Maire (36 page)

“Your grandfather and my grandmother were brother and sister.”

Maire handed the bundle up to Lianna and took the mare’s reins. The young woman weighed no more than a sprite. Her clothes hung loose about her waist. She’d lost weight for certain.

“So have ye been sick in the mornin’, not keeping food on your stomach?” If Brude were here, he’d know what to do. But he
had
taught Maire her people were her responsibility. So she would give the servant her best thoughts on the matter.

“Or noon or evenin’ for that matter. I’ve lost my want for food.”

“You’re not with child, are ye?”

“No. I bleed as regular as the moon comes full.”

“Then we’ll ask Ciara and the other women what they think, for it’s clear you’re not yerself.”

A good queen sought counsel when she was uncertain. God’s favorite king David often did. And he prayed.

“Would ye like to pray with me? Maybe this God’ll show us what’s makin’ ye so pale and wan.”

Maire still didn’t like to pray alone. Often she sought out Ciara to share her evening vespers, now that Rowan was gone.

“I know nothin’ of prayin’.”

“Just listen to me and nod your head. The Ghost will tell God what’s on your heart.”

“Ghost?”

“Never ye mind, ’tis a good one.” Maire took a deep breath and started. “Father God, this girl is sick and we’re askin’ Ye to show us what’s wrong or fix it Yourself. Whatever is Your will. Amen.”

“What did he say?”

“Most times He doesn’t answer in words. He just does things in His own time.” At least that’s how Rowan had explained it to her. She hoped her dear Brude was understanding more of this Christian God than she. Thankfully, one didn’t
have to understand everything to enjoy God’s blessings. They surrounded Maire, increasing by the day.

“And thank Ye kindly for all You’ve given us, amen,” she added hastily. “If you agree, you can say—” Maire turned to Lianna just in time to see the young woman keel forward. “Ho, lass, hang on!” She righted her companion, shaking her from her lethargy. “Now hold on to Tamar’s mane. I’m coming up behind ye.”

It took two tries, but with a running start and Tamar’s trained cooperation, Maire vaulted onto the horse’s flank behind the sick girl. Taking up the reins, she urged the mare forward toward the rath.

The mare made the journey a short one. The spindly colt was winded when it caught up with its mother. Their hooves clicked on the log-planked road leading into the large enclosure. Coming out at the same time was Declan, leading a group of men who participated in the afternoon of combat training.

“Give us a hand, brother. The girl’s sick, and I’d have Ciara see her. Take her to my lodge.”

“No, Maire—”

“Hush, Lianna. Remember I
am
the queen.”

Maire gave the protesting girl a mischievous wink, but it was lost upon her. Her eyes rolled as though she were in a swoon, and Declan gathered her into his strong arms. He gave orders for the men to proceed to the outer rath for training and carried Lianna to Maire’s lodge.

“What’s wrong with her?” His voice betrayed his concern.

“She fainted. I thought maybe she was with child but she says no.”

The stricken expression on her foster brother’s face told Maire that possibility could not be ruled out. He laid the girl on the bed with a tenderness she’d rarely seen him display. Lianna stirred, her eyes blinking in confusion.

“Thank ye, brother. Now best ye go for Ciara.”

“Aye, I will.” He took up Lianna’s hand and kissed her
knuckles. “We’ll have ye up and dancin’ with me in no time, lass.”

Lianna was clammy with perspiration, yet the day was fresh and pleasantly cool. While waiting for Rowan’s mother, Maire poured water from a pitcher on the table onto a cloth and mopped her patient’s brow.

“For weeks I’ve tried to get his attention and it takes the likes o’ this to do it.”

“Declan?”

“I owe even this much to a potion—a scent a man could not refuse.”

Lianna reached into her apron and drew out a small vial. It looked like the one Brona had offered Maire.

“I’d have a man love me for myself and not because of what comes from a bottle, for when the bottle is empty, he’ll be gone.” Maire smelled the perfume. It had a bittersweet scent. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it tossed out among the wind-strewn leaves nearby and recognized it.” Lianna looked away guiltily. “I should have given it back to Brona, but she has powers and I thought—”

“You’d use them to win Declan of Drumkilly.” Maire finished flatly.

“Aye, and it’s workin’. Did ye see the way he looked at me? It’s young Garret who now pines after Brona.”

