Maire (32 page)

“Welcome home, Queen Maire! We hope you find things more to your liking this time,” Lianna called out to her.

“I vow, we’d not realized how the soot had darkened the walls, even in the grianán, until we took brushes to it!” the younger woman’s companion said.

Maire didn’t recognize the latter, but she was no peasant, judging from the bright green and pink of her dress. Her complexion was as white as the soot that smudged her face was black, as opposed to the ruddier skin of the serving women. When one of the O’Croinin, who’d accompanied them to Tara, picked the lady up and spun her around, the queen’s assessment was confirmed. The lady was of the aires.

Maire would know them all by name, and soon, she vowed.

“I’d wager from the soot on the lot of ye, that not a smudge is left on the walls. The hall must be as bright and polished as it was the day Maeve’s craftsmen finished it.”

“Well, the last of the summer food’s set out and waitin’. Ye men look as if ye’ve worked up a fine appetite.” Lianna swayed like a willow branch in a soft breeze as she walked up to Declan and linked her arm with his. “And there’s ale to whet your thirst.”

“That’s almost as temptin’ as that pretty smile of yours,” Declan said, bowing and sweeping his arm for her to lead the way. Looking past her, he asked, “And where’s Brona?”

“Stop your teasin’, Declan.” Lianna slapped his shoulder playfully. “Since when have I been nursemaid to Gwythan’s daughter?”

Maire glanced over at Dathal of Muirdach. He watched with the eyes of a father as his daughter sauntered off with the warrior on her arm. Like as not, he had good reason for a sharp eye, given Declan’s reputation with the maids. The way Lianna smiled and walked was enough to invite the Drumkilly’s attention, but not enough to hold it. He still glanced toward the royal lodge for a glimpse of its dark-haired keeper.

Maire too stared in that direction, but for another reason. She wanted to see if the lodge had improved as much as the hall reportedly had, but the women, noble and servant alike,
stood by anxiously waiting her approval. She put a hand on the O’Croinin woman’s shoulder.

“Well, O’Croinin, shall we see what havoc your wife has wreacked upon the soot?”

“Elsbeth, my lady,” the woman suggested eagerly. “You will call me Elsbeth, I hope.”

“Elsbeth, it is.”

Maire walked with the couple into the banquet hall. Recalling Declan’s suggestion that she look to Gleannmara’s ladies to learn more genteel ways, she purposely imitated Lianna’s sway. Her swinging sword was checked by the tight fist on its hilt, lest it become caught up on something or someone in its path. She was tempted to look behind her to see if Rowan watched her retreat as the men had watched Lianna’s, but instead, took in the improvement in the hall with a grin of appreciation.

Elsbeth had not exaggerated. The room not only looked brighter, but bigger as well. Even the carved posts had been brushed and oiled so that their artwork gleamed in the sunlight from the empty grianán.

“It is most wonderful, ladies,” Maire complimented them. She spied one of the elderly noblewomen with her hair tied up in a scarf, leveling out fresh rush with a rake. “But I didn’t mean for you
all
to abandon your stitchery. Your name, milady.”

“Medwyn of Muirdach, the Muirdach’s mother,” the woman replied.

“Surely we’ve enough servants to spare ladies of your disposition—”

Medwyn cut her off with a playful swish of the rake. “All that stitchery has tightened up my fingers. Pamperin’ often makes regret. Besides, what with the calving and dairy work started, the servants were more needed elsewhere. I can still swing a rake, good as any.”

“Indeed you can, Medwyn. ’Tis an honor to have such a stouthearted soul as yours among us.”

“Stout hearts make stout walls. This work has done my old heart good, it has. This is what Gleannmara
should
look like, thanks to you.”

Maire flushed at the praise. “Nay, Medwyn, thanks to all of
you.
I’m so proud of ye, I could burst. And this is just the beginning for our home. The king has this Joseph story to tell ye and ’twill make you even prouder for what you’ve accomplished when it’s done.”

“I do love a good story.” Lianna poured Declan a cup of ale and handed it to him. Her lips were pursed as though she too could taste it when he took a hearty drink. Knowing her foster brother preferred Brona made Maire sorry for her cousin.

“Then you’ll be happy as a pig in lavender with all the stories my Rowan can tell.” Maire turned to leave, and came face to face with the subject of conversation.

