Maire (40 page)

Maire seemed to sense he was nearly spent and squirmed out of his grasp to her feet. His legs buckled, then caught his weight with renewed strength. His loved ones were safe, his
beloved
now held his face between her hands and was showering him with frantic little kisses.

“Crom’s toes, man, don’t faint on me now.
I’m
the one with child, not you!” She stared up at him unashamed through the tears that ran down her cheeks. “You
are
all right, aren’t you?”

“I’m weak with thanksgiving, lass, nothing more.”

“’Tis the stench of Morlach’s evil hide cookin’ on that fire, I’m thinkin’. It gave my own stomach a turn.” Maire looked to be fully recovered, standing squarely before him as if daring him to collapse. “And the thing of it is, I thought I’d enjoy it, both sight and smell of evil burnin’, but in the end he was only a man. What made him evil didn’t perish in the fire.”

Rowan smiled in wonder, then drew this incredible creature
into his arms. He bussed the top of her head as he cradled it under his chin. “Faith, woman, you’re starting to talk like a druid!”

Serious, she backed away. “But it’s true, isn’t it? That fella Satan will just find some other poor soul to court with that black magic. And then we’ll face it again, sure as the sun rises on the same side of Erin every mornin’.”

How Rowan loved her. What he felt for her welled inside him until he could hold it back no more, even if he wished it. He gently traced the regal taper of her chin and ran his finger across the lips that spoke a wisdom far beyond their years. “Aye, muirnait, we’ll not be done with sin until Christ comes again.”

Maire pulled a look of dismay. “Ach, like as not He’s so busy with the blackguards surely stirrin’ trouble on the other side, He’ll never get to us!”

“God has a plan all worked out to take care of that,” Rowan assured her, brushing away the furrows of concern from her brow. “Trust me.”

“By the sun, look at her shift! Not so much as soot on its hem.” Elsbeth tugged on Maire’s garment, making the two of them aware for the first time that most of Gleannmara’s people had followed their king and queen into the rath.

Declan worked his way through the crowd, gently moving the plump noblewoman aside. “Diarhmott awaits outside,” he reported to Rowan. “I’m thinkin’ he’s a bit concerned that he’s no longer welcome at Gleannmara’s table.”

“But her dress!” Elsbeth insisted, shoving her way back to fondle the material of the queen’s short leine. “Ye ran through the fire to defend your man, and not a flame dared touch ye! Sure, I thought Gleannmara would lose all that’s dear to us.” With a sob, Elsbeth tried to engulf Maire and Rowan in her short arms.

Rowan reached down and fingered the material as the woman’s words registered. He’d seen Maire come through the
fire untouched, but in the frenzy of the moment…

“But I don’t remember… I just—” Maire glanced at Rowan, putting her fingers to her temples as if to retrieve the memory. “I just wanted to save you from Morlach. I don’t even know how I escaped the guards. I just heard myself sayin’,
Father God, help me
and…”

“And He did,” Declan finished.

Maire’s expression turned to wonder. “Aye, I remember now. ’Twas like a puff of wind blew away the guards and carried me straight through the fire! And I didn’t really know I was praying, I was just hopin’ against all hope, so that must’a been the Ghost talkin’ for me.” Her words came out in such a rush, Rowan could hardly understand them, much less what really happened. “And then there I was, with someone’s spear, ready to run it through Morlach if he so much as breathed on ye!”

She pressed against Rowan, her lips quivering. “Was it angels?”

Rowan wanted nothing more than to assuage the tremble of his wife’s lips. He wanted to be alone with her, to share his heart, body, and soul with her. He wanted to treat her as the treasured gift from heaven that she was. But another duty called, one that could not be ignored, not after all God had done for him that day.

He turned to those gathered about them. “People of Gleannmara, there is much to do ahead of us. We must welcome the high king. We must see to our dead and face our grief over their loss. We must take strength and comfort from each other in the hours and days ahead. But first, there is something
I
as your king and as God’s servant must do.”

The rumblings over the miracle of the queen’s running through the burning pyres without so much as a thread of her garment or a pinch of her flesh being scorched stilled at Rowan’s last words. Heads cocked, ears eager, they waited for him to go on.

