The opportunity arose when it began to rain. As the downpour intensified, the workmen sought refuge beneath a shelter made up of several hides stretched over timbers anchored in the ground. Bridei joined them, grateful for the chance to rest and to be able to question his companions. Turning to the big, bald workman, he asked, "How long have you served the queen?”
The man answered in a rough, guttural voice. “All my life.”
“What sort of mistress is she? Does she treat you kindly?”
The man shrugged. “She shares what she has with us. Even if she wasn’t generous, it wouldn’t matter. My father’s father’s father served her family.”
“What of the rest of you?” Bridei’s gaze probed each man in turn.
They all answered the same. Their families had served Queen Dessia’s family and so they also served her.
Bridei turned back to the bald man and inquired, “How long ago was the queen’s family killed?”
The man frowned at him. “Why do you wish to know?”
Clearly, these men were protective of the queen. He would have to earn their trust before he probed deeper. He bowed his head in deference. “Forgive me. I haven’t introduced myself. I am Bridei ap Maelgwn of Britain. I was taken captive by a group of slavers and brought to this place.”
He motioned to each man in turn and they gave him their names. The balding man was Nally, the one-eyed one, Cori. The slow-witted youth was Eth and the three rough farmers, Birr, Usan and Derry.
Bridei started to ask another question about the queen, but the one-eyed man, Cori, stopped him. “I don’t believe you’re a slave,” he said. “The queen has never used slaves.”
Bridei gave Cori a reassuring smile. “You misunderstand me. I said the slavers brought me here. Then Queen Dessia’s commander—Keenan, I think his name is—took me to the queen and I chose to serve her.”
“Breaking rocks?” Nally snorted.
Bridei smiled. “I’ll admit I didn’t choose to serve her in this particular way. I’m a bard, a filidh. I offered to entertain the queen and fill her hall with laughter and music. She refused.” Bridei felt his smile tighten at the thought of the lady’s rejection. He shook off the bitterness. These men must not see his resentment. “Since I no longer have a harp nor any possessions of value, I feared it might be dangerous to travel on to the next settlement. Although mixing mortar is not my favored task, at least I know that here I’ll be treated decently. It seems Queen Dessia has a care for your comfort and safety.” He motioned to the rain, still falling steadily. “Many leaders would insist you work even in foul weather. And they wouldn’t think to provide shelter.”
The man named Nally nodded. “Aye, the queen has always been concerned for her people, even workers such as us.”
Bridei nodded back. “A most considerate and noble woman. And one who has suffered a great deal. Apparently her whole family was killed and her home destroyed?” He looked at the men questioningly.
“That’s true.” Cori nodded. “Ten years ago, the original fortress was attacked. The rath walls were made of wood back then and the enemy warriors burned the place to the ground. Everyone was killed, except the queen, who was but a girl at the time.”
“How did she survive?” Bridei asked.
The workmen seemed to hesitate, then one of the farmers, Usan it was, spoke in a breathless whisper. “She shapeshifted into an animal.” He nodded, dark eyes shining. “None can agree on whether it was a raven, a cat or a deer, but there can be no doubt it was some cunning, wary creature. That’s how she survived.”
Bridei repressed a snort of laughter. While it was intriguing to imagine Queen Dessia—with her jewel-green eyes—as a sleek, elegant cat, he wasn’t such a lackwit as to take the story to heart. A tale it was, enhancing her status among her people, a compelling legend to make them hold her in even higher regard. “What happened after that?” he inquired. “How did she wrest her lands from her enemies?”
Another of the gawky youths answered him, Derry this time: “The people sheltered her in the countryside until she was a woman grown. She trained as a warrior all the while, learning the skills of sword, bow and arrow and spear. Then, when the enemy had become lax and unwatchful, she gathered together those warriors left remaining from her father’s forces and took back her lands, including this place.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three turns of the seasons,” Nally answered. “She decreed the rath must be rebuilt in stone, so it could not be burned. But it’s a long, hard task.” He gazed wearily at the piles of undressed rocks lying nearby. “And she can spare few men for the doing. Those who know how to wield weapons are needed to guard her lands. Nor will she take men away from tilling the soil and looking after the herds, lest we all go hungry.”
