“Would ye spoil the power of Beltane dew?” the old woman had asked with a chuckle and then disappeared to let Meghan attend to her ablution in peace.
When Colin had taken her away from the camp to a tumbling-down
rath
at the edge of the lough she had begun to suspect that he was not following Turlough O’Neill’s order. But, as the chieftain promised, there was an ancient crone named Sila waiting with a smile of welcome.
Meghan wrapped her arms about her knees, hugging them to her chest. Where the heat from the fire did not reach, her damp skin puckered with chill bumps. Her
leine
had been taken away by the old woman, who muttered deprecatingly about its containing lice.
Meghan’s mouth tightened. Had she not wanted to please the O’Neill, she would have given the crone a ready answer for the insult. Even the poorest
spailpin,
who might share his home with fleas, abhorred lice.
Meghan rose expectantly to her feet as the old woman re-entered. Sila was bent with age, her spine so curved that her head hung like a lantern from the stem of her neck. The lines of age criss-crossing her face were so numerous that it seemed to Meghan that each must mark a year of the woman’s life. At first she had thought the old woman blind. Her eyes had no color but were pearly white like the inside of a clam shell. But Sila could see. Her milky-white gaze was on Meghan now, almost greedily, as she stared openly at Meghan’s smooth shoulders, full bosom, and narrow waist.
“Well now, and here I was thinking ye a reedy bit.” The woman smiled, revealing dark gums empty but for a single tooth. “Ye’ve enough flesh on ye to please a lad, and udders to carry plenty of milk for strong sons.”
Embarrassed, Meghan crossed her arms before her breasts. “Did ye bring me
leine
?”
The woman’s grin deepened. “’Tis no shame to stand as God made ye, lass. ’Tis less a sin that some lad should see ye so on Beltane.” Her gaze wandered over the flair of Meghan’s hips and then she patted the slight curve of the girl’s belly. “A braw lad will plant his seed there this Beltane.” She made a sign with her fingers and then nodded. “Sila has the gift. A son before Saint Brigid’s Eve.”
“I’m not wed,” Meghan protested.
Sila grinned at her. “Ye’re nae a babe and should know there’s ways.”
Annoyed by the woman’s conversation, Meghan squatted back down on her haunches. Everything in the
rath
was poor, ill kept, and comfortless. Even the fire was too small to heat the hut adequately, but its smoke was accumulating in the ceiling. As her eyes followed her thoughts, Meghan noticed that stuck up in the underthatch were charms fashioned from reeds, straw, and bits of wood. Her gaze followed the slope of the ceiling to the powerful charms of rowan and elder hung over the door. Other charms surrounded a wooden cross hung on one wall. When she had taken it all in, she looked back at Sila with new understanding. “Ye’re a
bean feasa,”
she whispered in awe.
“Aren’t ye the clever girl?” Sila answered with a chuckle. “Aye, I’m a wise woman and a familiar of the fairies. Ye’ve nothing to fear in that, lass, for ye’ve the power, too, I’m thinking.”
Meghan shook her head and Sila pursed her lips. “Are ye ashamed to claim yer own? Haven’t ye felt it, lass, the power that makes ye tremble?” Sila closed her eyes, lifting her face toward the ceiling. “They’re here this day. The fairies come into their own on Beltane. Would ye deny their power saved ye from Turlough’s bull?”
The chill that swept Meghan had nothing to do with her damp nakedness. “I—I do not want the gift. I’d rather ’twas done to me than that I should hold power over others.”
“Ach!” Sila scoffed, moving a step closer to Meghan. “Would ye now? Ye should know ye’ve no say in the matter.” She shook her finger under the girl’s nose. “The fairies choose who is to receive the power of charms. Many have tried and failed. I was nae born to it, but as a girl I heard talk of ways of stealing power from the fairies. One Beltane morn I crawled naked through a fairy briar rooted at both ends and then washed as ye’ve done with May Day dew.” She chuckled as Meghan’s startled gaze flew to the bowl of dirty water. “Aye, ye’ve done that this morn, but ’tis no power in that alone. A body cannot
know the charm’s took hold till the sign comes upon her.”
“Yer eyes,” Meghan replied.
