Maire Page 13

  Instead of taking offense, he leaned toward her. “Nay, Maire, you’ve all the wits a queen merits, but think a moment…the last thing you need is another enemy.”

  Her ear grew warm at the low rumble of his whisper against it.

  “No thanks to you.”

  “Your enmity with Morlach was made the moment you decided against marrying him. I’ll not be blamed for that.”

  “Hah, no! And you just made him all the madder.”

  “Did I? Do you really think he’d kill you any more for my words than for your refusal?”

  Maire snatched up the discarded half of the loaf, pulled off a pinch, and popped it into her mouth. With each chew, the truth became increasingly clear: She was taking out her anger, her fear, on Rowan.

  “And what will you do with the Cairthan? March up to their hills and challenge their champion for the return of our livestock?”

  “If necessary. Better for you to show good judgment and a cool head. As you once said, you could use all the swords you can muster to go against Morlach.”

  “Ally with that ragged lot of dung spreaders?” Maire laughed, totally without humor. “You’re more fey than I thought. Maeve took their land, leastwise, the best of it. I sit on what they consider to be their throne. I’d never be able to turn my back on a one of them.”

  “Keep them to your side, Maire, not to your back.”

  “Aye, in chains, mayhap.”

  “Shoulder to shoulder, sword in hand, should it come to that with Morlach. I suspect it will.”

  “And how will you bring this about? You, a Welshman, who has never set foot on Scotti soil.”

  Something kindled in Rowan’s gaze, something that smacked of self-assurance, and she had the oddest sense…as though he knew something she did not. He leaned back on the bench with a look that suggested he’d won their debate.

  “The race is not to the swift nor the battle to the strong.”

  Maire frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Ecclesiastes.”

  “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that even the greatest of man-or womankind can’t always win solely on strength or speed.”

  “But with wit?” Maire ventured. Emrys might fight like a soldier, but he talked like a priest, with words that made little sense, more often than not.

  “Wit enough to recognize there are times when we need help… and faith in God to supply it.”

  “I have faith in the strength and speed of the good warriors gathered here. And in my wit and Brude’s council.”

  “Then why are you so troubled?”

  “Because I’ve a wart the size of a full grown man sitting at my side, blatherin’ on, witless as a pig in a mud wallow.” Maire liked it better when the man was silent. He saw too much, this one, as though he could read her thoughts like letters in a book.

  “I will ask God to show me the way to make friends of worthy opponents.”

  “Then do it somewhere else. I’ve no yearnin’ to hear about god, nor any more of this nonesuch.”

  Maire gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of speaking one on one with this god. Still, if a god actually gave advice directly to the man…

  “And let me know what this god has to say about the Cairthan. Like as not, if he’s made their acquaintance, he’d see us run them clear to Connaught.”

  Emrys smiled, seemingly satisfied. And though Maire was bemused at what put the crook in his lips, at least he was quiet.

  A commotion at the door opposite them drew her attention from the Welshman to where Brude entered followed by his servant Glas. Maire’s pulse quickened as the druid acknowledged her with a bow of his half-shaven head. The gathered crowd parted like a sea to allow the white-robed Brude through, their revelry quieted in reverence to his presence. The song of triumph was done. Their victory would be commemorated to lyric and passed down from generation to generation until children whispered their names as though they were legend.

  Brude took the seat of honor next to Maire, where he’d sat years before and sung to the glory of Maeve, Rhian, and their predecessors. He knew Maire’s genealogy back to their Milesian forefathers. Her claim was blood royal, her role as queen her birthright.

  Beside Maire, Rowan ap Emrys sat suddenly upright, but the new queen paid him little attention. She watched Glas hand over Macha, the druid’s harp.

  Suddenly Rowan was on his feet. With an oath, he took two strides toward the thin, bent Glas and turned the man toward him to study his face.

  “It is you, Glasdam!”

  The servant stared up at the warrior with wide, wary eyes.

  Rowan shook him gently. “Do you not know me, friend?”

  Glas raised a gnarled hand to his mouth, shaking his head slowly.

