As for the news of the agreement with the Gowrys, it was better received by the O’Byrnes than Ronan had anticipated, though warily accepted. Merlin’s presence lent it more authority. “These eye-for-an-eye disputes will soon blind us all, and the Saxon white dragon will then devour us as it has our brothers to the south and east. Will we unite as Britons—or perish?”
“I mind there’s enough Picts and Saxons to keep us busy,” someone shouted from the ranks.
“Aye, gi’ the Gowrys a rest,” said another.
So now, on his first day as the O’Byrne, Ronan suffered from too much uniting over the drink that flowed afterward. He hadn’t noticed when Merlin slipped off undetected or when O’Toole and Vychan carried Tarlach to his bed. But the rest of the men—especially those who’d been rounded up from the tavern—were in the humor to celebrate with Ronan.
Thankfully Brenna had saved him at last from his own clan, pleading that his heir needed rest and that she would need all of their support at tomorrow’s archery tournament. Only his enigmatic wife had the charm to send a band of rough and rugged revelers willingly to their bedrolls.
Today a good number of them lined the edge of the field, ready to cheer Lady Brenna of Glenarden, although the organizers of the contest didn’t bother to suppress their shock and subsequent disdain at the tall, slender woman in tunic and trousers when she dropped her purse in front of them.
If it bothered Brenna, it didn’t show. She was fixed on winning that pony for Bron.
“Watch Bron while I go over there,” Egan whispered in Ronan’s ear, pointing to where a group of men were taking bets on the outcome of the tournament. The champion had taken a liking to Brenna’s latest stray and carried him effortlessly on his shoulders wherever they went. Perhaps he missed his daughter, Kella, who visited her late mother’s kin in Erin every spring.
“I wouldn’t bet against her,” Ronan advised dryly as Bron scooted closer to him, his lame foot stirring up more dust to assault the throat and nostrils.
Tied about the boy’s neck was his own purse, heavy with coin from the drawings he’d sold while accompanying Brenna to the dry-goods vendor stalls at sunup. Seeing the same potential for the lad’s artwork as Brenna did, a thread merchant had bought all of the lad’s goods right off. Despite Brenna’s insistence that she’d only wanted blue fabric for herself, Ronan authorized Dara to purchase what she saw fit for his wife’s wardrobe while Brenna was distracted by the tournament.
“Ye think I should place a bet, sir?” Bron asked, fingering the coins through the leather pouch.
“I’d think of your mother’s joy when she sees what you’ve earned and not risk a copper of it,” Ronan advised. “Unless you’ve money you don’t need.”
The boy frowned. “Who doesna need all his money?”
“Exactly,” Ronan said. “With what you have there, you might buy a goat or chickens that will provide milk and eggs. And if you choose later, you could get your money back for them.”
“Or sell the milk and eggs.”
“But if you put your money on a tournament, you might win more. Or you might lose it all and have nothing to show for it.”
“And I’ll always have my goat.”
“Right.”
“Unless it dies.”
“All the more reason to take good care of your animals.”
And one’s people, Ronan thought, spying the Gowrys gathering on the opposite side of the field. Only the nobility was allowed in the seats covered by bright red and white canopies where he and the lad were. The rest stood on the sidelines.
“There Ronan is,” Alyn announced loudly from a distance away, “dressed fine as you please and sporting the O’Byrne brooch.”
Ronan heard his youngest sibling before he spied him. Alyn made his way with Daniel of Gowrys to the O’Byrne seats. Evidence of blackberry tarts about their mouths incriminated both young men.
“Good day, Daniel,” Ronan greeted the guest.
“And a fine brooch it is,” Daniel concluded, admiring the ruby-jeweled pin that had belonged to Ronan’s father and his father’s father. “Alyn told us this morning how you were elected the O’Byrne last night. I’ve more hope for peace than ever in my life now.”
