Riona (37 page)

“Aye, who’d have thought it?” Riona certainly hadn’t asked God to work out her problems by making her Kieran’s wife. But He knew best, of that she was certain. “Our prayers are always answered, just not always in the way we expect them to be.”

Finella grew suddenly solemn and hesitant. “And I believe God has given me a message for you … a warning.” She seemed to think over her words carefully. “I feel foolish for saying this, but I dreamt that you desperately needed my cape of herbs. I don’t know why, but I can’t help but think that someone means you harm—that the dark cloud that has followed you to Drumceatt will leave with you as well.”

Riona’s smile faded. “Dark cloud?” But Kieran had been cleared of murder charges. They were husband and wife. The children were safe.

“It might have been the rich food at the bruden that disagreed with me,” Finella added promptly. “But better forewarned just in case it wasn’t indigestion. Caution is the best preventative.”

The clatter of equine hooves and the creak of a wooden wheeled cart drew their attention to the approaching party on the road from
Derry. Black and red banners heralded Lord Maille’s presence as boldly as the cart bemoaned its load: the wooden box carrying the remains of Bishop Senan. Driving the wagon was Father Cromyn and Brother Ninian, the late abbot’s clerk and right hand at Kilmare.

“Milady!” Ninian’s pious demeanor broke upon seeing Riona. “I bid you a good day a free man of God.”

Finella hugged Riona a last time. “Go, and God be with you.”

“And also with you,” Riona answered.

She met Ninian as he climbed down from the cart. “A sad day, granted,” he amended, out of puff from the exertion, “but good as well. Perfect days are reserved for the hereafter.”

“It’s good to see you again, friend.”

Ninian’s eyes twinkled. “And may I have a kiss from the bride?”

“ ’Tis the least I can do.” Riona planted a chaste kiss on his round cheek and backed away. “We owe much to you for helping Kieran escape and warning—”

Brother Ninian put a finger to her lips, silencing her. “You owe me nothing.” Lowering his voice he added, “Besides, ears are everywhere. Big ears with dark minds between them.”

Instinctively Riona glanced at where Lord Maille watched her through narrowed eyes. Aye, there was a dark cloud, but a harmless one now, wasn’t he? He had more the look of a poor loser than a fearsome foe at the moment. Nonetheless, she gathered the children, who’d been playing with Lady Gray.

“All right, sweetlings, mount up.”

Ninian fell in beside her, his gray robe swishing with his lively step. He lifted Liex onto the pony’s back after Fynn bounded up there on his own. The bounce in his voice resumed. “Indeed, milady, I have reason to believe I’m being considered for the position of bishop. While I regret the circumstances—” he glanced at the cart—“I am most humbled by the church’s regard.”

“May I help milady onto her steed?” Kieran said at her back.

Riona turned within the circle of his hands at her waist. With his golden locks swept back from his handsome bronzed face, he looked as though a sun god had sired him. “We’re ready?”

He nodded. She hardly noticed Brother Ninian slipping away to the funeral cart or heard the abrasive hawking of the fairground vendors touting their fresh wares. When Kieran’s gaze bore into hers as it did now, the world passed by unnoticed.

With ease he lifted her to Bantan’s back, but not before sharing a lingering kiss. It promised more to come, and her heart danced at the prospect. She watched him fling his royal brat behind him and bound up on Gray Macha, where Leila had laid claim to her place of honor, perched on the horse like a little princess. At her waist hung the new bag Kieran had purchased for her. She fingered it as lovingly as she cradled Lady Gray’s travel basket in her arm.

The steeds as well as the little pony that Bran had secured for the children were eager to be on the road after their confinement to the Dalraidi stables and crowded pasture. Dear Bran. How good it would be to be reunited with him. Riona wondered how he’d fared with Siony and the orphans. It seemed like a year ago rather than a matter of weeks that they’d parted.

Riona wrestled with Bantan to keep the small horse from breaking into a trot and passing Kieran, for well she knew his warhorse would not stand for it. A glance over her shoulder assured her that the boys were fine on the pony, which had fallen into step more readily than her mount. Flanking the small Gleannmara party was the Dromin, an all too familiar figure in their midst.

