Chapter 4

brEACAIS - MAY 25, 1384

M oira's leather slippers pounded against the earth, forest air seeping deep into her lungs. Counting blessings, she ducked under branches, over fallen logs, and launched onto a low branch. Wild as a weed, free as the clouds above her, her leather-wrapped hands gripped the rugged bark, her arms and shoulders pulling her higher and higher within the towering branches of the fir tree. Climbing as high as she could go, she swung her legs and tucked a knee over a branch, using her muscled thighs to pull herself to the top.

One hundred feet in the air, she took in the sight of Loch na Beiste below her. Arms outstretched, she gripped the branch with her thighs, lifted her palms to the sky, and pushed air between her wetted lips, mimicking the fast trills and twitters of the linnet. Here, it was just her and the Lord in His creation. Here, she was a bird.

Birdy . The nickname Maw had given her not long after she lost her voice and learned to mimic the whistle, trill, and rasp of the whinchat. She had become so good at mimicking the sound Maw thought there was a bird in the rafters. Moira smiled at the memory, drinking in the delicious sunshine on her face and whistling praise toward the heavens. She could not sing to God, but she could still mimic birdsong.

Lowering her arms, she marveled at the sight of the loch, purple in early morning sun, and breathed deep again, savoring the smell of damp pine moss. Away from the cottage, away from the village in Breacais, high above any man, she finally felt the freedom she craved. Scooting backward, she settled against the rough trunk, bringing the bag she looped around her neck to her front, and removing charcoal, paper, and her thin board.

Mornings sketching at the loch were her favorite pastime, and her eyes traveled over the rippling water, searching for a point that connected with her soul. Her fingers spun the charcoal between them and she waited for inspiration.

Léo's sandy brown hair, flopped to one side, curling against his chest as he folded his arms watching me. Abruptly, her eyes sprang open, horrified that she was again daydreaming of the last time she'd seen Léo. The donkey.

Her eyes trained on the edge of the harbor rock, white waves breaking at its base. Léo's noble chin, the perfect arch of sandy eyebrow — No. Stop it. Forcing herself to stop being such an empty-headed, lovesick lass, she recalled his insult delivered in his accented Gaelic and it pushed her warmth away. Uncommon eediot.

… Léo's cracked lips against mine, his hands in my curls. She groaned and propped her cheek against her knee. Why did her first kiss capture her heart so completely? And why did that kiss belong to the world's biggest scoundrel?

Why, Lord? Despite his bold liberties with her, his rudeness, his insults, the desire in her heart for him had not abated by even the smallest fraction in four long months. There was something about him that her heart refused to overlook, but oh how she wanted to forget.

Moira snorted in disgust. Instead, it was quite the opposite. In every spare moment she found herself praying for him. Praying! And even more pathetically, she found herself remembering every detail of his countenance day and night. She'd restored the armor she'd ruined his first day at Cràdh, conditioned it, polished it, and sometimes…

Her cheeks heated. Sometimes she'd put her arms around it and pretend he had come to take her away. It was pathetic, and lovesick, and…and…embarrassing. Yet, she couldn't shake him. The warmth in his eyes, the deep resonance of his voice, the quirk in his eyebrow. From the moment they'd been alone together in his cell she was utterly, completely lost to him.

Since January she'd done little but moon over him, and had found subtle ways to ask after him every week. Father didn't seem any the wiser about the growing affection in her heart, but every now and then he would remark, "You haven't asked about our Léo this week."

Moira had done her best to play along and pretend he'd slipped her mind, but Father must have known the truth. And so, in March, when Father decided to tend a new prisoner and asked her to come along and check on Léo's healing, she'd been thrilled. This was it. The moment he would see into her soul, as he did the day he kissed her.

She'd worked for days on his bundle, thinking of things she herself might want in a place so hopeless—a clean and comfortable set of clothes, a window to the outside world, and a Psalter to provide her hope and consolation in the long hours of solitude.

After their passionate kiss, her mind had imagined high-born manners, courtly love, tender words. She had taken extra care with her hair, taming it into perfect tendrils. She wore her best light blue leine, the one that matched her eyes, hoping that it would please him.

When he'd said, "It's you," a shiver ran up her spine. He remembered her. He remembered their kiss. Their tale of love was about to be written. And then it all fell apart.

The sun rose higher above the horizon and she watched it without sketching, giving herself over to the problem that had haunted her for weeks.

Soft in the head. Uncommon idiot. The insults heaped upon her all her life, now lobbed at her by one she cared for. Words that had almost stomped the love and fantasy out of her heart. Almost.

Adjusting her grip to the end of her charcoal, she sketched the broadness of his forehead, the slip of his cheek toward his inviting lips. She tightened her grip and moved inward, recording the details of his countenance. Her eyes closed and she remembered the angles of his face.

The tenderness in his eyes, the arch of his eyebrow that lent him the look of a wise ruler. The two short wrinkles that accentuated the beginning of his right eyebrow, posing a permanent question of those around him. The smoothness above his left, a longing to trust .

The charcoal flew over the paper. Mustache above the peak of his upper lip. Beard beneath the fullness of his lower. Shadows and firelight against the pores of his skin. Skin unmarred by wounds and bruising.

