Maire (30 page)

“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 sorry 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.”

B
lood 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.”

The younger man’s composure crumbled. “I swear, ’twas mixed by your own recipe and dropped unnoticed into his cup while the table awaited the wedding company.”

“You took care to be certain it was his cup?”

“I asked the steward which was the groom’s seat, so that I might leave a message by his chair. As I feigned putting a fold of paper beneath his goblet, I stood so the steward could not see the goblet and sprinkled the poison in it. I tell you, I made no mistake. Perhaps the chant Emrys said over it before drinking—”

“Bah, meaningless words, nothing more! Emrys is no fool. He’d take no wine he hadn’t seen poured from the same bottle as the others.”

“So you think he poured it out?”

“Have I trained you since you were weaned from your mother’s breast for nothing?” Morlach glared at his apprentice in utter disgust. “One of the king’s hounds died last night, of some sort of gut-wrenching fit.”

The alarm on his apprentice’s face faded. “Aye, that’s it. Emrys poured it out.”

“Pity the whole of the dung-sniffing lot didn’t lap it up. I’ve no more use for dogs, than for incompetent students.” Morlach’s gaze narrowed as he turned the force of his rage on the apprentice. “You failed me.”

“I could not force the man to drink!” Cromthal protested.

“Perhaps you should have poisoned the entire flagon.”

“But others—”

“Emrys would be dead.” Morlach smiled and gave a humorless snarl that turned the rest of his words into a hiss. “And I would not be disappointed in you.”

“I have done all you asked!”

“And yet Emrys lives.”

Cromthal tried to shrink away from the accusation. “But if the Christian’s god was powerful enough to make Gleannmara’s company appear as deer—”

“Bah!” Morlach exploded. “’Twas druid magic, not the work of a god, you witless gnat. Or maybe the priest possesses magic.”

“Well—”

“No, the priest is too humble to seize secrets of illusion and put them to work. But Brude… Gleannmara would be helpless without.…” Morlach’s words trailed off into a dark contemplation.

“But there was the prophecy,” Cromthal reminded him. “Our ancestors, Logaire’s seers, foretold of the coming of the priests who would drive the serpents from Ireland.”

The master druid tore himself from the seductive thought tantalizing him. “What?”

“The prophesy of Logaire’s magi foretelling—”

“We serpents of knowledge will not be driven from our own home by these charlatans! First Diarhmott gives them heed and now you, one of our own does the same.” He slammed one fist into the other. Spinning abruptly, Morlach held his hand over the flame of the candle lamp. It seared the flesh of his palm, yet he smiled as though it were a maid’s caress. “Look you trembling whelp, for as I snuff out this flame, so I will destroy all who cross me, be they druid, priest, or upstart usurper.
I command the power of life and death!”

With a vengeance, Morlach slammed his hand downward, crushing fire and wax, grinding it into the rough grain of the table until it, too, gave way.

Dodging a lamp as Morlach kicked it toward him, Cromthal was grateful he was not within the druid’s reach. The knot over his eye had barely healed. All that remained was yellowish discoloration about a red scar. Once he’d nearly worshiped Morlach and his words, yet now he was no longer certain of the man’s power or principles. And it wasn’t the abuse alone that placed doubt in the apprentice’s mind.

He’d heard talk in the House of Synods regarding this
Christian faith, and Morlach was right to some extent. Many druids would not be driven from the green island. They spoke of turning their life and study of truth to this faith. The ancient accounts of the star of the east and the blackening of the sun on the day of Conn’s death had been recalled from distant memory and shaken out for all to consider in this new light. A Christian priest even tutored the royal daughters.