The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island)

by Mary Gillgannon

  He glanced at Aife, wondering what she would ask next. It was obvious Dessia had ordered her maidservant to probe into his background. Aife would never have done so on her own. She was far too absorbed with grim, dutiful Keenan to have an interest in any other man.

  Almost as if she could read his thoughts, Aife gave him an uncertain smile and said, “Given what happened to you when you were young, it must have been very distressing for you to be taken captive by slavers a second time. And then cast ashore in a strange land where you knew no one. I’m sure you were very relieved when Keenan rescued you.”

  “Aye, my heart lifted as soon as I saw him,” Bridei responded. “I could tell he was a man of character and wouldn’t abuse me. Then when he told me about Queen Dessia, my hopes lifted even higher. He swore she was a most generous and just ruler and I had nothing to fear from her.” As he said this, Bridei looked directly at Dessia. She bowed her head instantly, and he knew an intense satisfaction. How delightful to have this opportunity to make her regret how she’d treated him.

  Bridei looked at Aife expectantly, wondering what she would ask of him next. But it was Beatha who spoke. “Have you ever been back to your homeland since your father sent you away? Ever told him what happened to you?”

  Bridei felt his stomach tighten. It was one thing to talk about his father as a bard would, describing him from a distance. But relating the story of the animosity and conflict between them cut very close to the bone.

  He shrugged, trying to loosen his shoulders. “I don’t see the point of telling him what I endured. Although I’m certain my father didn’t intend for me to endure slavery and abuse, it happened and there’s no unmaking it.”

  “So, you’ve never made up your differences?” It was Aife who spoke this time, her voice tinged with regret.

  He felt himself becoming angry, and had to fight to keep his voice calm. “Nay, we never did.”

  “A pity,” Aife said. “Your father sounds like a good man, and one who is capable of learning from his mistakes. Perhaps if you went back there and spoke to him . . .”

  Bridei gritted his teeth and tried to control his temper. He wouldn’t let these people, and Dessia especially, see the resentment and anger he still felt towards his father. “Perhaps,” he answered in a tight voice. “But I’m unlikely to have an opportunity to return to my homeland anyway.”

  “Why is that?” Nally asked.

  Bridei shrugged. “How would I get there? I have no wealth to purchase passage back to Britain, and I’d rather not travel there the way I came here, on a slaver’s boat.”

  “But now that you have a harp, you’ll be able to earn a living again.” Eth’s broad face lit up. The next moment his pleased expression faded. “Not that we want you to leave. We’d like you to stay here forever. Wouldn’t we?” He gestured to those gathered around.

  They responded with a chorus of enthusiastic “ayes”. Everyone seemed to be smiling and gazing at him fondly, and Bridei was touched by their obvious regard for him. Although he’d played for halls full of chieftains and kings and been greeted with rousing approval, it had seldom felt as gratifying as this. As he’d told Dessia, these people had suffered and strived for ten long years and were so starved for music and entertainment it was heartbreaking. They needed him. Even more surprising was the realization he wanted to stay, and not only because he had unfinished business with Queen Dessia. There was something about this place that made him feel whole and content. For a man who’d been a restless traveler for nearly his whole adult life, it was an astonishing discovery.

  But he dare not let anyone see how he felt. If there was one thing he’d learned in life, it was that caring for anything too intensely inevitably led to suffering and loss. He cast a quick look at Dessia, wondering what she was thinking. Had he won her over? Did she feel sorry for him instead of distrusting him? He should continue talking, and force her to endure her unpleasant disguise for a while longer. But he was suddenly anxious to get out of the hall.

  Rising, he bowed to the gathering. “If you could excuse me for a time. I need to stretch my legs.”

  Aife got hastily to her feet. “If you’re going out, you must take your cloak.”

  “Aye,” “Aye”, and “Of course he must,” murmured other people around him.

  Bridei put on the roughly-woven, stained garment he’d been wearing as he worked on the wall, and started for the door. He’d barely reached it when he saw Beatha approaching. She held out a cloak of thick wool in a brilliant plaid of green and red. “Here, wear this.”

