Maire (34 page)

Maire thought about this, wonderstruck, as he went on.

“God tells man to love his wife more than himself.”

“And what does He tell a woman to do?”

“To submit to and respect her husband.”

“If he’s respectable and not without reason.”

Rowan ran his fingers along the taper of her cheek. “We are to put no one ahead of the other, save God himself. We are to
become one, Maire, in more ways than the obvious. In spirit and accord. Gleannmara has wedded us already in that sense.”

“Aye, but…” The word
submit
was a stumbling stone she could not get past.

“Will it be so hard to submit to someone who puts you ahead of himself, who would die for you? To someone who is one with you in more ways than the physical? ’Tis what you’ve been doing all along, for the good of Gleannmara.”

Submit.
There had been times when Rhian and Maeve disagreed, but in the end, one submitted to the other for the good of the tuath. They were of one accord and one spirit, and they had ruled as one. They’d fought as heartily as they loved—as
one.

Maire’s eyes widened. He was offering her what she’d always wanted, a love like that of her parents.

“No, Rowan ap Emrys or O’Cairthan. It will not be hard.” She took his hand and folded her own into it, pressing both against her heart, that he might hear its earnest testimony. “Like my father and mother before us, we
are
one in spirit and rule.”

Maire went into Rowan’s arms willingly, no longer fearful of where the commitment might lead. Before the night was out, to refuse to submit to this man would be to refuse to submit to herself. When he kissed her, she kissed him back with equal fervor. Desire flared, burning like incense to not only her senses, but his. It was not her passion that fanned the flames, nor his. It was
theirs.
It was not his touch, nor hers that exacted immeasurable pleasure, but
theirs.
It was not his nor her heart that beat with primitive madness, but
theirs,
playing a rhapsody as one.

As Maire fell back with Rowan against the soft bedding, frantically shedding all that was earthly between them, one thought rose to the surface of her mind. It was only fitting that they become one as man and wife in her parents’ bed, which had known nothing but an enduring and sustaining love.

D
aylight. It came as surely as God’s judgment.
And where will I stand in either?
Rowan wondered, riddled with self-recrimination as he paced the outer rath at the break of dawn. His weakness of the flesh barely spent, he’d torn himself from the bed, leaving the woman of his dreams—the love of his life—sleeping like an angel. Not that Maire had been the least angelic, once introduced to the throes of passion. She loved as fiercely as she fought.

Faith, the memory still stirred him in the midst of his humble meditation. “Father, how can I separate the physical from the spiritual where my wife is concerned?” he cried, falling to his knees in his exasperation.

“Why would you wish to?”

Rowan pivoted, astonished that he’d voiced his anguish and even more so, that he’d been heard. Father Tomás rose from a nearby rock, where apparently he too had sought to meditate in the stillness before sunrise.

Rowan made a frustrated grimace. “I intended to have the wedding annulled.”

“For what purpose?”

“To pursue my studies in the priesthood… without the distraction of a wife. I thought I had it all worked out in my mind, exactly how to keep my promises to myself and to Maire, how to serve both God and Gleannmara, but…”

“But God’s plan was different?”

Rowan looked up at the sky where the sun’s first rays threatened to illuminate the horizon. “I don’t know what is God’s plan
and what is mine. I wanted to become a priest, a teacher.”

Tomás smiled. “You already are those things, Rowan of Gleannmara. It doesn’t take a clerical robe to do that.” At Rowan’s bewildered look, the priest went on. “I have seen your example sway the queen and her people toward God in ways I could not possibly imitate. God has given you a passion for Him that is infectious.”

“Then think of what I could do if—”

“To isolate it somewhere in a glen or on a mountaintop would be a disservice to Him and to yourself. You would not be content.”

“I would
master
contentment!”

“As you master your desire for Maire?”

Rowan could not answer. The priest’s point was well made. Rowan could master nothing without God’s support.

“Do you love her?”

“Aye, that must be it, for she consumes my thoughts, both night and day, both in and out of my presence.” Rowan chuckled in wonder. “For one so worldly, she is such an innocent…a treasure like no other woman I’ve ever met.”

“The queen is indeed a collection of contrary qualities, much like her king.”

Rowan glanced askew at the priest, uncertain if his words carried compliment or criticism. “’Tis an effect she has on a man. She can make me so angry that I nearly forget my faith in one moment, and then surrender my annoyance in the next.”

“I would think marriage to her would truly test and refine a man’s spiritual nature.”

Marriage as a test of God? The idea had never occurred to Rowan. He’d seen the hardship and denial of the priesthood as the real test of a man’s devotion to his God. And while he knew marriage required dedication and compromise, there were the more desirable aspects to sweeten the dish. They were what Rowan feared was seducing him from his chosen path to serve God, rather than himself.

“We are all chosen to serve God in our own special way, my son,” Tomás told him patiently. “While I do not pretend to know God’s plan, I can share what I have observed. Gleannmara needs a strong king and Maire needs a good husband. You have been both thus far and in doing so, you have served God well. You have reached beyond the glens and isolation of our priesthood and into many lives in a way that men like myself may never touch.”

“But I thought as a priest I might serve God better.”

“So did Zechariah. He cleaned the temple, all the while thinking the priesthood a more godly and worthy pursuit. Yet it was to the lowlier servant that God gave one of the greatest tasks, to father and raise John the Baptist, that the coming of the Messiah might be announced. So who was greater in God’s eye, the man who honored Him by cleaning the temple or the priest?”

Rowan nodded, digesting the example. As in the army, there were no unimportant tasks. The messengers were as important as the front line soldiers or the generals. The difference lay in amount of recognition given. So were his reasons for wanting the priesthood self-serving? The idea struck Rowan a jolting blow.