Cori spoke again. “When winter comes, she asks for younger sons to come to the rath and put in a turn at the work. In a few weeks, I expect more to join us. But even with a score of workers, it’s slow labor. We can only hope we’re able to finish these walls before our enemies fall upon us once again.”
“Who are your enemies? What tribes do you fear?”
“Mainly the Ruathfia,” Nally answered. “Tiernan O’Bannon is their chieftain. ’Twas he and his men who killed the old king and razed the fort. Now he waits for his chance to fall upon us once again.”
Bridei was puzzled. “Why doesn’t this O’Bannon attack now, while the curtain wall remains unfinished? It seems to me this place is ripe for the taking.”
“Oh, aye,” the simple-looking man, Eth, answered solemnly. “Many have thought so. But Cahermara is guarded by magic. That’s what keeps our enemies at bay.”
“Magic?” Bridei quirked a brow. “You believe some sort of spell surrounds the rath?” Despite his skepticism, as he said the words, Bridei felt a strange sensation, like a cold finger tracing the length of his spine.
The men all nodded gravely. Eth said, “The queen is a powerful sorceress, and she’s worked great magic to keep Cahermara safe.”
This was the same story that the two warriors had told him. He supposed Queen Dessia did look the part of a sorceress, with her fiery beauty and impressive bearing. And perhaps men here were more easily awed than those of his homeland. The priests swarming over Britain had done much to discredit the old tales, to make magic and sorcery things that educated men didn’t admit to believing in.
A part of Bridei couldn’t help wondering if there wasn’t something to the stories of the protective spell. Since he'd called down a storm using a power he didn’t know he possessed, his skepticism in such matters had weakened considerably.
Still, he couldn’t quite accept that Queen Dessia had magical abilities. It was more likely a clever way to intimidate her enemies. Even he, who was no warrior, could see how vulnerable Cahermara was. With the defenses unfinished and a good share of her men scattered over the countryside rather than patrolling the area immediately around the fortress, the dun—or rath as the Irish called it—would not be difficult to take with a strong, determined force. Not that he wished for something like that to happen to Queen Dessia or her people.
That thought reminded him to ask, “What’s your tribe called?”
“We’re known as the Fionnlairaos,” Nally answered. “It means people of the white mare.”
Again, Bridei experienced a sense of premonition. In his country the white mare was the symbol of the goddess Rhiannon, who rode a pure white animal as she collected the souls of the dead and bore them back to the underworld. Everywhere he looked there seemed to be reminders of gods and magic. It made him uncomfortable. He thought of the storm and of how he’d summoned the powerful forces of the sea and the sky. It was those forces that had brought him to this place. Why? And what price would he have to pay for calling on their aid?
Chapter 4
She huddled in the near darkness of the root cellar. From above came the sounds of fighting . . . and dying. Screams and cries. Dessia crouched low and put her fingers
in her ears, trying to block out the terrible noises. A few moments later, some instinct jerked her to alertness, and she removed her fingers from her ears and listened intently. Footsteps above her. Very near. She glanced up at the wicker covering over the entrance to the cellar. A shaft of light pierced the gloom and she knew she’d been found.
She looked around the crowded chamber for something to use as a weapon. Spying a basket of cabbages, she pulled it near. She grabbed one of the cabbages and prepared to fling it. A dark form filled the opening, blocking out the light. The next moment the man was in the cellar. His huge sword gleamed in the torchlight filtering in from above as he moved towards her. Dessia let out a scream of rage and terror and flung the cabbage at his head
* * *
Dessia sat up with jerk. She was shocked to find herself lying on her bed in the tower room. The dream had seemed so real, so incredibly, appalling real.
She took gulps of air as she tried to calm herself. Perspiration glazed her skin and her throat felt raw, as if she really had screamed. Fierce emotions broke upon her consciousness, grief and horror to realize how much of the dream was true. Her family had died that day. They were gone forever. She wondered why the dream had come to her now. What did it mean? Was it a warning? Or a chastisement?
