Riona (10 page)

Bran shook his head. “In a manner of speaking, what with Heber making the request this time and not—” The bard glanced at his friend and was met with a shriveling glower.

He shook his head. “Kieran of Gleannmara would never force a lady to wed him against her will, much less kill a helpless old man. He is as noble a man as I’ve ever met. My lord bishop is leading me to say what I do not mean.”

“I ply you only for truth, O’Cuillin. Nothing more, nor less.” With a haughty flourish, the bishop withdrew a small, silken bag from within the folds of his robe. “And I would believe in milord Gleannmara’s character and innocence as well, but for this.” He shook the sack and produced a ring ablaze with sapphires. Lighter ones were arranged around a larger midnight sapphire, much like the brooch on Kieran’s cloak.

Kieran was clearly taken aback as Senan held the ring up, a satisfied smile on his face.

“You know this ring, milord?”

“Aye, ’tis my mother’s, the very one I intended to give Lady Riona
and
the very one that was stolen from my belongings while I spoke with the lady in the dining hall.”

Confusion bled much of the credulity from Gleannmara’s words. Riona could feel doubt’s shadow drape across the room.

“You went to propose to a lady and left the ring behind?” The skeptical innuendo struck its mark.

Kieran bristled like a lanced boar. “Aye, for I knew she’d not say yes right away. For the love of heaven, man, she’d enough to bear with the news of her brother. I’d not force an answer from her on its heel. For all our differences, she is my foster sister, as beloved to me as was her brother.”

A master of manipulation was playing her foster brother’s pride, but the mule brayed too loudly to hear it. Riona could stand it no more.

“He speaks the truth!” Again, she leaped to her feet without the court’s recognition rather than see this travesty go further. “Bishop Senan, while I may not offer him my hand, I would give my life for Kieran, and he for me. Truth, he was with me when the alarm sounded, in a snit because the ring was missing. He thought one of the children had taken it from his lodgings while he was away earlier. Kieran of Gleannmara could not possibly have murdered Father Fintan.”

Silence grew loud over the crowd. Riona’s word was well respected at the abbey, and the brethren awaited Senan’s response. The bishop waited a full measure of time until undivided attention was focused on him, all the while staring at Riona. She sat down, feeling like a scolded child.

“If the Lady Riona’s account is true, Lord Kieran—” Senan cast a patronizing glance Riona’s way—“then how do you explain the ring finding its way to Fintan’s murder scene?”

“The murderer was also a thief,” Kieran answered readily. “He must have dropped the ring in his struggle with the abbot.”

Senan nodded, as though considering the idea, but the consideration was short. “O’Cuillin, did
you
know the whereabouts of this ring?”

Bran jumped at the chance to redeem himself and Kieran. “Aye, Kieran left it behind on purpose. I saw him stow it among his things when we left to meet the lady. He felt the time wasn’t right to infringe upon her grief with a proposal.”

“Yet he did propose, did he not, milady?”

“He told me marriage to him was Heber’s dying wish, Your Worship. He didn’t actually ask.”

“Because he intended to give you no choice!”

“No! It wasn’t …”

“And when Father Fintan refused to bless the union, the same fierce temper demonstrated before our very eyes just moments ago drove Kieran of Gleannmara to kill him.”

“The man’s crazed on holy water!” Kieran matched the bishop volume for volume. With an oath not fit for the ears of man or beast, he started to his feet, but before they were square on the floor, six guards were upon him. The first two he shook off like lint from a cloak, but the remaining four soon had Gleannmara’s king pinned to the floor as they chained his hands behind his back.

Yet another pair of guards stood by Bran lest the bard take up his friend’s fight. Instead, Bran remained seated, judgment clearly the better part of his valor.

“I demand to be heard by the high king,” Kieran shouted as the guards dragged him upright. “This is no court. This is a sham to cover one brother’s greed for another’s position!”

“How
dare
you, sir!” Bishop Senan left the table to stand before his accuser—and Riona allowed a sneer that he’d done so only when Kieran was in chains, with six men restraining him.

“How dare
you?”
Kieran shot back.

“This is a church matter, not an issue of state,” the bishop snipped primly.

Kieran mocked him with equal priggishness. “ ’Tis a
greed
matter, and not an issue of justice.”

