Maire

by Linda Windsor

  Declan twisted and went down, carried by the momentum of his swing. The last of his outrage erupted in a loud grunt as he struck the ground. Rowan was on him in a flash, tossing away the sword, which fell from the man’s hand, and twisting that same hand behind his back.

  “Still, lad,” he warned, as Declan recovered enough to struggle. “I’ve no desire to break your arm, but I will if you don’t come to your God-given senses.”

  Declan growled through his clenched teeth and squirmed, helpless as a newborn calf. “I wouldn’t have killed the beast. Crom’s toes, I’m not that daft!”

  “’Tis hard to judge by your actions.”

  “I vow, you’ll regret this, Emrys.”

  “I already do,” Rowan assured him. He’d added insult to injury where Declan’s pride was concerned, but he truly didn’t know what the hot-tempered warrior might do. He raised his voice so that the onlookers might hear. “And for that, I apologize, Drumkilly. But I’d not have you kill or maim my horse.”

  “I’d have you bash in Drumkilly’s head, but there’s no metal nor stone hard enough for the task,” Maire remarked a few feet away in complete disgust. “That is, unless you use your own.”

  A ripple of laughter swept through the troop, relieving the taut grasp of tension infecting the men.

  “Mayhap our queen is right.” Rowan shoved to his feet.

  Declan declined the hand offered, so Rowan took up Shahar’s reins. “As I was going to say before you left us so quickly, Shahar is a highly trained warhorse and sensitive to signals of the hand and feet, so avoid irrational or untoward motions that might confuse and spook him. He expects his rider to be in control as well.”

  “White like that with moon eyes,” Declan derided. “I still say he’s kin to a pooka.” He stared at the stallion, clearly in a muddle of second thought. “It isn’t fit that our king should be seen walking behind like a mongrel, no matter how he deserves it,” the warrior said at last. “I’ll have my honor price in some other way.”

  Rowan clapped the man on the back. “You remained on his back longer than anyone else has, save myself.”

  His rage and humiliation unassuaged, Declan nodded and turned to his own mount. Once the Scot was astride the smaller beast, Rowan leapt to Shahar’s back and took up the reins. The horse nickered and tossed its head, its white-gold mane shimmering like sunlight on rippled water.

  “You should have made him apologize. You are king.”

  Rowan turned to Maire in surprise.

  “A king serves justice. Declan suffered enough by his own hand without my adding to it. To inflict more would be injustice.”

  Maire stared, as if to see beyond the serene mask he wore, to the heart of him. For all her warriorlike appearance, she stared with the wonder of a child. To his surprise, she succeeded, for Rowan suddenly felt naked, exposed for all he was to this woman.

  She saw, sure enough, but from the puzzlement in her gaze, she did not yet understand. For reasons deeper than his desire to spread God’s Word and ways, Rowan wanted her to understand him—and that unnerved him more than any blade.

  FOURTEEN

  The night passed cool, with winter’s memory still fresh on its mind.

  Maire chose a protective niche in the increasingly rocky terrain of the higher Wicklows. An enemy would need wings to attack them from one side, or a suicidal wish to come head on through the only entrance. Although a watch was appointed, the night was uneventful, save Declan’s vengeful retaliation in having Rowan serve him as a slave.

  Maire watched the Welshman brush the last remnant of leaves from his body before mounting Shahar. He’d slept without cover last night, sheltered only by the clothes on his back and that which nature provided, while Declan enjoyed a soft bed of Emrys’s blanket and cloak. Each time the fire died, Declan summoned Rowan to scavenge for more wood, to fetch him another noggin of beer, or to boil him some rabbit to go with the roast venison the rest of them ate.

  It was so degrading, Maire stepped in twice to end the folly, but each time the Welshman ran her through with a warning look sharper than steel itself. For all its thrust, his words were humble. “I do service to my word, Maire. No man is exempt from the consequences of a wrong doing.”

  “But you were right. Declan is an ox’s behind. And with each order he gives, he bellows the truth even louder.”

