Lugad was saddened by the fact that he was leaving Ireland; the place of his birth, the only land he'd known during his twenty-two years of life. But he knew that if he stayed, he would eventually yearn to go back to Kells, to face Deirdre and his brother. He wasn't sure that he knew how to apologize to the princess for his actions; true, he had been bewitched by Numaine, but would Deirdre understand that? Perhaps in a few years, when he had grown older and she had forgotten the monster he had become that night...perhaps then he would return.
Now he looked ahead, his confident hand steering the small but sturdy vessel he had borrowed from a fishing village, his sights set on Scotland. After Numaine had put the idea in his head this land of Alba sounded very much like Ireland to him. Maybe there in that country that had a climature so similar to his homeland Lugad could find himself. Or the man that he had so recently become.
Hours passed, and Lugad grew tired. He managed to rest against the rocking of the boat in the water, and when he awoke many hours or perhaps even a full day later, there was mist over the clear, green-tinted surface of the water. Lugad steered full course ahead, and soon the bottom of the boat scraped against soil and rocks. He jumped out of the boat, dragging it further ashore so that it would not float away in the next tide, tying it to a rock of some size and weight. Looking upwards he saw that the beach became a grassy hill, and he began to climb; slowly, because he had eaten or drank nothing in nearly two days, and the voyage over the ocean had left him feeling weak and slightly nauseated.
Lugad peaked the hill, and his vision wavered. He saw small glimpses of fog-encased land, a small lake further down in the next valley...a group of men in kilts and bratts racing toward him with bow and arrows and swords raised and ready...
Lugad sank to his knees as he tried to focus on the danger coming fast at him...
And everything went black.
"Has he been like that since ye found him?" Asked a tallish woman with very fair skin and dark red hair. The young, mousy man beside her nodded as he nibbled his lower lip.
"Aye, that he has. He oped up his eyes once, an said summat sounding like a name; then he fell back to the pillow."
"Well, if'n ye think t'were his name, tell me."
"Lugad, Gruoth, he said Lugad."
"Sounds like an Aran name, that," Gruoth replied, tugging on a matted strand of hair. "I'll send Wee Alastair tae Mairead; mayhap she knaws what can be done wi' the lad when he comes twa."
"Nay," the boy answered, looking up at the woman who towered over him. "Alastair's a wee stripling of a lad; I'll go. Can travel faster anyway."
Gruoth slapped him on the shoulder as he turned to exit the tent-like enclave.
"See that ye hurry, Donal. I've no wish tae be alone when this great bear of a man wakes up. Likely he'll be hungry as well; as if'n I havena enow mouths tae feed."
Donal grinned, smacking the oilskin flap of a door aside, rushing down the hill toward the hut of the witch, Mairead. He'd be a good half-hour, in this wet.
Gruoth turned her attention to the man lying prone on the fur-covered table. He was dressed as a Scot, although she'd seen very few men bother to wear trousers with their kilts unless they weren't as manly as they'd like others to think. For half a moment she was tempted to look under the clothing and see what sort of specimen they had...but knowing her luck her brother would return in a few minutes with Mairead, and then wouldn't she be in trouble. Especially if her da, God rest his mean-spirited soul, was looking down and saw her actions. Why, she'd bring shame to the whole clann, she would, if word got out that a maid had taken a look at a man's wanker before her wedding night.
Donal brushed aside the doorway, making room for Mairead to enter. The witch was no older than six or seven, but she had a good sense of sorcery already. Her powers were so great that most of the villagers and surrounding clanns were afraid of her. She could start fires with her thought, that one; her eyes were more than windows to her soul; if she had one. They were like doorways to the devil.
Gruoth smiled at herself for thinking that way. Curse Donal anyway, for making them believe in the Christian prattle of the missionaries who had come to Scotland in search of converts. Sometimes Gruoth wished that things were like they had been three or four years ago, when she had still been a child of twelve or thirteen. Her clann had celebrated all the pagan rites; now they worried too much about the wrath of God to worship Lugh, Dagda, or Brighid.
"This is a stranger," Mairead said unnecessarily, pusing before Lugad's unconscious form with one hand wavering over his chest. "He dreams...of his family. A brother and mother in Ireland; and a woman who betrayed him. He has been exiled, in a sort, from his land, and is...searching...for a...a family here. A clann to call his own."
Gruoth looked up at Donal.
"We've too many in our clann as it is. Do ye knaw if he'll be waking up soon?"
"Aye," replied Mairead. "He will wake soon, Gruoth. And then ye'll have tae tell him that he mun go his own way; we're full up here."
"Thank ye, Mairead," Donal said, opening the door for her to leave. After she had gone, he turned to his sister. "The MacGregor's need strong men tae jine their army. Mayhap they could use one swich as Lugad here..."
Gruoth nodded, watching the sleeping form of the handsome stranger, wanting to touch the new growth of beard on his cheeks yet not daring to while Donal was present.
"We'll wait here for him to come awake," Gruoth said softly, glancing at her brother. "Then we'll gie him directions tae the MacGregors in the north."
Donal nodded in agreement, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied Gruoth. She was falling in love with the burly lad on the table, she was, he could see it in her big brown eyes.
