Maire (27 page)

“And this is your
husband?”

The intonation Diarhmott used in reference to Rowan did not bode well. Maire nodded, the hair lifting on her neck upon glimpsing the rest of the court assembly.

Morlach and Finead, the druid Diarhmott had sent to perform Maire’s and Morlach’s wedding, sat among the honored on the other side of Diarhmott, while Brude was relegated to the scholar’s company.

“I am, sir. Rowan of Gleannmara, equally at the service of the high king.”

Diarhmott leaned forward on the carved, stone throne. The tassels on the plush cushions beneath him quivered, drawing the attention of the two great wolfhounds lazing about his feet. Maire was grateful for the hand Rowan placed at her back. The high king was an imposing specimen of a man, for no Celt lacking in any physical way could serve such a post. She hoped
his wisdom was as sound as his body.

“Tell me of this wedding, Queen Maire.”

Although she trembled within like a dog in a wet sack, Maire drew to her full height, composed as her station demanded. She rested her hand on the hilt of her blade—not in a threatening manner, but one of ease.

“My husband chose wisely to champion his land to spare bloodshed. I won the match, but I was so well met that I considered him a good prospect as both hostage and husband. Emrys is a prosperous tuath which will pay a handsome ransom and more to Gleannmara with Rowan as my king.”

“You were aware that I favored your marriage to my good and faithful Morlach?”

Maire lifted her chin proudly. “Aye, I was, but—”

Morlach stood, an accusing finger pointed at her. “There! She admits defying you, my lord!”

“May I finish?” Maire said crisply.

It wasn’t a question for the druid, but aimed directly at the king. So help her, Morlach might strike her down with the evil eye for ignoring him thus, but even death was better than marriage to him. Rowan’s fist tightened behind her, but a darting sideways glance revealed he smiled at her. With what? Pride?

“By all means,
dear.”

The term of affection tripped her thoughts, but Maire gathered her wit and courage, turning back to Diarhmott. “I did what I thought best for Gleannmara, for, while your majesty has not seen the devastation Morlach’s rule has wrought over my homeland, I have. She has been bled dry, my lord. My people starve, the best of the livestock is now at Rathcoe. Even the Cairthan, our former enemy, will swear to Morlach’s greed.”

“I took only my due as overlord,” Morlach protested. “And the Cairthan are a thorn in the side of justice, brigands all.”

Maire was grateful that Garret and Ciara were outside in their camp, yet she felt compelled to come to their defense. “To take what the people did not have to give is enough to make them
resort to raids. Ask Brude. He has seen Gleannmara’s suffering.”

Brude started to stand, but the high king waved him to stay down. “This hearing is not to condemn my servant for following the law, but to decide if this marriage of yours is lawful.”

“Again, ask Brude. ’Twas he who performed the rite. And I’ve witnesses a plenty.” Maire waved behind her to where Declan and the others stood.

“’Tis true,” her foster brother testified. “We heard the vows well enough,
and
we saw the bridal linen stained with a maid’s blood.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt that a wedding took place,” Diarhmott said, “But that is not enough.”

Maire felt the color drain from her face. They
knew
she and Rowan had not consummated the marriage.

“Then why do you question us?” Rowan asked boldly. “Have we not met our obligation to the law?”

“But
whose
law, Gleannmara?” Morlach spoke up. “Will you vow before your Christian god that you are wed in his eye?”

Rowan’s jaw clenched, tight as an angry fist.

Diarhmott pounced on Rowan’s hesitation. “Are you wed in the eyes of the church, Rowan of Gleannmara?”

Maire looked up at her husband expectantly. Where was his god?

Rowan met Diarhmott’s challenge with defiance. “No, I am not, but the law of my church means nothing to the likes of Morlach except when it serves his greed.”

It was over. Maire wanted to strike Rowan
and
his god, for now she was at Morlach’s mercy.

“If it please the high king, I would speak.” Brude rose at Diarhmott’s nod. “There was no time for a Christian ceremony on Cymry soil. Hence, I married the queen to this man according to her law.”

“But you have heard it from his own lips, your majesty,” Morlach railed. “He does not feel honor bound by this marriage. He mocks our law, binding one of us, but not himself.”

