Maire (26 page)

“Ho, Maire, if you’re as well met in private as ye are in this mischief, ’tis no wonder you can’t keep your eyes open,” Declan teased.

“Look, brother!” Maire pointed to a tall, stately oak shading a curve in the road ahead. “Why don’t ye save that tongue for kissin’ another tree?”

With some semblance of satisfaction from the guffaws her remark spawned, Maire turned her gaze toward the rise ahead. At least she was not the only one with a red face now. And it
was
her prerogative, if she chose, to lean against the stalwart chest to her back. Besides, she’d need a clear, well rested head for the confrontation that surely awaited at Tara.

Off and on, Maire catnapped. The forested roadside was the perfect place for ambush, but she could not hold her head up. Instinct told her that she was safe from any human danger, cradled as she was in her husband’s arms. There was no such refuge from that of a spiritual kind. For that, she was forced to rely on Rowan’s god.

If only Brude traveled with them, she thought sleepily. But there’d been no time to lose in heading Morlach off before he gained too much sway with the high king, so they’d sent for Gleannmara’s druid with a message for Brude to meet them with all haste at Tara. Until then, they were on their own.

“Hold, who goes there?”

At the distant shout of one of the rear guards, Maire stiffened in front of Rowan. Suddenly she was lifted from her perch and dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Her knees, unprepared for the impact, nearly buckled beneath her.

“Stay here while I find out what’s amiss,” Rowan told her, turning the horse in its own space with a jerk of the reins.

Dazed, Maire watched him ride through the men on foot toward where the O’Croinin guarded their flank. Gathering her wits, Maire launched up into Tamar’s saddle and started after her husband. She was a warrior queen, not some wide-eyed ninny afraid of tearin’ the hem of her skirt!

By now she and her men had drawn their weapons, but no enemy was in sight. The forest dared to be as still as it had been the night before, despite the feeling in every bone that something wasn’t quite right.

As the mare raced ahead, closing the distance between Maire and Rowan, the carpet of damp leaves and debris muffled the
impact of hoofs on the ground. Maire shouted over the muted thunder of their approach.

“Where are they, O’Croinin?”

“I…” The burly watchman glanced over his shoulder at the approaching king and back again at the voluminous tree-shrouded road behind them.

“Well?” Maire’s heart beat furiously against her chest, as if she’d run, rather than rode to the rear of the troop.

“It wasn’t what I saw exactly.”

The guard’s slow remark raised the hair on Maire’s neck and arms.
Spirits?
She turned wide eyes upon her husband.

Oblivious to her alarm, Rowan took the man’s befuddlement in patient stride. “Then what made you issue your challenge?”

“I heard voices. They was arguin’—and I felt like I was bein’ watched.”

“What kind of voices?” The possible answer unnerved her.

“Men’s voices. They argued and then they was gone.”

“Ye ain’t been swillin’ that Cairthan mead in yer pouch, have ye, Dub?” one of the men teased.

The others laughed, releasing the anxiety that had held every muscle and tongue in check.

“Ach, how far do ye think we’d ’a been if ye hadn’t let your imagination run away with ye, man?” Gilly O’Croinan teased his red-faced brother.

“Three lengths of a fool, Gilly, and if ye don’t believe me, lay down yourself and measure it!”

The men roared and slapped Dublach on the back before forming into a haphazard column to march again. Even Gilly acknowledged his brother’s quick wit, laughing as loud as any.

“What do you think?” Maire asked Rowan, scanning the trees to either side of the road as intently as he.

“I think we need a song. Not even a demon will strike stouthearted men in voice.”

Without further adieu, Rowan began a familiar marching song in the old tongue. His voice was as clear and melodic as a
thick harp string plucked by a master’s hand. One by one, the men joined in with him—voices high and low, some carrying the melody and others blending in harmony. It was a lively Finnian tune about the carefree life of living in the wild with the sky as a blanket and a map. Maire knew it well. Adding her harmony, she had to admit ’twould have to be a sorely tortured spirit that interrupted this intrepid chorus.

Five roads from the five provinces of Erin converged on the hill of Tara. From that hill a clear day permitted a view of all. The circular stone rath of Temair rose stately, the high king of fortifications, built and expanded over the ages to some three hundred or so meters across. Its stones were held in place by the skill of its craftsmen, rather than mortar.

