And the shy blush that overtook her face when she caught him watching her was a contrary mix of innocence and seduction at the same time. The discipline of life in the army and his godly studies were of no avail to him against this woman. He’d had to show his love and desire for her once more before they left the intimacy of their lodge for the day.
“I don’t think the oxen are takin’ kindly to that new blade of yours,” Maire said, pointing to where six men wrestled with a team to work up the freshly cleared ground.
“It digs deeper, that’s for certain.”
And who’d have ever thought leather and armor could be so fetching? Not that a piece of sackcloth wouldn’t look queenly on Maire. From now on, he’d see her clothed in the finest, and he’d fill the void of love and feminine attention that being raised as a warrior queen had denied her. Rowan tried to focus on the men struggling ahead of them.
“Let the oxen pull the blade,” he shouted to the cursing men. “All you need do is hold it down. Work with them, not against them.”
“Talk to the beasties, not us,” Dathal Muirdach answered.
Dathal’s brother swore. “We’ll count it well to get this field worked and planted before the summer fair at Drumkilly!”
“Faith, good friend,” Rowan called back to the man. “Do you fell a tree with one blow or many little ones?” He slid off Shahar’s back and started toward them. “Let me see what I can do. Just remember, we need to cut it away a little at a time, not all at once.”
A little at a time. Just as he’d fallen in love with Maire, without ever realizing it. Just like the Cairthan and Niall were growing accustomed to each other. Just like God revealed His plan for Gleannmara.
The days grew warmer and the nights sweeter. Spring settled in the air and the sun coaxed the seedlings to peek out of the warmed worked earth. Everywhere Maire looked, the reward for their hard work began to show—a little at a time. For most of Gleannmara’s keep, each day began with prayer and a hymn dedicated to the one God, although some still sang the sun song. Each night ended with thanksgiving. There was so much work to do, so much love to share.
And when the fair opened at Drumkilly with the lighting of the fires, it was Father Tomás who performed the rite with Brude at his side. Each in turn lit the two giant piles of wood with a prayer.
“Praise the one God who created the sun and lives in the Heavens. May He in all His limitless grace and mercy bless these fires and all who pass through them, as a symbol of the cleansing power of the blood shed for us by His only Son, Jesus Christ. May all evil, all sickness, and all iniquity perish in these flames, so that only that which is pure and worthy of His holy name remain.”
Maire was not the only one at the gathering who thought it strange to suddenly abandon the dedication of the fires to Bel, the sun god. The Celts believed change was good, but it didn’t mean they were always at ease with it. She couldn’t help but think Bel’s name was being echoed here and there, particularly among the other clans. But tolerance would be the order of the day. The laws regarding the fairs forbade anything less.
An entire set of laws was set aside specifically for the hosts of the fair, the attendees, as well as the performers and merchants—which was another reason why the queen of Gleannmara was pleased not to be the host. She hated being tied to rules. Besides, the tuath was not quite prepared for such a venture. It took all the combined effort of her people to get in the late clearing and planting. For all his skill as a warrior, Rowan was as equal to the tasks of farming too.
And of being a husband. It was a joy to submit to him, especially when she knew she’d pushed too far and he turned red with restraint, rather than give way to his temper. She learned so much from him about life—and more about love.
“Just look at the sea of goods!” Ciara remarked at her side as they wandered in and out of the stalls on the hill set aside for the markets.
Maire reluctantly withdrew her attention from another rise, where the men, stripped to the waist, practiced to represent Gleannmara in the games. In their midst, Rowan coached Garret on how to get the most distance with a javelin, while Declan and the Muirdach limbered up their throwing arms swinging heavy hammers.
“You know, you’d look lovely in that deep saffron.”
“Aye, it’s lovely enough, I suppose.”
“We could make it for you, milady,” Elsbeth joined in. “Now that you’re a queen, ’tis only fitting you have a wardrobe worthy of your title. After all, it’s the king’s orders.”
With one last longing look at the men’s boisterous company, Maire fingered the material her mother-in-law held up. “Aye, it is pretty enough.”
