She flashed the druid a smile as she held up Rowan’s sword to the ecstatic approval of her clansmen. Her vigor returned, renewed with each shout of her name and of Gleannmara’s. Floating on a cloud of triumph, Maire was unprepared when Rowan suddenly seized her in his arms and kissed her soundly on the lips. His sword fell from her hand, disabled as she was by shock.
As he released her, only the rising heat of embarrassment thawed her frozen state. Indignation grew to a roar in her veins, but before she could land a retaliatory blow on his smirking face, the Welshman caught her wrist and raised her arm along with his own as if they shared the victory.
“Mother and friends, I give you my bride-to-be! God keep us all.”
FOUR
With no time to exult in Maire’s disconcertment, Rowan sprang from her side to catch his mother before she collapsed on the ground in a full swoon. Lady Delwyn had stood during the contest, refusing the chair her servants brought her. Rowan had heard her inadvertent cry as he’d plunged down toward Maire’s sword.
His announcement, however, proved more of a shock than her unselfish love for him could bear.
“Seize him!” the queen’s younger spokesman shouted, stepping up to block Rowan’s path. “He’s a hostage.”
“Let him be, Declan.” Brude’s words were not nearly as loud as the warrior’s, but their impact stalled Maire’s men in their tracks. When all eyes were upon the druid, he explained. “He is a man of his word and of a noble god. Leave him to make ready for the journey ahead.”
The young buck called Declan fell reluctantly aside. Rowan gave Brude an appreciative look and rushed into the villa with his charge. His mother’s maidservant wailed in his wake. A glimpse at his mother’s pallor assailed his conscience. Of all who watched the contest, it was only Lady Delwyn who had an inkling of the real battle he fought, for it was she who’d nursed him through the fevers. It was she who shook him from the battlefield, where he wretched at the sight of the dying barbarian female, desperately clutching at the unborn babe his sword had slashed from her swollen belly. Only his mother knew the horrible deed that had robbed Rowan of his will to ever lift a sword again.
He’d been so intent on the contest between him and his smug bride-to-be that he’d unintentionally dealt his gentle mother a terrible blow with his announcement. God had been with him. He hadn’t had to kill Maire of Gleannmara. In his defeat, he’d triumphed, and the victory impaired his good sense.
His mother stirred as he laid her on the high-back couch in the hall and clutched weakly at her chest. “Tell me it isn’t so, son! How can you consider marrying that painted heathen?”
“Mother, I prayed for God to show me His will and save our people from harm. It appears this is the manner in which He chose to answer.”
“I cannot believe God would have you marry a heathen. And what will we do without you?”
Rowan helped her as she sat up, her strength returning. Her hand trembled as he released it. Marriage certainly hadn’t been Rowan’s intent at the outset. All he’d hoped for was to save his people from plunder, and then Gleannmara had been mentioned. He could barely explain himself what had happened. But had any of God’s chosen ever understood why the Lord’s answer to a prayer was not exactly as anticipated?
No, this was no accidental turn of events. Of that Rowan was certain.
“Mother, Dafydd knows more about running this estate than I. Under his management, we should more than be able to pay the tribute I promised Maire, if she should win. And once word is spread that Emrys is under her clan’s protection, you need fear no more Scotti raids. I didn’t have to kill her. God spared me.”
“Maire, is it?”
The glaze of worry in his mother’s pale gray eyes sharpened. Rowan wondered if she saw more than he’d admitted, even to himself. How could he explain that he somehow knew this female? He’d seen her night upon night and again just this morning. At least he thought it was the Scotti queen. Could such a comely creature as had so often visited his dreams lie beneath the Scot’s paint and spattered blood? Did the filth of battle disguise her flawless complexion? Were her stiffened and lime-whitened tresses truly silken and fire-kissed?
“Aye, Mother. Maire of Gleannmara.” Rowan emphasized the name of the tuath from which he’d been sold long ago.
