Niall answered slowly, “The gold didn’t come from him. It came from several people. Including my own wife. She had a pair of earbobs from her mother, who served your parents, as you may recall. Ona has never worn them. When would she ever have reason? So, when she heard about this plan to make the bard a harp, she gave them to me. The rest of the metal came from Beatha and Sorcha. They also had jewelry that I melted down.”
Dessia’s anger turned to embarrassment. She’d all but accused Niall of stealing from her. “Can I hold it?” she asked.
He handed her the piece of metalwork. It was nearly as thin as parchment. The design on the front was exquisite, with the swirling lines of gold making a spiral. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “I had no idea you could make anything like this.”
Niall shrugged. “When would I have the chance? I spend my days making swords and knives and plowshares.”
“But how did you learn to do this?”
“My father taught me. He used to make fine metalwork for your father. In fact, he probably made Ona’s earrings that I melted down. I regretted destroying his work, but I couldn’t miss this opportunity to see what I could do on my own.” He looked at her, his greenish blue eyes gleaming like polished stones. “I’ve also studied some of the pieces the traders have for sale. You never let them show you jewelry, but usually if I offer to sharpen a knife for them or some other favor, they’ll take out their finer wares. Some of the pieces have colors on them using a technique called enamel. I’d like to learn how to do that. But of course . . .” He shrugged again.
Dessia was amazed. She could see how intent he was, how much this project meant to him. Although she’d never thought of Niall as an artist, he was, in as much as Bridei was one also.
The thought of Bridei reawakened her irritation. “I understand your desire to develop your skills. But I wish you’d come to me when the matter first arose. If you want to spend your extra time making jewelry or other fine ornaments, I have no problem with that. But this harp . . .” She trailed off, uncertain how to explain her objections. Starting again, she said, “The problem is not the metalwork or even the harp itself. The problem is this man Bridei. I don’t trust him, yet I’m afraid to send him away for fear he will go straight to my enemies and tell them how weak our defenses really are.”
“What about the spell of protection?” Niall asked.
“I . . . I don’t know how long I can maintain it. The magic involved is . . . it’s not permanent. It has to be renewed periodically and I worry that someday it will weaken or fail altogether.” As much as she hated admitting how vulnerable they really were, she didn’t feel she had a choice. She had to make someone understand the threat Bridei represented.
“But why are you so concerned that Bridei is a spy? He seems harmless enough to me.”
That’s because you’re not a woman, Dessia thought. But she said, “Something about him makes me uneasy. Ever since he arrived, I’ve had these strange dreams. I feel as if the gods were warning me of something.” Niall nodded solemnly, looking concerned. “It may be nothing,” she said, “but I can’t afford to take any chances.”
“Of course not,” Niall agreed. “But despite your doubts of him, this man Bridei is clearly a skilled bard. I see no reason why you shouldn’t allow him to perform. Nor do I understand why this matter of the harp concerns you. All the work on the harp is being done after our other duties are finished. I worked on the metalwork decorations until very late last night, yet I still fired up the forge this morning at the same time as always.”
“Very well. As long as it’s not interfering with your other responsibilities.” She knew she was defeated. There was no objection she could make that would satisfy him, or anyone else at Cahermara. She’d lost this battle, and Bridei—curse his handsome face—had won.
But the war wasn’t over, she assured herself as she left the smithy. Thinking about Bridei’s smug, mocking expression the night before aroused her ire to fever pitch. She couldn’t bear to let him think he’d had his way completely.
Instead of heading for the hall and her own chamber, she strode out the gate and around the side to where the workmen were laboring on the wall. Observing Bridei mixing mortar, she gestured for him to approach her. She was pleased to see that his hands were caked with lime and dust, and the rest of him none to clean either. He wouldn’t dare think of laying hands on her in this condition.
“Milady.” He inclined his head in an elegant gesture.
“I’m willing to let you and the men continue to make the harp, and even to let you perform in the hall when the instrument is finished. But I’m not doing this to gratify you, but because my people work hard for me and I want to reward their loyalty and devotion. If they’re keen to hear you play a harp and sing, I will allow it. But that doesn’t mean I’ve accepted you as a part of my household or that your position here is secure. I might decide at any time to send you away.”
“I wouldn’t presume to think I’d swayed you or charmed you in any way. Nay, not you, mighty queen and powerful sorceress that you are.”
“Don’t be insolent,” she snapped.
“Why not? You treat me with contempt and have no regard for my abilities. Why should I accept such treatment from you? I could leave at any time and go to another household. I don’t doubt that even at the most meager farm in Ireland I would be greeted with more graciousness than what you’ve offered.”
“Then why don’t you leave?” Dessia demanded, losing control. “I’ve never stopped you.”
He cocked his head, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps I will go elsewhere, but not until the harp is finished and I’ve played for your subjects. They deserve that much at least.”
“Aye, they do. They’ve worked hard to build this harp.”
