Maire

by Linda Windsor

  “I always give as good as I get! You ought to know that well by now, Emrys.”

  “Rowan, love.” He cupped her chin. “Faith, I’ve never heard my name whispered with such longing as from these lips.”

  Before Maire could react, he leaned down and sealed in her rush of fury with a kiss. It wasn’t as hard as her first one had been, but it gave no less quarter. It was as though he were drinking her dry of strength and thought. No man had ever dared as much. None! When he let her go, she was grateful for the rail at her back. With a forced nonchalance, she rested her arms against it. Her lips curled, a convincing facade of mild amusement.

  “You learn quickly for a Welshman, Rowan.”

  A loud whistle rose above the flutter of laughter the confrontation evoked in the ranks. Maire had held her own, but had no idea what to expect next from this bulliken. His tongue was as prickly and troublesome as that of the legendary Brichriu, who had turned a kingdom upon itself for the sake of pure entertainment.

  A cry from the loft came to Maire’s rescue. “Land ho!”

  She turned toward the horizon where invisible fingers had pulled back the drape of mist. There, emerging from the sea, was the sun-kissed shore of Wicklow. The sparkling strip of sand was studded with moss-covered rock and flanked by the rise of time-gentled mountains and thick, game-rich forests. The most accomplished poet had no words that could do justice to the magnificent hues of green, gray, and blue.

  Home! Maire’s heart swelled with the sight, her sparring with Rowan forgotten. She longed to set foot on the land won by her mother, sword land taken from masters of another era when bronze gave way to iron. As her foster parents Erc and Maida had raised her upon Maeve’s death, so this land had nurtured her and her people. Now that she was queen, Maire would be one with it, her life dedicated to its welfare, her love to its people. The gods had chosen her as its steward and ruler.

  She mustn’t let Morlach defile the earth and her people with his dark greed. As the gods had led her to victory, so they would continue to do so. Maire had left Gleannmara a girl in warrior’s garb. She returned a queen with a husband, who, despite his annoying side, was an upright man with the skilled sword destined to protect their tuath—even from the evil intentions of the druid lord.

  “Wait till you see Gleannmara,” she told Rowan. Already her spirit was as renewed by the tuath’s nearness as its meadows were by spring green. “It will be satisfied with nothing less than your soul, Rowan of Emrys, and that you’ll willingly give once under its spell.” She clasped his hand, capable yet gentle as it was strong.

  “Feel her heartbeat,” she said, pressing his palm in place that he might know the excitement beating from her heart, Gleannmara’s heart. “Nine long years away from her have not weakened it. Together, we’ll protect her and make her happy.”

  The ship plied toward the shore as though drawn by a magnet. The men gathered at the rail, lifting a victorious song to the sky until the vessel dared not go closer. There was neither bulkhead nor enough water to tie her up if there were. Anchors splashed at the bow and stern to stabilize her, while the crew furled the leather sails, which had served them so well. The pent up excitement broke with the scurry to put a boat over the side.

  Even as Maire’s men wrestled with the lines, there was a storm of activity taking place on the shore. Eager crews pushed off boats that would transport the plunder to dry land. Maire remained glued to the land side of the ship, wanting to miss nothing. She, Rowan, and her captains would be the first to disembark. And Brude, of course.

  Maire turned to search the deck for the druid. Her exhilaration upon seeing her homeland had momentarily erased all thought of him. She found him sitting by the altar fire, where the ashes of the sacred fire that had blessed their return voyage still smoked. The stern rail at his back and his head bowed, he looked as though he slept through the chaos. Had he kept the flames going all through the night?

  She loped across the deck, dodging men about their own purpose and stopped before the elderly man. There was a pile of bones spread on the deck, the remains of the pig the cook had roasted the day before for the wedding feast.

  “Brude, we’re home.” She placed a gentle hand on his rounded shoulder.

  Instead of answering, the druid held up his hand, as though to quiet her. Through half-lidded eyes, he stared at the bones, searching for an augury.

  “Won’t you sing our song of victory?”