  “He’s a half-wit,” Maire informed her husband. “Brude found him badly beaten, his tongue cut out and near death.”

  Brude nodded slowly. “I nursed my good friend back to health, such as was possible. He’s been with me ever since.” Brow arched, the druid looked from Glas to Rowan curiously. “You believe you know him?”

  The Welshman hesitated. “I thought I did. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

  Brude turned to the servant. “Do you know this man, Glas?”

  The man answered in a series of frantic gestures.

  “We developed a simple method of communicating with hand signals,” the druid explained. “He says he isn’t certain, but that you were not the man who beat him and left him for dead. As Queen Maire’s new husband, he is honored to know you. The men who did this to him were Cairthan.”

  “Is this true?”

  Rowan’s bellow gave Maire a start. Where insult failed, an injustice to an old man fired her husband’s gaze hot as a smith’s bellows. Anger knotted his facial muscles and flared at his nostrils. Indeed, she’d married a curious man, as curious as his god. Would she even know him long enough to understand him?

  Not that she needed to, she reminded herself as Brude’s man confirmed the answer with a nod. She was queen. It was her will and whim that counted. And in this case, she was right.

  “And you’d seek an alliance with men who would do this to a helpless old man?”

  The fire of her companion’s gaze shifted to her. Whatever reply he had was trapped behind the steel of his clenched jaw. Instead of answering he sat back on the bench in brooding silence.

  “And now, my queen,” Brude spoke up. “As you have pleased the gods and honored your clan in battle and wisdom, it is only fitting that your song be sung for its first time on the night of your inauguration.”

  The druid took up a horned cup from one of the serving wenches and raised it.

  “May he who lives in the sun and created both heaven and earth bless you with heirs as worthy of Maeve’s bench as yourself.”

  The tension precipitated by Brude’s arrival and increased by the Welshman’s outburst gave way to cheers and huzzahs all around. Maire’s name echoed from the high-pitched ceiling, where the smoke of two hearth fires curled in confusion before seeking escape through the vent hole left by the thatchers. Gradually the cheering gave way to demand for the song that would honor their new queen.

  The clear ring of Macha’s strings cut it off clean as a sharp blade did a tender vine. Anticipation waited on each face as Brude began to pluck a noble tune from the harp with fingers skilled from years of experience. Like magic, the music drew men and women alike to the edge of their seats, entranced, anxious to hear the words that would accompany it. Then came the words.

  First, Maire’s genealogy and the story of Maeve and Rhian flowed from the druid’s lips, setting the stage for Maire’s story. Maire heard of her birth and the grand celebration as her parents presented a squalling redhaired babe, already able to scream like a banshee, to their clansmen. Declan and Eochan sat taller when honor was given to Drumkilly and the foster family who raised the queen to fulfill her destiny. At the mention of each clan that accompanied her on her fi
rst foray across the sea, the so-named members cheered their recognition.

  It was all there, the taking of the plunder from the monastery, as well as the battle of champions between the new queen and the man now at her side. Brude praised her wisdom in avoiding bloodshed by taking on the risk alone against the skilled blade of Rowan ap Emrys. Surely the mating of two such warriors would produce kings and queens to protect and carry Gleannmara’s glory into eternity.

  He heralded her courage in standing up to the man who had bled her people dry and put into lyric the noble vision of Rowan ap Emrys emerging from the sea on his white warhorse to send the apprentice of evil scampering back to his master with Gleannmara’s rejection.

  It was such a grand account, Maire hardly recognized the bold, fearless, decisive leader described in the poem. Memories of her uncertainty and anxiety told a different account, but they would have no place in Brude’s history. Again, Maire wondered if her mother had such memories at odds with accounts of her deeds and her reign.

  “And so it was that fair Gleannmara came to be ruled by Maire and Rowan, with the courage and skill of the Finians, the wisdom of the Sacred Salmon of the Boyne, and the justice of the Brehons. May the light of their love and deeds shine forever cherished in the minds of generations to come.”

