Maire (38 page)

Nothing stirred within in the inner rath, save some hens and a few mongrels. It was the outer one that had drawn the people. With neither dagger nor sword in sight, Maire raced toward the gate, her heart leaping with each footfall on the hard, packed earth. The smell of wood smoke and oil in the air moved her faster still.

Please, Father God, I mustn’t be too late!

The prayer echoed over and over in her mind, for she could not think beyond that. She elbowed her way through those in the crowd, who did not see her coming.

“Let me through!”

Above their heads, Maire could see the black smoke of the wet wood used with the dry to prolong the spectacle. It rose above the fires like a demon in its own right. The eerie silence of the onlookers told her that her husband had not yet faced
the trial. At the inner edge of the circle, a guard held up his shield, as though to block her way. Plowing into him with her training and an astonishing strength for one her size, Maire knocked him flat on his back and stumbled past to where the high king held his ignoble court.

The twin fires roared half again as high as a warrior’s head and embraced each other like lovers that would not be parted, not by rain, nor wind, and certainly not by the man standing on the opposite side of them. Maire could barely make out Rowan’s figure, so thick was the blaze.

“Ah, Queen Maire.” Morlach gave her a mocking bow. “Have you come to see whose god is real and whose is false?”

“This is no trial,” Maire shouted at Diarhmott, ignoring the druid. “This is murder of the commonest kind.”

“Trial by fire is accepted by the law,” Finead reminded her smugly. “If Rowan of Gleannmara is truly innocent of Brude’s death, he has nothing to fear.”

The druids were two of a kind, so blackhearted and evil that Maire shivered, despite the enveloping heat cast by the fires. Frantic, she glanced around for some hope, some help. No white-clad warriors stood armed and ready. Behind Rowan, the faces of Gleannmara stared back at her, as fraught with desperation as her own must be—Eochan and Declan, Lorcan, and Ciara. Rathcoe’s guards held the disarmed company at bay.

“How could you let them take you?” she cried out at them. “We outnumber these fiendish devils better than two to one.”

No man answered, but they avoided facing the piercing accusation of her gaze.

“I ordered them not to fight, Maire,” Rowan told her.

Maire turned to him, torn between strangling him and begging for his life. “You
wish
to die?”

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

Words eluded her. There was a time she’d have labeled this cowardice, but she knew better now. Rowan was no coward.
Armed with his faith, he was as courageous a man as she’d ever known. But this was foolraide.

She stared at the two-headed fire beast, with its tongues lapping in all directions. If there were angels in there, she saw no sign of them. If only Brude were here, instead of lying lifeless in his lodge awaiting burial. All the people she relied upon were either gone or useless. Never had Maire felt so alone. Numbed by pain and confusion, she saw Diarhmott motion for the trial to begin.

“Rowan of Gleannmara, you stand charged with the murder of Brude, a druid and brother serpent of the highest order,” Finead announced, commencing the proceeding. “Your amulet was used to strangle an old man, who accepted you and your god with the tolerance of our way. Yet you burned the symbol of your god into his forehead, marking him even unto death. What say you, sir?”

“I killed no one.” Rowan’s answer came strong and clear. One would think he had a legion at his beck and call.

Where are the angels?

The words screamed in her mind. Held at swordpoint, Maire appealed to the only source of help left to her; the God who made her husband the brave and noble man that he was.
Father God, I’ve said some harsh things about You and for that I’m truly sorry, but Ye must know how frightened I am. I asked before and now I’m beggin’. Help us.

“Then how do you account for your amulet being found on the druid’s body?”

At Morlach’s challenge, Maire’s head swam with the pain emanating from the knot on the back of her head. Her eyes became unfocused. She couldn’t lose consciousness now. When her vision cleared, she caught sight of the slim, dark-haired female next to Morlach:
Brona.

