Peggy Gordon

Here's another story that is inspired by a favorite song of mine. (I know, I know. Can't come up with a single original idea these days; I have to keep ripping off the music world!) The band is The Corrs, an Irish group. They are perhaps my all time favorite group and I highly recommend them to anyone. This particular song is from a later album and the appearances of the lyrics are in no particular order, meaning they don't follow the chronology of the song itself.

In any case, I am simply writing a quick note to say that I'm sorry if I have any terms, locations, names or anything incorrect in this story, it is only because I didn't do enough research. I covered the main points I think, and the story is more about the people than anything else. So hopefully my lack of expertise in the world of ancient Ireland doesn't diminish the story itself.

So enough of my rambling. Please read and enjoy!

M.

***

I put my head to a glass of brandy

It was my fancy, I do declare...

It just wasn't enough.

The burning taste of the liquor wasn't nearly enough to take the edge off of his pain. But then, alcohol had little effect on someone of his stature. And this clan holding did not have enough liquor in its storage cellars to get someone like him drunk. He didn't even really want to get drunk; he just thought it might be a convenient way to rid himself of the painful pressure within his chest.

Standing up, he strode from the shadows of the main building and tried to join in the excited crowd surrounding the large bonfire. Someone jostled him from his right side and the drink in his hand disappeared, landing with a dull thud on the ground at his feet. He stared down at it for a minute, watching the liquid spill out, soaking the dirt. In the light from the fire, it looked like blood.

How appropriate,

he thought wryly and nudged the bone cup, spilling the last of its contents.

A raucous laugh made him look up and he watched the figures moving around the large fire.

Everyone was happy. As well they should be. Their clan had won a great victory that day, defeating a neighboring clan following a border skirmish. That in itself was not unheard of. What these people celebrated more than anything was a measure of peace. The invading clan had long been the power in this part of Eire and often asserted their power by raiding nearby strongholds. This time Clan Connelly had fought them back and won.

So it was the first time in nearly a generation that the clan members could celebrate and sleep easy at night without having to worry about midnight raids and their population of young men dwindling.

No. The wives and mothers of Clan Connelly didn't have to worry about their men any more. And the young women of the clan could once again dream of marrying without the risk of early widowing.

Once again he was knocked about and out of his silent contemplation as a small group of drunken revelers passed by. As one man bumped into him, he had to reach out to steady him.

"Oh, forgive me, friend!" The man exclaimed, his words slurred slightly at his level of intoxication. Slowly the drunk's eyes focused on the figure holding him and he grinned broadly, the expression splitting his young face from ear to ear. "Why, Connor, I have been wondering where you got to after the feast!"

"I've been here, Seamus," Connor replied mildly, still supporting the majority of the other man's weight.

Slowly Seamus managed to pull himself upright once again. He glanced around briefly, probably looking for his friends. They'd already moved on; Connor could see their fair heads bobbing amongst the crowd by one of the outbuildings. Seamus swung his head back around to look up at Connor once again, still smiling. Connor smiled down at him as well, amused by his friend's current state.

"How does it look from up there, Connor?" Seamus asked him, planting his hands on his hips and swaying ominously with the motion.

After ensuring his friend wasn't about to topple over, Connor replied, "Much the same as down there, Seamus. Just cooler."

Seamus hooted with laughter and Connor just shook his head ruefully. As he was very nearly the largest man in the stronghold that night, indeed in most of the surrounding land, Connor was often the butt of jokes among the men. Sometimes, he liked to come up with something on his own.

Suddenly Seamus swayed again and his laughter ended abruptly. Connor's arms went out to catch the other man as he took a wobbly step forward. As he straightened, Seamus eyed Connor carefully.

"How much have you had to drink, man?" Seamus asked. "You look a little unsteady."

Connor had to laugh out loud at that. At the moment, he was quite certain that Seamus thought everyone else was drunker than he was.

"I haven't had much to drink at all, Seamus," he finally answered, smiling for the first time all night.

"Well, that's just not right," Seamus announced and wrenched himself free of Connor's grasp. "Come with me, friend and I will see you properly soused in minutes!"

