“Of course I do. And I resent your overblown air of superiority. If you recall, it was I who won this battle, not you or your god.”
She turned to Rowan’s mother, who watched the exchange keenly.
“Aye, I’d have this bath after all, but with one of my clansmen as guard, lest there be any trickery to this.”
“Who knows?” Rowan remarked wryly. “Beneath all that filth, she might not be harsh on the eye at all.”
“Rowan, you go too far,” his mother gasped. She turned to Maire in apology. “Come, child. I’ll fetch the towels and attend you myself.”
“I need no attendant.” Maire’s gaze remained on Emrys’s face. “Stay on that course with me, Emrys, and what you see will be through blackened slits!”
With a decided swagger, she turned to follow Delwyn ap Emrys out of the room. And, lest the man decide to push his luck, she rested her hand on the hilt of her sword.
FIVE
By the time the ship was ready to depart, Maire felt renewed by her surrender to the whim of a bath. And what a bath it had been! It was no large wooden tub in which to hunker down, with knees drawn to the chin so that the water reached one’s shoulders. This had been a small pool lined in beautiful, blue tiles and large enough for Maire to stretch out her full length. She’d done so gladly to wash the lime out of her hair with the pleasantly scented soap Lady Delwyn had left her.
On the walls of the room were paintings of frolicking sea nymphs and dolphins, but most marvelous was the manner in which the room was heated, not by a fire sooting up the beautiful walls and plastered ceiling as it did in her lodge, but by ductwork beneath the floor, which was fired by strange furnaces in another section of the house.
Maire fingered the equally fine material of the dress rolled beneath her arm, as if to remind herself that the experience had been real and not a dream. The garment had been given to her by Delwyn ap Emrys to put on after her bath. Adorned with gold and silver embroidery, it was more beautiful than any Maire had ever seen. But for the possibility of renewed battle on their retreat, she’d have donned it instead of her old clothes and fighting gear. Instead, she washed out the stain of battle from her tunic and wrung it as dry as she could before putting it back on.
Between disputes among their respective tribes and Rowan’s goodbyes, there’d been an untold number of delays in their departure, which allowed time for her leine to dry before they left the villa. At the last moment, Rowan insisted on bidding his god farewell, which made no sense to Maire. Didn’t the Christians believe their god was always with them?
“Do not fear our God,” Rowan’s mother counseled her as Maire waited impatiently at the open door of the chapel. “He will speak to you when you are ready to listen.”
What the lady had mistaken for fear on Maire’s face was but a battle between the young queen’s heart and mind. The golden cross on the altar would fetch a fine price. As would the master’s bed. Yet, Maire was reluctant to take either one from these people, particularly now that they had names and, for the most part, pleasant personalities to go with them.
Then, though she had defeated Rowan ap Emrys in combat and was forcing him to leave parents he obviously loved, Delwyn ap Emrys hugged her in parting and asked the Christian God to bless their voyage home. For all that the gesture made Maire uncomfortable, it warmed her as well. She’d found Lady Delwyn’s command of humility and authority a source of envy and admiration; although Maire knew full well humility had no place in a warrior queen’s disposition, except to the gods.
Now, as they loaded the ship, the moon ventured an intermittent peek through the clouds above, bathing the narrow beach of rock and sand in silvery light. The loading ramp swung away from the shore, where Roman ships had once loaded coal from nearby mines now abandoned. The foredeck was crowded with six head of cattle, fatter and sturdier in build than those that pastured on Gleannmara. The beasts were calmed by the mixture of herbs and hay Brude had fed them. As further precaution for the three-day return to Erin, they were hobbled and secured in a roped off pen.
Next to them was a pair of horses. Unlike Erin’s traditional small and shaggy native breeds, these were of much larger stock. Maire could not peer over the back of either the stallion or the mare. The matched pair nearly caused another full-fledged battle between Declan and Rowan’s overseer, Dafydd, a little man with the nerve of a giant. Rowan had specified cattle as tribute, but when Declan saw the splendid pair of horses housed in a barn as comfortable as the huts of the people who tended them, the young Scot demanded they be included. The pair was Rowan’s, and—as the last of the clan gathered at the house to await Maire’s command—the argument was settled by his quiet order to fetch them from their stalls.
