Riona (27 page)

A bath was such a silly thing to cry over given how Riona had survived the events of the past few days, but bawl she did until Kieran ran into the shelter, demanding to know what was amiss. His eyes told him more than Riona ever could. Leila, who’d run to fetch him, hugged Riona’s legs while Kieran took her into his arms. The consolation produced more tears, so that even her sniffled, “I … I’m s … sorry” was barely intelligible.

At Kieran’s bellowing summons, staff soon hurried into the tech-leptha, filling the round, thatch-domed dwelling and working their magic on it. New derguds were brought in while the remnants of the old mattresses were swept up and carried out. Clean linens replaced new, and soon the bath was once again prepared with warm, scented water free of debris.

Now the outraged Gleannmara sat outside with some friends while Riona tried to soak away the tension and dust of their hard-pressed journey. She could hear their voices as they discussed the possibilities for the vandalism, for that was what it had been—cruel, malicious destruction. She huddled in her bath, feeling violated.

Their enemy was either searching for something or he was a madman. Given their few belongings, which were mostly carried upon their persons, the latter appeared most likely. That someone would destroy for the sake of destruction, without rhyme or reason, chilled Riona to the core. She thanked God again and again that neither she nor the children were present, lest they be disemboweled like the mattresses and pillows.

“There is a connection here,” Kieran speculated grimly. “I feel it, but for my life, I cannot fathom what it is. This was amiss the very moment we spoke with Maille in the bruden.”

“So he kept you occupied while his minion did this?” Aidan queried. “Think, man, have you anything of which Maille has need?”

“Aye, my life. I walked into some sort of power play involving the abbot’s death and became the scapegoat.”

Through the painful daze of a headache Riona tried to salvage her
memory of the happenings as well, but nothing of significance emerged. She listened to the men reflect upon Kieran’s enemies. Maille and who else? And why Maille? What did it matter to him who killed Fintan? Senan’s zeal to find his brother’s murderer was understandable, though unfounded. But Kieran, for all his pride, had many friends, for beneath his arrogance lay a good heart.

Riona recalled how tenderly he’d soothed her. His strength invited her to become lost in it and all it promised to appease. In his arms it was easy to forget his quick temper and eagerness to wage war.

“If I could but find this brigand, I’d rip off his head with my bare hands,” Kieran said with chilling vehemence beyond the closed door of the sleeping house.

Riona seized the slip of scented soap she’d brought with her and lathered her hair with a vengeance, as if to wash away any inclination toward the man. Forgiveness was foreign to him. He was good and fair to those who deserved it and equally deadly to those he judged unworthy. No matter how much she was inclined toward Kieran of Gleannmara, she would not have a man who saw himself as God’s equal in dealing with his fellow humankind, much less one who held that same God in contempt.

Leila was too tired to even play in the water when Riona bathed her and dressed her for bed. Her golden hair, still damp from washing, was spread upon the deerskin covered pillow and before Riona could tuck her in the little girl slept in trust that nothing and no one could harm her with Kieran of Gleannmara outside her chamber door.

The boys opted to bathe in a nearby creek and came in as Riona put more stones from the fire in the barrel to reheat the water. After checking their necks and ears with a motherly eye, Riona called Kieran to tell him his bath was waiting and tucked her squirming charges into the other bed in her knee-walled imda. Unlike their sister, they were not content to close their eyes until they’d heard a story.

“Tell us about the rich boy who had to sleep with pigs,” Liex suggested.

It was one that impressed all the children. Never having had privilege, it was inconceivable to them that the prodigal son would waste it
away. The boys gave poor Brother Domnall a devil of a time as to a believable reason the rich boy would do such a thing. It was simply beyond their understanding and, from his frustration, Domnall’s as well. They’d driven the poor cleric into telling them some of the Celtic legends he so disdained, what with the heathen content, but the man preferred a grudging telling of fantasy to the exasperation evoked by the holier tale.