Shaking his head and chuckling softly, Connor decided it would probably be best if he followed his friend around the great bonfire. More people spotted him as he walked beside Seamus and his name was cheered from many corners. He smiled and returned the gesture of a raised fist when he saw it but mainly he kept his head down, embarrassed by the attention.

He'd only been in the lands of Clan Connelly for three months, on loan, for lack of a better term, from his own family clan of Laoghaire. They occupied the land south of Clan Connelly's land but they enjoyed a friendly relationship. In times of need, each clan has stepped in to aid the other and this had been one of those times. Connor, along with dozens of his cousins and friends from Clan Laoghaire had traveled to this main stronghold of Clan Connelly to help defend against the invading forces of Clan Fingall.

Three months.

Three months was all it had taken for Connor to lose his heart completely.

As if the mere thought conjured her, Connor raised his eyes to see her standing alone near the door to the stables. His heart lurched within his chest and he stumbled over his large feet, feeling like a fool when the men around him guffawed loudly. His face burning, he hurried his pace to try and hide amongst the crowd of warriors gathered near the great casks of brandy. He had no idea if she'd seen him and he could only pray that she hadn't noticed.

"Sweet Brigid, Connor," an older man exclaimed and clapped Connor on the shoulder in greeting.

Even at his great height and bulk, Connor still winced when the head of Clan Connelly greeted him that way. Almost an exact match in size, old Bowen was certainly the leader for a reason. His eyes twinkled from beneath bushy dark eyebrows as he grinned from under an equally bushy beard.

"One would think you a mere boy after falling over yourself like that!" Bowen exclaimed and slapped his palm down on Connor's already aching shoulder again. The older man winked at him and took a long drink of brandy from the cup in his hand. "I don't think she spotted you, lad."

Flushing an even deeper shade of red, Connor ducked his head and accepted the first cup of alcohol that someone thrust in his direction. He mumbled his thanks and downed the entire contents of the cup in one burning swig.

Still not enough to get him drunk.

Then one of the other men slapped him on the back and he turned to greet Gannon, a cousin of his own clan. With a smile and nod, Connor tried to forget about the woman standing beside the stables, staring at the revelers filling the stronghold courtyard and hugging her arms close about herself. He tried to forget how her eyes sparked fiercely in the firelight and how her russet hair glowed like fire as she shook her head in response to passing inquiries. And he most certainly tried to forget all about her wicked tongue and cutting words.

***

Though her sisters and several of her friends tried to get her to join in the festivities, she couldn't bring herself to dance among them. She refused the cups of liquor that were passed her way and she barely made it out of the pressing throngs of people around the bonfire without wounding someone. But even the solitude she sought in the barn was denied. As she reached the top of the ladder to the hayloft, the distinctive sounds of a man and woman together halted her and forced her to descend.

Now she stood before the barn doors, staring at the scene before her. A shiver passed through her and she cursed inwardly for leaving her wool cloak inside the big house. Wrapping her arms around herself, she glared at the courtyard. Not at anyone in particular. The entire scene made her angry.

It had been a trying spring and summer. Clan Fingall had come out of the winter season with greater aggression than they'd shown in years. Her father, a seasoned warrior and full time farmer, had scoffed at their darting midnight raids and cattle theft. He'd maintained his condescending attitude right up to the moment her mother and youngest sister had been taken by the invading forces.

After that, her father had bundled her and her remaining two sisters up, fleeing their farmland and heading straight to the giant stronghold, begging Bowen for assistance. There they'd found out that more had been happening within the Clan Connelly's lands.

So much more.

This had become more than a simple matter of cattle raids and hostage taking. The horrors that were being described by incoming refugees as far away as the coastline were enough to make her cry herself to sleep every night. Not in fear. Not for herself anyway, but she was worried sick for her mother and baby sister.

As an unspoken rule, hostages were treated as honored guests by the captors. However, all these tales being told and the body count rising made her realize that there was no honor to be had amongst the people of Clan Fingall.

