Emerald Magic_ Great Tales of Irish Fantasy - Andrew M. Greeley [130]
“My lady Queen.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “What is this?”
“Why, Máel Dúin!” She smiled at him, and there was a lilt in her voice such as none of us had heard. “You and your men are as hairy as eremites after your long voyage. Will you not let us make you comely?”
He stared at her a moment, then flung back his head with a laugh. It had been a long time since the rafters of that hall had echoed with a man’s laughter. Striding across the rush-laid floor, Máel Dúin sat in the biggest chair. He planted his legs and put his hands upon his knees, tilting his chin.
“Will you shear me like a lamb,my Queen?” he challenged her.
“No, Máel Dúin.” Bending over him with tenderness, my Lady laid a linen towel across his chest. She took up the keen-edged shears, and they gleamed silver in the lamplight. “Only as a woman does a man whose face she wishes to behold.”
“All right, then. Come, lads!” He grinned as the shears snipped and a tangled clump of golden beard fell upon the linen. “Who’s next for the shearing?”
After that there was much milling in the hall. Some of the men were bold, and some of the maidens, too; others blushed and stammered, shuffling on uncertain feet. I stood in one place and shook my head when a man I did not desire approached me. With so many bodies milling, I lost sight of Diurán.
And then he was there, alone, smiling at me. “What is your name?”
“Cébha,” I whispered.
“Cébha, little songbird, with lips as red as rowan berries, your bright eyes pierce me to the heart.” He brushed a curling lock of my hair with his fingertips. “Little bird in a blackthorn thicket, do you have a gentle touch?”
A hot blush rose along the column of my throat, reddening my cheeks. “I don’t know.”
“Well, let us find out together.” He took a seat in the nearest chair and offered his throat. I had to lean over him to spread the linen towel. A clean scent rose from his warm, freshly scrubbed skin. “Little songbird, would you know the name of the man who puts himself in your hands this night?” he asked me. “I am Diurán.”
“I know.” My hands trembled as I took up the shears. “I know your name.”
“Here.” Diurán’s fingers encircled my wrist, steadying me. They were strong and callused from many a turn at the oar, but finely made. There was no mockery in his dark eyes, only gentleness. Here was a man who understood there was something more at work here. “I will help you, Cébha.”
It seemed to me, then, that everything else went away. I concen- trated on clipping the tangled locks, dipping a towel in warm water and wiping loose hair from his chin. As I trimmed his beard short, the shape of his face came clear, younger than I had thought. His lips were firm and ruddy. I could hear his soft breathing and see the pulse beat steadily in the hollow of his throat, and I did not dare meet his eyes lest he see my thoughts.
So I cut his beard until his handsome face showed, and I cut the knots from his long hair until I could pull a wooden comb through it, and his hair lay on his shoulders, fine and shining, like a cape of oak leaves.
And then solemn-faced Brigit was there, the youngest among us, holding a withy basket. Inside lay the hair of Máel Dúin’s men, red and black and brown all mixed together, and locks of bright gold that were Máel Dúin’s. I gathered the linen towel that held Diurán’s brown hair.
“Wait.” He caught my arm. His dark brows were drawn together in a frown. “What is it you do here, little songbird?”
I made myself meet his eyes. “Would you have us throw it upon the fire? What a stink it would make, all this hair!” I teased him, hearing a lilt come into my voice. “I did not think you were a man to fear making a small offering in this place, Diurán.”
Diurán’s lips smiled, but his eyes,