She stopped and examined the page. It needed something. Returning to his eyes, she filled in the sultry darkness, the stars of honey around the edges of his iris, the amber flecks beside the pupil. Somewhere below a whooper swan honked out for its mate.

She studied the drawing. It was him. The way he looked to her, in the treasured corridors of her heart. Her finger traced along his pointed chin. How she longed for him.

Vexation crimped her foolish heart, and she picked up the paper, holding it by two fingers in the gusting wind. The edge of the paper curled into his face, blocking his likeness except for those eyes.

Let it go. Let him fly away on the breeze forever. The paper lifted, pulling away from her fingers, but she pinched the corner, unwilling to release him.

She lowered her hand, defeated. What was the matter with her? She was happy in the cottage with Father. Satisfied to spend her days here in the woods and mountains. She did not want a man. She did not need a man.

Yet…something inside her heart urged her to hold on. Her fingers rolled the cloth paper and she tucked him into her bag, pulling the strings tight, locking chains around her heart.

Gloaming stars hung in the sky when Moira pushed the door open to the cottage. Tucked at the edge of the harbor amongst the pines, the familiar cottage was all the home she'd ever needed as a bird that flitted from one place to the next.

Father raised a hand from his usual spot beside the hearth. "Evening, Birdy."

She smiled and placed her bag upon the table, walking over to her wall. Among the ripped remnants of dyed net she wove today's treasure. An oak cluster, six acorns tight against a slender, knotted twig. Stepping back, she admired the hundreds of treasures. God's creations, here in their room.

Father lowered his Psalter and eyed her over the cover. "He asked after you again today."

Her fingers stilled against the net. And she whistled low. No.

"Still?"

She repeated the low whistle. No.

Father got to his feet from his favorite chair and turned her toward him, cocking his head. "Now, Birdy."

She narrowed her eyes and shook her head back and forth, furious he would not let the matter drop.

"Léo finally confessed today what he said to you when you visited him in March. I'll admit, I almost punched him in the nose, priest or no'."

Against her will, she gave a short burst of soundless laughter. She lifted an eyebrow and skewered him. See? He's as horrible as his brothers.

"He also gave me a full apology and spent the rest of the afternoon begging for my forgiveness. The man is going mad in there."

Moira's shoulders dropped and she took a step back, looping her hands in the leather belt that secured the black tunic around her. It wouldn't work. She wouldn't feel sorry for Léo. She shook her head again.

"I cannae say his motive in begging forgiveness is entirely pure. He asked you for a favor."

Throwing her hands up in the air, she bent forward, drawing her leg up, removing the soft leather boot from beneath her trews. Typical man.

"He wants you to sketch a likeness of his son from his description. He's three years old. Gabriel."

She bit her lip as she dropped the boot to the floor. Léo had a son. The child she'd done her best to try not to remember for months. Still a bairn. Alone without his father. Her heart pinched. One year younger than she'd been when she'd been separated from her own parents. How must the small boy feel, separated from his Da?

With a sigh, she closed her eyes and tried to remember those lost years, the one bit of her past that was never erased from her mind—a fleeting memory of her natural Da's dark, curly hair. The feeling of being lifted from a chair, asleep. The rhythmic thunk of stairs, invisible to her shut eyes as he carried her to bed, pretending she was asleep —the safety she felt in his arms. Her only memory. Her eyes opened and met Father's and pity pricked her heart.

"I thought you might feel that way. I told him you'd come soon and bring your charcoals."

Gabriel. The name tumbled over and over through her head as she began to prepare their supper.

Thoughts she tried hard not to think about the day she'd been lost flooded her mind.

She remembered words of begging. Please, can I come?

Then the sea breaking against the sailboat, a dolphin jumping in its wake. It swam closer as two voices argued.

Good morning, dolphin. The last words she would ever speak. Hand extended, she tried to touch its glossy gray back…and then…the shock of frigid water, a gulp of briny sea. Sinking into black waves. The undertow pulling her down, down, down. Her heart pounded.

An unseen force pulling her through the tide, shooting her through the roll and crash of waves. Bursting through the surface of the water. Gulping for air. A branch hitting her middle. Grasping to it for dear life. Floating. Midday sun burning the skin of her face. Cold chilling her in the dark as she stared at millions of stars in the heavens. A whale breaching beside her and looking at her with its brown curious eye as she screamed and screamed in alarm, hysterical with fear.

The rise and fall of sun and moon. Floating in and out of consciousness, alone and forgotten. Colliding with a boat. Father's sweet face as he lifted her out of the surf and into his arms, holding her close as she gripped her flaming throat and whimpered. Sailing away from the family she could no longer remember.

Moira gripped the table, sucking in deep breaths against the fright of being swept away. Alone. Isolated. Forgotten.

But she wasn't forgotten. God in his mercy had carried her to safety. Refusing to feel sorry for herself, she scaled the fish, removing the head, tail, and guts as she refocused on supper, nestling her catch in the cauldron. She picked up a carrot and palmed the knife, slicing it into the pot. She splashed the fish with wine and scooped butter into the pot, then sprinkled a pinch of dried dill over it, just as Maw had taught her.

