Riona (12 page)

But what else was on Riona’s mind, Kieran had yet to work out. Resourceful as his foster sister was, she was no match for the guards Maille placed at the gate.

Like the night before, the strains of the evening vespers haunted the air, straying from the inner vallum of the abbey to the grainery and outbuildings in the outer circle.

Kieran felt no reverence for the hymns and prayers. They were as false as the heart of the bishop leading them with hands folded and stained by his own brother’s blood. That had to be the reason for this whirlwind condemnation. Senan killed his brother to attain the seat of power. Like the ascension of a clan chief, he’d need to be elected, but he was guaranteed first consideration because of bloodline.

Try as Kieran might, he could not fathom what had led Senan and Maille to fix the blame of Fintan’s murder on him, save that Kieran was the unfortunate bullock who wandered too close to the sacrificer’s knife at the right time. After all, the sooner Fintan’s murder was solved and his murderer dealt with, the less between Senan and his coveted abbacy.

Kieran stopped his pacing at the sound of footsteps approaching the grainery and rushed to the door. The friction of the bar sliding from the keep grated in his ear. Stepping back, he saw it swing open. There were no Maille soldiers in sight—clearly they were staying close to the hut, which put them out of the line of sight of the grainery. But
in the glow of their campfire stood a faceless monk, hooded and robed. He walked inside, drawing the door to behind him.

“Put on my robe, son, and hurry. There’s no time to lose. You’ll have to walk right by the soldiers to get to the stable.”

Catching on instantly, Kieran threw off his cloak, waiting as the cleric pulled his dark robe over his head. It was a mean material compared to the lord’s kingly cloak and scratched Kieran’s arms as he shrugged it on. Smelling of cattle and hay, it skimmed the taller warrior’s knees, while it had reached the ankles of its owner.

The monk chuckled. “You’ll have to walk with bent knee, Gleannmara, if you hope to pass as this old man on his way to the stables with the armload of fodder outside.”

His disparaging thoughts regarding God’s servants still fresh, Kieran felt a pang of remorse as he clutched the brother’s arm and shook his hand. “I owe you my thanks, Brother …”

“Domnall,” the monk provided. He folded Kieran’s cloak around his arm and handed it to him. “Now fetch that fine horse of yours from the barn. He should be able to clear the fosse beyond the rath, even though it’s filled with rainwater.”

“Aye, Gray could clear that as a weanling,” Kieran allowed, peeping through the narrow crack of the open door. A monk’s robe was poor protection, but his leather breastplate had been seized, along with his sword.

“Father, lend a hand.”

Kieran grabbed the largest of the drugged guards and dragged him into the shelter, where he proceeded to strip him of his leather tunic. It wasn’t quite as sturdy as Kieran’s own, but ’twould serve. In a few minutes, he donned the robe again, this time over the leather.

“Just in case I’m discovered
before
I can reach my horse,” he explained.

“Well done. Well done.” Domnall patted him on the back with the same urgency in his voice. “Now ride west to the forest where the stream cuts through it. Your friends await you there.”

Kieran hesitated at the door. “Friends?” He scratched his arms, where the rub of the sackcloth made his skin itch.

“Hurry, lad, there’s no time for explanation now.” Domnall shoved him through the door, then gathered up the fodder and handed it to him. “Keep your hood up, walk low and slow, and God’s speed to you, Kieran of Gleannmara. Bring us back justice from Drumceatt.”

“Drumceatt?” Kieran thought to head for Gleannmara and summon his clans. Bran was already on the road to the high king.

“The holy brothers will be praying that your safe journey and success will rout the evil from among us.” The brother crossed himself. “Now go with the Lord. He will protect His own.”

Kieran bit back his instinctive reply. Sarcasm was no way to repay a kindness, no matter what he thought of the man’s God. Stripped of a weapon to fend for himself, he’d not mock help from any quarter.

Walking, or rather waddling on bent knee, toward the stables, Kieran took note of the whereabouts of Maille’s soldiers. Most were gathered round the campfires, enjoying the fine wine and ale from the abbey stores. No matter what the brethren did, be it working the vines or fields, they did their best for God’s glory, which made for superior products for export and sale. The profit benefited the poor, who were always at the gates of one rath or another.

