Riona

by Linda Windsor

  “I’m certain the bishop will lend more time to this matter, once his shock over Fintan’s death has abated. Reason and grief are a poor mix.”

  Kieran’s brow shot up. “You should know well enough.”

  “Till then, you need to keep your strength up until Bran returns. Have some honeyed bread.” Riona shoved the delicacy at him. “And take care not to drip it.” The drip she referred to had nothing to do with the honey gathered by the abbey’s beekeeper. It had to do with the note she had slipped beneath it.

  “I don’t—”

  “Eat, fool!” She cut her gaze to the food to make the despondent lord look closer.

  Riona suspected the guards would not allow them privacy. A note was the only way to let Kieran know what was going to happen—or what she hoped would happen. She made certain her back blocked the guards’ view as Kieran secreted the note away in his belt and took a bite of the bread.

  “Mmm … good,” he garbled, mouth full. “Are you having second thoughts about wedding me now that I am a condemned man?”

  “Wedding you, milord, is the very last thing on my mind. You may count my attention as Christian charity, nothing more.”

  Riona repacked the basket with prim efficiency, but as she made to rise, Kieran reached across the short distance between them and pulled her to him. The basket dropped, spilling the wooden tableware with a clatter. Her startled gasp received his lips and with them, a long, sound kiss. It smacked of honey and the wine she’d given him to wash down his meal, but the greatest distraction was the man himself. A curling warmth conveyed itself through the unsolicited union, the strength of which melted Riona’s resistance.

  It still worked its spell after the guards fell upon them and separated them.

  “Unhand her, ye cur!” The senior officer knocked Kieran away from Riona with the butt of his sword, while the second steadied her from the plummet from her heightened senses.

  “Milady, are ye all right?” the man Oife exclaimed.

  “I … oh!” She cried out as the senior guard creased Kieran’s forehead with the sword, laying open his skin. “Spare him, sir.”

  The guard stopped short of striking the dazed lord again, and Riona’s mind raced. “Our court would rather he possess all his senses when his penance is handed out.” She struggled to her feet on knees still wobbly from Kieran’s unexpected assault. “Do help me gather these things. I must be off to the kitchen.”

  “What of our supper?”

  “I’ll see extra added to it for your gallantry, sirs. A good wine to soothe the troubled soul.”

  Oife grinned, revealing two good teeth. The rest were either rotted stubs or missing totally, no doubt the price of a drunken brawl. “That’d be more’n fine, milady, more’n fine.”

  “Unless you think it might impair your ability to stand guard over this ill-mannered buffoon,” Riona said, feigning afterthought.

  The senior guard sneered. “ ’Twould take more than a bottle made by clerics to dull a real man’s senses, eh, Oife?”

  “Sure as a pig stinks.”

  Riona masked her distaste and took the basket Oife handed to her. “Then I’ll see to your meal at once, sirs.” She tucked the linen coverlet around the contents and started for the door.

  “I only sought to see if milady’s lips were as sweet as her words,” Kieran called after her.

  She paused outside the grainery and glanced back in time to see him wipe his mouth in distaste.

  “And sure one was as hard to stomach as another.”

  As if the fire flaming her cheeks scorched her heels as well, Riona stalked off toward the abbey kitchen. Once inside, she slammed the door behind her, rattling the utensils hanging on the wall. Father Domnall and the children looked up from their meals with widening eyes.

  “Tell me once again why we are trying to save that wretched man’s hide?”

  Stomping to the table, she threw the basket, bouncing its contents out. Fynn grabbed the cup he’d helped carve as it rolled to the edge. Liex righted the porringer. Leila merely looked at Riona as if wondering where the gentle lady who had offered selfless love and care to three homeless children had gone. At length, the child rattled off something to Liex.

  “Seargal says your husband made you angry.”

  “Well, he’s half right,” Riona fumed. “I am angry. Do you know what the ungrateful beggar had the nerve to—” She broke off. Father help her, she was addressing the child’s imaginary companion. Abruptly, she turned to Domnall. “The note said for Kieran to create a diversion that would bring the guards to my rescue, and do you know what he did? He kissed me, that’s what.” She huffed like the bellows over a smith’s forge. “Full on the mouth, no less.”

