Riona

by Linda Windsor

  Riona stopped, struck with the answer. No, she wasn’t. God already had—the very day she’d asked for His help. The memory of Kieran’s and Bran’s entrance into the abbey played upon her mind as though it were yesterday. If she’d accepted Kieran’s proposal, if she’d forgiven him then, perhaps they’d not have been subjected to the tribulation of fleeing murder charges. She dropped her head until her chin lay upon her chest.

  But he didn’t want the children, she protested on her behalf, although it did seem that they had grown on him, especially Leila. She recalled the laughing child perched upon Kieran’s wide shoulders, wearing little more than a new brat. It had given Riona hope for him until he dashed it with that careless comment in the bruden hall about the children not being his.

  But, Father, what was I to think?

  That Kieran was no more perfect than she. The answer slammed like a battering ram into the forefront of her defense. There was a bigger game afoot here than Riona could conceive, one that gave each of them time to adjust to each other as well as to God’s intention: to provide for His innocents.

  For if You are with us, who can be against us? True, evil gnawed and gnashed at them as it had the writer of the psalm, yet here they were, untouched and protected. If You are with us, what have we to fear? Nothing but their own disbelief.

  Riona’s hands fisted in shame. Looking back, it was so clear. Forgive me Father. Help me to do the right thing.

  It began in Riona’s chest, where her heart beat calmly, steadily. It poured through her veins like her life-giving blood and spread limb to limb, head to toe. She had read of it in God’s Word and heard it mentioned on the lips of clergy. Indeed she’d repeated it herself. But until this moment, she had never felt it: that elusive peace that surpasses all understanding.

  She rose and planted a kiss on the forehead of each of the children. Her mind was clearer than it had been in days. Instead of offering forgiveness, it was her turn to ask for it.

  Her heart missed a beat as the sudden sound of running footsteps approached the cottage. She hurried to the door, cracking it open in time to see Fynn coast to a halt and smash breathless into the side of the dwelling. There was no sign of Kieran.

  Disappointed, she admitted Fynn. “Did you find him?”

  “He’s with Aidan and his men. They just returned from Derry and are in the hall now toasting Finella’s harp.” The boy yawned and hung his brat carefully on one of the pegs just abandoned by Cromyn’s pigeons. “Sure, this is one of the finest cloaks at the fair, for a man of my age at least.” Hesitating briefly, he turned to Riona, pride replaced with a heartrending insecurity. “After today, I don’t suppose there’s any hope that you and Gleannmara will marry.”

  Riona smiled. First Cromyn, then prayer, and now this. How many messages would it take? She hugged Fynn. “Aye, lad. There’s always hope. Now take off those shoes and hop into bed.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  I’ll put my charioteer up against any,” Aidan boasted. The new king of Scotia Minor clapped his wiry comrade on the back and motioned for one of the serving wenches to fill their cups. “All around,” he called out.

  Kieran covered his horned mug with his hand. The twitch of a smile he gave the flirtatious maid was all he could muster, despite the revelry going on around him. His wounded pride gave him enough anguish without adding a thundering head to it.

  “What’s this?” His royal friend waved the girl back. “It isn’t like you’ll be driving tomorrow. All you needs do is ride as Aengus’s second.”

  “Unless the race turns toward the worse,” the charioteer Aengus provided. “Then the horse’ll need the encouragement of the hand that trained it from a weenling.”

  “He’ll run for you quick as for me,” Kieran assured Aengus. “Sure, that one’s born to the wind.”

  Reluctantly, Kieran let the girl fill his cup. Another time he’d have been crowing like the rest at the prospect of seeing one of Gleannmara’s champions race. The horses had been the tuath’s pride since King Rowan brought over the first pair. Over the years that followed, the line split into solid warhorses trained to the battlefield and sleek racers for either riding or the chariot. Gray Macha was a prime example of the first. Ringbane, longer of limb and greyhound-sleek, was born to race rather than combat.

  Kieran had given the yearling to Aidan as tribute to a friend rather than liege lord. Had circumstances been different, Kieran would have raced Ringbane’s elder sibling at the fair. Heber would have driven as his second.

