Riona (24 page)

To Kieran’s wonder, he knew exactly what this strange, loving creature told him. He could hear it, yet not with his ears:
I know how you feel. I, too, have lost a loved one. You may feel forsaken, but you are not. I
will never leave you. You are never alone
.

Kieran drew the child closer, cradling her as if she were his last breath. Gently he rocked her and wiped away her tears—or were they his? He couldn’t see in the stinging blur of the night. All he knew for certain was that this night, the warrior was a child as well—and the words he heard were not those of a little girl, but rather of a loving Father.

T
he fairgrounds were immense, a veritable city of nobility and peasantry and every class in between. There were lawmakers and clergy, bards and entertainers, craftsmen and vendors, politicians and soldiers, athletes and spectators. Pushing through the throng, Riona frantically searched the sea of faces for any sign of Kieran or Leila. Both were missing when she awoke to the hawking of the bakery boys selling fresh bread from the oven wares. The amnesty of the fair insured Kieran’s safety, but if Leila had wandered off—

“Milady!” Fynn hailed Riona from a stall displaying pottery and rushed toward her.

“I’ve searched all the stalls in the market and asked around,” he told her breathlessly, “but no one’s seen a small, yellow-haired girl unattended.”

Riona’s face fell.

“But a cloth merchant said a half-naked, face-painted warrior in naught but a loincloth with such a child perched on his shoulder purchased a length of wool just after daybreak, before his wares were even out. He paid in silver coin.”

Could it be Kieran and Leila? Instinct told Riona no. He had no need for cloth and wasn’t likely to haul Leila about with him, even if he had left the camp. The child was lost.

“Ye gonna punish them for leaving without asking?” Liex asked, distracted by a lady walking a small dog through the crowd. It was as blue as Gray Macha, dyed to match the lady’s finery.

“I should,” Riona vowed in self-righteous indignation. “But in truth, I’ll be so glad to find her—” She broke off. Leila was a timid child. It wasn’t like her to go off like this, especially without Liex. “Let’s check back with Finella. If your sister hasn’t come back, then we’ll go to the hostelry and look for Kieran.”

No doubt that’s where Gleannmara’s lord had gone, she concluded,
watching as Fynn disappeared again into the crowd ahead. Kieran would want to line up his allies for a hearing with the high king. Whether he was up to it healthwise or nay, he’d want men of his own station for company, not children, gleemen, and a woman who didn’t know her own mind.

The moment she’d smacked him last night, Riona wanted to take it back. He’d done a marvelous thing with his willingness to give up his brooch in gratitude for Dallan’s and his company’s help. She knew how much the piece meant to Kieran. Touched deeply by the gesture, she was about to burst with pride when he up and kissed her with intimate fervor before God and all their company! What could have possessed the man?

The worse of it all was that his fervor still lingered within her. Faith, it warmed her inside while the sun bearing down on the fairground did so without. Sure, it was a demon of misery, one that robbed her of proper sleep and thought. It provoked the wanton in her, for she had been indecently long in shoving him away. Yet the capitulation of his arrogant pride was deserving of some reward, was it not?

Riona halted abruptly, jerking Liex out of the way of a procession of noblemen. Her seesawing thoughts made her dizzy with dismay. Since Kieran of Gleannmara had come back into her life, her thoughts had been one tumble after another, not a one straightforward and sure.

“There’s
Leila,” Fynn shouted, pointing into the thick of the retinue. “And Gleannmara, too.”

Looking past soldiers in bright tunics and banner carriers, Riona spied Kieran exactly as the vendor had described him, half-naked and with a painted face. All that graced his fine body, which moved with sinewy ease at a leisurely pace, was his brat. And, Riona hoped, the loincloth he’d worn that day by the stream. He looked well—too well to have been as sick as he’d been. Of course, Finella said he’d rebound with his youth and vigor.

Perched on his shoulder was Leila, a laughing, golden sprite swathed in a smaller version of the same attire—no leine, just one frail, white shoulder bared and growing pink in the morning sun.

“Kieran O’Kyle Mac Niall of Gleannmara!”

