Riona (34 page)

The women on the seamstress’s slope of the fair had just finished fitting new clothes for the children to wear for the ceremony. While Riona saw to the little ones’ baths and prepared them for bed, Kieran went to collect the garments. He’d even attended vespers, kneeling with his family-to-be. He wasn’t perfect, but then, neither was she. They brought out the worst in each other … and the best.

“He was the most arrogant, pompous iarball I’d ever seen when we first met.” Finella smiled, fondness twinkling in her brown eyes. “But he’s showed himself to be more than a beastie’s hind since.”

Riona laughed. It was the first time she’d laughed since waking from her troubled sleep, and it was amazingly soothing to her troubled
mind. “Aye, you’re right. And this is just marriage fluster. I so hate being a ninny.”

A rose-cheeked Leila entered the room and tapped her foot like an impatient princess. The child didn’t have to say what she was thinking: It was time to move on—not just with the wedding, but with their lives.

An hour later, Riona approached the altar in one of the older churches at the monastery on Fynn’s arm. Dressed in a new saffron tunic with princely trimmings in the autumn hues of his brat, he walked like a statue barely come to life. Liex and Leila preceded them in complementary shades of bright green and blue, matched miniatures too full of excitement to contain themselves. They waved gaily at familiar faces, grinning and giggling their way down the aisle despite the stern countenance of the waiting groom.

Or was it frozen? Even Kieran’s ruddy complexion could not hide the fact that the blood had fled his face and neck. His royal torque of gold looked as if it were displayed upon a sheet. Faith, he was as skittish as she! The realization was oddly comforting. Riona met his gaze and smiled. Warmth kindled in the dark amber of his eyes. She felt it spreading in herself as well—a soothing, reassuring warmth.

“ ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends,’ ” her uncle began. The words from the chapter of John echoed in the rafters, amplified by the natural acoustics of the building. “And it is that kind of love that brings these people here today, before God and man, to declare it. Riona of Dromin and these children risked their lives for Kieran of Gleannmara. This same Kieran has risked his own life for their sake.”

Greater love had no man … Nor woman
, Riona thought as Fynn solemnly presented her when asked who gives this woman.

“I require and charge you both,” Father Cromyn continued, “as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, that ye confess it.”

Riona shook her head despite her thoughts. Fynn’s role belonged to
her father. Where the king of Scotia Minor stood next to Kieran, Heber should have been. But what was and what should be were not always the same—not for God’s own Son, nor for her. The past would be resurrected in the future. For now she prayed her loved ones watched from a holy loft.

“I, Kieran O’Kyle Mac Niall of Gleannmara, do take thee Riona, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, for fairer or fouler, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God’s holy ordinance; and there unto I plight thee my troth.”

There could be no doubt as to the sincerity of Gleannmara’s vow. He looked at and spoke to her as if to envelop her with his spirit. Such was the completeness of the embrace that her own vow echoed outside it, as though it belonged to one of the bystanders. Rings hastily purchased at the fair were exchanged in lieu of the one that had been used to frame Kieran for murder or that belonging to her father, which remained in keeping at Kilmare among the belongings Riona hastily left behind at the abbey.

Father Cromyn wrapped their joined hands with a gold-tasseled sash. “Let us pray. O Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life, send Thy blessing upon these Thy servants, this man and this woman, whom we bless in Thy Name; that as Isaac and Rebecca lived faithfully together, so these persons may surely perform and keep the vow and covenant betwixt them made, whereof these rings are given and received as a token and pledge, and may ever hereafter remain in perfect love and peace together, and live according to Thy laws; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

As Riona and Kieran repeated the Lord’s Prayer with the gathering, she heard the small but strong voices of her children—
their
children—saying the words she’d taught them in earnest concert until the closing amen.

“And thank you for sending us parents,” Fynn and Liex simultaneously inserted.

Riona glanced at them. All three siblings held hands, heads bowed.
It was hard for her to see through the tears that started somewhere in the midst of the ceremony, but as they looked up, joy spilled over their faces.