  “Shameful,” the brother averred.

  The nonexistent force of his disapproval was no more to Riona’s liking than the twitch of his lips. As if to cover himself, he popped the remnant of his daily bread in and chewed without relent until it required washing down with a sip of diluted wine. With a grunt of satisfaction, he wiped his lips on the coarse linen of his sleeve and glanced up at her.

  “It was successful, I hope. The diversion,” he added hastily, “not the kiss. That was most ungentlemanly of him.”

  “He shoulda smashed his fist in your belly,” Liex said, slamming his into the palm of his other hand. “That would get the guards’ attention.”

  “If ’e was half as noble as he’d make one think, he’d ’ave just grabbed your wrist.” Fynn’s dark eyes fired with indignation. “An’ I’ll deal with him once we’re away from here, milady, don’t ye worry.”

  “I’ll not have you going head-to-head with Kieran again, Fynn. I can take care of myself. I … well, it was just not what I expected him to do.”

  Riona took a calming breath and exhaled the last smoke of the fire Kieran and his disarming kiss had ignited. The last time she’d endured the lord of Gleannmara’s affection, it had been a brutish, clumsy affair. He pursued romance like he plied an enemy: headlong, without regard for the sensibilities of his prey. Today’s assault was no less forceful … yet it had been possessed of a play that taunted the senses rather than abused them. Had the guards not intervened, she might have been tempted to actually enjoy it.

  The very idea made her shudder.

  She put her fingers to her temples and massaged the ache there. This was not the time for discord of any nature. She put her fists on the table, ignoring all but what was most important. “We all need to work together, just as we’ve planned.”

  Liex slid off the bench, his blue eyes bright with excitement. “Is it time to go froggin’?”

  At Riona’s nod, Fynn was up and off, beating his younger sibling to the corner where the gig and sack lay. She and the children were to make their way to the outer fosse, which was filled with the earlier rainfall almost to the top of the earthen embankment surrounding the abbey. The closing twilight curtain afforded the perfect opportunity for catching frogs, which allowed Riona and the children to leave the confines without arousing suspicion. Once outside, they’d make their way to the forest where Bran waited in hiding after pretending to make off for Drumceatt. The rest was up to Brother Domnall, Kieran, Gray Macha … and God.

  “But first, dear ones,” Riona cautioned, motioning them into a small circle around Domnall, “let us pray.”

  “Rescue is at hand. Be prepared tonight. For now, make a diversion to summon the guards.”

  Kieran could not read the note he fingered in the darkness, but its words committed themselves to his memory—as did the sweet sampling of Riona’s lips. When the guards pulled him away from her, he was fit to chew the beggars like raw fodder and spit them aside that his hunger for more might be satisfied.

  Another place, another time …

  Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, he tested the scabbed wound the guard had given him. The way Riona played the guards into taking an extra bottle of wine when she returned with their evening meal proved the church had not sp
oiled all the spice in her. The men fell asleep with dreams of the reward she promised Lord Maille would give them for their timely protection.

  But what else was on Riona’s mind, Kieran had yet to work out. Resourceful as his foster sister was, she was no match for the guards Maille placed at the gate.

  Like the night before, the strains of the evening vespers haunted the air, straying from the inner vallum of the abbey to the grainery and outbuildings in the outer circle.

  Kieran felt no reverence for the hymns and prayers. They were as false as the heart of the bishop leading them with hands folded and stained by his own brother’s blood. That had to be the reason for this whirlwind condemnation. Senan killed his brother to attain the seat of power. Like the ascension of a clan chief, he’d need to be elected, but he was guaranteed first consideration because of bloodline.

  Try as Kieran might, he could not fathom what had led Senan and Maille to fix the blame of Fintan’s murder on him, save that Kieran was the unfortunate bullock who wandered too close to the sacrificer’s knife at the right time. After all, the sooner Fintan’s murder was solved and his murderer dealt with, the less between Senan and his coveted abbacy.

