Maire (15 page)

Man and beast, they were a sight to behold. Shahar’s back was as high as the head of the druid’s chariot horse and his breadth half again wider. Rowan sat high on the magnificent steed, looking every inch a warrior king. His wet skin glistened in the sun; at his lean waist was his sword, its jeweled sheath flashing with fire of its own.

As though on cue, the stallion reared, pawing at air, its neck arched in perfection. The man on its back, no less perfect a specimen in his own right, maintained his seat with no more than his knees and one hand buried in Shahar’s corn-silk mane. Everyone, Maire included, stood rooted to the earth as he introduced himself.

“I am Rowan ap Emrys, hostage, protector, and
husband
to the courageous and beautiful Queen Maire. What is the urgency of your business with Gleannmara’s new lord, druid?”

C
romthal’s skin blanched whiter than death’s own banshee. He’d summoned his twelve years of training and focused the evil eye on Rowan ap Emrys, yet the impudent usurper sat proud upon the back of his horse and returned the stare, undaunted. Not even the legendary Balor, whose look was certain death, would phase this one. Instead of dropping dead, the new husband of Gleannmara’s queen simply treated the whole thing as though it were a contest of wills.

Then the sun caught an amulet about the warrior’s neck, casting a light into Cromthal’s eye so that he had no choice but to look away or be blinded.

Was the man’s power from the amulet or from the god it represented? Doubt and confusion swirled, unleashed, in Cromthal’s mind. Perhaps the evil eye failed because he had to look up at his intended victim. His chest ached, as though a cold stone were lodged there, trying to beat as a heart.

“I fear no man or god, druid, save the one God,” the dark-haired stranger declared, his magnificent white steed pawing at the damp sand. “Tell Morlach that he and his kind are not welcome at Gleannmara from this day hence.”

The queen’s intake of breath was as sharp as Cromthal’s at the insult. The druid’s skin crawled at the thought of passing such a message to his master.

“Then banish Brude as well.” It was a lame reply. The curl of Brude’s lip only added to Cromthal’s shame for not being capable of conjuring up a spell to knock the arrogant Emrys from the back of his horse. The old bard made him feel as foolish as the desperate remark had.

“Gleannmara’s druid has a true heart that searches for the light, for truth, not the darkness spawned by a black lust for greed and power.”

“You have no idea with whom you deal, Emrys. Do not be surprised when your skin blisters with sores and withers away from the bone until your body begs to give up its breath.”

Cromthal dared not try his hand at the satire. He couldn’t collect his thoughts enough, but was sure this was the least Morlach would do to this upstart.

The satire was not entirely wasted. Discomfiture washed over the crowd like the waters on the beach, on all save Emrys and the mysteriously smiling Brude. Turning from Gleannmara’s bard, Cromthal felt the heat of the warrior’s steel blue gaze boring into his back. He had to make himself walk, rather than run, to his waiting chariot.

From out of nowhere, he stumbled over a rock he’d have sworn had not been there upon his approach. The ripple of laughter at the spectacle he made sprawling to his knees destroyed the last shred of power the druid had over the audience. The sunlight was cool on the black wool of his robe compared to the heat of his humiliation. As he climbed into the waiting chariot, the druid was vexed by sweat and chill at the same time. He could not make his escape fast enough from the obvious power of Emrys’s god.

Cromthal slowed his shaggy steed, pulling him closer and closer to Rathcoe and Morlach’s assured rage. Perhaps this is what the fish felt when it leapt from the searing scorch of the pan into fire itself.

The tuath of Rothcoe was ruled from a
crannóg.
Surrounded by water, there was only one way to the man-made island, and that was only when the drawbridge was down as it was now. The crisp click of the pony’s hooves upon the strong planks of oak was as rapid as the heartbeat now thundering in Cromthal’s chest.

