The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) (3 page)

Once again, she forced herself away from the window. Her wits must be addled. It was absurd for her to regard this man with such keen interest. She would listen to his tale and send him on his way.

A moment later, she was back at the window. Keenan had said something about the visitor claiming to be the son of a British king. She could imagine that possibility. Although the man wore no torc or other ornaments, the slavers would have stolen such things. His tunic was richly colored and no crude warrior or farmer would make such an effort to clean himself. But if he was a prince, how in the world had he ended up in the hands of the slavers?

Dessia chewed her lower lip. What a puzzle this man was. The sense she’d seen him before gnawed at her. Whenever she looked at him, her body seemed to tingle with warning. She’d felt this way only one time previously—the day her mother and father were killed and Cahermara burned to the ground. All these years later, she was convinced it could only be magic that allowed her to survive. There must some sort of force guiding her life. She could feel it. Yet, so far, she’d never been able to control the mystical power that seemed to surround her.

Not that she hadn’t tried. She glanced at her scrying bowl, resting on a table littered with copper bowls, manuscripts, stone jars and dried herbs. How often had she stared at the gleaming surface of the oil in the scrying bowl, seeking a vision? How often had she perused the ancient manuscripts, seeking out the ingredients and procedures necessary to work a spell of protection? She’d encountered hints and tidbits of information, but nothing she could really use. As for the scrying bowl, it remained empty and dark. The few times she’d thought she’d caught glimpse of something, it had turned out to be her own wretched face staring back at her. She was a fraud. No charm or spell she evoked had ever done anything. Yet she kept trying. The power she sought seemed so tantalizing near. If only she could find a way to access it. Find the right words to chant, the proper combination of ingredients.

Fortunately, no one guessed at her failure. The tale that she was capable of great sorcery had worked wonderfully to keep her enemies at bay. If not for her reputation, Tiernan O’Bannon would have long ago stormed Cahermara, taken her captive and forced her into marriage so he could claim her lands for his own. Her skin crawled at the thought of her greedy neighbor and her heart felt like a stone dropped into an icy mountain pool when she considered losing her lands, all that remained of the heritage of the once proud Fionnlairaos.

She clenched her hands in anguish at the thought, then deliberately relaxed them. Worrying over these things wouldn’t help her. She had to be patient, to keep trying to unlock the secrets of the unseen forces around her. In the meantime, she used more traditional means to guard her lands. Her men constantly patrolled the area around Cahermara, and eventually stout stone walls would encircle all of the rath, creating a formidable barrier.

If only the walls were finished. Their construction seemed to progress with painful slowness. She needed more men to do the work, but she couldn’t spare any warriors for the task, and the youth of her people were needed for farming, herding and fishing to ensure they had enough food to eat. But it was so frustrating to wait. So hard to be patient. She wrapped her arms around her body. The feeling of foreboding grew stronger.
Something is happening
, her instincts seemed to say.

Dessia shivered, then returned to the window. She could no longer see the visitor. He must be on his way to the hall. Keenan had said he would bring him shortly.

The thought aroused Dessia to frantic activity. Why had she spent the last few moments contemplating the past instead of preparing for the future?

She strode to the door and called down the stairs for Aife. When the maidservant entered, Dessia was waiting in her shift. “I need you to help me dress and comb out my hair. We have a visitor.”

Aife assisted Dessia in putting on a fresh gown and fastening a gold and green enamel belt around her waist. Then Dessia seated herself on a tall stool and the maidservant began combing Dessia’s hip-length tresses. “What sort of visitor?” the maidservant asked. “A trader?”

“Nay, not a trader. A foreign man captured by slavers. Keenan and Flann ran the slavers off, then brought the man here.”

Aife stopped combing, her slender hands poised over the dark red strands. “You’re having me fix your hair so you can meet a slave?”

“Of course he’s not a slave.” Dessia motioned that Aife should resume combing. “The visitor appears to be well-born. Even if he were not, I have no desire for him to return to his homeland thinking the people of Eire are crude savages.”

