Maire (9 page)

Declan, unaware of the silent demon in Rowan chaffing to be unleashed, wriggled the ring again. It was Maire, however, who charged the warrior like a mad badger, apparently determined to knock the haughty grin off his face. Rowan grabbed her, bringing her up short. Her extended punch caught the air beyond Declan’s cleft chin. Rowan held the squirming, cursing female, tightening his grasp until there was no breath left to fuel her protest.

“Perhaps this Morlach is the reason my God allowed Maire to best me,” he said over her frustrated grunts and thrashing.

Declan sneered. “You grasp at foam like a drowning man, Emrys!”

Maire lunged over Rowan’s arm to reach the dagger laced to her leg, loosening his grasp momentarily. “I’ll skewer you like a fresh killed rabbit!”

“Be grateful it’s not your neck I’m grasping at,” Rowan answered her brother, tightening his rein on his captive.

If she only knew how his spine pricked at Declan’s flying barbs. But for God’s grace itself, he’d snap, releasing his anger like a bow its arrow. ’Twould serve Declan right… but it was not Rowan’s place to deal out justice. That belonged to God. Besides, he almost felt sorry for the lad, for of the two of them, Declan was more a hostage than Rowan—a hostage of his own fear.

“My faith is built upon a rock, my friend, not the sands of fear and darkness. I shall sleep like a babe at the prospect of meeting this Morlach, while you squirm in your nightmares. ‘The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?’”

He released Maire, who seemed as struck dumb with incredulity as her foster brother at Rowan’s words, and returned to his horses. Although aware that the hot-tempered Declan might attack him from behind—or even Maire, for that matter—Rowan walked on without a backward glance, well able to imagine what they must be thinking.

Rowan had heard it all before. His words were those of madness. How had a man like him survived the battles his scarred body told of? Surely he’d taken some vicious blow to the head, which left him witless.

“He’s fey as a swineherd!” Declan spat out.

The corners of Rowan’s lips twitched. Aye, he’d heard that too.

A
nger gave way to vexation as Maire watched him go. In the periphery of her vision, she saw Declan’s dubious smirk. “Brude would not mislead us. There is more to this man than we can see. I feel it.”

Or was
she
the drowning soul grasping at foam? Maire searched the dimly lit deck for the aged druid. She had to speak to him. She needed to know all there was to know about this man she was about to take as husband.

“I think what you feel, little sister, I could easily assuage.”

Maire turned abruptly, struck dumb with disbelief. Recovering, she spat out, “If you had more brain than brawn, you’d know this is no time for jest.”

Leaving Declan to his ridiculous notion, she strode across the deck to where she’d spied Brude. A small calf lay there, its head on the druid’s lap, its round eyes wide with trust. It had no idea that it was to soon become a sacrifice. For a moment, Maire identified with the animal, both pitying and envying it for its blissful ignorance. Later, perhaps, its entrails would tell the druid what lay ahead for them all. For now, there was nothing to do but wait and hope that Brude would see it clearly.

A makeshift altar at the stern of the ship sufficed for the sacrifice of the calf. The blood was saved to sprinkle over the earth of the sacred grove in Gleannmara’s hills, introducing the new to blend with the old. The meat was boiled for a hero’s feast.
Coupled with the barrels of wine taken from the church stores, no banqueting lodge needed more.

When they did finally have a chance to speak, Brude answered Maire’s concerns with that exasperating druid talk, his words filling the air with the ring of wisdom, yet saying nothing she understood.
Change was in the air and change was good.
What in the name of Crom Cruach did that mean? There was nothing left to do but to join her men in the victory celebration; to enjoy the day because not even the gods knew what the morrow promised.

Lifting cups of hollowed horn, Maire toasted with her fellow warriors till she could no longer ride the gentle roll of the deck beneath her kid-laced feet. Then the men hoisted her upon their shoulders, heaving her to each other in riotous joy as though she were a child’s doll, until Brude intervened for fear her human steeds might charge recklessly over the rail of the tacking ship, taking her with them.