  “Nay, I couldn’t,” he responded. “It’s too fine.”

  “Not any finer than the stories you tell. Please. It’s my gift to you.” Beatha was a plain woman, with weathered skin and rather pinched features, but at this moment her face was made lovely by the warm smile she bestowed on him. Bridei tried to recall what he knew about her. He seemed to remember she was widowed. She’d probably made this cloak for her husband. A lump formed in his throat as he took the cloak and put it on. He turned and hurried out of the hall.

  Chapter 10

  Outside, the rain was coming down steadily. He pulled up the hood of the cloak, bent his head and trudged forward. His plan had been to go to the midden and relieve himself. But now that he was away from the hall—and already getting soaking wet—he realized he wanted to leave the hillfort altogether.

  He made his way across the yard toward the gate, trying to avoid the largest puddles. No wonder he’d always told tales to his audiences. Revealing the real story of his life was far too distressing. In doing so, he’d reawakened memories buried for years. Feelings he hadn’t experienced in nearly a decade choked his throat and made his stomach clench. Images of the past that he usually glimpsed from a distance suddenly loomed large and threatening, like ominous shadows cast upon a wall. He was a boy again, feeling the helplessness and despair.

  He paused at the gate, trembling with remembered turmoil. Fists clenched and breathing hard, he sought to make the memories go away. To shrink them back to insignificance.

  “Bridei? What are you doing out here?”

  He jerked around to see Keenan. The warrior wore an oiled leather cape over his tunic, but despite the protection, he appeared soaked to the skin.

  “I’m leaving the hillfort,” Bridei said.

  Keenan frowned at him. “I’m not sure the queen would approve.”

  Bridei fought back the fury that leapt inside him. It would be foolish to get into a confrontation with someone who wore both a dagger and a sword. He sought to speak appeasingly. “Don’t worry. I’ll come back. If I were going to run off, I’d choose better weather for it.”

  Keenan hesitated, clearly uncertain what his duty was. Bridei waited, his muscles as tight as bowstrings. If he had to fight Keenan, he would do so. The mood he was in, he thought he might even prevail.

  Keenan motioned with his head toward the gate. “Go. If you don’t come back, I’ll consider it good riddance.”

  Bridei’s anger notched higher. He longed to tell smug Keenan that he’d just spent the last few hours in the dry, warm hall with the lovely Aife at his feet, and that she’d listened to his every word with rapt attention. But his urge to leave this place was much greater than any satisfaction he could obtain by taunting Keenan. He met the man’s cold expression with a frigid look of his own, then went to the gate, and grasping the opening winch, jerked it to the side. The gate creaked open, and Bridei slipped through.

  He called himself a dozen sorts of fool as he made his way down the hillside. The trackway was muddy and slick and with every step he struggled to keep his balance. But if he walked in the grass instead, his leather shoes would end up a sodden mess. Of course, that was inevitable anyway. He was going to get soaked to the bone and probably die of a chill. But it didn’t matter. He had to get away before the walls of the hillfort closed in on him. Somehow he had to clear his head and regain his composure.

  The rational part of him didn’t understand wh
at had happened. The things he’d spoken of had happened long ago. Why had talking about what he endured brought it back with such intensity? It was as if he could still feel the shackles on his wrists. See Galacius’s face, the lust and eagerness shadowing his dark eyes. His thick fingers stroking . . .

  Bridei inhaled sharply and willed his thoughts away from the sickening memories. He had to forget. If he didn’t, he would go mad. He increased his pace, stumbling forward blindly. All at once, he realized he was near the forest where’d he pursued Dessia. Although he was wary of the place, today it seemed like the perfect escape. Perhaps he could enter the enchanted woodland and never return.

