Riona (42 page)

All was well, at least to the eye, Kieran reflected in kingly silence after a fit meal of boiled venison courtesy of the tuath’s fine hunters. He shifted with the twinge of discomfort from the healed wound he’d earned in arrogant folly from the child-slaver’s wife. Now he knew what his father had meant when he complained that old wounds bothered him. He also understood for the first time why the men of Gleannmara pushed so hard to return home after a long journey away. Home was more than a physical place of comfort and renewal … it was a spiritual place as well, where past and present existed in harmony.

Recently scrubbed and aired of the stagnation of winter, the building’s lime-washed walls and laboriously brushed and oiled columns
gleamed as they had when King Rowan and Queen Maire had reigned. While the main part of the great room was filled with the song and cheers of the men accompanied by the lively pluck and puff of music, the grianán where the ladies employed their needles and wagging tongues during the day was nearly abandoned. New life occupied them, that on the brink of delivery as well as the recent influx of orphans.

The pervasive scent of smoke mingled with the tantalizing scent of the warming pots filled the great hall at Gleannmara, but rather than offending the merrymakers, it bore the welcome balm of home. There had been times when Kieran wondered if he’d live to see his home again, yet Riona had never doubted. He hoped to be worthy of this double blessing of a good wife and an ancestral home.

Seated on a white wolfskin-covered royal bench that had once belonged to his parents, Kieran stirred from his reverie. Taking up with one hand a royal branch of silver bells to garner attention, he lifted a horn with his other and shared his gratitude.

“To the good people of Gleannmara—from the lad who scrubs the pots in the kitchen to the man who tills the soil, from the cooks who prepared the meal to the hands that harvested and hunted the fare, from the milkmaid in the barns to my good and loyal steward, from the warriors who protect our homes to the prayerful who protect our souls, to my steward and Bran, who have sustained Gleannmara against an army of orphans in my absence, to my wife who sustained me, and to the One God of our ancestors, who sustains us all.”

The sober words fell upon the gathering, the realization of their many blessings settling in as one by one man and woman found their goblet or cup and joined the king. Tales of Kieran and Riona’s escape and deliverance from Kilmare to Drumceatt and back again had been told and had already grown in legendary proportion, for nothing pleased the ear of a Celt better than magic or miracle.

“Care of the children took no great persuasion, milord,” Benin, the elderly rechtaire, assured Kieran as he lowered his cup. “There are those of us who have missed the days when you, the lady queen, and her kin ran wild about the rath, stirring all manner of mischief. More
than enough volunteered to take charge of a mite or two.”

Cromyn nodded in agreement. “Aye, something about the ring of children’s laughter assures us that life goes on.” He looked up at the ceiling where smoke from a single fire curled playfully. “I suppose that was one thing I missed at Iona. Without the occasional patter of little feet, these old ones oft have no reason to make patter of their own.”

“Occasional
is the key word there, Father,” Bran put in. “Until Benin helped disburse this lot, every step sounded upon my temples sure till my head became misshapen.”

“Our bard means his humor,” Benin teased, “which was most foul when he and Lady Siony arrived.”

“Lady?” Kieran echoed.

“You were a bit distracted by all the howling and excitement,” Bran reminded him, “but Siony told us her father was a prosperous boaire in Connaught. She married beneath her station to the fisherman and was disowned.”

“Distracted
is putting it mildly,” Kieran admitted. “And our would-be gatekeeper is her brother-in-law.” He thought a moment. “Naal, isn’t it?”

“She knows how to administer a home well enough,” Benin remarked, impressed. “As well as knowing her way around a kitchen.”

“She’s no stranger to work, I’ll give her that,” Bran added, not without something more than admiration in his voice.

Kieran smiled to himself. Had the bard been lovestruck? It sounded so as he rambled on.

“Sure, Benin and I have run ourselves ragged trying to spare her, what … what with her condition.”

Her condition
. As if one silent command had sounded, the men at the table glanced toward the side door where women had been rushing in and out with pails of water. Kieran had seen Riona only once since she hurried off to the lodge to be with Siony. And he didn’t even know if he’d recognize the girl. Brown hair, small face, plenty of spirit—that was all he recalled. He’d been selfishly caught up in his own trouble at the time.

