EXTRACT FOR
Mistress
(Author Unknown)

Chapter One: Labor

    

    Isle of Skye, Scotland

    A.D. 1143

    

    The night air was like a frigid hand that stroked his cheek with the cold and bitter touch of a jilted lover.

    The biting sting on his face was not an unwelcome sensation. Mahrea's exceedingly long and arduous labor left him feeling powerless, disoriented, and numb as he kept a frustrating twelve-hour vigil outside her bedroom door. The midwife dismissed him some time ago, and although he was accustomed to giving orders rather than submitting to them, he gladly acquiesced to her suggestion to take a brief respite from his husbandly post.

    He stood on the balcony of the highest castle tower. The frost-suffused breeze, shocking yet invigorating, rapidly aroused him from a weary and troubled fatigue. Paradoxically, the jolt of winter's icy breath on his face produced unexpected warmth which radiated through his core like a blazing and vigorous hearth-fire heating a dry and brittle ice-encased log ignited by the kindling spark of February's metaphorical match. In fact, he felt oddly revitalized. The warm excitement rushed through his yet youthful veins. A boiling cascade surged from the steaming reservoir of a hot spring instantly to thaw and supplant the frigid ennui gripping his heart since his ill-omened engagement to the frosty and remote Viking princess.

    After Mahrea's collapse at mid-day, Rhys was extremely concerned for the well-being of his child in her belly. Although his servants did their best to make him comfortable as he waited in the small antechamber outside her bedroom, he understandably felt plagued with apprehension and foreboding.

    "Ne'er ye worry, Thane," the midwife Bridie reassured him. "M'lady simply broke her water and she is ready for the birthing, 'tis all. Sit ye down here and wait and before the night is o'er, a new Da' ye will be. This I promise!"

    He waited for hours in a large chair by the fire, his body comfortable enough, but his mind unnerved and emotionally distressed by the uncertainty of the night's eventual conclusion. The platter on the adjacent table overflowed with fruit, cheese, and bread, but concern for his child's welfare outweighed his need for food or rest. His nerves frayed and his wife's muted cries, although barely audible where he sat by the warm and crackling fire, enlisted a profound uneasiness in their nervous listener.

    Like an insidious vapor, the sounds of her difficult labor wafted through the air, searching meticulously for a crack or crevice in the thick stone walls through which to pass. The obstinate sound waves groped the impervious granite as the tenacious hands of a blind man, finally discovering a painstakingly sought after egress, not through the impenetrable stone, but instead around the edges of the sturdy wooden door that separated the bedroom from the sitting room. No stranger to physical battle, Rhys faced a greater challenger in this intangible, invisible auditory enemy which threw him off-kilter. The intensity of her vocal labor stabbed him with a thousand vengeful daggers, cast from the very depths of the Underworld by Hades himself. With the bravado of an exhausted swordsman, he attempted to deflect each of Mahrea's moans and shouts, but appallingly unable to deflect the unrelenting parry of her periodic outbursts.

    When Bridie's spindly arms pushed the heavy door open, he felt an immediate sense of relief. Good news or bad, it matters not, he thought. Until now, he engaged blindly in a figurative hand-to-hand combat with a ghostly and elusive enemy. As a soldier and a warlord, he much rather face a tangible opponent where the uncertainty of this psychological battle materializes into a concrete and more manageable adversary.

    The midwife reminded him of an industrious and pragmatic spider with her bony arms and legs: fragile, nimble attachments to her box-like and diminutive torso. Her bulging eyes, ringed with dark circles of fatigue, gazed furtively at Rhys underneath pencil-thin eyebrows. In the flickering firelight, they resembled the compound eyes of a diligent and conscientious arthropod. Half-human, half-insect, he thought to himself. Perhaps she was transformed into this hideous yet amusing chimera by some evil witch's enchantment? he laughingly thought to himself as he allowed this ludicrous and entertaining mental image to materialize in his slightly delirious imagination.