Over the gate, colorful banners waved, raised to welcome Morlach’s bride. They were the only sign of brightness in the damp fortress. The master’s best attempt to make the stone tower inside the stockade of stout logs inviting failed as miserably as Cromthal failed in bringing home Morlach’s betrothed.

Inside the lake fortress, swine and chickens scurried out of the chariot’s way. The snorting pony was anxious to return to its stall where fodder awaited. Cromthal descended with as much dignity as was entitled to Morlach’s chief apprentice and walked toward the arched entrance to the stone keep, where the druid warrior himself awaited.

The air inside was rank with a combination of smoke, mold, and animal scents; it was more abusive to the nostrils than Cromthal had noticed in the past. It was like breathing the decay of death. The apprentice climbed the steep winding steps of the keep to the second floor where Morlach entertained his guests. That they were few was indicative of his popularity among the nobility. The
aire
respected him—if fear could be called respect—but did not like him.

Even as he entered the hall, where most of the crannóg’s activity took place, Cromthal saw Morlach rise from the gaming table he shared with Finnaid of Tara. Likewise, the apprentice’s hair rose with anticipation. Like the figures on the chessboard, the master manipulated people. This time, however, his queen had eluded him. The apprentice evaded the looks of both his master and Tara’s druid.

“So she comes?”

Morlach was always intimidating, measuring a good half a head above the average man. The volumes of his fine linen robe made him appear even larger across the shoulders, where a woven yoke of golden thread adorned the garment. It swirled in homage about his ankles as he stepped down from the dais expectantly.

“I didn’t hear the horn heralding her approach,” he drawled, voice laden with suspicion.

“The trumpeters did not see her, master.”

It never occurred to Cromthal to lie. It would do no good. He swallowed, his palate was so dry his tongue stuck to it. Morlach surely knew. He merely intended to play a game, like the cat with a cornered mouse.

“She is returned safely, is she not?”

“Aye, Maire has returned, and her men cheer of her valor and the success of her raid.”

Morlach’s dark thatched brow knit, his gaze boring down on the apprentice. “And…”

The torque at Cromthal’s neck grew tight, as if to squeeze the answer from him.

“She has returned with a husband, master.”

Better to die quickly than to be prodded to death with questions to which Morlach already knew the answers.

“Who is this man?”

Cromthal’s fingers confirmed the torque had not shrunk as it felt, but they held no sway over Morlach’s will.

“Emrys… Rowan ap Emrys… a Welsh lord and hostage.”

Morlach inhaled, his chest swelling with the heat of the rage singeing his face.

“And you have something of his for me?”

Cromthal had nothing belonging to the lord on the prancing stallion. Nothing Morlach could use to do him harm. He’d dared not go near the horse’s hooves for fear its master would run him down. He shook his head, his tongue paralyzed with icy fear.

The druid refused to let Cromthal tear away from his gaze. The apprentice stood as though chained to the spot. Not even when Morlach slung his fist toward him, did Cromthal move. He saw the carved stone chess piece coming at his face but was helpless to protect himself from its painful slam against his forehead. He heard the crack of bone amid the red riot of pain exploding in his consciousness. Then darkness as black as his master’s mood smothered even that out.

Gleannmara.

Maire looked up at the run-down hill fort built by her parents in disbelief. Nine years she’d been away and it had come to this? Parts of the earthen works were washed away, allowing the coming and going of livestock, at least to the outer
fosse.
The ditch itself was overgrown with all manner of thorn and brush. One of the entrance gates lay against the fence surrounding the inner court, while its mate hung ineffectively on one hinge.

This couldn’t possibly be the prosperous tuath she’d left nine years ago. Gleannmara’s walls and buildings had glistened stately white, topped with golden thatch. Its earthen works were green, closely trimmed by fat cattle and shot gray with stone here and there. The livestock wandering aimless about the settlement now were gaunt and wiry, despite the green of Gleannmara’s pasturelands. And where were the neatly tilled fields surrounding the keep? Granted, her people were more herdsmen than farmers, but there had been a few well-tended tracts of land, enough to supply the people of the hill fort and its surrounds sufficient corn throughout the winter months.