“She never tired, not of work nor of the endless questions those ragmullions asked,” Bran said, a look of wonder overtaking him. “And
she’s never at a loss for a smile.” He smiled himself.

Aye, this was more than the admiration of old. Kieran stared at the bard, waiting for him to go on, but Bran was caught up in his enchantment, apparently forgetting the others round the table. Never had he heard Bran laud more than a buxom figure, a fair face, or a melodious voice—the shell rather than the content. But it appeared that Bran had changed—subtly, but decidedly. Kieran caught the knowing glance of Father Cromyn and Benin. Faith, but love had a fickle way with a man.

“Have you counted how many teeth she has left? Never buy a steed unless it’s got good teeth.” Manly mischief twisted Colga’s mouth.

Bran snapped out of his stupor. “I’m speaking of a lady, not a nag! Methinks your smithy father mistook your head for his anvil and never noticed the difference.”

“I’ve heard that love makes a man irritable, uncle,” Colga said, nonplussed, to Cromyn, “but I’ve never seen proof till now. So tell us, cousin, will you marry her and take in this horde of parentless mites like our good king here?”

“Many of the children have been spoken for already, but Siony and I have talked about taking the rest,” Bran admitted to them. A sheepish grin spread across his lips just below the ruddy glow of his cheeks.

Benin chuckled. “Aye, the poet here has a gift for singing babes to sleep. All he has to do is pick up a squawler, and it hushes like a calf on full udder.”

The men enjoyed a good laugh at Bran’s expense.

“What would you say, Bran, to becoming Gleannmara’s bard?” Kieran asked him abruptly.

There was no time like the present to address the decisions at Drumceatt. As many looks as found their way to the door leading to the birthing chamber, they all needed the distraction. Were it Riona on the childbed instead of Siony, Kieran wasn’t certain he could keep his distance, as was custom. “I already am, aren’t I?” Bran said, startled from his own inner thoughts.

“I don’t think Kieran has your old role in mind, son. Much is changing at synod, including the expectations of our bardic class,” Cromyn told him.

Kieran and Cromyn caught Bran up on the news of how each tuath was to have its own bardic and clerical teachers.

“An education system for the mind and the soul,” Bran mulled aloud.

Kieran watched the father and son as they expounded on the possibilities.

Suddenly, Colga leaped to his feet, brushing away wine a servant had spilled.

“For the love of my ancestors, man, watch what you’re doin’! This is my only clean shirt!” The Dromin chief’s brat and good shirt had been turned over to the rath’s laundresses after Leila’s incident.

The stooped servant reacted in equal horror. His wrinkled, shaven head bent, he dabbed at the stains frantically. “Saints, I’m sorry, yer lordship. ’Tis this crippled hand. I’ll fetch ye a towel—”

“Here,” Kieran offered, handing over a towel he’d used earlier upon finishing his meal.

His gaze met the servant’s for one brief second, but never had Kieran felt such a penetrating thrust of hatred directed at him. It took him aback, robbing him of speech.

“Nis, ’tis best you keep to tending the fires and let the women see to the tables,” Benin suggested sternly. “Send one back with clean linens.”

As if suddenly aware of his insolent glare, the servant crumbled with humility, dropping his gaze to the floor. “As ye wish, sor. I mean no harm. ’Tis this bad ’and, ye see.”

“Just go, Nis. We know it was an accident,” Benin said gently. Indeed, the steward’s kind manner accounted for his success, for there was not a soul at Gleannmara who would not give their utmost for the man.

“Yes, thank ye, sor. I’ll see right to it.”

“Never mind, I’ll go with the dolt,” Colga grumbled.

With a bob of his head, the servant turned without so much as a glance at Kieran before the lord had a chance to ask him what burned so hatefully behind his gaze.

“Do I know him?” Kieran asked as the foul-tempered Colga followed
the bumbler off toward the kitchen. “I vow, he looked cross as a cow with milk fever.”

“That look is a fixture on his face, milord, nothing more.” Benin shook his head. “He came asking for food and a roof, acting as if we owed him that and more. After three days, I put him to work.”

