Riona (9 page)

Faith, it seemed like just a few days ago …

“Lady Riona, if you wish to rest,” Bishop Senan spoke up, “I feel certain this court would not object. We all know how difficult this last day has been for you, and I can vouch for your innocence in this matter.”

“Your kindness is appreciated, Bishop Senan, but I wish to be here.”

As she took a seat near the door, she caught sight of Kieran and Bran at the table nearest the dais. Kieran gave her a tender, questioning look that kindled the first warmth she’d felt that day.

She sent him an appreciative smile.

Last night when Riona regained her wits, she was in her bed, tucked in like a babe. She opened her eyes to the soft brush of Kieran’s lips upon her brow. As she stirred, he drew back hastily, but his fingers were still entwined in her hair and would not let his tenderness escape detection so easily.

Leila babbled something to her brother and giggled as Kieran straightened as tall as the sloped ceiling would allow.

“She said you kissed the lady to life, just like a fairy prince,” Liex translated.

Kieran scowled at the twins. The boy took a step back, but Leila, evidently undaunted by her measure of the warrior king, climbed on the foot of the pallet and made herself comfortable.

“Faith, woman, you frightened the life out of me.”

For all the accusation in Kieran’s voice, relief flooded his eyes. They seemed to gather warmth and light from the candle lamp on a shelf at the head of her bed. In them Riona saw the Kieran she loved, the youth who’d brought her a kitten from Gleannmara and gotten up early each morning to spend time playing with it before his training started; the one who’d risked losing a finger to take a wounded bird from her father’s falcon thus keeping her from seeing its flesh pulled
apart and then built it a cage so that she might nurse it to health. When the poor thing died, despite her efforts, it was Kieran who shrugged off the taunts of his fellow warriors-in-training to help her give it a Christian burial.

For an intangible moment, their gazes locked in a better time, a time for hearts to speak rather than tongues … until reality invaded. The door burst open, and Bran rushed in to tell them in breathless snatches the details of what had transpired.

Now Riona was snatched again from that sweet moment by Bishop Senan’s voice. More nasal in quality than his half brother’s, it lacked Fintan’s resonance. It tended to lull a soul to rest rather than move it to action, but today she concentrated on every syllable.

“Let it be recorded that this hearing regarding the circumstances leading to the death of Abbot Fintan of Kilmare is now in session.”

Brother Ninian scratched furiously on the clean parchment before him with a freshly trimmed quill. He was truly talented, never once splattering ink as Riona was sometimes prone to do. Fintan always asked Ninian to write letters for him, especially since age had stiffened the elderly man’s fingers. Last night, however, the ink and quill had been on Fintan’s desk. As Riona entered, she witnessed him sealing his statement regarding the synod issues. It had truly grieved the abbot that he was physically incapable of making the journey to Drumceatt to see his old friend Columcille once more.

Maybe writing in his own hand his support of the bards, and of the independence of Scotland from tribute to the Uliad king Baetan, was as close as he could get. The Uliad Dal Raidi owed tribute to Baetan as a subsept, but he greedily used their relationship to their Scotia Minor cousins to justify demanding as much from them. Fintan allowed Baetan to stew in his own broth when the provincial king had not been invited to Drumceatt, where the high king and council from church and state would decide the issue. The fire in Fintan’s eye revealed that even the good abbot was given to temper on occasion. It had given her hopes that her own would not keep her from God’s service, that in time it would mellow with the growth of the Holy Spirit within.

The memories faded as Riona heard the scene and evidence
reported for the record. She tried repeatedly to swallow the blade that kept forming in her throat. Bishop Senan told how he’d left Father Fintan to fetch the abbot’s customary warm milk from the kitchen, and when he returned, the study chamber was dark. He assumed Fintan had gone to bed, but upon checking did not find his brother in his sleeping quarters. Alarmed, Senan called Ninian from bed, and the two returned to the abbot’s study with a lamp.

There they found Fintan on the floor, a knife driven into his chest. His linen robe, so lovingly embroidered by the sisters of the abbey, was soaked with his blood. An overturned desk, spilled ink, and the courier chest and contents bound for Drumceatt were scattered about the paved floor of the chamber, as though there had been a struggle.