Recognition registered on her face. With it came a quiver of resignation.
“Oh, I see.”
From time to time, Rowan had spoken to his mother about returning to his place of birth and hinted at going as a cleric. It seemed the most logical way for him to do this, now that iron had become his servant as a plow not his master as a weapon. He’d met scholars from Ireland who’d come to Emrys to study. And he’d heard the call.
Rowan often dreamt that Glasdam was searching for him. He and Rowan had been close. But with Demetrius’s failing health, Rowan hadn’t pushed the issue of leaving Emrys. He’d not wished to cause Lady Delwyn more concern than she already bore.
“Will you seek your brother for revenge?” That was his mother. Straight to the point, often able to see more about Rowan than he knew himself.
“Would God have opened this door for me if that were my purpose?”
His mother’s touch was gentle on his arm. “It will break your father’s heart.”
Rowan was struck, not for the first time, with the ironic reversal of his and his father’s roles. Since the day Demetrius had carried Rowan into the chapel to pray for his recovery, the son had watched his father’s physical strength wane, while his spiritual strength grew. Demetrius had known this day was coming. It had to, for Rowan to be completely healed of his past.
“He and I have discussed this matter many times. He will understand, as I know you will when God speaks to your heart.”
“Rowan, your side!”
At his mother’s exclamation, he looked down, suddenly distracted by the large stain of blood now clotted where the amulet had deflected the warrioress’s near-fatal blow. With the speed of a magician’s hand, Lady Delwyn snatched an embroidered scarf from the table at the end of the couch and handed it to him without thought to the hours of eye-wearying stitching she’d invested in it.
“’Tis nothing but a scratch.”
Rowan tested the gash of flesh before pressing the linen over it. It was nearly sealed with dirt. Even as his momentum carried him onto Maire’s upthrust blade, he’d twisted mightily. It had seemed to take forever to complete the fall. He’d had time to call out to God, his silent prayer blending with his mother’s heart-wrenched cry for mercy. The answer came with the telltale collision of his amulet against the upward momentum of the steel. He’d barely felt the rip of his side as the deflected metal cut into him.
“It looks worse than it is,” he reassured her. He planted a light kiss upon her forehead to soothe the dismay gathered there in soft furrows.
“Emrys, while this sight of a warrior and his maithre is sweet as a robin’s trill, we’ve no time for long goodbyes.” Maire strode boldly into the room, as though she were mistress of the house, and squared off before him. “We’d best be to the ship and away before morning. We’ve much to do.”
In truth, she hated to interrupt this tender moment between mother and son. Such exchanges had been rare in her orphaned life. But only fools would remain long enough for the countryside to gather an army against them. Brude had already started back for the ship to prepare for a sacrifice to the gods, but not before cautioning her to take no more time than was needed to gather the prizes. Besides, how could she resist the opportunity to raise the color in her adversary’s face? It was only fair turnabout after the embarrassing kiss with which he’d staggered her.
Rowan straightened and turned. If he was annoyed, he didn’t show it.
“I will speak to my people and tell them to cooperate with yours in regard to fulfilling the details of our arrangement. We’ll be wed by the priest at the village on our way to the ship.”
“We’ll be wed by Brude,” Maire corre
cted. She would not ask the robed men of the church she’d just plundered to marry them. Why give them the chance to curse this union? Better that her mother’s gods, who had given her victory, bless it instead.
Rowan exchanged a glance with his mother. He hesitated, a considering look on his face, and then he nodded. “Have it your way, little queen.”
A fight won too easily was not necessarily over, Maire thought, wary as Rowan reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips.
“I will council with my people and then gather my things.” With an exaggerated sweep of his arm, he bowed. “My house is yours, little queen. Mother, I leave her to your hospitality.”
“God’s will be done.” So saying, she adapted, despite her earlier distress, to the role of hostess with the quiet grace it demanded. “You may call me Lady Delwyn, Queen Maire. May we serve you food and drink? Or would you prefer a bath first?”