  “Then let him convict himself, for I will not be his judge.”

  From that point on, Declan, well within earshot, was at least less eager to humiliate this strange new king of theirs. Indeed, even the derisive snickers and comments about Rowan’s lack of backbone—about that which made him male—diminished. It was a show to watch, as one of the O’Croinin or the Muirdach returned from nature’s call with another turn of wood for the fire. All the while Eochan swore he was hotter than his brother’s boiled rabbit and tossed his blanket over to where Rowan made his bed.

  For all his madness, Rowan ap Emrys was earning the respect and support of the men who’d taken him hostage, and their queen’s respect as well. He’d done it, not by intimidation but by submission. It contradicted all logic Maire knew, but it was true, regardless. For the first time, in a muddled sort of way, she was beginning to see that Brude might be right. After all, there was more than one way to Tara’s heart, besides that which she knew.

  Her mind meandered back to the present, tuning into the conversation between Rowan and Declan. The younger warrior clapped Rowan on the back that morning and declared his honor price paid in full. Now he rode beside his former adversary and sought all he might learn of Shahar and Tamar’s breed and training.

  They came originally from the east and were bred as warhorses, not just to carry men into battle but also to participate by protecting their master with their hooves. They moved into defensive positions along with other warriors on like steeds, so that the rider was least likely to be attacked from a blind side.

  “Aye, the training looks odd with a horse by itself, as if it were being taught to dance, but a force of them in motion is a formidable sight to behold. I suppose fighting on the border enabled me to see the best techniques of all sides save one.”

  “And what was that?” Declan leaned forward, over his steed’s neck, curiosity whetted.

  “The battle strategy for the soul.”

  Declan’s bemused expression reflected Maire’s reaction. There the man went again, talking in mystic riddles.

  “Looking death in the face opens a man’s eyes to what is most important, in this world and the next.”

  Maire snapped to attention. “You’ve been to the other side?” She’d never heard of anyone who’d passed through death’s gate and come back as more than a spirit.

  Rowan sighed, lost in thought. “They said I was dead.”

  “In a wounded sleep, no doubt,” Declan ventured. “No one comes back same as he was before.”

  “That’s true, very true, friend.”

  “Well, you’ve the same body, scars and all. I’ve seen them close up.” Maire bit her lip and glanced at Rowan uneasily. “That is…”

  “A wife’s prerogative.”

  Condemned whether she agreed or not, Maire sat back in silence.

  “So what part of you has changed?” Declan asked warily. “That is, if ye’ve really been to the other side.”

  “My heart.”

  “Cairthan!”

  Eochan’s roar ended the conversation, which pleased Maire more than it bothered her. Chances were the Welshman was spinning a tale to pass the time. He proved to be as much bard and priest as warrior, and all such men were given to embellishment of a good story. If she heard the women dreamily prattling on about how Maire had won his heart with her beauty rather than her blade once, she heard it a thousand times and one too many.

  She looked ahead to a ridge where a disheveled line of men gathered. They were armed and watching her troops approach in charged silence. Their faces, unpainted for the most part, told her that they’d barely mustered, not
expecting an attack so soon in the making. That they were not already screaming like banshees and advancing downhill with swords raised was evidence of her wise decision to take a show of considerable force.

  Would that Morlach would be so intimidated…

  Maire dismissed the thought. Better to fight one enemy at a time. She glanced aside at Rowan, who studied the men with the keen edge of his gaze. It was sword blue, the color of a blade as it tempers in the smith’s water, cold and growing harder.

  “And ye think they’ve gathered to welcome us?”

  “No, lass, they’ve gathered to give their last life’s blood for their honor…or what’s left of it. Faith, they look like death’s own henchmen, nothing but racks of bone swathed in ragged cloth; they are your people, Maire.”

  “They’d not kneel to Gleannmara,” Maire exclaimed, indignant that Rowan should cast the shadow of blame on her.