“Aye. Near on a trice of years passed ere the sign showed itself.” She tapped one eyelid with a long-nailed finger. “The whiter me eyes grew, the stronger me power became. Once a body knows where to look, there’s power in water and fire, power in meadow and flower and bog. Folks come to me to trap the thief, to set charms against the wicked, and—”
“See the future?” Meghan supplied eagerly.
“What’s that?” Sila reached out suddenly and gripped Meghan’s arm. “Can ye tell the future, lass? Ye’ve the power for
that
?”
Meghan twisted in her grasp, trying to break free, but Sila’s nails only dug deeper into her skin.
“Tell me more!” Sila demanded greedily. “What charms do ye use? What are the words?”
With a cry of alarm, Meghan broke free and stumbled back against the wall. “I’ve no charms! I see things, ’tis all, on account of me mark!”
Sila’s gums worked agitatedly behind her sunken lips while her hands flexed and unflexed. Then tears began to spill in thick drops from her eyes and tumble over her seamed cheeks. “Ye’ve the mark of a changeling. I should have seen yer purpose sooner. Ye’re a fairy come to torment a poor mortal on Beltane!”
Before Meghan’s apprehensive gaze the old woman prostrated herself on the dirt floor and gripped Meghan by both ankles. “Ach, fairy, would ye hurt one who honors ye? Who took ye into her home when the O’Neill dared not ask it of another? Have I not brought ye May dew to bathe in, and wasn’t I just now about to bring ye as fine a gown as ever graced a
Arh Righ’s
wife?”
Meghan gazed at the woman in amazement. The bite of Sila’s long nails still stung her arms, but Meghan found her lips twitching—unaccountably—in amusement. A moment ago
she had trembled as the woman boasted of her magical charms. Now Sila groveled before her in fear greater than her own had been.
“Get up, Sila,” she demanded, her voice gusted by laughter. When the woman stirred, an exhilarating feeling swept Meghan. The ability to persuade a person to do her bidding was an altogether novel experience. The O’Neill warriors had been wary but they had not obeyed her. She could not resist the temptation to test this new power over someone. Wrapping her arms tightly about her shivering body, she said firmly, “I want me
leine
back, and the fine mantle ye made away with while I was bathing.”
The old woman scrambled to her feet. “Ach! Wasn’t I just saying the very same thing to meself. A fine new
leine
for me guest and a new mantle as well. To the O’Neill himself I be going to get it.” She waved a placating hand at Meghan. “Just ye sit all warm and toasty by the fire while I fetch them. Don’t go away, fairy, I’ll be back before ye know I’m gone!”
When Sila had slipped out in hasty retreat, Meghan sighed with gentle laughter and reached for the wooden comb she had been given. She lifted her damp hair forward over her shoulder and dragged the comb through her inky black tresses in long even strokes. When Sila returned she would ask her about Revelin. Perhaps, if she was still eager to please, Sila would take her to him.
An hour later Meghan stood in the center of the tiny
rath
staring down at the garment she wore. It was an ankle-length dress of pure white with gold-thread embroidery at the hem and about the wrists of the long tight sleeves. The garment skimmed her body without blatant display, accentuating the high curves of her breasts and the womanly fullness of her hips.
“A fine sight ye are,” Sila exclaimed proudly as though she were responsible for the making. “’Tis a special gown, woven of
ceannabhan mona.”
Meghan touched the bog cotton fabric reverently. Nothing
she had ever touched was as smooth and fine. All her life, her clothes had consisted of rough woolens and scratchy linens, serviceable and warm but offering none of the beauty or comfort of this gown. It even had a scent. “It smells of spring,” she said in wonder.
“’Twas rolled with wild mint and bog myrtle to keep the moths away. A fine sight ye are, and won’t the laddies be bursting their britches for the chance to sire yer babe.”
A son before Saint Brigid’s Eve.
Meghan glanced sideways at the smiling woman. Could Sila really know such things?
“There was a Leinsterman named Butler among the English.” Meghan felt her cheeks growing warm under Sila’s keen gaze, but she continued. “Will ye be knowing where he’s been taken?”
“A Leinsterman,” Sila repeated, her speculative glance hard on the girl. “Well now, I’d have had it Colin MacDonald held other ideas, but ’tis a small matter. Even a Leinsterman will hold to the custom of bundling. When ye’re showing, ’tis to the priest he should be taking ye. If fairies wed,” she added under her breath.
