Woman Whom I Loved and Lost

Lullymore, Co. Kildare, Ireland

The house was sadly silent since the lads left. Sorcha had driven Estrada, Conall, and Dylan to Dublin airport, said quick goodbyes, and sped home in the Land Rover with a glassy-eyed Máire huddled in the passenger seat. Home. It was funny how she was already thinking of Lullymore as home. Sorcha didn’t know how to help the girl, so turned up the tunes and left her to emote. Grief was grief. And a new bride sending her husband into battle must feel it as it was. Whether Máire understood the word vampire didn’t matter. She knew about war and accepted that this was a life-or-death quest from which Dylan might not return.

Now, Sorcha stood alone in the kitchen listening to the sounds of Sunday morning: the steady thrum of a steaming kettle, birdsong from the patio, and the ticking of an annoying grandfather clock in the dining room. It was early, so early, the rest of the house still slept. As she leaned against the counter, she stared out the window, captivated by the sunlight breaking over the eastern pasture.

She flinched when she heard Franya’s breathy voice against her ear. “I’ve missed you, Foxy.” Tall and slender, the woman leaned down, lips brushing Sorcha’s neck. A lacquered fingernail caught her tank and teased it from her shoulder. The shift from touch to kiss sent a quiver inside, and Sorcha leaned back into the source of this unexpected pleasure. As fingertips found her tender breasts, she gasped. She’d wanted this so many nights, imagined it just like this. Though she never dreamed it would happen.

Turning, she sought Franya’s moist lips with her own. A kiss could be a deal breaker or incite a riot. This one needed the feckin IRA. Nine years vanished in a fervent flash. Pressing with her pelvis, she danced Franya back until they were braced by the bar. Then, grasping Franya’s white silk nightdress by the lacy hem, she slipped it off over her head. Her pearly skin was as perfect as ever, smooth and unblemished, her burgundy hair messed with sleep, her body as lithe and pliant as a young willow. Dropping to her knees, Sorcha pursued the source of Franya’s pleasure.

“You’re like a great marmalade cat with a dish of cream,” Franya said, running her fingernails through Sorcha’s curls. A twist of tongue, and swooning, she arched her back.

In the periphery, Sorcha spied a shadow in the shade of the patio doors and, assuming it was Declan, she took it up a notch. What will you do? she thought. Watch, run, or ask to join us?

Reaching up with her left hand, she played a pulsing nipple as her fingers moved in ways she knew would tip her lover over the edge. And with a stifled scream, it did.

Franya pulled her up, pupils wide, mouth searching, hips pressing, wanting more. Sorcha closed her eyes to the feral urgency of Franya’s kiss. “Your turn, Foxy.”

“Not now,” Sorcha said. “Máire’s gonna walk in here any minute looking for her morning chocolate.” With a quick glance, she noted Declan had gone.

“I’m sure she’s seen two women make love.”

“I somehow doubt that.”

The kettle whistled and Sorcha turned away, lips turned up in a grin. Two women making love.

Finally, after years estranged, it had begun again.

A few mornings later, Sorcha invited Máire to come for a walk with her in the back fields. Franya had slipped into her bed, twice since their kitchen tryst. It was always in the wee hours when she was tasting of gin, but that didn’t affect her skill in the sack. Sex with Franya was feral—a way to heal, not only their brutal breakup but from the horrific experience of watching the man she loved be tortured and executed. She wanted to be held, and they’d end up spooning until Sorcha slipped out in need of coffee.

She wanted to tell Máire about this new liaison before the girl caught them in a compromising situation. Máire knew Sorcha was pregnant with Ruairí’s child, and she was concerned that the girl might judge her for having an affair with someone else so soon after his death.

As they wandered through the pasture, the morning sun reflected off the winding stream below. The green field swayed with white daisies, purple clover, and masses of yellow buttercups, juxtaposed with the fluttering of dappled orange butterfly wings, and the mad darting of bees. For a moment, walking alongside Máire in the verdant pasture, she felt as if she were back in Croghan near the Manus farm.

“Do two women ever fall in love or have sex in Croghan?” Sorcha knew the men did; at least, Conall had confessed to being sexually harassed by King Adamair, and she’d read that homosexuality was esteemed in ancient Celtic society. But men could often get away with things women could not.

Máire was quiet for a moment. She’d been picking a fistful of meadow buttercups and now held them to Sorcha’s chin. The gesture seemed so youthful and innocent, Sorcha was embarrassed that she’d brought up the question of sex only seconds before. Sometimes, she forgot Máire was only fourteen and from an ancient culture.

“Is my chin yellow?” Sorcha asked.

“Aye. Very.

“That must mean I like butter, yeah?”

“You love it,” Máire said. She held the bouquet of buttercups up beside Sorcha’s face. “They look lovely with your red hair. I wish my hair was the color of yours.”

Máire’s waist-length hair was a tangle of dark toffee, bronze, and sand, her complexion peachy, her brown eyes flecked with gold. In a word, the girl was beautiful. She’d pinned up the sides in braids that wound around her head, while the back blew loose in the wind.

“Why, thank you, my dear. You’re sweet to say so, but you’re perfection just as you are.”

Máire blushed as easily as her new husband and continued plucking wildflowers. Sorcha assumed she’d ignored the question out of embarrassment and decided to drop it.

Then casually, Máire said, “When girls are young, we explore each other’s bodies.”

There seemed no shame or awkwardness at all. “Aye?” Was this exploration a timeless act of puberty?

“Some girls stay with girls as they get older, and others go off with boys. Some girls like boys and girls. Some girls are boys. Some boys are girls. Some are both.”

“Really. So, is that how you learned about sex?”

“That, and by watching the animals. They didn’t seem to enjoy it nearly as much as we did.” She giggled. “Although Capall is enjoying frolicking with those mares in the back pasture.”

