Maire (16 page)

She’d almost made him believe
she
was Gleannmara, shape-shifted into the comely form of a woman. Well he could accept that Gleannmara’s spirit coursed through her veins like the running waters of its hills and vales. It was then that he knew for certain that it was the voice of this warrior queen that called him home rather than that of Glasdam, the trusted servant of his blood family whom Rowan thought he’d seen in the visions.

“The last time,” Maire vowed again, shaking him from his reverie with the fervor of her emotion.

“God willing,” he conceded, fighting a war of his own as he looked around the hills he’d roamed as a boy.

Little could the young woman know how much better it looked to him than the last time he’d seen it. There’d been no fosse or hill fort. Apparently, when Maire’s parents captured the best land on Gleannmara for themselves, they’d erected the fortified enclosure. When Clan Cairthan had occupied it, the cattle ran as free as those who herded it. In truth, then, his home was more of an encampment, a gathering of friendly fires with makeshift huts, which could quickly be knocked down and moved to the next site where greener pastures awaited.

The Niall were clearly the stronger or at least more progressive of the two tribes. So where was his family? Driven into the hills to exist as they might? Or worse yet, was the Cairthan slaughtered defending their land? It had to be one or the other, for he saw no sign of his own.

He wasn’t prepared for the mixed feelings that clashed within as he kept his stallion at a respectable distance behind Maire to watch her reception. One part of him seethed to think of his family members driven off their land; another saw his brother’s fate at least as justice for what he’d done to Rowan.

But it wasn’t up to Rowan to judge, he reminded himself sternly. He had not come home to gloat or to exact revenge. His, he prayed, was a higher purpose; although exactly what it
was and how it was to be accomplished had yet to be revealed to him.

Desperately, he floundered in a storm-tossed sea of emotion, reaching for the Word. That was his mission, his reason for being here, he told himself sternly. His was not to champion Emrys, the Niall, or the Cairthan—not even Maire. His was to champion God’s Word, the Way, for where it lived, so lived true happiness.

Safe at the church and seminary at Emrys, he’d studied and lived the Word without significant price. Now he was in another country, in a contrary role as hostage, husband, king, and man. The cost rose significantly with each passing moment he spent with the unpredictable pagan queen and the people who may have eradicated his own clan.

Lord, I cannot meet this challenge as servant and champion to any but You.

“It was the thievin’ Cairthan!”

Declan’s heated exclamation snatched Rowan from his earnest prayer to where the enraged Scot raced toward Maire with the news. Relief calmed the roaring sea of resentment and dismay in Rowan’s mind. The Cairthan lived! God answered his prayer before he’d uttered it. Better his people were cattle thieves than dead.

“They waited until our men mustered away on the ship and then raided,” Declan informed the group clustering about him.

“Cowards all, takin’ a herd from the likes of women and children!” Eochan chimed in with his brother.

“Say the word, Maire, and we’re after them.”

Declan stepped up to Maire’s horse, looking up expectantly. His youthful face was flushed at the prospect of another battle. He cut his teeth on stories of valor. He’d been born and trained to fight.

How well Rowan remembered that primal rush of excitement, before he came to equate the spilling of blood with the destruction of one of God’s own children. Before, his enemies were nameless, soulless animals, and slaughtered as easily as a
sacrificial offering. His gaze was drawn to Maire as she inadvertently moistened her lips to reply.

“Best we secure what we have before we go after that which we’ve lost.”

Satisfaction tugged at the corner of his mouth. Again he thanked God—for one so young and naive, the queen had a good head on her shoulders. He credited Brude’s influence, for it was obvious the druid had overseen Maire’s education, while her foster father saw to her combat training.

Yet it was more than her tutelage Rowan admired. It was her use of what she’d learned. Few sons of kings, for all their counsel, would have held their disappointment and resulting rage in check as the warrior queen had just done. Its sting had struck its mark, but she hadn’t flinched. Its scarlet colored her cheek, but she’d kept a level head, the head of a leader… such a beautiful one.

