The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island)

by Mary Gillgannon

  “Milady, do you want me to go down and start asking Bridei questions now?”

  Dessia’s thoughts snapped back to the present. “First, I need to have you help me create a disguise. I’ll need some old clothing and a basket of sewing or something else I can be working on.”

  * * *

  Dessia waited until midmorning to creep down the stairs. She wanted as many people as possible to be in the hall, so it would be less likely Bridei would notice her. As she’d hoped, the hall was crowded. Everyone from the workmen to the warriors to the women of the fortress and their children had come to the hall to escape the weather and also—she felt certain—to hear Bridei. They’d all brought tasks of some sort. The women had their spinning, sewing and weaving. There was a large loom that was set up near the hearth, and Sorcha was working on a piece of a blue and red plaid fabric. Meanwhile, the men busied themselves polishing and oiling weapons and tools and carving implement handles and other things made of wood. The children played quietly in one corner. In the center of the gathering, near the hearth, was Bridei. He was using a cloth to polish the wood frame of the harp and appeared quite involved in the task.

  Dessia pulled the grimy, raw wool shawl lower over her face. Hunching her shoulders and keeping her knees bent to make herself appear shorter, she shuffled forward, moving to the side of the hall where most of the women were. A few of them glanced at her curiously, but didn’t say anything. She hoped they’d think she was Glenna, an elderly widow who lived not far from Cahermara and who sometimes came to the fortress to sell honey or baskets. While it would be unusual for Glenna to be out in this weather, it wasn’t impossible.

  A woman named Finola gave up her stool so Dessia could sit down. Still keeping her head bowed, Dessia nodded and murmured her thanks. She was very grateful to be able to sit, as standing hunched over was becoming a strain. From the cloth bundle she carried, she took out a half-finished basket and positioned it on her lap. As she pretended to be weaving it, the long sleeves of the ragged tunic she wore fell back, revealing her fingers with their smooth skin and manicured nails. She quickly adjusted the fabric, hoping no one had noticed.

  Her heart began to race as she considered how foolish she’d look if anyone recognized her. How would she explain why she’d come to her own hall in disguise? Her tension grew until at last she saw Aife enter carrying a basket of embroidery. Instead of joining the other women, Aife made her way through the men to where Bridei sat near the hearth. Aife sank down on the worn hide at his feet. Bridei immediately leaned down and said something to her, likely offering her a seat on the bench next to him. Dessia saw Aife shake her head and then, getting to her knees so her face was close to Bridei’s, Aife continued her coaxing. Smiling, Bridei shook his head. Aife persisted. Although Dessia couldn’t see her maid’s face, she could imagine her pleading expression, her dainty dimples and small white teeth. Her blue eyes would sparkle and her voice would be soft and cajoling. How could Bridei resist?

  Dessia watched as Aife turned and gestured to everyone gathered in the hall. It was clear she was trying to convince Bridei that the rest of the people would enjoy hearing him tell of his life as much as she would.

  Bridei responded, and Dessia held her breath. It would be very aggravating if he refused Aife’s request. She would have gone to all this trouble for nothing. All at once he straightened, and smiling broadly, announced to the room, “Aife has asked me to tell you about my homeland and my family. Although it’s a rather dull tale, she assures me that after being stuck inside for two days, you’re all eager for any sort of diversion.”

  Dessia smiled faintly. How clever Aife was, to appeal to Bridei’s yearning for an audience. Although he strove to appear modest, his natural arrogance had won out.

  “I was born in north Gwynedd,” Bridei began, “on the western edge of Britain. Gwynedd is a rugged land of steep mountains and heavily forested hills, but it also has verdant green valleys and beautiful beaches. Most of my people—who call themselves the Cymry—are not farmers, but herders, as much of the land isn’t suitable for raising crops. We have sheep and some cattle, but not as many as you seem to have here in Eire. I grew up along the coast, at my father’s chief fortress of Deganwy. It’s a stronghold similar to Cahermara, although Deganwy is situated on a hill right above the coast, enabling us to keep watch for raiders from the sea.”