  “Glasdom said your mother let them live with their pride, I’ll give her that. Gleannmara was fat enough to feed everyone, and a cattle raid now and then was good sport where none suffered starvation as a result. Morlach stripped them of even that.”

  To steal a cow from a man who had two was not nearly as severe a crime as to steal his only beast. The ancient law said as much. Maire couldn’t recall the Cairthan being more than a nuisance in her mother’s day, one that was only given chase when there was no more serious war to see after. Yet it was Rowan’s reference to the mute servant that made Maire’s thoughts stumble.

  “They’d not kneel to Gleannmara,” she repeated lamely. The man speaks like a druid. He talks directly to his god. He says he’s been to the other side. That now he claims to have carried on a conversation with a tongueless servant shouldn’t baffle me so.

  “Let me ride up there and speak to them,” Rowan said at her side.

  “Aye, he’s already been to the other world and back. A second trip might rid us of at least one menace.”

  Maire gave Declan a cutting look. Brude said Rowan would unite the tribes. And if he had been to the other side and back, perhaps there was merit in him, after all. She looked over her shoulder, scanning the brave men who’d followed her, ready to give their lives if necessary.

  For all things, there was a season, or so Brude taught her, even for fighting. Not that it would be much of a fight, from the looks of the gaunt men on the hill. The memory of the fishing villagers so over mounted by Maire and her men still haunted her sleep and churned in her stomach.

  “Aye, go on then,” she said at last. “But I’ll go with you.”

  “No!”

  “No!”

  “No!”

  The word echoed so many times, almost all at once, that its force nearly unseated Maire from the back of the proud mare.

  “We’d not send our queen to the slaughter. I’ll go.” Eochan rode forward.

  “No, I shall,” Declan argued.

  “They are right,” Rowan told her. “You should remain back, in case something should go wrong. No need to leave the clan without king and queen.”

  Maire was taken back by the gentleness, not in his voice, but his look. If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect he really cared for her welfare. A strange warmth embraced her; one she’d not known since basking in the loving care of her parents. It almost made her want to stay behind as he wished.

  She puzzled over it, reason warring with emotion. When had emotion moved to such prominence in her thoughts?

  “He’s right, Maire. So choose which of us is to go with him.”

  Maire looked at Declan then Eochan. If there was the slightest chance that Rowan could talk the Cairthan into an alliance, he would need a cool head at his side.

  “Eochan will go,” she said, cutting off Declan’s protest. “Let them get a close look at the size of him, and they’ll think twice about meeting his kin.”

  While he neither nodded nor commented, Rowan acknowledged approval of her choice with the slightest dip of his eyelids.

  Again Maire flushed. As he urged Shahar forward, he called over his shoulder to Eochan.

  “Keep your weapon sheathed.”

  Eochan shoved the half drawn weapon back into its etched scabbard and winked at Maire. “Like as not, they’ll either think us daft as swineherds or be so bloomin’ shocked they’ll wait till second thought to kill us.”

  “Be careful, Welshman,” Maire called after Rowan.

  Rowan swung Shahar around and, to the astonishment of all watching, both horse and rider bowed low to the ground in homage.

  “Did you ever see the like?” Maire whispered as he turned Shahar back to the task at hand. The horse trick was a feat in itself, but the Welshman’s smile nearly tugged her off her own steed, heart first.

  “He has his own style,” Declan admitted at her side, his tone undecided as to whether he admired or reviled it. “Queer as a druid, that one.”

  Maire watched the enemy line for any sign of impending attack on the two lone riders. “Do you really think he went to the other side?”

  Declan remained silent as he continued to stare after Rowan’s broad, cloaked shoulders. “I don’t know, little sister, but the way he looked when he spoke of it…” The man shuddered. “I’d as soon not know what he saw.”

  The shudder was contagious. Maire rubbed her arms up to the armbands of gold articulated knot work. “Nor I,” she echoed, not completely honest. It wasn’t for naught that Brude once accused her of having enough curiosity for a litter of cats.

