“I suppose if it were up to you, you’d have me sleep in the stables, or worse.” Bridei kept his voice light. Dermot didn’t answer, but his expression revealed his agreement.
“Have you a particular dislike of bards?” Bridei asked. “Or are you wary of me simply because I’m a visitor?”
Dermot’s blue-gray eyes focused on him coldly. “’Tis said you beguiled everyone at Cahermara with your tales and songs. You’ll find that our tribe isn’t as soft and easily led as those fools.”
“Speaking of tales,” Bridei said, “when I was at Cahermara, they told me how your king, Tiernan O’Bannon, burned the old rath to the ground and killed Queen Dessia’s family. But there are always two sides to every tale. I wonder if O’Bannon was provoked in some way. Or if the feud between your tribes goes back to previous generations.”
“Of course it does,” Dermot answered hotly. “Our people were here long before the Fionnlairaos. Then they came and stole our lands!”
“How long ago did this happen?”
Dermot frowned. “I don’t know. Too many generations to count.”
“Is that why your people appear to have mostly dark coloring, while the Fionnlairaos have reddish hair?”
“Aye. We’re two different peoples.”
“There must been some intermingling of your tribes over the years.”
“Some. But that doesn’t mean it’s right.”
“You think your tribes should remain separate?”
“Aye. We’re nothing like the Fionnlairaos. They’re sly and cunning and not to be trusted.”
“But it appears you live much the same as they do,” Bridei said, gesturing. “Your houses, clothing and the way you wear your hair is almost the same.”
“That doesn’t change what’s inside people. We’re very different.” Dermot folded his arms across his chest. “I have no use for the Fionnlairaos. If it were up to me I would have burned Cahermara a second time and killed everyone of them I could get my hands on.”
“Even Queen Dessia?”
Dermot’s eyes gleamed with hatred. “Especially her. I can’t understand what Tiernan thinks he’s doing. This plan of his is witless.”
“What plan is that?”
Dermot hesitated, as if deciding whether he dare answer. He tightened his lips, then responded. “He plans to wed with her, the fool!” The next moment he glanced around, as if worrying someone might have heard him.
“Well, it seems like a sensible plan to me,” Bridei said. “By making her his wife, the conflict between your two tribes will be ended. Then you’ll both able to use your resources to become more prosperous instead wasting them fighting each other.”
Dermot’s face flushed a vivid hue. “What about all the people who died at the hands of the Fionnlairaos? Who will avenge their deaths?”
“Did someone in your family die at the hands of the Fionnlairaos?”
“Aye. My father was killed by Queen Dessia’s father.”
“And you’ve nursed a grudge ever since?”
“It’s not a grudge. It’s my duty to avenge him!”
“Are you the eldest son?”
Dermot nodded.
“What do you think the chieftain should do with Queen Dessia?”
“Kill her, of course! Spill her traitorous blood. She’s the last of the line. Then we can begin anew.”
Interesting, thought Bridei. “Are there others at Dun Cullan who feel as you do?” he asked.
“Of course. There are many who of us who lost family members at the hands of the Fionnlairaos.”
“But O'Bannon won’t listen to you? Is that it?”
Dermot nodded. “He fears if he kills Queen Dessia, her people will want revenge and keep fighting us.”
“Isn’t that likely true?”
“I suppose so.”
“It seems to me that if O’Bannon weds Queen Dessia and ends the conflict between your tribes, everyone will benefit.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m honor bound to avenge my father.”
“If you feel that way, perhaps you should take matters into your hands,” Bridei suggested. “Perhaps you’ll have to kill Queen Dessia on your own and thwart O’Bannon’s plan.”
Bridei watched Dermot carefully. When the warrior’s gaze shifted briefly, he knew a sense of triumph. For a split second, Dermot had glanced toward the back of the hillfort, suggesting Dessia was being held somewhere near there.
“I can’t do that,” Dermot finally answered. “I can’t go against the chieftain’s wishes. I have a duty to him as well.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to make the best of what happens. Of course, there’s always the possibility Lady Dessia will refuse to wed O’Bannon.”