His expression changed, the scornful mask falling away. “Do you know why the harp means so much to your people? Do you understand why they’ve gone to so much trouble? I’ll tell you,” he went on before she could answer. “It’s because they’re starved for music and pleasure in their lives. You speak of the harshness of your life, but you don’t realize how it’s been for them. Working every day for you and at the same time trying ensure their own survival. They’ve had no respite, no chance to make merry and celebrate and take joy in being alive. You’re a cruel ruler, to deprive them so. What would it have cost you to have a feast now and then, to let them get drunk on mead and have some traveling entertainer perform for them? But nay, you’ve decided to dedicate your life to grimness and duty, so they must live the same way.”
Dessia gasped. “That’s not true! We’ve had feasts. In late summer when my clients bring me the tribute they owe me we always butcher a steer and have a grand meal.”
“Once a year?” Bridei’s voice was contemptuous. “And did you have any entertainment at the feast? Or was it a dutiful, cheerless affair, mirroring the rest of your habits?”
“We’ve had bards come. I think there was one here last spring . . . or was it the year before . . .”
“See? It’s been so long you can’t even remember. And what about celebrating the traditional rites marking the turn of the seasons? I thought when I came here that perhaps people in Ireland had different beliefs, different gods. But I’ve found out that many of the gods here are the same as those of Britain. So why don’t you celebrate Beltaine, the festival honoring the sun god Belenos’s return to the sky? Or perform rites at Imbolc in honor of the goddess of fertility, who my people know as Rhiannon and yours as Brighid?
“People honor the gods to let them know they value their gifts,” he continued. “If you’re so concerned for the welfare your people, you might want to consider how you’ve turned away from the powerful forces that protect them. And even if you don’t celebrate the traditional festivals, you should have a feast just for the sheer pleasure of it. Your people are starved for music and laughter. Just because you’re willing to let yourself shrivel up and grow old before your time doesn’t mean your people have to f
ollow the same—“
“Stop!” Dessia cried. She felt tears come to her eyes, and she turned away and fought them back with all her will. He was right . . . about all of it. She had been very lax in observing the traditional rites due the gods. When she first regained Cahermara, there’d been too much to do and she hadn’t felt they had the resources to waste on such things. Later, when it would have been possible to observe the turning of the seasons, she’d been too bitter to make the effort. She’d blamed the gods for her family’s misfortune. They’d turned away from her, so why should she honor them?
But of course that wasn’t true. She might well have died the night the rest of her family had been killed. Should have died, in fact. But she hadn’t. The gods had saved her. And yet, for almost ten years now, she’d ignored them. The realization stunned her. The next moment she was furious that Bridei was the one who pointed these things out to her.
Whirling around, she snarled at him, “I suppose you’re a devout, dutiful servant of the gods and that’s why they’ve favored you.”
He laughed. “Hardly. Most of my life I haven’t even thought about them, let alone concerned myself with how they might influence my life. Of course, you could argue the things that have happened to me recently may be their way of punishing me for failing to heed them. I may be favored in some ways, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m stuck in a foreign land with no possessions of my own other than my now-tattered clothing.” He gestured to the ragged garment he wore. “I’m also at the mercy of a capricious and often spiteful queen who threatens to banish me every time I turn around.”
“Capricious! Spiteful!” Dessia’s arm drew back of its own accord, and she was on the verge of striking him when she realized that doing so would prove his words true. She lowered her arm and swallowed, feeling once again as if she might weep. What was it about this man that brought out the worst in her?
His voice dropped in pitch, becoming that rich, vibrant instrument he used when he sang. “Of course, the queen whose favor I depend upon is also beautiful and proud and absolutely magnificent, and I count it as no great hardship to stay in her household. Though she may be stubborn and foolish, I know that she has a warm and tender heart and cares for her people much more than most rulers. She is also bold and brave, and like the rest of her subjects, I am honored to serve her.”
The sound of his voice throbbed through her, filling her with longing and hunger. She wanted to move close to him and have him hold her in his arms. If they hadn’t been near the work site, in plain view of the other men, she probably would have done so. Instead, she drew a shaky breath. “What pretty words you speak. But I must remember how skilled you are at flattery. It’s the thing you do to earn your livelihood. I’m sure you don’t have to stop and think what to say. You know all the compliments by heart, are well aware of what every woman wants to hear.”
His expression grew fierce and passionate. “But you’re not any woman. You’re a queen, and that makes my admiration for you all the more keen. Do you think I tell every woman she’s magnificent? That I comment on what a fine ruler she is? The truth is, I admire you not only for your beauty, but also for your bravery and determination, your selfless devotion to your people and your cause. My criticisms are only meant to remind you that there is more to life than duty and struggle. I want to see you smile and laugh . . . and dance. If you will let me perform not only for your people, but for you alone, I vow I can give you those gifts.”
Bridei drew near, so close she could see the dusky shadow of whiskers on his jaw. Dessia shivered, remembering the hunger with which their lips had met, as if they were starving people at a feast. The boundaries between their bodies blurring until she hadn’t known where her own self ended and his flesh began.
“Nay!” She backed away. “I’ll allow you to perform for my people in the hall, but I won’t give you a chance to use your ruthless charm on me in private.” Whirling, she stalked off.