  Most of the trees were bare now but the forest still seemed dense and dark. When he’d been here before the landscape had possessed some of the last richness and fecundity of fall. Now he felt as if death surrounded him. Most of the vegetation was dead or dormant. There were a few bits of green still visible—mosses that grew all year long, a few patches of grass where on fine days the sunlight shone. But everything else seemed to have turned gray or brown. It reminded him of when he’d once walked through a forest in Gaul that had burned in a fire. There was the same atmosphere, as if he entered a wasteland, a place where no life could survive.

  He reminded himself that it would turn green and verdant again in the spring. Wood violets, primroses and snowdrops would peek through the dried brown leaf cover. The barren branches of the oaks and hazel bushes would be transformed by greening buds and fuzzy catkins. Vines would curl in wild tendrils around now stark tree trunks. Mosses and ferns would carpet the ground.

  Even as he had the thought, it seemed to happen. Ahead, the woodland appeared cloaked in green. He hurried forward, unable to believe his eyes. The trees were fully leafed. The ground covered with vegetation. He halted and turned around, expecting to see the winter-bare trees he’d walked through a moment before. What he saw astonished him. It was as if he’d traveled two seasons into the future. This was no desolate late autumn woodland, but a wonderland of green.

  He glanced up at the sky, wondering if he’d stumbled through an invisible doorway into the realm of the fey. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood up as he recalled what had happened to him the first time he’d come here. How the dense mist had risen, surrounding him in blinding whiteness. This experience was even stranger. For a moment he stood frozen, afraid to go forward or back. Then a breeze rustled through the leaves of the trees and he seemed to hear a voice calling, “This way. This way. You must go this way.”

  Mouth dry, he began to walk in the direction the whispering voice told him to. He thought he was headed down the pathway to the lake. Yet how could he be certain of anything when his surroundings altered before his eyes?

  A little further and the ground sloped downwards and he heard the sparkling melody of the stream in the distance. He remembered the first time he’d come here and his sense of being tested, as if he must prove to the forest guardians he was worthy to enter their realm. Now there was no mist to obscure his way, and he could see the path clearly. He felt like a piece of iron being drawn to a lodestone. What would he discover when he reached the lake? After all he’d experienced, nothing would surprise him.

  A thought flashed into his mind that he would find his mother and father standing by the still, pearly waters. He could almost see them in his mind: his mother small and delicate, her pale, freckled skin faintly lined and her russet hair threaded with silver. His father, his massive broad-shouldered form slightly diminished, his face carved into deep planes and shadows and his hair and beard frosted with white. With a shock, Bridei realized he was imagining much older versions of his parents. Was this what they looked like now? Were they even alive, or was he seeing their wraiths? Dread filled him. What if their spirits had called him here to say goodbye?

  But then he reached the lake and there was no one there. He glanced around, half-panicked. Was he too late? Had they already left him behind? Tears filled his eyes. He felt like a small child, lost and abandoned in the woods. With effort, he calmed himself. It wasn’t real. None of this was. He was having some sort of waking dream. Going to the edge of the water, he bent down, wondering if the lake itself was enchanted. He dipped his hands in and splashed his face. The water was icy cold, very wet and very real.

  * * *

  The hall was filled with activity. With Bridei gone, people were taking this opportunity to step out to the midden, grab a drink of cider from the big pot Beatha had set near the hearth or to discuss the things he’d told them. Dessia was torn. On one hand, she was reluctant to leave. If Bridei came back and began talking again, she might learn even more about him. But her body was cramped and aching, and she worried someone would speak to her and she wouldn’t be able to carry off the disguise.

  Reluctantly, she got to her feet, and maintaining her hunched-over position, made her way around the edge of the hall. She reached the stairway leading up to the tower, and turned to survey the hall. If she were seen going up the stairs to the queen’s chamber, people would think it odd. Seeing Sorcha coming towards her, she started to panic, but fortunately, Aife had seen what was happening and hurried over. “The queen has asked to see Glynna,” she told Sorcha.

  Although Dessia had quickly turned away and bowed her head so Sorcha couldn’t see her face, she heard the puzzlement in the woman’s voice as she said, “The queen? What does she want with Glynna?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” Aife answered. “Perhaps it’s about some herb or plant she needs for her spells.”

