The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) (41 page)

“You think we could do that?” asked Dessia. The thought of someday returning to Cahermara on the beautiful mare filled her with excitement.

Bridei smiled at her, his blue eyes bright with warmth for the first time in nearly a sennight. “I’ll do my best.”

A lump formed in Dessia’s throat. It had been unfair of her to blame Bridei for having to leave Cahermara. He hadn’t planned to get her with child. And she must remember that if he hadn’t rescued her from O’Bannon, she’d have no hope of ever reclaiming her heritage. She owed him so much. When they finally had a chance to be alone in a proper bedchamber, she intended to show him how grateful she was.

They reached the stables, which was a large timber building. A small, dark-eyed man came out to greet them. Bridei nodded to him. “We’d like have our horses cared for, perhaps for an extended period of time.”

The man scrutinized the two animals. He looked back at Bridei, his eyes narrowed in speculation. “How will you pay? Do you carry coin or trade goods?”

“Alas, we have neither. But I’m a trained
filidh
. I was hoping I might perform for King Conla and he would pay you.”

“A bard, you say. Where’s your harp?”

Bridei motioned in the direction of the sea. “I had a very rough crossing. Most of our possessions were lost overboard. While I was grieved to lose my harp, at least I escaped with my life.”

Dessia gazed in puzzlement at Bridei, wondering what he was up to. Then she told herself to relax. Bridei knew what he was about. Then she thought about what he’d just said. Her workmen had made him another harp, but he’d had to leave that one behind at Dun Cullen. He’d given up so much for her.

Bridei continued, “If there’s a harp in the settlement, perhaps I could borrow it for my performance. Otherwise, I’m perfectly able to sing without accompaniment. Or, I could tell tales. The last place I visited, the people particularly enjoyed the story of Arthur, King of the Britons.”

“Arthur. Aye. I’ve heard of him,” the man responded.

“I used to be Arthur’s bard,” Bridei said. “So, the tales I tell of him are based on fact . . . mostly, that is.” He smiled enigmatically.

The man glared at him. “You’re surely lying now. Arthur’s bard was the silver-tongued Bridei ap Maelgwn.”

“Aye. That’s my name.”

“You couldn’t be him,” said the man insisted. “The bard of the great King Arthur has to be a far older man.”

Bridei grinned. “I started young.”

“Prove it,” said the man.

Bridei began to sing. To Dessia, it was pure enchantment. All Bridei had to do was open his mouth and the music poured out, rich, beautiful and vibrant. The man’s eyes widened and he smiled. Although he was obviously convinced of Bridei’s identity, he said nothing, clearly wanting Bridei to finish the song.

As the last notes died away, Bridei gazed at the man questioningly. The man nodded. “I believe you now. You’re welcome to keep your horses here as long as you wish. Finian and Sorley will care for them.” He gestured toward to youths who’d appeared not long after Bridei started singing. The two young men kept their gazes fixed on Bridei, regarding him with awe. The stablemaster snapped his fingers. “Stop gaping and see to your work!” he called to the youths.

Bridei turned to the stallion and began unfastening the bundles containing the few supplies they’d brought.

“Here now,” the man said. “Let me do that.”

Bridei stood back, and the man quickly undid the leather thongs holding their packs on the horses.

“We need to find someone to take us across the sea to Britain,” said Bridei.

“You’ll be wanting Ronat then,” the man answered. “He’s my cousin and a skilled sailor. Ask for him down by river where they keep the boats.”

Bridei discussed their plans to go to Gwynedd while Dessia patted the mare, saying goodbye.

After the stablemaster left, Bridei came up next to her. “Now that I’ve convinced Eachan I’m a famous bard, I’m confident he’ll take good care of the horses until we return.” He grinned at her, and she smiled back.
Oh, aye, as soon as they were alone, she would make Bridei understand she appreciated everything he’d done for her.

“Before we go to the king’s rath, we should probably wash,” suggested Bridei.

