“Like a spur in the heel.”
“Hah!” Brude’s loud guffaw sent the heron scampering away. “Methinks our Maire has been equally met at last.”
“You think him my equal?” Maire kept the indignation out of her voice, lest she be accused of the pride the druid had just disdained.
“I think you the heart of Gleannmara, and Emrys the soul.”
The conversation ran like a Celtic pattern, in loops, covering space with eloquence, without a particular point.
“Then I’ll send the tuath’s soul out with Eochan and the most skilled in combat. The rest of us will remain behind to make repairs to the earth work and fosse.”
“Go with him, Maire. Morlach will not come now. He is too devious to do the obvious.”
“You did an augury?”
At the druid’s short nod, Maire let out a sigh of relief. Would that she’d known that last night! Perhaps she might have done more than catnap between each movement of her bedmate.
“Emrys keeps a secret, one that promises glory for Gleannmara and its queen. Just what it is, the sacred stones did not say.” With a frown, Brude stared at his upturned palms. “I even slept the night thus, and no more was revealed. Yet, soon as I accepted that Rowan ap Emrys and his God were with us, an uncommon peace bore down upon me as if I’d swallowed one of my own potions. Truth is like a light to the blind man and a balm to the wounded. To the naked eye, he still may not see and his wounds may yet seep, but the eyes of his spirit are sharp as a hawk’s, and the seepage is no longer of consequence.”
“If you feel Emrys is right for the task, that is all the truth I need. Perhaps I’d best accompany him with a force to the Cairthan’s mountains before the lesser clans disburse to their own lands to make ready for the season.”
Maire rose, the rest of the druid’s words swimming in her mind like a fish just beyond her reach.
“You are certain we’ve the summer to prepare for Morlach?”
At Brude’s nod, she turned and walked away.
Brude watched his protégé for a moment, knowing full well she felt like a dog chasing its tail. But unlike a hapless mongrel, Maire would eventually find her answers. Her heart was pure as her love for her people. She was denied a little girl’s childhood to fulfill her destiny as their leader without complaint. The god who lived in the sun would bathe those of pure heart in light when the time was right to reveal the truth. For the same reason, those who sought to glorify themselves and their power, rather than truth, would never walk in the pure light. The more they sought for themselves, the more into darkness they retreated. Morlach walked in such darkness, his soul festering with greed for the powers of both worlds.
Before summoning Glas to prepare his chariot, Brude lifted his face to the sun’s warmth and turned his right side to it in reverence to him who lived there. It would rouse no suspicion for him and his servant to go off into the rolling hills and glens of the tuath, perhaps even to the sacred grove of his peers. This time, Brude would seek the light elsewhere.
The ancient had heard of a Christian cleric near Glendalough, a pass to the western part of Erin through the Wicklow peaks. It was time to follow his own advice and seek the counsel of another prophet, one who followed the Christian god.
Brude was getting along in years. The time neared when he would pass through death’s door to journey to the west and that incredible place of brightness where the sun retreated each night. But there were things to be done, questions yet to be asked, and answers he would need to prepare himself. He knew it, neither from the stones nor a conviction laid into his hands as he slept in wait. Instead, it was laid upon his heart.
“Methinks our Maire has been equally met at last.”
Equally met indeed, Maire thought, buckling her breastplate in place. Emrys spent more time on his knees than he did on his feet. Hardly a kingly trait, she thought, watching her husband pray over his food.
“It isn’t poisoned.”
He looked up at her and smiled. “But I am thankful for it and wish it blessed to my use and God’s service this day.”
“Then I do, too, since I’ve decided to give you a chance with the Cairthan. I’ve given orders that we ride out after breaking the fast.”
Maire dribbled a circle of honey over the thick oat porridge and topped it with a splash of cream. “And tell your god I’m thankful as well for the food, though I’m pressed to see what he has to do with it. ‘’Twas man’s fingers that planted and harvested it and woman’s fingers that ground and prepared it.”
“And it was He who sent the sun and rain and made the earth rich that it might grow.”