The gods might be angry with her because she hadn’t avenged her family’s death. Surely that was the reason she’d been spared. The gods had sent the phantom cat that guided her to safety. She'd been allowed to live because the gods meant for it to be so. The dream was a reminder of their claim upon her.
Anguish forced her from the bed. Wrapping her arms around herself, she began to pace about the small chamber. Tears of frustration stung her eyelids. She was doing the best she could. How could the gods reproach her? A child had no chance of wreaking vengeance. She’d had to grow up first, and learn to defend herself. As soon as she was able, she’d returned to the crumbling ruins of her father’s once proud fortress. It had taken nearly a year to build a settlement there and raise the walls in timber. Then she’d realized such defenses were not enough. The rath must be rebuilt in stone. She'd told herself she dare not take revenge on O’Bannon until she and her forces had a safe place to retreat to, but perhaps that belief was false. Perhaps the gods wanted her to attack now, this winter. The dream might be a sign.
She went to the window and threw open the shutters. Cool, damp air assaulted her face and chilled her sweaty skin beneath her fur-lined bedrobe. In the east, she could see a faint thinning of the gray curtain of night. Almost dawn. She would never sleep now. Her body seemed to pulse with wild energy.
She dressed quickly, not bothering to wake Aife. Rather than putting on a gown, she donned a warm woolen tunic and trews. From one of the clothing chests, she removed a broad leather swordbelt and secured it around her hips.
She slipped out the door and ventured down the dark stairway, moving stealthily. The realization that she was sneaking out of her own home made her smile, then the weight of her responsibilities again descended. She could escape the rath, but she couldn’t escape her duty. The awareness seemed to crush her, making her feel as she had that night in the cellar, overwhelmed and helpless. She shoved away the gnawing self-pity. Life was hard and brutal, a struggle for all creatures. She should not bemoan her lot. To do so was to risk angering the gods.
Down in the hall, one of the maidservants was tending the hearth fire. Dessia nodded to the woman, then moved behind her father’s chair and took down her shield and sword from the wall above. As she sheathed the sword on her belt, she considered that no one who saw her make this early morning journey would be alarmed. By now the people of Cahermara were used to her going off alone. They imagined her “powers’ would protect her. The thought brought another smile to her lips.
Outside the hall, she headed for the gate. The guard there bid her good morning, then climbed down from the watchtower to undo the latch. As soon as the man had opened the gate the width of her body, Dessia slipped through.
She made her way down the hillside, and at the bottom, found the pathway leading to the ancient oakwoods. It occurred to her that she was following the same route the phantom cat had taken on the night of the attack. She could still remember the terror of that journey, her awareness that although she might be escaping death, it was possible she was headed toward a fate even more horrifying. Children were warned against going into the Forest of Mist, taught to fear not only the wild beasts lurking there, but also the magical beings who ruled the enchanted realms, the space between this world and the Other Side.
But she’d never encountered anything fearful there, not that night nor anytime since. Over time it became a refuge, a place where she could escape the burdens of her life. Seeing the dark mass of trees in the distance, Dessia quickened her pace.
* * *
Where was she going—alone and armed like a warrior? Bridei stared at the gate the queen had just passed through. Something had woken him a short while before, and he’d left the barracks where the workmen slept and went out into the near dawn. There was just enough light to make out a tall, slim figure, armed with sword and shield, moving through the settlement. Curious, Bridei had followed. It was only when the mysterious person halted and called up to the guard that Bridei realized it was the queen. He’d grinned in appreciation of the way the male attire showed off her feminine form, emphasizing rather than concealing her delicious curves. Then he crept nearer and watched as she vanished through the gate.
Now he contemplated how he could follow her. What tale could he tell the guard to convince the man to let him pass? He puzzled on the matter, then decided to try another approach. Turning, he headed to the other side of the rath, to the place where he’d been working earlier that day. Passing the piles of rocks, he climbed the scaffolding to the top of the half-finished stone wall. His hand found a purchase on the timber fortification outside the wall and he scrambled up. Crouching on the edge of the wooden palisade, he warily regarded the ten-foot drop to the ground, then made the leap. He relaxed his body as he fell and rolled as he landed, a trick he’d learned as a youth. In seconds, he was on his feet, his clothing damp with dew, but his body uninjured.
