Another search ensued, but there was no more explanation for the light than there was for the cause of the assassin’s death.
“What kind of a murderer carries a light?” someone snorted in doubt.
“Or what kind ’o king takes one on nature’s call?”
Aidan straightened, pricked by the insult. “I carried no light and neither did he,” he said, pointing to the dead man. “But there was a light. The lad saw right, same as I and Gleannmara here.”
Kieran nodded, no closer to an answer for all of his examination of the body and site than before.
“Well, his neck isn’t broke, else it would roll about like a ball in a sack,” another man remarked, dropping the corpse’s head and wiping his hands on his tunic as if they were soiled by the contact.
“It appears milord Aidan has an otherworldly guardian.”
The mere mention of otherworld silenced the group. There was a common belief among many that demons dwelled in the veil houses or privies—at least in those on church grounds. Men were charged to cross themselves as a blessing each time they visited such a place. Kieran, himself a skeptic of spirits, good or bad, doubted even a demon would tolerate the stench.
Bresal addressed the king. “I would consult with the priests, but God has ordained milord Aidan as king of Scotia Minor. As such, does it not follow that God or one of His heavenly messengers would thusly protect him?”
“Then why didn’t God protect his back on the battlefield where my friend died?” Kieran challenged.
“Because He’d placed men to protect His chosen one then,” Bresal responded without pause. “Tonight our king was alone and unarmed save his dining dagger.”
Kieran held his tongue, but his thoughts were not so easily swayed. God had used Heber to save Aidan? He neither liked the idea nor accepted it.
“We must remember that there is always a greater plan afoot than what we can see with the human eye.”
Whether Kieran accepted it or not, the murmurs of wonder and speculation rose all around him. They’d witnessed a miracle. A warrior angel protected Aidan, king of the Dalraidi, because of his heavenly ordained purpose.
“Let us all pray, my liege, that you will live up to God’s expectation as you have thus far. Had you not, that well could be your body lying at our feet, instead of your would-be assassin’s.”
Aidan nodded solemnly and crossed himself, inspiring others to do the same. Kieran followed suit out of habit and respect for his friend, uncertain if the king believed his advisor or simply humored the old man.
“Let us go back to the hall and offer our thanksgiving to the One God for His favor on a humble servant,” the Dalraida announced loudly. “Will you join us, Gleannmara?”
Kieran shook his head. “I needs rest to do the Dalraidi honor tomorrow.”
Aidan reached out and grasped Kieran’s forearm in a hearty shake. “My friend came to my aid at first call. For that, I am also grateful.”
Kieran nodded. He liked Aidan. In all Kieran had seen the man say and do, justice and humility reigned. He returned the gesture of friendship with a squeeze. “And I am grateful that neither of us had to fight the carrier of that light.” Once again, the fine hair at the nape of his neck and on his arms tingled as though brushed by an unseen feather, but he attributed it to a shift in the breeze from the sea.
The body was carried away by some of Aidan’s men as the crowd disbursed. Like Kieran, some elected to give up the revel for the night. He watched until the yard of the bruden was as empty as it had been before the commotion. Far from tired now, he was primed with the afterrush of the excitement. Equally strong was his desire to be alone, and he knew just the place to assuage both dispositions.
TWENTY-FOUR
The games and races drew a larger crowd than the sessions on law and order, for while bureaucracy was not everyone’s passion, the competitions and sport were. Clans mustered together to form teams for hurling. Everywhere, men strutted jauntily with a camán, or hurling stick, resting on their shoulders. Some were bronze mounted in accord with the law, marking the young player as a prince’s or chief’s son in fosterage.
“If ye marry Gleannmara, will I have one of those?” Fynn asked, his admiring eye following one of the young gallants.
“I believe that your father must be a king or chief,” Riona answered. Her heart twinged at the disappointed look on the lad’s face.
If she married Gleannmara. What possibilities the idea carried Riona dared not think about lest her heart quicken and her brain turn to a stew of anxiety and anticipation. If he’d still have her, she would marry him.
“Then I’d engrave mine with the skills Father Cullen taught me.”