* * *
Bridei went back to breaking rocks. His hands holding the hammer trembled. Thank the gods she’d walked away. Maybe her pride would keep her from ever allowing him to get close to her. But was that what he wanted? If it was, then why didn’t he leave? Why stay here and torture both of them?
He couldn’t understand what was happening to him. Never before had he felt this way. It was if the ground beneath his feet had turn to marsh mud. He wanted her with a passion he’d never experienced before. And yet, he was afraid of her.
He didn’t know what to do. Reason told him to leave. But he couldn’t quite make himself do it. And now there was the matter of the harp to consider. He had to stay to see the thing through. It would be nearly a fortnight before the strings were properly dried and seasoned. Then they would have a feast and he would play.
And then, the gods willing, he would leave.
Chapter 9
Dessia gazed out at the gray sheets of rain. Shivering, she closed the shutters and stepped away from the window. She was trapped inside for another day, and so was everyone else in the hillfort. Since they couldn’t work and their barracks were so cold, Nally had asked if the workmen could gather in the hall where the roaring fire in the hearth provided plenty of heat. He’d given them tasks to keep them busy—making arrow shafts, scraping hides, polishing weapons and tools. But these were all things that required little concentration, and after a while, someone—probably Eth—had suggested that Bridei could tell them stories to pass the time. Now, Bridei was down in her hall, entertaining and charming her people. The thought of it made Dessia want to scream.
As she paced in the small chamber, Aife entered. The serving girl set the tray containing bread and cheese for Dessia’s morning meal on the table, and said, “You should go down, milady. There’s no sense you staying up here where it’s so drafty and cold.”
“I have work to do.” Dessia gestured to a parchment lying on the table.
“Begging your pardon, milady, but you’ve been working on those manuscripts for months now. Taking one day off won’t change anything.”
“I have no desire to listen to Bridei tell a bunch of silly tales.”
“Oh, but he’s not telling tales now.”
Dessia stopped pacing and looked at the serving girl. “Has he run out of stories? Or have the workmen grown tired of listening to him?”
“Nay. I vow they would be happy to listen to him for another fortnight. But he said it wasn’t fair for him to entertain the people in hall and ignore the others who had tasks in the kitchen or other areas. So, instead of telling tales, he’s switched to talking about places he’s been and things he’s seen. Of course, that’s almost as interesting as any tale. Yesterday he told about a place called Narbonne, across the sea on the other side of Britain. There’s a huge market there where they sell all sorts of things—slaves and horses, silks and spices. It sounds like an amazing place. Then, he described the conflict between his people and the Saxons. He told about this warrior king named Arthur, who tried to drive the Saxons out of Britain, but who ended up being defeated and killed by his own son who’d allied himself with the enemy.”
A thought came to Dessia. Maybe this was her chance to learn more about Bridei’s background. She would ask Aife to question him. If she could get him to talk freely, she might be able discover if the story he told about being captured by slavers was really true.
“I want you to do something for me,” she said to Aife, “I want you to go down to the hall and ask Bridei questions about his homeland and his family. Don’t let him tell you that such things aren’t interesting or avoid the subject. Be coaxing and sweet and let him think you’re so enamored of him that you desire to know every detail of his life. Ask him how he ended up with the slavers. Where they captured him and why the slavers didn’t worry that someone would come after them.”
Aife nodded. “You’re trying to find out if the story he gave us is true.”
“Aye. That’s exactly what I’m doing. He won’t be suspicious
or threatened by you, so he’s more likely to tell you the truth, or at least let something slip. I’m going to be there listening, although he won’t know it.”
“How will you manage that?”
“I’ll be in disguise.” Dessia grew excited as the plan began to take shape in her mind. She would dress up as one of the serving women and remain on the edges of those gathered around the fire. If she appeared old and bent and slow, Bridei would never notice her, especially while he was flirting with Aife.
“Very well, milady. I’ll do it. But I’m not certain your plan will work. Bridei strikes me as a man who’s very careful about what he says.”
“But his tongue might loosen if questioned by you, a pretty maid who acts besotted with him.”
“I’m not certain he’ll believe I have any interest in him. I think he knows how I feel about Keenan.”
“Keenan?” Dessia was stunned. She’d had no idea her serving maid had any interest in her man-of-arms.
Aife blushed and ducked her head. “I . . . I am fond of him, milady.”
Dessia didn’t know what to say. She felt vaguely resentful. Keenan was the person whose loyalty she depended upon most. She didn’t need a rival in her own serving maid. Of course, Keenan’s responsibility to her was a much different matter than his personal affections. And he might not feel the same way as the Aife did.
“Does Keenan return your affections?”
Aife blushed a deeper hue of rose. “I think so, milady.”
Dessia nodded stiffly. She knew her reaction was unfair and unkind. There was no reason her maid shouldn’t have a paramour. No reason Keenan couldn’t have an interest in another woman besides her. But somehow, this knowledge hurt her . . . and made her feel deeply alone.
It was also aggravating that Bridei—who barely knew either of these young people—should be aware of their fondness for each other while she’d been oblivious.
The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) Page 9