    The creature spoke. "It will be soon now, my Laird," she declared. "The child's crown is at m'Lady's entrance and her pains are now more frequent."

    She paused and met not his eye. She studied the carpet in a poorly concealed and contrived effort to delay the necessary continuation of their conversation. She is fearful for some reason, but not because she has bad news to convey, he hurriedly concluded. Her nervous demeanor seemed awkward, which kept more with a servant faced with the delicate and uncomfortable task of delivering an unsavory message to her Lord.

    "Go on, Bridie," he urged with kindness in his voice. "You are only the messenger, so say what you intend freely and without fear of reprisal."

    She took in a long breath. "She asks for you to take your leave, Master, so the sounds of her final efforts are made with some degree of modesty and privacy."

    Bridie was visibly startled by his laughter. "'Tis all, Midwife?" he asked with a smile. "I will gladly honor my wife's request, Bridie. Go tend to her, please and assure her I will not hear."

    

***

    

    Shortly thereafter, he gratefully left the confining walls of the small antechamber and found himself wandering the cold and damp corridors of his sprawling castle. He drifted as a smug sleepwalker, who secretly escaped from a restless downy prison. No longer confined to his bed of ennui, he stretched his legs of freedom as he meandered aimlessly through the deserted maze of tunnels. His shadow, a flickering and distorted shape on the torch-lit walls, seemed to eerily mirror his dazed and bleary sleep-deprived consciousness. Although he knew where he roamed, he was in no apparent rush to reach his chosen destination. The fatigue and stress of the last twelve hours bore heavily on him and his pace uncharacteristically unhurried.

    Finally, he arrived at the spiraling staircase. He began the ascent to his sanctuary in the highest castle tower, his boot-clad footsteps echoed in the dizzying cylinder of the tower stairwell. The hypnotic rhythm served to enhance the trance-like journey he made with slow deliberation to the tower's summit. One hundred and ninety-nine steps later, he reached the small room where he spent many hours in pensive thought and private meditation.

    The sparsely-furnished, comfortable, circular room was illuminated by a dozen flaming candles, which by his order were never extinguished and continuously replenished. A small, but contented cot adorned the far wall, while a desk and chair decorated the adjacent rim of the curving wall. His journal lay open on the desk, waiting patiently for the next installment from its thoughtful owner. A large fireplace stacked with wood remained unlit. He shivered in the cold. Briskly, he pushed open the double doors that led him onto the small tower balcony, upon which he now stood.

    A strong frigid breeze blew on his face and through his dark brown hair as a welcomed antidote to his languor and fatigue. He rested his strong arms on the icy stone ledge, warmed his hands on one another. His breath, a swirling white mist, exhaled over his hands and fingers, the smoky envelope of each expired breath tangible for only a brief moment, fleeting and transient in its conception, the symbolic representation of a mortal lifetime. Ephemeral and temporary, like the human fate we all share, he thought quietly to himself.

    The ordeal taking place in Mahrea's bedroom now seemed miles and ages away. But a child! He thought happily about the symbol of immortality and permanence, conceived from his own flesh and blood and a vehicle to carry his legacy beyond the boundaries of his own lifetime. Perhaps his son or his daughter delivers him from the sadness and regret surrounding his marriage to the icy and fiery-haired Mahrea.

    He pondered the events leading up to his wedding last spring. His union with Mahrea amounted to nothing more than a most regrettable necessity and obligation of duress conceived and executed by Olaf the Red, King of Mann and the Isles. His sole intent for the marriage meant to strengthen political ties between the Gaels and the Vikings. Rhys gave up so much of himself by relenting to Olaf's convincing and malicious coercion, resulting in a most unfortunate marital predicament. He sighed. Perhaps this baby will fill the gaping emptiness, he thought. He would soon learn if his child, who was likely entering the world at this very moment, would fill the cavernous void in his chest.

