“’Tis none of your concern how many blankets I like, much less whose. It’s no one’s business for that matter.”
“It is when you’re a queen, Maire.”
“I’m thinking bein’ a queen is a worrisome task.”
Did it plague her mother as much as it dogged her? Husbands, druids, and now this God threesome…the Trinity, her tutor called it.
The music ended momentarily, giving the multitude of conversations going on at the same time the entire share of the company’s hearing. As Maire and Declan walked out of the center of dancers, bits and pieces of this subject and that snagged her attention. Some women discussed the Welsh embroidery on her dress. A couple of servants fretted over keeping the platters on the guests’ tables filled. But it was a loud disclaimer near the high king’s table that abruptly shushed them all.
“I tell you, druid, I cast no spell!” Brude’s strong voice rose in annoyance from the cluster of scholars next to the head table. “I came apart from the queen and her company, traveling with Father Tomás from his sanctuary at Glenloch.”
From the table of the high king, Morlach conjured a look of innocence. His voice carried past two of the fires lit to take the night’s heralding chill out of the banqueting hall. “Good Brude, I only said that Gleannmara’s company, who arrived at almost the same time as my guards from Rathcoe, had to have passed the captain and his men on the road under the invisible cloak of a spell, or they’d been shape-shifted into a herd of deer.”
“Faith, we traveled neither invisible, nor silent…and certainly not as deer.” Rowan laughed. “This close to Tara, our carcasses would be hanging over these fires, were that the case.”
“Are you sure you saw a herd of deer, Culhain?” Diarhmott questioned, turning to a nearby table where Rathcoes’ guards sank deep into the cups with merriment.
“Aye, thirty or more in number,” the man at the head assured the ruler. “The same number as Gleannmara’s company.”
“And were they by chance singing, man?” Rowan asked, tongue in cheek.
Culhain scowled and scratched his head thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, they was makin’ some kind of fuss, unnatural-like.” He soothed his ending shudder with a big gulp of beer and belched loudly.
“But I heard Diarhmott’s best hunters report that there are no deer within two days travel of Tara,” Morlach pointed out. The nobles gathered closer to the king’s table. All issued remarks or nods of assent, showing the druid was not the only one aware of the anomaly.
The lead musician counted off a beat, but stopped at Rowan’s challenge. “Besides, why were your men looking for Gleannmara’s company? I was not aware that Gleannmara and Rathcoe were given to sharing a hearth or campfire willingly.”
Morlach, clad ever in black, narrowed his eyes, which were colder and darker than the charred wood of last night’s fire. Yet his answer was guileless as a babe’s cackle. “It’s just that Culhain traveled along the same route and arrived shortly after you, but not once did anyone catch a glimpse of Gleannmara’s colors, much less of you and your company. It appears the work of magic.”
“Aye.” Cromthal, who until now had cowered behind Morlach, spoke up. “All we saw was a herd of deer passing, nigh the same number as your party.”
“Ye sure they wasn’t goats or sheep?” one of the king’s royal hunters teased from the next fire over.
“No, they were deer, I say!”
“Perhaps they sang the Song of Patrick.”
The new voice joining the conversation belonged to Diarhmott’s wife. She walked up to the high king’s table, and Maire took in the turkey-leg-sized gold and jeweled cross hanging about her neck. Diarhmott stood and motioned for her take the empty seat next to his.
“My apologies, dearest king,” she said, “but I fear the ladies lulled me away from you longer than I intended.” Once seated, the queen snapped her fingers at the harpist, who in turn struck a chord. “Indulge me, Diarhmott, and hear the Song of the Deer.”
“As you wish.” He nodded to the musician to proceed.
With dancing ended for the moment, the dancers wandered to their respective tables in quiet deference to the clear voice of the bard. Declan and Maire joined Rowan’s small group, standing between the royal and academic tables, rather than cause further disturbance by crossing to their own seats.
