“I think the Father hopes to pull a few of the bards teeth rather than banish them in entirety,” Cromyn observed.
“Given the antagonism of the nobles who’ve suffered their gnashing satire and imposition on good hospitality, our poetic druids cannot go on unfettered. It is time that something be done,” Kieran agreed, “but to banish them is to banish our heritage. I have all faith that if a fair decision can be made, it will come from Iona.”
Such was the regard for Columcille that the church officials disregarded the mandatory punishment for his transgressions: excommunication. The kings offered him the high throne of Ireland, but he’d humbly refused it. Filled with remorse for the lives his stubborn part in the rebellion had cost, he accepted a penance to leave his beloved Ireland forever and took his faith and fervor to Scotia Minor. There, he’d ordained Aidan as the first Christian king of Scotland in the eyes of God and man. A legend in his own time, a prince schooled in the bardic tradition, and a priest of the One God Riona was certain, Columcille’s defense of Ireland’s historians and poets would be as fair and moving as it was eloquent.
Yet her reason for wanting to see the holy father had nothing to do with politics or bards. Her desire was of a more spiritual nature. It was reputed that Columcille’s oneness with God was such that he could heal with a touch or a prayer … and that an angel of God accompanied him. If either were true, then was it not possible that he could heal Leila of the malady that had inhibited her speech upon her parents’ death? Riona had to try to get the little girl close enough to Columcille to find out, despite the multitudes that flocked to him.
“I shall be there as well, with the children,” she told her uncle, “for it’s a rare opportunity to see and hear a person endowed with such godly grace and wisdom. In fact …” Riona hesitated, loathe to impose after Cromyn had already helped them get an audience with the high king. “Uncle, do you think it’s possible to get an audience with Iona for Leila?”
The priest glanced in the imda where the child slept solemnly. “I will do what I can, Riona.” His tone was not encouraging. Of course there were as many gathered here to see Columcille as the high king.
“That is all I ask,” she said thankfully, rising to brush his ruddy cheek with her lips. “Good night, uncle.”
As Kieran followed Cromyn out, Riona hastened into the imda where the children slept, oblivious to the grave matters to be decided on the morrow. It was another gift to sleep so soundly without thought to fear—or to matters of the heart and spirit.
She climbed into the narrow bed she shared with Leila, gently easing the spread-eagled child over against the plank partition that separated their chamber from Kieran’s. Forgiveness … She settled against the soft pillow and stared at the dancing shadows cast by the single lamp outside the stall. How her own words now turned against her. She tossed over on her side as the wooden bar of the door dropped into its cradle, signaling Kieran’s return. She held her breath so that she heard his when he blew out the lamp.
Darkness closed over the room, silent but for the soft pad of Kieran’s footsteps and the creak of his bed as he climbed into it. His breath caught sharply, and a short oath escaped as he fell against the mattress, reminding her that she’d forgotten his poultice.
Heavenly Father, she prayed in exasperation. Given the strength of his ardor, he was in more need of a cold bath than a warm poultice. Given his words, there was a need even more pressing than the physical, one she could easily assuage if she could bring herself to do so. Never did Riona think the prodigal’s story would apply to her in this particular way. There was no need to pray. She knew what she had to do. Her voice was soft in the silence.
“Kieran?”
“Aye?” His answer neither encouraged or disheartened.
She bolstered her resolve to do what she believed in, no matter how reluctant.
“I know you didn’t lead Heber away to his death. He joined you of his own accord.”
“That doesn’t lessen the pain.”
He spoke truth. Riona heard it in his voice and felt it in her heart, knifing without relent. She swallowed a sob at the picture conjured in her mind of Kieran holding her brother on a bloody battlefield. How horrible it must have been for him. How heartbreakingly horrible.
“I just wanted to say …”
“Yes?”
She placed her hand on the plank separating them, wanting to touch him, imagining that her fingers and palm were pressed to his. “I forgive you.”