“Ach!” Maire interrupted, her mouth full. She swallowed. “It was cows what made the earth rich.”
“God created the cows and the earth and the man and the woman.”
“And gave you enough tongue for all.” Exasperated, Maire pointed to Rowan’s bowl. “Pray, put it to the food, and leave me eat in peace.”
“I didn’t think you approved of prayer, but I will gladly obey, little queen.”
“I wasn’t speakin’ to your god, just his fool.”
“He heard you.”
“Your mother’s honor!” Maire exclaimed in disbelief.
“I’m trying to obey, Maire, but you won’t let me be.”
Maire’s jaw dropped open and then clamped back her retort as he reached over and wiped a smudge of honey from her chin. Her irritation deflated with a strange stirring as he popped his finger into his mouth and tasted it. His gaze held hers hostage for several heartbeats before she managed an undignified retreat to her porridge. She needed to gather her wits for her first official day as Gleannmara’s queen, not dally with these strange feelings her new husband evoked in her.
When one of the servants took away her empty dish, Maire rose at the head table and struck it soundly with her empty cup until the amicable riot of the assembly quieted. She knew her orders would not be popular, but as Brude once told her, respect and popularity were not always one and the same.
To the ladies, she left the task of seeing the hall and her lodge swept, scoured, and limed afresh before the return of the retinue gathering in the outer ring of the hill fort. To the men who were not to accompany her and Rowan on the journey to deal with the Cairthan, she instructed the rebuilding of the earthen works, as well as clearing the fosse and latrines.
Riot ensued once more, but it was not amicable now. The men grumbled beneath their breath, but the ladies of upper rank clucked and squawked like a pen of angry hens. How could Maire ask them to give up their needlework in the grianán, where they were pampered by the sunlight and noble pursuit, to work shoulder to shoulder with their servants?
“Fine needlework requires soft hands, not those of a servant!”
“Aye, the roughness will pick at the delicate weave of the materials!”
“I’ll not be doin’ it and there’s the end of it! That’s servants’ work, not that of a lady!”
“Tell me, ladies,” Maire shouted above the cackling din. She waited until it died enough that she could be heard plainly. “Tell me, did your stitches fill your bellies or save them from the running ague this winter past? Or did you use the dainties to cover your noses so you wouldn’t smell the stench of your own sties? Half your servants got away to the other world from starvation, and yet you still stitch and prattle as though those who remain can do the work of two.”
“And you men—” Maire turned to those sulking about the fires, where they’d gathered to ward off the morning chill—“Have you lost your pride to let the land many of you bled for under my parent’s reign waste away like this, ripe for the plunder of any vulture with senses keen enough to see its decay?”
“We didn’t lose it, yer queenship. Morlach stole it! Swiped the food from our mouths and the cattle from our fields whilst you played the tyke at war games in Drumkilly.”
The knife twisted in Maire’s belly whether she deserved it or not. She acknowledged the man with a
somber nod and swept the room with a fierce gaze.
“Aye, and sadly I could not be born a full-grown warrior queen any more than I could stop Morlach’s injustice as a child. But by my sword arm—”
Rage broke her voice; the vileness of what Morlach had done to her people rose in her throat.
Rowan shot up from the royal bench to stand at her side, giving her the chance to recover. “And by mine!”
“Gleannmara will be restored and Morlach’s tyranny ended,” Maire vowed in earnest.
“And by Drumkilly’s!” Eochan roared, drawing his weapon and holding it high in salute to Maire.
“And the O’Croinin!”
“And the Colmáin!”
“And the MacCormac!”
“And the Muirdach!”
All those who’d followed Maire into battle were on their feet, weapons brandished, voices united. The noble women were slower to rally, but finally, Maire’s maternal cousin Lianna leaped up upon a bench and raised her hand to Maire.
“Better to blister our hands now as Gleannmara’s aires than later as Rathcoe’s slaves. Long live Maire, queen of Gleannmara!”
The youngest of the women, caught up in the excitement of the moment, joined in before their elders, but soon all were of the same accord.
