“Do not slay me in front of my son.”
Rowan gathered a deep breath. “Would I be asking you to be my ally if I intended on killing you, man?” He squeezed Lorcan’s shoulder, resisting the urge to wince at the poor sharpness of it. “Kneel and hand me your sword.”
“In surrender, before my kinsmen?”
“Nay, in exchange for mine.”
“But—”
“Faith, Lorcan, do not try me more.”
The wiry man dropped to his knees. Behind them a swell of murmurs and grumbles washed over the onlookers.
“Nay, father—”
“Back, boy!” Lorcan roared as the younger version of himself started forward, ax in hand. “I know this man. He is worthy of my sword and trust.”
Disfavor turned to a tide of surprise. Rowan was aware of how the other Cairthan strained to see his face, but his gaze was only for the man kneeling before him. Father, stay my blade. Temper my heart.
Upon receiving Lorcan’s sword, Rowan felt his knees give and he knelt in turn. He knew the sword. It had been their father’s. “He’s dead?”
“Slain by Morlach’s henchmen just before his grandson was born.”
Rowan glanced at the fiery-eyed youth, held barely in check by Lorcan’s warning. “And Mother?”
“Alive and well.”
Still kneeling, Rowan unsheathed his own sword and handed it to Lorcan. He heard Eochan swear behind him, something about a swineherd. No doubt everyone thought him daft. Indeed, he might think so himself were he to dwell upon his feelings and thoughts rather than the sheer power of the heavenly hand guiding him. This might not be what he wanted, but he knew it was right.
“It’s Roman.”
Nodding, Rowan indicated Lorcan should sheath the sword while he did the same.
“It’s a long story,” he told his brother, clasping his arms as they rose together. “I’ve had a good life, in spite of what you did.”
“I’ve suffered the worse for it, for whatever that might mean to ye.”
The cold hardness knotted in Rowan’s chest dissolved a bit more.
“Make no mention of who I am to anyone, not even our maithre, till I say so.”
Lorcan nodded solemnly. “None could know ye, lad. ‘’Twas only my guilt and shame that knew ye.” His gruff voice cracked. “And I’ve done worse than that, something for which there can be no forgiveness.”
“There is nothing God will not forgive, if the heart is truly repentant.”
“He cannot know.”
“He knows, Lorcan. But now is not the time.”
What Rowan felt was the last thing he’d anticipated. Little did he expect to know the emotions swirling on Lorcan’s tortured face, creating upheaval in his own. He dared not give into them, not now, when Gleannmara needed a leader of strength and conviction. God had chosen him to be that man. God would see he met the task.
“I will send my man with you as a token of good faith and take your son with me. Go prepare a feast fit for a queen with what you stole from her pastures. And do not worry about excess. Together our clans will replenish all that was lost.”
“What of Morlach? He was to marry the young queen.”
“God leads us but one step at a time. I married Queen Maire. Today we ally our clans. Tonight we will rejoice the mutual benefit of this peace.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Is in God’s hands.”
“Then here’s to his havin’ mighty big ones!” Swinging around, Lorcan motioned to his son. “Go with the man, Garret.”
The young man glanced at Rowan and back at his father with uncertainty.
“He’s a Niall.”
“I give my man in exchange for you, lad, and my word that you’ll come to no harm.” Rowan assured him.
Garret glared. “I’m not afraid of any Niall.”
Rowan smiled. “I can see that you’ve got courage, but do you have the wisdom your good father gave you to go with it? There’s the test.”
“Are ye sure about this?” Eochan questioned to Rowan’s right.
“Aye. Lorcan and the Cairthan will not risk the life of the aiccid, nor will Maire risk yours. This will keep both tribes in check until our good intent is proved.”
Eochan hesitated. Rowan couldn’t blame him. The man did not know if his new king was fey or nay. When the giant took off his sword belt and handed it to Lorcan, the breath in Rowan’s chest gave way in relief. At Rowan’s expectant look, the wild-haired youth reluctantly did the same.