The family of Demetrius had bred the fine steeds for generations. The stock, he’d explained, was imported from the East centuries before for use by the armies and cavalries and for entertainment during Rome’s domination. Maire could well imagine that such beasts, whether racing chariots in the arena or on the battlefield, were magnificent to behold.
As were Rowan’s pair. Their high-strung natures were somewhat gentled by trusted hands and Brude’s concoction, but they stilled pawed the deck. Rowan attempted to soothe them to counter the unfamiliar sounds created by the creaking boards and straining lines hailing the ship’s departure.
Maire could hardly believe her fortune. She had a bed and livestock fit for a king, in addition to the plunder and tribute stowed above and below deck. None of her clansmen had been lost, although the villagers had left their share of wounds to vouch that not all had come easily. This was indeed cause for the sacrificial fire Brude would make for both their success and Maire’s wedding.
As for her concern about the shore natives regrouping and attacking the men she’d left to defend their means of escape, it had been for naught. The frightened and beaten people had flocked to the small stone church to put out the fire started in the midst of the Scotti pillage, and there they remained until nightfall. At that point, some crept back to their homes and locked themselves tightly in. Even when the ship was well away from the shoreline, not a single light of habitation showed, save those lanterns and torches carried by the Lady Delwyn and the people of Emrys.
“Easy, Shahar,” Rowan cooed as the stallion began to toss its head up and down at the snap of the leather sail overhead.
The ship surged forward, catching the rare land breeze. Maire watched her hostage run his hands along the stallion’s back and flank, continually reassuring it. Having been brought up in a man’s world where such fawning was fine for animals, she almost envied the horse. Her foster parents loved her of course, but they’d been reluctant to show her such love as Delwyn demonstrated for Rowan, for fear of ruining her as a future warrior. The little girl in her had missed that which she saw others enjoy.
Maire twisted her lips in disdain, as though wringing the unbidden longing from her chest. It was a female weakness, this needing to be loved, and one that her brothers would scoff at if they knew. Not that men couldn’t love if it suited their purpose. Maire had seen contrived attentions enough to recognize them when a lusty roll in the grass was the prize. Males, it seemed, didn’t need to be loved like women. Their need was more that of an animal, one that could be satisfied without the sharing of emotion she’d overheard women confide in whispers amongst themselves.
Yet, Rowan ap Emrys seemed different somehow, appearing to possess a tremendous capacity to love, more so than any man she’d seen. It showed in his treatment of his parents and animals, not to mention the way his servants bade him goodbye—not as their overlord, but as a brother. Even the cantankerous Dafydd had shed tears openly when Rowan grasped his arm in farewell.
Lady Delwyn was not quite so obvious with her dismay. Since her initial alarm, she’d assumed a serenity that forbade it. Her calmness almost glowed from within her, as though she knew this disaster brought on by Maire and her people would result in good. Standing on the beach, she smiled and waved
until the mist swallowed her in the growing distance between ship and shore.
Her son had exhibited that same aura of quiet strength and peace as he’d knelt before the chapel altar one last time. Did it come from the spirit of the golden cross or from his medallion? Maire had neither seen nor heard any assurance to this end.
“His God will speak to you when you are ready to listen.”
Despite the warmth of her wrap, Maire felt her flesh pebble as Delwyn’s words came to her mind. She didn’t want to speak to a god. Better to leave that to Brude, who was accustomed to dealing with spirits and such. She preferred to sing and dance in the deities’ honor. By her mother’s milk, give her beings she could perceive with all her senses!
“You shiver as if it were you who took the cold plunge instead of me.”