  Brude’s fist came down amid the pile so suddenly that Maire jumped back. Weakness settled in her stomach as the druid’s angry gaze lifted to her face. He knew she’d deceived him! The sickening thought barely registered before he spoke.

  “The battle isn’t over, my queen. Morlach still holds Gleannmara. You must be elected by the people.”

  Maire went cold at the grim implication in Brude’s voice. “What did you see?”

  Brude gathered up the bones and, with her help, rose to his feet. The stiffness of his limbs made Maire wince in empathy, but the man made no verbal complaint. He tossed the bones on the dying fire and watched as the moisture in them hissed and crackled.

  “Was it bad?” Whatever Brude saw unleashed fingers of alarm along her spine.

  “There was nothing.” The druid wiped his hands on his robe in frustration. “Nothing! You have given Gleannmara all she would ask of you, and I have failed you.”

  “Perhaps there’s nothing to see.” Maire had never seen Brude so distraught.

  “Oh, it’s there, masked by darkness, but there, nonetheless.”

  “Morlach?”

  “Who else?”

  “Perhaps the Welshman.”

  Maire started at the unexpected suggestion coming from behind her. She turned to see her youngest foster brother.

  “Declan! You’re looking well for all of yesterday’s misfortune. You gave us quite a scare.”

  It was true. The Scot’s bronzed color had come back to him, but with it, his ill humor. Worse, it was infectious.

  “How can you accuse any evil of the man who saved your life?”

  “I never asked him to!”

  “At least pretend it was worth his trouble!”

  Declan closed a warning hand about her arm. “You’ve made a grave mistake. He isn’t as he seems, Maire. I feel it in my bones. Beware that husband of yours.”

  “That I will do,” she assured him. Her foster brother was given to melodrama, but this was neither the time nor place. She lifted one of the long braids the warrior wore to keep the hair from his face and flipped it over his shoulder in an effort to diffuse the tension. “Just as I’ve kept you out of trouble all these years… or tried, at least.”

  The Scot suddenly pulled her closer and pressed his lips against her forehead. “I’ll be here for ye, anmchara. Never doubt it.”

  “Aye, soul friend,” Maire replied lightly. So it had always been—she, Declan, and Eochan together. Raised together. Trained together. One was her right arm, the other her left. “The three of us make a good lot, tho’ ’tis hard to say for what.”

  The intimacy of their pledge was no more sealed by the clasping of arms when Maire found herself being lifted into the air with a mighty roar. She seized the tousled head of her friendly assailant to keep from falling backward, laughing.

  “Eochan, you’ve scared me out of a year’s growth!”

  “Time to stake your claim as queen,” the burly Scot told her. “And I’m bound to present ye, sure as I’m livin’.”

  “She must take Emrys ashore.”

  “But he’s needed to get them horses to land, Brude,” Eochan objected.

  “’Twould be a shame for them to drown in our hands,” Declan chimed in. “Let the Scotti carry their queen and the hostage the plunder.”

  To Maire’s astonishment, the druid pondered the suggestion for a moment. It wasn’t like Brude to back away from one of his decisions.

  “Perhaps it would be best to keep Rowan a secret until he’s needed.” She slid off Eochan’s shou
lder.

  A strange glimmer in his gray gaze, Brude looked over to where Rowan soothed the snow-white horses. “I’ve been feeding them my special hay, but they are high-strung animals. The man has a gift.”

  “So do you.” Maire placed an affectionate hand on the druid’s shoulder. Few dared to touch Brude, but he’d carried her as a child on his shoulder as Eochan had just done. She never thought twice about the privilege. “I think the sea air is unkind to the bones of a landsman such as yourself, Brude. No doubt once you’re back in your lodge, the augury will come back, painting pictures of the future in your mind as it always has.”

  Maire saw that Brude was lowered into the boat first by means of a leather sling before she and the others joined them. Her men took to the oars with eager hands, eyes fixed on the beach ahead. It wasn’t likely their families awaited them, but the shore clans would give them royal welcome. Tomorrow, wagons would be hired to transport the booty to Gleannmara.

  “Look, comin’ down to the shore,” a MacCormac shouted.