“Your majesty!” Brude had to shout over the uproar caused by Morlach’s accusation.
“That
is why we have come here—so that you may
personally
witness at least the second ceremony. Father Tomás awaits at this moment to make this marriage sound in the eyes of both Brehon
and
Christian, according to the Synod of Patrick.”

The high king and Morlach shared a disconcerted look. Clearly they were not expecting this. Bless Brude and all his wisdom!

“You see, your majesty,” Gleannmara’s druid went on, “the wedding had to wait until we were able to mend the long rift between the Uí Niall and the Cairthan. The tuath was in chaos when Maire came to its high seat.”

Maire saw where Brude was going and picked up the baton. “And because I chose my new king well, the Cairthan and Niall are one people, united by our marriage.”

Morlach sputtered. “What trickery is this?”

“No trickery, sire. The Cairthan aiccid and the chief’s mother travel with us. Shall I bring them forward to vouch for my king’s word?” Maire asked Diarhmott.

“They travel with you as hostages, I’d wager,” Morlach contested, “but—”

Diarhmott silenced the flustered druid with a raised, jeweled hand. “Are they hostages or friends to Gleannmara?” he asked Rowan.

“Neither. They are my kin.”

A deafening silence enveloped the room, servant and lord alike.

The first to recover was Morlach. “He
lies!”

Brude smiled, triumphant. “He does not lie, your majesty, for that is a geis imposed by his God.”

Morlach could say little in argument, for to break a geis issued by a god was unthinkable to the Celtic mind. Hero, king, and druid alike had perished for such a crime.

“His word is as solid as the walls of Temair,” Brude claimed with all his authority.

“Garret and Ciara of the Cairthan are my nephew and mother,” Rowan explained. “I was carried away by slavers from my clan when I was a boy and adopted by a Welsh-Roman family. While I am lord of Emrys, I am also brother to Lorcan, chief of the Cairthan.”

Diarhmott retreated to silence, mulling over this new revelation. His furtive glance toward Morlach told Maire he was backed against the wall, but it was with a flicker of admiration that the high king addressed the Welshman-turned-Scot.

“You weave a sound net, Rowan of Gleannmara. You have done what not even Maeve could do. Well, Finead, what say you of this?”

The druid nodded, lamplight shining on the shaven half of his head.

Maire held her breath, her knuckles white about the handle of her sword—Maeve’s sword.

“These circumstances are quite remarkable.” Finead pulled his long beard thoughtfully, most likely to gain time. “Given what has been revealed here, there is little choice, if justice is to be served, but to celebrate a wedding.”

Clearly caught by surprise by the changing tide of support, Morlach exploded. “And what of
my
justice? You promised the lass to me, Diarhmott. You owe me your kingdom!”

Face coloring to equal the druid’s, Diarhmott rose from the royal seat and pointed a warning finger.
“And
to the queen’s parents, whose untimely and sinister death is
still
a mystery!”

At the high king’s insinuation, Maire turned her head so quickly it was a wonder her neck failed to snap. “But they were killed gloriously in battle!”

Diarhmott regained himself. “Aye, that they were. But ’twas still untimely and sinister for all who knew and loved them.”

Her gaze shifted to Morlach. “Not even
you
dare such a travesty against Gleannmara.”

“It isn’t for me to interfere with one’s destiny. It is obvious that since Maeve and Rhian were united in battle, they should
pass to the other side in the same manner.” The druid nodded, obviously pleased with his reply. “Aye, there’s the ring of true love destined for an eternity’s remembrance.”

Maire took no pleasure in Morlach’s observation, nor did she find it in the least romantic to her Celtic soul. More likely, it was responsible for the icy curdle in her stomach. Was that to be her and Rowan’s fate as well? She shot a furtive glance at Brude. To her relief, the elder druid assured her otherwise with the slightest shake of his head and the kindest, most fatherly of looks.

“So let us make plans for the celebration of their daughter’s destiny with love.” Diarhmott picked up a golden goblet, encrusted with a jeweled crest. “To Gleannmara, one of Tara’s most beloved kingdoms.”

