Beard freshly trimmed into its fashionable fork, the Ulster lord made Kieran wait while his attendant helped him don his sword belt. The dagger he shoved into the top of his boot glistened, sinister in the otherwise innocent glow of the morning sun.
“So, you’ve found the lad out, eh?” he asked after taking one last look in the hand mirror the barber handed him and finding what he saw satisfactory.
The condemning look he gave Fynn was wasted, for the lad refused to meet the man’s eye. He stood so close to Kieran staring at the campfire that Kieran could feel the heat of his slight body. An uncommon urge to take the lad under his arm took Kieran by surprise.
“I found the lad out,” Kieran answered. “He had no vial in his possession, holy or otherwise. “As a precaution, we searched all our belongings, but your vial is elsewhere. I swear it by the honor of my forefathers.”
“Then you are a fool.”
Kieran straightened, as if the barb of the accusation prodded his back. “If you look for a fool, milord, take another look in yon mirror.” He pointed to the one the barber held in his hand.
“Those little thieves have made you weak-minded.” Maille grabbed Fynn by the front of his shirt, jerking him away from Kieran. Before the boy’s feet touched the ground again, it was Kieran who met the Ulster lord nose to nose, and it was Maille’s feet that dangled above the earth. With the glide of metal against leather, the men of Dromin closed around them, blades out in a formidable circle that held the Ulstermen at bay.
“Will you risk war—nay, your life—for a trinket?” Kieran growled. “Good neighbors of Ulster,” he shouted in a raised voice, “think before you use those weapons you draw. Do you wish to spill blood, possibly your own, over a vial of holy water when there is enough to drown you all in salvation three days’ ride in any direction. Or over silver little enough to make your wenches ask where the rest is?”
“Put me down or I’ll—”
Kieran shook his prisoner into silence. “Confound you, Maille, I’m trying to forgive you, and you’re making it impossible!”
“Forgive me? For what?”
“For acting like the hind end of a bull on green apples, sputterin’ worthless filth.”
Around them laughter erupted from both factions. Kieran shook Maille again. “Now apologize, or I’ll shake you breathless.”
“I’ll not—”
Kieran whipped the lord’s head back and forth sharply three times. “I didn’t hear you,” he bellowed.
Maille’s glare was hot enough to singe the wool of Gleannmara’s brat, but his color waned by the shake. Upon realizing he was inadvertently choking the Ulster lord, Kieran loosened his hold, but only slightly.
The laughter around them died, silenced by anticipation. Hardly a shirt among them moved with breath. Behind him, Kieran heard one of the Dromin clear his throat with a pained swallow.
“I … apologize,” Maille finally said in a constricted voice.
It was enough. “Then I and my son forgive you, don’t we, lad?” Kieran set the man down and released his clothing. “Well?” he added, turning to Fynn.
Fynn nodded. “Aye, I suppose.” From the look on his face, it might have been he who’d been half-strangled, not Maille. Kieran lifted his head, another prompt, which the boy picked up. Fynn squared his slumped shoulders and lifted his chin, as was befitting the foster son of a king.
Satisfied, Kieran clamped a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “I bid you all a good day, gentlemen, and a safe journey back to your homes and families.”
With that, he led the Gleannmara faction out of the camp. Ahead of him, Riona sat atop the small horse Bantan, where she’d watched the scene—how much she’d seen, Kieran had no idea, but he hoped she’d seen it all. She was a champion of forgiveness and such, and he wanted to please her. The problem was, he couldn’t tell if she was pleased or not.
She should have been. Maille had fairly begged him to draw blood rather than an apology out of his scrawny neck, yet Kieran had refrained with saintly resolve.
“Good day, milady. I’d have called it glorious until I saw how you outshine it.” Kieran smiled, but Riona failed to take his lead.
“Thank you, milord.”
He scowled at the lack of enthusiasm behind her answer. “Is something amiss?” There was a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Whether it bode ill or fair, he had no clue.
“I’m certain you did your best.”
“Indeed I—” Kieran broke off, bemused. “Best at what?” Whatever it was, given her rueful tone, it apparently wasn’t good enough.