Meghan shook her head. She would never dare hope for a trial marriage to Revelin. He was as handsome as the legendary Fionn, while she was as ugly as a troll. Yet, the thought of coupling with him made her tingle with unknown but insistent urges. The same feelings had crept over her while she spied on John and Flora, sensations so tantalizing that a shudder rippled through her.
“Does the mortal of yer choice elude ye like a salmon does the fisherman’s net? There’s other ways to catch him.” Sila pulled a strip of braided ribbons from beneath her mantle and held it out to Meghan. “’Tis a charm for ye.”
Meghan backed away. “I do not like charms. ’Tis magic and wrong.”
“Ach!” Sila’s cunning gaze widened. “Is that the reason, I’m thinking? Or are ye the fairy I believe ye to be and afraid
to touch a holy thing?” She dangled the plait of multicolored ribbons before Meghan as though it were a trophy. “’Twas exposed to the night on Saint Brigid’s Eve. What harm could there be in a Christian charm, lass, unless ye will lose yer power by touching a holy thing!”
Meghan hesitated. Her aversion to the charm had nothing to do with fear of its being sacred. She did not want the woman to have a hold over her. Yet, if she refused the gift, Sila would believe that Meghan was other than mortal. Reluctantly, she took the ribbons. “’Tis unlucky to give gifts on Beltane,” she murmured.
“Aye. Were it fire or salt or water, ye’d have none of mine. Turlough O’Neill does the giving. Wear it in yer hair, and when the moment comes, tie them about the arm of yer chosen one. ’Twill bind him to ye forever.”
“The O’Neill sent this to me?” Meghan asked, surprised that he would think of such a thing. Then she remembered Sila’s challenge. This, then, was a test.
Sila nodded. “Ye’re a quick one, ye are. He said ye’d know it for the trap it was. But ye’ve not been frightened away, so I must believe ye’re no fairy.” Sila’s mouth drooped in disappointment. “So wear it in good health, Meghan O’Neill, and God speed to ye.”
Meghan regarded the old woman suspiciously. “Why do ye call me O’Neill?”
“Aren’t ye such?” Sila answered but her gaze slipped away from Meghan’s. “Must be I heard it when Turlough questioned the prisoners.”
“Which prisoners?” Meghan asked quickly. “The Englishmen?”
“Aye, that must be it,” Sila muttered, but she had turned her back, and Meghan sensed that the old woman was hiding something.
“Was the Leinsterman among them? He’s tall, with golden hair and eyes the color of shamrocks.”
Sila turned with a smile that showed her tooth. “Aye, the pretty lad. I saw him. Tall and straight as an elm. He’ll sire a grand brood of sons out of ye if the O’Neills don’t lift that handsome head from his shoulders.”
Meghan’s mouth went dry. “Would they do such a thing? Why?”
“Yer lad’s with the English.” Sila spat a long stream of phlegm onto the filthy rushes that carpeted the hut. “In Shane’s day they’d not have lived long enough to utter a single prayer once he’d found them. But Turlough’s another sort.” She shrugged, her head sinking lower between her shoulders.
“Shane was a great man,” Meghan ventured as she tied the ribbons in a lock of her hair.
Sila chuckled. “He was not! Shane was a bad, bad man, and not a woman among them would have had it any different! Ask Turlough. He was Shane’s tanist and cousin.” She added with cunning, “No man knew him better, his deeds and his mysteries.”
Sila snorted and grabbed the ribbons from Meghan’s unskilled hands. “Give them to me. They’ll come up shreds before ye’re done with them.” She grasped a handful of Meghan’s hair near the crown and adeptly wound one end of the plaited ribbons about it, and then unbraided the length so that the multicolored ribbons cascaded down Meghan’s back and mingled with her raven locks.
When she was done, Sila stood back with her hands on her hips and squinted at the girl before her. “Aye, ye’ll do,” she said at last.
“What am I to do?” Meghan indicated her gown. “’Tis clothing fit for royalty. Yet I am a prisoner like the rest.”
Sila wiped the end of her nose with a finger before replying. “Turlough will send for ye when he’s ready. Till then, ye’ve my company. There’s May flowers, gorse bowers, and buttercups to be gathered before morning. Come.”