Maire nearly leapt out of her skin at the closeness of Rowan’s voice. How had he left the horses and slipped up behind her without her notice? His god had saved his life, or at least the amulet with his god’s symbol on it had, but had he also given the man the ability to walk like a spirit?
But for Brude’s intercession on his behalf, and the reluctance of the horses to board the ship on the floating ramp, Rowan would be in chains like any new hostage. But only Rowan could coax the nervous horses aboard and calm them. The invaders had no choice but to let him walk free if the steeds were to go with them.
Emrys had a way with animals, another gift from his god—a god at least as powerful as Brude’s concoction, given the druid’s expressed respect of the deity. A panicked horse, especially one the size of Rowan’s beasts, could kick a ship apart. The ancient songs told how some of the prized steeds belonging to the Milesian forefathers of the Scotti had been slaughtered when they panicked to save the vessels on the long sea journey from Iberia.
“Winter has yet to remove her icy fingers from the sea and its mist,” Maire replied at last, the tragic lines of the ancient epic forgotten. Her thoughts were no longer on horses.
Brude said there was a presence about Rowan ap Emrys, and indeed, she felt it. It bullied her own despite the fact that he gave no appearance of threat. Be it spiritual or fleshly in nature, the force of his nearness set off every alarm in her body. With the length of a hostile sword between them, she hadn’t noticed so much.
It wasn’t his size, she reasoned. She’d held her ground with sparring partners as big as he and felt nothing like she was feeling now. It was only through sheer willpower that she didn’t flee from her isolated spot at the rail to where her men celebrated over a keg of wine taken from the church.
“How does it feel, then, to be made a queen of Gleannmara?” her unsolicited companion asked. “Your man Eochan told me you proved yourself worthy to rule the tuath this day.”
“I earned it,” Maire declared proudly. She stared off at a window of stars where the heavy drape of clouds had thinned. “It feels good, I suppose, but not as good as beating you in combat.”
Rowan didn’t rise to the feisty queen’s taunt but took it with a smile. “But you are not celebrating.”
“I’m about to wed a stranger, a madman, who in the moment of his triumph offers me his sword. I wonder if I’m not as fey as you. Why did you do it? You’d everything to gain for your people and nothing to lose.”
“Suffice it to say I couldn’t bring myself to remove such a pretty head from its body.”
Rowan sensed rather than saw the color warming the girl at his side and was uncommonly pleased. If he could not explain fully to his Christian mother how God had answered his prayers, there was no way this pagan beauty could grasp his reasons. He wasn’t wholly certain he fathomed them himself, particularly when Maire had unexpectedly seized the victory from him and demanded he become her husband.
Still, the decision to surrender to her hadn’t been a matter of choice. He’d known he could not kill her the moment she’d stepped out of the cover of her troops. Though he hadn’t thought it possible, that conviction grew stronger when she announced that she was Maire of Gleannmara. Surrender of his sword was the only option whereby they both might survive to see the purpose of this far from chance encounter.
“So you think I’m fair to the eye, now that I’m rid of the war paint and grit?”
Her question surprised Rowan. His future bride was proud enough without his feeding her pride overmuch…yet it seemed she was vulnerable with the age-old feminine desire to be admired. Surely she’d been complimented by her countrymen before.
“Fair enough, I suppose.” The words hardly did her justice, Rowan thought, resisting the urge to stroke her hair as he had the horses’ manes. Damp from the bath that scented it, her untamed tresses tumbled like a wave of sunfire over the wrap of her multicolored brat. The ship’s lantern light was too poor for him to fully appreciate the gaze that chewed upon his answer as though its palatability were undetermined. He’d seen those eyes ablaze with the passion of combat and found, much to his surprise, emotion of another kind stirred within him.
Not that he’d become so focused on his study of the faith that he’d become immune to the allure of the opposite sex. It was the need for constant nourishment of his animal nature that had changed. Instead of thriving on war and its sometimes carnal rewards, his nature was fueled bright by the studying of God’s Word and watching His blessings turn the efforts of the farm workers into fruit more plentiful than any imagined possible. He’d found more pleasure in cultivating the fruits of life than he’d ever known in plundering them.
