“I won’t bring him. He will come of his own accord when he knows that you are living. But I will raise him as I would my own son, and his sense of justice will only be eclipsed by the courage in his heart. That will lead him to you when the time is right.”

            “Can you promise that?” she whispered. Torna felt the awkwardness of the moment grow. He had never been able to deal with crying women, and this was a moment more emotional than any others.

            “No, I can’t promise I’ll succeed in that, but I can promise that I will try. He will be to me as my own children would be. That, Cairenn, I can swear. Do you trust me?”

            “Yes, I trust you. But may I see him? Niall?” It took him a  moment to work out who she meant. “I would like to say goodbye.” No matter that she had already whispered her regrets and farewells as she wrapped her little son in the shawl she had so carefully made and laid him beneath the tree – now that she was certain he was alive, she wanted to see him again.

            “That wouldn’t be wise,” Torna advised her. “It is harder to, well, to let go and move on if you have had a chance to fuss over him and say many goodbyes. Besides, it would only upset him.” She nodded, eyes bright with more tears.

            “I know. But it’s hard.” Cairenn sighed, weary from the emotional strain of the last few days and exhausted from months of heavy work while pregnant with little Niall, not to mention the pain of giving birth.

            “I understand that.” Why, he had written a poem or two on the subject, celebrating the pure emotion of separation and loss. “But it’s for the best, Cairenn, and you will see that soon enough.”

            “I hope so.” Suddenly, she looked up at the sky, saw how high the sun was and started, clutching at her cloak. “I’m so late. Gods, she will murder me if I am not back soon. The queen,” she added, seeing her companion’s confusion. “I’m supposed to be at work.”

            “This is madness!” he exclaimed. “You’ve just given birth, for goodness sake. Most women would have been in bed, with helpers and wise women to deliver the child, and still many of them die. You, on the other hand, gave birth alone, out on the grass: and yet here you are, walking around! What are you, woman?”

            “I’ve always been strong,” she said, unsure of how she was supposed to answer. “We don’t treat our women like they are made of china where I’m from.”

            “Nor do we here,” said Torna, though the wilful lasses of his neighbourhood could hardly be compared to the fighter queen, Boudicca, who had lived just on the other side of the water. If Cairenn had any of that blood in her it was no surprise that she was tough.

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This follows the life of Niall Noigilleach (Niall of the unpronounceable Gaelic epithet), a 4th-century king of Ireland.

I used some key dates from actual history (although some would claim that Niall never actually existed and it's all mythology). The rest of it is fiction, which means I made it up.

updated Oct 29 '11 by delorfinde