The high king’s toast broke the tension that had seized the room at Morlach’s outburst. True to their enthusiastic and romantic nature, the people around them broke into huzzahs of good cheer. In a burst of wild relief, Maire threw herself into Rowan’s arms and kissed him soundly on the cheek. When his return embrace was markedly belated, she stepped back.

“You
do
wish to marry me?” she whispered for his ear only.

His answer cooled her elation like the icy cascade of Gleannmara’s own waterfalls. “Ah, little queen, is there any other choice?”

Maire didn’t know which unnerved her more—the underlying discontent of Rowan’s answer or the sinister calculation in Morlach’s hostile glare. This wasn’t the way a woman about to be married should feel—as though the future of the union promised misery, death—or both. But Maire was no ordinary woman with ordinary expectations where love was concerned. She was queen of Gleannmara.

F
ather Tomás was a slightly built man, who looked as if he eked out a living in the rock-studded earth of the Wicklows. Unlike Brude’s tonsure, which was shaven from middle of the head forward to demonstrate the high brow of intelligence, this man wore a crown of brown hair, shaven clean in the center and trimmed, it appeared, with a bowl. He had a warm quality of character that put Maire at ease—until he began to question her regarding her acceptance of Rowan’s god.

“Well, of course I accept him. If I didn’t, do ye think I’d be here now?”

The cleric was patient. “I mean, you must accept God as the one and only God, forsaking all other deities.”

“Even the gods of my mother?” Maire was incredulous. She looked at Brude, whom she’d insisted remain with her.

“There is only one God, Maire. It is the Christian God.”

“But how can ye say that, Brude? Sure, I’ve seen you preside over sacrifices to more gods than him.”

The elder druid leaned forward. Beneath the white hedge of his eyebrows, a fire burned in his gaze, the likes of which Maire had not seen before. “The priest and I have talked long on our hasty journey to Tara.”

“Speaking of which, how did you know to come and bring a tribute?”

The sharpness of Brude’s tone showed he was perturbed by her interruption. “Given our years and a spiritual hand, we knew. Accept it!”

We?
The priest as well? Maire didn’t ask the question, but she couldn’t resist glancing at the unimposing cleric with a new respect. She supposed if Rowan could speak to his god, a priest of this god certainly would also have a good communication.

“But listen well, Maire. I say this for the first time, but it will not be the last—”

The skin on Maire’s arms prickled at the ominous tone her friend and mentor used. He’d taught her many things beginning with those words, but none had ever been imbued with such intensity.

“Many of us magi believe in the one God, who lives in the sun. He is not God of the sun alone, but God and Creator of all things. For centuries we have sought the truth of Him, of how He uses the five elements and the moon and stars to govern nature and the world around us. But His spiritual essence is one that we believed the common man incapable of understanding. Man too often needs something he can detect with his five senses and not his sixth.”

“Which is why we have you, druid.” Maire didn’t like the direction this was taking her, but then, she was beginning to get used to that feeling.

“Aye, we’ve done the spiritual searching while allowing man his worship of nature and the elements, when they were only creations of the one God. But the time has come to give this God
all
the glory, not His creations. To do otherwise would be no different than worshiping each other, for we, too, are of His making.”

Maire digested the words. It made sense enough. Why revere the oak if man was made by the same hand? Maybe one creation was no better than the other—though the oak seemed to her a sight more reliable than many men. She started to say so, but Father Tomás cut her off.

“The King of all kings came to give us that message, Queen Maire. God’s Son gave His life that no more sacrifices need be made to the Father and so man did not have to go through a priest to speak to Him.”

“This god has a son?” Ach, the oak was still on her mind. Here she was worried about marrying a man who had no choice in the matter, or so he said, while another had the intention of destroying them both—or at least her prospective husband. And yet these two holy men, instead of seeing this prickly matter done, were lecturing her on things that battered her sore head with confusion and contradictions of all she’d been taught was true. Her exasperation gained the better part of politeness.
“Must
we talk about this now?”

“Maire, you must confess to God of your sins, pledge your allegiance to Him alone, and accept Jesus Christ as your Savior or this marriage will not hold in His eye.”

So now the priest was accusing her? It was too much.

“What sins?” Maire challenged. “I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed of, much less something I need to account for to my husband’s god.”