The cries for assistance from neighboring clans went out around the time that Bowen's youngest son was taken hostage in a raid that came dangerously close to the main stronghold. First among the responses had come from Clan Laoghaire, their closest neighbors to the south. The old chieftain, Cahal, sent several of his own sons and nephews to fight this battle with Clan Connelly and as many of the warriors in his clan as he could spare.

A shout and bellows of laughter caught her attention and she turned her head just slightly to observe the large group of men surrounding the liquor supply. Bowen was among those men and her eyes found his grizzled and bearded face easily. Near his side was her own father, equally as grizzled and grey, though somewhat more subdued than the men surrounding him.

As he should be,

she thought venomously, her eyes narrowing to slits as she watched her father say something to Bowen that had the clan chieftain throwing his head back with another howl of laughter.

How could he celebrate tonight? This was no victory, not for her family. For it was still broken, incomplete. And there her father stood, ingratiating himself to Bowen.

"Peggy!" A familiar voice cried and her head whipped back around, eyes leaving the disgusting scene by the brandy casks. She spotted her sister Kendall running across the courtyard towards her, fair hair streaming out behind her.

"Kendall, try to maintain some sense of decorum," she scolded her sister but couldn't help the smile from spreading across her face as her younger sister reached her side.

Kendall was breathless and leaned over, palms to her waist as she tried to catch her breath.

"Oh, your hair," her older sister clucked ruefully and reached a hand out to smooth the wild curls.

"Leave it be, Peggy!" Kendall exclaimed as she straightened suddenly, brushing away her sister's hands.

Peggy glared affectionately at her sister but knew she couldn't really stay angry with her. Along with their other two sisters, Kendall was dear to Peggy's heart and she doted on each of them equally. Well, almost all of them. It was difficult to dote on a sister when she was being held hostage by the enemy clan.

As though sensing her mood change, Kendall grasped Peggy's hand in both of hers and squeezed firmly.

"You have to come dance, Peggy," Kendall told her, her crystal blue eyes twinkling in the firelight. "Some of the boys are asking for you."

Rolling her eyes, Peggy tried to disengage her hand to no avail. "Why would I care to dance with boys?" She asked, her tone clearly expressing her distaste for such an activity.

Now it was Kendall who rolled her eyes. "Fine, some of the men are asking to dance with you."

Peggy laughed out loud and shook her head. "I doubt that very much."

"Peggy..." Kendall began, her tone taking on whining quality.

"Kendall, don't bother," she said firmly. "I am in no mood to dance."

For a long minute, her sister just stared at her. "Papa promised us, Peggy," she finally said, her voice very soft.

Peggy felt her chest constrict tightly around her heart and she sucked in as deep a breath as she could manage. Looking down at Kendall's face, seeing the hope and faith written there plain as day, she couldn't say anything.

"He did," Kendall insisted, reaching for her hand again.

"Kendall, don't," Peggy whispered and stepped back, carefully lifting her hands and keeping them out of her sister's reach. "Go dance. I...I have to go inside. I'm cold."

"Peggy!" Kendall called after her, but Peggy didn't stop.

She strode with agitated purpose through the courtyard and didn't stop until the warmth of the fire was entirely gone from her skin. When she stopped and looked up, she realized she'd come to the opposite side of the yard, a long ways from the sleeping quarters she and her family were staying in. Her eyes scanned the crowd still milling around the yard and fire, seeking the familiar sight of her sisters' pale heads. There was no sign of Kendall or Imogen, her other sister.

The large group of men was still gathered near the brandy and that's when she saw him. He stood head and shoulders taller than most of the men around him and his shining dark head was practically a beacon. He was just lifting a cup of brandy to his lips and his eyes were shadowed from this far view.

Peggy shivered again, though it wasn't from the chill of the night air this time. She was swept back to the time of his arrival and turned to escape the chill night, heading straight for the big house. She couldn't help the stain of color that spilled into her cheeks though as she recalled their first meeting.

***

"Peggy!" Her sister Imogen shrieked as she banged open the door to their tiny shared room. "Oh Peggy, you won't believe your eyes!"

