Maire (12 page)

Time, in its fickle way, struck a leisurely course. It seemed to Maire an eternity before Declan’s limp form was pulled over the side and dragged onto the deck. His lips were blue, his skin bloodless and cold. She wanted to cry, but that was a luxury not afforded a warrior, much less a queen. Even so, emotion welled up in her, demanding release.

Silly fool, how could he have fallen overboard? Only a while ago she’d warned him about perching on the rail, drunk as he’d been.

“Curse you, Declan! I told you to get down from the rail.”

Crying was not allowed, but anger was. Maire fell upon him, striking his chest a sound blow with all her weight. It was her queenly right to admonish him for not heeding her word. By her mother’s gods, she’d not have it. To her astonishment, the moment she landed on his cold, still form, his knees drew up in a spasmodic response. What little breath was left in his chest loosened, bullying seawater from his throat in a spurt.

Riding fierce on emotion’s tide, Maire tugged at his shoulder. “Help me turn him! Give us room!”

Eochan rolled his brother on his side and held the young man’s head as his body convulsed and purged the death-dealing
brine. Maire felt no sympathetic nausea, but an exhilarating relief. He was coming back to her! Just as she thought he could cough no more, Declan fell weakly on his back and moaned. His eyes fluttered, reluctant to return to the waking world.

“So the wine wasn’t enough for you, was it?”

Joy rather than admonishment flooded Maire’s voice. She placed her hands on either side of Declan’s face and shook him until his gaze widened enough to ensure her he was going to stay with them.

“First you fight the sea, and now you try to drink it.”

The young man’s mouth twitched with an attempt to smile, but it had clearly sapped all his strength to fight his way across the divide between life and death. He shivered uncontrollably, folding his arms across his chest.

“Let me get you out of them wet clothes and into a dry, warm bed, whelp,” Eochan offered, recognizing the ensuing shock taking hold of his brother. Before Declan could protest, the bear hoisted him up like a babe. “A bit of rest, and you’ll be ready to fight the wind.”

“I’ll help.” Maire rose, taken aback to find her own legs were not so steady. She might well have been pulled from the water herself, for the way her strength foundered. Declan had not overstated himself in regard to their closeness; they had grown up as close as any blood kin. Her foster brother could make her laugh, even in the darkest of moods. She’d hurt him with her rejection, and guilt would never have let her be if he hadn’t survived.

“A queen learns to delegate what she can, so that she might attend to what others cannot,” Brude reminded her with gentle but firm words. “The cockerel is in good hands. You have a good husband to thank for that.”

Emrys!
Maire had forgotten him in her concern for Declan. Across the deck, a handful of clansmen clapped Rowan on the back as though he’d been kin all his life. If his blade had not earned their admiration, his valor had. Few mariners swam
well enough to rescue fellows from the churning waters of the sea. Land dwellers such as Maire and her clan might be able to make their way about in a pool or lake, but their skills fell short in the rolling fists of water that could toss a ship about like a toy.

In the dying light of the horizon, his wet body glistened, its scars all but erased. Maire tried not to admire the virile interplay of sinew as he donned his meanly spun robe again, but she dared not glance away like a shy maid as she approached him. There were too many eyes upon her to humor her modesty. She’d seen nearly naked men before; Emrys should not demand exception. At least that’s what her mind said. Her body seemed of another opinion.

“The blood of the Scotti may not run in your veins, Emrys, but you possess its spirit. Your valor has pleased us. Now you must please me.”

At least her outward demeanor was regal and assured. Gripping her father’s torque with one hand, she drew Rowan’s face down to hers and pressed her lips to his with as much fervor as when she’d fought him. When he reacted, threatening to pull away, she caught the back of his head with her free arm, holding him fast. Her clenched teeth would surely grind against his own through the flesh, but she would leave no doubt to the witnesses that this was the beginning of their mating ritual, and that she was as in charge as any swaggering groom at Beltaine.

Apparently her adversary’s shock thawed, for he surprised her by drawing her into his arms. About the two of them, various remarks and sounds of approval echoed, but Maire was too distracted to gain satisfaction or be embarrassed. Rowan’s embrace was rib crushing. She had no choice but to lessen the force of her kiss in order to breathe. Suddenly, she was keenly aware that she was no longer the aggressor.