Of course Rowan would want a feminine looking wife, and Maire wanted to be one—some of the time. But the men’s competitions were so much more interesting than this tedious shopping or those games set aside for the womenfolk. Footraces, chases, or tapping a ball around with a club were hardly pulse-pounding pursuits. At least she’d kept her hand in the spear and riding competition with a few of the other females who’d trained to fight rather than run a keep.
“Oh, this burnt umber velvet is exquisite!” Elsbeth picked up a bolt and held it up against Maire’s chest.
The sharp knock of her knuckles against the hard form of Maire’s breastplate, hidden beneath the dress Delwyn of Emrys had given her, startled her. Maire blushed as the ladies surrounding her broke into laughter, lead by Rowan’s own mother.
“Just because there’s a law against fighting, doesn’t mean a woman shouldn’t be prepared,” Maire said hotly.
And it was hot. Her leine, her breastplate, full armor, and the heavy linen gown with its braid and embroidery were about to render her like a fire did fat, but there was no way she could ride in her wedding dress and launch a spear with any hope of accuracy.
“And just the feel of that heavy velvet is enough make me drop from heat.”
“But ’twill feel good this winter, Maire,” Ciara reminded her gently. “We’re to purchase enough material for your wardrobe and it must consist of both heavy and light fabric—”
“And all royal,” Elsbeth chimed in. “Our queen will be the prettiest and best dressed in all of Erin, or I don’t know which end of a needle is sharp.”
Sure, she’d rather prepare for battle than set up a household. The dry goods and utensils of Gleannmara’s hall and kitchens had been poorly kept. The list Ciara and Elsbeth compiled would take the whole three days of the fair to fill at this rate. Wishing she’d listened more to her foster mother Maida, Maire squared her chin and braced for action.
“All right then, let’s get this done. I’ve a mind to practice on Tamar before the afternoon games,” she said, cutting off any protest in the making amid the cluster of women. “Ciara, I’m giving you command of my wardrobe. Take Lianna with you and purchase as you please.”
“But don’t you want to see—”
“I trust in your judgment. And Elsbeth…” Maire turned toward the plump matron. “Fill the list of things needed for the hall and take care to pay a fair price.” She handed the woman a coin pouch. “Get only what we must have. We’ll have more to spend after the harvest.”
Elsbeth sputtered. “B… but shouldn’t you approve everything?”
“I’m a queen, not a steward. Brona?”
The dark-haired girl stepped out of the entourage expectantly. “Aye, milady.”
“Replenish what herbs and roots we need for the sick. Medwyn, supervise the cooks’ purchases.”
“I’ll let them buy nothing that can be grown in our own soil.”
Maire nodded in approval at her captains. Perhaps running a household wasn’t so different than planning a battle after all. “If any of you have a problem, I’ll be with the horses.” A wistful smile settle on her lips. “Or with my king.”
Riding Tamar was like riding the wind, Maire thought later as she raced the magnificent warhorse toward the target. If one was in concert with it, it contributed to the speed a
nd ease of the journey. Out of sync, it became a fight that slowed and exhausted the rider.
With nimble fingers, Maire turned the smooth lance in her hand and tightened her grip as the mare approached the bale of hay with its painted canvas cover. One, two, three!
Maire launched the spear, sending it straight to the center. As the audience erupted in huzzahs and whistles, she raised both fists over her head in triumph. Guiding the horse out of the small roped off arena with her knees, she beamed at the tall, dark-haired king of Gleannmara.
Time was, it was Brude’s approval she sought, or Erc’s, but no more. Maire wanted to please Rowan and his God.
“She rides as if on air, rather than earth,” Maire called to him. She’d shed her dress for the competition, and the shock on his face alone had been worth suffering in the heat of the excess clothing. Although, if Rowan’s look was any more stirring, she’d swoon like a sun-sick maid.
“So do you.” He reached up to help Maire down from the mare, teasing, “I’m hard pressed to decide which of you is more magnificent.”
“I’ll keep that in mind tonight, when ye come snugglin’ up to me, whisperin’ sweetlings in my ear.”