“Oh, she’ll agree, eventually.” Dermot’s voice was grim.
“What does he mean to do? Starve her into submission?”
“If necessary.”
“She might choose to die rather than give in to him. Has Dermot considered that?”
“Why would she do something so foolish?”
Bridei shrugged. “Just as you are unwilling to give up your hatred toward the Fionnlairaos, she may well be unwilling to let go of her animosity towards O’Bannon. She might choose to die rather than submit to him.”
“She’s a woman. She’ll weaken in the end.” Dermot’s gaze fixed on Bridei. “You seem to know a great deal about Lady Dessia. But of course you would.” Contempt flickered in his eyes. “You’ve shared her bed.”
“Is that what they’re saying?”
“Aye.”
“Did O’Bannon have a spy at Cahermara? Or, perhaps more than one?” Bridei asked the question casually, but his heart was pounding. As he’d guessed, Dermot’s moody nature had worked to his advantage. The man had already told him a great deal.
But Dermot finally seemed to realize what he was doing. “Of course he had spies,” he answered. “But who they are is none of your business.”
“Fair enough,” said Bridei. “As for my relationship with Lady Dessia, bear in mind that it’s my business to please the ruler who employs me. I wouldn’t last long as a traveling bard if I didn’t know how to ingratiate myself with my patrons.”
“Is that why you bedded her?”
“It’s as good a reason as any. Then again, she’s not bad to look at.”
Dermot made a face. “If you like wenches that are the same size as a man, with cat-green eyes and a haughty, disdainful manner.”
Bridei raised his brows. This man’s grudge against Dessia appeared to go deeper than simple vengeance. “I like all kinds of women,” he answered, grinning at Dermot. “I’m not generally particular.”
“Fond of Lady Dessia, are you?”
Bridei shrugged. “Now that she can no longer be of benefit to me, I care little for her circumstances. When dealing with women, I always put my own interests first.”
“What about when you’re dealing with men?” Dermot asked.
Bridei laughed. “Aye, when dealing with men, I also put my own interests first.”
Dermot gave him a dark look. “So, you have no loyalty to anyone?”
“I have loyalty to my family and tribe back in Britain, of course. But since they’re not here, I don’t see why I shouldn’t make decisions based on what will benefit me the most.”
Dermot gave Bridei a canny look. “At least a man knows where he stands with you.”
“Aye. And I’m more than willing to return favors done for me. If you were to put in a good word with Dermot as far as having me stay here for a time, I might be able to make it worth your while.”
“How?” Dermot asked.
“That’s for you to decide. Bear in mind, as an outsider, I might be able to do something that your relationship to O’Bannon wouldn’t allow you to do. For example, if I were given the opportunity to visit Queen—Lady Dessia, and something were to happen to her, it couldn’t be linked to you.”
“Are you offering what I think you are?” Dermot asked,
sounding surprised.
“Perhaps. I would, of course, expect to be compensated for anything I did. And I would need a means of getting away from this place before what I’d done was discovered.”
Dermot nodded slowly. Bridei watched him, thinking how easy most people were to manipulate. “But if I’m going to be of any use to you,” he added, “you must make certain that O’Bannon lets me stay awhile.”
“How will I do that?” Dermot asked.
“Convince O’Bannon to let me perform at the meal tonight. I’m very good at what I do. I’ll make certain O’Bannon won’t be able to send me away for awhile.”
Dermot looked at him. His expression was wary and suspicious, but also intrigued. Bridei flashed him an easy smile, then went into the guest house.
Chapter 18
Bridei glanced around the crowded feasthall. The cavernous room was smoky and close, the scent of the turf fire mingling with the odors of damp wool, sweat and cooking food. The people were dressed in plaid garments, many woven in a similar pattern: blue and green with a few thin bands of red. As they found their places at the plank tables, their faces shone with expectation and excitement. Dermot had obviously done his part and spread word that a bard was going to perform.