“Now that’s a fine idea.” Riona said after processing Fynn’s words with some effort. Heavens, her mind was a stew anyway. Kieran hadn’t come back to the guest house last evening. Riona had waited, ready to concede and apologize, until sleep overtook her. That morning his bed still had not been slept in. Then at breakfast she heard of the attempt on the Scottish Aidan’s life—how the assailant dropped dead in his tracks for no apparent reason. Kieran had been there but disappeared after the crowd disbursed. He was, according to one of Aidan’s retinue, to participate in the race that afternoon.
A tug on her skirt brought Riona to a stop in the flow of milling attendees. Leila pointed to a vendor who had pups for sale. Unlike other merchants, this gentleman did not have to announce his goods. The eager and excited pups did all the promotion for him, yipping, growling, and providing a show for any who’d watch.
Indulging the child, she led her charges over to the small pound. The pups were cute greyhounds, all rambunctious and friendly. Next to them was another stall with wolfhound pups, all awkward legs. Liex and Leila laughed at the antics. Even Fynn allowed a smile to his lips, although he was entirely too grown up to giggle outright.
“Their sire’s racing today,” the vendor informed Riona.
“We’re not in the market for a pup, I fear,” she apologized.
“Well, now, the training is troublesome,” the man answered, a twinkle lighting in his eye. “But I have something back here that would be perfect for this little lady, and it won’t cost but a tittle.” He reached into a small sack and drew out a sleepy kitten.
Leila’s eyes widened in delight as the man handed the small ball of long, gray fur to her. The kitten yawned widely, setting the little girl off with a giggle. As she put her nose up to the kitten’s, it licked her.
“ ’Tis the last of the litter and lonely to be sure.”
Once satisfied that Leila was properly cleaned, the kitten laid its head beneath the jut of the little girl’s chin in blissful contentment. Blue eyes rolled toward Riona in a plea that, although unspoken, was as loud as the man hawking pastries nearby.
“All this wee thing needs is love.”
“Can we keep it, milady?” Liex implored. “It won’t be much trouble, and Leila and me will give it some of our food.”
“It would keep the rats down at Gleannmara,” Fynn added pragmatically. “Gleannmara doesn’t strike me as a man who’d keep cats just for the sake of keepin’ ’em.”
Riona watched Leila nuzzle the kitten. To say no would be cruel to both animal and child, not that Riona could say no. She’d always had a soft spot for kittens.
“We’ll take it on one condition.” Having garnered all three children’s attention, she continued. “I choose the name.”
A minute later they left the vendor a coin richer and a kitten poorer. Lady Gray—at least Riona thought it was a girl—rested contentedly in Leila’s arms, her small neck craned as if to catch all the sights she had missed during her nap. They stopped near a slope of embroideresses while Fynn purchased a bright red ribbon for Lady Gray with money he’d earned performing with Dallan.
At least he’d abandoned the idea of joining the traveling entertainers, Riona thought gratefully, watching him reach down to pet the kitten as they walked. He was rather taken by
the respect afforded the foster son of Gleannmara. That and the brat draped from the lad’s shoulders had won Kieran his favor … for now. The two had volatile tempers, each seeming to set off the other. Not that she could justly condemn either given her own behavior of late.
The racecourse was a plain surrounded by small hills that afforded the populace of the fair a good view. Next to the royal banners of the high king flew those of Aidan, the newest of the provincial monarchs obliged to Aedh. There appeared to be some sort of courtly presentation taking place, with horns heralding the arrival of prestigious persons. These in turn were presented to the high king’s company. Next to the royal highness of all Erin sat the queen, robed in rose and green, and at the king’s other hand, two strapping young men whom Riona took to be their sons. She rose on tiptoe, straining for a better look at the company in Aidan’s court, when a voice hailed her from behind.
“Good day, cousin. Have you come to watch Gleannmara’s finest race?” Colga stepped up beside her and peered in the same direction. “I myself have wagered on the Scot’s chariot.”
