As Riona and Kieran repeated the Lord’s Prayer with the gathering, she heard the small but strong voices of her children—their children—saying the words she’d taught them in earnest concert until the closing amen.
“And thank you for sending us parents,” Fynn and Liex simultaneously inserted.
Riona glanced at them. All three siblings held hands, heads bowed. It was hard for her to see through the tears that started somewhere in the midst of the ceremony, but as they looked up, joy spilled over their faces.
“God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit, bless, preserve, and keep you,” Cromyn went on without stumbling at the improvisation. “The Lord mercifully with His favor look upon you and so fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace that ye may so live together in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen.”
The priest looked up, grinning as widely as either of the youngsters. “Nephew, you may kiss the bride.”
Thought fled Riona’s mind at the prompt. She turned, toes curled within her slippers in expectation. Kieran tipped her face upward with the crook of his finger. Leaning down, he brushed her lips with a soft promise and then straightened to full height, shoulders squared. Beaming like a king’s candle, he slipped his arm around her and turned to face the onlookers.
“Good friends,” he announced, preempting Cromyn, “Thanks to God’s good grace, I give you my lady and my life, Riona of Gleannmara.”
A chorus of congratulations and huzzahs filled the chamber. Pipes gathered their wind in preparation for the couple’s exit at the back of the church. Suddenly a shower of flower petals rained over them. Riona turned to see Fynn holding Leila up on his shoulders, the latter laughing as she shook the last remains from her ribboned basket. Liex scrambled to gather them up from the floor for one last toss when Kieran reached down with his spare arm and scooped him up by the waist.
“Hey!” the lad shouted, astonished as the groom tucked him under his arm and, with Riona on the other, carried Liex out backwards, Fynn and Leila bringing up the rear. Surely no stranger—nor happier—recession had ever been seen.
The journey back to the bruden didn’t seem half as long as that which took Riona there. Since the brewy already entertained a king and his court, the establishment was well prepared for the wedding party and its esteemed guests. A dais had been constructed, its white silk canopy adorned with flowers and vines for the high king, Aidan, and for the bridal couple. To the right of the entrance was Aedh’s retinue and court, while the Dalraidi and Dromin dominated the benches surrounding the low tables on the south side of the entrance.
There were too many guests for any to recline or laze normally while they supped. Word of the extraordinary events at the race and of the wedding that replaced a trial had spread. Each bench was filled to capacity. Guests stood near the kegs of wine and barrels of ale where the bruden master himself dispensed the drink. A fair and a wedding with royal, clerical, and allegedly supernatural blessings was as good an event as any Celt could want.
Toast after toast was lifted in honor of the newlyweds, while all manner of meat, fish, and fowl circulated on trays as large as cart wheels. Breads of all shapes, sizes, and grains were heaped on every table along with fruits, both dried and fresh, and nuts imported from the east. Musicians provided by the high king orchestrated the lively conversations, inspiring many guests to tap their feet and legs without missing a word regarding their subject of interest.
Friends both old and new, noble and common, shared the closest tables to the newlyweds and their honorable hosts. Besides the northern Uí Niall presence—which included the high king and the Dalraidi—a representation of their southern Niall clans was also in attendance, including Bran Dub, the provincial king of Leinster and overking to Gleannmara, who arrived just in time for the occasion. Bran Dub and Aidan exchanged stories of Kieran’s exploits in their service over a flagon of wine imported from Gaul.
Conspicuously absent was Baetan, the northern Niall King of Ulster. Uninvited because of his resentment of his cousin Aedh Ainmire and because of a stubborn insistence that the Dalraidi of Scotia Minor owed him—not the high king—allegiance and tribute, Baetan sulked at Tara, a would-be high king in a once-glorious court, now cursed and abandoned. Not even Gadra and the minions Baetan had sent to keep him abreast of the business of the fair had shown up.
For Riona’s part, Maille was not missed.