“You!”
She pressed against the steel of the guard’s restraining blade until it threatened to split her leather-clad breastplate. “Where is Garret? He can testify that the amulet has been missing
since the fair. Or have you killed him, like you killed Lianna?”

Diarhmott spoke up. “This is not Brona’s trial, Queen Maire. It is your husband’s. But I will hear your accusations, when this is done.”

“I only gave the queen a love potion to win her husband’s affection. I have no knowledge of how the maid Lianna came by it.”

“It killed her, you peat-hearted she-dog, and it was intended for me!”

Brona shrugged, guileless as a newborn. “Some potions needs be used anon, lest they spoil. It’s unfortunate that after it was tossed aside, Lianna found it and sought its use without consulting anyone. I have an antidote for such accidents.”

“Lianna is as dead as Brude, and the stench is that of Rathcoe.”

“Enough of this, Queen Maire,” Diarhmott intervened. “I gave you my word that you will be heard regarding your charge.”

“Then ask her what she did to the witness who can swear that amulet has been missing since—”

“My lord, I cannot say what became of that wild Cairthan lad Garret. We left yesterday to collect herbs near the Sacred Grove, and there we lost each other. I thought perhaps he’d left me to come back early, but he was not here either.”

“Whether the amulet was missing or nay, does not erase the fact that Rowan of Gleannmara was caught with his hand still dripping with Brude’s warm blood!”

“As might yours, Diarhmott, if you picked up the bloodied corpse of a friend in your grief on finding him so,” Rowan suggested.

“And your friend, the priest, sir,” Finead said skeptically. “Where was he when this travesty took place? Perhaps if you might give us
his
whereabouts, your word would smack more of truth?”

Rowan dropped his eyes. “I don’t know. Father Tomás wasn’t there when I arrived, only Brude. But I will swear on my
life that Tomás did not kill the druid. Perhaps whoever killed Brude killed the priest too and disposed of the body.”

“And
perhaps
bullfrogs fly.” Morlach’s facetious remark raised humor among the guards, but no one else. “Come, your majesty, the man was found covered in the blood with the emblem of
his
amulet burned into the victim’s forehead! The amulet itself was wrapped about Brude’s neck.”

“A blind man can see Gleannmara is guilty of the murder of one of our brotherhood,” Finead agreed.

“Only if that man
chose
to see,” Maire countered.

“We have heard enough. We cannot base our judgment on testimonies of people not present, but only on what we have already seen and heard. It’s best we finish this before the fires wither.”

The high king hid safely behind his law, content to watch an innocent man die, rather than stand up to Morlach of Rathcoe. He was a coward of the worst sort. But Maire was not. Like Adam, she didn’t want to live if that life was without the one she loved.

“Ach, we wouldn’t want to put these murderers to too much trouble, now, would we?” Her chin trembled with rage. “And you fancy yourself a just king.”

“Woman, you will hold your tongue, or be silenced and removed,” Finead warned. “You try the benevolence of the high king.”

Two guards came up on either side of Maire to reinforce their comrade’s words with the sword. They seized her arms with viselike grips. It was decided. Rowan was to burn—no matter what his God had shown him in his dreams, no matter what Brude had seen, no matter that her heart was being torn in two.

“Where are the angels?” she cried aloud at the gray heaven as she was dragged aside.

“Let the prisoner walk through the fire, that it may tell the truth.”

At the high king’s command, Rowan peered through the leaping, hungry flames. Tears of helpless rage and agony filled Maire’s eyes as she struggled with the guards, but like the fire, the men were unable to prevent his look from reaching her. He longed to tell her their love knew no barrier, not in this world or the next. They were one, made one in the eyes of the one God.

God, be merciful to her. I do not understand Your plan. I know Maire cannot. But I know You hold my future in the palm of Your hand. You are the truth and the light. As You had reason to witness Your own Son’s death, so You may have good reason for mine.

“I do not walk into darkness, beloved, but into the light.” Rowan’s shout rose above the roar and deadly crackle of the flames between them.

