Riona (31 page)

Aidan’s bard was a man twice Marcus’s age with a mane of snowy hair cut away from his forehead by a skillful barber, not unlike the tonsure of Irish druid and priest. Bresal had studied with the venerated Columcille in the bardic tradition before the latter moved on to study of the church. Now, his normally solemn and contemplative demeanor softened considerably by the good ale, the elder poet waved for the younger man to proceed.

“By all means, sir, for these days my compositions lean more to recording Aidan’s reign as the first Christian king of Scotia Minor than entertainment. Not that my liege is not the stuff that heroes are made of,” Bresal added, lifting his cup in salute to Aidan.

“I am honored, sirrahs.” Marcus strummed the lute and bowed. “Thus I shall begin this ballad with a tribute to Gleannmara, for it is his story I intend to tell.”

Kieran set his cup down on the table, nearly overturning it.
“My
story? Faith, I have no story.”

“As seen through the eyes of the children he and his lady have taken to their bosoms.”

Kieran rolled his eyes toward the smoke-filled rafters of the bruden. “You are hard-pressed, Marcus, to find the matter for a poem in that, but have at it.”

Marcus applied nimble fingers to the strings and began to sing.

Marcus’s smooth tenor and its musical accompaniment plucked at the muscles coiled in Kieran’s neck and shoulders until slowly, note by note, they began to relax. It was an engaging story, romanticized almost beyond Kieran’s recognition. He was hardly the answer to Riona’s prayer, given her absolute refusal to consider him as husband. Yet she’d risked her life to save him. He in turn had jeopardized his life for the safety of those she loved—the homeless children.

To hear Marcus sing was to think that Kieran was a great warrior of noblest intent, as noble in heart as the lady he protected, but Kieran knew better. He’d only rescued the orphans because Riona would give him no peace otherwise. He’d had no intention of fulfilling the orphans’ prayer of providing a home for them. That possibility evolved out of his determination to honor his oath.

The more Kieran listened and privately objected to the praises attributed to him, the more he came to realize just how selfish his motives for all his deeds were. They had nothing to do with the children’s happiness or the lady’s, as Marcus portrayed. It was all done for his honor and his glory—and that left a bilious taste in his mouth. Riona was the heroine. What she gave, she gave without any expectation of return. She was prepared to sacrifice everything for those whose
needs exceeded hers. She had something Kieran envied. It made her what she was and sustained her when the world failed her.

When he failed her.

The tale grew more unrecognizable, and yet Kieran listened as though it were his penance. It stirred a bitter brew of emotions because he knew the truth behind all the noble things Marcus sang about. And when the poet closed the story with the arrival at the fair and Kieran’s reunion with his friends and supporters, he was relieved. Unlike the men clamoring for a finish, he didn’t want to hear what was unlikely—that he and Riona would marry, that Gleannmara would be home to the children, answering their prayers, that life would be beautiful ever after.

“Well, what do you think, milord?” Marcus asked beneath the huzzahs and cheers filling the room.

“Well done, sir!” Aidan stepped forward and clapped Marcus on the back so hard that the strings on the lute rang in protest. “And you shall drink with me the rest of this night, but first I must make room for more of the fine ale this comely wench pours.” The king pinched the cheek of the serving maid, sending her into a fluster of giggles.

As Aiden swaggered toward the side entrance, Bresal approached the young man before Kieran could answer him. “Most excellent recital and composition. The rhyme and measure are impeccable. You waste your time as a fool.”

“You are very generous, sir,” Marcus replied.

“It was well put,” Kieran offered. “I hardly knew I was so esteemed in your eyes.”

“In the children’s eyes,” Marcus corrected with a crooked grin. “And in mine,” he added, “though I’ve strained hard to see past your bluster and buffoonery.”

“Not hard enough, I fear.” Kieran glanced at Bresal. The old man hovered at Marcus’s side, an expectant look on his face. “You are a good friend, Marcus, but I must bid you good-night. I’m worn from hearing of all my heroics.” He clamped a firm hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Besides, I think good Bresal has more on his mind than a compliment.”