Riona glanced over at Maille’s encampment, where Maille and his captain watched, their heads bent toward each other and lips moving to no obvious good. That the Gleannmara party was the subject, Kieran had no doubt. At the moment, however, it was Riona’s concern that plagued him, not Maille’s.
“Would milady care to share what is on her mind?”
“Your concept of forgiveness, Kieran.” On that cool note, she turned her horse away and joined the main body now mounted and awaiting their king.
Faith, it was easier milking a bull! Kieran bounded up on Gray Macha’s back, where Leila and the basketed Lady Gray awaited. The kitten, startled by the jolt, struggled to peep out, squeezing her furry face between the rim and the lid. Leila lifted it, basket and all, and gave her a tiny kiss on the nose and said something soothing. The creature withdrew to its comfy quarters, fear apparently abated. Raising his arm as a signal, Kieran waved the party forward.
“Good day, brothers,” he called out to Domnall, Ninian, and the others who’d gathered at the gate to see them off.
“God’s speed,” Domnall called back, echoed simultaneously by his companions.
Gleannmara’s banners flying at the forefront and the Dromin at the flank, the travelers were on their way home at last. Until now, Kieran hadn’t thought of the tuath as home. He’d spent more time at Dromin, with Murtagh and his family. Then Gleannmara became his kingdom, but it had been more burden than joy, reminding him of his loss.
Now, though, that he had a wife and family he found himself anxious to settle in.
Once the abbey was out of sight, Riona spoke again, distracting him from his musings. Her words smacked of reluctant duty, as though she were loathe to address a subject that needed airing. “Kieran, forgiveness is meaningless unless the party being forgiven is earnest in his contrition. Contrition cannot be forced. It must come from within the offender.”
And when the creature did give forth, the milk was sour at that. Women were hard to please, but a spiritual one was even more confounding. “Then how could I forgive my enemy, when he is in no humor to be forgiven, may I ask? I only tried to be a good example for the lad.”
His testy words, instead of provoking her, drew a smile at last from her disapproving lips. “I know you meant well, anmchara, and for that I am grateful. You did all you could, perhaps a bit too much, in forcing Maille to apologize. ’Twas like forcing spoilt meat to be fresh, I fear.”
At least on that Kieran could agree. “Aye, but I can’t do penance for his feelings, only my own.” Yet Kieran was uncertain of those as well. He’d tried to feel forgiving toward Maille and hoped that, in his show of grace, he’d convince himself. But the fact remained, forgiven or nay, that Maille was a dangerous snake of a man with a tongue as forked as his beard.
“And I’m proud of you for that,” Riona assured him. She reached across the narrow space between them and gave his forearm a squeeze. “Sometimes that’s all we can do, I suppose, try and then let the Holy Spirit do the rest.”
She spoke with such certainty that Kieran refrained from a disparaging retort. Instead, he considered Riona’s observation in silence. Heaven knew that but for some manner of divine intervention his own attempts to handle things would have led to the destruction of himself as well as his loved ones. Something had not failed where he had. At length, he nodded.
“Aye, milady, I’m thinking He will at that, e’en tho
ugh His task is most considerable.”
Riona laughed, a sound that put the birdsong to shame, infecting Kieran with a rush of joy the likes of which he’d known only of late … with her. Nothing, not even the seething visage of Lord Maille looking after them, could cloud his thoughts when that summer sound played upon him.
Kieran knew he’d not seen the last of the man, but at that moment Riona’s presence bedazzled care into nonexistence.
Gleannmara.
The thick, forested clan lands between Ulster’s abbey and Leinster had separated a few miles back, and now blocks of green, well-tended fields bordered by hedges and stone walls rolled before the travelers like a carpet of bounty, welcoming them home. To the west, the mist-shrouded Wicklows reigned over the skyline, and to the east and beyond was the rock-strewn coastline of the Irish Sea.