  “Oh, aye,” Sorcha responded. “Glynna does know a lot about plants. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to her about. Nuala the Healer told me that coltsfoot might help my son’s cough, but she hasn’t been able to find any. I thought Glynna might have seen some in the woods on her way here.”

  “You can talk with her after the queen does,” Aife said in authoritative tones. She grasped Dessia’s arm and guided her to the stairs. “Here now, I’ll help you, Glynna. The stairs are steep and we don’t want you to fall.”

  As soon as they climbed the steps and reached the tower room, Dessia unfastened the scratchy, smelly cloak and tossed it to the floor. She stretched out her arms and rolled her shoulders, trying to get the kinks out of her stiff muscles. “What misery. I began to think my body would freeze in that cramped position and I’d never be able to straighten up. And that cloak—how does anyone tolerate wearing such rough, scratchy garments?”

  “It might be uncomfortable to wear, but if you were outside in the rain, you would find unwashed wool sheds water very well. Not everyone has access to oiled leather garments to fend off the weather. Nor do they have the luxury of staying in their homes when it’s foul out.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Dessia responded, feeling chastened. The next moment, they heard footsteps on the stairs. “Who could that be?” asked Dessia. “You don’t suppose Sorcha decided to follow after Glynna.”

  “Nay, she would not,” Aife assured her. “Besides, it sounds like Keenan.”

  Dessia raised her brows at this, then smoothed her hair and the plain gown she’d worn under the scratchy cloak. Keenan called up a moment later, and Dessia bid him come up.

  Keenan came up the stairs, his cape and other garments wet and dripping. He shot a quick glance at Aife, then bowed to Dessia and said, “I’m sorry to intrude, milady, but I wanted to let you know that Bridei ap Maelgwn has left the hillfort.”

  “In this weather?” Dessia exclaimed. “Why? Did he say where he was going?”

  “Nay, but I watched from the gatetower and saw him heading west.”

  “How peculiar,” said Dessia.

  “And dangerous.” Aife looked at Keenan. “You should go after him.”

  “Why?” Keenan’s expression was glowering. “If he falls into the marsh or the forest swallows him up, I say good riddance.”

  “That’s unkind,” Aife retorted sharply. “Although you may dislike the man, he’s given the r
est of us a great deal of enjoyment. Everyone’s eagerly awaiting the day when the harp is finished, so he can play for us. If something happens to him now, it would be dreadful.” She clutched Keenan’s arm. “The stories he told of his early life were heart-breaking. His father sent him away when he wasn’t yet a man and he ended up being sold into slavery. Yet he survived and was able to free himself through cleverness.”

  Keenan snorted. “Or deceit and cunning, as some might say.” He looked at Dessia. “What say you, milady? Do you think I should go after him?” Keenan’s gaze met Dessia’s. It was clear from the disgust in his blue-green eyes he thought it ridiculous he even had to ask question.

  Dessia frowned as she puzzled on the matter. Where was Bridei going? And why now, in the middle of a rainstorm, with half the day gone? He couldn’t hope to get far before dark.

  Her attention turned back to Keenan. While she would have liked to have her man-of-arms follow Bridei and see where he went, it seemed unreasonable to ask such a thing. Even if Bridei were spying for her enemies—which she’d begun to doubt more and more—it was unlikely he would meet up with them on a day like this.

  She said, “I’m certain he’ll be back soon. The weather is too miserable for him to go far.”

  “The very reason someone should go after him,” said Aife, her expression pleading. “Before he gets lost and freezes to death.”

  Keenan snorted again. “He’s a grown man. If he gets lost, then he’s a fool who’s not worth saving. Besides, when I saw him, he was wearing a rather fine cloak. It won’t keep him dry for long in this, but he’s not likely to perish with that kind of protection either.”

  “Oh, aye, Beatha gave him a new cloak before he left,” Dessia recalled. “It’s a good quality garment. A very extravagant gift, I thought. Beatha could offer that to the traders when they come, and get a fair measure of goods in return.”