"Imogen, calm yourself down this instant!" Peggy scolded her. She rose from the stool by the fire and reached for her sister, half-dragging her into a corner.

The other women in the room looked on with amused expressions. They were sharing their living quarters with two other families, largely women and Peggy had her hands full most of the time keeping her two sisters in line.

"I'm sorry, Peggy," Imogen gasped out between heaving breaths. "But you've got to come to the courtyard and see what's happening!"

Peggy opened her mouth to speak but paused at her sister's words. One of the older women spoke up from behind her.

"Well, tell us lass," she said, her voice rough with age. "What's all the fuss?"

"The men from Clan Laoghaire have arrived!" Imogen announced, beaming. She peaked around Peggy's larger form to see the women still seated near the fire. "There must be hundreds of them!"

In actuality it was closer to fifty or sixty men. Impressive, none the less. Peggy stood in a safe corner of the courtyard, a hand on each of her over-excited sisters, struggling to keep them from embarrassing all of them. Her focus was split between the noise of the new arrivals and the excited babble from the two girls in her grasp.

Bowen was standing in the center of the throng of men, speaking with several of the warriors just arrived from the lands of Clan Laoghaire. Most of the men looked like average Celts; dressed in well-worn linen and leather armor. Nearly all of them were rough-looking and Peggy had no idea how long it would have taken them to travel from their lands to the stronghold. Considering it took her and her family nearly a week to travel from their farm to the west, on foot, she guessed it couldn't have been much longer for these men.

Just then she spotted her father, Cillian, approaching from the barns. He spoke with Bowen and the men around him briefly and several of the new men walked away again with her father, leading some of the horses towards the barn. Her eyes scanned the men as they milled about the courtyard and they widened when she saw one head above all the rest.

The moment of distraction was enough for Kendall and Imogen to break free of her hold and they darted, laughing, across the courtyard. Peggy watched them go for a moment, her mouth hanging open in surprise before she regained her senses and took off after them. They hurried through the gathered crowd of onlookers on the opposite side of the courtyard, dodging around the warriors and their horses, startling a few and earning glares from many.

Peggy followed, trying to hide her burning face and blurting apologies when she could. After several minutes of chasing the girls, she stopped and tried to catch her breath. She looked up and around, trying to spot where they'd run off to. When she couldn't see them on one side, she spun around to check the rest of the yard, only to find herself face to face with a muscular bay horse.

She screamed and stumbled back a step, startling the horse in the process. He snorted and threw his head up, stomping the packed ground beneath his feet with one heavy hoof. Peggy gasped and fell back another step.

"Easy, man, easy," a soothing male voice spoke up from the far side of the great animal and Peggy's eyes widened when she saw the big man step around the horse.

"I'm so...so sorry!" She blurted, her voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled and shook his head. "No need to apologize, lass," he told her, his voice a deep baritone that sent a shiver coursing unexpectedly throughout her body. "He's a gentle enough fellow but can come across as rather overbearing."

Peggy gasped out a laugh and blushed, looking down. She peeked up at him from beneath her lashes, studying his form and face. He was the extraordinarily tall man she'd spotted from across the yard. His hair was dark, almost black but his eyes were a warm hazel color, a pleasing mixture of green and brown. As he smiled down at her, she was impressed with the white smile and full set of teeth, a rarity in this corner of the world. As for the rest of him, he was tall, broad across the shoulders and through the chest and his limbs were long and lean but no less muscular; though much of his form Peggy couldn't make out, covered as he was in armor.

"My name is Connor," he told her, extending a hand towards her, as though she was a man and he wanted her to clasp it as such. "Of the Clan Laoghaire."

Blushing even more, Peggy stared down at his offered hand and shook her head slightly.

It is highly improper for an unmarried woman to shake hands with a man she's never met,

she thought frantically as she looked at the long-fingered appendage. It was tanned from hours of work and war in the sun. There were small nicks and scars all across the back and along the fingers.

"I don't know about you, lass, but I would love to know your name," this man who called himself Connor said.

"Why?" Peggy heard herself asking, while inside her mind she was wondering if she'd rather give him her actual name or the more familiar 'Peggy.'