hand raised to knock. The rain had eased, but the wind was still blowing hard off the ocean. The windows were shuttered, the door was firmly closed. White smoke belched in fitful drifts from the chimney. He imagined everyone inside was sleeping by this time, for this was the kind of weather that even in summer, drove most to bed. His children, Duir and Duirmuid, were surely sleeping by now. At least, he supposed they’d be asleep. In the two years since their birth, he’d never shared a roof with them at night.
He drew a deep breath and was about to turn away when the door opened abruptly. Argael herself stepped through the door, buckets in hand, an apron tied around her waist, a shawl wrapped over her shoulders. She gasped and stifled a cry as she nearly collided with him. “Cwynn daRuadan. Great Mother, is that you?”
“I-I’m sorry, Argael.” Cwynn stepped back awkwardly, into Eoch. The mare whickered and stamped her displeasure.
“What’re you doing here?” Argael was a broad-boned woman, her face pale in the grayish light. Wisps of the iron gray hair that had once been as dark as her daughter’s, peeked out from under her linen nightcap. “Is everything all right up at the keep? Is your grandfather—?”
“He’s fine.” Cwynn hesitated. “It’s me. I’m off—Leaving, me and Eoch—”
“Where’re you going?” Argael set her buckets down and raised her chin. She was nearly as tall as Cwynn and she’d never lost that aura of being bigger than he was despite his greater size.
He glanced over his shoulder. He should’ve slept in his boat, then left without saying anything, for he couldn’t tell Argael anything but the truth. “I’m going to Ardagh.”
“And you’re leaving in the middle of the night?” For a moment she looked at him as if she didn’t believe him, and then she jerked her head toward the door. “Come inside.” When he’d followed her into the small house, she kicked the door shut and set the buckets on the floor, then regarded him with crossed arms and narrowed eyes. “Now. Tell me what this is all about?”
“Gran-da gave me this.” He pulled the disc from beneath his shirt, where it nestled warmly against his skin. He lifted the heavy leather cord over his head and let it dangle before her, standing silent while she examined it.
“This is yours?”
“That’s what Gran-da said.”
Argael raised her eyebrows and regarded him with a penetrating look in her faded blue eyes. “Your mother’s line?” When he nodded, she sighed. “That explains a lot, I suppose.” She handed it back to him.
“Like what?”
She shrugged. “Like why Ariene can’t keep her hands off you come Beltane every year. Some part of her recognizes something in you even if you don’t see it in yourself. You’re a prince of the land, Cwynn. Your roots are in people who married the land itself. There’s a lot of druid blood in your line.” She fell silent, as if thinking, and then said, “But why’re you leaving now? It looks to storm all night.”
“Gran-da didn’t think it was safe for me to stay.” He hesitated, then said, “Shane, you know.”
“Ah.” She drew a deep breath, then wiped her hands on her apron. “The boys are sleeping in the loft. You’re welcome to join them as long as you take the edge.” Her face softened. “I never much cared for Shane, either.” She nodded to the dark passageway that led to the back of the house. “I’ll be back in a trice—I just want water for the night.” She nodded at the barrels set out to catch the rain, then looked at him appraisingly. “Have you had your supper yet?”
It surprised him to realize the answer was no. He shook his head and she snorted softly.
“No wonder you’re forever drifting off—it’s that druid blood that’s all through your mother’s side.” She picked up her buckets. “Go on back and have a seat. Ariene got a mess of clams this morning—there’s chowder in the pot.”
He went, feeling as if there was something else he wanted to say. He passed through the shadowy kitchen, startling Argael’s sister, Asgre, who was bending over the fire, covering up the coals. If her face was thin and gray and sour as week-old milk, her voice was as sharp as new cheese. “Argael,” she shrieked, brandishing her poker over her head. “Ariene! Sound the alarm—we’re being attacked!”
“Callie Asgre, it’s only me.” Cwynn held up his hand. “I-I came to see the boys.”
“Strange time to come calling, don’t you think?” she snorted as Ariene, in a homespun nightgown and a bright red shawl slipped in behind Cwynn.
“A very strange time, indeed,” Ariene said. “What’s wrong?”
“Asgre, it’s all right,” Argael said from the doorway. She handed a bucket to Ariene and set the other down on the chest beside the door. “She won’t believe me when I say she’s going blind. Asgre, this is Cwynn. He’s but come to spend the night with his lads before he takes off on a journey. I’ve told you for weeks now you can’t see, you silly hen. Put that poker down.”
“Where’re you going?” Ariene cocked her head.
“Go put the bucket down before you spill it,” her mother said. “Here, Cwynn, sit. The man’s hungry. He’s not had his supper. Let him eat.”
“They don’t feed you anymore up at the keep, then?” murmured Ariene as she strolled out of the room. Her eyes met Cwynn’s, her lips curled up in a half smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She blamed him for the loss of her brother and Sorley, Cwynn’s rival for her affections, but her grief didn’t stop her from choosing him again last Beltane, though afterward, she claimed to be under the influence of the goddess and not entirely in her own mind.
“I’d no time to eat.”
“Why?” she asked at once, her dark eyes shifting from Cwynn to her mother. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“He’s a guest, Ariene,” Asgre said sharply, surprising Cwynn. “He’s to eat before he answers.”
“I’ll explain,” Cwynn mumbled as he was hustled to the place beside the fire. A dish of clams in milky broth, on top of a hunk of brown bread, was placed on his lap and a spoon thrust into his hand. Before he could dip the spoon in, however, the dish was momentarily whisked off his lap and a square of homespun linen laid across his knees.
“There you are,” said Argael, smiling. She handed him back the dish. “Eat, now.”
“Quickly,” said Ariene.
Aware of the scrutiny, Cwynn gulped the food in between telling his story once more. Finally he handed his plate to Argael and waved it away when she would’ve filled it again. “That was plenty. Good, too,” he added.
“Come see your sons,” said Ariene. She got up off the backless stool, her nightshift blousing around her body like a sail. She led him through a low doorway on the opposite side of the kitchen, into a storeroom. “Be careful, now, they’re up in the loft.” She pointed to a ladder.
Cwynn fumbled his way between the baskets piled with provisions, the bunches of hanging herbs, the sacks of meal and barrels of ale. He felt for the rickety ladder and tested his weight, then carefully climbed up just high enough to see two dark downy heads nestled together on one pillow in the evening twilight, their little faces round and tan on the sunbleached linen. A pang went through him. There was no doubt they were his, conceived on one of those wild Beltane nights he’d shared with Ariene, in the bower he’d made in a cave underneath the cliffs. Beltane was the source of all the trouble, he thought. He’d left Ariene alone, once she’d made it clear she preferred Sorley. But why then, did she keep choosing him each Beltane?
One of the twins sighed and turned on his side, hand beneath his cheek, and the other followed, their little bodies cupped together beneath the woolen blanket and patched quilt. He tucked the quilts higher beneath the little chins, and realized he had no idea which