“This young man may not be of bardic lineage, but he has the gift,” Bresal said, affirming Kieran’s suspicion. “I have not taken on students in a long while, young Marcus, but …”

“Your pardon, master,” Marcus interrupted. “But I must have a short word with Gleannmara.”

Kieran paused and turned upon hearing his name to see Marcus leave the aged bard.

“Milord, is something amiss with the lady?” he asked lowly.

Kieran shook his head. “Nay, good friend, if anything is amiss, ’tis with me. I am sore tired, and tomorrow is a big day for our royal friend. A good night’s rest is in order.”

If Riona would even let him in the cottage. Kieran refused to let the thought cloud his face. “And if Bresal’s proposal isn’t what you want, consider becoming the resident poet of Gleannmara. You do paint glorious with words.”

Surprise took Marcus’s expression, but before he could comment, Kieran turned him and steered him back to where Bresal awaited. “Now go, lad. We’ll talk later.”

That Bresal even hinted an interest in tutoring Marcus was an honor, for a master did not ordinarily seek out students. It was they who sought him. But that the elder teacher waited was even more tribute to Marcus’s performance.

Once outside in the fresh air, Kieran slowed his step, reluctant to make his way back to the cottage. Suddenly a loud shout echoed from around the side in the direction of the fialtech. A second shout sent Kieran into a run, dagger drawn, toward the privy, for he recognized the voice as Aidan’s.

The Dalraidi king leaned against a sturdy birch and pointed to the privy, but Kieran needed no direction. A light shone through the door, which lay ajar. An assassin with a lantern? Nay, a host of lanterns, for the light streaming out of the cracks was too bright for one flame. It was as absurd as it was eerie.

“What happened,” Kieran asked, glancing at the bloodied hand Aidan cupped to his chest. The Dalraidi king was ashen, obviously shaken. “Faith, are you mortally wounded?”

Aidan shook his head. “Nay, he sliced my hand only. Then he—” The king stopped, stymied for words. “I canna say what happened after that. As I came out of the fialtech, the deceiver charged me with his dagger. I dodged aside, diverting the blade with my hand and shoved him into the privy. I drew my own blade and turned to face him, but he never came out.”

“And the light?”

“Is why I didn’t go in after him,” Aidan answered, as if fearful of being overheard. “I swear it wasn’t there earlier … and he, sure as I’m standing here, wasn’t carrying a lantern when he attacked.”

The words were no more than out when the light died. Invisible icy fingers crept up Kieran’s spine and lifted the hair on his neck as he exchanged a wary look with his companion. Men ran toward them from the bruden, summoned by the same cry as Kieran.

“What goes here?” one of the soldiers demanded.

“A cowardly attack on Aidan, by the look of it,” Kieran explained. That was all he could explain.

“Where is the coward?” another demanded.

Aidan jerked his head toward the door, no more anxious to open it than Kieran. Tightening his grip on his dagger, Kieran stepped forward and eased the door open. A man’s leg fell out, limp as a doll’s. His heart leapt to this throat, pounding so that he had to swallow, but outwardly he maintained an unruffled appearance. Someone from the rear of the group pushed forward carrying a lantern. As the light filled the small enclosure, Kieran recognized the stranger he’d studied earlier that evening.

“He must have fallen on his knife,” he remarked to his royal friend, who stood stiffly while the charioteer wrapped his bleeding hand with a sash. Dagger ready, in case the man played dead, Kieran motioned to the culprit’s feet. “Pull him out, lads, and we’ll have a look at him.”

As the body was dragged out into the open, Kieran took the lantern and held it up inside the privy. Nothing was amiss that he could see, at least now. Bewildered and not the least at ease, he handed over the light and knelt to examine the body of the would-be assassin. The stillness of death answered the inquiring press of his fingers at the man’s throat.

“Roll him over,” he ordered on finding no sign of the blade on the front of the corpse. The men obliged. “Hold the lamp closer, man.” There was no sign of a wound much less a weapon. But a puncture could close up without much blood, especially a deep one.