“Is that so? Will there be some young Croghan foals born soon?” Conall’s stallion was as much a stud as his owner, though the bard seemed oblivious to his own sex appeal.

“Perhaps next summer. I’d love a horse of my own.” Máire glanced at the horses grazing near the stream so longingly, Sorcha determined to speak to Dylan about getting her a horse.

“Why don’t you ride Estrada’s gray mare? I’m sure she could use the exercise.” She knew the girl was a skilled equestrian and tracker. She’d grown up with horses and led Dylan and Estrada through the bush to their hideout beside the lake of gillaroo. To Sorcha’s relief, the stable manager hadn’t mentioned her affair with Franya and was as congenial as ever.

“That’s how the boys learn about sex too,” Máire said, circling back to their conversation. “At least, I’ve heard my brothers carrying on with their friends. They’re none too quiet about it. But it’s natural, so no-one says anything—unless we’re trying to sleep.” She laughed so hard she snorted, and that set Sorcha laughing too.

Two thousand years and nothing’s changed, Sorcha thought. She and her friends had stroked each other’s breasts in Galway, just for the sheer thrill of it, and tickled other places too. By the time she went to uni, Sorcha was more enamored of girls than boys, and questioning her sexual identity. Then she met Franya—the woman of her dreams—and declared herself a lesbian. It was nothing new to her. Sorcha’s mother had always been vocal about her sexual identity.

When the sweat dripped in her eyes, Sorcha wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, then pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her khakis. She folded it neatly and tied it around her head.

Ruairí and Conall had built a wattle and daub hut beside the lake to escape being bullied by Fearghas and Bres, and maybe to have some time alone. Sorcha figured there might have been a little rub and tug going on in that hut when those two were young; at least she hoped, for Conall’s sake, there was. He’d been mad for Ruairí his whole life; something that must have been desperately hard for him when Ruairí took up with Ana. Sorcha knew all too well the pain of unrequited love.

“Years ago, Franya and I had a sexual relationship when we were both in our late teens,” she said. “We met at university while I was studying archaeology.”

Máire brightened. “Were you in love?”

“Oh, aye. Smitten.” At least I was, she thought.

“And did you wed Franya?” The girl had just arrived and didn’t know the history of Sullivan Stables or what or who had come before.

“No, we broke up years ago, and hadn’t seen each other until I arrived a few days ago.”

“But why?” Máire seemed genuinely interested in her tragic romance; enough so that Sorcha decided to tell her the truth.

In some ways, Máire reminded Sorcha of Ruairí—a quiet nature that masked an inner strength—and she’d grown fond of her. Also, something in their shared Croghan dialect produced a lilting lift to their phrasing different from a modern-day Midlands accent. It wasn’t enough to garner questions, but could make an observant person wonder where she’d come from. That’s why Sorcha had had Rook create a passport for Máire Manus McBride that said she was eighteen years old and hailed from some remote island in the Scottish Hebrides. There was less chance of running into someone who might know better.

Sorcha laid down in the grass and gazed up at the wispy cirrus clouds scattered through the pale blue sky. “One day, I came home from a dig and found Franya having sex with my best friend, Vivian. They’d known each other from school, and when they met again at university, they realized they were in love.” Sorcha patted the ground. “This is Vivian’s land. She and Franya eventually wed. Then Vivian died last spring.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. But why did it bother you they were having sex?” Máire said innocently. “In Croghan, people have sex with whoever they want, and no one minds.”

I minded, Sorcha thought. I minded when Ruairí wed me and Ana because she was Goddess of the Land. And I really minded when I had to witness their public fertility rites alongside everyone else at the fort. Even now, the thought of it made her want to wring Ana’s pale pretty neck, though the woman was dust and her neck had been clearly severed by Conall’s sword.

“Well, it’s different here. When you’re married or in a serious relationship, there’s an expectation that you’ll only have sex with that one person whom you love. We call it being monogamous. Faithful. People feel hurt and betrayed if they catch their lover with someone else, and many couples break up because of it.”

“Oh.” Máire was quiet for so long after that, Sorcha grew worried. Was the girl considering having sex with someone else while Dylan was away in Vancouver? Hopefully not Declan. The stable manager was young and handsome but surely, he wouldn’t proposition Máire knowing she and Dylan had just married.

“Did you talk with Dylan about seeing other people?”

“Oh no. Dylan doesn’t talk about sex. His ears turn red.” She giggled, then rolled her eyes. “He wanted to wait until after our hand-fast, but then we ended up coming here.” She sighed. “We slept at his grandfather’s house that night and he was too drunk and embarrassed to do it.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! When did you finally—?”

“Not until our first night here.”

“Ah, Jeez. And now he’s gone. I’m sorry, Máire. You’re entitled to a decent honeymoon.”

I’m going to have a talk with that lad, Sorcha thought. I don’t care what Estrada says. I taught him better than that. When we had sex, his face turned red, but it was from exertion, not embarrassment. Sorcha knew she’d taken Dylan’s virginity, but she’d given him an education in return. Feeling it was inappropriate to tell Máire she’d had sex with her husband, she kept that nugget to herself.

“But you wouldn’t have sex with someone else while Dylan was away, would you? Especially now that you know about being faithful to your partner.”

“Since the day I met Dylan, I’ve wanted no other,” Máire said.

Relieved, Sorcha turned on her side. She was about to rise when she realized she hadn’t mentioned her current situation with Franya, not that she knew enough to even define what it was.

“That’s lovely, Máire.” Sorcha cleared her throat. “Since Franya and I met again, we’ve started having sex.” God, how awkward was that?

“Oh, I know,” Máire said, and then she giggled. “Sometimes, you two are louder than my brothers.”