“Ho, good brother. How about bringing our horses some food as well?”

The hair pricked at the nape of Kieran’s neck. Ignoring the guard’s request, he kept on shuffling toward the stable as if he hadn’t heard at all.

“Ho, I say! What’s the matter with you, dolt. Are ye deaf?”

Loping footsteps hastened toward Kieran. Still he moved toward the stable as though hearing naught. Suddenly a hand clamped on his shoulder, spinning him. With a loud gasp, Kieran threw up the fodder, as if he’d been startled out of his wits. Keeping the hood low over his eyes, he grunted and motioned wildly with his hands as he’d seen deaf mutes do at the fairs.

“Curse yer mother’s milk, ye stupid oaf,” the guard swore, picking up the cut and dried remnants of last year’s harvest. “I’ll take this.” He pushed at Kieran, who stooped to help pick it up, and pointed first to the fodder and then to himself. “Mine,” he growled.

Burning to make the man eat it, piece by piece, Kieran kept his head bowed and backed away. With a sign of the cross, he turned and hobbled off toward the stables, as though the soldier had frightened him. Behind him, the man laughed and made a derogatory remark regarding Kieran’s lineage.

Once under the cover of the barn, Kieran straightened, pressing at the muscles cramping in his back from his hunched walk. “Gray!”

The stallion, hands above the oxen stabled next to him, stomped, dark tail swishing in anticipation. Kieran didn’t need a light to remove the feedbag and slip tack over the animal’s head and neck. After settling the riding cloth over its back, he led the stallion to the edge of the overhang farthest from the light cast by the campfires, and then outside. With a tap to the back of Gray’s front hooves, he waited for the horse to stretch out as trained.

Hiking up the robe, he seized Gray’s mane and swung up on the stallion’s back, but fell short of his mark. With a curse, he stripped off the confining sackcloth and tried again. Once he was seen on Gray Macha no man with an ounce of wit would mistake him for a brother of the cloth, robe or nay.

Horse and master straightened simultaneously. Taking up the reins, Kieran leaned over the animal’s neck and whispered in a low rumble, “All right, Gray Macha. ’Tis time to fly like the wind.”

Kieran dug his heels into Gray’s hard, muscled sides and clicked his tongue. The stallion lunged forward as if he’d been frozen in midgallop and just as suddenly thawed. Manes of horse and rider streamed in the wake of the rush. Within a few lengths, they drew the attention of the men at the edge of the encampment, including the guard who’d taken the fodder for the string of horses.

He ran toward Kieran, sword brandished over his head. Kieran had no weapon of his own, but he had Gray Macha. Snorting with the thrill of conflict, the magnificent warhorse plowed over the man as if he were made of smoke. Making a short circle, the animal carried its master back to their victim, pausing long enough for Kieran to reach down and snatch up the sword.

In the periphery of his vision, Kieran saw the gray’s ears lay back
and braced himself. He’d heard the footsteps racing up on them from the rear, too. Lowering its head, the horse kicked with its hind hooves and used the impact against the two men seeking to unseat its rider to spring forward.

The guards’ warnings were knocked out of them, but shouts from others called more attention to the escapee. Hastily seized and launched, lances fell short as Kieran raced for the earthen rise that enclosed the outbuildings of the rath. Gray’s pounding hooves echoed the pounding of the young lord’s blood as they neared their goal.

A missile whistled over Kieran’s head, and another grazed the leather covering his back as Gray Macha started up the embankment and plowed into the dark beyond. Clawing his way over the crest and throwing clumps of sod in his wake, the stallion seemed to pause just long enough for his mighty muscles to coil. Then, as if all that held his muscles snapped, the warhorse catapulted over the wide ditch. The tall rush parted beneath belly and hoof, whispering in deference to the stallion’s speed.

As Gray struck the ground, the opposite bank cushioned the impact and, like a springboard, launched them away again, speeding horse and rider forward as if on the wind itself. Kieran glanced back. The astonished soldiers had not even collected themselves enough to open the abbey gates. He’d be well away before they readied their own steeds for the chase.

Freedom filled his lungs, which had felt contaminated by the damp, mold-infested enclosure. Kieran rid them of the cell’s stench with a grateful and triumphant shout.

“Thank you, good brothers!”