“Anyone know this varlet?” Aidan inquired. Murmurs of denial echoed around them as Kieran proceeded to cut away the man’s tunic from his chest. No matter how much clothing he pulled away, there was no sign of broken flesh anywhere.

“Maybe his neck broke from the fall,” the king suggested, no more willing to acknowledge the strange glow they’d witnessed than Kieran.

“What happened to the light?”

Kieran jerked his head toward a young boy who’d joined the group unobtrusively. Dressed in trews and a short tunic, he was one of the lads who tended the fires for the bruden. “You saw it, too?” he asked, taken back.

The boy, very near Fynn’s age, nodded. “Aye, I saw it. Big enough to light the hall, it was. But where is it now?”

Another search ensued, but there was no more explanation for the light than there was for the cause of the assassin’s death.

“What kind of a murderer carries a light?” someone snorted in doubt.

“Or what kind ’o king takes one on nature’s call?”

Aidan straightened, pricked by the insult. “I carried no light and neither did he,” he said, pointing to the dead man. “But there
was
a light. The lad saw right, same as I and Gleannmara here.”

Kieran nodded, no closer to an answer for all of his examination of the body and site than before.

“Well, his neck isn’t broke, else it would roll about like a ball in a sack,” another man remarked, dropping the corpse’s head and wiping his hands on his tunic as if they were soiled by the contact.

“It appears milord Aidan has an otherworldly guardian.”

The mere mention of
otherworld
silenced the group. There was a common belief among many that demons dwelled in the veil houses or privies—at least in those on church grounds. Men were charged to cross themselves as a blessing each time they visited such a place.
Kieran, himself a skeptic of spirits, good or bad, doubted even a demon would tolerate the stench.

Bresal addressed the king. “I would consult with the priests, but God has ordained milord Aidan as king of Scotia Minor. As such, does it not follow that God or one of His heavenly messengers would thusly protect him?”

“Then why didn’t God protect his back on the battlefield where my friend died?” Kieran challenged.

“Because He’d placed men to protect His chosen one then,” Bresal responded without pause. “Tonight our king was alone and unarmed save his dining dagger.”

Kieran held his tongue, but his thoughts were not so easily swayed. God had used Heber to save Aidan? He neither liked the idea nor accepted it.

“We must remember that there is always a greater plan afoot than what we can see with the human eye.”

Whether Kieran accepted it or not, the murmurs of wonder and speculation rose all around him. They’d witnessed a miracle. A warrior angel protected Aidan, king of the Dalraidi, because of his heavenly ordained purpose.

“Let us all pray, my liege, that you will live up to God’s expectation as you have thus far. Had you not, that well could be your body lying at our feet, instead of your would-be assassin’s.”

Aidan nodded solemnly and crossed himself, inspiring others to do the same. Kieran followed suit out of habit and respect for his friend, uncertain if the king believed his advisor or simply humored the old man.

“Let us go back to the hall and offer our thanksgiving to the One God for His favor on a humble servant,” the Dalraida announced loudly. “Will you join us, Gleannmara?”

Kieran shook his head. “I needs rest to do the Dalraidi honor tomorrow.”

Aidan reached out and grasped Kieran’s forearm in a hearty shake. “My friend came to my aid at first call. For that, I am also grateful.”

Kieran nodded. He liked Aidan. In all Kieran had seen the man say
and do, justice and humility reigned. He returned the gesture of friendship with a squeeze. “And I am grateful that neither of us had to fight the carrier of that light.” Once again, the fine hair at the nape of his neck and on his arms tingled as though brushed by an unseen feather, but he attributed it to a shift in the breeze from the sea.

The body was carried away by some of Aidan’s men as the crowd disbursed. Like Kieran, some elected to give up the revel for the night. He watched until the yard of the bruden was as empty as it had been before the commotion. Far from tired now, he was primed with the afterrush of the excitement. Equally strong was his desire to be alone, and he knew just the place to assuage both dispositions.