Lugad blinked his eyes, trying both desperately and in vain to focus on something...anything.
"Look! Poor lads wakin up!"
He turned his head at the female voice; groaning as both his stomach and his head protested.
"Where am I?" He muttered, clutching his aching belly as he hefted himself up on one elbow.
"Ye're in Scotland, lad," said the man sitting by the fire. "An ye've been a wee bit sick, by the looks of it."
"I'm hungry, that's all," he said. Then he shook his head slowly, scrunching his eyes tightly shut as he swung his legs over the side of the bed...or table. Good Lugh, it looked like that's where they'd laid him out, too. Like he was a dead body to be prepared for burial. "No. Scratch that. I'm hungry, and thirsty, and ill. Aye, that's it. I'm very ill."
"We knaw," said the woman who had spoken earlier. Lugad opened his eyes, studying her as he put a hand to his aching head. She was certainly a lovely young lady. She looked at him and then glanced away as she added some vegetables to the boiling stew over the fire. "I'll have ye summat tae eat in a moment," she said, bending down to poke at the fire. Lugad smiled as he stared at her ample bottom, looking away when the man frowned. Dear sainted Dagda, don't let that be the girl's husband.
"I'm Lugad," he said, and the man nodded.
"We knaw that twa," he replied, chewing on a bit of straw. "I be Donal; an this be my sister, Gruoth."
"Hallo," Gruoth whispered, nodding shyly at him. Lugad nodded back.
"Hallo," he replied. Her eyes; what was it about her eyes...?
Donal stood quickly and left the room. Lugad looked after him, then turned his head to look back at Gruoth.
"What's his problem?" He asked. Gruoth shrugged widely and stopped stirring the stew, coming to hop up on the table beside him.
"He's just my brother, that's all, just my big dumb brother."
Lugad watched her close her eyes and nearly fall asleep right there beside him. Suddenly she jerked back awake.
"Oh, my! I'm sorry!" She said. She prepared to jump off the table and go back to the stew, but Lugad placed his hand on her shoulder, hopping down himself.
"No," he said. "You've been watching over me for as long as I've been ill. Let me finish the stew for you."
Gruoth smiled softly, exhaustion filling her eyes at last.
"Thank ye," she said. "But...why would ye want tae finish up fer me? Men doona usually do any of the cookin around here, ye knaw."
Lugad nodded. "I know. But I cooked for myself all the time when I was...I mean...well, when I was smaller. My aunt didn't deign to care for me herself, so I had to find ways of looking after my own skin."
"How sad," Gruoth said, stretching out in the bed off to one corner of the room. There was one other; Donal's; at the other end of the small room; a one-room hut was all the two of them could afford to rent after their mum and dad had passed on to a better world. Well, at least to a different world. The better or the worse had yet to be seen.
"Do you know..." Lugad began; then he turned to look at Gruoth. By Dagda, the girl was asleep. Her little pink bow of a mouth was open slightly, and if he listened very close, he could hear the air whistling in and out as she breathed. Her flaming hair had fallen to half cover her pale face and neck, and Lugad stopped stirring the stew just long enough to stretch across and gently wipre the hair away, so that it fell back with the rest of its brood. He wanted to watch her face as she slept; watch her dream until her brother returned from wherever he had gotten to.
There was a bubbling sound from the pot; Lugad turned just in time to rescue the stew from boiling over.
"Aye; I can take ye as far as Clann MacDougal, boot fram there ye'll be on yer own. Fram their village it be nearly a three day journey tae Kintyre; then another week or sae northward, an ye'll be findin yerself in MacGregor land." Donal said after Lugad had asked him where good strong fighting men were needed.
"I thank you, Donal," he replied, placing his empty earthenware bowl on the table. Gruoth stood to fetch him yet another helping, but Lugad shook his head, laying his hand across his stomach. "No, thank you," he said softly, smiling with his dazzlingly white teeth. Almost seeming to be in a stupor, Gruoth sat back down.
"Well, we'd best turn in," Donal said. He stood and looked longingly at his bed, then waved an arm toward it. "Ye can take my bed if ye like; I'm sure it'll be far more comfortable than the table or the barn."
Lugad nodded, his mind brimming with respect for this man who would help him in his time of need.
"I thank you," he said again, grasping Donal's strong arm. "It will be good to sleep well for a change."
Donal muttered 'ye're welcome' gruffly, smacking aside the leather hanging and turning in to the barn for his rest. Gruoth settled in beneath her blankets, knowing Lugad was studying her. She shifted beneath the furs, her groin bumping into them, and Lugad's chin lifted. She smiled a little, wondering what the handsome man was thinking. Surely he thought her nothing more than a foolish child, playing dangerous games with a strange man.
Lugad tried to fight back the passion that rose to thicken itself up in his throat and chest; the only other time he had felt such desire was when he was around Deirdre, even though he knew that since his episode with her last time they'd met, his chances of wooing her properly were probably gone for good. He wished his willpower were just a teensy bit stronger as he approached Gruoth's bedside. She couldn't be older than sixteen; a mere child in his eyes. Or should have been; but he saw her through the dim vision of a man whose thoughts and feelings were running amok; the motions she was making with her lower body beneath the covers was going to drive him mad if he didn't do something about it soon.