“Aye. That would be wise,” agreed Dessia. “While you can easily prove you’re a bard with your singing skill, in my current bedraggled state, no one would ever guess I was once queen of a substantial territory.”

Bridei’s deep blue eyes focused on her intently. “No matter what happens, you’ll always be a queen to me. And I mean to make certain you once again reign as queen of the Fionnlairaos.”

Dessia felt herself melting. This was bliss, to have him look at her like that.

His expression turned regretful. “It grows late, and I’d rather not arrive at the rath after the gates have closed.”

Dessia nodded, recalling what was still ahead of them.

They asked another woman they met the direction of the nearest cistern, then found it and washed at the large stone basin. After splashing his face and drying on his undertunic, Bridei touched his jaw and said, “I’d like to shave. I wonder if there are any barbers here.”

“Why don’t you wear a beard, like most men?” asked Dessia, also drying off.

“When my beard first grew in, I was living in Gaul, where the old Roman ways are still strong and most men shave their faces. Then when I returned to Britain and grew a beard, I found it itchy and uncomfortable. I’ve shaved regularly ever since, at least when I’ve had access to a knife sharp enough to do the job.” He shrugged. “I suppose I like that it makes me look different than most men.”

“It makes you look younger, which would seem to be a disadvantage for a bard. You heard what the stablemaster said.”

“And you saw how I silenced him. I’m confident enough in my abilities that I don’t need to look like a sage old master.” He cocked his head. “Although I didn’t succeed when I first sang for you. Despite my best efforts to impress you with my skill, you set me to breaking rocks.”

Dessia felt her face flush. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Although I was enthralled by your singing, I resisted. I suppose I knew if I ever gave in to your charm I would succumb completely.”

Bridei motioned in the direction of the hillfort and they started walking. “I understand why you resisted me. You were thinking of your people and your kingdom rather than giving in to your own inclinations. Back then, you never considered what
you
wanted. All your decisions were made on the basis of what was best for the Fionnlairaos.”

“And now it seems as if I’ve forgotten them.”

“Just remember, if you die, the legacy of the Fionnlairaos vanishes into the mists of time. You’re their only hope, and you must do what is necessary to preserve your life, and also the life you carry within you.” He nodded to her still-flat belly. “This child represents the future, and you must do what you can to protect and nurture it.”

The next moment, he added, “We should hurry. It’s always troublesome to gain entrance to a fortress after the gates have closed for the night.”

They walked swiftly, not speaking, and finally reached the gate of the rath. Although it stood open, an armed warrior immediately stepped in their pathway. “State your business.”

“I’m a traveling bard,” Bridei responded. “Let me in and I’ll entertain your household for the evening in exchange for a place to sleep.”

“Where’s your harp?” the man asked.

“Alas, I was forced to leave it behind. But if your master would be willing to let me borrow one, I would gladly sing for him.”

Dessia watched the man wearily, wondering if Bridei would once again be forced to prove he was a bard. But the man moved aside so they could enter, then summoned a young boy and said, “Take them to the king.”

The boy took them to a large round structure. Although the hall was built of timber with a thatched roof, the lintel over the wide doorway was of stone and had images of various gods and heroes etched into it. The boy escorted them inside, where Dessia saw more evidence of wealth. The timbers supports of the hall were carved with intricate swirling designs and painted bright colors, and vivid weavings covered the walls. A group of men were gathered around the fire. Dessia regarded them warily, wondering which one was Conla.

Bridei bowed. “I’m Bridei ap Maelgwn, a bard from Britain. I would be pleased to offer my humble skills to entertain you for the evening, in exchange for a place to stay and something to eat.”

In response to Bridei’s words, several of the men turned to look at a squat, swarthy fellow in their midst. He looked very foreign, and Dessia could scarce believe he was the ruler of this place. But when he opened his mouth, his Irish was clear and easy to understand: “What’s a British bard doing traveling in Ireland? And who is the young woman with you?”