Like a moth that ventured too close to a flame, her emotions ignited, defying reason. The man’s skin was cold from his
saltwater bath. Her fingers, clenched about his bulging biceps told her so, but it made no difference. She’d stepped onto an unfamiliar battleground where senses could not be relied on. Retreat was the only solution. A thousand echoes of how bounced about in her head, dodging traitorous whispers to surrender.

But surrender was not acceptable to a warrior. She reached for her training, shining like a bright spear of hope in a confusing rain of arrows. Driving her heel down upon his instep, she ground it in a slow, deliberate fashion. It was an act of passion, true enough, but a passion to escape, to be free of the emotions roiling through her. Thankfully, those watching could not see her action stemmed from deliberation rather than desire. She felt Rowan’s flinch of pain. Both tensed. Then, as if by mutual accord, a truce was declared.

Maire stepped away, resisting the urge to wipe her lips dry of his taste. “Since I’ve no women to prepare our bridal chamber, you can help.”

Rowan bowed with a cryptic smirk. “At your service, my queen.”

A fluttering rise of humor died with Maire’s forbidding glance at her men. In matters of the conjugal bed, all men were allies, brother beasts in a common pen. She was still, however, queen of that pen.

“Our accommodations are not as luxurious as those you are accustomed to, sir, but I assure you, you’ll find no complaint.”

With a purposeful swagger, she led the way across the deck to her canopy. The curtains that had been dropped to afford her privacy in dressing earlier were still in place. Pulling one aside, she entered the makeshift room, leaving Rowan to follow. Bread, cheese, and a skin of wine lay at the head of the two pallets that had been placed side by side, arranged as one bed beneath a coverlet of white linen. The linen from Brude’s trunk.

Maire stopped short, wondering how he’d known to bring
it, much less when he had found time to do this. Had the druid seen the need of a wedding bed before they’d left Erin? Somehow she’d imagined she and Emrys making the best of the single pallet. No, that was not true. She hadn’t imagined anything, because she’d refused to think of this moment. Now that it had arrived, her mind had grown dull as an ox.

“We…” Her voice cracked as Emrys bumped into her. There was no room for anyone to stand in the cubicle. It had but one purpose tonight.

“We won’t have to take off our clothes,” she announced, stepping onto the bed. Her knees turned to water as she knelt down, bone jamming the deck, despite the mattress of straw between. She was not about to wallow naked, queenly duty or nay. “But we should finish this wine,” she went on, sitting back on her folded legs. “Your God certainly blesses the church vineyards.”

By the bones of her ancestors, everything she said sounded as though it came from the mouth of a fool! What did a woman say to a man as a prelude to their wedding night? There was certainly no love to inspire words of endearment or desire.

Rowan dropped down across from her in one fell movement, his legs crossed before him. No doubt he’d spent many a night before a campfire like so when he’d been a warrior. His mouth was curled up slightly on one side, whether in agreement or amusement, she couldn’t discern.

Although this was a political marriage, politics hardly seemed appropriate, either. Certainly, speaking about Morlach would not put her at ease. He was at the root of this predicament. Maire yanked out the stopper of wineskin, as if it were the evil druid’s neck, and took a vengeful drought. At last she wiped on her arm the remnant of their abrasive kiss from her mouth and handed the skin over to her companion, who was not helping this situation at all with his very loud silence.

Talk about him. That’s it, Maire thought, recalling an
inkling of the wisdom passed amongst the women doing needlework in the
grianán
above the warriors’ hall. She wished she’d paid more heed while up there in the sun loft, but Maire had intended to become a warrior and didn’t consider that worth her mind’s time. She gathered confidence from the one observation she knew to be true: Men liked to talk about themselves.

“So,” she said, face brightening. “Tell me how you got that deep scar on your back.”

T
he surprise on Rowan’s face at her question flustered her. “I… I saw it during our contest,” she added hastily. “And you had no bard to sing of your victories,” Maire explained further, disconcerted by her companion’s silence.