The time was that of High King Logaire; the place, the road to Tara. The king’s prophets warned Logaire that the approaching Patrick, the late bishop of Armagh, and his clergy meant an end to pagan Ireland, to the druids themselves. Thus, men were sent to attack the robed saints before they reached Tara’s high hill, to thwart the prophecy.
The ambushers waited in the thick wood by the road day and night, but never once saw Patrick and his followers until they heard the news that the priest had already arrived at Tara and gained audience with Logaire. At Patrick’s encouragement, his men chanted the song of the deer, giving voice and praise to God as they’d passed their unseen enemies. In return, God made them appear as a herd of passing deer.
At the pluck of the last chord, only the crackling of the cook fires and the creaking of benches beneath the shifting weight of the seated guests filled the air. Maire started at the lilting words from Gleannmara’s druid.
“Perhaps if the one God saw men waiting in ambush for Gleannmara’s party,” Brude theorized aloud, “He gave them the same cover as His clerics.”
“Utter foolraide,” Morlach grumbled. ’Twas not the work of any god, but druid magic.” He rose to his feet and shook his fist at Brude. “Fool all the people you will, Brude, I know what I know.”
“As do I, druid. As do I.”
“Then you know well that this is not the end of Gleannmara’s story.” Morlach turned a seething look on Rowan, so sinister that Maire, standing at his side, felt her skin crawling with dread.
“Cromthal!” Morlach shouted without looking at his servant.
Maire followed the master druid and his shadow with her gaze. Even after they left the room, an unsettling darkness, invisible to the naked eye, lingered in their wake, freezing tongue and limb alike.
Diarhmott waved his hand at the musicians. They struck their strings again with a lively tune that would not leave the feet of any Celt still. Here and there conversations ensued. Those inclined to dance skipped their way to the spot set aside for it. Soon, music, the stomp of the dancers, and words blended in resumed merriment.
Rowan caught Maire’s arm, and her pulse stumbled, then doubled its rate. It was early yet, but not for a newlywed couple. Tonight they would share the carved box bed in the guest room in Temair. It wasn’t nearly as large as the Roman one. She and her husband would surely touch and, if that were to happen, Maire wasn’t certain what she’d do. Part of her longed for it; another dreaded it. Ach, there were too many voices she didn’t know living in her head these days. It was a wonder she was sound of mind enough to present herself.
“If it please Diarhmott, I would like to retire with my bride for the evening.”
“You’re not feeling well?” Finnead inquired.
Maire looked at the king’s druid curiously. Now why was he concerned with Rowan’s health, unless the cur had reason to expect something amiss. He and Morlach were thick as fleas on the same dog. Alarm put her thoughts to a race—but Rowan had prayed over their food, asking his God to bless it. If it were poisoned—
“Are you ill?” she asked suddenly.
Rowan glanced down at her and smiled. “Only if wishing to retire early with my lovely bride is considered a sickness.”
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her full on the mouth. Now it was she who felt sick. Except she couldn’t exactly call this sickness. It wasn’t unpleasant, but rather agreeably unsettling, rendering her senses all atwitter.
The paradoxical malady only worsened as they bid their host and company good night and retreated to the room in the stone tower. A fire burned on a small hearth vented diagonally through the wall
. It made the confine cozy, as well as smaller. After the feast and dancing, not to mention her husband’s toe-curling kiss, Maire hardly needed heat or confinement.
Rowan took some of the wood left by Diarhmott’s servants and tossed it on the fiery coals, sending an explosion of sparks toward the hole in the wall above. Pretending to be caught in a preoccupation of her own, Maire spotted a flagon of wine on a small table near the bed. She removed her cup from the belt at her waist and helped herself. It was sweet, and, like that she’d consumed earlier, soothed her rawly hewn nerves no better than spring water.
Still wearing his robe, her husband knelt down beside the bed for his nightly prayer.
“Wait. I’ll pray with you. It works wonderfully well for sleep, don’t you think?”
A lifted eyebrow was her only answer as Maire hurriedly took her place beside him.
