Maire (29 page)

But was he prepared to marry her, to take her as a Christian wife in
all
the scriptural senses? Hanging his head, Rowan closed the door, as if the heavenly reminders of the sun’s ever-present light scorched his conscience. Jaw jutting, he padded
back to the bed and flopped back onto the mattress.

No, he was not so prepared. He would have the marriage annulled when Morlach was no longer a threat. Death was the eminent path Morlach chose for himself. It was just a matter of time. As for Gleannmara, time too would prove to Niall and Cairthan alike that working together was to their best interest. When the tuath prospered, then he could pursue his godly studies with a mind uncluttered by husbandly or lordly concerns.

Relieved, he closed his eyes. No consummation, no valid marriage. There was still a way to meet his obligations
and
pursue his calling. Of that he was certain now, at least in his mind. His heart, though, not as easily swayed by reason, held out for further debate.

T
he ceremony was performed the next day after the nunday repast. Unlike that of the Celts, the Christian marriage favored no particular season, such as Tailtain’s spring fair, where contracts were made, or Imbolc, when the ceremonies took place.

Rowan’s Cairthan mother attended Maire, helping her dress and preparing her to become a bride.

“You’re a beautiful bride,” Maire’s mother-in-law-to-be told her. “What a glorious mane of hair you have.” She crowned Maire with a wreath of early blossoms and bowed her head for the happiness of the newlyweds.

Maire peeped through half-lidded eyes at her reflection in the mirror.
Mane
was an appropriate choice of words, for she felt like a horse with four legs struggling in a full hobble of skirts. She’d far rather don the short leine she usually wore. As for glorious, there was a sure bounty of hair when it was freed from the leather-wrapped braid she wore daily for training and battle. It was as close to the unbound tresses of an unmarried maid as her calling customarily allowed.

It wasn’t until she saw her intended groom that Maire gave any credit to Ciara’s admiration of her appearance. Rowan’s grim gaze took on new light when she entered the queen’s chapel where the wedding was to take place. Suddenly, seeing the look in his eyes, for the first time she could remember, she
felt
beautiful. It was a new and pleasing experience. Now if she could just be a good wife, given her lack of training for it.

When Maire heard Rowan vow to love her no matter what
happened until she went to the other side, something heart jarring came over her. She watched his face—the way his jaw squared, the added depth of his gaze, which was fairly churning with a fierceness of emotion she’d never seen before, the movement of his bloodless lips as his rich and deep “I do so solemnly swear” passed through them.

She’d not yet said a word of commitment, still she was already one with him. She knew his anxiety, his frustration, the way the vows were strained pure through his heart and soul before they were fit for God’s ear. And then it was her turn. Rowan’s gaze enveloped her so that she hardly saw the priest.

For the first time in her life, Maire feared she might swoon—or worse, lose her stomach like a sniveling weakling before Diarhmott and the court of Tara.

“Do you so swear, Maire of Gleannmara?” Father Tomás’s words echoed inside her skull, bouncing about to the pounding of her blood. Invisible hands wrung her throat so that her words scarcely made it out.

“Aye, I swear, same as him.”

The corner of Rowan’s mouth curled ever so slightly, but it was enough to snap the fingers binding her throat so that she could breath—even smile back. His hands, folded over her own, tightened, and the warmth was a balm to every screaming nerve in Maire’s body. Once again she had the sensation of being enveloped, but this time it was by the same power that heard her prayer the night before. She wondered if Rowan felt the hug of the Holy Spirit too.

Of course, scores of questions continued to arise regarding this Christian God she had accepted above all others, but she dared not voice them lest she spend another ordeal of hours with Brude and the cleric. Her mind was full enough for now with this God’s spell.

Later, at the wedding feast, the spell was broken by the abundance of distractions. A swirling quandary of emotions heaved within Maire’s stomach, threatening what little she consumed
from the bread plate she shared with her groom. Soon they would share more than the meal.

When it came time for music and dancing, Rowan led his bride to the center of the hall where they were joined by others. One anxiety gave way to another, as once again her legs struggled within the skirts of her wedding dress, each one tripping upon the other. It required her full attention to keep from sprawling like a drunken cow among the lovelier and surely more graceful maids that surrounded them. Yet an occasional surreptitious glance at her husband reassured her that Rowan had eyes only for her.