    Dunscaith, his massive castle, perched on a rocky precipice built atop the precipitous slope of a ragged sea cliff which jutted like a small peninsula to meet the pounding surf of the Skye coastline. The full moon and the night were cold and breezy. Drifting tendrils of grey clouds floated like weary and defeated soldiers, who trudged slowly across an eerie celestial battlefield on a melancholy journey home. The translucent slate-colored warriors, exhausted, wounded and disenchanted after some fruitless supernatural conflict, occasionally paused for a brief respite on Diana's pale and naked navel as a heavier cloud cover settled on the moon goddess's lunar body draping her in a dark but transparent silk camisole. The covering obscured, but never completely eliminated the glowing brilliance of her heavenly nudity.

    Rhys smiled as he stood on a small terrace that protruded from the peak of the soaring tower. He noticed the dark outline of a feathery visitor perched on the stone railing to the left. The osprey made the tower her home. She tended to her hatchlings for the past three seasons in a large nest she built on an exterior drainage ledge, five or six feet below the outer edge of the circular parapet. He called to her softly, hoping she moved closer to grace him with her company. "Kira," he beckoned, using the name he gave her years before, "come to me now."

    She looked at him briefly; her black eyes glittered in the soft moonlight, before she dove majestically from the railing into the blackness below, her wings flapped noiselessly as she decisively declined his invitation. He laughed gently as he leaned out over the incomplete darkness stretched endlessly to the left of the tower's balcony, watched with happy envy as the beautiful bird of prey flaunted her glorious freedom. "Return soon, Friend," he said, wishing he too could escape the prison of his castle, if only for a moment and join her in happy flight.

    As he leaned forward over the battlement, the impact of the altitude suddenly registered in all five of his senses with a dizzying rush. He stepped back from the ledge for fear he might lose his balance and topple from the castle's pinnacle to his death on the rocks below. The whitecaps were distant shimmering lines of undulating pallor, and his eyes saw them in a fleeting illusion as an army of brilliant white serpents. They rode the waves in grotesque and orderly formation, advancing towards an invisible and sand-obscured opponent with relentless and untiring resolve. From the tower's peak, the remote sound of the waves reached his ears like the delicate and tender whisper of a lover. Their hushed proposition bewitched and entranced, like the soft and beseeching call of the dark-haired beauty constantly haunting his dreams. The taste and smell of the salty sea diluted by the cold odorless wind blew from the nearby mountains and the harsh tactile sting of the winter breeze reminded him of the chilly weather top on his towering fortress, owned much more in common with the climate's upper atmosphere.

    He stood with his arms crossed and the candlelight coming from the room behind him cast his wavering shadow onto the stone floor of the balcony. The chilly wind reached into the room and played with each candle flame like a cat toying with a mouse. The invisible paws batted the burning wicks back and forth causing his shadowy apparition to sway and undulate eerily on the smooth, broad table of granite in front of him. His dark silhouette mirrored his own melancholy spirit with its rippling movements pleading for reunion with its parent soul residing deep within his body's vessel.

    Lost in these thoughts, Rhys failed to register the heavy and tenuous footsteps as they approached across the carpeted floor of the tower room onto the adjacent stone surface of the balcony terrace. Ironically, he only noticed the sound of the grave leather boots after their owner stopped short a few paces behind him. The silence of this portentous pause awoke him from his dreamy and philosophical reverie.

    He felt the heavy weight of hesitation would shortly fall onto his broad shoulders and crush him like a tiny insect. The broad shadow of the messenger stood silently behind him, blocking the candlelight with his massive body and casting a bleak, suffocating shadow onto the balcony ledge.

    "Well?" he said, without turning. He feared the words about to reach his ears.

    "Rhys," the voice replied, "I bring news of your Lady's labor." It was Caedmon, his first lieutenant and his closest friend.

    Rhys MacAulaed turned slowly to face his friend. He knew Caedmon's chosen task as the fateful courtier and bearer of news concerning Mahrea's labor.

    "You knew where to find me, dear friend," Rhys said softly.

