Dans le Tonnelle de Mebh

Author's note: This is a big departure from what I've written previously. I'll give you fair caution however, this is a longish story with many words. I have taken quite a few liberties with Celtic mythology, and also with geography, fashions, and timelines. Oh, I was also 'creative' with architecture and speech too! Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Mile failte, andsláinte!

This is an original work of fiction. All rights reserved.

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Prologue:

The girl stared at her love, hurt to her very soul at his seeming indifference to her plea. She didn't understand how he could be so heartless, how she could love such a one so desperately. She took a deep shuddering breath, and tried once again.

"Please, milord. I will do aught that you desire. I will be a good wife to you."

The boy's eyes barely flicked a glance her way. Sounding incredibly bored, he said, "Now why would I marry you? I am betrothed to a pretty young twelve year old from an old and noble house; even if I weren't, I still wouldn't wed you. Why should I? You weren't anything special, if you must know. If I married every wench I tumbled, I'd either be hanged or henpecked, and 'struth, I'd prefer the hemp noose."

As far as he was concerned, she was just a piece of fluff that he'd been tupping for a couple of months now, and she'd gotten too clingy for him lately. With supreme disinterest, he walked away, leaving her devastated.

She knew then that he wouldn't ever want her, and she realized that she couldn't live without him. But as she watched him joke with his younger brother, a kernel of rage grew in her heart, consuming her.

That night, the boy dined with his family and retired alone to his room. He'd just set his cup of ale on the mantle of the fireplace when he realized that he wasn't alone, and he knew it was the girl by her scent. He wasn't in the mood for company, especially hers. He turned, preparing to tell her to leave, but was forestalled when he saw her.

She stood in the window embrasure, looking lovelier than he'd ever seen her. There was an odd _expression on her visage – he thought it was a mixture of sadness and rage; he also saw the strange markings on her brow and cheeks, her arms and breasts. He knew then what she was about. He took a step forward with his hand raised to grab her, but she stopped him.

In a strong yet aching voice, she said, "I was a maid, in love with a man who cared naught for my very existence. I gave him my love, my body and my honour, and he whistled it down the wind. So to him I leave a curse, sealed with my own sacrifice. For his indifference and cruelty he shall, when the moon waxes fullest, be as the cold blackened creature of stone that he's shown me he is. He shall not age, but lose everyone he loves to it. He shall not lose his physical beauty, but his other self shall show every mark and scar and shall resemble his true self!"

She raised her hands above her head and cried to the gods, "I curse this man, Niall of Wolverton, to the end of time! May he never die or love, nor shall he ever forget me!"

With that, she flung herself back, and as he rushed forward, he saw that she smiled ferally all the way to the end of her plunge. He stared at her broken form, and felt tears tracking down his cheeks.

Later, he carefully gathered her lifeless body and rode into the woods to a pretty glen where they'd met several times. There, he slowly buried her, and sat in the gathering darkness beside the stone cairn he'd made over the grave. He was remorseful, now when it was too late for her. He knew he still wouldn't have married her, but he could have treated her more gently, acted more honourably. He was ashamed of himself, and felt he deserved her derision.

As he sat there, he noticed a gathering light, sparkling through the trees. He looked for the source, but saw only a woman of surpassing fairness. Then he saw that she was dressed in very fine raiment, in royal colours in fact. He stood and gave obeisance, then waited for her to speak.

"Niall is your name."

Her voice was crystalline and sweet. He felt as if he could sip her words straight from her mouth, and never want for sustenance again. He nodded in response to her statement.

"I am sorry, young mortal. I cannot break this curse placed upon you."
He was stunned. "You mean it's real?"

"Yes," she murmured. "A curse sealed with a sacrifice is strong. While I cannot break it, I can place a codicil to it."

"Why would you do this, lady? I did as she said, was cruel and thoughtless and now she's dead."

The lady smiled. "Would you marry her? No. You can only go forward from here. I will do this for you, because while you were thoughtless, you were not cruel, not in your heart. There was no harm meant, though you were harsh with your words. For that you deserve punishment, but not as she has done."

He bowed his head. "Please, lady. What would you have me do?"