Ciara entered, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her apron stained from working with the dairy maids. Their jobs would last out the season, making up the stores of summer food to see Gleannmara through winter. She smelled like fresh cream and butter. “What is that? I thought we’d thrown that away.”

Maire looked at the bottle more closely. Men and women were known to try all manner of concoctions to win the attention of the opposite sex, and many, like Lianna, were the worse for it. If this was the same vial Brona had offered her, then it might well be her lying on the bed now, instead of her distant cousin.

“Lianna found it. I was just takin’ a sniff.” Maire held the open vial under Ciara’s nose. “I see nothin’ so irresistible about it.”

“That because it’s to affect a man, not you,” their patient remarked.

Ciara sniffed it and started. Her expression grim, she took it from Maire, corked it, and slipped it into her apron. “Let’s have a look at you, lass. Ye look sucked as dry as if ye’d laid in a bed of leeches.”

After a number of questions and examining the patient’s nails and breath, Ciara stood up. “Maire, I’d have a word with you outside.” Her tone was now as grim as her expression.

Once beyond Lianna’s hearing, her mother-in-law glanced around, as though to make sure no one else was within earshot. “Maire, the girl’s been poisoned.”

“You mean
intentionally?”
Maire was incredulous. Her surprise was soon pushed aside by something far stronger: anger. Brona had given the vial to
her,
not to Lianna. Was it possible the girl had dared try poisoning her queen?

“I’m not as expert on herbs as the druid, but I’d wager my beating heart that this vial has some manner of poison in it that seeps through the skin and into the blood. I know it has mandrake in it.”

Gradually the full blow of Ciara’s implication registered. But why would Brona do such a thing? What had Maire done to her? “Mandrake… like to keep a woman from conceivin’?”

“And something else, what I can’t say.”

“Will Lianna die?”

“I’ll do what I can for her. Perhaps, if she’ll drink a tea with charcoal ground fine in it, it may absorb the poison and carry it out. It depends on how much is in her system.”

Maire had heard of applying charcoal poultices, but ingesting it was new. Nonetheless, she didn’t question Ciara. Her questions were for the dark-haired girl who slipped like a spirit in and out of the royal lodge, her face always a mask. Touching the stinger strapped to her waist, Maire started for the door.

She intended to find out exactly what was hiding behind those piercing dark eyes of Brona’s, even if she had to cut them out to see for herself.

Morlach is too devious to do the obvious.

Who’d said that? Maire stopped at the door. Was it Rowan or Brude? She started forward again. It didn’t matter. She was certain the dark druid was behind this. All she needed was to find out the truth from Brona.

A horn from the gate froze Maire in midstep so suddenly that Ciara, who was on her heels, nearly collided with her.

“I’m off to fetch some things for Lianna.”

Maire nodded. She’d have to deal with Brona later. Breaking into a trot, she headed toward the singular opening to the inner rath. Other people milling within and without approached as well, for the signal told of someone approaching. She prayed it was Rowan, returning from the higher grounds of Gleannmara.

Dub Muirdach pointed to a rise in the distance, which could easily be seen above the earthworks of the outer ring. A considerable contingent of armed riders approached, but it was the red and black colors flying above them that ran an icicle of fear through Maire’s chest.

Morlach.

Declan saw them, too. Immediately he ordered the watchmen to herald in those still working the fields beyond. Those inside, armed and ready, were sent to stand atop the earthworks, shoulder to shoulder.

But if Morlach of Rathcoe intended to attack Gleannmara, despite what Brude or Rowan said, his force would have to be larger than that which Maire saw approaching. Even an untrained eye could see that. She ran up on the earthenworks and took a place next to her captain.

“It’s the high king himself,” Declan exclaimed, as surprised as Maire when a slight change in the approaching party’s direction revealed the royal banners of Tara as well as those of Rathcoe.

“How can I send Morlach away when he travels with Diarhmott?” Maire fretted, adding an unladylike oath of exasperation.

“How could ye send him away, if the high king
wasn’t
with him? ’Tis against the law to deny hospitality—”

“Not to an enemy.”