Surrounding it, other buildings paid homage. There was the Rath of the Synods, where druid and priest collaborated to amend the law. The banqueting hall, a giant among the structures, was reported to house a thousand soldiers. With fourteen doors, seven to the east and seven to the west, visitors could foretell their intentions by the door they chose to enter.

A traffic of females, many richly adorned with gold and embroidery, identified the House of Women. Maire had heard of the place. It was some eastern notion, providing a lodging exclusively for females of Tara’s court. Maire, raised in a man’s world, found the idea curious, if not demeaning. A fainter, more doll-like lot she’d never seen.

Like as not, they’d swoon at the sights she’d seen. Her attempt to assuage her wounded pride that Rowan was not immune to the admiration such beauties generated among the visiting Niall warriors fell short of its mark. The man stared as if he’d not seen a feminine figure before. She bit back a peeved lower lip. But then, these females wore jewels and finery enough to draw even her eye. Perhaps that was what her husband admired.

Near Temair was a cluster of tents lodging excess visitors to the place of kings and lawmakers. Among the tents, familiar banners fluttered in the westerly breeze. The red and black colors of Rathcoe banished Maire’s curiosity and peeve at a glance, replacing it with wariness and dread. She’d been so taken with the sights she’d nearly forgotten her purpose.

“’Twould seem Morlach already has an audience,” Rowan remarked to no one in particular.

At least he wasn’t
totally
befuddled by the sight of the comely women.

“See to the camp here,” he decided at length. “I’ll speak with the guards about seeing the high king.”

Maire nodded, heeding his order without thought or reservation. There’d been ample opportunity for a lowly ambush by Morlach’s henchmen, but, despite Dub O’Croinin’s false alarm, it never came. Like her men, more and more, she was gaining respect for both her husband and his god. There appeared no odds that did not sway to Gleannmara’s favor, although defeating Morlach by the merit of her sword certainly would be a more glorious triumph.

And more unlikely. Steel was no match for druid magic.

Declan dismounted his shaggy steed beside Maire. “I thought your husband first a fool and coward. Now, I am not so certain.” Her foster brother’s words gave voice to Maire’s thought.

Declan followed Rowan with his gaze, all the while fidgeting with the crested ring on his finger. “A finer horse than Rowan’s can’t be found, but would that he wore more kingly attire than sackcloth. Emrys, wait!” he called out suddenly, as the new king rode up to the guards standing at the banqueting hall.

Maire observed with interest as Declan ran after Rowan and slipped the ring from his finger onto Rowan’s. So Eochan
had
told his younger brother why Gleannmara’s new king had such an interest in the ring—and in the priest from whom it was stolen.

“Do ye think that will earn him more respect or attention?” she asked her foster brother upon his return.

Declan grinned sheepishly. “Nay, like as not, it wouldn’t… but it makes
me
feel better.”

“Besides, who ever saw a king in a priest’s robe, wearing a gold torque, Gleannmara’s blue and gold brat, and a Roman ring?” Her laugh stemmed from awe and admiration, rather than in jest. “He does have a way of drawing attention, that one.”

“By my sword, I don’t believe my eyes.”

Maire looked to where Declan pointed in time to see a heron flap its wings near the door to the House of the Synod.

“Isn’t that Brude’s bird?”

“Aye.” She nodded uncertainly. “It looks it. But how could Brude make it to Tara before us?”

Even if Eochan had ridden straight to him, the elderly druid was a day farther from Tara than Maire’s company.

Declan came to the same conclusion. “Nay, he couldn’t have made the journey so hastily. And all the druids have their queer pets.”

As if to back Declan up, one of the learned scholars passed them, headed for the Hall, with a small, black, speckled pig at his heels.

“At least a dog can be trained to do more than eat and—”

Maire cut her companion short. “Trail its owner like a shadow?”

“That wasn’t what I was goin’ to say.” Declan grinned impishly.

“And well I know it.” Maire returned his look with equal mischief.

After a lull of silence, Declan spoke again.

“Does he treat ye fairly, Maire? I mean, is he a decent husband?” The youngest Drumkilly was suddenly sober as the druid who’d just passed them.