“Alyn should not have left camp without escort this morning,” Ronan chided, “as we still have a mutual enemy of our alliance about.” The reckless abandon of youth was a luxury Ronan had never had. “But I will do my best to keep my promise to your … my wife’s,” Ronan amended, “people. You are family now. In fact, I’d like to invite your father to join me here … as my kin. Would you two renegades deliver the invitation for me?”
“Has Lady Brenna had a turn yet?” Alyn asked.
“Nay, the elimination trials have just begun.” Ronan searched the cluster of contestants and spied her scarlet tunic and the plumed hat he had purchased for her that morning. Black with a dyed-red peacock feather.
“We’ll be back, then.”
Restless as two penned pups, the youths climbed down from the stand and disappeared into the crowd. Ronan smiled to himself. Indeed, an unlikely friendship following an unlikely marriage. Ronan allowed himself a bit of Daniel’s optimism.
Chapter Twenty-five
Donal of Gowrys sent his thanks but declined Ronan’s invitation. Ronan supposed twenty years of enmity could not be forgotten with a handshake, even if it was in the Pendragon’s presence. Still, the Gowrys made their support of Brenna known. They’d cheered loudly as she effortlessly survived the elimination trials. If anything, the cheering had become a contest between the O’Byrne and Gowrys contingent, one that would likely leave them all without voice.
“Well then …” Egan slid onto the bench with his leather mug filled to the brim with ale. “Me whistle’s wet and me bet’s made.”
Though Ronan prided himself on not being a betting man, he realized as he watched Brenna emerge triumphant from yet another round that he’d wagered more than coin. He’d wagered his heart … and gladly.
When the trials had narrowed down the contestants to six, the Pendragon’s court arrived, buglers heralding their approach, to occupy the canopied dais directly behind the archers. The contestants remained bowed until Arthur and Gwenhyfar, both resplendent in blue and white, took their seats along with Merlin Emrys.
And suddenly Brenna appeared nervous. Ronan watched her fingers fumble as she nocked her arrow. She found her anchor point and released the arrow. The shot veered astray of the target’s center. It was the first time she’d missed the inner rings, and shock rippled through the onlookers. Thankfully her next two shots struck the black center dead on, leaving her one of the three archers left to contend for the pony.
As the targets were moved another spear length away, a herald announced the finalists to the onlookers. “Murray of Clockmanan, Heming of Gwynedd, and Brenna of Glenarden.”
“Gowrys!” her kinsmen shouted above the clamor of the onlookers. There could be no doubt who had become the favorite.
“Formerly of Gowrys,” the herald added, casting an apologetic glance at the O’Byrne side.
Ronan swelled with pride.
Brenna went first at the insistence of her gentlemen competitors. Her first arrow struck the outer ring of the target. Her next was dead center. Her last landed a hand’s width from it, still within the black.
“I’d think thrice aboot makin’ that one angry,” Egan teased. “She’s as good as our finest.”
Ronan nodded, but his gaze was fixed on where Brenna and Heming exchanged words, while Murray of Clockmanan took his turn. Mostly likely about the contest, though Heming looked as though he could devour her like a meat pasty.
Murray’s first shot barely hit the target’s edge.
The second shot landed equidistant from Brenna’s to the center.
The third arrow hit squarely in the outer ring, eliminating him from the contest.
When Heming took his turn, it was quickly over. One arrow to the outside. Two dead center to B
renna’s one.
“I can’t believe my eyes.” Bron shrank against Egan O’Toole with a moan. “She lost.”
“And cost me good silver,” Egan admitted. “Though she gave us a fine show.”
Ronan didn’t answer. He was already pushing against the departing crowd toward the green. Brenna leaned on her bow at the edge of the winner’s place, trying to smile as Heming was awarded the pony. But her over-bright eyes gave away her disappointment.
Upon seeing Ronan, she shrugged. “I tried.”
“That you did,” he said, gathering her to him in a consoling hug.
“And I prayed, but … is Bron too disappointed?”
“He won’t be.” Ronan had already made up his mind what he was going to do upon seeing her disappointment. For her and the lad. “Come along.”
He ushered Brenna to where an admiring throng surrounded the champion.