Rowan drew himself from the spell the warrior queen guilelessly cast before he lost his own wit. Beauty and brains were a dangerous combination in the hands of a woman—especially one so undeniably skilled with a sword as sharp as her wit.

T
hat the hall and chief’s house stood unblemished by Morlach’s greed was a credit to the craftsmen who built them. At least Maire could hold her head up when Emrys strode into the hall, which was some thirty meters in diameter, and took a seat opposite the door, beside her on the royal bench. Made of polished wood and intricately carved, it was as elegant, if not as luxurious, as the couch in his parents’ home. Maire’s hostage had little to say since their arrival, not that he’d not said enough for a score of men to Cromthal. ’Twas small wonder Gleannmara stood at all, for Morlach would not tolerate her refusal in good grace.

While this wasn’t the grand homecoming she’d expected, her clansmen had pulled together a feast fit for a king. The Cairthan hadn’t taken the remnants of the summer fare from last year, and a whole beef had been boiled in honor of Maire’s coronation, after Brude made a ceremony of sacrificing it and sprinkling its blood in the sacred grove. Her new shoes, made of the softest leather for the official inauguration to come, felt strange to her feet, as strange as sitting on Gleannmara’s royal seat. The shoes were a mite small and always would be. Rather than break them in to the shape of her foot, she would wear them just twice—now for the tribal druid’s acknowledgment and later for the royal inauguration by the high king’s man. Later the slippers would be sewn together and placed among Gleannmara’s trophies. Still, it was all so strange.

Aye, she’d been here before in whimsy or a dream, but this time it was real. She was queen, responsible for her people’s
welfare and hardly off to a good beginning. Her muster of the rath’s men had left it defenseless against its enemies. True, they’d come along readily and the damage could be repaired, but it bothered her as much as the threat posed by Morlach. They celebrated their new queen with such enthusiasm that Maire was hard put to believe she could live up to it.

Had Maeve smiled as Maire did now, while anxiety wreaked havoc behind her image of pleasure?

The weight of her new authority rested heavily on Maire’s mind as she watched her men pass about horns of plundered mead and wine with one hand, while stuffing their mouths with the fresh-baked breads scattered on each table. Those women who weren’t serving were gathered in the grianán. In a similar perch across from the sun loft, Brude’s apprentices plied their harps and voices with tales of valor and love long past.

Gleannmara’s bard secluded himself in the conical stone dwelling, which had been his home, when the hall and chief’s residence belonged to Maeve and Rhian. After their deaths, according to his pledge, Brude accompanied young Maire to her foster home to see that she was prepared to become queen when she came of age. Now he composed a song to glorify the raid and her return as queen. It would be the crowning event of the return.

“You are still troubled by the druid.”

Maire cast an annoyed look at her new husband, yet another worry to be reckoned with. “And you’d do well to do the same, if your brain was larger than a mouse’s teat.”

Rowan held out his arms, sturdy, well-muscled, bronzed by the sun—they were arms made for protection. “I see no sores nor withering flesh.”

It was a shame such limbs were attached to a half-wit. Maire glanced away to where Declan sat, a pretty wench on each knee. One was her cousin, Lianna, a feminine creature with a mass of golden brown curls falling over her shoulders. The other girl was probably a distant relative, one Maire did
not recognize. Both laughed as the warrior attempted to empty his horn by embracing the two of them at the same time. The wine spilled down his chin and splashed onto their dresses, evoking giggles and laughter among all.

“The night isn’t over, Emrys.”

Her gaze returned to the strong bare arms, now folded across a broad chest, swathed in the coarse cloth of a priest. What in the name of her mother’s gods was wrong with her? While she certainly wanted no part of Declan’s folly, Maire found herself wondering what it would be like to know the security of the Welshman’s embrace. Security…she hadn’t known such a feeling since she was a child upon Rhian’s knee, right there on that very bench. Nothing could harm her then. Her only worry was that she’d be sent to bed before the revelry was over.

Today, when he’d ridden Shahar to shore, emerging from the sea like a god, Maire had never known such relief. The sheer power and majesty of his visage suggested that nothing born of this world or any other could daunt him. It only took the Welshman a few blustering words of bravado backed by his faith in that strange god of his to end her hope. If only
she
could be so sure of her beliefs.