Bridei was elated. The first part of his plan was falling into place. He would sing for awhile, then set aside his harp and begin a long story. After a time, he would claim he was tired and his voice failing. Desperate to know how the tale ended, the people would demand he return the next night to finish it. O’Bannon would be forced to allow Bridei to remain there for several nights.
Bridei had given a lot of thought to what story he would tell and decided on the tale of King Arthur. The life of the former high king of Britain was a dramatic one, with plenty of twists and turns. Tonight, he would describe Arthur’s humble beginnings. In subsequent nights he would detail his exceptional rise to power, the battles he fought, the passion he aroused in his followers and finally, his tragic end. The story lent itself well to the sort of exaggeration and embellishment that would hold his audience’s interest. There were those who said Arthur was fast becoming a legend even before his defeat at Camboglanna. Bridei meant to develop that legend even further, to transform a mortal king into an almost godlike hero.
Inspired and confident, Bridei struck the first chord on his harp and began singing. It was a ballad in his native tongue, which meant his audience wouldn’t understand the words, but only experience the emotion. He knew they would grow restless soon, but he wanted to start off with something simple so he wouldn’t have to concentrate.
As he sang, he sized up the crowd. Although his conversation with Dermot had given him an obvious plan, he wasn’t comfortable with it. He might able to use the pretext of killing Dessia to get in to see her, but it wouldn’t go very far in setting her free. It seemed better to stick to his original idea of bribing someone to help him get Dessia out of the hillfort. Such a scheme appeared much less risky as it didn’t involve double-crossing his accomplice. Dermot was a man of strong passions, and wouldn’t be pleased to have his plan to murder Dessia thwarted. O’Bannon made a formidable enough opponent; Bridei didn’t need a vengeance-crazed warrior after him as well.
Scrutinizing the people gathered in the hall, Bridei noted once again the contrasts between them and Dessia’s subjects. At Cahermara, most people were tall and long-limbed and almost all of them had at least a tinge of red in their hair. This tribe ran to short and stocky, with brown and black tresses predominating.
Finishing the first song, he began another. This was in the Irish tongue, and people began to take more interest, the crowd quieting so they could hear the words. The next song was a tune he’d learned since arriving in Ireland. As he’d hoped, people responded by mouthing the words along with him. Good, he thought as glanced around and saw he had the crowd’s attention. Now he must stop singing and still manage to keep them interested. As he played the final chord of the melody, he sent a silent prayer to the goddess Rhiannon, asking her for aid.
Finishing the song, he set his harp in his lap and cleared his throat. “My apologies. I’m recovering from a slight ague I caught while imprisoned at Cahermara and my voice isn’t as strong as it usually is.” He raised his brows meaningfully. “The Lady Dessia is a harsh critic. If she doesn’t like what you play, her response is quick and certain.” Hearing twitters of laughter, he continued, “Although now it seems the proud wench is experiencing some ill favor of her own.” He quirked his mouth into what he intended as a bitter, satisfied smile. Then he added, “Since my voice isn’t strong enough to keep singing all night, I’ll tell you a tale instead.”
After taking a deep breath, he plunged in: “It’s a long tale, and to be told properly, I must start at the beginning. Although it’s a story of glory and greatness, it begins in very humble and human fashion.
* * *
A long time later, Bridei paused and took a drink from the cup of ale beside him. Finishing it, he spoke in faint tones. “My apologies, but it seems my voice is failing. I guess I’ll have to finish the story tomorrow night. That is, if Lord O’Bannon allows me to remain here.” He gave the chieftain a questioning look.
There were exclamations of dismay from the crowd, while others muttered things like: “He can’t stop now.” “Oh, no! He must tell us the rest of it.”
O’Bannon fixed Bridei with a hard expression, and Bridei sought to appear genuinely wan and weary. As O’Bannon continued to glare at him, Bridei found himself holding his breath. It was clear the chieftain knew he was deliberately stringing along the audience. Would O’Bannon’s anger at being manipulated override his desire to keep his people content?