Lord Maille leaned over, bending Colga’s ear. Without acknowledgment, Colga goaded his horse ahead, leaving a disgruntled Maille in his wake. Ulster’s hard gaze followed her cousin as he pulled up beside the boys and then shifted to her. Riona felt as if a rain of icy daggers fell upon her, chilling her to the bone.

Instead of wavering, she held Ulster’s gaze steadily, lifting one brow in question as if to demand what business he had in Gleannmara’s presence. Maille’s departing smile did nothing to assuage her uneasiness. “What did
he
want?” she asked her cousin.

“I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t give him an audience.”

Riona caught a whiff of liquor about Colga’s presence and scowled. “You are chief of Dromin. Rudeness is not an option.”

“I’ll not linger near the man. A stench of death lingers about him like a plague.”

Colga’s remark was not without merit. Maille had appeared within hours of Fintan’s murder. He hounded Kieran like a dark angel of vengeance out for Gleannmara’s life—but his dark spirit had had to be satisfied with Senan’s suicide instead.

Dark clouds, dark minds, death stench …

The words were enough to still the blood. But God had brought them safe thus far. And with that thought, another voice came to her, one that had comforted her in the darkest hours of their earlier journey. It had come from the holy well near the Liffey crossing, echoing in the night as they watched Siony approach the monastery there, yet no pilgrim had been seen singing God’s reassurance. Given all that Riona had seen of God’s mysterious handiwork, she no longer considered such things strange.

Father, You are my strength and my light. Of whom—and of what—should I be afraid? Of nothing!
Reassured that all was in God’s hands, Riona meditated upon her blessings and spoke to God also for Lady Gray.

Ahead on the prancing stallion, no amount of Leila’s cooing could assuage the discomfited kitten. Riona could picture the bundle of fur huddled in its little basket, protesting for all it was worth. Her howls of protest, incredibly loud for such a tiny creature, continued to mark off the morning, but by the afternoon, she’d apparently grown contented that neither she, nor her basket would be pitched to the ground and trampled.

Instead, the creak of the cart wheel bearing Senan’s casket kept cadence. Draped in a mean wool blanket, there was nothing about the casket to indicate the prestigious position the bishop once held. His suicide and the deed he confessed to had stripped him of recognition, religious or otherwise, save the presence of Father Cromyn and Brother Ninian. Perhaps that was why the wheel’s whine sounded all the more mournful to Riona’s ear.

No doubt a new abbot would be sent to replace dear Fintan. In the meantime, Ninian would take charge … unless Cromyn’s presence in
their midst was to become more than a visit to his home and family. Was her uncle to be the next abbot of Kilmare? Kieran had made travel arrangements so hastily that Riona had not had time to give it much thought. It occurred to her to drop back and ask, but with Maille riding next to the funeral cart, she decided she would wait for her answer.

It came that night at the same brewy where, during their journey to the fair, Kieran, delirious with fever, had been painted and passed off by Marcus as a sword-swallowing giant. Thankfully none of them was recognized, thanks to their regal attendance—and the absence of their more flamboyant companions. Sitting at her husband’s side, Riona listened to Cromyn sharing what was transpiring between the priests at Derry and the nobility at Drumceatt.

By the end of the summer it was anticipated that each tuath was to have its own priest and bard to expand upon the spirit and mind of its children in both religious and secular schools. Cromyn had asked for and been granted appointment to Gleannmara to be close to his kin. The idea of a school in each tuath affording education to noble and common child alike, as well as a church for all at the tuath, gladdened Riona’s heart and soul.

“What a shining example Erin will be for the world!” She clasped her hands together in excitement. “Truly God has brought priest, bard, and king to a glorious decision.”

“Or He was as disgusted with the bards as the rest of Ireland,” Kieran pointed out, ever pragmatic. “No longer will their likes extort and abuse hospitality.”

Riona frowned. Kieran had come a long way toward trust in God, but he was still more rooted in earthly concepts than spiritual.

“Their wings are clipped, to be sure,” Cromyn agreed, “but it is a wondrous idea.” He smiled at Riona.

“Except for Marcus’s wings. He’s fairly flying as apprentice to Aidan’s bard,” Kieran remarked wryly. “And to be honest, the bards’ merit as historians and teachers is worth saving. ’Tis the satirists whose bitter-sharp tongues sullied the waters for the rest of them.”