Unable to speak, Maire strained against the hold of the guards, leaning into the sword and toward the fire as though she too were ready to walk into its deadly mouth, even if it meant perishing with him. Behind him, Rowan heard Ciara wail. Turning he gave her and Lorcan a smile.

“This is just the beginning,” he told them, his voice dry from breathing the smoke-filled air. Taking a deep breath, he offered one last prayer with closed eyes.
Father, have mercy on us all.
Seeking Maire out through the inferno one last time, he mouthed, “I love you, Maire.”

Rowan stepped to the fire’s edge where the heat slapped him and reached into his lungs with invisible hands, clutching his breath. The perspiration on his forehead evaporated.
Lord, use my example to Your glory.
He lifted his foot, ready to take the final plunge from which there would be no return, when a voice of protest cut through the bonds of tension holding all in check, save the beasts of flame.

“Hold, in the name of God Almighty!”

T
he agonized quiet broke into chaos as the onlookers turned toward the outer rath gate, from whence the interruption came. No less confounded than the others, Rowan fell back a step from the blistering heat as the crowd opened up to admit someone. Whether human or spirit, he had no clue. All things were possible.

Instead of crusading angels, Morlach’s apprentice Cromthal led a shaggy pony bearing a bandaged and bruised Father Tomás into the clearing. The priest looked as though he’d fallen off a cliff and struck every rock on the way to its bottom. With them was Garret, who was not in much better condition, given the bandages on his neck and face. His shredded shirt hung in strips from his shoulders, exposing blood-encrusted gashes on his back and chest.

“What trickery is
this?”
Morlach’s beady eyes grew large, glittering black against the waning color of his usual swarthy complexion. He pointed an accusing finger at Rowan. “These be ghosts, summoned by
his
god.”

“I am no ghost, druid, nor is this the work of trickery or illusion.” Father Tomás’s rebuff was stronger and larger than he looked capable of offering.

“Faith,” Garret agreed, turning for all to see the marks cut into his flesh. “Sure no spirits ever hurt the likes of this!”

“My God!” Ciara broke free from the bonds of her surprise and ran with Lorcan to where her bedraggled grandson stood. “What happened to you?”

“But—” Morlach checked himself with an uneasy glance at
Diarhmott, recovering quickly. “Your majesty, my apprentice has done well. He’s captured Gleannmara’s accomplices.”

“Seize them!” Finead commanded, following Morlach’s lead. “Druid blood stains them. Good man, Cromthal.” In an instant, two burly guards pulled Father Tomás off his steed’s back and ushered him before the high king’s company for his retribution. With the end of his journey at hand, Garret collapsed in his father’s arms, half-conscious from exhaustion and weakness before he could be taken as well.

“Indeed,” Morlach vowed. “You have saved the high king the inconvenience of
two
such trials, Cromthal. Well done.”

Cromthal sneered, clearly unappeased by the compliment. “We all know the price of spilling druid blood is death, isn’t it, Morlach?”

The insubordination of his inferior seemed to snap the druid’s composure. “You sniveling, pockmarked dimwit, how
dare
you mock me? Was the satire I put upon you for failure not enough to teach you the dangers of trying to deceive your master?”

“Pockmarked?” Cromthal laid the pony’s reins on its neck. Walking into the light so that all might see, he adjusted his robe, exposing his arms and legs to the view of the audience. “I purged your evil along with mine, Morlach. Look well, for I am clean of
your
darkness.”

Morlach satirized Cromthal…and the latter went untouched? Maire was as stunned as the others who saw Cromthal’s smooth, unmarked flesh. That the apprentice’s earlier satire against Rowan was in vain was nothing compared to the master druid’s failure. There were those who feared that a look from Morlach meant a terrible death.

Finead examined Cromthal. The man’s face usually looked as pliable as a stone mask, but incredulity shattered it. “You spoke against this man and he goes free of harm?” he asked of his fellow magi.