“Certainly not,” Aife responded.

“Besides, as queen, I must always present an image of power and authority. You never know what might get back to my enemies. Any sign of weakness would bring them down upon me like a pack of wolves on an unprotected flock.” Dessia wondered if Aife saw through to the truth—that having observed how attractive the visitor was, pure female pride made her want to greet him looking her best.

“You think this man is a spy?” Aife asked.

“He could be. I’ll know more after I meet him.” The thought hadn’t really occurred to her until Aife mentioned it, but now Dessia considered the matter, it was a possibility. What if O’Bannon or some other chieftain had hired this man to discover if her magical abilities were real?

Her heartbeat quickened. She must be very careful of this visitor.

Aife arranged a circlet on Dessia’s head and placed the matching gold and emerald torc around her neck. Still feeling nervous, Dessia made her way down the stairs to the feast hall.

The large round chamber was empty except for a serving woman tending the main hearth. Climbing the low platform at the end of the hall, Dessia quickly took a seat in the massive carved oaken chair where her father had once sat. It was one of the few things she’d been able to salvage from the ruins of the original fortress. She smoothed her green linen gown, decorated with red and yellow braiding, and straightened her spine.

A short while later, Keenan entered, the raven-haired man following behind him. At last Dessia could see the visitor’s face, and it was as fine and comely as she’d expected. He wore only the hint of a beard, a dusky down outlining the square shape of his jaw. His nose was straight and narrow, his mouth, full and sensual. And his eyes—by the gods, it seemed unfair that a man should possess such amazing violet blue eyes, surrounded by thick black lashes!

Shaking off such thoughts, Dessia forced herself to meet the visitor’s gaze. “Who are you?” she asked.

The man bowed low, then straightened, his movement as graceful as a cat’s. His dazzling eyes glinted with warmth. “I’m Bridei ap Maelgwn, lately of Britain, although I have lived many places.” He paused and a slight smile touched his well-formed lips. Then he continued in his rich, vibrant voice, “I play the harp and musical pipe. I compose poems, sing songs and recite a hundred different tales. I can write Latin and a little Greek, decipher runes and tally accounts. I would be a most useful and entertaining addition to your household, Queen Dessia. In exchange for my services I would ask only that you provide me with a small chamber of my own, food and drink such as you give your warriors, and the freedom to come and go as I please.”

As he finished his speech, Bridei felt rather startled by what he’d just said. He’d intended to entreat Queen Dessia to help him return to Britain. But somehow, at the last moment, different words had formed on his tongue. Why had he offered to serve her? Had she put some sort of spell on him? Or was it simply a response to her remarkable beauty? For Queen Dessia was stunning. Masses of dark red hair cloaked her tall, voluptuous form. Her face was a pale, delicate oval, set with gleaming jewel-green eyes and a coral mouth. She was a goddess. As bold and magnificent as Epona, lady of horses. As radiant as Arianrhod, queen of the moon and stars. Merely looking at her made Bridei’s loins grow tight.

But he’d encountered beautiful women before and never been so profoundly affected. This woman stirred not only his body, but his spirit. Being in her presence brought all his senses to life, forcing him react with true emotion, instead of the cynical detachment with which he usually regarded the world. It was unsettling. Unnerving. But he had no intention of enduring the situation for long. He would beguile her and make her seek do his will rather than the other way around.

At the same time, he told himself that there really was no reason why he shouldn’t remain here over the winter. There was nothing left for him in Britain. Nothing except the darkness and confusion that Arthur’s death would have wrought. He was well out of it. Well out.

He repeated the phrase in his mind as he waited for her response.