Whether guilty himself or guilty by association, he’d nearly cost her Kieran’s life and possibly those of the children. Only the heavenly Father could use evil’s own redhand to point out the answer to her prayers for guidance and send the most unlikely earthly angels to their rescue, Riona thought, seeking out the gleemen in the crowded hall.
If she and Kieran had not already adopted the gleeman’s orphans, Dallan and Finella probably would have. Under the fatherly eye of Dallan, Fynn and Liex participated in tumbling, but Leila held back, sitting like a petite doll beside Finella. The latter had told the child that ladies didn’t tumble head over skirts, but sat like queens over their court. All Leila needed was a scepter. Instead, she held Lady Gray, who slept in regal repose on her mistress’s lap.
Marcus divorced himself from the amusement that evening. Instead he was the entertained. Glued to the elbow of Aidan’s bard, he listened in awe to the elder expound upon the elements of rhyme. Not a word seemed wasted on the younger man.
All told, it was a strange mix, with high king to lesser kings and cattlelords; bards of the highest order and their lowly counterparts; soldier champions of war and priestly advocates of peace. That all had gathered to honor Kieran and his bride was more than Riona could grasp. Kieran’s superiors and peers toasted his character as much as his sword. Words such as noble, loyal, fair, and stalwart echoed all around her. She knew now that her own imperfections had caused her to turn a blind eye to Kieran’s many good qualities and focus on a flaw. Her heart, though, had seen him as he was: a good man. Imperfect, but good.
A new arrival entered the hall flanked by two companions. The foot Riona tapped to the music stilled. How dare Lord Maille show his face! Indeed, as the Ulster lord boldly approached the head table, conversation dampened in his wake. The music played on, but the boisterous voices were now subdued to speculative whispers.
“Milord.” Maille addressed Kieran, seemingly oblivious to his reception. “I have come to publicly offer my apologies and my congratulations, in that order.” Maille pulled a small, drawstringed bag from his waistband and handed it to Riona’s new husband.
Otherwise impassive, Kieran’s brow shot up as he took it up and shook out the contents. It was the ring he’d sought the night of Fintan’s murder—the one he’d intended for his future bride, that instead had nearly become his death sentence.
“The late bishop had it in his possession … part of the evidence he’d hoped to use against you,” Maille explained. “Now that the man has confessed, albeit posthumously, and you are absolved both by earth and, I hear, heaven as well, I see no reason why you should not have it for your lady.”
Riona shuddered. She wanted no part of it. At least, not until it was washed.
“Not all the redhands are absolved to my mind,” Kieran observed pointedly.
Maille was unaffected by the subtle accusation. “If you refer to Tadgh, Senan’s hired assassin, put your mind to rest. It seems he drowned after being run into the river at sword point.”
Riona looked at Kieran sharply. They both knew the hand on the hilt of the sword. He refused to meet her gaze.
“I mourn no slaver of innocent children,” Kieran disdained. “Few deserved to die more. Erin’s judges were spared in that instance.”
Still he refused to look at Riona as he absently toyed with the ring, the drill of his gaze riveting Maille where he stood. Was it shame she detected behind his facade of bullishness? Mayhap Finella was right. Kieran’s heart was softening—not in leaps and bounds, but changing nonetheless. She placed her ha
nd over his and gave it a reassuring squeeze, as if to say, I am with you, beloved. I know how you feel.
“Blood drawn from greed will return to the hand that spilled it,” Father Cromyn reflected from Riona’s side.
Maille gave the priest a quizzical glance. “Is that a scriptural viewpoint, Father,” his voice dripped in skepticism, “or have you become a prophet?”
“Nay, milord. ’Tis my earthly one. In the end of the eternal scheme of things, God alone will judge the murderer and decide his fate,” Cromyn answered. “What is judged or misjudged by us in the now will either be reinforced or rectified then.”
“But earnest repentance and assuming responsibility for one’s deed can change God’s ultimate verdict,” Riona ventured softly for Kieran’s sake. She didn’t know how much he remembered of the Scripture he’d turned from. She only wanted to remind him that all was not lost over past mistakes. Only the future mattered to the earnest confessor.