  The massive framework of the hall literally shook with the applause of voice, weapon, hands, and feet when Brude strummed a final chord across Macha’s strings. Yet the words thundering in Maire’s mind were not as easily accepted. Produce kings and queens… light of their love…

  Had her mother loved Rhian at first? Was Maire the product of love or of breeding? She lifted her cup of mead high in acknowledgment of her peoples’ homage and smiled, her face a mask of royal satisfaction. Maire was drawn from her inner thoughts as Rowan stood up at her side and turned to honor her with lifted cup.

  All signs of his earlier anger were gone. His eyes danced as he spoke in a raised voice.

  “There is but one addition I would make to your song, Maire of Gleannmara.”

  Maire stiffened warily. What was Emrys about now?

  “Your Brude records that I was conquered by your sword in a fair fight, but that is not exactly the case.”

  Declan was on his feet like a shot, his hand flying to the hilt of his weapon. “How dare you insult our queen!”

  As hostage, Emrys had no weapon with which to defend himself. Maire inserted herself between the two men before her foster brother reached the royal bench.

  Seemingly oblivious to his danger, Rowan turned her with one hand, his glass lifted in the other as he went on, bowing slightly. “Stay still, rooster, for I mean to compliment my wife.”

  Compliment? Now Maire was truly leery.

  “A man’s sword skill is of little use when his adversary is possessed of a far greater weapon.”

  So that’s where he was going. “The use of my stinger was just as—”

  “Let Maire’s beauty and wit, not the bite of steel, be recorded as the weapons with which Rowan ap Emrys was smitten into surrender.”

  The man’s silver tongue has delivered him again, Maire realized as her people’s acceptance roared in her ears. What true-blooded Celt could possibly object?

  Stepping up at Declan’s side, the comely Lianna ran admiring fingers over his arm’s muscled taper, but her eyes were for none other than Rowan ap Emrys.

  “Gleannmara’s king has not only the body of a god and the skill of a warrior but the heart and wit of a bard. Well chosen, good cousin,” the young woman acknowledged without so much as a glance at the new queen.

  TWELVE

  It was only fitting that the new queen and her husband be escorted to the chief’s dwelling when the revelry reached its peak. The canopy of vines, which once connected the dwelling to the hall so that the royal family might traverse in inclement weather without becoming soaked, had collapsed. Maire fondly remembered the round, wattled dwelling from childhood with its two-foot thick double wall filled with moss and earth to preserve heat in the winter. Its massive wooden frame—two circles of poles that supported the shaggy thatched roof and into which the walls were tenoned—looked as tall as the trees in the sacred grove. Her father’s carvings decorated those left exposed, for Rhian’s talents extended from the sword to a set of intricate carving tools, which he’d kept rolled in a leather cloth.

  Maire stepped inside, amazed to see the room had shrunk considerably. The fact that the Roman bed took up so much floor space, leaving scant room for a fire, tossed the folly of her choice in her face. Rowan’s short laugh added force to it.

  “Your desire for grandeur dwarfs your accommodations, Maire.”

  “Queen Maire to you, hostage.”

  As she spoke, she whirled round to slap him for his insolence, but thought better of it. Not that she was afraid of her husband, but in truth, there was merit to his humor. It was a ridiculous sight. A smile tweaked the corner of her mouth, giving way to amusement. Maire plopped down on the mattress. Freshly stuffed with rushes, it moved plump and soft beneath her weight as she looked around the room, taking it all in.

  The walls and carved columns were dull with the soot of years, not white with lime or polished with oil. She could hardly make out the marvelous art her father had created on the poles. She recalled lying in bed and studying their symmetry on the oiled wood until she faded into sleep. The light of the fire made it glisten like a fairy’s staff.

  “I was just a child when I last saw this place. It was so much brighter and decidedly bigger then.” Maire sobered from her whimsy. “Morlach has even blighted my home!”

  “I don’t think you can blame the druid for this, my queen. The structure hasn’t shrunk from its original size, but you now look upon it with the eyes of a full grown woman, not a little girl.”