“If you say the words aloud, like Father Tomás, I can just vouch for them until I can do them on my own.” Maire blushed beneath his measuring stare. Folding her hands, she bowed her head, as unsettled as sparks flying every which way up the fire vent.
In the flickering firelight, gowned in her embroidered dress and kneeling prayerfully, Rowan thought Maire looked like an angel. A serenity and innocence pervaded her face. Her features were as perfect as the imported statue of Mary in the chapel at Emrys, except that his bride had a smaller, more delicate nose, slightly turned up at the end as if to betray a mischievous nature. Her dark lashes lay like feathered fans upon the rosiness of her cheeks. Her lips were pursed in reverence.
Yet, the Italian marble statue never stirred Rowan like this. Maire’s pagan beauty in her garb of warrior queen was hard enough to resist, but this saintly apparition was impossible for the man in him to ignore.
Father, help me stay on the path of righteousness!
The annulment of their unconsummated marriage was the only way for him to continue his priestly studies. Rowan had to resist, not just for himself, but for Maire. He recalled her fear when she thought they would have to consummate their marriage on the ship. He had every intention of keeping his promise that theirs was to be a marriage in name only.
Next to him his companion opened one eye and slanted it toward him. A more beguiling look he’d never seen.
“Crom’s toes, it isn’t polite to keep the God waitin’, man. Startin’s a third of the work.”
Now both eyes stared at him. Till now, Rowan never thought of the color green as a warm one. It was fresh and wholesome, appealing to the eye, but not bone-warming as it was now in her eyes. Was it the firelight playing in them?
“Heavenly Father…”
Rowan’s mind went blank, as if the bat of Maire’s closing lashes blew all lucid thought away. He wanted to kiss her, but knew the desire building in him would only be whetted by it. Better he save his kisses for when they were in public and an audience would keep his baser nature in check. In public, he’d have no choice but to restrain himself. Of its own mind, his gaze dropped from her face down to where her breath swelled beneath the embroidered yoke of her gown, moving the daintily folded hands against it. He focused on the intricate gold pattern of the ring his father had given Ciara, the one he’d exchanged for that of Maire’s father, Rhian.
“Bless this marriage and the hands that prepared it…I mean, the mouth…the priest who married us and all those who participated—”
Rowan closed his eyes tightly, before temptation reduced him to total foolery. Voice raised as thought to halt his thoughts from skipping the way his heart was, he stumbled on.
“Give us the wisdom to rebuild Gleannmara, that we may give You the glory and…” Blankness. Nothing but utter blankness loomed for him to draw upon. Desperation spurred his thoughts.
Father, I know she looks at me as though I’ve taken leave of my senses. Faith, You must look at me in the same way, but lead me not into the valley of the shadow of temptation.
Rowan groaned inwardly. He couldn’t even think straight. Maire was his for the taking. He knew an attraction sparked between them, one he might use to seduce her body, if not her mind. But that was not his purpose here. The reassuring feel of the Chi-Rho amulet beneath his tightly clasped hands helped him concentrate on higher goals, reminding him of the true source of his strength.
“Father, let this union be Your instrument of peace for Gleannmara, that Cairthan and Niall may work together as one people. Protect us from Morlach and his dark practices, for Father, I know his powers come from the prince of darkness and not the Lord of light.”
Maire stirred beside him. “Who’s this prince of darkness?”
“Don’t interrupt.” Rowan needed no more distraction. If her body were not enough, that childlike faith blossoming within her was nearly irresistible. He wanted to love her all the way to salvation.
“And don’t forget sleep. He’s good at givin’ that.”
Her logic was as impeccable as her ability to distract him. Rowan squeezed his eyes tightly, pulling his heart back onto the road his head traveled with an angry jerk. “And Father, teach Maire when to hold that wagging tongue of hers.”
Rowan glared at her. He couldn’t help himself. Faith, she tested him mind, body, and soul. “And forgive her, for she knows not what she says.”