Unlike Domnall, Riona had possessed the patience to explain to the children how, no matter what social status a person was born to, there were blessings and curses. How she missed the cantankerous little brother and the rest of her holy family at the abbey. She wondered if she’d ever again know the abbey’s peace and the predictability that, admittedly, sometimes drove her to distraction.

“If I were that lad, I’d have taken regular baths, studied books, and obeyed the rules to live like he did,” Fynn observed. He folded his hands behind his head and stared up dreamily at the dark rafters of the building.

“I don’t like soap,” Liex stated emphatically. “But I used it tonight,” he added at the suspicious arch of Riona’s brow.

Smiling, Riona began the story. As it unfolded, so did the excitement coiled tightly in the youngsters until their eyelids began to bob, dipping lower and lower each time. There was not even enough energy left to launch the debate of what they would or wouldn’t do at the end. They drifted off to sleep blessed with the assurance of the forgiveness the words were meant to impart.

“Riona?”

Kieran stood in the opening of the partitioned area, a blanket wrapped about him in deference to modesty. His wet hair dripped as he brushed it away from his face with a free hand.

“Have you more of Finella’s concoction?”

Alarm shot through her. He’d not ask for the bitter brew unless his leg was worse.

“Aye, I’ll fetch it,” she whispered, so as not to disturb the sleeping babes. Reaching under her bed, she retrieved the skin, which thankfully hadn’t been destroyed.

Kieran sat on the couch at the end of his bed as she entered his imda. She handed him the skin and knelt before him.

“Let me have a look at the wound.” With authority, she moved the blanket up, exposing the shank of his leg where the nasty swipe had festered. “Hand me the lamp.”

“ ’Tis sore, that’s all.” Kieran took the light from its peg and gave it to her.

It bathed his length of thigh, casting a glow on the thin, golden bristle. Soaking had removed most of the scab. The flesh had knitted with an imposing red welt, the fevers having burned away the streaks of spreading infection. Still, Riona had tended enough wounds to know infection could still rear its ugly head if it were not properly cared for.

“I’ll make a salt poultice to draw out the poison,” she decided aloud.

“Your touch is enough.”

Riona glanced up in surprise at the huskiness in his voice. “You push your good fortune too far, Kieran, always flirting with danger.”

As she rose and hung the lamp back on its peg over his head, his hands closed about her waist. He pulled her closer and nuzzled her hair, which spilled about her shoulders. His face brushed her arm, an insignificant gesture in itself, yet the effect was far from it. She stepped away as if he were flame to her kindling.

“Riona …” He rose and reached for her.

Sensing rather than looking for the blanket to fall, Riona grasped it and shoved it around him. “For decency’s sake, milord, your cover—”

Then it was held, not as much by her hands as by the press of his body against hers. Her only thought to see him wrapped, Riona gathered the blanket around him, folding her arms across his back as he did the same to her. He inhaled the breath he crushed from her, sealing it between them with his lips. Unrelenting yet tender, the kiss cast an intoxicating spell that bade her sway in sweet surrender. Only her mind rebelled—and even that was halfhearted in comparison.

He brushed her cheek with his own and murmured in her ear. “This forgiveness you speak of, sweetling, will you practice it with
this
prodigal?”

Riona clenched her eyes shut as if that might shut out the confusion assaulting her. The situation with Kieran was different. He was not her son nor she his father. He owed her no allegiance, part of her insisted, while another paused to reconsider.

“You have never been mine to—” A tiny gasp of pleasure at the seductive tug of her ear lobe made her stop. She pulled away before she leaned into the contact. “Y-you’ve never been mine to condemn or forgive.”

Cupping her chin, Kieran turned her face back to his and peered deeply beyond her wary gaze. Afraid he might see her wavering defenses about to crumble, she pulled away and turned her back to him. Cold rushed in to take the place of his warmth. She crossed her arms against its assault.

“I have always been yours, Riona, and you mine.”

His hands upon her shoulders invited her to turn back to him, to go into his arms. She shivered involuntarily. Deep inside, his words rang true. There was a bond between them. She’d attributed it to that of a sibling, yet the woman only he could awaken in her knew better. She couldn’t deny it any more than she could accept it.