  “Is that how you were captured and brought here? By raiders?” asked one of the men.

  Bridei shook his head. “In the years before I was born, boats from Ireland used to land on our beaches and steal away women and children to enslave. But my father and his warriors put a stop to that. They killed enough of the slavers that word spread that Gwynedd wasn’t a good place to raid.”

  “If you weren’t captured by slavers in your homeland, where did it happen?” asked Aife.

  Dessia watched as a bitter expression crossed Bridei’s face. The next moment, it was gone. “It was in the north, at a place known as Catraith. And I wasn’t captured by slavers, but given to them by the local chieftain. You see, I’d angered him, and he decided to get rid of me by giving me to the slavers.”

  “What an awful betrayal,” one of the men said. “You must have been very angry.”

  Bridei smiled wryly. “Of course, I may have deserved such treatment. After all, I did bed the chieftain’s daughter. She was willing, but still . . .” He gestured casually and continued to smile.

  There was laughter among the crowd, but there was an uneasy edge to it. Those men who had daughters weren’t much amused, and some of the women had to be thinking sympathetically of the young princess.

  Dessia first reaction was anger and the thought that the wretch deserved exactly what he’d gotten. But then she considered the story more carefully and realized something sounded false. Bridei might be unscrupulous enough to bed a chieftain’s daughter, but he wasn’t foolish, and that’s how this story made him sound. There was also the look on his face right before he answered Aife’s question. The obvious bitterness Dessia had seen didn’t jibe with the carelessness with which he told the tale. He’s lying, she thought. But why?

  As Bridei returned to describing Gwynedd and recounting amusing incidents from his childhood, Dessia’s suspicions grew. Bridei had dismissed the matter of his enslavement very abruptly. Perhaps the reason he didn’t give more details was because it had never happened. How was she going to find out more? Perhaps she could have Aife seek him out later and press him for details. But if she did that, she would have to rely on Aife to interpret his answers. Frustration built in her. She’d been so certain this ruse would allow her to see the real Bridei. Instead, she’d discovered more layers of lies and deception.

  But she wouldn’t give up. The day was early yet. She listened as Bridei talked about his father, Maelgwn the Great: “They call him that because he’s very tall. Taller than any man at Cahermara. My eldest brother inherited his height, but I did not. We have different mothers, and my mother, the lady Rhiannon, is a tiny thing, as dainty and fine to look upon as one of the fey folk, who your people call fairies. I have my smaller stature from her, and because I was not a huge monster of a man, I chose not to become a warrior.” The look of bitterness crossed his face again. “It was a matter of great contention between my father and myself. He never believed there was any other worthwhile life for one of his sons. Odd in a way, considering that he spent nearly five years in a house of holy men.”

  Several people gasped in surprise. It was Eth who asked what they were all thinking. “Your father became a holy brother? But why, if he was a warrior and a great king?”

  “It’s a strange tale, and a sad one,” Bridei answered. “You see, my father’s first wife, a Roman British woman named Aurora, died in childbirth. The babe died as well, and my father was very distraught. Although the match had been made for political reasons, my father loved this woman. When he lost her, it broke his heart. He cared for nothing and almost lost his will to live.”

 
Dessia could almost hear a sigh of sadness fill the hall. Who among them had not lost someone they loved and been so bereaved they could scarce go on? She herself had dealt with that crushing grief for many years after her family was killed.

  Bridei continued, “I think in some way my father blamed himself for Aurora’s death. A senseless idea, and yet many people react that way. He also had many regrets, for although he came to love this woman deeply, the early days of their marriage had been stormy and wrought with strife. He couldn’t stop thinking of all the time he’d lost. And then there was the babe that perished with her. His son, the promise of his line.

  “He didn’t know it then, but he had another son. My eldest brother was conceived before my father was married. Rhun’s mother kept his birth a secret, for reasons of her own. And so, after Aurora died, my father was beyond caring for anything. He went to a nearby priory and told them he wanted to give it all up—his kingdom, his power, his wealth. He became a brother and lived a modest and holy life of prayer and contemplation for nearly ten years.”

