“What brings ye to Ulster?” Turlough pointed a thick finger at Meghan and added, “And do not say ’tis on account of the lass.”
Revelin deliberately kept his eyes from Meghan. He had Turlough’s attention and he knew he must keep it. “You’re right, of course, my lord. A man does not risk his neck for a spot to piss or to couple. They are but calls of the natural man and are easily accommodated to circumstance. But there are other matters which can make the difference between what has gone before and what may never be again.”
Turlough grunted. “Ye speak riddles, Butler. Speak plain or I’ll have the short truth choked from ye.”
Revelin turned his head to where Reade, Neville, and Atholl sat chained together, then deliberately turned back to the chieftain. “Eventide approaches, my lord, and yet not every man is sympathetic to tradition.”
“More riddles!” Turlough grumbled, but he had understood Butler’s message. Privacy was needed before they continued their interview. He rose and waved the men’s guard away. “Release the English but keep a wary eye on them. I’ll have the heads of the lot of ye if even one escapes this night. Ye, there,” he continued, pointing at a warrior who sat beside Meghan, “yield yer seat to our Leinster guest.”
He looked pointedly at Meghan and then at Butler. “Ye’ve the hospitality of the O’Neills for a night, Butler. Use it well.”
Revelin regarded the table with conflicting feelings of relief and chagrin, relief because he had passed some arbitrary testing and deep embarrassment because of his filth among the finery. His nostrils stung with his own stink. Instead of seating himself, he disregarded every rational reason to the contrary and spoke. “I would ask a favor, my lord.”
Mellowed by the greater part of the third bottle of wine, Turlough nodded in paternal indulgence. “Name it.”
“I do not reject your hospitality but I would prefer to bathe before joining those at your table.” He hesitated. He was no diplomat; he had no patience for it. Diplomacy was for elderly men with slow heartbeats and seasoned minds. Yet his next request must be delicately handled or he would insult the O’Neills. “I carried clothing in my saddlebags. If ’tis possible, I would make use of them.”
Turlough grinned at him. “Ye’ve nae cause to fret, lad. The womenfolk are fair to tripping over their skirts for a glimpse of ye.” He leaned forward with a leer. “They care not so much for the garments ye stand in but how well ye stand stripped of them!”
The jibe at his expense and the accompanying laughter pleased Revelin, for the chieftain had not taken his request amiss.
Collaring a servant who was passing by, Turlough said, “Give the man what he needs.” To Revelin he said, “Yer English friends had little of value, to my mind.” He glanced down at the table and smiled as his eyes lit upon the skean lying there and added cryptically, “Only one will answer for what he possessed.”
When Revelin had gone, Meghan glanced anxiously at the faces ringing the table. Most of them were unknown to her. When Colin took the empty place beside her, she smiled gratefully. Here was one who did not shy from her.
“’Tis a lovely sight, ye are, lass.” He grinned at her and reached for her hand. “Jealous the lot of them are, for ’tis Colin MacDonald who’ll take all yer dances.”
Meghan’s eyes widened. “Dance?”
“Aye, dancing, lass. There’s nothing so fine as a swirl of the pipes to lift a man’s spirits, unless it be the smile of a bonny lass.” His hand tightened over hers. “Me day would be complete this very minute if ye’d favor me with one of yer smiles.”
Somewhere deep within her, the woman who had yet to live stirred. The gown she wore made her feel beautiful for the first time in her life. Yet, Revelin had rejected her, and she was sorely in need of a man’s approval.
Why should I not smile at Colin?
she thought stubbornly. But the wicked light in his laughing blue eyes made her slip her hand from his and reach for her meal. She felt as if she did not know herself. One moment she choked on tears, the next she longed desperately to be admired. But there was only one man’s admiration she sought, and he had spurned her.
*
Evening passed quickly into nightfall as the revelry grew louder and more raucous. Wine and whiskey flowed freely. It was the beginning of the summer, when milk and butter and cheese would be plentiful. No man, woman, or child must go without this day, or, legend had it, they would starve come winter.