“This hall is so bright, like as not, our voices will carry better with no soot to hold and slow them down. As an appreciative lord, I’ll have to kiss every hand that was put to the task.”

The ladies in attendance giggled.

“Leastwise wait till we’re bathed and fit, Lord Rowan,” Lianna protested with a coquettish smile.

Maire did not miss the agreeable wink that answered the girl. “Upon your wish, milady Lianna.”

Why the woman couldn’t keep her flirtation for one man at a time, Maire was vexed to understand. Worse, Rowan knew her by name. Was his memory sharp or was interest what kept it there? Crom’s toes, she was starting to feel like a cat over a bowl of warm milk. Perhaps if he’d paid Maire the attention of more than tutor to her student on their wedding night, it wouldn’t annoy her as much.

“Did two days on horse ail your back?”

Maire’s peevish green musings screeched to a halt. “What?” The question registered. “Why do ye ask?”

“It’s just that you were walking strangely when you entered the hall. I thought—”

“Though your concern is touchin’, dear husband, I’ll have ye know—” Maire’s voice rose with her growing irritation—“That I can ride night and day with the rest of you and there’s nothing wrong with my back.” Without so much as a fare-thee-well, she spun on her heels and stalked out, parting the men who’d come in after Rowan with her glare. Better to lose her temper than to cry.

The door of her lodge slammed against the wall as Maire stormed in. Leaning over a freshly kindled fire, Brona bolted upright with a start.

“Queen Maire. I haven’t had time to prepare the lodge for you. There’s still a bit of spring’s dampness in here.”

“Do I look cold to you?”

The young woman shook her head, clearly at a loss for a reply.

Maire tore at the buckles of her breastplate, but they too tried her patience. Her thumbnail caught and pulled back. With an oath against mankind in general, she sucked on her anguished thumb to ease the pain.

“A hasty marriage leaves plenty of time for lengthy regret.”

Brona had gall, Maire had to give her that. How dare she question their marriage? “What?”

“I said—”

“I heard ye. I just didn’t believe what I heard. What right have you to go judgin’ my marriage?”

“None, my queen. I only meant to sympathize with you, as one woman to another. Men are a trying lot at times. They do not understand us.”

“I don’t understand us and I’m a woman,” Maire averred in exasperation. “It’s like I’m two people inside. The warrior queen I know, but this other female…”

“The one who wishes to be loved and admired?”

“Aye, that’s the one. And I’m not sure I like her.”

“That is because she treats her need as a weakness, rather than a strength.”

This Brona was more mature than her years. She knew exactly what Maire was feeling… and she spoke as if she had a solution. “And how would a woman use this need as a strength?”

Perhaps this was part of Brona’s charm for Declan. Maire had never seen the woman flirt with the men outright, yet they watched her. Hers was a dignified attraction.

“A man likes to feel needed. It feeds his pride. A woman can use this to win his attentions.”

“I
need
no man.”

“Or,” Brona suggested, “she can get him by other means.”

“Such as?”

“You can make him want you.” The woman fingered a small, silver-encased vial hanging from a cord about her neck. “I put this scent on the places where I can feel my blood pulse. A man can not resist it.”

“Magic?”

“The oldest secret of women. It would make the heart pound in a statue.”

“I’ll think on it—” Maire eyed the vial uncertainly—“I’m not certain I want to be intimate with the king.”

A light kindled in the servant’s eyes, making Maire instantly regret her slip. But Brona slipped the vial out of the ornate casement and laid it on the table beside the wooden bed, which had been installed to replace the oversized Roman one.

“Use this only if you want a man to desire intimacy with you, Queen Maire, for it’s too potent to toy with.”

“Maire?” Ciara stood at the open door, peeking in hesitantly. “May I enter?”

“Of course. Ciara, mother of Rowan, King of Gleannmara, this is my servant, Brona.”

Brona dipped solemnly. “How wonderful you crossed the sea to be with your son.”

“Ciara is Rowan’s real mother and mother to Lorcan of the Cairthan. Our peoples are one now, Brona.”

It took a moment for this to digest. “I am pleased to hear it and to meet you, milady. If it please, Queen Maire, may I be excused?” Maire had an odd sense that Brona was masking her real feelings, but since she couldn’t prove anything…

“Aye. And the lodge is much improved, Brona. Your efforts are appreciated.”