Diverting herself from the abomination, Riona searched the room, face after face, but those she sought were missing. There was no sign of Tadgh or his wife, Mebh. Had they somehow found out the abbot knew of their vile purpose and killed him? Had anyone given them any thought?

She rose to her feet, decorum an afterthought. Senan stopped giving his testimony, addressing her with consternation. “Lady Riona, are you ill?”

Riona felt color flood her face, but this was no time for humility or embarrassment. “Father Senan, I can’t help but notice that the freeman Tadgh and his wife, Mebh, are not here, and I fear I know the reason.”

“I do as well,” Senan answered calmly. “They changed their minds about taking the children because of the older boy’s hostility and took their leave at daybreak. But I fail to see what this has to do with my brother’s murder.”

Riona hesitated. If Fynn had lied to her, she’d wring his neck herself. Making up her mind, she seized the gauntlet of challenge.

“Father Senan, Tadgh is not a freeman. He’s a man called Silver Tooth who gathers children orphaned by the Blefed and sells them into slavery through Bristol.”

The ensuing gasp of astonishment threatened to suck all the breathable air in the room for a moment. Then murmurs spread like a wildfire over the gathering. Bishop Senan had to ring a bell to restore
order. With his peppered white brow knitted in a solid hedgerow over his eyes, he frowned at Riona.

“That is a serious charge, milady, even though it has nothing to do with this hearing.”

“But it does. Father Fintan knew about Tadgh. I told him as soon as the children identified the man. The abbot was going to confront him this morning. Now he’s dead.” She glanced around at the men who were staring at her as if she’d sprouted horns. “Don’t you see? Tadgh must have somehow discovered Fintan knew and—”

“That is ridiculous, child!” Senan threw back his head, as if calling for reason from the rafters of the refectory. “My brother never mentioned it to me, and if he’d taken this seriously, trust me, he would have said something.”

“But he did take it seriously, sir. I spoke to him myself. He assured me—”

“Exactly.” Senan fixed her with a cold glare. “He
assured
you because you were in a hysterical state over your brother’s death and he didn’t want to distress you further.”

Riona felt her cause sinking like swamped coracle. “But the children recognized this man from Dublin. They’d seen him selling orphans to a slaver.”

“Milady,” Senan warned sternly. “You cannot expect this court to take the word of a collective band of little liars, who would and have said anything to serve their own wishes over those of an honest working farmer and his wife.” He rose to his feet and addressed Brother Ninian. “But for the record, Ninian, the freeman Tadgh and his wife spent the night in the sisters’ hospitium and were abed, according to Sister Selia, before vespers were out. She herself was sharing the beauty of the night in the vallum until the alarm sounded and would have seen the guests had they departed the hospitium. Therefore,” the bishop concluded smugly, “the freeman and his wife were dismissed this morning without suspicion. Is that agreeable and reasonable to you, milord?”

Gadra of Maille nodded. “Aye, most reasonable and agreeable. But we thank the lady for her concern, no matter how trivial.” His patronizing
smile was as yellow as the amber of the silver brooch he fingered thoughtfully.

“But if not a found-out slaver, then who would do such a loathsome thing?” Riona demanded of the head table.

“If milady would sit down, perhaps we might find out,” Gadra suggested dourly.

With a proud tilt of her chin, Riona resumed her seat, back as stiff and straight as her glare. In the corner of her eye, she caught Kieran of Gleannmara wiping a smile from his face with a discreet hand and gave him an icy glance as well. Friend or foe among themselves, men belonged to the same league when it came to dealing with the opposite gender. Perhaps that was yet another reason she’d developed a bond with the children, for they suffered even less regard in the scheme of society than their mothers.

“Brother Ninian, if you will, please read the list of the evidence you and I found at the scene.”

The scribe cleared his throat. Despite the authoritative demeanor he assumed, emotion cracked his first words. “Found in-in the body of Abbot F-Fintan—” he forced himself above it—“was a knife, which has been identified by the brothers in the kitchen as one set out in the refectory last evening for our visitor from Gleannmara.”

All eyes, including Riona’s, swiveled to where Kieran and Bran sat. It was clear from their expressions that they were as dumbfounded as anyone by the revelation. The only knife Riona remembered was the one Fynn threw at Kieran. The boy had retrieved it from the doorframe on their way out.