  “What happened then?” Eth asked. “Why did he leave the priory?”

  A faint smile quirked Bridei’s mouth. “The story he tells is that one of his former warriors came to him and told him his kingdom was falling apart and the people of Gwynedd desperately needed him. He says he returned to being king because it seemed to be his duty, what God wanted him to do. For myself, I think he must have become heartily bored in the priory after all those years and was more than ready to leave.”

  There was laughter at this, and Bridei joined in. “At any rate,” he continued, “he came back, fought to regain the lands that had been lost, married my mother—which is another tale altogether—and once again reigned as the powerful warlord they call the Dragon of the Island.”

  As she had the first time she hear Bridei call his father by this name, Dessia felt a chill down her spine. Her vision didn’t waver and she didn’t see a crimson banner with a gold dragon on the wall, but she vividly recalled the image and the way it had appeared, and wondered again what the gods were trying to tell her about this man.

  Bridei continued to regale his audience with stories about his father’s rise to power and his prowess in battle. Dessia grew impatient. This was all very interesting, especially the part about his father’s first marriage and his decision to enter a priory, but it brought her no nearer to finding out Bridei’s true motives. She wondered if Aife was ever going to coax Bridei to turn the subject back to himself. Her back ached from being hunched over and the awful cloak she wore was scratching her skin.

  At last, Aife said, “You’ve told us a great deal about your family and homeland, but I can’t help wondering why you haven’t returned to visit for so many years.”

  Dessia watched as Bridei’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. You’re thinking that if my father is such a great man, why do I want nothing to do with him? Yet it was he who sent me away. We had a falling out when I was very young, only barely grown, and we’ve never repaired the rift.”

  “What was the falling out over?” Aife asked, her voice so gentle that Dessia could barely hear her words.

  “It hardly matters now,” Bridei answered brusquely. “I was only fourteen winters when he banished me from his household. I was resourceful, but fourteen is a very young age to be on one’s own.” He paused and looked around the room, making eye contact with his listeners. As he glanced her direction, Dessia swiftly ducked her head.

  It wasn’t until he began speaking again that Dessia dared raise her gaze. Bridei seemed to be looking far off into the distance and his voice had grown contemplative. “When I left Gwynedd, I was yet a boy in many ways. But somehow I survived. I found my way to the eastern coast of Britain and hired on with a ship’s crew. It wasn’t a pleasant life, but it enabled me to eat. I traveled many places. North to the land of the Saxons and Frisians, west to Less Britain, where the people speak a tongue very close to that of my homeland, then south and down through the narrow straits of the Pillars of Hercules. Passing through there, we reached an inland sea and followed the coast of the land of the Iberians until we reached Gaul and its chief port, Narbonne. I’ve told you about the market there, but I haven’t told what happened to me the first time I went there. I made the mistake of getting separated from my shipmates. Some men seized me and took me to the slave market and sold me.”

  A wave of shock seemed to pass through those gathered in the hall. Dessia herself knew a surge of sympathy for Bridei, or at least the boy he’d been. It must have been terrifying, to be enslaved at a mere fourteen winters of age, so far away from home and all hope of rescue.

  “What happened then?” Aife asked breathlessly.

  Bridei’s smile was tight. “Most of what you’d expect. I won’t go into the brutal details, but suffice to say I didn’t like being a slave. But one good thing did come of it. While I was a captive I learned to play the harp. I also found out I had a pleasant singing voice and a way with words. When I finally escaped, I had the means to earn my keep. I was also much better able to fend for myself in other ways. It’s not only the British and Irish races that honor musicians and poets. Most civilized peoples have respect for bards and accord them a place of honor in their households. Your queen, being the exception, of course.”

  Dessia suppressed a gasp. The audacity of the man—to imply she was some sort of uncouth barbarian because she’d hadn’t asked him to serve as her bard! She must have made a sound, for Finola turned and looked at her. Dessia froze in dread, wondering if she would be exposed. There could hardly be a worse moment for it, just after Bridei had ridiculed her for her treatment of him.