The chieftain smiled sourly. “You’re a sly, cunning sort, Bridei ap Maelgwn, and I don’t usually tolerate such men around me. But you’re also a fine bard, and it’s obvious my people desire to hear the end of your tale. For their sake, I'll let you stay one more night.”
The emphasis O’Bannon put on “one more night” made it clear that Bridei would be expected to finish his tale within that time period. But he felt confident he could delay his departure even longer. There was much left to tell about Arthur’s story, and if he continued to embellish it, finishing tomorrow would require he continue long into the night. Too long for people who had to get up and go about their usual duties the next day.
Keeping with his claim of being tired, Bridei sluggishly got to his feet and made his way through the crowd. Some of the older children try to stop him and have him tell them more about Arthur, but their mothers drew them away. He was alone as he left the hall, or at least he thought he was. As he reached the guesthouse, Dermot slipped out of the shadows to confront him. “I did as you asked,” he said. “Now you’re in my debt.”
“Aye, that’s true,” Bridei answered agreeably. “But whatever you want in payment, can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“I suppose it can,” Dermot responded. “But come tomorrow, you must do as I say.”
“And what is it that you intend me to do?”
“Kill Queen Dessia,” Dermot said in a voice harsh with loathing.
“And how am I supposed to do that when I don’t even know where she is?”
“I will take you to her when the time comes.”
“And how will I kill her?” Bridei asked. “I’m no warrior, and she’ll be suspicious and wary. It might be difficult for me to overpower her, even if I had a weapon.”
Dermot snorted contemptuously. “I’ve considered that. Clearly, we must use a more subtle means of ending her life. To that end, I’ve obtained some poison. I’ll put it in some wine. You’ll take it to her and pretend to share it with her. But of course, you must not drink any.”
“What makes you think she will trust me enough to accept the wine, even if I pretend to drink it? The lady and I didn’t part on the best of terms. I doubt she’ll accept any gifts from me, no matter what the circumstances.”
“You convinced her to let you sh
are her bed. I feel certain you can manage this.”
Bridei pretended to nod resignedly. In fact, he was pleased with Dermot’s plan. It would be easy for him to fail to kill Dessia, yet still appear to have tried to do so. “What sort of poison is it?” he asked. “Does it contort the limbs and make the victim foam at the mouth?”
“I don’t know what it will do,” Dermot responded. “I didn’t ask about that when I got it from Emer.”
“Who is Emer?”
“A wisewoman. Although she’s very young, she knows all about herbs and potions.”
“Was she in the hall tonight?” Bridei asked.
Dermot shook his head. “The little rat-faced wench knows better than to show her face in the hillfort.”
Bridei was taken aback by Dermot’s cruel description. If other people at Dun Cullan had the same attitude toward the young woman, she couldn’t be happy living here, which meant she might be a useful ally. Perhaps he should seek her out on the morrow. For now, he needed to know more of Dermot’s plan.
“I’m curious,” he said. “Once I’ve administered the poison to Dessia, how long do you think it will be before her death is discovered? Someone must take her food and water every day. They’ll certainly notice if she’s succumbed. They’ll tell O’Bannon, and he’ll be furious. Even if no one knows I’ve visited Dessia, I’ll be under suspicion. I’m a stranger at Dun Cullan and I’ve made it clear I bear her a bitter grudge. If I leave as soon as I’ve made certain Dessia is dead, I’ll have at best a day’s start. If O’Bannon decides to track me down, it will be relatively easy for him to find me and vent his rage on me over the loss of his prize. I may be in your debt, and I may want Dessia dead, but I’m not willing to throw my life away. If I agree to your plan to poison Dessia, you must come up with a scheme that allows me to get away safely.”
“You’ve already agreed to do this!” Dermot said hotly. “Now you’re trying to back out!” He took a threatening step toward Bridei. “It’s too late for you to change your mind. If you don’t do as I say, I’ll go to O’Bannon and tell him of the plot and claim it’s all your plan. If it comes down to your word against mine, who do you think he’ll believe?”
The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) Page 23