“Heming,” Ronan called out, “how much will you take for the pony?” But with so many talking at once, he had to get closer. “Heming!”
Intoxicated by victory, Heming of Gwynedd waited until Ronan of Glenarden waded through the crowd before acknowledging he’d heard the man. The gods were still with him. Neither Ronan nor his comely wife recognized him from the day of the Witch’s End. But now Heming knew exactly who had shot an arrow through his hand. A woman. One who did not know her place and had nearly bested him … again.
“What was it you said, milord?” Heming asked. “There is so much noise about.”
“I would like to buy that pony,” Ronan told him. “Name your price.”
“For the crippled boy I told you about,” Brenna explained.
Heming cared no more for the boy than he now did for Lady Rhianon. He had them all fooled. But Rhianon wasn’t happy with that. She’d insulted his cunning, insisting he leave Glenarden, lest they might mind something of the attack. And last night she’d berated him soundly for his risky shot to Ronan’s head with a stomp of her delicate slippered foot.
“I told you to gather your friends and stay out of sight until we leave,” she’d warned him.
But he’d been in no danger of being caught. Heming could blend into a tree like its own limb. Had she come to him alone, Heming would have taken the wench then and there. But his crone of an aunt was with her. In time. The old woman hadn’t said it, but she’d warned him to be patient with that chide many times.
How he looked forward to seeing Rhianon’s face when he returned to the Glenarden encampment as champion of the day. Heming scratched his unshaven cheek, savoring his victory. Since the fates smiled on him, he might as well get an invitation.
He handed Brenna the pony’s reins. “Take it, milady.”
“What?”
One would have thought he’d offered her the world from the wonder on her face.
“What use have I for such a small pony?” he asked. “I came for the competition, and you gave me an ample dose.”
“B-but—”
Heming folded the lead rope in her hand with his gloved ones. “Besides, there is no question. You were today’s favorite. Am I not right, good people?” he asked in a louder voice.
A great round of “Huzzah” rose from the bystanders close enough to know what was going on. And as the word spread, the approval grew even louder. It was more heady than the drinks that were being offered him from every direction.
But while the wench was speechless, staring at him as if a halo had appeared over his head, her husband was not. “Thank you, but I’ll pay you.”
Ronan reached for a purse tied at his belt, but Heming caught his wrist. “It is done. Consider it compensation for the many nights of hospitality I have enjoyed at your keep. An offer of friendship between Gwynedd and Glenarden. To refuse would be an insult.”
“That is the last thing on our minds, good sir,” the lady said, finding her voice at last. “You must join us tonight for the evening meal, if you have no other obligation.”
“You are too kind, milady.” And predictable.
“Nay, sir,” she demurred. “Your kindness and generosity shall not be forgotten all my days.”
Such lovely eyes, filled with a goodness that would be her undoing. How he’d enjoy taking this one as Keena promised.
Heming brandished a courtly bow. “My pleasure is yours … for all your days.” Which were numbered. And he would have the pony back to boot.
For all your days.
Brenna might have attributed the strange wording as evidence of Rhianon’s estimation that the huntsman lacked basic social graces. But at the touch of his hands, she’d sensed a cold darkness about him, even through the leather of his gloves … so contrary to the warmth he exuded on the surface. His eyes put her to mind of colored glass that hid the true nature of their content.
“Tell me more about this Heming,” she said to Ronan as they led the new pony back to the family campsite with a very happy Bron astride it. Alyn and Daniel of Gowrys talked with the boy behind them, the latter promising to teach Bron how to get the pony to kneel, so that the boy might mount it easier. “Heming’s a queer sort,” Ronan told her. “Came from Gwynedd as a huntsman, though I suspect there is more than a wish to serve his lady’s new family. He is devoted to Rhianon. Too much so, if you ask me. Were I Caden, I’d watch him closely.”
“The attraction doesn’t seem mutual. She esteems him an oaf.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Was he present the day you were injured?”
Ronan hiked his brow. “You think Heming was my would-be assassin?”
