Erinsong by Mia Marlowe Page A

doorway, even over the lintel of the listing cattle byre. The
air was perfumed with crushed petals
stamped underfoot by all.
    A small group of
musicians—two flutes, a harp and a slightly out of tune
sackbut—launched into a lively song. Every young heart lifted and a
twirling dance started on the lush green grass. The elders drank
their pints, looking on with indulgence and wry expressions tinged with a touch of envy for the
sprightliness and high spirits of youth.
    “I’m sorry, princess,” Jorand said. “I don’t
think I know how to dance.”
    “Don’t be troubling your
head about it,” she said. “I was never one for dancing much
meself.”
    But even as she spoke the words, she was
swept into the fray by Connor McNaught as he tripped past.
    “Come, me Brenna,” he said.
She caught a strong whiff of whiskey on his breath as he leered
toward her, flashing his yellowed teeth.
“If that great Norse slug ye married
hasn’t the sense to dance with ye, al low
me to do ye the honors.”
    He twirled her so
violently, Brenna’s world seemed to
continue to swirl even once they’d begun a circular promenade with
the other dancers.
    “In fact, there’s somewhat
else I’d be happy to do for ye. Tip me the
eye if your husband ruts ye no bet ter
than he dances.” The hand on her waist crept up under one of her breasts, his thumb strafing her softness.
“I’ve been a married man, as ye know, and can teach ye a trick or two. Just give the word, Brenna me dear, and I’ll service ye with
pleasure.”
    She struggled to free herself from his grasp,
but Connor latched on to her with the tenacity of a wolfhound on
the last bone. Then suddenly Connor’s feet left the ground,
forcing him to release Brenna.
    Jorand had grabbed him by the scruff of the
neck and lifted the smaller man till they were nearly nose to nose.
Her husband bared his teeth at Connor. There was no mistaking
Jorand’s expression for a smile.
    “This is Brenna’s
celebration, so I’ll not mar it by thrashing you as you deserve.”
Jorand’s voice was low, but the menace in the tone was so potent
even Connor in his drunken stupor couldn’t
fail to mark it. “But by your Christ, if you ever lay so much as a
fin ger on my wife again, I’ll split you
from gills to gullet in one
stroke.”
    Jorand’s strong fingers
closed over Connor’s throat. The
Irishman’s eyes bulged like a codfish flopping on the
beach.
    “Nod if you understand me,” Jorand urged.
    Connor’s head bobbed with alacrity.
    Jorand set him down, none
too gently. “Now, you may beg my wife’s
forgiveness for the discourtesy you’ve shown her,” he ordered. “And
be careful to convince me you mean it.”
    Connor stammered out his apology and beat a
hasty retreat through the crowd.
    “Thank ye,” Brenna said. No one, not even her
father, had ever championed her so publicly.
    “I can see defending you
from other men will be a frequent chore,”
Jorand said. “I suppose it’s just part of
being the husband of so lovely a lady.”
    Warmth surged in her chest
and spread downward, clear to her toes. The way he smiled at
her made her feel lovely for the first
time in her life.
    “It’s plain I need to dance with you, Brenna,
whether I remember the steps or not.”
    “Perhaps ye know more than
ye think. Just like the woodworking, it
may come back to ye if we take a turn or two.”
    “I may tread on your toes,” he warned.
    “ ‘Tis a risk I’m prepared to take.”
    As they joined the ring of
dancers, Brenna’s heart was lighter than it had been in longer than
she could remember.
    The celebration flowed from
dancing to feasting to drinking until
torches were called for and, one by one,
pinpricks of stars showed on the black vault of the night sky.
    “The garter!” someone cried out.
    The chant was taken up by
all the young men in the crowd. The bravest of the lot made to
approach Brenna, making several
ineffective snatches under her skirt. The
lad intended only to reach