Silence followed as she waited to hear Kieran’s voice, to know that it meant something to him, that it comforted him in some way.
She heard nothing but a slow release of breath and a small, strangled sound from his throat, as if he tried to speak but the words were too crowded to leave him.
She trailed her fingers down the wall and sighed. It was a wonder how those three words she’d released into the night could lighten the invisible weight that mercilessly crushed her heart. A wonder how the sound of Kieran’s emotion carried more meaning than any words he could have uttered in response.
Three words had been enough to ease his anguish.
She nearly floated off the mattress with a relief that paved the way for one of the first restful nights she’d had in too long a time.
TWENTY-ONE
Kieran was up and gone the next morning before Riona awakened. Remembering that Columcille was to speak on behalf of the bards at the day’s session, she hastily roused the children and put on the least worn of her dresses. The shabbiest served beneath as an undershift. The two would be warm with the summer temperatures closing in, but given last night’s intrusion and her lack of an attendant to guard her belongings, it was necessary. With her small bag of possessions tied to her waist, she mustered her charges toward the inn.
After bracing themselves with porridge and cream, they made their way toward the hill where the session took place. The way from the Derry abbey was strewn with gifts left for the blessing of its founder. One of the pilgrims told her Columcille’s entourage had already passed.
Riona’s heart sank. Her inadvertent indulgence of sleeping in a real bed had caused her to miss her chance for Leila to be blessed and perhaps cured of the affliction that kept her from speaking. As she made her way with the crowd, thick with robed clerics and richly garbed nobility, Riona held tightly to the hands of the twins. Clearly wishing he were attending the fair proper rather than the synod, Fynn moped behind so that she continually had to urge him to keep up.
The session took place on an incline ablaze with the colorful banners of the notable attendees. Even if Gleannmara’s blue and gold were among them, Riona would be vexed to find Kieran in the crowd. Nearby, a druidic master leaned heavily on his staff as he made his way closer, his entourage of students in his wake. They echoed a historical stanza in perfect timing as they walked, their lessons continuing even in transit.
“Dallan!” Fynn’s hearty hail rose above the excited murmur of the crowd, drawing Riona’s attention to where Dallan, Marcus, and Finella awaited the much-anticipated session.
“What goes on?” the boy shouted, much to the annoyance of bystanders. Riona reached for him and pinched his shoulder, eliciting a howl of surprise. “What?” he protested.
“Leash that wagging tongue or I’ll pinch you again,” she promised under her breath.
“Wag it while the bard of Iona speaks,” Marcus warned, “and I’ll cut it out and keep it in my pocket.”
“You’re looking well, milady,” Finella said to Riona. “I take it your lord saw things returned to order?” Having performed until late, the harpist and her company had heard of the intrusion.
“Aye, very much so. And he has an audience with the high king after the games this week,” Riona answered lowly. “And me looking like I’ve been dragged the full way here.”
“You were.” Finella gave her a mischievous wink. “We must go marketing when this is done and find something suitable for a king’s reception. I’d rather
fancy being a lady-in-waiting to one as gracious as yourself.”
“I’d be honored, Finella, as a friend though, rather than your mistress.”
Riona was truly touched by Finella’s offer, yet she was pressed to warrant much enthusiasm for the prospect of success. There would be materials fit for a queen here, but two days was not enough time to make a dress of them. It would take a host of seamstresses working day and night to come up with something suitable.
“Look, there’s Aidan, the king of the Dalraidi,” Dallan said in a hush of anticipation.
Trumpets blasted and silken banners glistened in the sun as the bronzed warrior king paid respect to the high king and took a seat of honor nearby with his entourage. They were at such a distance that banners were the only way to discern who was who. The gold torques, bracelets, and brooches adorning the royal gathering were enough to blind the sun with its own reflection, and every color on God’s green earth was represented in the noble display of many-folded brats. That she would walk before that same company in a few days was enough to turn Riona’s knees to water. Give her the simplicity and quiet of the abbey any day rather than all this pomp and fuss.
