Like a wild creature she sped through
the shadows, following a winding path through the woods, finding the open gate,
the main road and the undulating fields that lay between her and Dunalla. At last, panting and weary, she reached the
fording-stones. In her haste to cross, she splashed the hem of her dress. Her
slippers were soaked. But what did such things matter? She was safe, a child
escaped from a wild, wild dream. She threw herself down in a grassy hollow and,
curled like a seal, abandoned herself to rest. The round harvest moon watched
over her, as it watched over Fergal.
She must have slept. Asleep or waking,
she saw a figure coming from the mists of the sea; a man with
Fergal's face and blood upon his body. And the blood became a scarlet
tunic and the face that of a handsome man with deep-set eyes and a mysterious
scar that ran from temple to chin. She traced the scar with her finger-tips,
and his arms were about her, his kiss on her lips, and she was warm and glowing
with a sensual ecstasy that stole away her will. She closed her eyes, yielding
herself to the spell, willing herself to sheer enchantment. But the kiss on her
lips withered and she felt the cool, affectionate touch of Fergal's brotherly
kiss on her cheek, and the strong, kind grip of his hands. She dared not open
her eyes to meet his, lest they held a question she could not answer. She was
only vaguely aware of the question that only time could answer: how to
reconcile her loves who were sworn foes. Fergal and Nicholas wore the colours
of opposing arms on course for a tremendous battle. If ever they met in the
flesh, it would be on the field of battle; the honour of one would mean the
death of the other. Momentarily she saw the clash, the blood, the fury. Shock
waves ran through her. She awoke, shivering.
The dream was gone. The grey rocks
stood unchanged, the fields green; the morning tide murmured gently. A new day
was dawning and there was hope. Fergal and Nicholas would never meet in battle.
Ties would change. And people. Her father had fought for the ancient regime of
She touched the golden circlet on her
thigh. What had she promised? Nothing, except to remember
with love. That was no bondage; nor was the first lover's kiss. Like the
waves of the sea, women were fluid, changed and changing but constant as the
sea.
She rose and hurried towards the dark
tower on the rock. Maybe she was over-tired but, as she approached, it seemed
that a bat-winged figure hovered darkly above the Dunalla's
ramparts.