Maire (25 page)

“Fail and, should you survive, I will kill you with my bare hands… and we’ll have nothin’ more to do with a clan destined for sure destruction. We’ll not stand against Morlach’s black art, not even with that old Uí Niall druid behind ye.”

“Brude has forgotten more than Morlach has ever learned!”

“Aye, lass, that’s the point. Your Brude has forgotten!”

“The one God forgets nothing and knows all.” That said, Rowan stepped down from the rock and turned to help Maire. She needed no assistance, but at the moment, she needed the reassurance of his touch, of his conviction. She wanted to believe this god was as strong as Rowan claimed. It appeared that Rowan did have the god’s ear. Brude said as much. But years of fear in which the power of the druids was drummed into her head were hard to dismiss as lightly as her husband did.

“If we return with Diarhmott’s promise of neutrality, will the Cairthan not only swear allegiance to me and Maire, but to the one God?”

“If your god brings you back alive and in one piece
with
the high king’s word to keep out o’ this muck of a squabble, I’ll kiss the bottoms of this god’s boots!”

Rowan laughed. Despite Lorcan’s hostility, he embraced his elder sibling in a bear hug. “Good enough, brother. I’ll hold you to that.”

Ciara placed an arm at Maire’s back. Without looking at her, the men’s mother sighed.

“I prayed long for that sight, my queen. Now God has answered my prayers beyond my wildest dreams.”

“So you believe all will be well then?”

Ciara’s face was aglow when she looked at Maire. It looked as though the sun erased the lines of age and replaced them with joy. “Aye, I do, so long as we walk in God’s will and give Him the glory for all our blessings.”

Maire scowled. “So this god doesn’t take well to failure, I suppose.”

“He never fails,” the woman answered patiently.
“We
do, but He doesn’t.”

“But if he’s with us and we fail…”

“Then we fail because of something amiss with us, not Him. But He’ll give us the strength and courage to try again.”

For all he was claimed to be, this god was a confounding one!

“This is making my head hurt, woman! First your god will see it done, but if it isn’t, it’s not his fault, but he’ll help pick up the pieces and try again. Why doesn’t he just make us do it right to start with and be done with it?”

Maire’s exasperation drew Rowan’s attention. He glanced in concern from his mother to Maire.

“Is something wrong?”

Ciara smiled. “Only that God gives us the will to choose right or wrong, and that if we choose wrong…”

“He lets a fool fall right on his face!” Maire finished with an enlightened look. “Now that makes sense.”

Satisfied, at least for the moment, she turned to Declan.

“We’ve a trip ahead of us, brother. Best see what can be put together to see us to Tara.”

Declan bowed shortly in acknowledgment. Then, spinning on his heels, he slapped Eochan, who was leaning over Blath in a conversation totally apart from that which occupied the rest of them, across the back of the head. “Come, lover boy, we’ve work to do.”

Maire chuckled when Eochan came up swinging, but the younger, more agile Declan avoided the halfhearted blow and was away. At the touch of a hand at her back, she turned, expecting to see Ciara again, but it was not Rowan’s mother whose arm slipped about her waist. It was her husband himself.

“You make me proud to serve you, Maire.” The earnestness of his gaze was enough to melt the heart of a stone statue, much less that of a mere woman. And at that moment, that
was what Maire felt like, not warrior nor queen but all woman.

She wished for some equally moving reply, but all that came to her rattled mind was out before she could stop it.

“So this god of yours, he wears boots, does he?”

The travelers from Gleannmara spent that night in Drumkilly’s hall. Erc and Maida, Maire’s foster parents, put on a sumptuous feast in the tall thatch-domed hall. Garret and Ciara enjoyed places of honor along with Maire, Rowan, and Declan. Eochan elected to remain with the Cairthan, allegedly to help Lorcan decide which of his people were best suited for the planting and building and which would remain behind to tend the cattle. Declan put it most likely when he remarked that the man had fallen in love with being a hostage. Eochan managed a show of indignation at the jibe, but it was his cheeky grin that gave him away as he rode away from them to deliver the message to Brude to meet them at Tara.