“You do your clan and father honor, lad,” Rowan told his nephew upon starting back down the hill to where Maire and her men awaited.
“I do not understand, but I will obey my father.”
Rowan clapped him on the back. “Your father and I have agreed to ally our clans against a common enemy who would annihilate the lot of us. Eochan and your father go back to your village to prepare a feast for the visiting queen. His is the enviable task. You and I have a more difficult one, one which will require a leash on your tongue and temper.”
“And that is?”
“Persuading Gleannmara’s new queen that the people who just raided her clan and stole her cattle are willing to ally themselves with her. She has reason to doubt.”
“As do we.”
“Which is why we must do or say nothing to set off a spark in this dry brush.”
“I make no promises.”
Rowan resisted ruffling the boy’s hair. That he felt the urge to do so surprised him. Had he missed the blood of his blood and flesh of his flesh that much? He hadn’t thought so. He’d lived a good full life with his foster family, more likely faring better than he would have had he remained at Gleannmara.
His thoughts screeched to a halt at the conclusion that smacked him in the face. This was too much to attribute to coincidence. God had caused him to be sent as a slave to Wales for one purpose: to unite Gleannmara. How could Rowan hold anything against Lorcan, when his brother had been but an instrument in a plan bigger than the human eye could see? As in the Scripture regarding Joseph, the weakness of man had been used for a heavenly purpose.
“Rowan!”
Looking up from his motionless daze, Rowan saw Maire running toward him. Her unbound tresses flew like copper banners from her face—a beautiful face creased with concern.
“What happened, man? Are ye sick?”
A tide of emotion welled up inside him, fit to sweep him away. Although Maire stopped just short of him in wariness, he engulfed her in his arms and swung her around with a loud whoop.
“No, sweet queen, I’m healed!”
FIFTEEN
Well, it’s clearly not your brain that’s improved.” Maire stared at Rowan. He’d had no boils, no visible ailment. But she had more than her new husband’s vast number of peculiarities to consider, so she shrugged her curiosity away for a more immediate problem.
It had been all Maire could do to hold Declan and the others back when they saw Eochan leaving with the Cairthan. But for the big man’s assuring wave, it would have been impossible. So much trust she’d put in the man who now set her down, grinning like a calf eating brambles.
Rowan looked as boyish as the sullen lad he brought back with him, except that Maire knew from the strength of the arms that released her that the Welshman was as manly as any she’d known.
He made her feel so peculiar inside, as if there were another woman in there, eager to be released. This stranger within pulled rebelliously at the restraints Maire enforced upon herself. Maire was a warrior queen first, a woman second. Besides, she didn’t know this woman within—nor did she trust her.
“This is Garret, son of the chief of the Cairthan.”
Maire ignored the boy. She nearly had a rebellion on her hands.
“Ye gave the man your sword and Eochan? By my mother’s gods, did your god tell ye to do such a thing?”
“Aye, for I had no idea of exactly what I would do or say when I climbed that hill.”
“H
e speaks directly to his god,” Maire explained, taking some satisfaction at the sudden widening of the Cairthan lad’s eyes.
“He’s a druid warrior?” Garret whispered. “Then that explains how he bewitched me father.”
“It was your father’s heart and mind that made his decision, nothing to do with spells of any sort.”
“I’ve never seen Lorcan with water wellin’ in his eyes. ’Twas surely some kind of magic.”
Maire felt as though she were walking blind across a brook, with no foreknowledge of whether a rock or water would support her next step. She stared at Rowan, as full of doubt and wonder as the newest hostage, but he gave in to neither of them.
“No magic, just common sense and fairness.” He raised his voice so that all could hear. “We will go to the Cairthan village where Lorcan has gone to prepare a feast to welcome Queen Maire and his new allies.”
“Allies!”
“Allies!” Declan echoed Maire’s gasp.
“They agreed?” Maire could hardly believe it. Brude said Rowan could do such a thing, but she was hard put to see how. So was he, if he was to be believed.