“That is because my victories are of no great concern,” he said at length.

Maire laughed nervously. “Don’t be telling me that you let the men who inflicted those wounds go without their due. Such modesty does not become a warrior.”

“I’m no longer a warrior, my queen, at least not one of the sword.”

“Tell that to my flesh.” Maire pointed to one of several nicks his skillful blade had dealt. “Besides, I’m counting on your sword, Emrys. You gave your word. We took a blood oath.”

“I gave my word to support you and your people, so long as what you require does not conflict with my Lord’s will. And since we are now on so intimate a field, my name is Rowan, not Emrys.”

Although he’d not moved a hair’s width toward her, Maire felt as though she were on the run on some other level of existence. “Rowan, then.”

The name was soft to the tongue, warming as cider served round a fire in the late fall, but Maire refused to be taken in so easily.

“So, what manner of God would have you cast aside your honor and forsake your right to tell of your victories?”

Her curiosity was pricked by the converse humility in the
man. It matched neither his skill nor the wealed banners of his triumphs. She’d seen more than that one vicious scar as she locked swords with him. She looked at one now, where it skimmed the top of his left eyebrow, telling of yet another brush with death. This was not the body of a humble man, but one of a brash, valiant fighter.

“All triumph, glory, and honor belong to my God. Without Him, I am as useless as the dust of the earth.”

What a strange concept. Intrigued, Maire leaned on one elbow, her hair falling over her shoulder like a silken mantle. Although there was a small lamp next to the wooden plate of bread and cheese, its light was not enough for her to make out more than Rowan’s profile. The soul of his eyes was hidden to her, evasive as the real meat of his words. It was like listening to Brude.

“I think you seek to have me underestimate you, Rowan, though I’m confounded by your purpose. Tell me where you fought and with whom. Tell me why you wear the robe of a cleric, which fits neither form nor character. You needn’t put it to rhyme,” she added, knowing that gifts of verse and sword were rarely matched in one person.

It was her turn to be studied. Maire felt the measure of his gaze upon her face, as though he were reaching beyond to ascertain if she could be trusted with his secrets. She withstood it, waiting in queenly expectation. When at last he spoke, she realized she’d been holding her breath.

“My father is from a long line of soldiers. Both parents have Roman and Welsh blood. I was trained to follow in my father’s footsteps.”

As her companion began to unfold his story, his words flowed through her like heady wine, satiating, relaxing. Rowan of Emrys fought against the Picts and, sometimes the Scotti as well, on the northern frontier of Alba. He was a horse soldier, the youngest captain in that theater. But horse soldiers were of little value fighting against those who had no tactical training,
save to find the closest foe and split his head open. Rowan became competent in both arenas, but most interesting of all, he made his horse his partner in combat. What glory he did not afford to his God, he gave to his horse, amazing Maire with stories of what a trained warhorse could do.

“And this pair you brought with us can do such things in battle?”

Maire found it hard to believe, magnificent beasts though they were, that horses were good for more than racing, pulling chariots, or delivering a man to the fray. That they could be trained to use their hooves as weapons and their bodies as both rams and shields was beyond her. She could ride Gleannmara’s steeds like a second skin, but if Emrys could train the animals to this extent, then he was indeed gifted as a druid.

She reached again for the wineskin and was astounded to find it empty. Emrys’s words had no bard’s rhythm or rhyme, but she’d not noticed the eve slipping into the deep of the night. Once again fickle time vexed her, skittering fast through her fingers like dry sand. A few yards away, she could hear a group of her men singing. Well in their cups, their besotted mood had swung from jolly to the melancholy forerunner of slumber. She licked the rim of the spout and grinned, fortified by the spirits of the vine and relaxed by the camaraderie she’d shared, one warrior with another. It must be done.

Maire no more looked forward to the task ahead than when Brude convinced her of its necessity, but she was no longer afraid. Rowan was a reasonable man in manner, not some barbarous brute. He, a hostage among captors, had risked his own life to save Declan. She owed him for that.

Besides, the act itself didn’t hurt all that much, or so she’d heard. ’Twould be like mastering mounting an unbroken horse, an intimidating task but not impossible.