She glided closer to him, and he smelled apples and honey wine. "You shall indeed suffer the punishment during each moon cycle. However, you shall have your freedom when comes a maid who spends her pure blood on your other form – of her own will, while thinking of you. You will know she is the one if she chooses to do this. The curse will be broken and you will wed her."

He didn't understand why she would do this for him, but felt it would be rude to ask for her reasons. He was just overcome with gratitude.

"How can I thank you?" he asked.

"You must make a sacrifice, yourself." Her smile gentled his sudden fear. "Do not worry, I shan't ask for blood sacrifices. I ask for two things from you, Niall. The first is that on Samhain, at the gloaming of the day, set out some lovely apples, and a tankard of mead. I hunger for them every day."

In a rush of relief, he laughed and cried, "Of course! I promise to do so, but it seems so little!"

"The second thing, Niall," she murmured, "Is that you must name your daughter for me."

Uncertainly, he inquired, "And my daughter shall indeed bear the name of my saviour. I pledge this willingly."

She smiled, and nodded. Then, as she turned and started to drift into the sparkling light, Niall reached out urgently. "Wait, lady. Please. I must know your name in order to fulfill my pledge!"

"I am Maeve." He heard her voice, soft as a breeze whispering through the leaves.

Shocked, he looked back at the cairn, "What have you gotten me into?" he asked the spirit dwelling there.

Many years later...

Rowan Stewart was definitely going to hell.

That was the common belief among the honourable folk who dwelt in the tiny village of Strombaugh, in the northern-most province of the country. For what other conclusion could they draw, when the lady in question did everything to support it?

She disobeyed her father, was irreverent, anddanced in themoonlight. It wasn't a sin to state the sorry fact of her ultimate destination aloud, either, for everyone shared the same belief, from her benighted sire to the lowest villein and cowherd.

All, of course, but for Rowan herself.

Aye, and they also knew the devil would have his own - it was merely a matter of time, for wasn't Rowan marked by auld Scratch himself - her very beauty proclaimed it so.

Rowan knew of this attitude, but thought it ignorant. So she didn't conform to society's norms, did that make her evil? She thought not. She wanted so much from life, and felt so hemmed in. Where the people of Strombaugh were content to plod through each day with heads bowed day after day, year after year, until they died, Rowan wanted to dance, and run, and even fly.

No one understood her, and Rowan was very lonely. She was a healthy, remarkably beautiful girl who would have been married for many years already if not for fate - happy fate, as she thought it. She'd been betrothed to a man of stature when she was eleven, but he'd taken an arrow in his throat, and died. Now, ten years later, she remained unwed, through no small amount of effort.

Today, she was to meet another suitor. Her father was in a temper, swearing that if his wayward daughter did aught to drive this one away, he'd lock her in a tower and throw away the key.

"Where is this tower, Maude?" she asked her body servant. "I know of only the one tower here, and it contains his solar. Mayhap it would be worth chasing this man away just to live there!"

Rowan laughed gaily. Her laughter covered her nervousness, however. The suitor, she'd heard, was none other than Niall of Wolverton. This man was a fierce warrior, a strong leader. What kind of man he was, she didn't know, but there were tales of him – dark and dangerous. She was afraid that her luck was running out though, and quickly.

Maude shook her head, saying now, "Ach, beauty, you have to wed. Why do you make so much mischief, cause your da so much grief? This man'll no' be so easily fobbed off. Yer da's increased your dowry, you ken?"

Rowan nodded, almost resigned to her fate. Struth, there wasn't much she could do if her father was determined to finally see her wedded. The time would come when she would have to give in gracefully. After all, she did want children. She would see about this Niall, see if he was even marginally acceptable to her.

Under Maude's gentle bullying, Rowan was dressed in a handsome gown of midnight blue velvet, with silver threads embroidered at neckline and along the sleeves, over an underdress of silver satin. A lovely silver girdle swung low over her hips, from which the chatelaine hung. The honour of carrying the chatelaine had been given to her two years before, at her mother's death.