  Kieran stopped his pacing at the sound of footsteps approaching the grainery and rushed to the door. The friction of the bar sliding from the keep grated in his ear. Stepping back, he saw it swing open. There were no Maille soldiers in sight—clearly they were staying close to the hut, which put them out of the line of sight of the grainery. But in the glow of their campfire stood a faceless monk, hooded and robed. He walked inside, drawing the door to behind him.

  “Put on my robe, son, and hurry. There’s no time to lose. You’ll have to walk right by the soldiers to get to the stable.”

  Catching on instantly, Kieran threw off his cloak, waiting as the cleric pulled his dark robe over his head. It was a mean material compared to the lord’s kingly cloak and scratched Kieran’s arms as he shrugged it on. Smelling of cattle and hay, it skimmed the taller warrior’s knees, while it had reached the ankles of its owner.

  The monk chuckled. “You’ll have to walk with bent knee, Gleannmara, if you hope to pass as this old man on his way to the stables with the armload of fodder outside.”

  His disparaging thoughts regarding God’s servants still fresh, Kieran felt a pang of remorse as he clutched the brother’s arm and shook his hand. “I owe you my thanks, Brother …”

  “Domnall,” the monk provided. He folded Kieran’s cloak around his arm and handed it to him. “Now fetch that fine horse of yours from the barn. He should be able to clear the fosse beyond the rath, even though it’s filled with rainwater.”

  “Aye, Gray could clear that as a weanling,” Kieran allowed, peeping through the narrow crack of the open door. A monk’s robe was poor protection, but his leather breastplate had been seized, along with his sword.

  “Father, lend a hand.”

  Kieran grabbed the largest of the drugged guards and dragged him into the shelter, where he proceeded to strip him of his leather tunic. It wasn’t quite as sturdy as Kieran’s own, but ’twould serve. In a few minutes, he donned the robe again, this time over the leather.

  “Just in case I’m discovered before I can reach my horse,” he explained.

  “Well done. Well done.” Domnall patted him on the back with the same urgency in his voice. “Now ride west to the forest where the stream cuts through it. Your friends await you there.”

  Kieran hesitated at the door. “Friends?” He scratched his arms, where the rub of the sackcloth made his skin itch.

  “Hurry, lad, there’s no time for explanation now.” Domnall shoved him through the door, then gathered up the fodder and handed it to him. “Keep your hood up, walk low and slow, and God’s speed to you, Kieran of Gleannmara. Bring us back justice from Drumceatt.”

  “Drumceatt?” Kieran thought to head for Gleannmara and summon his clans. Bran was already on the road to the high king.

  “The holy brothers will be praying that your safe journey and success will rout the evil from among us.” The brother crossed himself. “Now go with the Lord. He will protect His own.”

  Kieran bit back his instinctive reply. Sarcasm was no way to repay a kindness, no matter what he thought of the man’s God. Stripped of a weapon to fend for himself, he’d not mock help from any quarter.

  Walking, or rather waddling on bent knee, toward the stables, Kieran took note of the whereabouts of Maille’s soldiers. Most were gathered round the campfires, enjoying the fine wine and ale from the abbey stores. No matter what the brethren did, be it working the vines or fields, they did their best for God’s glory, which made for superior products for export and sale. The profit benefited the poor, who were always at the gates of one rath or another.

  “Ho, good brother. How about bringing our horses some food as well?”

  The hair pricked at the nape of Kieran’s neck. Ignoring the guard’s request, he kept on shuffling toward the stable as if he hadn’t heard at all.

  “Ho, I say! What’s the matter with you, dolt. Are ye deaf?”

  Loping footsteps hastened toward Kieran. Still he moved toward the stable as though hearing naught. Suddenly a hand clamped on his shoulder, spinning him. With a loud gasp, Kieran threw up the fodder, as if he’d been startled out of his wits. Keeping the hood low over his eyes, he grunted and motioned wildly with his hands as he’d seen deaf mutes do at the fairs.

  “Curse yer mother’s milk, ye stupid oaf,” the guard swore, picking up the cut and dried remnants of last year’s harvest. “I’ll take this.” He pushed at Kieran, who stooped to help pick it up, and pointed first to the fodder and then to himself. “Mine,” he growled.