It took Maire a moment to catch up with him and another
to recover from the shock of his question. “Decent enough. We’ve a strong alliance that is… good for Gleannmara. Of that, I’ve no doubt.” She dismounted Tamar and gave the mare an affectionate pet. “What of it?”

Declan stumbled for speech, like a dog that had suddenly caught a retreating bear and now knew not what to do with it. “Well, I—”

“Sure your brat’s not still in a tangle because I took Rowan to husband?”

The warrior’s ruddy complexion grew a deep shade of red. “Ach, I’d have married ye just to help ye out. I’d give my life for you and Gleannmara, Maire, but it isn’t
that.”
He glanced away from the slim, red brow Maire arched at him. “I was just won-derin’ how ye found married life.”

“Why?”

Maire didn’t think it possible, but Declan actually grew darker still. With luck, whatever distracted him so would keep him from noticing her own discomfiture. No one must know that she and Rowan were married by law alone and not by nature.

“Ach, never mind.” He swore impatiently. “I’ll not have ye thinkin’ I’m unnaturally interested in such. ’Tis clear enough, a wife’s not worth it.”

Before Maire could question him further, the captain turned and involved himself in the making of the camp.
A wife!
Declan was thinking of a wife? She shook her head in disbelief. But when? Who? She had misheard him to be sure.

Maire stripped the halter from Tamar’s tapered head, her fingers brushing the velvet of the mare’s nose. Perhaps her foster brother was referring to her lacking of wifely qualities.

Maire closed her eyes in exasperation. These women’s matters would make her witless as a crazed cow. ’Twas burden enough to worry about Morlach and Gleannmara, without having to learn how to be a suitable wife as well! Her skills were those of a warrior, not a coquettish maid raised to serve a man and keep his household.

And yet, in spite of herself, Maire was plagued by wondering just how much weight being such a maid carried in the eyes of a man like Rowan ap Emrys.

“The Uí Niall King and Queen of Gleannmara!”

Maire entered at Rowan’s side through the door set aside for petitions, and the grandeur that met her eye nearly stole her breath. The banqueting hall at Tara was indeed as grand as the poets declared. Along oaken walls several warriors high were hung trophies and weapons of late and of old. Some thirty spits turned all at once over a cook fire by a marvelous contraption. The roasting meat and fowl filled the air with its sumptuous invitation.

“Look at all the cooks! There must be three times fifty.”

When Rowan didn’t answer, she recalled herself. After all, she was Queen Maire of Gleannmara, not some wide-eyed child. Standing taller, she marched forward and followed Rowan’s lead, bowing before Diarhmott, high king of Ireland.

She’d made the right decision in keeping on her armor and leine rather than changing into the dress Delwynn ap Emrys had given her. This was a place for warriors, not women. The dark-haired
bruns
and fairer descendants of the Milesian fathers presented a fearsome sight. Tall and well-proportioned, surely no force ever assembled was more impressive. Men with red manes and beards—as well as yellow, black, and brown—with eyes from the palest blue to the darkest ebony turned toward her. She was tempted to stare back at them, the way they looked at her, but the high king addressed the Gleannmara contingent.

“Queen Maire, I have heard the song of your victory over the Cymry.”

How on earth had he heard about the Welsh raid?

As though reading her mind, Diarhmott pointed over to a table of honor occupied by robed druids. “Yon Brude entertained us well, and I now see that he did not exaggerate your
beauty. ’Tis no wonder the Welshman surrendered.”

So the bird
was
Nemh! The druid must have come straight away to Tara as soon as the Niall left to deal with the Cairthan threat. And she’d thought some pilgrimage to the Sacred Grove preoccupied him. She schooled her features to hide her surprise…and her annoyance.

“He fought a gallant fight, my lord.”

It grated Maire to lend credence to Rowan’s adaptation of the fight, but she was no novice to politics. Brude saw to that. If she wanted respect afforded her husband, it would not do to have his name bandied about as an inferior combatant. The romantic Celtic pride might suffer defeat of beauty over steel, but never would it ignore ineptitude.

Granted, he
had
gotten the upperhand momentarily…

“Gleannmara’s tribute is impressive.”

Tribute?
Maire dared not give away her ignorance by glancing at Brude.

“It is well placed, sir,” the druid replied. “Gleannmara is pleased to pay the high king his due.”