Servants kept food and drink in plenty until Maire had to say no or let out her belt. The latter being a sign of overindulgence, she covered her cup with her hand each time one passed with a flagon of wine or pitcher of beer. Rowan, too, kept a clear head and satisfied belly, no more, no less. He played the part of king to her queen as if he’d been born to the role.

In truth, Maire supposed he had. He was a lord in his own right in Wales and by birth at Gleannmara. If she was to follow the man’s line of reason, his God had delivered his crown, or in his case, Rhian’s torque, through her. Whether this same God would bless her remained to be seen. So as not to offend him, however, she did bow her head when Rowan asked blessing on the meal. So, she noticed, did the others. It was out of respect and hospitality. She supposed this god deserved at least that much for allying the Cairthan with them. Blood ties were strong. As Erc pointed out, half in heart and half in jest, she’d
done well by Gleannmara despite that red-headed temper of hers.

After hearing the tales of their adventures in Wales, with Rowan and Declan playing the bards, games were suggested, but Maire declined. Between the ale, the food, and the good company, sleep called louder than her hosts.

“We’ll make up the celebration at the May games, I promise,” Maire told the older couple.

Erc and Maida held hands throughout most of the evening, and the smiles they exchanged when no one was looking embraced Maire’s heart. That was what she wanted, that kind of love. Were Maeve and Rhian still holding hands on the other side? As she lay on a plump pallet of straw on the floor of the hall, where servants and visitors alike had settled for the night, she sighed dreamily.

“What was that about?” Rowan’s low whisper startled her. “What thoughts make our queen sigh like a lovestruck maid?”

“Hold my hand, Rowan.”

This time, it was his turn to be taken back. “What?”

“Are you deaf? I said hold my hand!”

Impatient, she reached across the short space between their pallets. In a moment, her hand was enveloped in the strength and warmth of the man lying at her side.

“Are you certain you don’t want me to hold all of you?”

Her heart tripped. He spoke so low, to avoid the ears of those resting about them, that she didn’t quite make out his words. Or perhaps she simply didn’t believe what she heard.

“What?”

A low rumble of response escaped his chest. He propped himself up on his elbow, still clinging to the hand she instinctively threatened to pull away. The glow of the dying firelight highlighted his handsome features. His was the kind of face the stonecutters fashioned effigies from. Clean lines, chiseled to the right proportion. Handsome. A girlish sigh built in her chest, but his wry reply killed it.

“Are you deaf, woman?” He moved closer. “Or is this some feminine wile of yours trying to get me to move closer?”

Maire arched one skeptical brow. To her astonishment, Rowan leaned over and brushed it with his lips.

“What game are you about now, Emrys?”

“Every morning I wake up with you fitted against me as if we were two nestled cups. If you wish to come into my arms, then come outright rather than sneak up on me while I sleep.”

Blood ran hot to Maire’s cheeks. “Of all the—”

Rowan silenced her indignation, devastating it with a kiss. Her lips moved, not with words but in concert with his. And when he pulled her to him, her body obeyed eagerly, as if it craved the warmth it had secretly sought out in her sleep.

Except that she was not asleep. How could one sleep when a ferocious tide catapulted through her veins and sweet thunder clapped in her brain? She wanted to reach for her head to secure it, but it was Rowan’s hair her hands clasped. On a mission of their own, her fingers entwined in the dark, thick locks secured by a leather thong at his neck. In a moment they were freed.

Then, with no warning, Rowan stiffened and rolled away, leaving naught but the strip of leather in her hand. His chest rose and fell, as if though took all his breath to keep up with it. He closed his eyes and swallowed.

Maire watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, alarm invading the rhapsody his ardor still played on the strings of her heart.

“What is it?”

A few feet away, someone rolled over and raised his head. Realizing she’d raised her voice, she crawled closer and whispered again.

“Rowan, are you sick?” Maire remembered his declaring how he’d been healed upon coming down the hill from meeting with the Cairthan.

“Nay, I’m just tired.”

“Then what were you healed of the other day?” So much
had come about so quickly she’d never had the chance to satisfy her curiosity.

“I was wronged by my brother, and hatred festered in me like a green-headed boil, no matter how I meant to please God. And the moment I forgave Lorcan, it was gone. It was as if a weight had been removed from my heart.” He laughed to himself. “How many times I’ve told others that forgiveness is oft the first step in healing a scarred heart, and never took my own advice.”