Maire drew her cloak tighter about her and shifted uncomfortably, moving a step away from him. The maid was as nervous and high-strung as his blooded horses, as fine a representation of womankind as they were of the equine. Like a filly that has reached its pinnacle of development, yet remains unbroken, Rowan mused as he studied her proud profile silhouetted against the dim light.
He’d been right. She was the girl in his dream. The resemblance was too strong to allow for chance when coupled with the fact that she’d come from his homeland.
“You but say the word if this churlish knave bothers you, Maire, and I’ll give him a taste of a man’s sword.” The threat invaded Rowan’s contemplation, bringing him about as sharply as the woman beside him.
Maire was clearly surprised to see Declan standing there, feet braced on the deck before them, his manner puffed like a banty cock in full plumage.
“Emrys has been a man of his word to the utmost, brother. I’m in no danger—” she eyed him for a moment, setting that small chin of hers—“not to say that my own sword would not suffice if I were.”
The fair Scot nodded with as much concession as the chain and rope riggings gave the leather sails above them. “I did not mean to insinuate otherwise, Maire, but I confess, I cannot help but object to this marriage idea of yours.”
“It serves Gleannmara well. Now Emrys’s tuath will be ours as well.”
“And all that sleepy bit of plow pushers will do is fill your belly. You can’t fight with a cow or grain.”
Rowan smirked. “Nor can an army fight on empty bellies.”
Declan ignored Rowan’s wry point and switched tactics. “Come join us, Maire. ’Tis your victory we’re celebrating. Mayhap together we can think of an alternative for you.”
“You’ve offered none thus far, brother. This is the best course I see, and Brude agrees. There’s much to be learned from the songs of the past.”
So that is the lay of things… Rowan studied the younger man. This Declan considers himself more than brother to the queen. The lad’s anger bellowed through his nostrils like that of a young bull with its herd threatened. The brashness of his nature, it seemed, did not assert itself in matters of the heart. Not that Rowan found fault with that. No doubt the handsome warrior feared she’d cut him down as quickly with her tongue as her sword. Leaning against the rail, Rowan folded his arms, content to watch the exchange with undeniable interest.
“Then share his fancy bed, but know neither his high ways nor his God will protect
you against Morlach when he hears of this treachery. ’Twas Brude’s magic that won at the last!”
Maire rose to Declan’s heated insinuation that she was less skilled than the Welshman. “’Twas my stinger. And it was Brude’s magic that showed me the answer to my problems, whilst you and Eochan faced them with evasive eyes, shuffling feet, and all manner of ifs. This man at least meets his enemy head on and honors his word.”
“We’ll see how quickly his courage and honor desert him when he faces Morlach instead of a woman.”
Maire glanced expectantly at Rowan, as though not sure which of them had the most reason to take exception to Declan’s outburst. Rowan sensed her confoundment and disappointment when he let the insult ride. No doubt men in her world had lost their heads over less veiled affronts. Keeping a wary eye on the hand Declan placed on his sword, Rowan merely smiled. “And who is this Morlach you speak of, brother?”
“Evil incarnate,” Declan derided, the disdain in his eyes giving evidence that his estimation of Rowan was dropping by the moment at his lack of spine. “Master of the powers of darkness…and I am not your brother.”
“A druid? This is the worrisome suitor you speak of?” The chuckle in Rowan’s question was not one of mild amusement. He was as deadly serious as the subject they now broached.
“Morlach is guardian of Gleannmara,” Maire answered shortly. “The high king appointed him to the task until I came of age. From all I’ve heard, he’s bled my people with his greed, and now he seeks to marry me so that he can continue to feed on Gleannmara’s sweat and blood.”
“You’ve not seen this for yourself?” Maire didn’t strike him as the sort to let this sort of rumor go without taking some sort of action—to verify it, if nothing else.
“She’s been under Drumkilly’s protection,” Declan told him.
Maire Page 6