The full-fledged redress—Kieran, son of Kyle, the grandfather of Niall of Gleannmara—made the bold lord falter and stop. Peering into the crowd, he spied her, and a wide grin overtook his startled expression. Like as not, he’d not been called such since his mother scolded him as a lad. With his free hand, he pointed her out to his companion, a tall strapping man as fair in his own right as Kieran. Royal purple, goldenrod, and black striped his brat, and braid adorned his leine, while gold jewelry sparkled round his neck, arms, and fingers.

“There, sire. There’s the Lady Riona of Dromin,” Kieran told him.

Sire?
Only a provincial king outranked the monarch of a tuath. Riona took a second look at the banners. They were Dalraidi Scots. If so, then this striking figure was none other than Aidan, their new king just ordained by the sainted Columcille himself. She groaned inwardly. And her with her good dress hidden beneath her worn travel attire.

Aidan beckoned to her. “Come, milady, do not shrink into the crowd. I’d meet the brave sister of my dear comrade from Dromin and savioress of my good lord Gleannmara.”

Here was the king Kieran had fought for and her brother had died for. Her feelings mixed, Riona had little choice but to approach the jewel-laden hand the Dalraida extended to her. She dipped low and kissed it. It was a warrior king’s hand, strong and calloused from wielding weapons, yet blessed by the church.

“Milord,” she demurred. Upon rising, she reached for Leila. “Look at you, sweetling. Where are your clothes?”

She cut Kieran a glance as if to ask him the same. None of them were fit company for a provincial king. The talk was that it would be decided at the synod who was Aidan’s overlord: the Ulster king of his Irish Dalraidi cousins or the high king of Ireland himself.

“We dropped our clothes off at the laundresses row. ’Twas uncommonly damp this morning.”

Kieran’s wink put politics out of Riona’s mind, filling it with his irascible presence instead. How could the same man be so thoughtless one moment and so tenderhearted the next? No wonder she didn’t know her mind where her foster brother was concerned. He changed quicker than the weather.

Leila brushed Riona’s cheek with the newly woven fabric, drawing her attention back to the new brat. “What a lovely shade of blue and green. You look like a little princess.”

Blushing and smiling, Leila leaned over to reach inside Kieran’s brat and draw out another fold of material, which she handed to him.

Kieran nodded toward Liex. “Go ahead, mite,” he said to Leila. “You picked it out.”

Leila shoved the material at her brother, who let loose a whoop of delight. He shook out the blue and green weave and then wound himself up in the fine wool. “Just like a king’s!”

Aidan laughed along with the others. “Sure it is, lad. Sure it is. Your sister has fine taste.”

“His is more green, and hers is more blue,” Kieran told Riona. “So they can tell them apart. Mind you don’t loose the clasp,” he warned Liex as the lad skipped about in his kingly attire.

“So where is this blue horse of yours, Gleannmara?” Aidan spoke up. “I and my company need be on our way to session, but my man here will see him stabled properly and show your party to its quarters.” He indicated a stablehand in coarse shirt and walnut-dyed trews.

“Quarters?” Riona asked in surprise.

“Aye, we’ll be staying as guests of Scotia Minor’s new king. Tonight, milady, you shall have a bed, not a damp stretch of ground to rest upon,” Kieran promised.

A bed. La, it seemed a lifetime since she’d had such a luxury.

“And you’ll join us in the hall for food and merriment,” Aidan insisted. “ ’Tis quite a journey you’ve had. The shame of it is that your bardic cousin is not here to put it to verse.”

Swept along by the stalwart company, Riona tried to absorb all that was taking place so quickly. Yesterday this moment seemed so far away, and now that it was here, she was determined to savor it. Safety. Hope. A real bed.

A cluster of people was gathered about the gleemen’s wagon as they approached the encampment of entertainers. Most likely, Marcus was putting on a show of some sort. Unease crawled up Riona’s spine, though, as she studied the audience. Mostly soldiers—grim, not laughing
as though amused. With equal solemnity, Marcus and Dallan spoke to the leader of the group, who held something in his hand, as if in challenge. Her heart stilled as she recognized two of Maille’s leather tunics on the soldiers standing next to the man in charge.

“Ho, what’s amiss, friends?” Kieran shouted, cutting a path straight through to the forefront.

He stopped short upon seeing what it was the captain of the king’s guard held in his hands. It was the sword Kieran had taken from Maille’s guards the night of his escape, the one he’d hidden in the wagon, rather than surrendered to the fair authorities.

“It’s against the law to bring a weapon onto the fairground,” the captain of the guard told him.