Maude brushed her long black hair until it crackled, then slipped a silver circlet over her brow. She took a deep breath, pulled her shoulders back and said a quick pater noster, then walked on trembling legs to the hall. On her way, she tried to recall everything she'd ever heard of Niall of Wolverton. Nothing she could recall was reassuring. Everyone knew he was ruthless in battle; a strong leader. There'd been something about a lover dying, a curse, and periodic mysterious absences. Other than that, she couldn't think of anything at the moment.

Her step faltered at the sight of him. He sat in the place of honour at the lord's table, there yet somehow apart from everyone else. He was an intimidating sight, though she was too far away to see details. He wore brown leather armour covered with a dull greyish-green cloak. He was broad across his chest, and sat head and shoulders above those around him.

Rowan suddenly realized that he was studying her as intently as she was he. Bumping her chin up a notch, she approached the table.

"Ah, Rowan," her father said. "Finally, you are here."

Geoffrey Stewart was a bluff, loud man. He'd once been a loving husband, and although he'd never really been interested in his only child, it was only since his wife's passing that he'd become bitter and demanding.

He then turned to his guest and said, "My lord, if I may present my daughter, the Lady Rowan."

She sank into a graceful curtsey as he stood to bow. Their eyes met, and everything within her went still. Niall wasn't a handsome man; his face was too perfect for that; God's honest truth, the man looked like an archangel! He had fine dark hair and eyes the same green as the sage leaves growing in her garden. His brow was broad, his nose perfectly aquiline. His lips were sensual, and she could find no evidence of lines or scars of any kind.

'Including laugh lines', she thought dolefully. The shocking moment of intimacy passed, leaving her slightly shaken; bemused. To cover the awkwardness, she took her place at table, and tried to keep her eyes demurely lowered, for once. Her father was speaking, but for the life of her, she didn't know what he was saying. She thought he was either praising her or cursing her. She could feel the weight of Niall's stare.

Niall could hardly countenance the girl's loveliness. Her inky black curls cascaded over her shoulders to her hips, held in place by a circlet. Her face was heart shaped, with wide unusual whiskey-coloured eyes that sloped up at the corners, and surrounded by astonishingly thick lashes. Her nose was elegant but slightly retroussé.

Her mouth was what held him in awe, though. 'Twas a completely sinful mouth - a carnal temptation. He suddenly understood why some cultures made their women cover their faces. Niall had come here expecting to wed, but with very little hope for a happy union. He was a warrior. What care he for love? And yet, he held a small kernel of hope deep within him that Lady Rowan was The One.

Her father was speaking, but having already missed most of what he'd said, Niall ignored the man altogether. He'd heard some stories about this lady, about how she was clever enough to avoid marriage time and again. He idly wondered what she'd planned for him.

He'd also heard, from her own people, that she was the devil's own. He disregarded that immediately; there was no one closer to hell than he was, himself.

Just then, she stole a glance at him, and again he felt the pull of sexual attraction between them. He saw her eyes widen, her pulse flutter in her throat, and he knew then that she felt it too. As his shaft lengthened and thickened in his braes, he knew he'd have her - whatever that meant to his own misfortune.

After a meal which neither Niall nor Rowan could recall, the priest was summoned and the betrothal contract signed in her father's solar. Rowan felt herself spinning out of control, and in fact she was actually dizzy and lethargic. She knew what was happening, knew she should do something to stop her father.

She noticed, in a fuzzy sort of way, that he kept glancing at her, and there was a smugness about him that set off a faint alarm in her.

Niall kept his arm around Rowan's waist. He felt her heat, her breast brushing his arm as she swayed like a drunkard; he knew she'd only consumed half a cup of mead at table, so she either imbibed above stairs, or couldn't handle spirits. It wasn't until it was too late that he realized she'd been drugged.

Having heard of her penchant for pranks against her erstwhile suitors, Niall merely shrugged. 'Twas done, at any rate, and she was now his.

Rowan listened sleepily as her father and the man he'd just given her to decide that there wouldn't be a long engagement. Her father argued for the marriage to take place immediately, but she noticed an odd look on Niall's matchless visage as he shook his head.

"Nay. A sennight hence is soon enough." he said firmly. Then her father insisted upon what he called a viewing, and had Rowan's body servant fetched.

"I'll not have either of you avoid this match later, then, by repudiating based on physical imperfection."