With a heavy sigh, he pulled up his blanket and jerked over on his side, his back turned to her.

“Best get some sleep, little queen. We’ve a long day ahead tomorrow.”

Sleep?

Never had any idea seemed so outlandish. Her pulse stumbled over itself, pushing blood through her veins as though she’d been pulled from the midst of a heated race; and he babbles on about forgiveness and sleep.

Well, she certainly wasn’t about to forgive
him,
workin’ a body up with his absurd ideas of married intimacy and then philosophizing about forgiveness and sleep.

Maire threw her blanket aside and climbed to her feet.

Gathering up her sword, she started for the door of the lodge, picking her way around those sleeping in her path. The night was star cast, a veritable blanket of diamonds glittering against a blue velvet sky. She knew the layout of the rath, so she could have found the training posts with or without the help of nature’s light.

Sleep indeed.

The thick post took the full force of her blow.

It was fitting that it was hewed from a rowan, for its ability to endure. Yet it was another Rowan she pictured as she struck again.

The commotion drew the attention of Drumkilly’s guards, but she continued. The muscles in her arms trembled with the
bone-jarring vibration of her last blow. Still, she delivered another, hacking at the hard wood again and again. Let them watch, she thought, drawing back the heavy metal blade, its tip starting to drag on the retreat. But woe to the one who tried to stop her before this wild binge of energy had run its course.

T
he open sky of the following night spared the travelers a blanket of frost for their early morning bed. Rowan and his mother arose to pray, while the others sang the sun song as the eastern light feasted on a covering of dew instead. It glistened everywhere, from treetops to meadow blades, giving the land a faerylike appearance. No hint of the imminent danger that had kept posted guards awake all night made itself known.

Maire rolled up her blanket and skins and kicked into the campfire the piece of wood she’d placed between her and Rowan the night before. Indeed, the air was warmer, but not enough to replace what he had to offer her. It stung that he’d not protested her precaution to keep them apart. In fact, he’d looked relieved as he’d settled down and turned his back to her. So she’d spent another troubled night, while he snored, maddeningly at peace.

Tonight, she’d give this prayer a try, she decided after a breakfast of cold scones and cheese from Drumkilly’s kitchen added to leftover goose, which the men killed and roasted for supper the night before. The truth was, now that her belly was full Maire wanted a nice warm bed, not another day astride Tamar. Her head bobbed in time with the mare’s soft
clip-clop.
With each step her chin fell closer and closer to her chest.

The queen didn’t know when it finally struck. All she knew was suddenly she was face down in the horse’s shining mane and keeling off to the side. In a panicked state of mind, she released the reins and outstretched her arms to break her headlong fall to
the well-worn road. Her lungs full of a startled gasp, she waited for the earth to knock it from her, but instead, it was cinched out by the band of living muscle, which caught her full weight at her waist.

“Ho, sleepyhead. One night away from me and look what you’ve come to!”

The men about them snickered as Rowan hauled a befuddled Maire over to Shahar’s back in front of him. She shook the sleep from her head—what would leave it, that is.

“’Tis the nights
with
you that’s led me to this.”

Her sharp retort cut loose the poor restraint of the eavesdroppers. Outright laughter erupted round them, blowing scarlet into Maire’s neck and face.

“That’s
not
what I meant, you giggling bunch of nitwits!”

“That you enjoy my son’s company of a night is your right as his wife,” Ciara assured her with matronly approval. “It’s one of God’s gifts to be shared.”

Maire started to deny any such gift had been shared, much less enjoyed, but the tightening of Rowan’s arm about her and the gruff clearing of his throat warned her against it. They were
supposed
to be married and enjoying the conjugal rights. With little choice but to acquiesce in silence, Maire sat stiffly.

“Well, there’s nothing this god has to say about sharin’ a horse, is there?”

Rowan laughed at her peevish utterance, and Maire’s face grew even hotter.

“No,
I’m
having the say on this. I’ll not have our queen falling off her horse and breaking her lovely neck before things are right with Gleannmara. It simply wouldn’t be a kingly thing to do.”