“The bishop is right, Kieran of Gleannmara.” For the first time the brehon accompanying Gadra spoke. “The crime, and hence the jurisdiction, belongs to the abbey. My lord Maille is only present as the lord bishop’s enforcer and protector, while I am here at Maille’s request.”

“I’d have more justice from a court of Satan’s own.”

Riona winced. For all her temper, Kieran’s was twice as explosive. Each time he opened his mouth, he forged another link in the chain of
seeming guilt that bound him. A collection of outrage over Kieran’s blasphemy and protest for justice filled the room.

“Bishop Senan!” Riona shouted above the discord. “Bishop Senan, please!”

Upon hearing her, he took up the small handbell and called for order.

“Your Worship, how can you discount my testimony that Kieran was with us searching for his stolen ring when the alarm sounded?” Riona charged. “Or Bran’s account of the ring being left behind?”

Senan folded his hands in a show of indulgence. “If a lady would give her life for a man, would she not also try to protect him?” A few of the brethren nodded in agreement.

Smitten by her own words, Riona tried another tack. “But the lad Fynn and the twins, they all saw Gleannmara as well.” Heads stopped, poised for an answer.

Gadra sneered. “The word of a friend and of three chronic liars?” He turned to his captain at arms. “Lock Gleannmara in the grainery. We’ll take him back to the rath’s dungeon tomorrow until we decide upon his punishment.”

“Father Fintan gave his blessing on the marriage!” Desperate, Riona looked to her brethren, since it was clear that Senan’s and the Maille lord’s minds were made up. “He said it to me, and Bishop Senan heard it with his own ears because he was seen eavesdropping at the door.”

“Clearly the words of a woman affected by her sympathies,” Bishop Senan explained. In a grand show of compassion, he walked to Riona and embraced her. “Child, you are overwrought. ’Tis small wonder you are not reduced to hysterics given the news you’ve received of one loved one and now another. We all know the close relationship you shared with my brother. Your mother was his favorite of all our cousins.”

“I’m not hysterical. I’m angry, you pompous toad!” Riona tore away. “Your brother lies dead, and you are squandering precious time with this mockery while the
real
murderer escapes.”

Bran appeared at her side, clapping a restraining hand on her arm. “He’s right, cousin. You are overwrought.” There was more warning
than consolation in his manner. “While it seems that justice is missing its mark here, we need to think how to steer it aright again. That cannot be accomplished with raised voices and hysteria.”

The sound lashing headed his way halted on the tip of her tongue. Bran was right. She couldn’t believe she’d called the lord bishop a toad. Why, she was as hotheaded as Kieran. Heaven help her, if last night had been hard to believe, this morning was even more so. Stunned by it all, including her erratic behavior, Riona accompanied Bran away from her antagonist. As they reached the door, Kieran shouted after them.

“Best get to Aedh with this.”

“With all haste, friend, with all haste,” Bran promised.

The stench of deceit followed them out into the fresh air. Even as they walked away from the refectory, Riona could hear the excited throng, still worked up by Senan’s smooth ploy, clamoring for justice and Kieran’s life. Others argued back, but the condemnation outcried the defense.

“These are men of God, of peace!” Riona’s toe caught on one of the wattle branches laid down on the walk, and Bran steadied her. Faith, she could hardly see she was so disillusioned.

“There’s something terribly amiss,” Bran said. “Mayhap more than a brother’s ambition to fill his elder sibling’s chair. ’Tis not the work of the church, to be certain. Some in there saw it, if not all of them.”

“But what?”

Bran shrugged his shoulders as if the weight of the world bore down upon them. “I’ve no idea, except that it somehow involves Maille. I don’t know if Kieran was the unfortunate pigeon who walked in at the right time to be plucked or if it involves Gleannmara as well.”

“His temper has only made things worse.” Riona wrung her skirt with her fingers. Kieran’s display was bad enough, but then
she
had to go and forget herself. Just being around Kieran of Gleannmara turned her into a different woman—one of unharnessed temper and tongue.

“He’s been hard company since we left Dunadd,” Bran agreed. “Half his heart was buried there, and you soundly stomped what’s left.”

“Have a care,” Riona objected as they reached the small guest house
where Bran and Kieran spent the night. “I’m as dismayed as any over this. If only they’d listen to me.”