“This is your doing, Emrys. The evil eye is upon Gleannmara, while you go untouched.”

Maire glared at the man who’d stood up to the druid and insulted his master.

“This is not my doing nor the work of an evil eye.” Rowan studied the lay of the land and its habitats with an unfathomable expression.

“Brude,” Maire called the druid, as if to confirm what her own eyes could not—would not—see. A druid could see past illusion. “Where are my people? What has happened here?”

Maire remembered Gleannmara’s glory—the song and laughter, the abundance of field and forest to feed the many friends who frequented its tables, the remarkable precision
with which the seasons came and went, each cherished in its own way. What lay before her now looked to be the result of nine years of winter, and this already spring.

“What do you see, child?”

“Abandonment.”

“And…”

Maire glanced at the druid. Disappointment and disillusionment stung her eyes, but she refused to give them sway. Chin jutting, shoulders squared, she turned back to examine the disheartening landscape. Here and there a wisp of smoke curled gray against the blue of the sky. She sniffed the air where its familiar scent wafted on the breeze. Her assumption was too hasty.

“No, not abandonment.”

She chewed her thumb, as though she were the legendary Finn, seeking wisdom. But Maire had not touched the Salmon of Knowledge as the Finian soldier had done more than a century before. If this were some horrible spell, however, perhaps this would break it, and she would see her home as it really was, proud and gleaming from its hilltop.

“My people are hiding,” she said at last, not the least certain. She was neither Finn nor a druid, so the result was just the hapless measure of a disconcerted young woman, chewing at her thumbnail.

“What manner of cowards are you?” Declan shouted behind her. Her foster brother began to beat on his shield. “Queen Maire! Queen Maire!”

One by one, two by two, more and more of her people were delivered from their stunned silence by Declan’s prompting until the hills roared her name. Maire hardly felt worthy. She was grateful for the spirited mare she rode alongside a silent Emrys, because had she been afoot, her legs might have betrayed her. She’d heard how Morlach had bled her people, but this was worse than she thought even
he
could do.

From behind, the warriors who’d mustered from the
fortress before the voyage rushed forward, carrying the blue and gold colors of Gleannmara. “Make way for Queen Maire! The scion of Maeve and Rhian rules Gleannmara again!” Unable to hold back from seeking out their loved ones, some of her men broke away to search the hedgerows and forest edge for sign of them.

“By the tides, Maire, ’tis worse than we thought.” Eochan stepped up to her side. “No wonder Morlach sought to lure you to Rathcoe for the wedding.”

“Morlach!” Maire spat the name out like risen bile, even as the trees and brush began to give up those hiding among them. Women and children mostly surged forward to meet the returning warriors. The only men who remained behind were those unable to fight due to age or infirmity. “By my mother’s gods, Brude, he must pay for this.”

Kneeing the mare forward, Maire sped toward the boisterous reunion of her clan. Hers. Not Eochan’s nor Declan’s but the blood of her blood. Would she know them after nine years, these cousins and cousin’s cousins?

Raising her spear over her head, Maire whooped in triumph. They would know her. She would be the queen who restored Gleannmara to its former status. The booty of the raid would rebuild her home, making it a dwelling place fit for the queen the victory had made her.

“Look well, Rowan ap Emrys. ’Tis the last time your eyes will see this keep in such a sorry state.”

Although he didn’t believe in such things, Rowan could swear Maire was a shape-shifter. On the ship, her transformation from quarrelsome vixen to queen of passion for her tuatha robbed Rowan of his earlier mischief. When Maire looked up at him as she was now, he wanted nothing more than to please rather than tease her. Her excitement was infectious, jarring as the impact of her sword against his had been so many days ago. The effect
flowed through his fingers to the very core of his senses.