Maire shook her head, refusing the loaf of bread he offered her. With a crook of a smile, he shrugged and broke it in half.

“Leave the Cairthan to me.”

To her astonishment, Emrys was in earnest. The tilt of his lips dropped as he awaited her reply.

“Do I look as if my mother’s crown has banished the last of my wits?”

Instead of taking offense, he leaned toward her. “Nay, Maire, you’ve all the wits a queen merits, but think a moment…the last thing you need is another enemy.”

Her ear grew warm at the low rumble of his whisper against it.

“No thanks to you.”

“Your enmity with Morlach was made the moment you
decided against marrying him. I’ll not be blamed for that.”

“Hah, no! And you just made him all the madder.”

“Did I? Do you really think he’d kill you any more for my words than for your refusal?”

Maire snatched up the discarded half of the loaf, pulled off a pinch, and popped it into her mouth. With each chew, the truth became increasingly clear: She was taking out her anger, her fear, on Rowan.

“And what will you do with the Cairthan? March up to their hills and challenge their champion for the return of our livestock?”

“If necessary. Better for you to show good judgment and a cool head. As you once said, you could use all the swords you can muster to go against Morlach.”

“Ally with that ragged lot of dung spreaders?” Maire laughed, totally without humor. “You’re more fey than I thought. Maeve took their land, leastwise, the best of it. I sit on what they consider to be their throne. I’d never be able to turn my back on a one of them.”

“Keep them to your side, Maire, not to your back.”

“Aye, in chains, mayhap.”

“Shoulder to shoulder, sword in hand, should it come to that with Morlach. I suspect it will.”

“And how will you bring this about? You, a Welshman, who has never set foot on Scotti soil.”

Something kindled in Rowan’s gaze, something that smacked of self-assurance, and she had the oddest sense…as though he knew something she did not. He leaned back on the bench with a look that suggested he’d won their debate.

“The race is not to the swift nor the battle to the strong.”

Maire frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Ecclesiastes.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that even the greatest of man-or womankind can’t always win solely on strength or speed.”

“But with wit?” Maire ventured. Emrys might fight like a soldier, but he talked like a priest, with words that made little sense, more often than not.

“Wit enough to recognize there are times when we need help… and faith in God to supply it.”

“I have faith in the strength and speed of the good warriors gathered here. And in my wit and Brude’s council.”

“Then why are you so troubled?”

“Because I’ve a wart the size of a full grown man sitting at my side, blatherin’ on, witless as a pig in a mud wallow.” Maire liked it better when the man was silent. He saw too much, this one, as though he could read her thoughts like letters in a book.

“I will ask God to show me the way to make friends of worthy opponents.”

“Then do it somewhere else. I’ve no yearnin’ to hear about god, nor any more of this nonesuch.”

Maire gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of speaking one on one with this god. Still, if a god actually gave advice directly to the man…

“And let me know what this god has to say about the Cairthan. Like as not, if he’s made their acquaintance, he’d see us run them clear to Connaught.”

Emrys smiled, seemingly satisfied. And though Maire was bemused at what put the crook in his lips, at least he was quiet.

A commotion at the door opposite them drew her attention from the Welshman to where Brude entered followed by his servant Glas. Maire’s pulse quickened as the druid acknowledged her with a bow of his half-shaven head. The gathered crowd parted like a sea to allow the white-robed Brude through, their revelry quieted in reverence to his presence. The song of triumph was done. Their victory would be commemorated to lyric and passed down from generation to generation until children whispered their names as though they were legend.

Brude took the seat of honor next to Maire, where he’d sat years before and sung to the glory of Maeve, Rhian, and their predecessors. He knew Maire’s genealogy back to their Milesian forefathers. Her claim was blood royal, her role as queen her birthright.

Beside Maire, Rowan ap Emrys sat suddenly upright, but the new queen paid him little attention. She watched Glas hand over Macha, the druid’s harp.

Suddenly Rowan was on his feet. With an oath, he took two strides toward the thin, bent Glas and turned the man toward him to study his face.