There was little protocol among the O’Neills. No rank or order formalized the festivities. Every man held his head high and met his neighbor’s eye squarely, for each was considered as good as the next because he was blood kin of the O’Neills.
How wonderful it must be to be a part of so great a family, Meghan thought enviously as the evening progressed. Perhaps here, at last, she would be accepted.
Often her gaze strayed to the head of the table where Turlough carried on a steady stream of conversation, eating, and
drinking. He had hinted that he knew something of her parents. When would he tell her?
Now he looked up and met her gaze and paused. She held her breath, waiting for him to speak. Instead he reached for the jeweled skean on the table before him and turned it over thoughtfully in his hand.
“Do ye know this, lass?” he questioned after a long moment. “The Butler lad had it in his possession.”
Meghan looked at the beautiful gold work of the hilt with its crystal stones and shook her head. “I’ve nae seen it before.”
Turlough knitted his brows. If the girl did not recognize it, he might be wrong—or she might have her reasons for lying. He lay the blade down and pushed his wine goblet toward her. “Ye’re not drinking, lass. ’Tis Beltane. Ye must put the warmth of spring in yer veins!”
Meghan took the cup and tasted a little of the dark red liquid.
Turlough nodded. “Finish it. The night has just begun and the wine will bind ye against a chill.” And perhaps it would loosen her tongue, he thought.
But Meghan had less and less to say as the hours passed. When Revelin appeared among them again, he was quickly spirited away by Turlough for a game of chess near the center of camp, where the King-Candle burned brightly. She noticed the Englishmen’s silent but wary interest in Revelin’s conversation, but, though they had been freed of their shackles, they were kept apart from the gathering by the O’Neill warriors.
When she had eaten and drank all she could hold, Meghan left the table and went to find a patch of mossy ground near where people were laying a bonfire. It was quieter there, and the evening air was a welcome change from the noise and heat. Stretching out on her stomach, she propped her elbows on the ground and dropped her chin into her hands. Soon the music began. Above the clamor of the crowd the drone of bagpipes came to life. After that the clear notes of a flute joined in. Last
came the fluid melody of a great harp. The tune was old and familiar and she hummed along.
The sensation of wine was new to her. The warmth of it hummed in her veins, as the music hummed on her lips. She glanced up at the night sky liberally sprinkled with stars and felt as giddy and light as the single silver-edged cloud racing across the midnight-blue expanse.
“Will ye dance, lass?”
Colin looked down at her, his hand extended in offer.
Meghan grinned up at him but shook her head. “I dinna know how.”
“Is that all?” Before she could move, Colin bent over, clamped a hand on either side of her waist, and lifted her from the ground. “I’ll show ye the way. The steps are easy!”
Propelled along by his insistent hand at her back, Meghan was soon in the middle of the dancing. His hand again found her waist and she was swept up in his embrace, her feet barely touching the ground as he swung her around the huge bonfire that had been lit on the summit of a nearby rise.
“That’s it, lassie! That’s me lass!” he cried as Meghan tried to match her short strides to his long ones. As he smiled down at her, his face was as ruddy as the flames and his breath told her that more than the fire’s glow flushed his features. Like all the company, he had drunk a healthy share of whiskey, and the liquor was calling a tune of its own for his body.
The music changed, and became a wild country dance with much squealing of pipes and pounding of drums. Faster and faster, the tempo gained speed until Meghan threw her arms about the Scotsman’s neck to keep her balance.
Far from being frightened, she rejoiced in the measure. The music filled her heart, pumping furiously to keep the rhythm of her feet. She tasted the joy of her own movement, the flow of her body to the insistent rhythm of life. When the music ended, the other dancers began leaping across the fire’s licking flames, and she was seized with a desire to join them. The
desire seemed to answer some wild…wanton streak in her spirit that had too often been suppressed.
