagne for Bill.  Beer for Susan.

(11)        What would you say is your one addiction?  Chocolate. 

(12)        How many cities have you visited and which was your favorite? Hundreds, truly hundreds. Remember we are two mature actors who toured for business  and traveled for pleasure, with a big family spread all over the place. Not to sound predictable, but we love Rome, Venice and—for downright delirious pleasure—London. Susan feels at home in Sarasota, Florida, too. However we’ve lived happily in Los Angeles, basking in the sun and sampling the guacamole   for more than forty years.

Excerpt:

     “Elizabeth, you must perform. I will teach you a style of acting that is revolutionary. You have seen my work. You understand the art I worship.”

     She took a step closer. “Since I was a child, watching my father on stage, I longed to be there with him.” Jack watched Lizzie struggle to go on. “You have just described the dream of my life. There is nothing I want more, but…Mr. Faversham—Jack…I am not free.”

     He reached for her hands and pulled her down beside him on the stump. “Explain why you are not free.”

     In a long and tearful soliloquy, Lizzie told her story of the past year. She was too candid for propriety and too wrought-up by his presence to withhold anything. In this soulful state, she was so beautiful and vulnerable that Jack had to fight to keep his hands off her.

     “You need, as in a play, an ailing uncle to leave you a great inheritance,” Jack suggested with sympathy.

     “Indeed, I have just been offered ‘protection’ by a gentleman.”

     “It must be Dampere, the creature! I guessed as much! That’s why I broke in upon your privacy in such haste. Listen to me, Elizabeth. I promise you a weekly income, not of shillings, but of pounds. From the sound of it, your first concern is caring decently for your family. Join me and you will be able to provide for your father and aunt and whoever else you are carrying on your lovely back.”

     The emotional girl looked at him as though he were a god.

     Jack turned on his serpent-of-Eden charm. “Why take up with that toad Dampere? Come with me and live your passion while you keep your reputation. I can turn you into a real princess, Pocahontas—a princess of the stage.”

     That did it. Dazzled, Lizzie said something irrational that meant yes: “The honor…do all I can…prove your faith.” It was the grateful garble of a person saved.

     Satisfied to have gotten his way, Jack sealed the bargain by taking her head in his hands and kissing her full on the mouth. “Gad, we’ll be good; I know it.” He bowed and strode to his hired horse. “I have urgent business in the city. Be glad, Elizabeth. I certainly am.”

     He leaped into the saddle and cantered away. Actually, he was off to a backstage intrigue at Covent Garden. Waiting in his dressing room, another would-be actress, of no performing ability whatsoever, was ready to audition what talent she did have on the chaise lounge.

     Lizzie watched Faversham until she could see him no more. A freshening breeze lifted the leaves of the oak tree. She touched her tingling lips and thanked God for escaping a sordid life. He is my savior. Now I won’t have to do as Octavia does.

NOTE FROM BILL AND SUSAN:

We have autographed copies of our memoir "Like Sands Through the Hourglass" and my CD "This Is Bill Hayes" as prizes for our giveaway.  Two names will be drawn randomly from this blog stop!

Beltane

Ahhh, Beltane, the time of the big sun has finally arrived!

Beltane, or La Baal Tinne (meaning Bright Fire), was one of the (pagan) Four Great Festivals. Traditionally, the festival started with open pasturing, the beginning of summer and the welcoming of the sun's heat to promote growth of livestock and crops. Bonfires were rekindled with sympathetic magick to encourage the sun's warmth to penetrate the earth.

The Celts believed that at this time in the Otherworld the sacred fire of Tamhair-na-Righ (Tara of the Kings) was lit every three years. There was great ceremony with this, by using a brazen lens to concentrate the sun's rays on dried wood, as all the sacred fires of the Sidhe were lit. They also believed the Faery were at their happiest on May eve, and the music of their harps and pipes were heard all through the night.

It was from the sacred fire that all participants lighted brands and took them home to light their domestic fires.

Bonfires always played a part in ceremonies. The men would draw lots to see who would jump over the flames three times when they were their highest, and the women when they were low. This was a practice to protect them from the powers of evil.