Instead of watching them with the guarded looks of the earlier tenants they’d passed, the people in the fields and along the road greeted Gleannmara’s entourage with good cheer and genuine welcome. All along the way, Kieran stopped to speak and proudly present Riona as the new Lady Gleannmara. Many of the faces were familiar, for while Riona was the new lady of Gleannmara, she was not new to the tuath. Kieran’s mother had taught her needlework and the domestic administration of a rath in a limited fosterage arrangement, since Ethna of Dromin was loathe to give her daughter up for the full seven years and broke convention.
Riona had missed her family at times, but she’d also gained another. Where Ethna might have pampered her daughter, the queen of Gleannmara would not, just as Murtagh would not favor Kieran in his training. Their protégés’ skills were a reflection of their own, just as were their hearts. Skill begat skill. Kindness and understanding begat kindness and understanding. She wondered how the coming of priests and bards as teachers provided to each tuath would affect the fosterage tradition.
The closer Riona and the others came to Gleannmara, the less time she had to ponder such things. Remarks such as “And it’s well about time, milady” and “Welcome home, milady” filled her ears and touched her heart. Faith, it did feel as if she was coming home—not just where she belonged, but where God intended her to be. She’d known refuge and peace at the abbey, but not this sense of belonging. Riona tried to check the emotion welling within, but when a goat cart loaded with children shot out of the blue-and-gold-bannered gate to meet them, they were a joyful blur.
“God bless ye, milord and lady,” the older children running alongside the cart called out to them.
“By the stars, it’s an army of gigglings,” Kieran mumbled as he watched the wicker cart full of round-faced cherubs bounce toward them. Clearly, he’d all but forgotten the orphans he’d sent with Bran to Gleannmara. Reinforced by the children of the rath, they presented an impressive number.
“Where the blazes is Gleannmara’s guard?” he demanded of the gatekeeper.
A shaggy-haired head popped up in the tower beside the bearded tender. “It’s ridin’ the border, same as always, milord,” the younger of the two replied.
“And who are you, mite?”
The lad leaned out the tower window. “Don’t you recognize me, milord? It’s me, Naal. Siony’s brother. I’m in trainin’ to be a gatekeeper.”
Gone was Kieran’s kingly demeanor, replaced by utter confoundment as he looked at Riona. “What has that poem spoutin’ cousin of yours done to me?”
Riona laughed outright, tears and all. “Exactly as you instructed him, milord. Take the orphans to Gleannmara and await your return.”
“We couldn’t possibly have rescued this many.”
She reached across the space between Bantan and Gray Macha and touched his arm. How well she’d memorized its strength, as well as its gentleness, since becoming one with him as his wife. “Beloved, most of these are Gleannmara’s own.”
“Their parents have hid them well till now,” her husband muttered to himself.
“Much happens when milord is away from his home for so long and pays it little heed when he is there. I’d wager your rechtaire knows them all by name … aside from the new ones,” she added for the steward’s benefit.
“Ach, Benin be blessed!” Kieran urged Gray Macha ahead and through the gate. “Methinks there is urgent need for some military order, not for that of a steward or a bard.”
“A king’s perhaps?” Riona suggested.
“Aye,” he called over his shoulder. “And a host of good men and angels.”
Smiling, Riona followed. Given his circumstances as a new husband, father, and lord of a ragtag band of orphans, Riona thought Kieran handled himself with relatively good grace.
Beside her, the boys were all eyes as they entered the rath.
“Look at the size of the hall,” Liex gasped, pointing to a great domed roof looming beyond the stockade of the inner yard. “It’s big as a king’s.”
“It is a king’s, dolt,” Fynn reminded him, adding proudly. “Our foster father’s.”
Thank heaven he and Kieran had mended the rift between them.
“What does that say?” The youngest boy pointed to an embroidered flag, white with a royal Chi-Rho encircled by ornate lettering.
“And reading will be the first order of the day.” Kieran dismounted and handed his stallion over to the stable master, then walked back to help the lad off the pony. “It’s the motto of Gleannmara, coined by King Rowan and Queen Maire a century ago. It says, ‘Home to the just, enemy to the greedy and ambitious.’ ”
The boy mouthed the words to himself and then nodded in approval. “Sounds like a right place to live.”