“Wait a bit, lass,” Colin cautioned, holding her back with a hand on her waist. “There’s more to come.”
Pausing reluctantly to catch her breath, Meghan soon understood why Colin detained her. A man suddenly appeared from the edge of the campsite bearing a pole. Mounted on the pole was a straw doll dressed in a fantastic gown made of ribbons and mayflowers and straw. Close behind her came a peasant man and a woman similarly dressed in brightly colored garments laced with straw and flowers. The music began again as the crowd made way for the procession, and Colin leaned down and whispered in her ear, “’Tis the May Baby and her family.”
Fascinated, Meghan strained forward as the press of people closed in around her. Sensing her frustration, Colin shoved aside those nearest to her so that she had an unobstructed view.
Once the procession entered the circle around the bonfire, the couple began to dance together, but it was unlike anything Meghan had ever seen. They twirled together and then apart, the woman thrusting her hips forward and jiggling them and then the man doing the same until finally they clasped each other and rubbed their loins together in a bawdy parody of coupling. It was a custom originating in pagan antiquity, a ceremony meant to promote fruitfulness of the land and of the community.
Meghan felt her face growing warm as she watched, remembering how a few days earlier she had watched a man and woman couple in earnest. The sensations sweeping her were the same as had gripped her then, and the wondrous and frightening feelings were bound up in one thought:
Revelin.
She did not so much see him as feel him approach. When she turned her head she was not surprised to find Revelin by her side. Somehow she had known he would be there. The jostling, laughing crowd had separated her from Colin as she
pressed forward so as not to miss a moment of the show.
The hand that slipped into hers was Revelin’s. The insistent pressure he applied drew her willingly from the front of the crowd. No one seemed to notice them as they faded back to the rear. No heads turned in their direction as they hurried silently toward privacy and the lough.
Chapter Nine
Revelin did not stop to think of what he was doing in dragging Meghan away from the celebration. Once he had bathed and changed into clean hose and doublet, he thought he was rid of the fever that raged in his loins and heart. But he was wrong. The moment he returned to the celebration from his very enlightening conversation with Turlough and found Meghan laughing and dancing in the arms of the Scotsman, the wildfire of jealousy consumed him.
The wanton tune that flushed her face had quickened his pulse as his eyes followed her around and around the circle of her admirers. She was oblivious to the knowing grins and snickers of the clansmen and the looks of disapproval on the faces of some of the older women. She moved to the music as if she directed the measure rather than the other way around. Her skirts flew higher and higher as the Scotsman whirled her about, revealing more and more of her shapely legs until Revelin had thought he must steal her away or go mad.
Completely oblivious of the effect she had had on the man
beside her, Meghan had ceased to think at all. Everything was feeling. As the rhythm of her heart kept pace with the dwindling beat of the drums, she seemed to soar, becoming more a part of the clouds racing past the stars than of the earth below. She belonged to the wild country surrounding her. Her soul was one with the night wind that rushed through the dark hills and stirred the purple waters of the lough. She felt brave and reckless and exultant. If not for the anchor of Revelin’s hand upon hers, she thought she would simply float away.
But Revelin’s hand was on hers, holding so tightly that her fingers ached as he led her to the forest’s center. She did not care. The pulsing inside her seemed to have a life of its own and it urged her to recklessness. Wherever he led her she would go—gladly.
Meghan’s laughter fell gently on Revelin’s ears. He felt the elation, too. The joy came from within Meghan and he wanted to be a part of it.
He stopped so suddenly that Meghan collided with him, her face muffled a moment in the hollow between his shoulder blades. And then he was turning to her, steadying her with warm firm hands on her shoulders. Under the night sky his face was dark and hard, but his touch was infinitely tender as his hands moved up the slope from her shoulders to ride the curve at either side of her neck. When he spoke, his voice was deep and hushed. The words seem to drift into her mind. “Did I hurt ye, lass?”