“If I were given to gamble, so would I,” Riona answered without censure. “Although Gleannmara’s bloodlines are likely present to some degree in all the contenders.”
Kings and chiefs from all over Ireland had sought to breed their horses with Gleannmara’s stock for years.
“Have you seen Kieran?” she asked, changing the subject from small talk to what weighed most on her mind.
“The last I saw of him he was working the team with Aengus. Aidan should consider himself well befriended by Kieran for such a gift. ’Twould cost him five hundred cows a head had he to pay for them.”
“The king of the Scots has paid Kieran off well by his hospitality given our fugitive circumstance. Indeed, between God’s good grace and Aidan’s, we are well provided for.”
A chorus of trumpets blasted through the collective roar of the throng, announcing the coming of the chariots on parade. Colga cleared a way for Riona and the children to where the men of Dromin had a prime spot at the edge of the track. The ground was dry despite an early morning shower, its clay surface packed hard by the keepers of the grounds.
As the chariots entered the nature-made arena, the high king and his company rose to acknowledge the salutes of the drivers and companions. Banners of every color streamed from the chariots, mingling with the drivers’ brats which flowed behind like sails puffed with wind. The horses were as regally bedecked as their drivers, with enameled bridles, some embellished with silver and gold.
“Faith, some of our good lords’ wives are not as well favored with ornament as their steeds,” Riona commented, eyes wide. She’d committed her life to the plain confines of the abbey for so long she’d all but forgotten the lavishness of her class where fine horseflesh was concerned.
Scotia Minor’s chariot passed, Kieran holding on to the rail as second to the driver. His fair hair streamed from a proud profile, clean-shaven and angular. The gold armbands and rings of his station glistened in the sun. His brat unfurled like bright blue and gold canopy held from flight by a brooch that glittered with blue fire. Without their own entry in this year’s competition, the men of Dromin lifted a cheer and maintained it long after their liege lord had passed.
Kieran should have looked as sleep deprived as Riona felt, but instead of holding his fine presence against him, Riona joined the others in their cheers. At the uproar, Lady Gray burrowed under Leila’s arm as if to escape, back legs scrambling for all she was worth.
“Poor dear,” Riona commiserated, imagining what all this must sound like to the little animal. She helped Leila calm the trembling kitten. Remembering that it had found solace in a sack, she draped a fold of the little girl’s brat over Lady Gray’s head and gently held it there until she felt the animal purr.
Looking back to the track, she saw the high king rise and lift a branch to call order. Rather than tiny silver bells, which usually commanded attention at a table or in a confined meeting chamber, a trumpet sounded the call to silence. The charioteers lined up their vehicles wheel to wheel at the starting line, all eyes upon the dais where the queen now rose. She lifted a silk scarf high above her head, where it fluttered in the breeze. Horses pawed the hard-caked track and pulled impatiently at their reins.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Fynn whispered at Riona’s ear. “I’d rather race than wield a hurling stick. Why Gleannmara’s horse has more gold than I’ve seen in my lifetime on man or beast!”
“That’s King Aidan’s gold,” Riona reminded the mercenary-minded youth. “And remember, all the glitter in the world is no equal to a noble heart and ofttimes hides a black one.”
Her last words were drowned by an explosive revel of excitement and anticipation. The scarf fluttered toward the ground, launching the horses across the starting line. So many worldly distractions for such a young and hungry mind, Riona thought, or even for a more mature one. The men of Dromin shouted and jumped up and down like leashed hounds on the trail of their prey.
There were two chariots in the lead, Kieran’s Dalraidi and that of Connaught. A third Ossary vehicle hedged side to side behind them, looking for a place to pull ahead, while the others fought for the inside track to the rear. By luck of the draw, Connaught had the inside track at the outset, which meant Kieran’s horse was outrunning its competitor just to keep abreast. Such was the order for the first lap.
On the next, Kieran’s chariot swung wide on the turn, and Ossary madly seized at the small opening presented. Wedging in between the two in the lead, its driver veered straight for the rail like a madman. Connaught was faced with the opponent’s wheels tearing into his horse or running off the course. The driver took the latter, to the cheers of the crowd, for no prize was worth the careless endangerment of a good horse.