  But everyone else seemed to be too caught up in Bridei’s tale to notice her. “How long were you a slave?” Eth asked. “How did you escape?”

  “I was a slave for nearly two years. As for how I escaped, it was simple. I killed my master.” Another murmur of shock and surprise rippled through the hall. Bridei went on: “My master wasn’t well-liked, and once he was dead, no one in his household saw fit to detain me. By the time the authorities arrived, I was long gone. The difficult part was making my way back to Narbonne. The man who’d purchased me lived in a land far to the east, and I had to get passage back across the great sea. But I managed to do it, and even kept the harp I’d stolen. It was an incredible instrument. My master was a merchant and had a house full of rare and beautiful things. Furniture of fine wood, gilded with gold and cushioned with brilliant-hued silk fabrics, gaming pieces carved of ivory and set with jewels. He ate from plates of gold and drank from pearl-encrusted goblets. And the food we dined upon was also splendid—rare fruits, spiced meats, and the most delicious wines.”

  Dessia could feel her mouth watering and realized she hadn’t eaten that morning. But it wasn’t simply hunger his words aroused, but a yearning of all her senses, as he painted a picture of a world of exotic, provocative delights.

  “And your harp?” Eth asked. “Was it also decorated with gems and gold?”

  “Nay, it had no adornments. Its value came from its exquisite tone. With twelve strings, it could capture every sound from the whisper of the wind through the leaves to the boom of thunder, yet it was small enough to fit into a pack. I carried it with me for nearly ten years, until I was forced to leave it behind when the Catraith chieftain gave me to the slavers.”

  “But now we’re making you another harp,” Eth said, gesturing to the half-finished instrument on Bridei’s lap. “Soon you can play it, and make all those sounds you told us about.”

  “I’ll try,” answered Bridei.

  One of the women approached Bridei with a pottery cup and handed it to him. Bridei thanked her and tilting back his head, took a deep swallow. Watching the grace of his movements, Dessia was struck by sheer beauty of the man. She had a strong suspicion why the foreign merchant had purchased him. At fourteen years old, Bridei would still have been a boy, and a strikingly attractive one at that. Dessia had heard of bedslaves, and the taste of some
men for young males. The thought of it horrified her and aroused her intense sympathy for Bridei. She couldn’t imagine being used in such a way. To endure such treatment at such a tender age—how could anyone ever get over it?

  But was the story true? Perhaps these things had actually happened to someone else, someone Bridei had known in his travels. Yet the cold rage she’d seen on his face as he talked of killing his master—that was surely real. What a puzzle Bridei ap Maelgwn was.

  * * *

  Had Queen Dessia discovered what she wanted to know? Bridei sipped the hot cider Beatha had brought him. His gaze strayed to where the queen sat, dressed in her ridiculous disguise. He’d known it was her as soon as she entered the hall. For all her efforts to hunch over and shuffle as she walked, she was too tall to be the withered crone she sought to portray. He was surprised no one else had taken note of her. But these people were comfortable here, while he was a stranger and must always be on his guard.

  He’d let down his defenses in other ways, having told the people of Cahermara more about his life and his background than he’d ever told anyone. He wasn’t certain why he’d revealed so much. Perhaps it was because he’d known Dessia was listening, and he wanted her to realize he’d suffered in his life, that she wasn’t the only one who’d endured terrible things.

  But the part about the chieftain’s daughter in Catraith, that had been a mistake. Implying that he’d seduced a young noblewoman hadn’t earned him much sympathy. He’d only told them that because he feared the truth wasn’t convincing. There really was no good reason for Dolgar to have sold him into slavery. Although the Brigante chieftain might have disliked him, it was out of character for Dolgar to plot murder. Someone must have paid him to do it. That awareness had gnawed on Bridei ever since the slavers put shackles on him.

  But he really didn’t have time to puzzle on that now. There were much more interesting matters to pursue here. He wanted Dessia to feel sorry for him. To convince her that he’d been wronged in his life as much as she had in hers. This strange business of telling about his life instead of made-up stories might well accomplish that.