  Ah, Heber. Kieran chased the melancholy thought down with ale. How was he to keep the oath he’d made to his dying friend when Riona would have nothing to do with him? What more could he do? He’d asked. He’d taken her little brood under his wing. He’d even given her a wardrobe fit for a queen. And all she wished was that he burned with the confounded frills twice thrown in his face.

  “Friend, if your face grows much longer, ye’ll need a second chin to carry it. This quagmire over the murder will clear itself up. I myself will testify to your untarnished character.”

  “Make no mistake, sire, I am humbled by your support,” Kieran affirmed with as much vigor as his heart would afford.

  Aidan’s offer was a considerable one. According to the law, the word of a king of Aidan’s station, with so many lesser monarch’s pledged to him, carried far more weight than Maille’s and the bishop’s. Only an abbot’s testimony was equal, and if Fintan could testify, there’d be no need for a trial. While Kieran should be more concerned with the charges pending against him and the forces at work behind it all, it was Riona’s rejection that spun his thoughts into a dark web, entrapping him.

  “You saved my life, Kieran of Gleannmara. I shall ever be indebted.” Aidan seized Kieran’s arms and shook him in a manly embrace, before taking up his cup again. “And to your future bride of the Dromin, whose chief gave his life for mine.”

  Instinctively Kieran glanced to where Colga and some of the Dromin chiefs were involved in a game of chess. If their newly elected lord heard, he did not acknowledge. Another shadow crawled into Kieran’s mind, one of doubt. He should be grateful that Colga acted so quickly on his behalf after the murder charge, bringing a lordly retinue to a fugitive. Still, whenever there was disaster, Riona’s quiet cousin was not far removed.

  A sixth sense bade Kieran’s gaze wander beyond the Dromin men to where a single traveler sat staring back at him from a table near the door. The man quickly looked away and helped himself to more of the ale from the flagon on his table. Kieran studied him, but nothing about the man was familiar. The noble standards of hygiene and appearance were lacking. Shoddily cropped hair and an unkempt beard pegged him as a lesser lord or one new to the station his garment suggested.

  It was worn, perhaps, but it had once cost a respectable sum. Perhaps he was one of the host of merchants who traveled from fair to fair. Some were richer than kings, but without the refining of a noble tutelage. Regardless, it was the first time Kieran had seen him.

  “Ho, milords, for this humble servant craves an audience for his newest composition and would be honored if such esteemed souls such as yourself would indulge it.”

  Dismissing the man as a curiosity, Kieran turned to see Marcus bow lowly before the group.

  “Is that you, my comical buffoon?” Aidan exclaimed.

  The jongleur’s face was not painted tonight. He carried the lute Dallan normally played, rather than his whimsical pipe and bag of tricks. “Aye, ’tis I, milord, but tonight the fool plays the bard, provided your own good master does not object.”

  Aidan’s bard was a man twice Marcus’s age with a mane of snowy hair cut away from his forehead by a skillful barber, not unlike the tonsure of Irish druid and priest. Bresal had studied with the venerated Columcille in the bardic tradition before the latter moved on to study of the church. Now, his normally solemn and contemplative demeanor softened considerably by the good ale, the elder poet waved for the younger man to proceed.

  “
By all means, sir, for these days my compositions lean more to recording Aidan’s reign as the first Christian king of Scotia Minor than entertainment. Not that my liege is not the stuff that heroes are made of,” Bresal added, lifting his cup in salute to Aidan.

  “I am honored, sirrahs.” Marcus strummed the lute and bowed. “Thus I shall begin this ballad with a tribute to Gleannmara, for it is his story I intend to tell.”

  Kieran set his cup down on the table, nearly overturning it. “My story? Faith, I have no story.”

  “As seen through the eyes of the children he and his lady have taken to their bosoms.”

  Kieran rolled his eyes toward the smoke-filled rafters of the bruden. “You are hard-pressed, Marcus, to find the matter for a poem in that, but have at it.”

  Marcus applied nimble fingers to the strings and began to sing.

  “In cloistered abbey so serene, there lived a lady fair,

  With eyes as blue as gemstones, and raven, silken hair.