  Burning to make the man eat it, piece by piece, Kieran kept his head bowed and backed away. With a sign of the cross, he turned and hobbled off toward the stables, as though the soldier had frightened him. Behind him, the man laughed and made a derogatory remark regarding Kieran’s lineage.

  Once under the cover of the barn, Kieran straightened, pressing at the muscles cramping in his back from his hunched walk. “Gray!”

  The stallion, hands above the oxen stabled next to him, stomped, dark tail swishing in anticipation. Kieran didn’t need a light to remove the feedbag and slip tack over the animal’s head and neck. After settling the riding cloth over its back, he led the stallion to the edge of the overhang farthest from the light cast by the campfires, and then outside. With a tap to the back of Gray’s front hooves, he waited for the horse to stretch out as trained.

  Hiking up the robe, he seized Gray’s mane and swung up on the stallion’s back, but fell short of his mark. With a curse, he stripped off the confining sackcloth and tried again. Once he was seen on Gray Macha no man with an ounce of wit would mistake him for a brother of the cloth, robe or nay.

  Horse and master straightened simultaneously. Taking up the reins, Kieran leaned over the animal’s neck and whispered in a low rumble, “All right, Gray Macha. ’Tis time to fly like the wind.”

  Kieran dug his heels into Gray’s hard, muscled sides and clicked his tongue. The stallion lunged forward as if he’d been frozen in midgallop and just as suddenly thawed. Manes of horse and rider streamed in the wake of the rush. Within a few lengths, they drew the attention of the men at the edge of the encampment, including the guard who’d taken the fodder for the string of horses.

  He ran toward Kieran, sword brandished over his head. Kieran had no weapon of his own, but he had Gray Macha. Snorting with the thrill of conflict, the magnificent warhorse plowed over the man as if he were made of smoke. Making a short circle, the animal carried its master back to their victim, pausing long enough for Kieran to reach down and snatch up the sword.

  In the periphery of his vision, Kieran saw the gray’s ears lay back and braced himself. He’d heard the footsteps racing up on them from the rear, too. Lowering its head, the horse kicked with its hind hooves and used the impact against the two men seeking to unseat its rider to spring for
ward.

  The guards’ warnings were knocked out of them, but shouts from others called more attention to the escapee. Hastily seized and launched, lances fell short as Kieran raced for the earthen rise that enclosed the outbuildings of the rath. Gray’s pounding hooves echoed the pounding of the young lord’s blood as they neared their goal.

  A missile whistled over Kieran’s head, and another grazed the leather covering his back as Gray Macha started up the embankment and plowed into the dark beyond. Clawing his way over the crest and throwing clumps of sod in his wake, the stallion seemed to pause just long enough for his mighty muscles to coil. Then, as if all that held his muscles snapped, the warhorse catapulted over the wide ditch. The tall rush parted beneath belly and hoof, whispering in deference to the stallion’s speed.

  As Gray struck the ground, the opposite bank cushioned the impact and, like a springboard, launched them away again, speeding horse and rider forward as if on the wind itself. Kieran glanced back. The astonished soldiers had not even collected themselves enough to open the abbey gates. He’d be well away before they readied their own steeds for the chase.

  Freedom filled his lungs, which had felt contaminated by the damp, mold-infested enclosure. Kieran rid them of the cell’s stench with a grateful and triumphant shout.

  “Thank you, good brothers!”

  He ran his hand along the powerful neck of his stallion and whispered into his mane. “And you, Gray Macha.”

  The warhorse may not have left as many fallen warriors in its wake as its legendary namesake, but there were three soldiers this night who’d remember Gray Macha well.

  NINE

  Riona washed the berries she’d collected in the stream, grateful that the moon had finally emerged from its cloak of clouds. Cleaning the berries not only helped pass the time, but would also provide some food for the children later. They’d have to travel through the night to put as much distance as possible between Maille’s men and themselves. She only hoped Kieran’s escape was as successful as the one she and the little ones had made.