Cromyn nodded in agreement, but Colga, sitting within earshot at another table, lifted his goblet of ale—apparently the most recent of many, given the slight slur of his speech. “Come now, friends, surely there are some sinners whom even the blood of Christ cannot wash clean.” He took a healthy swallow and then peered into the remnant wine in his cup. “Red—” he spoke to no one in particular—“looks like blood, doesn’t it, milords?”
“To a guilty eye perhaps,” Kieran replied.
“Or a drunken one,” Maille suggested in contempt.
Colga closed one eye and looked at the drink that threatened to spill from the tipped vessel’s edge, then switched to the other eye. With a snort, he shoved the cup toward Maille. “Here, Ulster. Have a look yourself.”
The wine did spill this time, smack into Maille’s face. With a vehement curse, he backed away and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Contain your new chief, Gleannmara, till he learns to drink with men.”
Kieran started up from the table, but a second squeeze of Riona’s hand restrained the man, if not his tongue. “Then leave, milord, that he might.”
Instead of taking offense, Maille gave Kieran a half smile. “We’ve a long journey home together, Gleannmara.”
It was a simple truth, yet it reeked of threat. Senan’s body was to be returned to Kilmare. Knowing Kieran was eager to return to Gleannmara with his bride and that Kilmare was on the way, Aedh Ainmire charged Maille and Kieran to the task.
“I came in hopes of mending the hard feelings between us, but I see that I speak to deaf ears.”
With a stiff bow, Lord Maille turned away. He gave Colga a long, seething look and retreated out of the hall. Poor Colga, Riona thought. He still blamed himself for Heber’s death. The fruit of the heath had made his guilt worse. Her cousin’s bitterness glittered like the sparks in his father’s forge in the gaze that followed Maille from the room.
The moment Ulster cleared the open door, the entire room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. How well Riona knew that the dining daggers of the Dalraidi and Gleannmara clans might just as easily be turned to violence as to the succulent meats served in plenty all around them. Had Maille come in last night …
Riona shivered, recalling Kieran’s short temper. But tonight he’d held it. Had an epiphany come to him as it had to her? Finella was right. Gleannmara was trying and succeeding, though his barbed tongue needed more pruning.
“Thank you, Kieran.”
He looked at her, eyes wide, his goblet of ale poised at his lips. “Milady?”
“For taking the peaceful way rather than the violent.”
“I was ready for the blackguard either way,” a voice answered. “He’d have toes to match his black heart.”
It belonged to no one seated at the table but came from beneath the drape of fine linen covering the food board. Kieran lifted it to expose a small, round face set in determination. Proudly, Liex held up a stone the size of a warrior’s fist.
Kieran roared, not with anger but in amusement, as he dragged the boy up on the bench between him and Riona. “We’ve an irascible lot to redeem, milady.”
“Indeed, my niece has her plate full with the four of you,” Cromyn agreed. At Kieran’s disgruntled expression, both he and Riona chuckled.
“Faith, I’m celebrating, and my own wife turns against me!”
Riona leaned over Liex’s head and kissed Kieran on the cheek. “Never against you, Kieran. Always for you, with my love.”
He rose, trapping Liex between them and pulling her into his arms as if everyone else in the room had vanished. As Kieran lowered his lips to hers, Liex reminded him in no uncertain terms that that was not the case.
“Hey, whaddya tryin’ to do? Snuff out my breath?” His showman’s blood rising to the fore, Liex beamed at the ripple of laughter he’d instigated.
Kieran backed away from Riona just enough to grasp the boy by the sash at his waist. Lifting the lad with one arm, Kieran put him aside on the table as if he weighed no more than a basket of bread and returned to his original purpose: kissing his lady.
His lady.
The idea was more intoxicating than all the heath fruit in Erin. Kieran’s senses were heightened, both in the physical and spiritual realm. While Riona’s undeniable outer beauty fascinated his eye, her inner beauty transformed his spirit. He wanted more than anything to please her, and that meant pleasing her God. To his astonishment, it was not nearly as burdensome a thought as he’d feared.