Even after they were separated by the merriment to take other partners, she caught his smile meeting the curious glances she cast over her shoulder. That smile took out her knees with its warmth. Tripping over a second set of invisible feet, she sprawled headlong into Declan’s arms.

“Ach, look at me,” she cried out in dismay. “I dance like a clumsy nag. The footwork of swordplay comes natural, but this confounded dress is nothing less than a hobble in disguise!”

“You let your heart free, Maire, and it will guide your feet.”

“But what if my heart isn’t sure?”

“Then ye dance like a clumsy nag.” Declan couldn’t keep his face straight for long. With a laugh, he eased her back into step. When he saw Maire was really disturbed, his tone grew helpful. “I would wager the lasses at Gleannmara might help you more there than I, lass. Though by the way your husband looks at you, I don’t think it’s your dancin’ he’s thinkin’ about.”

Her foster brother didn’t need to elaborate. Maire wouldn’t even think about what could happen when they were alone, finally blessed by the Christian God. Would the bargain they’d made be forgotten?

“Lianna is a sunny-hearted lass, but that Brona is grace itself.” Declan’s wistful words drifted into her thoughts. “Reminds me of the moon, giving less of herself than the sun, yet her secrets call out to man, beggin’ to be discovered.”

Maire stumbled from her contemplation. “Brona? Gwythan’s foster daughter? Ach, cupid’s arrow has already run Eochan through. Tell me there won’t be two weddings at Drumkilly instead of one.”

“Now don’t be gettin’
those
ideas. I’m not about to ask her to live in my heart and pay no rent, although the blanket doubled
is
warmer.” Declan grinned, devilment aplenty in the pale blue of his eyes. “Ye know well enough what I’m talkin’ about. No doubt ye took a chill this mornin’ without Rowan and his blanket to warm ye.”

“’Tis none of your concern how many blankets I like, much less whose. It’s no one’s business for that matter.”

“It is when you’re a queen, Maire.”

“I’m thinking bein’ a queen is a worrisome task.”

Did it plague her mother as much as it dogged her? Husbands, druids, and now this God threesome…the Trinity, her tutor called it.

The music ended momentarily, giving the multitude of conversations going on at the same time the entire share of the company’s hearing. As Maire and Declan walked out of the center of dancers, bits and pieces of this subject and that snagged her attention. Some women discussed the Welsh embroidery on her dress. A couple of servants fretted over keeping the platters on the guests’ tables filled. But it was a loud disclaimer near the high king’s table that abruptly shushed them all.

“I tell you, druid, I cast no spell!”
Brude’s strong voice rose in annoyance from the cluster of scholars next to the head table. “I came apart from the queen and her company, traveling with Father Tomás from his sanctuary at Glenloch.”

From the table of the high king, Morlach conjured a look of innocence. His voice carried past two of the fires lit to take the night’s heralding chill out of the banqueting hall. “Good Brude, I only said that Gleannmara’s company, who arrived at almost the same time as my guards from Rathcoe, had to have passed
the captain and his men on the road under the invisible cloak of a spell, or they’d been shape-shifted into a herd of deer.”

“Faith, we traveled neither invisible, nor silent…and certainly not as deer.” Rowan laughed. “This close to Tara, our carcasses would be hanging over these fires, were that the case.”

“Are you sure you saw a herd of deer, Culhain?” Diarhmott questioned, turning to a nearby table where Rathcoes’ guards sank deep into the cups with merriment.

“Aye, thirty or more in number,” the man at the head assured the ruler. “The same number as Gleannmara’s company.”

“And were they by chance singing, man?” Rowan asked, tongue in cheek.

Culhain scowled and scratched his head thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, they was makin’ some kind of fuss, unnatural-like.” He soothed his ending shudder with a big gulp of beer and belched loudly.

“But I heard Diarhmott’s best hunters report that there are no deer within two days travel of Tara,” Morlach pointed out. The nobles gathered closer to the king’s table. All issued remarks or nods of assent, showing the druid was not the only one aware of the anomaly.

The lead musician counted off a beat, but stopped at Rowan’s challenge. “Besides, why were your men looking for Gleannmara’s company? I was not aware that Gleannmara and Rathcoe were given to sharing a hearth or campfire willingly.”