Brenna couldn’t make an accusation like that. “Nay. Perhaps it’s the man’s awkwardness … like Rhianon said.” Although she’d know more if she saw his hands. Perhaps tonight when he joined them for the evening meal….
Ronan read her doubt. “What?”
She shrugged. “There’s just something about him that puts me off. A contradiction of character that confounds—”
“Ronan!” Ahead, Caden pushed his way through the crowd toward them.
Speaking of contradictions. Brenna stiffened. Caden had made himself scarce since last night’s events.
“What is it?” her husband asked when his brother caught up to them.
“It’s Father.” Caden glanced at Brenna. “He’s had another brain fit. He can barely speak, but he managed your name.”
Father God, not now. Not when all begins to go well with us.
“I’ll see that the lad and his pony get to the camp,” Daniel assured her quickly. “A trot might shake him off.”
Brenna called, “Thank you, Daniel” over her shoulder as she and Ronan hurried after Caden and Alyn. She would have asked more questions, but it was all she could do to keep up with the brothers’ long strides. By the time they reached the uphill encampment, Tarlach lay, eyes closed, propped up on his cot by all the bedding Vychan could muster.
“He insisted on sitting up,” the steward told her. “Said that if we laid him down, he’d die.”
Brenna felt Tarlach’s forehead. It was cool, and his color a deathly cast of gray.
“Was he out of his mind?”
“Not as I could tell. He was sitting at the board, when suddenly he grabbed his head and began to shake.” Vychan imitated Tarlach’s shaking for Brenna. “Told me his head was about to burst like an overripe boil and to send for you. Caden went for you while I tried to get him to bed.”
Seizure? Apoplexy? Both?
“Milord Tarlach,” Brenna said, turning to her patient, “do you hear me?”
“My … y … ” He dragged the word out and, with the last ounce of that breath, finished, “Head.”
“I took the liberty of getting your bag,” Vychan said, handing Brenna the sack in which she kept her herbal supplies when traveling.
“Wonderful.” She took out a small sack, sewn in overlapping fashion, and handed it to him. “Put on hot water for tea—”
“Done, milady. It should already boil.”
“Then our con
coction of oak bark, cowslip, and nutmeg should relieve the pain and soothe his brain.” Cold humor or touch required hot treatment.
“He shouldn’t have made the journey, just recovered from the poisoning,” Rhianon fretted. She nuzzled Caden’s arm, clinging as though it alone kept her from swooning with concern.
Although he never opened his eyes, Tarlach lifted his good hand and grunted, drawing Brenna’s attention.
“Yes, milord?” she said, taking his hand in hers. It, too, was cold.
“Ro … nan.”
“Aye, Father, I’m here.” Ronan moved to the other side of Tarlach’s cot and grasped his withered hand.
“Take … me … home,” he slurred. “Will not … die … here.”
Should we move him? Brenna read the question in Ronan’s lifted brow.
Tarlach had survived the poisoning by sheer will and God’s grace. This episode might yet take him. She pulled Tarlach’s hand to her face, pressing it to her cheek, and closed her eyes, waiting, hoping.
Father God, what shall I say?
Nothing came. No vision. Just the pouring of her heart through her hands and into Tarlach’s cold one.
“No more talk of dying,” Brenna said at last. “You promised me that you would see our son.”
A tug of a smile lifted the unafflicted side of Tarlach’s mouth.
“So we go?” Ronan asked.
Tarlach nodded. “We … go.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Ronan set up camp that night by a narrow burn that ran down from the highlands and over a rock fall into the curling inland fingers of the Clyde. Although he’d given the warriors who’d fought recently with Egan O’Toole against the Orkney Picts leave to remain at the fair, he’d kept enough on hand for protection. Still, most volunteered to return to Glenarden with their new chieftain … and their dying one.
“Some of us have fought at Tarlach’s side too often to abandon him in his final battle,” Egan told Ronan as they sat around the fire that evening. “And we done our tradin’ wi’ our battle prizes the first day. Besides … ” He sniffed the air. “I know trouble when I smell it.”
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