Cattle had their horns decorated with garlands of rowan and vervain to honor the May Queen, and driven between two bonfires, and sprinkled with water from The Purity of the Well.  Cows who's skin was singed became the sacrificial animal for the feast.

If a snow white heifer appeared among the cattle, The Celts believed it was good luck.

A May-bush was decorated and the women danced around it, wearing garland, and the men carried a green bough. At the end of the dance, the woman would toss her garland to the gentleman of her choice, if he was successful in catching it on his bough, he gained her affections. But if he dropped it, heartache was certain to follow.Throughout the night, music and story telling were heard around the fire, and then mystical dancing until dawn's early light.

Of course so many of these things do not, and cannot, apply to today's world. Time, space and basic laws would not allow big bonfires, or frightening animal sacrifices to be made. But there are many things we can do today to fit the traditions of the past.

One of our favorite things to do is pick wild flowers and place them in a paper cone, hang them on the front door, knock and run! Or for the elderly, just hand them the handful of flowers and see the smile it brings.

Make special breads and have an outdoor cookout, if weather allows.

Lately in my world, I've had the joy of just walking around and appreciating the simple beauty of all the activity going on in nature around me. I am fortunate enough to live in a forested wetland, so there is so much going on, I have to stop and really watch, or I miss it.

Just this morning, there were hummingbirds diving at us as we walked, woodpeckers drumming on trees and street signs, and jays laughing. The skunk cabbage is in full bloom, their bright yellow, pitchered flowers brightening the swampy ground, and makes forgiving their smell is a little easier. The cherry and apple trees are heavy with blossoms and the dark soil in my garden have leafy green rows just starting.

Just as in ancient times, the cycle is renewing, the soil is rewarming and life is returning. It's not so hard to find that fine line that time creates. Using imagination and some creativity, it seems so simple to step over, recreate, and celebrate life.

Happy Beltane!

****

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The North Cascade Mountains harbor many mysteries, and one of them is Adrian Dillon: man, werewolf and master of his domain. Manning the remote rescue cabin during the winter was his one ticket to unfettered freedom, until one day it comes to an abrupt halt.

Studying wolves had always been Jessica Allen's passion, not just for their preservation, but to find answers about herself and her bloodline. Opportunity and fate entangle, seeming to work against her until one man extends a helping hand.
When deceit and betrayal rock Jessica and Adrian's world, can love forge a bond that is more than physical?

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~♥~ Hope you find magic in your day ~♥~

Thank you for stopping by!

INTRODUCING ERIN O'QUINN

 

Today it's my pleasure to introduce a brand new Celtic genre writer, Erin O'Quinn.  I have had a chance to browse Erin's first book, Storm Maker, and I can only tell you this is an extraordinary first work.  Let Erin tell you some background, in her own words (and mine, of course!):

Q: What is your background, Erin?

A: I earned a Bachelor’s degree in English, then a Master’s degree in Comparative Literature from the University of Southern California. You might say that I’ve had a long and varied career--from university teacher to newspaper marketing guru, from car salesperson deep in the forests of Germany to hauling pallets of freight for a big-box store’s garden center. All of it has in some way prepared me for the life of a writer.

Q: Have you been a writer for many years?

A: Quite the contrary. In December of 2010 my husband and I bought an iMac. Only then did I start writing. And thirteen months later, I had written over a million words and ten books. I guess the muse wasn’t just on my shoulder--she had descended to my very gut, even to my soul, and she was beating the daylights out of me.

Q: How did you come to choose Ireland as the setting for your novels?

A: My husband is a fanatic reader of historical fantasy. He wondered aloud to me one day why he had never read any accounts of Ireland at the time of St. Patrick. It seems that everyone loves St. Paddy, and almost everyone fancies himself or herself to have Irish clans in their family somewhere. So the subject matter should be a rich mine for an author. But I found that he was right--hardly anyone has ever written fiction about Ireland in the 5th century AD. So I could fill a niche that no one else had yet attempted to fill.