“What of Columcille?” she asked, scanning the parade of dignitaries before them.
“He was received by Aedh first.” Dallan pointed to a group of churchmen on a dais of honor. It was difficult to make out one from another, for like their secular counterparts robed in druidic white across from them, they were clustered in one body.
“I wonder if Iogenan is present?” Marcus remarked to no one in particular.
“If Aidan’s brother is here, he’s keeping his head low,” Finella answered. “Imagine how it feels to be passed by on the order of an angel.”
Fynn’s attention was pricked. “An angel? I heard Columcille appointed Aidan.”
Finella lowered her voice. “Aye, he did, but the good father’s favor leaned to Aidan’s brother.”
“If an angel appeared to me, he’d not have to smite me to have his way.”
“Angels strike people?” Liex exclaimed, saucer-eyed at Marcus’s remark.
“Only when one refuses to do God’s will,” Riona assured the boy. “Columcille thought Iogenan the right king for Scotia Minor, but God sent an angel to the father telling him that Aidan was the divine choice. When the father of Iona hesitated, the angel struck him with a scourge that, I’ve heard, remains to the day.”
Leila solemnly mumbled something to her youngest brother, who in turn translated. “She says Seargal would never hit anyone.”
“Nay, he just wets the bed.” Fynn’s snicker gave way to another yelp as Riona pinched him in warning.
With her other hand, she stroked the golden head that a shamed Leila tried to bury in her skirts. If only Columcille would see the child, she knew in her heart it would help. Heavenly Father, I cannot arrange this on my own, but if You would, show me the way to Your blessed servant for this child’s sake. The scar of her loss is deep, and my love alone is not enough to heal it.
The reception of the provincial kings was followed by that of the lesser tuath kings as Riona isolated her thoughts to prayer, but when Kieran of Gleannmara was announced, her prayful countenance turned to shock. There marched her foster brother bedecked as finely as his colleagues. Even standard bearers carried the blue and gold banners. But how? she wondered. Who? Strain as she might, she could not make out the identity of the standard bearers.
“He cuts a fine figure, milady,” Finella commented in a sly aside.
His royal blue-and-gold-fringed brat billowing like full sail from a tall and mighty mast, Kieran proudly took his place among the nobles of his rank. Riona could make him out no better than the high king or Aidan, yet her mind’s eye missed no detail. The rakish fall of his shoulder-length hair; his clean-shaven, angular jaw and cleft chin; those sharp, hazel eyes mirroring flecks of brown, blue, green, and gold; the undoubtedly proud yet wicked tilt of his lips …
She knew her foster brother by heart.
Suddenly, the dozens of low conversations about them stilled as though a blanket of hush had fallen over the crowd. From the midst of the church assembly, Columcille rose and took command of the scene. With a voice as clear as it was eloquent, this man with salted gold mane and high brow shaved in druidic tonsure began to speak. His strong voice rang in Riona’s ear like a melody of rhythm and rhyme, as if he stood next to her. Its effect upon the crowd was as supernatural as had been reputed. Fynn and the twins stood transfixed, as did Dallan and company. Not even an infant squalled from want, for here was a message to fill every need.
The sun worked along its arch above them, marking off a time that seemed to stand still in the hearts and souls of all who listened. The Holy Spirit moved through the audience, working its spell, swelling hearts with love and pride and thanksgiving as Columcille spoke. Would the children of the One God turn out the historians who preserved their past and heritage, the same historians God Himself deemed fit to use to prepare the way for His Son’s legacy? Would the people turn all away because a few abused the honor of their station?
The song echoed to the surrounding hills, a cry for the preservation of knowledge under conditions that upheld God’s laws, not man’s indignation.
Tears and cheers broke the loud silence following the end of Columcille’s speech. People embraced each other, clergy and bard, master and servant, all in the name and glory of the One God, whose law was knowledge and therefore sacred to every heart, mind, and soul. The high king had not spoken, but clearly the decision had been made, the bards saved. Only the details remained to be worked out.