Maire wondered that the giant dome of thatch did not rise as she walked out with her men for the march to the highlands of the Cairthan.
Rowan surveyed the landscape as the entourage made its way up toward the mist-shrouded peaks of the Wicklow. It was sword land, won by the sword, preserved by the sword. There was no plough land to speak of, not enough at all, judging from the gaunt faces he’d seen along the way. But there was enough to feed many if put to proper use. Convert the tillable pastureland to the plough and move the cattle, which had grazed it to the dirt, to higher ground. He said as much to Maire.
“If we worked quickly, we could get in a late planting of grain.”
“And I thought you were scanning the rock, looking for the Cairthan, cowards that they are.”
“I was looking at your people. Their methods of scratching food from the earth for themselves and the cattle aren’t enough.”
“There’s the tribute Emrys is to pay. If that’s not enough, we’ll take it elsewhere.”
“Like the thieving Cairthan cowards?”
Maire looked away in silence.
“If the winter’s been this harsh on the lowlands of Gleannmara, where food can be grown, you can be certain the Cairthan have suffered more.”
“Crom’s toes, Maire, he’ll have you pitying the scoundrels.” Declan snorted behind her. “Soon the smiths will be beating our swords into plough blades, and we’ll be staring at an ox’s hind half the day long.”
“Better than being one, I’d say.”
The glib remark was out before Rowan could squash it. The sound of Declan’s outraged cry at the insult was underscored by the sound of his steel coming out of its bronze scabbard. Rowan had no intention of provoking a fight, much less engaging in one, but old ways were hard to leave behind. Forgive me, Father.
He kept his back to Declan as the latter raced up beside him on a shaggy steed.
“Now, Welshman, feel the bite of a man’s blade.”
Declan raised his sword, threatening, waiting for Rowan to respond in kind. Counting heavily on his knowledge of Celtic honor, he made no move toward his own weapon.
“Curse you, man, draw your sword.” Declan nudged his wiry steed closer to the stallion and spat upon Rowan’s leg.
Rowan pulled up Shahar and glanced down at the spittle glistening on laces of his boots. Another time, another place, and Declan of Drumkilly would be dead by now.
“I apologize. My remark was uncalled for. I provoked you into anger. On my account, you’re willing to spill blood… possibly your own.”
At this passive response, Declan glanced at Maire uncertainly. “He insults me again.”
“I mean no insult, Declan, and I certainly will not fight you… not when it was I who provoked you.”
“Declan spat on you,” Maire pointed out. She sat stiff in her saddle, her gaze shifting from one to the other of them.
“Well,” Declan added, “if that’s all that stops you, take this!”
Rowan braced for the impact of the blade the young warrior swung at him, flat side out. But before it made contact, the clash of steel against steel cut through the air. Maire was off her horse and between them, holding her upstart captain at bay.
“His god will not allow him to fight over the foolishness of vanity, but my mother’s gods don’t care if I deflate your overblown pride with the prick of my sword.”
Declan flinched as if he actually felt the angry strike of Maire’s warning. His lip curling, he sneered with the bravado of a wounded dog. “And now he hides behind his god and a woman. He has no more fight in him than that Welsh priest when I took this ring.”
Rowan prayed against the raging swell coursing through him, the clamor for revenge. It was bad enough Declan assaulted his honor, without reminding him of the injustice to his friend. The old Rowan would have already cut the ring from the braggart’s finger and sent it back to Justinian, finger included. The tension in Rowan’s voice was witness to the tug-of-war raging among his emotions.
“I stand by my apology. I was wrong.” He took a deep, steadying breath and released it along with his will for retaliation. “I owe you some manner of retribution, some honor price.”
“Such as?”
“For the rest of this day I shall serve you, save deeds contrary to my faith.”
“The king of Gleannmara serves only the high king!” Maire objected. “Such as you are, you are king.” The queen’s expression was nothing less than incredulous.
“The King of all kings served His people.”
Declan smiled. He had the look of cat ready to toy with its cornered prey. “See, little sister, his god condones it.”