The chief of the Murragh rode into the arena on a shaggy steed, his brat beneath him for a blanket and his hairy chest damp with dust and sweat. Earlier, he and his clan had competed heartily in a game of football that left members of both teams bleeding and bandaged. The Murragh’s knee was wrapped tight from a fray of kicking and tumbling just before the end of the game, but the clan emerged victorious.
Balancing the spear in his right arm, the clan chief kneed the wiry horse forward. It responded with a lunge that might have unseated a lesser skilled rider, but the Murragh leaned into ride, poised and ready. When the time was right, he threw the weapon. The crack of Maire’s spear announced the dead-on hit, and the crowd went wild. With a wide grin belaying his nod of deference to the queen of Gleannmara, he trotted out of the arena.
“Looks like Gleannmara will have to ride again,” Rowan observed, tongue in cheek.
Her eyes dancing, Maire met his mischief with her own. “And ride I will!”
She broke into a short run and vaulted up on Tamar’s back, light as a feather. “Declan,” she shouted playfully, “do ye think ye might tear yourself away from Lianna and the lasses long enough to hand me another spear?”
With a sweeping bow, her foster brother complied. “At my queen’s command, though ye’ve met your match in Murragh. He rides as though he was fathered by a horse.”
“Then I’ll have to ride better, won’t I?”
“Show this dolt what a woman can do when she puts her mind to it, milady,” Lianna called out to her.
Maire wondered where Brona had gotten to, for it was the darker lass she thought had won Declan’s fancy, not Lianna. After a quick visual search of the crowd, Maire spied the other girl watching not far from where they stood. Like a shadow, not in the forefront, but always there… and always watching.
Was she jealous? Maire wondered. It was as easy to read druid Ogham marks as it was Brona’s face. Try as she might, Maire could no more warm to the girl than she could a cromlech.
Oblivious to all but the adoring attention of Lianna, Declan leaned, whispering wickedly into the young woman’s ear. Suddenly she slapped at him halfheartedly, drawing Maire’s full attention.
“That’s not the kind of ridin’ I was referrin’ to, ye randy cur!”
What could Maire say? It was spring. For the first time in her life, she understood the wry humor behind the excuse men and women gave for their foolraide. With a bold wink at Rowan, she rode Tamar back into the arena. To accustom the mare to the boundaries, she made a circle, well aware that Tamar paraded her mane and tail like banners of pride.
And well she had a right too, for back at the makeshift stable her four-week-old foal slept in a pile of fresh straw. Rowan had been offered a king’s ransom for it, but little Sidhe was not for sale. Shahar’s services, however, promised to more than replenish the coin in Gleannmara’s coffers.
“One more ride, darlin’, and it’s back to your baby,” Maire promised, bringing the horse up at the opposite end of the arena from the new target some men had just put in place.
At the slightest pressure of her knees, Tamar leapt forward with the grace of a deer. Two strides later, Maire vaulted to her feet, standing on the horse’s back. A spontaneous mix of shouts and applause rose around the arena, but neither horse nor rider flinched. Two more contacts with the whispering earth and she posed, spear raised, and counted off the number of lopes until its release. Four, three, two, one, hurl!
Straight into the center of the target it went. The roar of approval shook the banners flying from the various clan campsites. There wouldn’t be a bird left within a day’s riding distance, Maire thought, deafened and delighted at the same time. As Tamar trotted out of the arena, she leapt into Rowan’s waiting arms.
“Don’t drop me!” she laughed, as his knees buckled with the impact of her weight.
“Have I ever let you down yet, muirnait?” He kissed her lightly.
Maire returned the affection as fiercely as she’d competed, drawing it out till need of breath would permit no more. She scarcely noted the Murragh Chief take off his hat and swing it in her direction, conceding the contest, nor did she pay heed to the horns announcing her triumph. Her eyes and ears were for the man who made her feel as though there was no higher purpose in life than love.
“Nay, beloved, never.”
That night, when couples wandered from the music and stories abounding at the campfires of the gathered clans, Maire and Rowan were among them. It was spring and the sky was a star-studded blanket of midnight blue over a bed of new grass. No longer were they king and queen of Gleannmara, but God’s children, laughing and playing, free of inhibition and sharing as one their passion and love, their dreams and plans.