Q: Your characters seem to have a deep and varied background--from the central heroine Caylith to her best friend, her mother, her Gaelic clansman lover, his own family, the high king of Ireland, even St. Patrick himself. How did all these characters begin to live in your imagination?

A: The main characters, outside of the Irish ones, were born as characters in a young adult fantasy series called The Twilight of Magic. So when someone begins to read STORM MAKER, he or she is reading about a character who already has at least three novels worth of back story!

Q: You say “at least three.” Is there another novel lurking back there somewhere?

A: For last year’s NANOWRIMO, I wrote a 50,000 word novel or novelette called MARRIE APPLESPROUT’S SCHOOL FOR GIRLS, about Caylith and her aged great aunt from Lindum, Britannia (modern Lincoln). In that book she is fifteen, and she is quite a spoiled, self-absorbed brat. By the time of STORM MAKER, she has grown up a bit, although she is still pretty naive!

Q: Where do you find your inspiration for your plots and characters?

A: I hope that this doesn’t sound crazy—they are all in my head, clamoring to be let out. All my books are character-driven. The plots are ones that the characters force on me, whether I want to go there or not.

Q: What other novels may we expect after STORM MAKER?

A: I feel like a child who has glutted on all the candy in the bag, and who must now pay the consequences. I turned in several novels all at once, and all of them were accepted. So I have a novel coming out every four weeks from now through the end of August. The next two novels complete The Dawn of Ireland Trilogy--THE WAKENING FIRE and CAPTIVE HEART. After those, I turn to one of the characters from CAPTIVE HEART, another interesting redhead--but this time a male named Flann O’Conall, and I introduce his love interest, a virginal young woman named Mariana, in a tempestuous book titled FIRE & SILK. Following that are two “ManLove” novels in The Steel Warrior series. These characters are from some of the earliest books, but no one (especially the reader) has an inkling that they may be attracted to other men, much less to each other. Life happens.

Q: Would you say that your historical romances pass the test of being suitable for a general audience?

A: No. Siren has placed the first four in the category of “steamy,” and the ManLove novels are even more explicit.

Q: Would you say, then, that your historical romances are heavy on the romance and light on the history?

A: That’s a good question. Readers of course expect romance, and I give it to them. Caylith has just begun to feel the stirrings of womanhood, and Liam is a lusty young suitor. But I have to warn readers that there is also history, and folklore, and religion, and Gaelic expressions, and a host of other areas that I explore in every one of my books. St. Patrick himself is a character who appears in some of the novels; and many of Liam’s kinsmen are actual historical characters, including his own father, the High King Leary.

Q: Which other characters are based on actual historical figures?

A: Liam’s father Leary had seven brothers, all uncles of Liam, and some of them are important characters in later novels. The character Murdoch Mac Owen, the poet- scholar Dubthach, Liam’s oldest brother Torin--all these, and more, were real figures in the history of Ireland and become crucial characters in the later novels. The reader will even meet the O’Cahan clan later--this was the clan who were the ancestors of the man sung about in the famous Irish song “Danny Boy.”

Q: Give the readers an idea of the story of STORM MAKER.

A: It is a novel of the clash of opposites--of passion and chastity . . . evil doing and forgiveness . . . storm and calm. Caylith has brought a group of immigrants to Éire following the charismatic Father Patrick. She is not especially religious, but he is a friend whom she had met earlier, in Britannia; and she has pledged to him that she will not commit the sin of fornication. Much of the novel centers on that lightly given promise and the difficulty of actually carrying it through, as Caylith and Liam discover how difficult it is to hold back their impetuous passion until marriage.

There is another maelstrom brewing outside of the storm of young passion. Caylith has already gained an implacable enemy in the form of the brooding cripple Owen Sweeney, who manages to have Liam captured and held for the return of all his rich cattle lands. So part of the novel is devoted to Caylith’s rescue of Liam, and Liam’s slow conversion to Christianity and to the forgiveness of his enemy.

Q: Why do you write from the first-person point of view--through the eyes of the heroine?