For the first half of the last lap it looked as if Ossary was going to take the race, but at the last turn Kieran’s steed seemed to take a fresh breath. The gray and white Ringbane surged forward. By the time they reached the last turn, Kieran and Aengus were in the lead. The onlookers went wild. Nearby, someone tooted a horn. The blast was deafening, giving Riona a terrible start. She placed her hand upon her rapidly beating heart and strained to see Kieran pulling a full length away from the Ossary chariot.
What made her tear her gaze from the race, she didn’t know. But when she did, to her horror, she saw Leila dart out into the raceway, just beyond the finish line. Ahead of her was a panicked Lady Gray, her fur puffed and standing on end. Upon realizing the danger of being trampled by the hooves pounding their way, the kitten froze in the middle of the track. Leila caught up with the kitten and bent down to pick her up, cradling her to her chest.
Sheer panic seized Riona. Her warning shout blended in with the huzzahs raised to bring in the Dalraidi chariot. Try as she might, her feet would not budge from where she stood riveted to the ground. No one saw the child. They were all watching the thundering chariots—chariots that could not stop even if someone spied Leila.
Frozen and helpless, Riona watched the impending disaster unfold as if it were in slow motion. Leila turned, the kitten clutched to her breast, in time to see her danger, but the same horror holding Riona captive seized the child as well. The gray and white stallion from Gleannmara was less than a chariot’s length from her when it veered sharply to the left, narrowly missing her.
Huzzahs turned to cries of alarm. As the chariot followed, it seemed to throw out a body. His brat flared behind him, Kieran looked as if he were flying for one still frame of time. Then he dropped from the air, knocking Leila down and covering her with his body. The Ossary charioteer had no time to change his course despite his effort. The horse missed, but one of the chariot’s wheels raced over Kieran and careened precariously, nearly overturning. Behind it came Connaught’s, and the same nightmare played before Riona’s eyes again. Thankfully, by then the others had seen something amiss and slowed sufficiently to swerve to one side or the other of the still, dust-covered fo
rms without striking them.
The crowd moved forward as one body. Colga and the Dromin reached them first. Riona was swallowed by the masses despite her frantic efforts to push her way through. Dear God, spare them. Dear God, spare them. Dear God … Her furtive prayer echoed over and over in her mind as she struggled through the heart-seizing hush, tugging, men twice her size aside.
Finally, Riona saw a small head shoot up above those surrounding her. Half-crying, half-laughing, Leila sat hoisted precariously on someone’s shoulder. In her arms was the bedraggled Lady Gray, clinging with all fours to the child’s clothing. Hers was the most beautiful clay-smeared face Riona had ever seen. Kieran had protected her from harm, but what of.
“Weanling, you have given me the fright of my life!”
That voice. That booming, often arrogant voice took out Riona’s knees with relief. Thank God! She grabbed for the nearest arm until she recovered sufficiently to support her own weight. She offered thanks over and over in her mind and with her tongue. It was all she could say, even when Colga turned and ushered her into the center of the chaos.
Then she was face-to-face with the man she’d nearly lost forever. Aside from clay and dust, Kieran of Gleannmara looked positively vibrant. Sunlight danced in the cinnamon warmth of his eyes as he met her gaze. She’d always been told a man could not be beautiful, but she’d been misled. Kieran was beautiful. He was beautiful and whole and healthy—unharmed by hoof or wheel.
Except that was impossible. Riona had seen two horse-drawn chariots run him over, nearly overturning but for pure luck and the skill of the drivers. Despite her second thought, she couldn’t pull away from the sweet spell spun by his gaze. Disbelieving, she ran her hand over the bronzed sinew of his arm—not a mark, abrasion, nor bruise—naught but flawless flesh.
“You should have at least warned me that fatherhood was so risky,” he chided, one corner of his lips tugging in irascible fashion.
She touched it. “You’re not hurt.” Wonder affected her overwhelming gratitude. God, You are so good.
Riona Page 25
