Read Online The Faery Bride (The Celtic Legends Series Book 2) by Lisa Ann Verge - Free Book Online
Authors: Lisa Ann Verge
Ads: Link
stumbled back.
“Be off, Aileen the Red. Go. Go back to that rock whence you came, and take your secrets with you.” Blinded, he strode back to his falcon. “As long as I live, I won’t listen to the false voice of hope again.”
He’d said too much. He nudged the falcon upon his arm, marched out into an open space, under an open sky. There, with his teeth, he tore the mask off the falcon and spit it to the ground.
Then he launched the bird skyward to glide high and free.
***
The morning mist had dissipated by the time the procession of horses lumbered its way down from the llys. A flaxen stubble gleamed in the valley below, the golden remains of the harvest. The lowing of cattle echoed off the hills as bondsmen nudged the beasts down the slopes to the winter grazing grounds. Aileen swayed on the back of a donkey, huddled deep in her cloak. By the end of the day she would shake her nostrils free of the stench of earth and wood–smoke, she thought. By the end of the day she would smell the brine of the sea again.
She took a deep breath and buried her nose in the wool. Aye, it would be the sea again, and then the sea–voyage, and then . . . Inishmaan. Her gaze passed over a cluster of peasants threshing some hay just beyond a rock–pile fence. Ma and the girls would have long finished the threshing by now. They would be hand–grinding the rye into flour and brewing it into the fresh ale Da liked so much. The boys would be off to the mainland, filling their skin–covered boats with small wild apples for Ma and Cairenn to press into cider. That was where she should be, she told herself, home helping Ma and Da through the harvest. That was where she belonged, she thought, even as her gaze strayed, for the hundredth time, to the straight–backed figure leading the procession.
She tore her gaze away and fixed it on the narrow path that wandered toward the next mountain pass. Dafydd rode on a fine horse just in front of her, his purple cloak flapping free as if the wind’s chill couldn’t pierce the chain mail draping his body. She saw the resemblance between Dafydd and Rhys much more starkly now. Since yesterday, when Rhys had ordered her back to Inishmaan, Dafydd had been as sullen and heavy–browed as his brother.
Good riddance to both of them. And good riddance to this barren, lifeless place, too. She wanted to feel the faery–breath on her face and the thrum of magic beneath her feet. Yes, cattle aplenty grazed on these softer slopes, and aye, there were homesteads here and there scattered about, smoke curling from their chimneys and chickens pecking in their gardens, and aye, there were deer enough, she supposed, hiding in these woods. But for all the life around her, she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was riding across graves.
Once home, she could pretend that a man had never grasped her hands in a fury of passion, speaking to her in a voice as anguished as any she’d ever heard. Yes, she admitted, he’d looked for one moment like a man in torment. What reason did she have to take pity on a warrior–chieftain who’d caused her nothing but grief? It was not as if the man was in physical pain. He was healthy enough, she’d seen that whilst he flexed his bare arms upon the burial–mound, wearing nothing but a bit of cloth around his loins.
Her Da would say that her soft spot was showing.
So she forced her mind on the ale–brewing and the cider–pressing as the procession followed the winding path. The hard blue–gray rock pressed in on either side of them, opening only to reveal a steep crag or a rushing torrent of water, or a stretch of heath or valley. Late in the day they marched single–file through a thicket of oak, the clack–clack of the horses’ hooves dulled. Lulled by the rhythmic plodding of her donkey and the gentle ringing of harness and chain mail, Aileen jerked out of her dozing at the sound of the first cry.
It was an odd sound, like the whelp of wounded
“Be off, Aileen the Red. Go. Go back to that rock whence you came, and take your secrets with you.” Blinded, he strode back to his falcon. “As long as I live, I won’t listen to the false voice of hope again.”
He’d said too much. He nudged the falcon upon his arm, marched out into an open space, under an open sky. There, with his teeth, he tore the mask off the falcon and spit it to the ground.
Then he launched the bird skyward to glide high and free.
***
The morning mist had dissipated by the time the procession of horses lumbered its way down from the llys. A flaxen stubble gleamed in the valley below, the golden remains of the harvest. The lowing of cattle echoed off the hills as bondsmen nudged the beasts down the slopes to the winter grazing grounds. Aileen swayed on the back of a donkey, huddled deep in her cloak. By the end of the day she would shake her nostrils free of the stench of earth and wood–smoke, she thought. By the end of the day she would smell the brine of the sea again.
She took a deep breath and buried her nose in the wool. Aye, it would be the sea again, and then the sea–voyage, and then . . . Inishmaan. Her gaze passed over a cluster of peasants threshing some hay just beyond a rock–pile fence. Ma and the girls would have long finished the threshing by now. They would be hand–grinding the rye into flour and brewing it into the fresh ale Da liked so much. The boys would be off to the mainland, filling their skin–covered boats with small wild apples for Ma and Cairenn to press into cider. That was where she should be, she told herself, home helping Ma and Da through the harvest. That was where she belonged, she thought, even as her gaze strayed, for the hundredth time, to the straight–backed figure leading the procession.
She tore her gaze away and fixed it on the narrow path that wandered toward the next mountain pass. Dafydd rode on a fine horse just in front of her, his purple cloak flapping free as if the wind’s chill couldn’t pierce the chain mail draping his body. She saw the resemblance between Dafydd and Rhys much more starkly now. Since yesterday, when Rhys had ordered her back to Inishmaan, Dafydd had been as sullen and heavy–browed as his brother.
Good riddance to both of them. And good riddance to this barren, lifeless place, too. She wanted to feel the faery–breath on her face and the thrum of magic beneath her feet. Yes, cattle aplenty grazed on these softer slopes, and aye, there were homesteads here and there scattered about, smoke curling from their chimneys and chickens pecking in their gardens, and aye, there were deer enough, she supposed, hiding in these woods. But for all the life around her, she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was riding across graves.
Once home, she could pretend that a man had never grasped her hands in a fury of passion, speaking to her in a voice as anguished as any she’d ever heard. Yes, she admitted, he’d looked for one moment like a man in torment. What reason did she have to take pity on a warrior–chieftain who’d caused her nothing but grief? It was not as if the man was in physical pain. He was healthy enough, she’d seen that whilst he flexed his bare arms upon the burial–mound, wearing nothing but a bit of cloth around his loins.
Her Da would say that her soft spot was showing.
So she forced her mind on the ale–brewing and the cider–pressing as the procession followed the winding path. The hard blue–gray rock pressed in on either side of them, opening only to reveal a steep crag or a rushing torrent of water, or a stretch of heath or valley. Late in the day they marched single–file through a thicket of oak, the clack–clack of the horses’ hooves dulled. Lulled by the rhythmic plodding of her donkey and the gentle ringing of harness and chain mail, Aileen jerked out of her dozing at the sound of the first cry.
It was an odd sound, like the whelp of wounded
Similar Books