He’d rather take a whipping than serve this young fool, but such was the consequence of an unfettered tongue. Rowan could well imagine the advantage he’d just given the Scot. Of all his faults, this was the hardest to tame.
“What will you have me do, good sir?” He ignored the way Maire’s incredulity turned to disillusionment. For a moment, he’d hoped she might understand, but it was clear that she thought him a coward as well.
“I’ll have your stallion for one.”
“Shahar is a spirited animal.”
“There was never a horse born that Declan of Drumkilly couldn’t master.” He slid off his smaller mount and waited for Rowan to dismount. When Rowan took the other horse’s reins in exchange for the stallion’s, the young cock stopped him from swinging onto the gelding’s back.
“Take him to the rear and lead him.”
“You go too far, Declan,” Maire warned, clearly perturbed by the way events were unfolding, yet at a loss as to how to handle them.
“Once I am certain that Shahar will have you.”
Rowan had raised and trained both the stallion and its mate, Tamar. He’d groomed Tamar so that his mother could ride over the fields of Emrys, for the Welsh in her was as fond of horseflesh as the Scot. While Rowan did not mind eating the dust of the entourage, he did object to the possibility that Shahar might bolt away with, or without, its strange rider. On this uneven ground, a runaway horse could easily stumble and break a limb, necessitating it be put to death.
His mouth a wide show of teeth, Declan vaulted up on Shahar’s back. Before Rowan could say a word, the impetuous Scot shoved him aside with an unexpected kick to the chest and gigged Shahar with his heels. The stallion gave a mighty leap and bolted forward, nearly unseating its rider in the process. A round of mixed laughter and cheers followed them.
True to the equestrian reputation of his ancestry, Declan recovered, at least enough to hold on for what would have been the ride of his life, for there was no stopping the indignant Shahar. The stallion was trained to foot signals and comma
nds, not the cursing and kicking of its current rider. It ran all the harder for the pull on its bit, as if to escape the maniac on its back.
The horse was about to plunge into a dense forest by the time Rowan recovered his footing and raised his fingers to his lips. His sharp whistle split the air, startling the laughing queen beside him. As though running into an invisible wall, Shahar stopped abruptly, feet jutted out, hooves digging up the turf beneath them. Declan continued forward only to be stopped by something of more substance. An oak.
“Care for your servants, Maire, and they will care for you. Mistreat them, even without the intention, and wind up like yon Declan, out of control and at their mercy.”
“And huggin’ a tree like his maithre’s breast.” Eochan came up behind Rowan and clapped him on the back. “The lad’s worrisome as a gnat sometimes, friend, but he’s good-hearted, for all that.”
Rowan stepped forward and caught the reins of the stallion that galloped back to him. He wasn’t so sure of the latter assessment. “Does a man who steals a ring from a priest deserve such praise?”
“What need has a priest for such a bauble as that?” Eochan laughed. “Aye, me brother gave the man a scare, running up the stone tower and demandin’ he fill the sack with anything of value, but no harm came from it, save the man near crossed himself to death.”
“The priest was my friend. I gave Justinian that ring.” Still, Rowan was grateful that his friend had been spared rough treatment, even if the bellowing tattooed warriors had frightened him. It wasn’t a sight such a quiet soul was accustomed to.
“Ach, then. That’s between you and him.” Eochan nodded with new understanding.
“That animal is kin to the pooka!” Declan, his body barked and bleeding from his encounter with the tree, approached, sword raised over his head. “And by my father’s gods, I’ll have blood for blood!”
“Then you’ll take mine first.”
Sword still sheathed, Rowan stepped in the path of the enraged Scot.
“With pleasure.” Declan let out a lusty war whoop and broke into a full run, straight at Rowan.
Maire moved to intervene, but Rowan quickly shoved her aside, into Eochan, and ran forward to meet his opponent in what appeared to be a suicidal charge. With timing the difference between life and death, he waited until he was a sword’s length from Declan. As the latter launched a deadly swing, one that could cleave Rowan’s head from his shoulders, Rowan dove straight for Declan’s legs.
Maire Page 15