“In a pig’s eye, I don’t! It’s you blessin’ our weddin’ food, ye flea wit. Sure, this Holy Spirit is laughing His head off straightening that out, and the heavenly Father is rolling on His throne.”
Instead of shaking the fiery little twit, Rowan rose to his feet. “I can’t do this. I can’t pray with you interrupting and confusing me. You’re supposed to be reverent, not chattering like a magpie with two mouths.”
“And where do you think you’re going?”
“For a walk and to pray in peace and quiet as the good Lord intended.”
Rowan was halted in his tracks, not by word, but by a sudden fearful look that overtook Maire’s face. For all her bravado, she was truly afraid of something.
He frowned. “You’ve nothing to fear here at Tara. No one would dare harm you.”
She bit the quiver of her lower lip and leapt to her feet, but he saw through the paltry attempt to maintain her dignity. “No body of flesh and blood frightens me.”
“Then what does, Maire?”
The sight of her struggling for words calmed the last of whatever angry wind had filled his sails. Humiliation tingeing her features, she folded her arms as though chilled and turned to the fire. She stared at it a long while before speaking.
“I’ve never talked with this Spirit or God alone.” Her voice was as small as Rowan felt for his outburst. “And I can’t think that if I have a few questions about Him, that He’d think any less of me. He might move in here in an instant, but that doesn’t mean I know all about Him.” She held her fist against her chest, as if to stop the sob that escaped anyway. “And I’ve not heard Him say one how do ye do or pleased to be here. I think He’s left already. I don’t think He wants me any more than you do.”
Maire’s pain and confusion struck Rowan’s soul with the power of a blacksmith’s hammer. She didn’t understand. In truth, neither did he, at least not completely. That kind of knowledge started as a trickle and grew steadily till the soul was filled, and this side of heaven, they would never know all there was to understand.
He’d been where she was, a fledgling still wet from the egg. Remembering how his Christian family accepted him with open arms and patience when he’d deserved none, Rowan went to her. He hugged Maire close and brushed the top of her head with his lips. The scent of the bridal wreath filled his nostrils, as sweet and fragile as the feel of her in his arms.
“It isn’t always feeling, Maire, as much as it’s knowing. It’s a conviction that grows with our knowledge of God and His Word.”
He turned her to face him. Her eyes swam with unshed tears.
“And it’s the obligation of those who know to share it with others, not dismiss their questions or answer them in anger. I’m sorr
y for my impatience.”
He looked at the ceiling of rough, whitewashed plank in frustration. “Sometimes, when I’m with you, my tongue is tied in knots my teeth can’t undo. My weakness is what annoyed me, not you, little queen.”
Lifting her chin, he delved deeply into the pool of her eyes with his own. No longer did they speak man to woman, but as soul mate to soul mate. Here were new waters for Rowan. He prayed he wouldn’t drown.
“The night is young, anmchara. So ask away.”
TWENTY
Blood boiling like a witch’s brew with anger, Morlach watched the entourage from Gleannmara leave. The blue and the gold should belong to him, along with the pretty queen. For years he’d waited for her and her property, while Drumkilly brought her up and trained her instead of him. That task should have been his as well. It had been his intent when he’d set the plan into motion to orphan the child. But even that had failed when Diarhmott’s wife thought the family situation would be best, and put Maire into her foster family’s care.
The elder druid swore and swung away abruptly, nearly colliding with Cromthal. “The high king is becoming more and more like wind every day, powerful, but given to blow this way and that.” Shoving Cromthal aside, Morlach ducked into his tent. Nearby, an owl hooted from its roost in the House of Synod. Morlach needed no such pets as those his peers favored. He had humans to toy with and observe.
“Cromthal!”
At his angry bark, the servant scrambled inside. “Aye, my lord?”
“Rowan of Emrys was looking mightily well this morning, was he not?”
Cromthal shifted guiltily. “Aye, he did.”
And well he should. Morlach lowered his head, but his gaze burned from beneath his brow, intentionally intimidating. “He did not have the look to me of a man who ingested the poison you concocted and sprinkled on his food.”
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