Bridei reached out and pulled Dessia close. “I’m afraid we’re leaving behind a rather awkward situation. I was performing in the household of a chieftain named Tiernan O’Bannon when I became enamored of his daughter.” He looked fondly at Dessia, and his hand stroked hers reassuringly. “When O’Bannon discovered us in a compromising situation, he became enraged. I offered to wed his daughter and even pay a substantial dowry. He refused and threw me into an underground chamber. With the aid of some of the chieftain’s retainers, I was able to escape with my paramour and come to this place. As you can see, Lady Dessia is of an age to make her own choices, and she has chosen to come with me. We hope to get passage to Britain as soon as possible. My father, Maelgwn the Great, is a powerful chieftain there.”

Dessia’s heart was thundering in her chest. Would these men believe Bridei’s explanation?

“It’s a charming tale,” responded Conla, his face expressionless. “Worthy of a bard. And you are a bard. I can tell from the smooth tone of your voice and the way you phrase things that you’re used to spinning tales. I’m inclined to believe at least part of your story. I’ve met Maelgwn the Great. While you’re not a giant of a man like he is, you do bear some resemblance.”

“You’ve met my father?” Although Bridei’s voice was easy, Dessia was standing close enough to feel him tense.

“Aye.” Conla‘s teeth glinted in the dark of his beard as he smiled in a way that was both ironic and vaguely sinister. “Although not under the most pleasant of circumstances.”

Bridei nodded, but didn’t press the man for more information. Recalling that Bridei had told her the Irish often raided the coastlines of Gwynedd, Dessia could guess how Conla might have encountered his father.

“So,” said Bridei. “Now that you’ve learned how we’ve come to be here, are you willing to give us food and shelter for the night?”

Conla nodded. “For the price of a few songs, you and Lady Dessia may join us.”

The other men made room for them, and Dessia and Bridei sat down near Conla. Servants brought roast pork, hot savory bannocks and wine. As they ate, Bridei and Conla discussed where Bridei might find a boat to take them across the sea to Gwynedd. Once that matter was out of the way, they talked about trading. Conla told them he had once been a slaver, raiding the coasts of Britain and then taking his captives back to Ireland to sell. But raiding was dangerous work, he said, and after a nearly fatal encounter with a certain Cymry chieftain—he grinned at Bridei as he said this—he decided to find a different means of making a living.

He’d become a trader, and later, when he’d grown tired of traveling, settled in Ath Cliath. Because of its natural harbor and its location, the site was an ideal trading center. He’d built the hillfort, which was called Rath Conla, and he was now known as the “king” of Ath Cliath, mainly because he had the resources to defend the settlement.

Bridei mentioned the traders who’d been at Cahermara only a few weeks before, and asked if they’d come to Ath Cliath. Conla’s expression grew grim. “I know the men you speak of, and I’m afraid I have bad news of them. About a fortnight ago, their currach went down in a fierce winter storm just north of here. Presumably, everyone on board perished.”

“Their boat went down?” Bridei repeated, looking stunned. “How can you be certain it was them?”

Conla shook his head. “The wreckage of their vessel washed ashore, and among the items found lashed to the hull was some jewelry they’d purchased here. The pieces were made by Branach Ui Diarach, the finest metalsmith in Ath Cliath. I would know his work anywhere.”

“Isn’t it possible they sold the items to another trader, and it was their boat that went down?” asked Bridei.

“Why would they sell the jewelry to another trader?” asked Conla. “Besides, there are only so many large currachs that sail these waters.” His expression grew thoughtful. “Who are these men to you, that you appear so distressed by news of their deaths?”

Bridei looked at Dessia, then shook his head. “If things had gone as I intended, I would have likely been in that currach when it set sail from here.”

All at once, Dessia understood. Bridei had told her he’d intended to meet up with the traders after they left Cahermara. Because she’d misunderstood Bridei’s conversation with Penrick and Rinc and had him imprisoned, he hadn’t be able to meet them. It now appeared her mistrust of Bridei—which she’d regretted so bitterly these past few weeks—had actually saved his life.