Maw. Her natural mother was lost to her memory but never could she forget the mother of her heart. Hugs within her ample bosom. Fingers that bound scraped knees. Hands that hung the dyed net and ears that listened to whistled and motioned stories of how she'd found her treasures. Thin lips that kissed her cheeks before bed and told her she was a gift. Salt and pepper hair that she'd let her little Birdy twirl between her fingers until she fell asleep.

God had known she'd need a family. He'd placed her in the sea in front of Father's boat and she became their daughter, a longed-for child it wasn't possible for them to have. Their Moira ? 1 , daughter from the sea.

Moira wasn't even her true name. But by the time she could spell and sign Aileen, she'd been Moira for years. For a few years she had almost told them what her name was, but something inside kept her from revealing her true identity. At seven years old she feared that once they knew she was Aileen, things would never be the same. That perhaps they'd take her back to the sea, that things would be different, or that they would die of the hurt she'd caused them. Father said it all the time—God giveth, and God taketh away. He had taken away her voice; if she displeased him would he take away her parents again?

The childish fear had never quite left her heart. This was her new life, and she would make the best of it. Aileen, Moira, Birdy . All that mattered was whom she belonged to, not what she was called. As long as she wasn't called Morag.

All right. Perhaps it did matter. In the deep of her heart, she wanted to hear her true name said aloud by someone she loved. To be the woman God made her to be.

Father looked at her over the edge of his Psalter. "You care for him, don't you?"

The sudden question made her mouth drop open, and her eyes flew to the bag containing the drawing, still sitting undisturbed on the table.

"I can tell, m'eudail ? 2 . You're so quiet."

She rolled her eyes at him.

"You know what I mean. You're not whistling or signing, telling me about your day. You've been called some terrible things over the years, but it always bounced off you. Not this. You've not been yourself in weeks."

Moving her fingers slowly so he could understand, she signed. No. I don't care for him.

"All right. If you say so."

He lifted his book and she brushed her sweating palms together. It was a lie. The Lord would punish her. Fire and flames. No voice and no eyesight. She shivered and tapped rapidly on Father's shoe stretched before her on the stool.

Fingers flying and cheeks burning, she confessed the lie. Yes. I admit, I care.

"I thought so. You never have been able to tell a lie."

Massaging her temples, she tried to rub away the embarrassment for fancying someone so horrible. Father looked at her with an amused look on his face.

She ran one index finger along the other. Can't.

"I think you already do, lass. Though I see what you mean. Not much of a bright future there."

She nodded with enthusiasm. He was a prisoner.

"On the other hand, what logical sense did it make that a priest fell in love with a spinster? We were past our childbearing years. We could love, but not be fruitful and multiply."

She scrunched up her nose. Yuck.

He chuckled. "Well it's true. I'll never regret marrying my Joan. For twenty-five years we were happy, and life was good. We never know what the Lord has planned. What we would settle for is far less than the good gifts God can give. On the other hand, what we turn our nose up at is sometimes what's best for us."

Moira's fingers froze in the air and she scrunched her face in annoyed defeat.

"Ah. I got you there, didn't I?"

Yes.

"And what if one day he gets out? What if he is able to fight back against Niall? What if he is the one we've been praying for—the one who could avenge my beloved… "

Father's voice trailed off and she knelt beside him, slipping her hand into his. When tears rolled over his cheeks, she shook her head and wrapped her arms around him squeezing him tight. The terrible shaking sobs that overtook him so frequently in the last months returned, and in fright she held him close.

"Niall must pay for what he's done. It—it isn't right. She never stood a chance…not a chance in that dark ocean."

Moira tightened her arms around him, fear for Father's mind cramping her stomach. He'd never been a man of vengeance, always a man of peace. But something broke the day Maw died. She looked up at the smiling sketch of Maw and Father on the wall, a tear trickling down her own cheek for the loss of the only mother she'd ever known.

"Niall will pay. He'll pay. The day is coming when this clan will rise up. We won't be persecuted any longer. Léo is the answer, I know it. The Lord will raise him up, he's told me so."

Terrified now, she released her grip on Father and looked into his eyes shaking her head.

"Yes, my Birdy-lass. He is the man we've been waiting for. We must help him. We must help him break free. We must help him overthrow his brothers. It's the only way. Not for our sake…" Father pointed toward Maw's laughing face on the wall. "For Joan."

Moira sat back on her heels and took a deep breath, praying in silence that she would find a way to reason with him. As slowly as she could, she formed the signs with her fingers. Father—revenge, an uprising—it's a very dangerous thing. Isn't our peaceful life here much more valuable? Wouldn't Maw want us to wait on the Lord, not take matters into our own hands?

"But I have waited. And he has given an answer. Besides, we wouldn't be taking matters into our own hands, we would be doing as the Lord wants us to do."

There would be no more reasoning with him today. It would do no good. Moira took his hand and gave it three short squeezes, their secret way to say I love you.

Father's face softened and he took her face into his hands. "I love you too, daughter of my heart and soul."