  Maire looked in the direction her captain pointed, where a retinue made its way to the beach through the cluster of lodges at the crest of the rise. Fluttering from tall poles were the royal blue and gold of Gleannmara—and the red and black colors of Rathcoe, Morlach’s domain.

  “Brude?”

  “Aye, like a painted picture,” the druid answered her. “I thought ’twas Morlach’s ink muddying my sight, just as he turned the wind to bring you more quickly to his clutches.”

  His words pebbled her arms with gooseflesh. A man with common weapons, she could fight. But one who wielded spirits…

  “The confrontation comes sooner than I anticipated.”

  “I’ll stand with you, Maire,” Declan vowed from the seat across from her.

  “And I!” said Eochan.

  “And I!”

  “And I!”

  The chorus was unanimous. Gleannmara’s men were not about to hand her over to the wizard of Rathcoe without a fight. Deeply touched, Maire steeled the glaze in her eyes and stood up in the boat, her feet braced to ride its rocky course to the sea-soaked sands.

  “Gleannmara!” she shouted, raising her arm over her head.

  “Gleannmara!” the men chimed with her.

  “Queen Maire!” Declan shouted, starting a chant in sync with the beat of the oars in the foamy surf.

  “Queen Maire… Queen Maire… Queen Maire…”

  A wave caught the vessel. Eochan steadied Maire as they were swept toward the beach. The men vaulted out in the shallow water and used the momentum to push the craft well onto the sand. Eochan lifted Maire free and handed her over to her captains, who carried her on their shoulders out of the reach of the lapping surf to where the colorful retinue awaited.

  Morlach was not among them. At the lead was his apprentice, Cromthal. Though his years were but half those of his master, Cromthal’s black hair was shot with gray and his skin drawn like the bark of a tree on his gawky frame. Maire thought he resembled the black heron on Morlach’s crest.

  As the junior druid stepped down from his wicker chariot, the men quieted. Head held high, Maire moved to the fore of her ready captains, Eochan and Declan flanking her on either side.

  “I greet you a free man, Cromthal.”

  “And you a free woman, Queen of Gleannmara. I take it from the revel that you have indeed proved yourself worthy.”

  “Before many witnesses,” Brude assured him, stepping up beside her.

  Cromthal spared his elder no more than a glance. “Though your departure was a surprise to my master, your victorious return is not. Morlach awaits you at Gleannmara. Guests from all five provinces are gathered there to witness your homecoming and your marriage, including Diarhmott’s own Finnaid, who has come to perform the ceremony. The master has been preparing for your birthday for many cycles of the moon.”

  “Then Morlach has overestimated himself,” Maire said, glad that the panic running riot inside her was not betrayed by her strong voice. One of Diarhmott’s own druids. By all the tides, they were done for! Surely he’d see through Rowan’s charade. “I welcome the victory celebration, but there will be no marriage between us. You see, Cromthal, I’ve not only brought home prizes of great worth, but a husband as well.”

  Had thunder struck the apprentice, he couldn’t have looked more staggered. Maire’s tenuous advantage, however, was short lived, for Cromthal recouped his authoritative demeanor in a breath. His words fairly boiled over with incredulity. “What manner of trickery is this?”

  “’Tis no trickery,” Brude assured him. “I blessed the union myself and have the sacrificial bridal blanket in my trunk, bearing the proof of the consummation. We’ve more than good number of witnesses who will testify to this truth for the high king, should Diarhmott require it.”

  “Then show the man to me!” Cromthal grew white with anger, his eyes burning demon black. “Show him!” he demanded, the muscles of his neck taut as a bowstring.

  “Here!”

  Startled, Maire turned to see Rowan of Emrys emerging from the sand-lapping sea on the white stallion. The animal snorted, blowing saltwater and foam from its nostrils, and pranced up to them as though delighted to be on solid ground again.

  Man and beast, they were a sight to behold. Shahar’s back was as high as the head of the druid’s chariot horse and his breadth half again wider. Rowan sat high on the magnificent steed, looking every inch a warrior king. His wet skin glistened in the sun; at his lean waist was his sword, its jeweled sheath flashing with fire of its own.