Rowan swallowed the humble blade of emotion cutting at his throat. “I must give thanks to the one God, the
only
God, for sparing Gleannmara from Morlach’s treachery. If any of you care to join me in honoring Him, you are welcome. Including you, your majesty,” Rowan called out as Diarhmott and his company paused at the gate. “For I now kneel before the King of all kings.”

“We need a chapel,” Maire whispered, dropping down beside him as he knelt on the ground.

“Not to worship the God who created all this,” Rowan answered. He pointed to where the sun was sinking low in a now cloud-banished sky and then to where the moon came up almost simultaneously on the opposite horizon.

With Cromthal’s aide, Father Tomás took a place on his knees on Rowan’s other side and was joined by his companion. Declan, Elsbeth, her husband, the Cairthan, with Lorcan and Ciara supporting Garret, and the remaining septs of the Niall—all went down in ones and twos, a group at a time.

If he had felt humbled before, Rowan was more so at the sight of them all. Even the high king knelt, ready, at least on the surface, to pay homage to their Creator and Savior. Beside Diarhmott, Finead bowed his half-shaven head in respect, if not reverence. Perhaps, given all that he’d witnessed this day, the druid would join the ranks of priests as Brude had. Only God knew. Rowan braced himself with a deep breath, but emotion welled in his voice.

“Father Tomás, will you…?” he managed, bowing to the priest to lead them.

Rowan and Cromthal helped the older saint back to his feet. In clear notes that gave no hint of the severity of his recent injuries, Father Tomás began to sing praises and glory to God. Over and over he repeated the lines in the native tongue. They sounded odd in the translation, but soon the congregation was of one voice, filling the air with heartfelt joy and thanksgiving.

Rowan had never heard a more beautiful sound.

T
he hard work and conflict of the summer gave way to a peaceful winter and plentiful stores. Gleannmara’s livestock grew fat with thickened coats. While sword land had rapidly acceded to plough land, military exercises were held regularly at the rath, weather permitting. Those who excelled at and preferred the discipline of the guard rather than the fields and pastures, served the just rule of the tuath’s king and queen. And when it was Gleannmara’s time to provide support for the high king, they represented their rulers at Tara.

Peace. Maire had once thought it a boring concept. Now she cherished it. Brude’s prediction of a hostage’s sword ensuring Gleannmara’s glory was a reality, although it had been won more by a sword of faith than one of steel. Never in all Maire’s training had she dreamed that love would prove stronger than might. Taking care not to lose balance in her awkward state of pregnancy, Maire knelt at the cromlach marking where her dear tutor and friend had been laid to rest.

With tenderness, she arranged the wildflowers of early spring she’d just picked around a stone cross that Rowan and Father Tomás had fashioned in Brude’s honor.

“Dearest Brude, Rowan says that you can see how our beloved tuath prospers with love and peace from the other side. And if that’s true, then you can hear me, like as not.” Maire wiped the sentimental mist from one eye. “I just wanted to say how much you are missed, even though your memory lives on in us. And I want to thank you for being there when I needed you. I will love you always.”

Maire kissed her fingers and then planted the gesture on the cross. Then slowly, clumsily, she leaned on it to climb to her feet. The women swore there was only one babe in her belly, but it felt like a full litter to her. Going from carrying not one ounce of spare flesh to bearing the weight of two was as tiring as it was awkward. But the naps Rowan insisted she take helped restore the sparkle to her eyes and blush to her cheeks, or so he claimed.

“I thought this was where I might find you.”

Maire turned with a start to see the man of her thoughts in the flesh. Decidedly so, she mused, taking the muscled expanse of Rowan’s upper torso, bared and glistening in the sun. She reached out to brush away some of the fresh dirt that clung to his damp skin.

“And did ye leave any on the ground for the planting?” There was no point in reminding him that he was the king and, as such, not required to get out in the fields with the farmers and livestock.

“There’s plenty where it came from, believe me, woman.” Leaning over, Rowan kissed the swell of her abdomen. “And how is our little one?”

“Kickin’ like the ox you smell of.” Maire ruffed her husband’s dark hair. “I came lookin’ for ye, to remind ye that the guests will be arrivin’ this afternoon and ’twould be hospitable for the king to be there with me to welcome them.”