The servant afforded Maire a nod of acknowledgment and slipped away in silence.

Ciara walked over to the table and picked up the vial. “You do not need this, Maire. My son loves you. I can tell by the way he speaks of you and looks at you.”

Embarrassment robbed Maire of a ready reply.

“I apologize for my presumption, but as I approached, I couldn’t help but overhear, what with the door open.”

“My husband, to all eyes but my own, is in love with me,” Maire said with disbelief. “But when we are alone, it is different.”

The woman walked over to Maire and embraced her warmly. “Dear daughter, Rowan is a man of his word. He agreed to a marriage in name only and will hold to that until you tell him that contract is no longer valid. You need no magic scents for my son. He would have you for who you are, not because of some mix of herbs in a vial.”

Ciara tossed the vial out the door. “What smacks of magic, smacks of deceit. Deceit has no place in marriage. Believe in yourself, daughter.” She gave Maire an affectionate peck on the cheek.

Maire liked the hug better. She liked the idea that she gained not only a husband, but a mother as well. Her foster mother Maida did her best, but there was never any show of affection. Perhaps that was forbidden a girl destined to be queen, but how Maire missed this.

“Thank you, Maithre. I think our God has given me a mother when I needed one most.” Maire’s words shocked her. This Christian God was starting to feel like a person to her, an
entity with compassion and feelings rather than stone or the strength in iron or a tree.

“God has blessed us all, Maire. Never think otherwise.” With a wink, Ciara turned to leave.

“Oh, have you been given lodging?” Where
were
her manners? An inhospitable queen was a shame to her people.

“Rowan has seen to it. Garret and I will share Glasdam’s lodge.” Her face brightened. “It was so good to see our old friend. We’d thought him dead or carried off along with Rowan.” She laughed softly. “Indeed, God is making me giddy with his goodness. The only thing that would complete my life would be a grandchild to ensure the peace and prosperity of Gleannmara, and for me to spoil horribly.”

“Well, they say there’s nothing this God can’t do.” Maire was beginning to believe it, even if she wasn’t quite ready for motherhood. A squalling babe in her arms wasn’t nearly as appealing as her being embraced in Rowan’s. She sighed wistfully. Becoming a wife was the first battle ahead, but it had to be a role both Rowan and she could live with.

Never one to back down once her mind was made up, Maire decided on the course she would take. She was no coquette. Imitating one only made her look an idiot. She’d have no potion making her irresistible either. If she won Rowan of Emrys, it would be as herself.

No, this time Maire intended to approach her task as she’d been trained to: head on.

E
mrys, I absolve you of all promises we’ve made to each other, save our marriage vows!”

Rowan choked. The ale he’d just sipped found its way up his nose and down his windpipe simultaneously. Around him, the after-dinner revelry in the hall continued, but it was silent compared to the roar of Maire’s words. They echoed in his mind again and again, each time more loudly than before. There was no doubt he’d heard her right.

She slapped him on the back soundly. “Crom’s toes, don’t tell me I’ve killed ye.”

He shook his head, his eyes blurring the sight of her concerned face. Just when he thought he knew the Niall queen and what to expect from her, she astonished him. When she’d stormed out of the hall that afternoon for reasons yet unknown to him, he hadn’t been certain he’d be welcome in their lodge, much less in their bed. Certainly not their
marriage
bed. Surely she didn’t know what she suggested.

The spasm subsided. Rowan managed to settle his confounded throat with a bit of bread chased by ale. Still, his voice told of the strain. “This is hardly the time for such unexpected news, Maire. Faith, we’re surrounded by…”

She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “I agree. Let’s leave our people to their merriment and settle this in private.”

“But we’ve yet to tell them of our plans.”

“Look at them, Rowan. They’re so happy to hear the news that the high king does not sanction Morlach, you could tell them to jump off Wicklow’s highest falls and they’d do it.”

Rowan could almost believe her. Garret, son of the Cairthan chief, sat at home next to Declan and the other Niall warriors, mesmerized by their embellished tales of valor. His grandmother Ciara joyfully shared whatever it was women spoke of when they were clustered together like a flock of hens. Servants and aires alike toasted him as king of Gleannmara to Maire’s queen. Asking some of them to take their cattle and move to higher ground, however, was another proposition.