  Riona was the lady’s name, an angel sent from heaven in answer to an orphan’s prayer.

  Robbed by black-robed death of their parents, three lost siblings found their way to Kilmare,

  Where Lady Riona took them to her bosom as her own.

  Her gentle, loving manner preached to their little souls,

  Drawing them closer to heaven’s way, rather than that of an earthly road,

  Until greed came cloaked in thin disguise, to carry them away.

  In the midst of their despair, the good Gleannmara came …”

  Marcus’s smooth tenor and its musical accompaniment plucked at the muscles coiled in Kieran’s neck and shoulders until slowly, note by note, they began to relax. It was an engaging story, romanticized almost beyond Kieran’s recognition. He was hardly the answer to Riona’s prayer, given her absolute refusal to consider him as husband. Yet she’d risked her life to save him. He in turn had jeopardized his life for the safety of those she loved—the homeless children.

  To hear Marcus sing was to think that Kieran was a great warrior of noblest intent, as noble in heart as the lady he protected, but Kieran knew better. He’d only rescued the orphans because Riona would give him no peace otherwise. He’d had no intention of fulfilling the orphans’ prayer of providing a home for them. That possibility evolved out of his determination to honor his oath.

  The more Kieran listened and privately objected to the praises attributed to him, the more he came to realize just how selfish his motives for all his deeds were. They had nothing to do with the children’s happiness or the lady’s, as Marcus portrayed. It was all done for his honor and his glory—and that left a bilious taste in his mouth. Riona was the heroine. What she gave, she gave without any expectation of return. She was prepared to sacrifice everything for those whose needs exceeded hers. She had something Kieran envied. It made her what she was and sustained her when the world failed her.

  When he failed her.

  The tale grew more unrecognizable, and yet Kieran listened as though it were his penance. It stirred a bitter brew of emotions because he knew the truth behind all the noble things Marcus sang about. And when the poet closed the story with the arrival at the fair and Kieran’s reunion with his friends and supporters, he was relieved. Unlike the men clamoring for a finish, he didn’t want to hear what was unlikely—that he and Riona would marry, that Gleannmara would be home to the children, answering their prayers, that life would be beautiful ever after.

  “Well, what do you think, milord?” Marcus asked beneath the huzzahs and cheers filling the room.

  “Well done, sir!” Aidan stepped forward and clapped Marcus on the back so hard that the strings on the lute rang in protest. “And you shall drink with me the rest of this night, but first I must make room for more of the fine ale this comely wench pours.” The king pinched the cheek of the serving maid, sending her into a fluster of giggles.

  As Aiden swaggered toward the side entrance, Bresal approached the young man before Kieran could answer him. “Most excellent recital and composition. The rhyme and measure are impeccable. You waste your time as a fool.”

  “You are very generous, sir,” Marcus replied.

  “It was well put,” Kieran offered. “I hardly knew I was so esteemed in your eyes.”

  “In the children’s eyes,” Marcus corrected with a crooked grin. “And in mine,” he added, “though I’ve strained hard to see past your bluster and buffoonery.”

  “Not hard enough, I fear.” Kieran glanced at Bresal. The old man hovered at Marcus’s side, an expectant look on his face. “You are a good friend, Marcus, but I must bid you good-night. I’m worn from hearing of all my heroics.” He clamped a firm hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Besides, I think good Bresal has more on his mind than a compliment.”

  “This young man may not be of bardic lineage, but he has the gift,” Bresal said, affirming Kieran’s suspicion. “I have not taken on students in a long while, young Marcus, but …”

  “Your pardon, master,” Marcus interrupted. “But I must have a short word with Gleannmara.”

  Kieran paused and turned upon hearing his name to see Marcus leave the aged bard.

  “Milord, is something amiss with the lady?” he asked lowly.

  Kieran shook his head. “Nay, good friend, if anything is amiss, ’tis with me. I am sore tired, and tomorrow is a big day for our royal friend. A good night’s rest is in order.”

  If Riona would even let him in the cottage. Kieran refused to let the thought cloud his face. “And if Bresal’s proposal isn’t what you want, consider becoming the resident poet of Gleannmara. You do paint glorious with words.”