These last weeks with Riona had awakened more than his earthly senses. His need for her opened his eyes to his spirit’s need … for the pained emptiness, which had hardened the wall around his heart, to be filled. She’d never abandoned him in his time of trial, and neither had God. He knew it now. He should have picked it up at the time, but it took the brush with death at the race to open his eyes to the unseen Hand that protected him and his little band of fugitives. Leila’s warning to abandon the road just before Maille’s men passed … their chance meeting of Dallan’s troop of entertainers when he was wounded and Riona needed help …
Hindsight convicted him that nothing had been left to chance. He’d abandoned God, but God had not abandoned him. The frayed pieces of his life suddenly came together in that simple truth, which transcended place and time, for neither governed the spirit.
It did not, however, transcend the intrusion of Marcus’s wry comment: “Friend Gleannmara, whilst I marvel at the power of love to make one forget his surroundings, I’d suggest you save your energy for later.”
Snatched from the epiphany of heart and soul, Kieran reluctantly released his bride. Marcus was right. Fire flooded Riona’s porcelain features and danced in her eyes. Oh, to leap into their depths.
“Harumph.”
The last remnant of love’s spell snapped, as did Kieran’s words. “What is it, you ball-tossing nuisance?”
Marcus took a step back, as though wounded. “Indeed, milord, you were most willing to hear this ball-tossing nuisance’s advice on matters of the heart, but now that you’ve won your love’s desire, alas, you’ve no ear left for me.”
Kieran drilled the jongleur with an impatient stare. “I am much obliged, e’en though the merit of such advice is still in question.”
Dallan stepped forward. “Well said, sir. Marcus will take credit for hanging the sun if we let him.”
“But that is neither here nor there,” Finella added. “The fact is, we’ve wedding gifts for milord and his bride.”
“Heavenly days,” Riona exclaimed at Kieran’s side. “You owe us nothing. ’Tis we who owe you for all your help when Kieran was ill.”
“Milady,” Finella insisted, “I’ve taken the liberty of packing my apron of herbs in your things.”
“But that’s your means of making a living,” Riona protested.
“And I hope I’ve no need for them again,” Kieran chimed in heartily.
“With that temper of yours, you’d best take them,” Marcus advised, earning Kieran’s good-humored scowl.
“I’m ma
king another,” Finella assured them. “It will be finished by the summer’s end. Meanwhile, I’ve little need for it in the bruden’s service. With your impetuous warrior and children about, ’tis wise to have such a collection.”
Kieran frowned. Something in Finella’s tone suggested she was offering more than precautionary advice. Her smile had faltered, and sobriety filled her voice. Had the woman seen something ahead that would require the use of the herbs? The men were always remarking how they yielded to Finella’s notions, for they were invariably right. Kieran was about to ask, when he was distracted.
“Marcus and I wish you to keep this.” Dallan reached over and tapped the brooch of Gleannmara, which held Kieran’s brat in kingly fashion. “Wear it proudly, friend, for that is what you are.”
Concern vanished with shock, and Kieran stood in stunned silence. When he’d given the brooch of his ancestors over to the gleemen in payment for their aid in reaching Drumceatt, it had been as though he’d given away a piece of his soul. Since then, his soul had been filled by Riona’s love. Winning his bride was more important than a piece of jewelry regardless of the sentimentality attached to it. This overwhelming gratitude wasn’t something he was comfortable with. Its blade wedged in his throat, cutting with both edges.
“I … you …” Words failed Kieran. He shook his head and pushed the jeweled piece away. How could he equate the brooch’s sentimental value with what the gleemen had done for him? “No. This is the well-deserved payment of a debt.”
“And now it is a gift,” Marcus told him. “Don’t insult us by refusing.”
Kieran grabbed the entertainer and hugged him in a stiff, manly fashion. In turn, he thanked Dallan and Finella. Kieran’s soul, once nearly empty, now spilled over with abundance. “God keep you, good friends.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Riona Page 27