As distasteful as Niall found it, he complied, with the warning to Geoffrey to never doubt Niall's honour again. He quickly disrobed, then watched as the older woman removed Rowan's garments. She stood before him in her glory, still befuddled with whatever drug she'd been fed. He tried not to, but he reacted physically to her beauty, his shaft growing to half-mast. She watched it happen, the vixen, but as far as he could tell, she had no such reaction to him; he assured the leering priest that he accepted her, and then dressed. He accepted a cup of ale while Rowan was redressed, like a doll.

Geoffrey Stewart watched, near to despair, as the fierce knight gently led the troublesome wench away. He'd thought that he'd finally get a good night sleep, but he'd been wrong. How was he going to keep Rowan from doing something rash once she came out of the drugging effect of her own valerian leaves? He fretted as he strode to his solar.

There, the toothsome and talented Bettina awaited him, naked and in heat. She tensed when she saw him, knowing something was amiss.

"What is it, lover?" she purred, hiding her worry. She'd waited far too long for that bitch, Rowan to be married off so that the field was clear for herself. She would be mistress, she vowed, one way or another.

Geoffrey sighed, and said heavily, "The marriage will take place a sennight hence."

She gasped, and then sputtered. "But, my lord, what if she balks, again? What will you do? Lord Niall will not tolerate misbehaviour - he will retaliate againstyou if she does aught!" He shook his head.

"I know, my dear, but what other choice have I? He set the date and wouldn't budge. How are we going to get her to cooperate?"

She slyly smiled, telling him that she had an idea, but that it was shocking for a father to hear.

"I don't care what I have to do, the girl must be married, and the betrothal contract has tied my hands. Whatever it takes is what I'll do. God's ballocks, she's a thorn festering in my big toe!"

"Then let me take care of everything, my lord." Bettina cooed. "All will be well, I promise."

"Ah, Bettina my fine girl, I knew I could count on you. Now, let's see what I can do to thank you." He stripped off his clothing, eager for her talented body. His penis was already rising to half-staff, and as she fondled him, he just got harder.

They kissed, tongues mating, hands rubbing against breasts and balls. When he felt ready to explode, he roughly shoved her onto her back and thrust inside her womanly sheath. As he drove into her hot greedy body, he leaned down and bit her nipple, pushing her over the edge of orgasm. As she screamed his name, he felt the seed burst out of his cock and bury itself into her womb.

She stroked him to sleep, praying the smithy's apprentice, Philip, was still awake. She'd need his massive cock pounding her still hungry pussy later, for this lord rarely gave her pleasure - she barely felt his puny rod as he grunted and groaned over her.

Perverted she might be, but not a fool. She knew she needed to make him feel like a great lover in order to keep him snared in her web. So she did, and he was.

While she lay there, she pondered how best to keep Rowan docile until the wedding. She would need to keep dosing her with the valerian she'd used at the betrothal meal, she decided.

It just wasn't enough, though, to satisfy Bettina's desire to inflict humiliation on the girl. She thought of what Rowan would dislike most, and she concluded it was being married.

She slipped from the room the moment she could, leaving Geoffrey snoring alone; she made her way to Rowan's stillroom, and pilfered more valerian. On impulse, she also grabbed a small quantity of damiana and skullcap. Laughing, she knew this would do the trick, but only if she used a big enough dose to create the desired effect, yet one small enough that it wouldn't give the game away.

"Oh, Rowan, you are in for it now!" she laughed again, and made her way to the village smithy, where she'd finally get swived by a real cock.

Niall left the manor when twilight was descending, knowing he didn't have much time. He'd had a difficult time leaving her, he realized. He couldn't help but hope she was the one who would break his curse.

Damn, he didn't have time for this pathetic conjecture. He wanted to hurry, but knew he had to look nonchalant or he'd arouse unwanted curiosity. He saddled Zephyr, his mare, and rode away from the manor. Once he was far enough down the road, he cut into the dark woods and cautiously increased his pace.

He searched, increasingly frantic, for a suitable location in which to spend the night. Finally, when time had almost run out, he found what he was looking for. There was a small clearing beyond a very dense brush hedge, which looked like it had been untouched since the Roman occupation.