  It was true, Maire knew. She ran a nostalgic finger along the notches Rhian had made to mark his only child’s growth near the door. They were scarcely higher than her breastplate now. So this was how it looked to her parents, at least from the perspective of size. Pulled from her musings by her companion’s shadow moving on the wall hanging, she returned to the present.

  Rowan shrugged off his cloak and tossed it on the foot of the bed. The mean robe he wore beneath starkly contrasted the luxurious weave of the dressings, yet it in no way diminished the nobility of his stature. In coarse wool or the finest of silk, Rowan ap Emrys would stand tall and commanding among men. And women, Maire mused, watching him walk around the bed to the table placed against the curved wall. There he poured water from a golden pitcher into a matching bowl. Inlaid with an intricate silver pattern of circles to signify everlasting life and love, it had been a wedding gift from Diarhmott to her mother and father.

  “And where did you disappear to when Brude left the hall?” Her question was not spawned of jealousy; although its green fingers plucked at her the way some of the women flirted outright with Rowan. She couldn’t say he’d encouraged it, but neither had it been discouraged.

  “I left to speak to the druid’s servant. I was certain that we’ve met somewhere in the past.”

  “Did he remember you?”

  “He acted as though he did; though he could not tell me from when or where our last meeting was.”

  The Welshman was honest, if nothing else. While she was, at least on the surface, involved in the revel and games, Maire had not missed Rowan’s discreet exit. With Declan beginning to slur speech over his cup, she’d sent Eochan after the man. Her foster brother reported that the hostage followed the druid back to his lodge and met briefly with Brude’s servant. Glas had to be calmed, such was his joy to finally recognize Emrys.

  “Perhaps Brude could discern the mystery for you.”

  Rowan shook his head. “I need no augury performed in my name. The facts will come out in time. So what do you think, lovely queen? Do we dare trust the fire not to leap to the bed or the wall?”

  The fire had been moved from its central position in the round enclosure to
the foot of the bed. It was too close to both in Maire’s judgment. Still, winter had not quite let go of the air and a toasty fire would dissolve its chilly grasp, at least beneath her roof.

  “Bank the fire. We’ll make other arrangements tomorrow. For tonight, I am exhausted.”

  “Then by your leave…” Rowan knelt beside the bed and folded his hands against his chest.

  “I’ll have a larger lodge built and one for your temple altar. That way you needn’t worship the bed or perform your augury in here.”

  The man looked up at Maire, his face a mirror of a father’s patience with its child. Nonetheless, it rankled Maire to be at the disadvantage of ignorance.

  “I’m not worshiping the bed, Maire. I’m kneeling in reverence to God. And even that isn’t necessary, for I often speak to Him when I’m walking the fields or riding the hills. As for a temple or altar, my queen, it is here.” He placed his hand over his amulet.

  “In the Chi-Rho?”

  “This is but an earthly symbol. My temple is in my heart, my soul. It’s here that I speak with God.”

  Perhaps she should have taken the large gold cross he’d prayed to after all, since neither he nor, evidently, his God, were particularly attached to such things.

  “Good, because we’ve much to do to rebuild our defenses before I can indulge in a larger dwelling place. We’ll store away the bed till then and use the bed box my parents shared.”

  Except that they would not share it as her parents had.

  Aware that her breath had sharpened, Maire unlaced the ceremonial shoes and removed them, focusing her attention on something less disconcerting. After the royal coronation, they would be sewn together and hung by the chieftain’s door. When the time came, she would be buried with them and other trappings from her rule. When she entered the other world in the west, perhaps they would fit her spirit’s feet better than hers.

  Crom’s toes, this Christian had her thinking about spirits now! She cut a sidewise glance at him. His eyes were closed, their lashes thick and dark upon the noble ridges of his cheeks, but it was his lips that caught her attention. They moved in silent earnest, and with each syllable, the furrows of his brow faded until just a trace of their presence remained. Whatever had deepened them earlier that evening and knotted up the muscles of his temples and jaws had left, at least for the present.