  It had been years, harsh ones, and a man’s beard shot with premature gray covered Lorcan’s face, yet Rowan recognized his brother standing slightly forward of the others. This was the last face Rowan had seen before he’d been bound, blindfolded, and carried aboard a merchant ship. What had his mother and father been told?

  Tall as Rowan himself, Lorcan leaned on his sword, watching and waiting. A tattered shield on his arm told of many battles; although Rowan wondered if it had protected the winners or the losers. Prosperous was the last word that came to his mind.

  A slew of others rose like bile, threatening to poison his intent. Traitor, liar, usurper—Lorcan was the senior of them, but Rowan had been the popular one. Lorcan was aiccid—had his people not been defeated by Maeve’s forces, heir apparent to the kingship of Gleannmara—but such was his insecurity and desire for power that he’d sold his brother into slavery to make certain of his birthright, for birthright alone was naught without the favor that seemed heaped upon the younger of them. Rowan had plotted a thousand different deaths for Lorcan, all of which were too good for him.

  The most recent, the cutting out of his tongue and feeding it to the dogs in front of him before taking his life, sprang to Rowan’s mind, carried on the latent surge of rage spawned by what had been done to Glasdom. The faithful servant had done nothing more than serve their family well, but Lorcan took no chance that his lowly deed would be discovered.

  Rowan willed his hand away from the hilt of his sword, where it tightened of its own accord. Father, give me strength to yield to Your will and not mine, for mine is vile, and Yours is pure.

  “Half of them’s no more than lads,” Eochan exclaimed under his breath.

  Rowan looked hard, as though the sight might evoke pity stronger than a lifetime of lust for revenge. It was true. Wild-haired youths whose faces had not yet known a full growth of whiskers stared at him and the giant Drumkilly warrior out of eyes blank and hollow. One, at Lorcan’s right, bore a strong resemblance to his elder.

  “Lorcan of Gleannmara, I bid you good day.”

  That Rowan used his name clearly put Lorcan off. “What’s the good of it?”

  “That God has given Gleannmara a new king and queen, who would be your ally, not your enemy.”

  “And that would be your god, no doubt?” A ripple of laughter filtered through the assembly, but it sadly lacked humor.

  “The One God.”

  Lorcan snorted in disdain. “The one god indeed! ’Tis like sayin’ the one pebble
on the beach.”

  “This God has a message for you, Lorcan. One that can make you a noble chieftain if you choose to accept it.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “A dead one, buried in disgrace with all your hidden secrets of treachery made known.”

  Lorcan put his hand up to his forehead to shade his eyes. “Step closer, man, that I might see who falsely accuses me of such things.”

  Rowan whispered to Eochan. “Stand ready to flee if this goes badly. And take Shahar with you.”

  “Ye don’t trust the man!” Eochan’s surprise was clear.

  “Nay, which is why you must do as I say. Better one fool die than two, eh?”

  “I’ll not—”

  “Maire will need you alive more than I will dead.” Rowan handed Eochan the reins. “Not that I expect the worst to happen.”

  Leaving the bewildered, redhaired giant behind, Rowan strode, sword still sheathed, toward Lorcan. It was hard to make out his brother’s shaded expression, but there were other signs that told him all he needed to know: the stiffening of his large frame, the sudden ebb of blood from his ruddy complexion, the way his jaw dropped…and the way his lips moved with the syllables of Rowan’s name.

  Rowan covered Lorcan’s sword hand with his own and leaned forward, clapping him on the back.

  “What will it be, brother?”

  Lorcan stared at him, too stricken to speak.

  “Will you do homage to Gleannmara as a kinsman or suffer as an enemy?”

  “If you must kill me, I beg one favor.”

  His brother’s low rush of words, the pleading grasp of his gaze, kindled something within Rowan’s chest. Pity? Rowan hoped for forgiveness, but old grudges were not so easily dismissed. He still yearned to snap Lorcan’s thick neck. Help me, Father!