Morlach, clad ever in black, narrowed his eyes, which were colder and darker than the charred wood of last night’s fire. Yet his answer was guileless as a babe’s cackle. “It’s just that Culhain traveled along the same route and arrived shortly after you, but not once did anyone catch a glimpse of Gleannmara’s colors, much less of you and your company. It appears the work of magic.”

“Aye.” Cromthal, who until now had cowered behind Morlach, spoke up. “All we saw was a herd of deer passing,
nigh the same number as your party.”

“Ye sure they wasn’t goats or sheep?” one of the king’s royal hunters teased from the next fire over.

“No, they were deer, I say!”

“Perhaps they sang the Song of Patrick.”

The new voice joining the conversation belonged to Diarhmott’s wife. She walked up to the high king’s table, and Maire took in the turkey-leg-sized gold and jeweled cross hanging about her neck. Diarhmott stood and motioned for her take the empty seat next to his.

“My apologies, dearest king,” she said, “but I fear the ladies lulled me away from you longer than I intended.” Once seated, the queen snapped her fingers at the harpist, who in turn struck a chord. “Indulge me, Diarhmott, and hear the Song of the Deer.”

“As you wish.” He nodded to the musician to proceed.

With dancing ended for the moment, the dancers wandered to their respective tables in quiet deference to the clear voice of the bard. Declan and Maire joined Rowan’s small group, standing between the royal and academic tables, rather than cause further disturbance by crossing to their own seats.

The time was that of High King Logaire; the place, the road to Tara. The king’s prophets warned Logaire that the approaching Patrick, the late bishop of Armagh, and his clergy meant an end to pagan Ireland, to the druids themselves. Thus, men were sent to attack the robed saints before they reached Tara’s high hill, to thwart the prophecy.

The ambushers waited in the thick wood by the road day and night, but never once saw Patrick and his followers until they heard the news that the priest had already arrived at Tara and gained audience with Logaire. At Patrick’s encouragement, his men chanted the song of the deer, giving voice and praise to God as they’d passed their unseen enemies. In return, God made them appear as a herd of passing deer.

At the pluck of the last chord, only the crackling of the
cook fires and the creaking of benches beneath the shifting weight of the seated guests filled the air. Maire started at the lilting words from Gleannmara’s druid.

“Perhaps if the one God saw men waiting in ambush for Gleannmara’s party,” Brude theorized aloud, “He gave them the same cover as His clerics.”

“Utter foolraide,” Morlach grumbled. ’Twas not the work of any god, but druid magic.” He rose to his feet and shook his fist at Brude. “Fool all the people you will, Brude, I know what I know.”

“As do I, druid. As do I.”

“Then you know well that this is not the end of Gleannmara’s story.” Morlach turned a seething look on Rowan, so sinister that Maire, standing at his side, felt her skin crawling with dread.

“Cromthal!” Morlach shouted without looking at his servant.

Maire followed the master druid and his shadow with her gaze. Even after they left the room, an unsettling darkness, invisible to the naked eye, lingered in their wake, freezing tongue and limb alike.

Diarhmott waved his hand at the musicians. They struck their strings again with a lively tune that would not leave the feet of any Celt still. Here and there conversations ensued. Those inclined to dance skipped their way to the spot set aside for it. Soon, music, the stomp of the dancers, and words blended in resumed merriment.

Rowan caught Maire’s arm, and her pulse stumbled, then doubled its rate. It was early yet, but not for a newlywed couple. Tonight they would share the carved box bed in the guest room in Temair. It wasn’t nearly as large as the Roman one. She and her husband would surely touch and, if that were to happen, Maire wasn’t certain what she’d do. Part of her longed for it; another dreaded it. Ach, there were too many voices she didn’t know living in her head these days. It was a wonder she
was sound of mind enough to present herself.

“If it please Diarhmott, I would like to retire with my bride for the evening.”

“You’re not feeling well?” Finnead inquired.

Maire looked at the king’s druid curiously. Now why was he concerned with Rowan’s health, unless the cur had reason to expect something amiss. He and Morlach were thick as fleas on the same dog. Alarm put her thoughts to a race—but Rowan had prayed over their food, asking his God to bless it. If it were poisoned—