“God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit, bless, preserve, and keep you,” Cromyn went on without stumbling at the improvisation. “The Lord mercifully with His favor look upon you and so fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace that ye may so live together in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen.”

The priest looked up, grinning as widely as either of the youngsters.
“Nephew
, you may kiss the bride.”

Thought fled Riona’s mind at the prompt. She turned, toes curled within her slippers in expectation. Kieran tipped her face upward with the crook of his finger. Leaning down, he brushed her lips with a soft promise and then straightened to full height, shoulders squared. Beaming like a king’s candle, he slipped his arm around her and turned to face the onlookers.

“Good friends,” he announced, preempting Cromyn, “Thanks to God’s good grace, I give you my lady and my life, Riona of Gleannmara.”

A chorus of congratulations and huzzahs filled the chamber. Pipes gathered their wind in preparation for the couple’s exit at the back of the church. Suddenly a shower of flower petals rained over them. Riona turned to see Fynn holding Leila up on his shoulders, the latter laughing as she shook the last remains from her ribboned basket. Liex scrambled to gather them up from the floor for one last toss when Kieran reached down with his spare arm and scooped him up by the waist.

“Hey!” the lad shouted, astonished as the groom tucked him under his arm and, with Riona on the other, carried Liex out backwards, Fynn and Leila bringing up the rear. Surely no stranger—nor happier—recession had ever been seen.

The journey back to the bruden didn’t seem half as long as that which took Riona there. Since the brewy already entertained a king and his court, the establishment was well prepared for the wedding party and its esteemed guests. A dais had been constructed, its white silk canopy adorned with flowers and vines for the high king, Aidan,
and for the bridal couple. To the right of the entrance was Aedh’s retinue and court, while the Dalraidi and Dromin dominated the benches surrounding the low tables on the south side of the entrance.

There were too many guests for any to recline or laze normally while they supped. Word of the extraordinary events at the race and of the wedding that replaced a trial had spread. Each bench was filled to capacity. Guests stood near the kegs of wine and barrels of ale where the bruden master himself dispensed the drink. A fair
and
a wedding with royal, clerical, and allegedly supernatural blessings was as good an event as any Celt could want.

Toast after toast was lifted in honor of the newlyweds, while all manner of meat, fish, and fowl circulated on trays as large as cart wheels. Breads of all shapes, sizes, and grains were heaped on every table along with fruits, both dried and fresh, and nuts imported from the east. Musicians provided by the high king orchestrated the lively conversations, inspiring many guests to tap their feet and legs without missing a word regarding their subject of interest.

Friends both old and new, noble and common, shared the closest tables to the newlyweds and their honorable hosts. Besides the northern Uí Niall presence—which included the high king and the Dalraidi—a representation of their southern Niall clans was also in attendance, including Bran Dub, the provincial king of Leinster and overking to Gleannmara, who arrived just in time for the occasion. Bran Dub and Aidan exchanged stories of Kieran’s exploits in their service over a flagon of wine imported from Gaul.

Conspicuously absent was Baetan, the northern Niall King of Ulster. Uninvited because of his resentment of his cousin Aedh Ainmire and because of a stubborn insistence that the Dalraidi of Scotia Minor owed him—not the high king—allegiance and tribute, Baetan sulked at Tara, a would-be high king in a once-glorious court, now cursed and abandoned. Not even Gadra and the minions Baetan had sent to keep him abreast of the business of the fair had shown up.

For Riona’s part, Maille was not missed.

Whether guilty himself or guilty by association, he’d nearly cost her Kieran’s life and possibly those of the children. Only the heavenly
Father could use evil’s own redhand to point out the answer to her prayers for guidance and send the most unlikely earthly angels to their rescue, Riona thought, seeking out the gleemen in the crowded hall.

If she and Kieran had not already adopted the gleeman’s orphans, Dallan and Finella probably would have. Under the fatherly eye of Dallan, Fynn and Liex participated in tumbling, but Leila held back, sitting like a petite doll beside Finella. The latter had told the child that ladies didn’t tumble head over skirts, but sat like queens over their court. All Leila needed was a scepter. Instead, she held Lady Gray, who slept in regal repose on her mistress’s lap.