  Surprise took Marcus’s expression, but before he could comment, Kieran turned him and steered him back to where Bresal awaited. “Now go, lad. We’ll talk later.”

  That Bresal even hinted an interest in tutoring Marcus was an honor, for a master did not ordinarily seek out students. It was they who sought him. But that the elder teacher waited was even more tribute to Marcus’s performance.

  Once outside in the fresh air, Kieran slowed his step, reluctant to make his way back to the cottage. Suddenly a loud shout echoed from around the side in the direction of the fialtech. A second shout sent Kieran into a run, dagger drawn, toward the privy, for he recognized the voice as Aidan’s.

  The Dalraidi king leaned against a sturdy birch and pointed to the privy, but Kieran needed no direction. A light shone through the door, which lay ajar. An assassin with a lantern? Nay, a host of lanterns, for the light streaming out of the cracks was too bright for one flame. It was as absurd as it was eerie.

  “What happened,” Kieran asked, glancing at the bloodied hand Aidan cupped to his chest. The Dalraidi king was ashen, obviously shaken. “Faith, are you mortally wounded?”

  Aidan shook his head. “Nay, he sliced my hand only. Then he—” The king stopped, stymied for words. “I canna say what happened after that. As I came out of the fialtech, the deceiver charged me with his dagger. I dodged aside, diverting the blade with my hand and shoved him into the privy. I drew my own blade and turned to face him, but he never came out.”

  “And the light?”

  “Is why I didn’t go in after him,” Aidan answered, as if fearful of being overheard. “I swear it wasn’t there earlier … and he, sure as I’m standing here, wasn’t carrying a lantern when he attacked.”

  The words were no more than out when the light died. Invisible icy fingers crept up Kieran’s spine and lifted the hair on his neck as he exchanged a wary look with his companion. Men ran toward them from the bruden, summoned by the same cry as Kieran.

  “What goes here?” one of the soldiers demanded.

  “A cowardly attack on Aidan, by the look of it,” Kieran explained. That was all he could explain.

  “Where is the coward?” another demanded.

  Aidan jerked his head toward the door, no more anxious to open it than Kieran. Tightening his grip on his dagger, Kieran stepped forward and eased the door o
pen. A man’s leg fell out, limp as a doll’s. His heart leapt to this throat, pounding so that he had to swallow, but outwardly he maintained an unruffled appearance. Someone from the rear of the group pushed forward carrying a lantern. As the light filled the small enclosure, Kieran recognized the stranger he’d studied earlier that evening.

  “He must have fallen on his knife,” he remarked to his royal friend, who stood stiffly while the charioteer wrapped his bleeding hand with a sash. Dagger ready, in case the man played dead, Kieran motioned to the culprit’s feet. “Pull him out, lads, and we’ll have a look at him.”

  As the body was dragged out into the open, Kieran took the lantern and held it up inside the privy. Nothing was amiss that he could see, at least now. Bewildered and not the least at ease, he handed over the light and knelt to examine the body of the would-be assassin. The stillness of death answered the inquiring press of his fingers at the man’s throat.

  “Roll him over,” he ordered on finding no sign of the blade on the front of the corpse. The men obliged. “Hold the lamp closer, man.” There was no sign of a wound much less a weapon. But a puncture could close up without much blood, especially a deep one.

  “Anyone know this varlet?” Aidan inquired. Murmurs of denial echoed around them as Kieran proceeded to cut away the man’s tunic from his chest. No matter how much clothing he pulled away, there was no sign of broken flesh anywhere.

  “Maybe his neck broke from the fall,” the king suggested, no more willing to acknowledge the strange glow they’d witnessed than Kieran.

  “What happened to the light?”

  Kieran jerked his head toward a young boy who’d joined the group unobtrusively. Dressed in trews and a short tunic, he was one of the lads who tended the fires for the bruden. “You saw it, too?” he asked, taken back.

  The boy, very near Fynn’s age, nodded. “Aye, I saw it. Big enough to light the hall, it was. But where is it now?”