She shifted her body, then licked her lips, a gesture of stunning eroticism. At last, she said, “You appear far too young to possess the skills you boast of. And you haven’t told me how you came to be here. My man, Keenan . . .” She motioned to the warrior who’d escorted him there, making Bridei feel a sudden surge of jealousy. “He says you were wearing slave chains when he found you. How came you to be captured by those loathsome men? Where is your family? Your clan? Why would you offer your services to a stranger?” Her green eyes narrowed. “You’ve been brought to Eire against your will. Why would you choose to stay here rather than returning to your homeland?”

Good questions, all of them. Bridei felt a surge of admiration. Queen Dessia’s mind was keen as her beauty. She might be young, but she wasn’t naïve. Life had tempered this woman, as heat strengthens a sword blade. He remembered the tale the one warrior had told him, of how the rest of the queen’s family had been killed when she was a child. All at once, he knew exactly how to win her sympathy.

He made his expression sorrowful. “If you haven’t heard, there was a great battle in my homeland last summer. Our brave, valiant leader, Arthur ap Uther, was defeated and killed by the Saxons. Fighting at his side was my older brother Rhun.” He hung his head dramatically. “I’m still mourning my loss. While the remainder of my family yet live in the mountain kingdom of Gwynedd, I haven’t the heart to visit them. I can’t bear to look upon my father’s face and tell him that his eldest son is dead.”

He slowly raised his gaze and assessed the effect of his words. She looked stricken, as if he had been speaking of her family rather than his own. Pain creased her fair brow and her mouth trembled. He quickly bent his head again, repressing a smile of satisfaction. For a moment, he had been unsettled, but now he was back to usual self. The perfect tale to melt this lady’s heart had sprung effortlessly to his lips. Now he had only to move in for the kill.

He waited a moment, then sighed deeply and once more looked into her eyes. “Call me a coward, if you will, but I am weary of the war and fighting that has torn apart my homeland. I seek a place of refuge, and this lovely bit of land, bordered by the wild sea, warmed by a gentle sun and blessed with soft, sweet rain, seems the perfect place to mend my spirits.”

He had her, there was no doubt of it. A sheen of tears glazed her green eyes, reminding him of sunlight shining upon a still forest pool. She looked so tender and sweet . . . and young. He could see the wounded girl she’d been, only partially hidden beneath the trappings of the proud queen. She could still weep over loss and injustice. Her spirit had not formed the tough, impenetrable shell that his had.

He made himself smile, a wan, weary smile. In a moment, she would agree to let him stay in her household. Then he need only offer a few more soulful looks and touching tales and she would eagerly welcome him into her bed.

But even as he considered the splendor of this prize, he couldn’t help wondering what he had done—offering up his freedom, his independence, to serve this exquisite young queen. He glanced down at his hands and saw the pale reddish lines marking the place where the iron fetters had encircled his wrists. Those shackles were gone, but it felt as if they had been replaced by other invisible and yet more powerful bonds.

Oh, this Bridei ap Maelgwn was a clever one.
Dessia exhaled deeply and sought to compose herself. He knew exactly what to say to bring to mind her own bone-deep grief. But the very fact he played upon her emotions so skillfully made her suspicious. Why should he come here and seek a place in her household? Was he a spy for Tiernan or one of her other enemies? The thought sent a tremor of foreboding down her spine. Her hold upon her Cahermara was so tenuous.

If he was a spy, it might be wise to keep him close. That way she could control what he saw and heard. For a moment, she contemplated what it would be like to have this man in her household, entertaining them during the long winter nights. That deep, throbbing voice filling the hall. His presence like that of a beautiful wild beast, arousing her fascination. There was no denying a part of her was loath to have him gone.

Which was why he was so dangerous. He was the most compelling man she’d ever encountered. As her resolve wavered, she knew a sense of disquiet. Perhaps she should call together her warriors and ask for their advice. But to do so seemed weak and indecisive. No man would seek out his advisors in this circumstance. A man would send Bridei ap Maelgwn away without hesitation. She should do the same.

But if she sent him away, she would never solve the mystery of why he was here. If he was a spy, she would never learn who he was spying for.