Gruoth let Lugad climb into the bed beside her, touching her, kissing her. Her destiny was here; in this bed with the strange, foreign man. Hadn't Mairead predicted that Gruoth would bear a son to a stranger who would come in the night, and that that son would grow up to be a mighty warrior? That all of their descendants from that son onward would do great things? Yes; let this come to pass. Let the seduction be complete and do its work, as prophesied.
"There ye are, lad," Donal said, pointing to the smoke which rose in great dark columns from the houses in the village. "I can gae no further with ye. Fram here on out ye're ane yer own."
Lugad grasped Donal's arm one last time, a soft smile on his face as he turned and shuffled down the rocky hill. Donal shook his head, walking slowly back to his own home, hoping Gruoth would make something nice in celebration of his return.
Lugad paused at the base of the hill, his green eyes alight with the fire that comes from beginning a new adventure. So this was the clann of MacDougal, was it? He decided not to stop for rest and supplies; he was a good hunter, and knew he would survive without luxuries. If he hurried he could make it to Kintyre in less time than Donal had specified; and he wanted to begin fighting as soon as he reached the land of the MacGregors and MacAlpines. The fire that had begun to boil his blood the night he had lain with Gruoth threatened to consume him completely if he did not take action. Any action, even war, was preferrable to the waiting he had done his entire life.
He narrowed his eyes as he thought how surprised Numaine would be when her pet-demon returned, stronger and yet more human than he had ever been in her care. He would crush her into a million stars, and send her to brighten the heavens for eternity. These were his plans for his Auntie Numaine.
Tygue MacAlpine joined arms with Owan MacGregor in their battle against the MacFie clann. Together, the two halves of the one familiy could defeat the smaller MacFie band and claim that part of Alba. It would be a glorious battle, but not very difficult. The MacGregors and MacAlpines would no doubt quickly crush their enemies and be home in time for supper.
As Tygue was putting his seal to the scroll, the agreement between clanns, a border-guard brought in s struggling man, his hands bound behind him tightly. The man was handsome, muscular, well-built; though to Tygue and Owan he looked like a petty thief. Tygue looked up as he placed his seal to the agreement.
"What is this?" He asked, his deep voice thundering from his throat. The guard bowed his head in reply.
"This man was found wandering around our camp, near the border, sire," he said. He twisted his hand in the prisoner's thick, curly brown hair, yanking his head back.
"Stop that! Let the man state his business, fool!" Owan said, and the guard released his grip. A little.
"Speak, man," said Tygue, making a show of pulling out his dagger and thwittling it between his buck-teeth.
"My name is Lugad of Eire," the prisoner said. "I have come to offer my services to the clann of MacGregor."
"Can ye fight?" Asked Owan, leaning forward in his growing interest. Lugad nodded.
"I can."
"Prove it," Owan said, drawing his sword. He waved his hand at the guard as he stood. "Release him."
"Sire?"
"Do it, man, or I'll have your bullocks as garters!"
The guard comlied eagerly, and Lugad was soon rubbing his wrists.
"Can I have my sword back, please," he said calmly. The guard gave up the fine weapon with not a little disappointment, and Lugad decided it was best that he use a few of the fancy moves he'd seen Rohan do. It worked a little, throwing Owan off guard. Surely he hadn't even expected that Lugad knew how to hold a sword correctly.
They began, slowly at first, each measuring the others movements carefully. After a while a fever grew in both men, and the clattering of two swords became as hundreds, all clashing in the midst of a heated battle.
Soon, Lugad slapped the sword from Owan's hand, sending it flying across the room, placing the tip of his own sword against Owan's breastplate.
"Are you convinced that I will make a valuable ally, and a dangerous enemy?" Lugad said, "Or shall I have at you again?"
Owan shook his head, raising his arms in absolute surrender.
"You will join us, then, Lugad," he said as Lugad sheathed his weapon. "My clann and that of the MacAlpines would be most pleased if you fought at our side against the MacFies; the clann of Donnelaith."
Lugad nodded.
"Why do you fight such a small number of people," Lugad asked. "I was in their village in the glenn of the tu danaan not long ago; they have nothing these two clanns could possibly covet."
"They do, lad," Tygue said, his eyes growing wide. "They have, in the midst of that glenn, a mighty spring, the likes of which has never been seen before. It is said that the blood of Christ himself flows through that spring after a new clann comes to live there, and that the blood which flows from it makes the warriors invincible in battle. That is what we covet."
"Would not the MacFies already have drank from the spring, then? Would they not be invincible?"
"Doona be daft, lad, ye donna understand," Owan said. "The spring only flows for an hour after the battle has ended. The MacFies would hae been twa daft themselves tae bother lookin fer the spring sae soon after their fightin!"
Lugad nodded, grasping arms with both men and adding his own mark to the scroll; the raised tatoo on his right arm, just below the brand of destiny, covered in lamb's blood and added to the two signatures of MacGregor and MacAlpine.
The sheep had joined another flock; and now the real battle would begin.