“A bath?” Maire echoed in surprise.
After assigning the task of gathering the first portion of the tribute to Eochan and Declan, Maire had searched for Rowan inside the curious lodge, expecting to find the woman pleading with him to change his mind. While that had been his mother’s first reaction, she’d apparently acquiesced to his will, or the will of their god. Her noble serenity bespoke a quiet strength and courage equal to that of any warrior. Lady Delwyn was, after all, losing her son as a hostage to an enemy. Even as she stood there, Maire had seen the struggle between dismay and acceptance wage war on her hostess’s face; the latter emerging victorious at the mention of her god’s will.
Had this god spoken to the woman just then? Maire had heard nothing. Odd that a god would instruct his people so, rather than having learned scholars such as Brude interpret his will for them. Perhaps he was more of a commoner’s god—although this family was far from common. Everything about them was refined, from habitat to manner.
“The bath is an old one, but my husband had artisans from Rome restore it, as he did with the rest of the house. Have you ever seen such beautiful wall paintings?”
“We have our own talented artisans,” Maire informed her, determined to let her companion know the Scotti were not totally without talent and taste. Still, she had seen nothing to compare with the elegance of this strange house. “But I would see the other rooms,” she added, striking her tone with authority to remind the woman that she—the painted heathen, as the woman had called her earlier—was in charge at the moment.
Instead of living in separate huts within the compound, the members of Rowan’s family and their servants lived in apartments joined together in a large square around a garden. However, this was not a garden cultivated for food. Beauty was its only purpose. In its center was a fountain with a statue of a comely maiden pouring water from an urn into its base. These people had managed to bring the colors of a spring meadow and the babble of a brook into their home.
A pillared and covered colonnade that connected surrounding rooms or apartments formed the perimeter. In place of familiar packed dirt floors covered with fresh straw, there were tiled ones of slate and mosaic laid in beautiful designs. In one apartment, the Chi-Rho of Rowan’s amulet was inlaid in the floor with blues, reds, yellows, and greens.
While the villa’s hall and dining room were the most elaborately decorated of the rooms, the others were grander than any Gleannmara boasted. Their furnishings were rich—engraved trunks, folding stools, and tables of intricate mechanical design on brass legs—all were fascinating to a girl who’d never been beyond the great eastern sea before. Surely, not even the Sidhe of the other world enjoyed finer surroundings.
Rowan reappeared as Lady Delwyn was showing Maire the master bedroom. In his arms, cradled like a babe, was a frail man of large frame. No doubt the elder had been a sizeable warrior in his own day, before the forces of time had worn and withered what had once been a well-formed torso. Now, like an ancient ruin, fleshy remains clung to the once sturdy frame that had supported it.
As Lady Delwyn’s son deposited the elder man on the bed, she flew to the invalid’s side and kissed him tenderly upon the forehead.
“God works among us in strange ways, beloved. Would that I understood them better.”
“All that is necessary is faith.”
“A seizure left my father unable to move his legs,” Rowan explained, causing Maire to break her gaze away from the couple. Instead she studied the vibrant blues and pinks of the room’s painted panels, which were artfully displayed over a stippled dado base of the same colors.
The renegade skim of emotion that had touched her when watching mother and son resurfaced at the sight of the devotion between husband and wife. Maire vaguely recalled the same between her parents and envied that still evident between her foster parents. Would she ever know such love? A discreet glance at the somber Rowan ap Emrys was not encouraging.
The man on the finely dressed bed studied Maire as his wife tucked a pillow behind his balding head to raise him. Like his son, his jaw was scraped clean of hair. A thin white line on one sunken cheek proclaimed the survival of one near brush with death’s blade. No doubt there were other such banners of valor, shrinking away with his age.
“I am Demetrius, Queen Maire, but you needn’t feel sadness for me. God has seen fit to turn my sickness into a blessing. He has seen fit to send an able and loving son to do what I cannot. And I have faith that Rowan’s leaving, too, shall lead to good. You seem a maid with a heart as tender as her sword is skilled.”