There were more colors than the rainbow among the collection of voluminous brats her men wore draped and pinned over bare shoulders, so their battle wounds showed like badges of honor. Gabran and Brandub of Clan Colmáin, Fergus and Conall of the MacCormac, Dathal and Cellach sons of Muirdach—all of Gleannmara’s families were represented, all except the Cairthan, the highland tribe, who once had been masters of the tuath. That lot had yet to pay proper homage to Maeve or Morlach. What they couldn’t produce in their lofty isolation, they stole from their neighbors in right Celtic style. They had to be given credit for that.
“Gnats,”
Morlach labeled them, worrisome but not worth the effort to eliminate them in their own element.

Neither their weapons nor their voices were missed. The day had been won and now the southern clans of the Uí Niall sang songs, so embellished with heart and wine that breath alone might carry them all the way to Erin’s green shore. Like the breeze filling the sails, the drink fueled their appreciation of
not only the day’s blessings, but also those undoubtedly to come. For all the toasts and speeches, not one was repeated. It was their queen’s first victory celebration and glorious. It was the warrior’s way.

By the time the druid hailed the sun at the break of the following day, the boisterous company had expired of grandiose words and melody. The crew of the ship wrestled with the sails overhead to seize the advantage of the rare east wind while the adventurers sprawled about the deck as though slain by their excessive celebration. Maire slept on a pallet under a leather canopy, dead to the noise of the working ship and the cries of the gulls following it. The sunlight bearing down upon the cover cast an innocent glow over the sleeping queen.

But for the leather trappings of a warrior laced on her shins and wrists, one might have taken her for an angel. Still, Rowan knew it was just an illusion. Whatever Maire of Gleannmara was, she was no angel. And while she’d already proven her skill, neither was she just another Scotti warrior, no matter how valiantly she’d withstood the victory celebration.

Despite being invited to participate, Rowan had watched from his pallet near his prize horses. It wasn’t his celebration, even if he believed this was God’s plan for him. As the Scotti exalted in their triumph, good peace-loving families of the fishing village mourned their dead while those who remained of the clergy sought to comfort them. God forgive him, he was grateful Emrys had been spared, but he could not help the resentment he felt for those who were not…especially Justinian. Still, Declan had said Rowan’s God did not protect his
church
—not his church
men.

Rowan had heard that much clearly, even in the heat of his initial reaction at seeing the ring he’d given Justinian on Declan’s finger. Knowing the priest, he’d have handed over the gift and asked God to forgive the thieves as he did so—and the
Celts would not slaughter such a man in those conditions. It was, at the least, ignoble.

Glad that, unlike the fishermen, the priest had grace enough to keep a cool head, Rowan devoted his attention to observation of the enemy who now held him hostage, their queen in particular. Surprisingly, he’d been entertained as well as intrigued. Maire had dumped noggin after noggin of wine into the drains cut in the side of the ship when she thought no one was looking. She’d won the approval of her men and did her level best to appear worthy. Yet, as she’d been tossed like a revered toy from one hulk of a warrior to another, Rowan had not missed the occasional insecure glances she cast in the direction of the overseeing druid.

Something about her reminded him of a child suddenly cast into a coveted adult role, one for which she was not fully prepared. Except Maire of Gleannmara was no child. Suddenly aware of staring, Rowan gave up his study of the long, slender limbs exposed by the disarray of her saffron leine or tunic. In the periphery of his vision, he caught a movement and looked back in time to see a floating swath of bright woven wool settle over the comely curves of Maire’s body. Kneeling at her side, the warrior Declan glared back at him with open contempt, his fingers fastening a princely broach to the short kilt he wore about his waist, in place of the brat he’d used as a blanket for his queen.

Rowan met the young man’s glare with a conjured smile. No matter how he came by it, the young cock would be dead had he flashed Justinian’s ring in Rowan’s face a few years ago. The sight of the gift he’d given his teacher and friend would have destroyed Rowan’s ability to reason out what most likely had happened. The pagan owed his life to the very God he scorned, for Rowan knew he alone did not possess the strength to resist this old, too familiar thirst for vengeance.

Faith, but vengeance was a bitter potion to swallow. It lodged in his chest like a bone in a dog’s throat, making it difficult
to breathe, much less bellow. Better to consider the nature of the Scot’s relationship with the queen before demon anger gained sway of thought and action.

