Barbara Leigh - For Love Of Rory

He could not know how much better he looked, Serine thought as she allowed her eyes to feast on him. His hair, clean now, curled in a mass of midnight ringlets about his face, falling to his shoulders like an ebony cloud. Each curl an invitation to run her fingers through it and let the curls trap her hands and hold them against his head while she memorized his face.

Her reverie was broken by his continued harassing over her action.

“Be still,” Old Ethyl said threateningly, “else my lady’s work will have been in vain, for I’ll bloody you again.”

“But she cut away my hair and stripped me of my manhood!” he protested.

Old Ethyl snorted in derision. “How was she to know?” she asked. “Most men don’t wear their manhood on their chin.”

“That’s not what I mean!” he argued. “I have worn my facial hair since the day I reached manhood.”

“Then it’s high time you did without it for a bit,” Old Ethyl assured him. “You have no need of it here. By the time we are rid of you it will have grown back, I’ll vow.” She turned to Serine, ignoring the man’s sputtering. “As soon as our visitor calms down, I will leave you for a while, unless you wish to go in my stead.”

“You go, Ethyl,” Serine said, temporizing. “I will stay with our...guest.”

“As you will,” Old Ethyl agreed. “I prefer good fresh English air to the fumes of an angry man.” Since her lady would not go among the people to learn their mood, it was up to Old Ethyl herself to do so. With a nod of her head, Old Ethyl took her place near the door, determined that she would make certain the man posed no threat to Serine before she left for the village.

Rory paid the old woman little mind. His anger and his attention focused on Serine, who looked at him with an expression of disbelief.

“I cannot see how the loss of your beard and mustache could be of such importance,” she ventured.

“It is a matter of honor,” he blustered. “A man is judged by his facial hair in my country.”

Serine shrugged her shoulders and moved away from his bedside before answering. “I now see the difference between your world and mine, for here a man is judged by his sons.”

The instant the words left her mouth she would have recalled them, but it was too late.

Only the weakness from his wound and the infection that had so recently invaded his body kept Rory from attacking her—his infirmity, and the fact that Old Ethyl had nocked her arrow and stood ready to release it with deadly accuracy should he move toward her lady.

Realizing the depth of her mistake, Serine eased the man back against the pillows. “Please forgive me,” she said. “I spoke out of turn. I did not realize that your facial hair was an indication of your virility. Feel free to grow it back, and I promise I will do nothing to rid you of it whether you are conscious or no.” Her eyes sought out Old Ethyl and she indicated that she felt she had the matter well in hand, and Old Ethyl was free to go.

“It is too late,” Rory lamented. “In my country a man is known for his mustache. It is as recognizable as his nose. It might be years before I could grow another that could match the one you have so blatantly destroyed.”

Serine narrowed her eyes. The man was beside himself. It would almost be humorous had it not been that his anger might stop him from telling her where he had taken her son. She wanted his goodwill and would never have done anything to irritate him. At least, not until he had given her the information she sought.

“At least we have found a common ground,” Serine told him. “You have taken my son and I have taken your beard. Perhaps it is time that we talked of how we can make the recovery of both of our treasures as easy as possible.”

The man sighed deeply and relaxed. He studied her for a long moment. “My hair will grow back, regardless of what you do to prevent it, but there is nothing either of us can do to bring back your son. By now he is far away.”

“If he is well gone there should be no problem with your telling me where your people have taken him,” she challenged.

“And in doing so invoke the distinct possibility of my own death,” he retorted. “Feverish I may be, but my mind has not deserted me. You cannot make me believe that you would keep me alive for one more hour should you learn the location of your son.”

Serine chose not to answer. His words held a good deal of truth, but not all. At first when she had brought him to Sheffield she had cared little as to whether he lived or died, her only thought being to keep him alive until he could be made to tell her of Hendrick’s whereabouts, but somehow she had become accustomed to his presence and looked forward somewhat to the sound of his voice as it became stronger. Even if he told her where to find Hendrick at this very moment, she would be hard put to turn him over to her overlord, let alone give the order that would cost him his life.

Rory took her silence as confirmation of his words and turned his back on the slim woman who carried the strength of Celtic iron in her backbone. She was a hard woman who cared for naught but her son, and he admired her for it in spite of himself.

In truth, he had no one to blame but himself. Had he not paused to dally with the water-slick nymph he had discovered on the water’s edge, he would have been well away. And some of the children would have disappeared without a trace. Now he owed his life to Serine and he knew that when the time came for him to show his appreciation for her ministrations her one demand would be that he take her to her son.

He took a deep breath and flinched against the raw pain that still troubled him. He knew Serine and her witch-woman, Ethyl, had worked long and hard to save his life. Even more than the wound had been the onset of the fever and the poisons that had invaded his body. He doubted that the women of his village had the knowledge to save him had he been able to escape.

He owed Serine his life. It was true. And to pay that debt he would take her with him to Corvus Croft and arrange for her to speak to Guthrie. But beyond that he would promise nothing, and nothing was most likely exactly what she would get for all her trouble. For the goal of the Celts had been to bring children to their village, and thanks to the efforts and cleverness of this woman those children had been few. That her son was one of those who had been successfully taken was unfortunate, because there was little hope that the council would agree to give the boy back to his mother.

“Since you have saved my life, I am willing to consider laying your plight before Guthrie, my overlord.”

“I shall go with you,” she said flatly, “and bring my son back with me.”

“I guarantee nothing,” Rory said. “Only that you will be given a fair hearing.”

“Fair! What do you call fair? You have stolen our children and raided our village and you dare speak of fairness?”

“If you can heal me and return me to my village in peace, you will be heard. My people did not steal your children out of spite or villainy. It was due to desperation, and no one would have been harmed had you not come after them.”

If Serine wanted to be with her son she would have to agree to stay in Ireland.

Rory watched as she moved around the room, and imagined her moving thusly through the streets of his village, through the halls of Guthrie’s fortress and, finally, through the rooms of Rory’s own home. He found the thoughts pleasant. Perhaps he would urge her to stay once she realized it would be impossible to obtain the release of her son.

For all that she had cut away his beard he found himself unable to maintain his initial anger. It seemed almost as though there was an unspoken duel between them, with rules yet unmade, and it challenged him to try to guess what she would do next as she strove to regain possession of her child, unaware that fate, and a woman’s tongue, would take the matter out of their hands.