God had been with him on all his pursuits save one: avoiding his attraction to the queen of Gleannmara. What he’d seen as test to overcome in order to join the priesthood—the forced marriage and his uncommon longing where Maire was concerned—was God’s way of showing
His
will, rather than Rowan’s.

How could he have been so blind? Rowan jumped to his feet and gave the priest a bear hug in his enthusiasm. The terrible weight was gone.

“Father Tomás, bless you and thank you.”

Feeling as though he could fly, Rowan left the priest, speeding back toward the royal lodge and Maire—his queen, his lover, his friend, his
wife.

Maire positively glowed, he thought later as they rode Shahar and Tamar across Gleannmara’s fields and pastures. Envious, Rowan watched the sunlight and westerly breeze toy with the little wisps of hair that had escaped her braid. Like a little girl with a cherished doll, he’d helped her wrap its silken length in a leather casing after rising entirely too late for decency.

And the shy blush that overtook her face when she caught him watching her was a contrary mix of innocence and seduction at the same time. The discipline of life in the army and his godly studies were of no avail to him against this woman. He’d had to show his love and desire for her once more before they left the intimacy of their lodge for the day.

“I don’t think the oxen are takin’ kindly to that new blade of yours,” Maire said, pointing to where six men wrestled with a team to work up the freshly cleared ground.

“It digs deeper, that’s for certain.”

And who’d have ever thought leather and armor could be so fetching? Not that a piece of sackcloth wouldn’t look queenly on Maire. From now on, he’d see her clothed in the finest, and he’d fill the void of love and feminine attention that being raised as a warrior queen had denied her. Rowan tried to focus on the men struggling ahead of them.

“Let the oxen pull the blade,” he shouted to the cursing men. “All you need do is hold it down. Work with them, not against them.”

“Talk to the beasties, not us,” Dathal Muirdach answered.

Dathal’s brother swore. “We’ll count it well to get this field worked and planted before the summer fair at Drumkilly!”

“Faith, good friend,” Rowan called back to the man. “Do you fell a tree with one blow or many little ones?” He slid off Shahar’s back and started toward them. “Let me see what I can do. Just remember, we need to cut it away a little at a time, not all at once.”

A little at a time.
Just as he’d fallen in love with Maire, without ever realizing it. Just like the Cairthan and Niall were growing accustomed to each other. Just like God revealed His plan for Gleannmara.

The days grew warmer and the nights sweeter. Spring settled in the air and the sun coaxed the seedlings to peek out of the warmed worked earth. Everywhere Maire looked, the reward for their hard work began to show—a little at a time. For most of Gleannmara’s keep, each day began with prayer and a hymn dedicated to the one God, although some still sang the sun song. Each night ended with thanksgiving. There was so much work to do, so much love to share.

And when the fair opened at Drumkilly with the lighting of the fires, it was Father Tomás who performed the rite with Brude at his side. Each in turn lit the two giant piles of wood with a prayer.

“Praise the one God who created the sun and lives in the Heavens. May He in all His limitless grace and mercy bless these fires and all who pass through them, as a symbol of the cleansing power of the blood shed for us by His only Son, Jesus Christ. May all evil, all sickness, and all iniquity perish in these flames, so that only that which is pure and worthy of His holy name remain.”

Maire was not the only one at the gathering who thought it strange to suddenly abandon the dedication of the fires to Bel, the sun god. The Celts believed change was good, but it didn’t mean they were always at ease with it. She couldn’t help but think Bel’s name was being echoed here and there, particularly among the other clans. But tolerance would be the order of the day. The laws regarding the fairs forbade anything less.

An entire set of laws was set aside specifically for the hosts of the fair, the attendees, as well as the performers and merchants—which was another reason why the queen of
Gleannmara was pleased not to be the host. She hated being tied to rules. Besides, the tuath was not quite prepared for such a venture. It took all the combined effort of her people to get in the late clearing and planting. For all his skill as a warrior, Rowan was as equal to the tasks of farming too.

And of being a husband. It was a joy to submit to him, especially when she knew she’d pushed too far and he turned red with restraint, rather than give way to his temper. She learned so much from him about life—and more about love.

“Just look at the sea of goods!” Ciara remarked at her side as they wandered in and out of the stalls on the hill set aside for the markets.

Maire reluctantly withdrew her attention from another rise, where the men, stripped to the waist, practiced to represent Gleannmara in the games. In their midst, Rowan coached Garret on how to get the most distance with a javelin, while Declan and the Muirdach limbered up their throwing arms swinging heavy hammers.

“You know, you’d look lovely in that deep saffron.”

“Aye, it’s lovely enough, I suppose.”

“We could make it for you, milady,” Elsbeth joined in. “Now that you’re a queen, ’tis only fitting you have a wardrobe worthy of your title. After all, it’s the king’s orders.”

With one last longing look at the men’s boisterous company, Maire fingered the material her mother-in-law held up. “Aye, it is pretty enough.”

Of course Rowan would want a feminine looking wife, and Maire wanted to be one—some of the time. But the men’s competitions were so much more interesting than this tedious shopping or those games set aside for the womenfolk. Footraces, chases, or tapping a ball around with a club were hardly pulse-pounding pursuits. At least she’d kept her hand in the spear and riding competition with a few of the other females who’d trained to fight rather than run a keep.

“Oh, this burnt umber velvet is exquisite!” Elsbeth picked
up a bolt and held it up against Maire’s chest.

The sharp knock of her knuckles against the hard form of Maire’s breastplate, hidden beneath the dress Delwyn of Emrys had given her, startled her. Maire blushed as the ladies surrounding her broke into laughter, lead by Rowan’s own mother.