He ran his hand along the powerful neck of his stallion and whispered into his mane. “And you, Gray Macha.”

The warhorse may not have left as many fallen warriors in its wake as its legendary namesake, but there were three soldiers this night who’d remember Gray Macha well.

R
iona washed the berries she’d collected in the stream, grateful that the moon had finally emerged from its cloak of clouds. Cleaning the berries not only helped pass the time, but would also provide some food for the children later. They’d have to travel through the night to put as much distance as possible between Maille’s men and themselves. She only hoped Kieran’s escape was as successful as the one she and the little ones had made.

They’d caught a few frogs near the main gate and handed them over to the bearded guards for their cook fires before moving farther away. The ruse worked perfectly. Within an hour, her party hastened along the road through the forest, ready to leap into the cover of the trees at the first hint of being followed.

Bran waited for them with his horse and a small pony he’d talked away from a local farmer with the promise of blessings from heaven
and
the high king. “Senan isn’t as well loved as his brother,” he explained at Riona’s amazement on seeing the smaller version of the bard’s own golden-maned dun. “Of course, I may have to marry the farmer’s daughter,” Bran reflected.

Her cousin’s love of life, particularly the ladies inhabiting it, would be his undoing. At least now they had transport, even if it wasn’t ideal. The pony’s cart would have been perfect, but it limited the travelers to the road, which, by Ninian’s account, would not be safe once it was discovered that they were headed for Drumceatt and not Gleannmara.

Somewhere a dove cooed above the hush of the running water and rustling trees swaying overhead.
Better that than a wolf
, Riona thought, recalling the guard’s words to Bran of the dangers beyond the walls.

Father in heaven, what has brought so many innocents to this? What evil is about that Fintan lay dead and Kieran falsely accused?

“I’m going to check on the lads,” Bran told her, tethering the pony nearby. He’d made certain that both horses were grazed and watered in
readiness while Liex and Fynn kept a lookout on the road leading from the abbey.

Riona nodded and looked over where Leila chased fireflies by the stream. “Leila, come away from the water lest you slip on the bank and fall in.”

Ever so slowly the little girl opened her clasped hands and the creature she’d captured flew away, unharmed. She watched until the firefly disappeared in the night and then cocked her head, as if she’d heard something.

Riona listened as well. Was that the pounding of hooves on the road or the beating of her heart?

Before she could discern the difference, a terrible commotion ensued. The shriek of a horse split the forest night. A man’s curse was drowned by Liex and Fynn’s excited shouts, then Bran’s. Gathering up her skirts, Riona raced toward the place where the road crossed the stream, Leila in her wake.

Silhouetted against the moonlit ribbon of road that cut through the trees was a scramble of struggling figures. A short distance beyond, a stallion stood, quivering at attention, waiting for its master’s command.

“Move an inch, and I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear,” Fynn threatened.

“Put the knife away, lad!” Bran snapped. “It’s Kieran.”

As Riona came closer, Fynn and Liex backed away. “But he’s wearing a soldier’s tunic,” the youngest objected. “You’re
supposed
to be in Brother Domnall’s robe.”

“These ragmullions nearly crippled my horse,” Kieran roared as Bran hauled him to his feet. A hulk of a man in the darkness, he spun on Fynn. “You ever brandish that knife at me again, boy, and it’ll be the
last
time.”

Liex reached up and grabbed at Kieran’s tunic. “Why don’t you have Brother Domnall’s robe?”

Kieran exploded. “What the blazes difference does it make, you towheaded wart?” The very force of his voice send Liex scampering toward Riona, while his sister hid in the folds of Riona’s dress. “Another such
rescue
, and I’ll have a broken neck.”

“What happened?” Bran demanded of Fynn.

“We saw a soldier comin’ down the road at full gallop and thought we might use the horse, so we—”

“They strung a line across the road and unseated me,” Kieran grumbled.

Fynn held his ground. “You were supposed to wear a robe. We thought you were a soldier in Maille’s tunic.”

Bran stepped between the bristling boars and held up his hands, calling for quiet. “Are you being followed?”

Kieran nodded. “I imagine by now, yes. But I rode off toward Gleannmara, then doubled back, although I am pressed to understand why we didn’t hie to Gleannmara and support rather than convene in the middle of the forest.”