“I know, lass.” Bran bent over and planted a kiss atop her head. “For all our good intentions, neither of us did Kieran a whit of good. Which is why I fly to Drumceatt.”

The bard disappeared inside the low doorway and reappeared before Riona could follow him in. Slung on his back was his sack of belongings. “If the high king and Father Columcille can’t help Kieran, no one can.”

“God can.”

Riona meant it with all her heart, although God’s presence seemed sorely lacking in the hearing. She fell in step beside Bran as the bard started toward the gate to the outer vallum, where the livestock and dairy were kept.
Please, Father, make Your will known to me that I might make some sense of this
.

“It may well take God’s help,” Bran reflected aloud. “Much can happen to a man between here and my destination. Baetan’s not likely to make passage through his lands easy for an ally of the high king.”

“What are you trying to say? That the Uliad king is involved in the abbot’s murder?”

Bran shrugged and lowered his voice. “After what I just saw, I wouldn’t be surprised at anything. Baetan rules from Tara as though Rodanus never uttered a curse against it.”

A decade ago, the hill of Tara was the home of the high king of Ireland, as it had been for centuries past. The same Diarmait, against whom Riona’s and Kieran’s fathers led the forces of Gleannmara at Culdreime a year before the king’s demise, brought a curse upon the legendary capital with his violations of sanctuary and his inhospitality to God’s own. Now a lesser king, Baetan of Ulster, occupied it with delusions of glory, while his cousin Aedh Ainmire ruled as high king from the Niall strongholds to the north.

Well Riona knew that no high king who hoped to rule with the blessing of church and God would ever choose the once-revered hill of ancestral rule for his court. Clearly the Uliad’s Baetan flaunted his disregard for Tara’s curse, as if he somehow hoped its spirit of the past
might pass along to him its power and glory.

“But what is most important for you, my pretty cousin, is to keep Kieran from harm until I get back.”

“Wouldn’t it be faster to summon troops from Gleannmara?” After all, how could she protect her foster brother when Senan and Gadra would not take her words seriously?

Her cousin pulled an astonished face. “Why, Riona O’Cuillin, are you suggesting war?”

Riona bit her lip. Heavens, she was! If Gleannmara’s troop clashed with Maille’s, blood would spill for certain. For the first time, she knew how easily taking up the sword had come for Columcille when, a decade before, he too had acted in outrage at his kin being threatened in the sanctuary of the church. This time, though, it was the church itself—or rather its bishop—who championed injustice.

Father, keep us all from our human weaknesses. Do not allow Satan to use our love as a weapon against our souls. Let our love avoid bloodshed, not provoke it. Go with Bran—

“Hey you, bard!” Two of the men-at-arms ran after them from the gate in the stone embankment of the inner rath.

Bran and Riona stopped just outside the stables and waited for them to catch up. Fear congealed in her chest. Had something changed? Would the bishop or Gadra keep Bran from going for help?

“We’d have a look in that sack before you leave,” the one in the lead huffed upon reaching them.

With grimace of impatience, Bran handed over his belongings. “Have a care for my harp. Aingeal is a gentle creature and sensitive to the touch of brute hands, e’en though they belong to such stouthearted men as she sings about.”

Her cousin had a way of making words sting with the forehand and stroke with the back.

“Spare us your wily tongue. Given my vote, your likes and all their troublesome talk would be shipped off Erin’s shores in a leaky boat.”

The senior officer—a red-haired, mustached man—shook out the sack. The contents—a blanket, a spare leine and accessories, a razor, and the velvet case containing Aingeal—spilled to the wet ground. The
harp strings shivered with dissonance at their careless treatment.

“Perhaps if I knew what it was you searched for, I might help you find it.”

“Nothing here.” The other soldier snapped the velvet that had encased the instrument. He tossed it aside and stood up as it sailed to the ground with the rest of Bran’s things.

“Ye’ve no weapon at all?” the ranking soldier demanded.

A wicked glint settled in the bard’s eye. “None but this.” He stuck out his tongue. “Would you like me to demonstrate the power of a bard’s word?”

The soldier shook his head. “Save it for talkin’ down a hungry wolf. Come on, Oife.”

For all his bravado, the man’s retreat was nearly as hasty as his coming. It led one to think he was more leery of a bard’s satire than he let on. Old superstitions died hard, Riona supposed, especially where faith was sown thin.