“Its singular identifying feature is a broken handle,” Ninian said, adding aside, “which Brother Clemens was going to fix once—”

“Do the gentlemen from Gleannmara recall such a knife?” Senan interrupted.

“Aye, I do,” Bran said.

All trace of humor banished from his angular features, Kieran nodded. But for that slight movement, he might have been carved from stone—a sitting statue, arms folded across the expanse of his chest, booted feet planted firmly on the floor.

“And was it still there when you left the refectory?”

Again the two acknowledged with a nod.

“When Brother Thaddeus came in after prayers, he said the tableware was on the floor and a bench had been overturned … but the knife was gone.” Senan glanced at the cook’s assistant.

“So it was. So it was.” The man’s head bobbed. “Like a storm had blown through.”

Riona cringed. She’d been so anxious to separate Fynn and Kieran, she’d not thought about tidying up. Heaven forbid her foster brother should stoop to such a lowly task.

“The bearer of bad news often incurs the brunt of the reception.” Kieran turned an impeaching appraisal on Riona. “I’ve a sore ear to show for it.” He swept back the shorter hair around his face to show a tiny scab where she’d bounced the cup off it and split the flesh. “But forgiveness is in order, as the lady
was
overcome with grief.”

Humor rippled along the tables. Riona seethed through her narrowed gaze with a mixture of anger and humiliation. The murmuring abated, cut by the sharp finger Bishop Senan pointed at the young king of Gleannmara. No longer the impartial moderator, the older man bellowed with condemnation.

“Was it grief, Kieran of Gleannmara, or anger?”

Kieran met his gaze, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “Anger? Over what?”

Senan stood stiff and straight, his gaze accusing. “Over the fact that you sought to force your hand in marriage on a daughter of the church?”

T
he stonelike lord of Gleannmara suddenly erupted.
“That
matter lies between the lady and myself! It is not the business of some pious, robed windbag who’d like to see the lady’s properties tucked neatly in his parish’s pocket.”

Senan wore the look of the cat with a belly full of kicking mouse. “It
does
matter if that is the reason you murdered my brother.”

“What?”
The idea was so preposterous, Gleannmara’s lord laughed. “Tell me, Maille, if you were of a mind to kill someone, would you use a broken kitchen knife that would hardly cut bread—or something like
this?”
Kieran brandished a lethal-looking dagger from his waist and, in less than a gasp, was across the room, pressing it to Bishop Senan’s throat.

“Mi … milord!” Positions switched, the mouse wailed beneath the cat’s claw.

Gadra was pressed to hide his own disdain. “A well-made point, Gleannmara. A trifle overzealous, mayhap, but well made. Now kindly hand over your weapon before you provoke more suspicion than reason.”

Kieran shifted his head, jaw jutting. Riona held her breath until he backed away, flipping the knife so that it dropped, blade-first, into the table in front of the Maille lord. Pivoting, Kieran returned to the bench and sat next to Bran, who looked as blanched as Riona felt.

Senan straightened his robe, gathering his composure. “Bran O’Cuillin, we’ve just a few questions of you, and then, since you were conspiring with Brother Ninian on rhyme at the time of my brother’s murder, you may be dismissed.”

Bran shifted, casting an uneasy glance at Kieran. “Aye, I left Kieran and Riona to their privacy in the refectory and came upon Ninian; he’d been ordained with my father at Clonnard. We collaborated to record an ancient rhyme.”

“And were you aware of Kieran’s intention to ask for the lady’s hand in marriage?”

“Aye, it was her brother’s last request … that Kieran take Riona into his protection as his wife.”

“And Kieran was determined to do this?”

“Aye, if he could convince Riona.”

“And did you not tell Brother Ninian that you wished Gleannmara’s king luck, given the lady’s dedication to the church and her previous rejection of his suit?”

“Aye, but—”

The bishop pressed on before the bard could finish his answer. “And did you not say the lady would have no choice in the matter?”

“I said that Kieran would give Riona no choi—” Bran saw the trap, but it was too late. It closed upon him.

“That
is
what Kieran said to you, is it not? That he’d give the lady no choice.”