“Like as not, they’ve gone to prepare an ambush!”
Garret turned on Declan, his hand flying to the hilt of his dagger. “My father gave his word, dung mouth, and the word of the Cairthan is as good as gold!”
“If it is gold, then ye can be sure, ’twas stolen.”
Rowan placed a restraining hand on the boy’s shoulder, holding him to the spot.
“And I gave my word, which is just as good,” he said to Declan.
“And you trust them?”
All eyes were upon the Welshman now. What respect Brude’s blessing hadn’t earned him, he’d earned for himself. But to trust a lifelong enemy went against every instinct. Garret stared at him with equal expectation.
“I must. The only way to build trust is to lay the first building block.”
“Well, my blade will be ready, I can tell ye that!” Declan swore.
“And mine!” Garret rallied back in defiance.
“Stand with me on this, Maire,” Rowan whispered aside before shouting, “And I will cut off the first hand to draw a blade or land a blow on either side, and you know me to be a man of my word.”
“And if he doesn’t, then I will!”
Maire heard her affirmation with a strange mix of conviction and warmth. The conviction came from believing this man and his queer god could do anything. The warmth was spawned from his request for her support. Often she’d listened while her parents lay abed, talking about decisions to be made for the best of their people. They might have differed in opinion, but before their eyes were shut, they were of one accord.
A divided rule was no rule at all, so Rhian told her once, after he yielded to her mother’s decision, not totally convinced she was right. But then, he wasn’t certain of his own stance, either. Only hold to that which is total certainty, he advised Maire, and never close the ear to an alternative, which might accomplish the same end.
Maire shook her head, as if to clear the confounding meeting of yesterday with today. Crom’s toes, she was starting to think like a bard as well.
Later, when she rode into the Cairthan village, she wondered if she and Rowan could take on both clans should a fight ensue. It was clear that neither side trusted the other. As for the man Lorcan, who also pledged his blade against an instigator, Maire was intrigued. There was something about him that struck a familiar chord, yet she’d never laid eyes upon him before now.
While Lorcan was the host and bade them welcome at his table, such as it was, it was Rowan who appeared the most at ease. Lorcan acted like one who walked barefoot on a hot rock. Several times she caught him looking at Rowan, almost as though in fear of the man. Had the Welshman’s god worked magic? Given his scars and wiry frame, Lorcan was no stranger to courage. No matter what Rowan said, it had to be his god’s magic.
“We’ve no bard to entertain us,” the Cairthan chief apologized after a filling meal of roasted and boiled beef. “But we sing the songs of our ancestors as well as any. Garret, fetch the harp from Maithre.”
The clan chief’s mother was unable to come from the ramshackle dwelling of twig and mud, claiming weakness of heart and ague of the limb. Her grandson dutifully carried her portion of the meal to the mean shelter. And that was one of the better ones, Maire noted. The level of poverty to which these proud people were reduced shocked her. They lived like vagabonds, weathering the winters in huts as cold within as without. Sadly, they could not live on the grass upon which their cattle thrived. The stony Wicklow slopes wouldn’t allow it.
Rowan said as much to the men gathered around the cook fire where the remains of the slain beef dripped their juices into the fire.
“I know you believe this land to be sword land. It was for your fathers and mothers before. But there are more of you now. Plough land is necessary to feed both man and beast.”
“And who’s to tend it, even if a patch of ground could be cleared in these hills?” Lorcan challenged. “The men we have need to stay sharp with weapons, not ploughs!”
“Aye, he’s right,” Maire agreed. “Look at your own people, Welshman.”
“It’s true that peace dulled their battle skills and sharpened the plough blades. I can’t say if they will ever know such a period again.”
Rowan’s gaze wandered to the hut into which Garret disappeared.
For a moment, he seemed distracted.
“And like as not, neither of these two clans will know it either, at least for long. So we must mend our ways to survive the famine the strength of the sword leaves us to…”
“Unless we plunder.”