After a recess was called Riona moved with a tide of confusion as the crowd disbursed. Fynn handily disappeared into the masses along with Dallan and his company. Those who flocked to see the saintly champion of the bards made a chance encounter with him impossible. Holding on tightly to the twins’ hands lest she lose them as well, Riona followed the flow headed toward the Lion’s Tooth. When they arrived, Riona didn’t attempt to find a table in the main hall, but left the twins with orders to remain at the guest cottage with the door bolted until she returned with some food from the huge kitchen in the back.
There would be other days of session, she consoled herself as she waited in line with the serving wenches for bread and a small round of cheese. Perhaps she would have to wait for Uncle Cromyn to arrange an audience for Leila with Columcille. Upon reaching the front of the line and speaking to the cooks’ helper, Riona was given a tray to carry the food back to the children, and a young fire tender was sent along to carry a pitcher of honeyed ale for her.
Heavens, she thought, stifling a yawn as she wove through the crush of hustling guests, servants, and the menagerie of animals accompanying them about the inn yard. Would she ever catch up on her rest from her weeks’ travel as a fugitive? Sure, the softness of the mattress beckoned her more than the food on her tray. Perhaps after they ate she might convince the twins to take a nap.
The door of the cottage was open when she returned, despite her orders to the contrary. Rather than rush in angrily, however, Riona stood there agape. The standards of Gleannmara flew on either side of the entrance. In the back, men wrestled with what looked like the frame of a tent. With more and more arriving by the day at the fair, the inn was obviously overrun.
“Kieran?” she called, hesitating at the doorway.
“Wait!” Liex darted out of the cottage to stop Riona from entering. “Close your eyes.”
Leila was right behind him, eyes twinkling with mixed mischief and delight.
“I can’t put the food down. The dogs will—”
“I’ll take the food.” Kieran filled the doorway, his expression as unrevealing as the children’s were expressive.
He looked magnificent. No longer was he attired in his traveling clothes, but in an elegant tunic of fine linen cinched at his trim waist with a braided royal sash the same hue as his brat. The Gleannmara brooch sparkled where it held the massive folds of
fabric at his shoulder. Golden arm bracelets gleamed against the tanned sinew of his forearms, matching the intricately engraved torque about his neck. He looked every inch the king he was.
“How—”
“The answer lies within, milady.” He took the tray and motioned her inside the cottage.
Given the mixed signals, she hesitated a moment. On leaving the glare of the noonday sun, it took a few moments for Riona’s eyes to adjust. Someone stood at the foot of Kieran’s imda. As her eyes adjusted, she recognized the man.
“Colga!”
Shock kept her from saying more to her cousin. Her attention honed in on the brooch he wore—that of the Dromin chief, worn by Heber and their father before him. So it was done. Her people had chosen Colga as their new leader. Life stopped for no one.
“As glad as I am to see you, Riona, it’s under a devilish shadow.” Apology filled his gaze as well as his voice.
“You lost no time in claiming Heber’s birthright.” There was no condemnation in her voice, just resignation.
“There was none to waste.” But for brown hair, rather than Heber’s raven black, Colga resembled her brother a great deal. Their voices were even similar. “When the news of Gleannmara’s murder charge reached us, someone needed to take control for the king.”
This drew her from her melancholy. “How came it to you?”
“Brother Ninian of Kilmare sent a mounted courier straight away to Gleannmara.”
Dear Brother Ninian. Surely he was one of God’s earthly angels for all the help he’d been. “Kieran’s rechtaire saw the lord’s things packed anon, as would any steward worth his salt, and we left as soon as the issue of the Dromin chieftaincy was resolved.”
Numbly, Riona nodded. “Benin is a very capable chief of the house. He runs it as if it were his own, exactly as Kieran’s parents would wish.”
She made no attempt to pull away as Colga seized her arms. It was hard to believe what she saw and heard anyway: “Riona, it’s my fault Heber died.”
Riona Page 22