“But it’s part of our act,” Marcus spoke up. “It’s not for use as a weapon.”

“And what do you do with it,
gleeman,”
one of Maille’s men derided, “do you play it or can you make it sing?”

“I do neither, sirrah,” the younger of the brothers replied with equal disdain. He held his hands out. “Captain, if you please?”

One bushy, dark brow shooting up skeptically, the officer handed the blade to the entertainer. Half dancing, half walking, Marcus cleared a circle. “Stand back, gentlemen, lest I err and impale someone inadvertently.”

Kieran started forward. “Ho, Mar—”

But Marcus tossed the sword straight up into the air. Almost as one, the group moved back another three steps, Gleannmara’s lord joining them. Neatly the sword dropped back into Marcus’ hand.

“Have you lost your mind?” Kieran blurted out. From the nods and asides made by the onlookers, he was not the only one who doubted Marcus’s sanity. “A skewered jongleur is no jongleur at all.”

His full focus on the blade shining in the sun, Marcus ignored Kieran. After balancing it in the palm of his hand, blade upright, he tossed it once more into the air, propelling it with both hands. Riona’s breath was suspended in her chest as the blade somersaulted, hilt over tip over hilt, and again dropped neatly into Marcus’s hand. A muffled clapping echoed around them.

“Is that all you do?” the fair captain asked, not as impressed.

Marcus smiled brightly. “I thought you’d never ask.” The entertainer pulled the captain into the circle. “Now stay right here while I fetch the balls.”

“For what?” the man declared.

“I intend to juggle the balls while tossing the blade back and forth to you.”

“Hah!” The captain backed out of the ring, hands held up. “You
are
a fool in every sense.”

“Never mind him.” Finella carried a sack with the juggling balls into the ring. “I’ll be glad to do the trick, but I’ll expect some compensation for this unscheduled act. After all, we usually have time to prepare before attempting something so dangerous.”

“Perhaps we might see it when you’re scheduled to perform tomorrow,” Riona suggested. Faith, neither Finella nor Marcus had juggled a broad sword. If either were hurt—

“Perhaps,” Finella agreed, “but filling my husband’s cap with coin might make it worth the extra danger.” She cut a calculating glance at the crowd and smiled as the men dug into pouches slung from their belts. Dallan whipped off his stocking cap and walked around to collect the tribute.

These people were mad, Riona thought.

Marcus peeked into the cap when Dallan was finished and then hefted it in his hand. “Gentlemen,” he chided, tutting at the anxious faces. “Would you toss a weapon like this about for such a paltry sum?” Giving them time to reconsider their contribution, he tossed the sword up and spun it on the tip of his finger. It leaned first one way, then the other. “Humph,” he observed aloud. “Not the most balanced weight I’ve ever hoisted. Here!”

He tossed it toward the captain, who backed away, knocking aside the man beside him, but before the blade fell, Marcus caught the hilt in the palm of his hand and heaved it up on his finger again. When the hat was half again as heavy, he bowed to Finella.

“Good lady, are you ready?”

With a clean gesture, he tossed the sword, hilt first, to Finella. In
turn, she threw him one ball at a time. In three quick movements, the balls rotated in their individual circles before him.

“Are you ready, sir?” Finella asked in a stage voice.

“On the count of three, milady,” Marcus answered. “One … two … three!”

The sword flew hilt first to him. He caught it—or rather, in one movement caught it and propelled it back to her—just in time to toss a ball back into the air. Huzzahs rose loudly this time.

“Once more,” Finella announced.

Marcus counted to three and again the exchange went smoothly, far more so than Riona’s heartbeat. As Marcus deftly tossed the last of the balls into the sack Finella held open for him, he turned to his audience.

“Come see us at our performance tomorrow, gentlemen, and bring your ladies and purses, for tomorrow my brother and I will each toss a set of the balls while exchanging the sword between us.” He grinned wickedly at Dallan. “And if he’s slain, the lovely Finella shall be mine.”

Finella laughed. “And if you are fatally wounded, Dallan and I shall have peace at last.”

“And if Finella suffers mortally, well then, tell your daughters beware.”

A laugh struggled from the tightness in Riona’s chest, drowned by the uproar of the onlookers. The gleemen troupe could play an audience as well as any instrument they possessed.