Riona started at the sharp knock on the door. Alarm battled with thanksgiving as she hastened toward it. “For heaven’s sake, cover yourself!” she whispered over her shoulder.

With a muffled oath, Kieran scrambled behind her as she opened the door. It was her uncle and his birds, each claiming a shoulder for itself.

“Uncle Cromyn … I mean, Father Cromyn.” Riona prayed Kieran was not standing mother-naked behind her out of sheer obstinacy.

“A blessed evening to you, niece,” the man answered, touching his shoulders absently. “I should have left my pets with Brother Ninian, but I’d feel as though my head were missing without them.”

Riona knew exactly what he meant, for her mind seemed to have taken its leave without her consent. She met his benevolent smile blankly.

“Has Kieran retired for the evening?”

Thank goodness
, she thought upon realizing the lord of Gleannmara
was no longer in sight. “Nay, I believe he was just readying to lie down. Is there something amiss?”

“May I come in?”

With a nervous laugh, she backed away and motioned him in. “Forgive me. This night has been trying at best. Someone ransacked our lodge and belongings while we supped. I’ve just gotten the children to bed. They were so wound up with the excitement and I—”

“So I heard. Ah, Kieran, there you are.” Cromyn stepped past her to grasp Kieran’s arm firmly. “I know you have already applied for an audience with the king, but I was able to speak to his clerk on your behalf at vespers tonight. Because of what transpired here, he is arranging for the high king to hear you in the court session after the day ordered for games and races.”

“Thank God!” Riona rejoiced aloud. Reaching Drumceatt was a considerable accomplishment, but working their plight into the king’s schedule of hearings was yet another, especially given the political nature of the matters to be settled at the synod.

“I’m glad to hear it. Maille is pressing me hard with his charges and now this.” Kieran had pulled on his tunic and draped his brat around him. He motioned for Cromyn to take a seat on the couch at the foot of the imda. “Though that hardly gives me time to assemble a decent retinue of my own,” he reflected to no one in particular.

“Given the circumstances of your arrival, I don’t think it will be held against you, son.”

No noble, much less a king, would embark upon travel without his own retinue of domestic and military men.
Nor would a lady
, Riona thought, painfully aware of how plain her simple shift and overdress were. But then she hardly needed a lady-in-waiting to see to her hastily assembled bag of belongings, nor one to attend to her personal appearance and needs.

“Truth, I’d best be going. Tomorrow we again argue the plight of the bards against those clerics and nobles who’d have them banished forever. The good Father of Iona himself will speak, and I wish not to miss a single one of his words.”

“I will be there,” Kieran promised.

Columcille was one of the few priests the lord of Gleannmara favored. Perhaps Kieran identified with Columcille’s rebellion in his younger days. The young prince-turned-priest had taken up the sword to avenge a violation of sanctuary by the late High King Diarmait. With his Niall clan, the princely priest had defeated Tara’s ruler. Both Riona’s and Kieran’s families had fought with their Niall kin.

“I think the Father hopes to pull a few of the bards teeth rather than banish them in entirety,” Cromyn observed.

“Given the antagonism of the nobles who’ve suffered their gnashing satire and imposition on good hospitality, our poetic druids cannot go on unfettered. It is time that something be done,” Kieran agreed, “but to banish them is to banish our heritage. I have all faith that if a fair decision can be made, it will come from Iona.”

Such was the regard for Columcille that the church officials disregarded the mandatory punishment for his transgressions: excommunication. The kings offered him the high throne of Ireland, but he’d humbly refused it. Filled with remorse for the lives his stubborn part in the rebellion had cost, he accepted a penance to leave his beloved Ireland forever and took his faith and fervor to Scotia Minor. There, he’d ordained Aidan as the first Christian king of Scotland in the eyes of God and man. A legend in his own time, a prince schooled in the bardic tradition, and a priest of the One God Riona was certain, Columcille’s defense of Ireland’s historians and poets would be as fair and moving as it was eloquent.