He wasted no time in hurrying around the perimeter of the rath. But when he arrived on the other side of the fort, he saw no sign of the queen. It was too dark to see very far. He would have to guess which way she’d gone. The sea lay to the east. Would she have traveled that direction? Nay, he didn’t think so. She was too shrewd to venture out into the open along the coast, especially since she knew the slavers were about. A lone woman would have no chance against a group of men, even if she were armed.
Which was another puzzle. Why was she carrying a sword and shield? Was the weapon for protection? But protection from what? If she feared attack, she would have taken an escort.
Perhaps she wearied of being confined in the rath. He could well understand such a feeling. After only three days behind the fortress’s walls, he was also growing restless. It was a comfortable enough settlement, but small and crowded nonetheless. Nothing like the vast walled towns of Gaul, or even the old Roman colonae of Britain.
But if the queen sought fresh air and freedom, where was she headed? Bridei tried to recall the landscape around the rath. He’d had a good look at the area when he’d been up on the scaffolding the day before. Rolling hills all around, except for a dark swathe of oakwoods extending deep inland. His mother loved the forest, he recalled. She’d told him she never felt more content than when she was among the trees with their spirits all around her. Did Queen Dessia have a similar affinity for the wildwood?
Bridei started walking. It was only a hunch, but better than nothing. If he were wrong, he’d at least see another part of the Fionnlairaos’ territory. Again, he puzzled on the name of the queen’s tribe. He’d seen no horses since arriving in Eire and certainly no white ones. Did the name hail from a time in the past when Dessia’s ancestors possessed horses? Or was it an allusion to a supernatur
al animal?
This Irish queen and her world intrigued him. Ireland reminded him of the wild hills of his homeland, yet this realm was subtly different. There was less darkness here, as if the ancient forces of land and sea and sky were not quite so harsh and primeval. This seemed to be a place of more sunshine and less shadow than Gwynedd.
He entered the woods, thinking his quest was probably hopeless. In this wild tangle of old oak, elm and hazel, it would be next to impossible to find her. Unless she’d kept to the pathway. For there was a trackway here, very narrow but clearly visible among the undergrowth of the autumn woods.
Along the path, bryony and rowan bushes glistened with red berries, while overhead great, ancient oaks spread their boughs, their dull gold leaves half fallen. There was still plenty of greenery here, the yellow green of hazel, darker hues of the ivy and vivid mosses, as well as a few late flowers—yellow agrimony and purple loosestrife. He heard birdsong; chaffs and warblers staying late in the season. The Blood Moon was waxing. In his homeland, the excess stock would soon be butchered in preparation for winter. But the grass here was still green, so perhaps they didn’t have to cull their herds.
As he progressed deeper into the woods, he encountered pigs rooting among the acorn mast, calling to mind the rich pork in the stew he’d eaten the evening before. Like his people, the Irish appeared to eat more meat and cheese than bread. Although he’d seen some fields of barley and wheat, they were relatively small compared to the rich pastureland where cows and sheep grazed.
The path grew even narrower, then disappeared altogether. Bridei peered into the dense, nearly impenetrable foliage. Why would the trackway simply end? It was almost as if the woods were urging him to turn back. Then he heard the sound of water, a little runlet trickling over the ground. He decided to find the stream and follow it.
The ground sloped downward as he set out through the underbrush, and he had to struggle over many fallen branches. It was dark here, as if the sky overhead had grown overcast even as dawn broke. He glanced upwards, wondering if it would rain. When he returned his gaze to the pathway, the ground had disappeared beneath a layer of mist. In a few moments, he was completely surrounded by whiteness. He could still see, but not well enough to be certain of his footing. A prickle of fear crept along his spine and he turned around, contemplating heading back. But he couldn’t do that either. The mist was even thicker that direction.
The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) Page 4