Eochan was taking a Cairthan wife. With the hall not yet built for the highland sept, Maire and Rowan had offered to have the wedding at Gleannmara. Rowan’s family and that of the bride had been in residence for over a week, but with the wedding date only a few days away, the Drumkilly Niall would soon be arriving. Maire especially looked forward to seeing Declan, who’d captained Gleannmara’s guard at Tara for the last few weeks. No doubt he’d have stories to fill the nights of celebration.

A loud whinny from a nearby pasture drew their attention
momentarily to where Shahar, Tamar, and their colt frolicked. At Rowan’s sharp whistle, the stallion stopped still and then bolted in their direction, the mare and colt in his wake. On reaching the edge of the stacked fence, the horse whickered in expectation. But as Rowan walked toward him, he veered away and kicked up his heels playfully.

“See,” Maire laughed. “Even
he
doesn’t recognize your scent!”

With a wry grimace, Rowan wiped ineffectively at the sweat and dirt on his chest. “Well, I suppose ’twould be easier to take a dip in the pond than put the servants to all the trouble of a bath, what with all the preparations they’re busy with. That is, if I could persuade a certain well-rounded wench to join me.”

“Bite your tongue, man, or this round wench will drown ye!” Maire knew the sharpness in her tone was belied by the mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I’ll fetch the cart.”

“No,
I’ll
get it for you.”

Before Maire could move, Rowan loped off to where Brude’s shaggy pony had dragged what used to be the druid’s chariot. With its wicker wrap restored and a seat installed, it had been converted into a cart for Maire’s convenience. Once it had been established that she was with child, Rowan would not hear of her riding. Faith, he barely wanted her to walk!

“Just let me lead him down to the pond,” she said, taking the pony by the bridle.

“When he’s ready to give you a ride?”

At that moment, Nemh arrived with a loud flapping of wings and its forlorn squawk of greeting. Landing squarely in its master’s old cart, the heron settled with authority.

“Well, that settles it,” Marie announced with a laugh. “Looks like Glas, Cromthal, and Father Tomás are here.”

The heron, as lost without Brude as the mute servant, had accompanied Glasdom to Father Tomás’s abode, at first to help the priest recover from his wounds and then to serve him and his student Cromthal as he had once served the druid.

Rowan slipped his arm around Maire as she led the smaller horse down the slope toward the pond, where she and her husband frequently retreated for privacy, as well as a refreshing swim. Secreted by a cluster of oak and subordinate trees, it was a heavenly haven of clear water warmed slightly from an underground hot spring.

On reaching the quiet spot, Rowan unlaced his boots and put them aside. Maire sat on a nearby rock, her hand resting on a spot their unborn child had singled out for a kicking spree. When Rowan shed the multicolored wrap of cloth from his trim waist, she almost envied him.

Almost. Even though she felt big as a horse, there was something truly wonderful in knowing that the seed of their love grew inside her. It was the birth itself that gave her cause for concern. She’d heard enough women screaming in labor to wish there was another way.

“So, are you going to sit there scowling all day or join me?” Rowan extended his hand to her. “Though I’d suggest you shed that gown or Elsbeth will have both of us skewered on her needles.”

Maire pushed up from her seat. “Aye, but I’ll need some help with these fastens.”

Elsbeth was matron of the queen’s wardrobe, and if there was any doubt in Erin who was the master and who was the servant, all they had to do was witness one of Maire’s fittings. Maire felt like a doll that would be stuck with a pin, if she didn’t turn just right or make the appropriate responses to the dear’s ceaseless prattle. The Muirdach’s wife was just one of the matrons who’d taken the warrior queen under their wing to make a lady of her. Where Maire once had no mother, she now had a grianán full. And truth be known, she cherished the attention.

The lovely gown, embroidered by the talented seamstresses of Gleannmara, fell away from Maire’s shoulders, skimming over her belly to gather at her feet. She would have picked it
up, but for the man who drew her into his arms. She wrinkled her nose in protest as Rowan proceeded to kiss her, all the while coaxing her toward the pond’s edge.

“Faith, man, ’tis like kissin’ an ox,” she complained halfheartedly.

Rowan nibbled at her neck, his retort vibrating against the increasingly rapid pulse there. “Ach, motherhood hasn’t dulled your tongue, that’s sure. What happened to the respect you owe me as your husband?”