  As though on cue, the stallion reared, pawing at air, its neck arched in perfection. The man on its back, no less perfect a specimen in his own right, maintained his seat with no more than his knees and one hand buried in Shahar’s corn-silk mane. Everyone, Maire included, stood rooted to the earth as he introduced himself.

  “I am Rowan ap Emrys, hostage, protector, and husband to the courageous and beautiful Queen Maire. What is the urgency of your business with Gleannmara’s new lord, druid?”

  TEN

  Cromthal’s skin blanched whiter than death’s own banshee. He’d summoned his twelve years of training and focused the evil eye on Rowan ap Emrys, yet the impudent usurper sat proud upon the back of his horse and returned the stare, undaunted. Not even the legendary Balor, whose look was certain death, would phase this one. Instead of dropping dead, the new husband of Gleannmara’s queen simply treated the whole thing as though it were a contest of wills.

  Then the sun caught an amulet about the warrior’s neck, casting a light into Cromthal’s eye so that he had no choice but to look away or be blinded.

  Was the man’s power from the amulet or from the god it represented? Doubt and confusion swirled, unleashed, in Cromthal’s mind. Perhaps the evil eye failed because he had to look up at his intended victim. His chest ached, as though a cold stone were lodged there, trying to beat as a heart.

  “I fear no man or god, druid, save the one God,” the dark-haired stranger declared, his magnificent white steed pawing at the damp sand. “Tell Morlach that he and his kind are not welcome at Gleannmara from this day hence.”

  The queen’s intake of breath was as sharp as Cromthal’s at the insult. The druid’s skin crawled at the thought of passing such a message to his master.

  “Then banish Brude as well.” It was a lame reply. The curl of Brude’s lip only added to Cromthal’s shame for not being capable of conjuring up a spell to knock the arrogant Emrys from the back of his horse. The old bard made him feel as foolish as the desperate remark had.

  “Gleannmara’s druid has a true heart that searches for the light, for truth, not the darkness spawned by a black lust for greed and power.”

  “You have no idea with whom you deal, Emrys. Do not be surprised when your skin blisters with sores and withers away from the bone until your body begs to give up its breath.”

  Cromthal dared not try his hand at the satire. He couldn’t collect his thoughts enough, but was
sure this was the least Morlach would do to this upstart.

  The satire was not entirely wasted. Discomfiture washed over the crowd like the waters on the beach, on all save Emrys and the mysteriously smiling Brude. Turning from Gleannmara’s bard, Cromthal felt the heat of the warrior’s steel blue gaze boring into his back. He had to make himself walk, rather than run, to his waiting chariot.

  From out of nowhere, he stumbled over a rock he’d have sworn had not been there upon his approach. The ripple of laughter at the spectacle he made sprawling to his knees destroyed the last shred of power the druid had over the audience. The sunlight was cool on the black wool of his robe compared to the heat of his humiliation. As he climbed into the waiting chariot, the druid was vexed by sweat and chill at the same time. He could not make his escape fast enough from the obvious power of Emrys’s god.

  Cromthal slowed his shaggy steed, pulling him closer and closer to Rathcoe and Morlach’s assured rage. Perhaps this is what the fish felt when it leapt from the searing scorch of the pan into fire itself.

  The tuath of Rothcoe was ruled from a crannóg. Surrounded by water, there was only one way to the man-made island, and that was only when the drawbridge was down as it was now. The crisp click of the pony’s hooves upon the strong planks of oak was as rapid as the heartbeat now thundering in Cromthal’s chest.

  Over the gate, colorful banners waved, raised to welcome Morlach’s bride. They were the only sign of brightness in the damp fortress. The master’s best attempt to make the stone tower inside the stockade of stout logs inviting failed as miserably as Cromthal failed in bringing home Morlach’s betrothed.

  Inside the lake fortress, swine and chickens scurried out of the chariot’s way. The snorting pony was anxious to return to its stall where fodder awaited. Cromthal descended with as much dignity as was entitled to Morlach’s chief apprentice and walked toward the arched entrance to the stone keep, where the druid warrior himself awaited.