    "Of course, my Lord," Caedmon replied, his tone straightforward and respectful. "Of late, you have been spending hours at a stretch in your tower. When I did not find you asleep in your bedchamber, I knew where my search would lead me next."

    The Thane of Skye pulled back his shoulders and took a step closer to his friend. His voice was strong and steady as he braced himself to hear Fate's verdict.

    "Tell me, Caedmon," he asked, "do you bring me good news, or bad?"

    "I fear there is bad news to tell... along with the good," Caedmon responded.

    Rhys took in a breath. "Out with it, Man. Am I a father? A simple yea or nay will suffice."

    "You are indeed a father, my Liege," Caedmon said. "Your Lady hath born you a healthy and vigorous baby girl and she is indeed a beautiful sight!"

    Rhys breathed a sigh of relief. "And Mahrea?" he asked, almost as an afterthought, given his resigned indifference to their tepid marriage. "Is she well or were there difficulties and complications you come to tell?"

    "Mahrea is well, my Lord," Caedmon hesitated, his voice hushed and his lips trembling.

    "If you have more to tell, Caedmon, please do so without further hesitation," he prompted, sincerely puzzled by his friend's distress. If my child and Mahrea are both well, what could possibly be troubling him so?

    Caedmon looked down. "She bore a second child, Rhys. He came as a surprise, shortly after the girl was delivered."

    "And?" Rhys asked, knowing in advance the answer to his question.

    "Stillborn, my Liege," Caedmon said with regret in his voice. "A son, but he ne'er breathed a single breath in this world. The Lady's cord twisted around his precious neck."

    Rhys staggered backward a step, overcome momentarily with the shock of this brutal news. Mahrea carried low and large, but none guessed twins grew in her pregnant womb.

    His son, whom he would have raised as his heir and successor whom he would have loved with his fullest heart and deepest soul - his son, who someday might ascend to become a warrior king. His son, who died before breathing a single breath. What a sad and tragic premature ending to a life extinguished before it even began, a candlewick drenched with tears instead of oil. The strongest spark or flame never to ignite his candle now and it remains cold and lifeless like the frigid winter's night hosting his unnatural and bitter demise.

    But I have a daughter, he thought happily. A healthy and beautiful baby warmed now by the heat of her mother's bosom and the promise of her father's love. His heart pounded with excitement. She would be his special child, the daughter who effortlessly sidestepped the hand of Death, succeeding in triumph where her unfortunate twin brother fought valiantly but failed. Their twin souls, in a single body share one destiny for two beings. Her destiny was to become the Mistress of Skye, the beloved Princess of the Isles, and Queen Scathach's legendary heir. He would name her Niamh; she would be the bright light in his shadowy fortress and a radiant shaft of hope for the entire kingdom.

    A light flurry of snow now fell, signaling a gentle sign of hope and a silent harbinger of joy. The soft flakes fluttered gently on the balcony railing, a blessing descended from the heavens.

    "I must see her, Caedmon," he insisted with excitement. "Take me to my daughter, who I shall call Niamh, which means 'bright'. She will be my hope, and this entire kingdom's brilliant light."

    Caedmon nodded his acknowledgment, but said nothing. Is there something more he hesitates to disclose?

    Rhys looked carefully at his friend's face, which looked uncharacteristically expressionless. Yes, there is something more amiss that he does not share, Rhys concluded.

    He grasped Caedmon firmly with both hands on his shoulders and the mere proximity forced his friend to meet his intense hazel gaze.

    "If there is more to tell, Caedmon, I pray you do so," he demanded.

    His lieutenant turned his gaze downward. "You will see, Rhys," he said. "Come with me now, please."

    Caedmon gently but firmly disengaged his general's grip. He turned away, walked brusquely into the balcony room and towards the spiraling dark staircase, leaving Rhys no choice but to follow. They descended silently into the cavernous and yawning abyss of the endless stairwell.

    The powerful Lord of Skye felt helpless. And although he wasn't entirely sure what awaited him in the dreaded bedchamber below, he knew whatever it was would change his life forever.