“You mean it? You’ll teach us to read?” From the excitement in Fynn’s gaze, Riona knew he would learn quickly.
“I can read already,” Liex boasted, pointing to the banner. “ ‘Home to the just, enemy to the greedy and ambitious.’ ”
Fynn cut a disparaging glance at him. “A bird can repeat what someone else reads, dolt.”
Kieran removed Liex from Fynn’s reach before the elder’s intended cuff hit its mark. “But does the bird know what it means?” he asked.
With a sheepish grin, Fynn slid off the pony as Colga caught up with them, Leila and her basketed pet asleep in his arms.
“A bit of help here,” he called unnecessarily, for Kieran was already headed to retrieve the sleeping little girl.
Since leaving Kilmare, Leila shared her attention between Colga and Kieran, much to the latter’s bewilderment.
“Have I done something to offend the lass?” Kieran had asked Riona the first night away from the abbey as he’d watched Colga and Leila tossing a small spool back and forth for the kitten to chase.
Riona assured him that Leila had enough love for all of them. “She’s special,” she’d reminded her husband. “I think she knows a hurting soul when she sees one and tries to soothe it in her own small way.”
The understanding that registered on Kieran’s face and his thoughtful nod told Riona that Colga was not the only hurting soul Leila had ministered to with her innocent, unselfish love. And that didn’t count an adoring kitten or the moon-eyed calf she’d left in Brother Domnall’s care. God surely used the child, but when would He heal her?
“By my father’s hammer, me brat’s wet,” Colga exclaimed, as Kieran lifted a sleep-dazed Leila from the man’s lap. “How in time did that happen?”
With a laugh, Kieran wrapped Leila’s brat around her and started away. “I warned you to wake her when we last stopped.”
The men of Dromin teased their lord as Colga jumped off his mount and shook out his offending cloak. Not quite awake, Leila laid her head against Kieran’s shoulder and cradled the basket with Lady Gray in her arms. But at the sight of the goat cart loaded with laughing children, she came instantly awake. Kieran put her down as she squirmed.
“I think you’d best see your mother before joining that lot of gigglers,” he advised her.
Her mother. The two words filled Riona to overflowing with joy. As the stable lad led her fa
ithful Bantan away, she opened her arms to receive the running child—basket and bobbing kitten and all.
“We’ll change you into your old shift, and then you can play until supper.”
Supper. Of course Benin would have some summer fare and there would be filling food for the staff, nothing elaborate with the lord of the tuath away. She knew exactly what to do. Lorna, Kieran’s mother, had been a good teacher, though she hadn’t come to her new home a bride with three strays of her own and a dozen more running amuck.
As Riona ushered her charges toward the king’s lodge, her cousin Bran hailed her from the inner rath. Ignoring Kieran completely, the bard raced toward her with a sense of extreme urgency and alarm.
“Thank God you’re here!” He embraced Riona so tightly, she thought he would crush her shoulders.
“I … I’m glad to see you as well, cousin. Is something—”
“It’s Siony,” he interrupted breathlessly. “She’s having the babe.”
THIRTY-ONE
A great turmoil followed Bran’s announcement. Born and trained to do so, Kieran stepped into charge, taking over where Benin, his chief steward, left off. He assigned Riona to handle the birthing matters. A midwife had been sent for, but Kieran knew that his new wife having been at the abbey, which had sheltered expectant mothers and boasted its share of newborn babes, was no stranger to such affairs. Riona and Benin conspired to see that hot water and linens, as well as herbs pertinent to the mother-to-be’s care, were readied. Kieran smiled. His wife was not unlike a king and captain preparing for battle.
Meanwhile, he saw to the regrouping and morale of the troops, specifically the father-to-be, for that was exactly what Bran acted like even if he was not responsible. Kieran took the wineskin Colga had nursed off and on during their journey and handed it to the Dromin’s distraught cousin before they even entered the hall. Then he saw to the disbursal of the traveling party, as well as the new royal family’s belongings in Benin’s stead. Now Riona’s things were among his in the royal lodge, while the fosterlings, who reveled and explored with the other newcomers to Gleannmara, were set up in the attendant’s lodge close by.
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