“By the stars, Emrys, if that thing chills me one more time, I’ll strangle ye with it!” Maire took Rowan’s amulet and slinging it over his back once more. “’Tis like trying to warm up to body with a cold stone between us!”
“Then by all means, little queen, I’ll take it off.” In one sweep, he removed the amulet and tossed it over his shoulder, then pulled Maire against his chest.
Heartbeat to heartbeat, Maire caught her breath and struggled in the sweet, warm mire of his embrace. “But isn’t that like throwin’ away your God?”
“Ah, Maire, how I love telling you of God’s ways and sharing in His love.” Rowan buried his face in the curve of her neck, nuzzling like a hungry colt.
Concentration on whatever wisdom he was about to impart was all but impossible.
“God is not in that metal disc or in things of this earth, muirnait. He lives within our souls.” He pulled away suddenly. “Do you understand?”
This God made the metal, but He wasn’t in it. He made man and woman, but He was in them. What chance did a mere queen ever have of knowing all about Him, when even Brude, a learned druid, was now a student? Maire would never understand it all, but she was in no humor for a lecture. She chose her words carefully.
“Understanding or nay, I believe what ye say.”
“If I didn’t know your heart, Maire of Gleannmara, I’d think you a wicked woman.”
The light of the moon played upon the toe-curling look Rowan gave her. He knew she was evading the issue, but he was no more in the notion for a sermon than she. His longing gaze betrayed him.
Maire ventured a coy smile. “If it’s wicked to love my husband, then, aye, I’m as wicked as they come.”
The rakish tilt of her companion’s mouth faded, and Maire’s pulse skipped and sank. Had she said something wrong? Sure, it was in keeping with the very vows of her Christian marriage, wasn’t it?
Rowan seized her by the arms, gentle, but no less firm. His voice cracked with the fierceness of his emotion. “Then believe this, muirnait. I will let nothing of this earth come between us.”
With that, he took her into his arms and kissed her, sealing his vow with an urgency that was as delightful as it was infectious.
In the distance a night bird sang a lullaby to its young, but Maire paid it no heed. She was listening, instead, to the singing of her heart.
TWENTY-FOUR
Maire guided Tamar around the bountiful fields spreading out from the rath. Nearby Tamar’s colt frolicked, kicking up its heels, running ahead and then back at the mare’s sharp whinny. Little yellow ducklings scrambled after their mother in the pond where the framework of a mill had been started.
Rowan met a miller at the fair, who’d lost his place to fire. With no funds or manpower to rebuild, the man gladly agreed to move to Gleannmara, where all pitched in toward the building of the structure to serve the tuath.
Now that more land had been cleared with tillable soil to provide a good harvest for Cairthan and Niall, a mill nearby would be needed. The hard work made the blending of the two clans go more smoothly, for at the day’s end, the men and women were too tired to quarrel. If only Rowan were there to warm her nights, life would be perfect.
Instead, at the onset of lambing season, he’d returned to the tuath’s highlands to mediate peace after Eochan had come with the news of trouble. Since watching the cattle did not require as much energy as the fieldwork and building, the king had work in mind that would take the quarrel out of the two peoples. She imagined by now the men were putting up makeshift fences across natural enclosures. to keep the beasts from wandering, as well as from being easy prey for wolves of animal and human nature. It would also take some time to improve on the lodgings or lack of them.
Maire had no doubt that it was duty alone that took him from her, for he demonstrated his reluctance to leave over and over in the most agreeable of ways. Indeed, marriage agreed with her. Had she known how well, she’d have been more eager for it. Speaking to God, however, was more difficult.
It wasn’t voicing her thoughts that plagued Maire, but the fact that this God didn’t talk back like a person. He revealed His presence and will through all manner of things, which left Maire at wit’s end to figure what was normal and what wasn’t. Overhead the trees at the edge of the Sacred Grove rustled with the breeze, calming as a lullaby. Was that God singing to her? She wished Rowan or Brude were here to ask.
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