Marcus divorced himself from the amusement that evening. Instead he was the entertained. Glued to the elbow of Aidan’s bard, he listened in awe to the elder expound upon the elements of rhyme. Not a word seemed wasted on the younger man.

All told, it was a strange mix, with high king to lesser kings and cattlelords; bards of the highest order and their lowly counterparts; soldier champions of war and priestly advocates of peace. That all had gathered to honor Kieran and his bride was more than Riona could grasp. Kieran’s superiors and peers toasted his character as much as his sword. Words such as
noble, loyal, fair
, and
stalwart
echoed all around her. She knew now that her own imperfections had caused her to turn a blind eye to Kieran’s many good qualities and focus on a flaw. Her heart, though, had seen him as he was: a good man. Imperfect, but good.

A new arrival entered the hall flanked by two companions. The foot Riona tapped to the music stilled. How dare Lord Maille show his face! Indeed, as the Ulster lord boldly approached the head table, conversation dampened in his wake. The music played on, but the boisterous voices were now subdued to speculative whispers.

“Milord.” Maille addressed Kieran, seemingly oblivious to his reception. “I have come to publicly offer my apologies and my congratulations, in that order.” Maille pulled a small, drawstringed bag from his waistband and handed it to Riona’s new husband.

Otherwise impassive, Kieran’s brow shot up as he took it up and shook out the contents. It was the ring he’d sought the night of Fintan’s
murder—the one he’d intended for his future bride, that instead had nearly become his death sentence.

“The late bishop had it in his possession … part of the evidence he’d hoped to use against you,” Maille explained. “Now that the man has confessed, albeit posthumously, and you are absolved both by earth and, I hear, heaven as well, I see no reason why you should not have it for your lady.”

Riona shuddered. She wanted no part of it. At least, not until it was washed.

“Not
all
the redhands are absolved to my mind,” Kieran observed pointedly.

Maille was unaffected by the subtle accusation. “If you refer to Tadgh, Senan’s hired assassin, put your mind to rest. It seems he drowned after being run into the river at sword point.”

Riona looked at Kieran sharply. They both knew the hand on the hilt of the sword. He refused to meet her gaze.

“I mourn no slaver of innocent children,” Kieran disdained. “Few deserved to die more. Erin’s judges were spared in that instance.”

Still he refused to look at Riona as he absently toyed with the ring, the drill of his gaze riveting Maille where he stood. Was it shame she detected behind his facade of bullishness? Mayhap Finella was right. Kieran’s heart was softening—not in leaps and bounds, but changing nonetheless. She placed her hand over his and gave it a reassuring squeeze, as if to say,
I am with you, beloved. I know how you feel
.

“Blood drawn from greed will return to the hand that spilled it,” Father Cromyn reflected from Riona’s side.

Maille gave the priest a quizzical glance. “Is that a scriptural viewpoint, Father,” his voice dripped in skepticism, “or have you become a prophet?”

“Nay, milord. ’Tis my earthly one. In the end of the eternal scheme of things, God alone will judge the murderer and decide his fate,” Cromyn answered. “What is judged or misjudged by us in the now will either be reinforced or rectified then.”

“But earnest repentance and assuming responsibility for one’s deed can change God’s ultimate verdict,” Riona ventured softly for Kieran’s
sake. She didn’t know how much he remembered of the Scripture he’d turned from. She only wanted to remind him that all was not lost over past mistakes. Only the future mattered to the earnest confessor.

Cromyn nodded in agreement, but Colga, sitting within earshot at another table, lifted his goblet of ale—apparently the most recent of many, given the slight slur of his speech. “Come now, friends, surely there are some sinners whom even the blood of Christ cannot wash clean.” He took a healthy swallow and then peered into the remnant wine in his cup. “Red—” he spoke to no one in particular—“looks like blood, doesn’t it, milords?”