“He’s a queer one to be sure,” Bran put in. “Nothing much to say, and what few syllables he does mumble I’d just as soon not hear. He’s as spooked by the children as I was.” He laughed at himself. “And now you want me to
teach
them. Now there’s a twist of fate, if ever there—”

Bran broke off upon seeing Benin’s wife rush in. For a graying woman of such sturdy proportion, Ina moved so quickly that the volumes of her leine swirled behind her in an effort to keep up with her sandaled feet. Bran leaped to his feet like a spooked cat, followed by the more leisurely rise of Kieran and the others.

“Well?” The young bard’s normally clear voice cracked with dryness.

Ina beamed. “Lady Siony has delivered a girl child. A healthy baby girl!”

“Wh … what of Siony? Is she well?”

“The lady and her daughter are both well and beautiful.” Clasping her hands together, Ina raised her eyes ceilingward. “Praise to God for His goodness and mercy.”

Cromyn made the sign of the cross, echoing the spontaneous amen that circled the table.

Kieran mimicked the priest out of habit at first and then stumbled mentally. Yes, he meant it. He
was
grateful for God’s goodness and mercy, and not just for Siony. He was grateful for all God had done to bring him and his family home.

No sooner were Ina’s words finished than Bran, Gleannmara’s once restless and carefree bard, apparently overcome with relief, crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

Reacting as quickly as he could, Kieran cushioned Bran’s head from striking the floor with his foot and reached for his good friend. “Sure, this fatherhood is hard on a man.”

R
iona basked in the warmth of the bath Kieran had ordered drawn for her. The exhilaration of holding the new baby and watching as Bran, flanked by his father and Kieran, came in on unsteady knees lightened her heart. She’d never seen her cousin so silly over a female—especially one holding a tiny infant. Siony had him wrapped about her little finger, and Riona had no doubt that little Aine would as well.

How different things were from that dreadful night the bard and the mother-to-be had first met. Faith, they’d nipped at each other like rival pups—exactly as Riona and Kieran had done. The strange song that came to them from the holy well at the monastery played back in her mind as clearly as it had been that night. Siony had seen no one there, yet they all had heard it, like an omen …

Behold, I am the Lord, the God of all flesh; is anything too hard for Me?

Now she was married, hopelessly in love with the well-meaning man she’d once spurned, and mother to three precious children. If only Leila were healed life would be perfect. Riona glanced over to the corner of the room where the little girl, freshly bathed and in a night shift, played with her kitten.

Father, forgive me for seeming ungrateful. I am overwhelmed by Your goodness. I just love her so much that I am anxious for her healing in my time rather than in Your time. My impertinence is born of love, Father, not ingratitude. Help me to rest in Your promise, for You have never failed me yet
.

A sharp knock on the lodge door jarred Riona from her prayer. Kieran called to her. “The boys are settled in the hall, and Leila’s bed is ready. May I come in, milady?”

Leila hastened toward the door to open it, but Riona stopped her. “No wait, love. Kieran, give me a moment,” she added in a louder voice.

She quickly abandoned the bath and toweled off. Leila helped her into her night shift and robe before Riona opened the door. Brushing her wet hair behind her shoulders, she smiled. “I fear I was lost in daydreams and forgot the time. I need to dry Leila’s hair …” She felt a kindling within her as her husband’s gaze raked her over from head to toe. “And … mine.”

“Give me the brush and I’ll do the little one’s.”

Leila dug her new silver brush from the bag Kieran had purchased for her at the fair. As he sat on the edge of the large bronze bed, the little girl sidled back to him and handed it to him with a bright smile.

It was heartwarming to see the broad-shouldered warrior melt beneath the waif’s spell.

“Now tell me if I pull too hard, because I’m used to combing Gray Macha’s mane and tail, not a tender lass’s hair.”

Wondering how much more deeply in love she could fall with this man, Riona took a seat next to him and proceeded to work out the tangles in her own hair. Leila winced a few times, but all in all Kieran was astonishingly gentle, given his previous experience. He ran the brush through Leila’s hair until the golden strands lifted each time he put the silver near her head.

“You didn’t eat your supper,” he remarked, glancing at the tray the manservant had brought by earlier.

“I was too tired,” Riona confessed. “But I did eat a piece of bread with honey … and Leila drank my tea. I chose some of the elderberry wine Finella sent with us.”