Or maybe he’d come farther along than she gave him credit for, she thought, as he covered her hand with his.

“I found both church and school a trial,” he admitted, “but what I’ve learned in both has stood me well when my sword failed. I know that now.”

“I’d like to see Bran’s face when he finds that Gleannmara’s bard is now required to teach children as well as entertain,” Colga said from across the table. Sprawled on a bench, he lazed, propped on one elbow, munching on a chunk of boiled venison. “Since our cousin gave up his notion of priestly conduct, he’s been willing enough to make them, but that was the end of it.”

“Aye, he has a colt’s tooth as big as my fist,” Kieran agreed.

Riona was torn between clamping her hands over her charges’ ears and smacking both her husband and her inebriated cousin off their perches. An ever-sharp Liex gave her no time to do either.

“How does he
make
children?” the lad inquired.

“In his songs,” Colga replied smoothly. “He makes them up in his songs.”

Riona relaxed, amazed at the quick-witted recovery. Her relief was short-lived.

“And how did he get a colt’s tooth?”

Kieran hastily jumped in to explain. “That just means that he likes the company of women a lot.”

Riona scowled at the paltry attempt at redemption. Men!

“Do colts like women better than men?” She rolled her eyes at Liex in exasperation. Even little ones would worry the powder out of a scone.

“It means men are foolish,” Kieran elaborated, “like young colts, when it comes to keeping the company of women,” His irascible grin softened the brittle edge of Riona’s humor.

“Well,
I’m
not foolish. I think girls are trouble, and I’m only six years old!” Liex crossed his arms in smug satisfaction.

Colga leaned forward with a toast to the lad, nearly spilling his freshly filled cup. “Then here’s to this colt, at least, for he’s wiser than the sorry lot of us, I fear.”

An uncomfortable ripple of laughter circled round as he tipped his cup and took a deep drought. The excess spilled out the sides and
down his chin, but the man didn’t seem to notice.

Riona held her tongue behind a grimace of concern. Her cousin’s drinking had markedly increased since his return to Ireland. If only she or Cromyn could help him to understand that Heber’s death was not his fault but an accident. Colga said it himself—he hadn’t meant to leave her brother unprotected. Indeed, Colga led his men in an attempt to protect Heber, unaware that the enemy approached her brother’s troops from the other side.

She looked from Colga to Kieran. They’d matured since the day they’d ridden off, eager to test their mettle against Aidan’s piratical foes. The battle had taken a toll on them both. Kieran was healing. Colga wasn’t. She watched as he shoved himself upright, straightened his tunic and brat, and stumbled toward the door and out of the hall.

“Uncle, can’t you talk to him?” she asked, looking over to where the door Colga swung behind him had been caught by one of Maille’s black-shirted guards.

Black … dark
.

A score of unpleasant memories assailed her—all associated with darkness—from Maille’s threatening presence to the black moments of Finian’s death and those of the brugaid. Riona’s thoughts tumbled over each other till she righted alarm with reason. The black shirt meant nothing. Colga was in no danger. Both men simply heeded nature’s call.

Cromyn shook his head. “He’s as stubborn as his father. A good hammering with his sledge won’t get his attention until he’s ready to give it.”

“Maybe he has reason to drink to excess,” Kieran suggested grimly.

Excess of any habit was nothing to be proud of. An Irishman took pride in self-control, both in food and drink. Eating till the belt was too tight or drinking oneself into a state of foolishness was shameful.

“Bran certainly thinks he does.”

Riona remembered Bran’s accusation the night she’d learned of Heber’s death—that cowardice, not druidic illusion, had caused Colga to flee his position as guard. She could imagine Colga’s shame if that was the case. It would disgrace not only him but all of the Dromin. Yet
she could not harbor resentment toward her cousin, only pity. He clearly suffered enough by his own condemnation.

“Whether he chased a fog or ran from the enemy, he’s punishing himself enough for it,” her husband observed beside her.

Touched by this unusual show of compassion, Riona covered his hand with hers again and squeezed it. “You make me proud to call you lord of Gleannmara.” The old Kieran would have condemned Colga without hesitation. Aye, Kieran was changing, and she loved him all the more for it.

“Ah, the sins of the father are visited upon his children,” Cromyn observed to no one in particular.