A: From the beginning, back when she was fifteen years old, Caylith began to tell her own story. And from the beginning, she was a rather self-centered and naive person. So it became more and more fun for me to put her through her first kiss, and then make her go beyond that, to sensual craving, and finally to her marriage bed. I wanted to know how it felt through the eyes and senses of a young girl beginning to mature into a woman. By the way, the novels after the Liam/Caylith trilogy are not written from this very specialized point of view.

Q: Where did you learn the necessary background for your historical novels?

A: Mostly two places:  the internet and actual, page-turning books.  I have probably bought more than twenty books on every subject from Roman Britain to Gaelic Grammar, and I have read probably fifty more in libraries and bookstores. Yipes!

Q: Are the places in your books just made up to fit your plot?

A: To the contrary--most of them are places that existed 1500 years ago in Ireland. There were no such things as “cities” in Éire back then, only settlements and a few monasteries. But places like Tara, Derry, Limavady, Tyrconnell, the huge lake called the Neagh, the river and lake called the Foyle--all are authentic. I do make up a few places, usually the name of a character preceded by the word “bally”--Ballysweeney, Ballyconall--as people in Ireland do to this day.

Q: Many of your books take place in what is today Northern Ireland.  Aren’t you afraid that people may think you have a hidden political agenda? Or even a religious bias?

A: Wow, I hope not. I am the most un-political person I know. . .  and not much of a church-goer either! People have to remember that the action takes place 1500 years ago. Back then the politics were all about clan vs. clan, provincial king vs. king, cattle barons vs. cattle rustlers. The religion was 99% druidic influenced, almost a nature-based theology; and the “gods” were bigger-than-life warriors with bad-hair days.

* * * *

EXCERPT:

Later that day, walking to our seven-lake haven where we had left our horses, Liam and Ryan and I found ourselves walking close to Sweeney’s crude chariot.
Liam said something to his cousin, who turned to me. “Caylith, think ye the bindings are tight enough to cut a man and sorely wound him?”
I knew what Liam wanted, but I held back. “He bragged to me of the fools who made his ropes too loose, how stupid the people were who tied him into the currach.”
“And yet he is surrounded by stalwart warriors, not herders of sheep.”
I stopped in my tracks and talked to Liam through his cousin. “Liam, I take your meaning. Here—hold my pouch of healing powder. Go to your merciless captor. Do whatever you feel is right.”
He silently took the pouch, and I signaled for the attendant Keepers to stop the horses. Our entire party stopped then, while Liam approached his sworn enemy.
He walked to the wheeled cart and stood looking down on our trussed-up prisoner. The disheveled Sweeney slowly raised his head and glared at Liam, then spat at him. Liam did not even look at the spittle running down the leg of his breeches. He knelt and began to untie the ropes holding him to the invalid’s chair.
Sweeney’s arms and hands were . . .  bleeding where the harsh tarred ropes had bit into his flesh. I quietly drew the dried headband from my belt and squeezed water onto it from my wineskin and passed it to Ryan. He stepped up to Liam and handed him the soaked cloth.
Liam began to wash Sweeney’s wounds, slowly and carefully. Then he drew forth the pouch and poured healing powder where the wounds were deepest. All the time he was ministering to Sweeney, the brute jeered and taunted him. “You lumpkin—you addle-pated fool. I want not your gentle care. I would rather you keep grinding me under the wheels of my mobile throne. If I had a knife, you would be repaid in stab wounds. Leave me alone.”
Sweeney did not know that Liam understood not a word of his tirade—though I knew he was smarting from the ferocity of Sweeney’s rantings. When he had applied enough powder, he tied Sweeney back into his chair, avoiding the places where the wounds were still fresh. I saw that the brute was well fastened to his own chair, but he was no longer in pain. Indeed, the rope cuts and burns had begun to disappear completely.
Liam signaled for the horses to move again, and he walked back to me. He handed me first the pouch, then the soiled cloth, and I saw that his face bore a radiant smile. I stood on tiptoe and brought my lips to his. I kissed him as though for the first time, sweetly, searchingly, trying to understand this half-wild young man. 

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