Lorcan and Declan were caught off-guard by their simultaneous agreement.
“Or unless we develop skill with the sword and the plough. The people of Israel built their temple walls with swords in hand after the enemy had destroyed it.”
“Who in Crom’s name are they?” Declan demanded suspiciously.
“They are the people in the book of Rowan’s god, the god’s chosen ones.”
Maire couldn’t help but smile at her husband’s look of utter surprise. She’d learned all she could from Brude before they left Gleannmara. The more she found out, the more questions she had.
“Aye, the Jews,” Lorcan chimed in. He eyed Rowan’s amulet. “I see you’re a Christian too.”
The Welshman’s brow arched even higher. “Too?”
“Some o’ the women ’ave been seein’ that priest in the glen since he settled there.”
“Tomás, I think his name is,” Garret said, handing over the harp to his father. “I seen ’im, meself. He talks a lot like you, Emrys. Should have known ye were two of the same kind.”
Lorcan locked gazes with Rowan and then passed the instrument. “Play us a tune, Rowan of Emrys… one fit for a king.”
Was there no end to her husband’s surprises? “You play the harp?”
“I’ve plucked the strings before.”
She looked sharp to Lorcan. “And how did ye know he played?”
“The fingers, Queen Maire. They’re long and nimble with calluses on the tips.”
“I would tell a story, if it please our queen,” Rowan said, drawing her attention back to him. “It won’t be poetry, but like those told by bards, ’tis true and a lesson lies within.”
Even the crossest of Celts could not resist a good tale over a warm fire, especially with his belly full and his cup brimming with beer. Each man gravitated toward his own clan, so that a line could be drawn to separate the two factions, and they still gathered closer. The Welshman began to pluck at the strings, his voice an octave or so deeper than the instrument, but just as clear.
“This is a story of brothers’ treachery…”
Maire started when Lorcan lunged suddenly at Rowan.
“By the gods, you promised!”
Rowan never flinched as the Cairthan chief’s blade flashed toward his throat, bu
t Maire was already drawing her sword, as were many on both sides of the campfire.
With warning for all in his tone, the Welshman finished explosively: “And their love!”
The deadly blade stopped short of its intended mark. Maire’s sword froze, just clear of its sheath. Like two wolves assessing each other, she and Lorcan slowly backed away—he from Rowan, she from him. Likewise about the campsite, the clan members fell to their respective sides. Weapons, which had appeared almost out of thin air, disappeared. The silence was such that the only sound cutting through the air was that of the harp strings, a rhythmic progression of a plucked chord. With each note, the tension unraveled strand by strand.
Maire’s heart drummed double-time to it. Gradually, each successive breath restored it to normalcy. She’d been so taken with Rowan that she’d given the Cairthan the advantage. What she’d have stopped with her blade, her husband stopped with the command in his voice alone. Unless that god of his was walking amongst them with an invisible cloak. She glanced about uneasily for any sign of something moving, which she couldn’t see. A kick of dust, an unnatural movement in the grass.
She saw nothing amiss, save that two hostile clans sat little more than a weapon’s length apart, and instead of watching each other, they watched the Welshman. ’Twas as if the harp had put a spell on them.
“Joseph, being the son born to Israel in his old age, was the godly man’s favorite.”
“This Israel is an old man? I thought he was a country of Jews.”
“Israel was a father of the nation later named for him.”
“Crom’s toes, how many wives did he have?”
“Just listen to the story of the brothers, Maire.”
Maire bit back the legion of questions that sprang to her mind. Again she scanned the faces, wondering if they found this as farfetched as she.
“Joseph’s brothers couldn’t bear to kill him, so they sold him into slavery instead and told their father that his favorite had been killed by a wild beast. They gave the old man Joseph’s coat of many colors—”
“How many?” Maire squirmed beneath Rowan’s sharp glance. “Well, if he had many colors in his brat, like as not he was a prince.”
Maire Page 17