“Whether it’s here or there, it doesn’t really matter, does it?” Her foster brother closed his hand on the hilt of his sword, forcing the blood from his knuckles. “I’m just hoping Diarhmott intends to keep the word he gave regarding his neutrality in this feud.” He spat to the side. “And us with no more than a lot o’ farmers. By my ancestors’ bones, we’ll have to plough ’em under, instead of kill them with sword and ax.”

“If Diarhmott backs Morlach, all is lost anyway.”

There was no way Gleannmara could defend itself against the high king and all the lords of Erin pledged to his service. They’d be needing a host of warrior angels.

Father God, help us!

Maire was shocked as the prayer sped heavenward of its own accord. The Ghost again, speaking her mind, when she was too dumbfounded to do so? Her hand flew to the small wooden cross, which Rowan had carved from his namesake tree, that hung on a cord about her neck—a paltry comparison to Maeve’s gold torque, but just as treasured. It was all her armor.

She hoped it was enough.

The riders approached with a minimum stir of dust, for the summer had been soft, at least in the evenings. The rain and sun worked together like the two clans to bring up what promised to be a fine harvest. As green and encouraging as the fields were, the red and black of Rathcoe’s banner cast a blight over those watching the entourage ride to the outer gate.

As they stopped, Maire recognized the white stallion among them. On Shahar sat Rowan of Emrys! He made no effort to come forward to meet her, but remained ensconced between
Diarhmott and Morlach. Relief flooded through her.

“Rowan!” She started to run down the embankment, when she realized her husband was not nearly as happy to see her as she was him. He neither waved, nor spoke. Chains bound his hands in front of him.

The sweat on Maire’s brow turned to ice. Rowan, King of Gleannmara, in chains? Just as quickly, her shock melted with anger. “What is this?” she demanded, glaring at Diarhmott. High king or nay, she could not hold back her outrage.

“This,” Morlach spoke up, jerking his head toward Rowan, “is a murderer.”

How Maire’s legs held her upright, she’d never know. “Says who?”

“Aye, who did our king slay?” Declan challenged.

From behind Diarhmott, the druid Finead rode forward, another horse in tow. On it was a body, wrapped in blankets. But Maire didn’t need anyone to identify it. Flapping its wings and pecking at the ropes dangling loose from the ends of the wrappings was a familiar heron.

“Nemh!” she whispered, suddenly sick herself.

“This man and his priest have killed one of our own,” Finead charged, pointing a gnarled finger at Rowan. “The priest got away, but we were able to capture at least
one
of the murderers.”

Brude dead. With his death, so died Maire’s childhood. He was her father and mother. He was her tutor and adviser. He was her truest friend. Disbelief and horror battled on her face as she looked from the body to Rowan.

“I didn’t kill him, Maire.”

“We found him at the scene, Brude’s blood staining his hands,” Morlach told her with a vicious smile.

“I received a summons from Brude that he and Father Tomás wished to see me.” Rowan’s explanation was not to the others, but to Maire. “There were witnesses.”

His eyes pled with her to believe, but it wasn’t necessary.
Maire knew in her heart Rowan of Emyrs was no murderer. Murder was a geis of God.

Finead turned on the prisoner. “The amulet with which Brude was strangled still hangs about his neck, when once it hung about yours. Its brand is burned into his forehead, and you’d have us believe you?”

Maire stared through stinging eyes at Rowan. He was blurred to her sight, but not to her mind. His nobility, his goodness, his light were unimpeachable. Yet darkness surrounded him. Where were his angels?

“I misplaced my amulet the night of the fair. Anyone could have found it, I suppose, and used it to such a loathsome task.”

“He speaks the truth. We haven’t seen it since we—” Maire broke off, a strange ache tearing at her at the memory of their nocturnal trip to the pool near the fairground. How they’d carried on… like two children, laughing one moment, loving the next. Rowan had tossed the amulet aside when Maire complained how cold it was between them. Like a stone, she’d said. Like the one in her chest at the moment…

They hadn’t missed the amulet until the next morning when Rowan rose to dress. “We haven’t seen it since we were at the fair, a good three moons ago.”

This was Brona’s work. It
had
to be. Maire should have trusted her instinctive suspicion of the woman the first night they’d met, rather than give her the benefit of the doubt for lurking about like a second shadow.

“Are we to accept the word of a lovestruck female, Diarhmott?” Morlach sneered. “Come now, Maire, do not insult our high king.”