Was the golden-maned warrior the queen’s bodyguard? her lover? or both? The thought undermined his indifference, vexing Rowan even more. It made no difference to him. It wasn’t as if the pagan marriage he was about to enter meant anything to him as a Christian, or to them in regard to eternity. The Scotti were a passionate people and did not consider wedlock binding for life. Sometimes no more than a year and a day were promised, or so he’d heard. Afterward, a couple might go their separate ways by mutual consent.

While Rowan had found that idea appealing at one time, he didn’t now. If he ever really took a woman as wife, it would be with the blessing of the church for as long as he lived. Women, at least in wifely terms, had not fit into his plans. Until now. Aye, he’d stand with the Scotti queen and go through her heathen ceremony, for it was his means to Gleannmara and, with luck, an opportunity to find his blood clan. For reasons beyond human understanding, God used Maire’s quandary with this Morlach as an instrument to make the way for Rowan to follow the calling he’d been given. He felt it deeply in his soul, this calling that had brought him back from death’s door to see life in a totally different light than before. It was a precious gift of which he strove to be worthy.

“You bear a gift, Rowan of Emrys, but it isn’t yours to give.”

Rowan started from his reverie to see the elderly druid standing next to Shahar, stroking the stallion’s velvet nose with gnarled fingers. In a single fluid effort, Rowan rose to his feet and brushed away the straw clinging to his robe. He possessed clothes fit for a prince, but the humble garment kept him centered on his purpose, God’s purpose. The weave rubbed coarse against his skin, reminding him that his road would not be smooth as silk.

“I assure you, Brude, these animals are mine to give. Their
bloodlines will make Gleannmara’s horses the envy of Erin.”

Brude’s smile was one of mild tolerance. It obviously wasn’t the answer the druid was looking for. His gaze grew intense beneath the snowy thicket separating it from his high brow, which was shaven in the tonsure of his profession.

“We must talk, Emrys, but there is much to be done before we see landfall. Do you notice nothing amiss with the wind?”

“Only that it favors your ship, but then, I was a horse soldier not a seaman.”

“And what are you now, good son?”

“A hostage.”

The sun made Rowan squint as he studied the tall mast, strained to its very root in the hull by the unfurled sails. It groaned in occasional protest but held fast, a proud testimony to the craftsmen of the vessel.

“Your sacrifice must have appeased your spirits,” Rowan said at length, preferring to divert the conversation from himself.

Again the bland smile. “The Great One’s many faces have smiled upon us, true. But this does not fit the pattern.” The old man sniffed, as though something in the air might solve the riddle plaguing him. It did not. He shook his head, eluded.

“I must awaken our queen. We shall need the blessing of the full sun to forge this union for the good of Gleannmara’s future. Enough time has wasted away.”

When Brude laid his hand upon Maire’s shoulder, the joyous revelry in her dream disappeared in a flash. Gone were the familiar faces of her tribe gathered in Gleannmara’s hero’s hall, including those of her parents, who by some trick of obscurity, were not only present but proud of her success. Instead, it was the druid’s face she now saw. In lieu of the smoke from the roasting fires, the smell of hay and livestock tinged with the incongruous freshness of salt air filled her nostrils. Where the
solid ground of Gleannmara had stood beneath her feet, a ship’s deck waltzed with the sea.

“The wedding must take place while the sun is at its strongest. Yesterday you became queen; today you become a bride.”

Maire nodded. Her stomach breached a swell in concert with the motion of the ship. The wine that had delighted her mouth last night had turned sour and dry. Would that she could take out her tongue and wash it with spring water like the women laundering clothes along the brook. She refreshed her lungs with a deep breath and glanced about her.

Many of her men lay about the deck like corpses, contented by the volume of food and wine consumed the night before. But for the working seamen, the deck might well have been the straw-strewn floor of the hero’s hall. Although a formal election needed to take place on their return, she really was their queen. They’d embraced her as one of them and lifted her above them. All those years of training had finally come to fruition. It was this for which she’d been groomed.