For all his failings, the man had eyes like a hawk’s, Maire thought grudgingly. No one ever saw her cry. No one! Not since she’d been told of her mother’s death.
“Your mother Maeve would be proud.”
“You know of Maeve?” Now here indeed was a surprise.
“Your bard’s voice carried to the chapel room when the shouting hushed at the climax of the contest. My son says you were a worthy opponent.”
“I bested him.” How could it occur to the old man that she was anything but? She shifted uncomfortably, recalling that, but for the shock of her proposal, the Welshman had gained the upper hand. Regardless, when all was said and done, she was triumphant.
Maire wiped her cheek against her arm, smearing the blueing. It only made her more aware of the contrast of her filthy state to that of the villa and its inhabitants. By now, it had formed a paste with sweat, dirt, and dried blood—the fisherman’s at the village, hers, and that of Rowan ap Emrys. The skirt of her saffron tunic was stained dark from her final blow against him. Part of her wanted to wear the leine as a badge of hard-earned victory, while another longed to accept Lady Delwyn’s offer of a bath to be rid of it. She wondered how Maeve had dealt with the plague of such womanly notions.
“Our men have gone to collect the choicest of our herds while the servants pack my trunk. Is there anything you see in the house that you would have as a bride’s gift?”
Rowan’s question snatched her from her whimsy. The house. That’s what Maire wanted to answer, but that was impossible. What a palace it was!
Her gaze flickered over the luxurious bed with its thick mattress and exquisite coverlets. Claw feet of bronze supported it, curving up on each corner to support the head of a lion. No, she couldn’t bring herself to oust an invalid from it. Not when there was one just as royal in another apartment, one so long and wide that she could easily stretch out with arms over her head, or to her side, and not touch the edge of the plush mattress. It was a far cry from the narrow carved bed box she used with its cushion of leaves and needles.
“The bed in the westernmost apartment and all its trappings,” she decided, giving in to her fancy. She’d earned it, well enough, and woe be to the man who dared taunt her over the frivolous nature of her choice.
“Take it as our gift to our son’s bride,” the man on the bed told her.
“I gratefully accept, sir.”
Maire could hear her brothers’ protests now—their ship was barely large enough to hold a few prize livestock and the clan�
��s plunder—but she’d silence them quick enough. She’d come as a sister in arms, but she returned as their queen.
“An excellent choice,” Rowan seconded his father with enthusiasm. “It was made to accommodate my height, but there’s room for us both.”
Maire swallowed a startled gasp. She wondered if the battle paint had worn away enough to reveal the scarlet tide she felt burning her scalp. Crom take the man, he was a veritable mockingbird of thinly veiled affront to her, his conqueror and the queen of Gleannmara!
“Aye, that it would—” she rallied, adding with a slashing look—“should I decide to share it with you.”
He let the challenge slide with a goading smile of satisfaction. One would think he’d won the day, not she. The daftness that led him to give away the battle was his weakness, not hers.
“Meanwhile, in the time it takes for our men to round up your tribute, I intend to rid myself of this battle grime and change into something suited to the voyage ahead. Would you care to join me, little queen?”
“And give you the chance to drown me? I think not.” What an absurd idea. The man was crazy as a swineherd to think she’d wallow in the same water as he.
“Never let it be said that I was ungallant to my future bride. I would willingly leave the heated bath for you and use the frigidarium instead.”
“No.” Maire gave no hint that she had no idea what a frigidarium was.
“Ah, I should have guessed your kind had an aversion to cleanliness. Do you know what a bath is?”
Maire’s temper bristled. Her kind? Her clansmen might be more barbaric than his farmers, but by the gods, they were not unclean, not as long as the gods provided nature’s own bathing pools. Some were even heated and blessed with healing powers, which was more than this man-made bath could boast.
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