The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) (13 page)

“How will you manage that?”

“I’ll be in disguise.” Dessia grew excited as the plan began to take shape in her mind. She would dress up as one of the serving women and remain on the edges of those gathered around the fire. If she appeared old and bent and slow, Bridei would never notice her, especially while he was flirting with Aife.

“Very well, milady. I’ll do it. But I’m not certain your plan will work. Bridei strikes me as a man who’s very careful about what he says.”

“But his tongue might loosen if questioned by you, a pretty maid who acts besotted with him.”

“I’m not certain he’ll believe I have any interest in him. I think he knows how I feel about Keenan.”

“Keenan?” Dessia was stunned. She’d had no idea her serving maid had any interest in her man-of-arms.

Aife blushed and ducked her head. “I . . . I am fond of him, milady.”

Dessia didn’t know what to say. She felt vaguely resentful. Keenan was the person whose loyalty she depended upon most. She didn’t need a rival in her own serving maid. Of course, Keenan’s responsibility to her was a much different matter than his personal affections. And he might not feel the same way as the Aife did.

“Does Keenan return your affections?”

Aife blushed a deeper hue of rose. “I think so, milady.”

Dessia nodded stiffly. She knew her reaction was unfair and unkind. There was no reason her maid shouldn’t have a paramour. No reason Keenan couldn’t have an interest in another woman besides her. But somehow, this knowledge hurt her . . . and made her feel deeply alone.

It was also aggravating that Bridei—who barely knew either of these young people—should be aware of their fondness for each other while she’d been oblivious.

“Milady, do you want me to go down and start asking Bridei questions now?”

Dessia’s thoughts snapped back to the present. “First, I need to have you help me create a disguise. I’ll need some old clothing and a basket of sewing or something else I can be working on.”

* * *

Dessia waited until midmorning to creep down the stairs. She wanted as many people as possible to be in the hall, so it would be less likely Bridei would notice her. As she’d hoped, the hall was crowded. Everyone from the workmen to the warriors to the women of the fortress and their children had come to the hall to escape the weather and also—she felt certain—to hear Bridei. They’d all brought tasks of some sort. The women had their spinning, sewing and weaving. There was a large loom that was set up near the hearth, and Sorcha was working on a piece of a blue and red plaid fabric. Meanwhile, the men busied themselves polishing and oiling weapons and tools and carving implement handles and other things made of wood. The children played quietly in one corner. In the center of the gathering, near the hearth, was Bridei. He was using a cloth to polish the wood frame of the harp and appeared quite involved in the task.

Dessia pulled the grimy, raw wool shawl lower over her face. Hunching her shoulders and keeping her knees bent to make herself appear shorter, she shuffled forward, moving to the side of the hall where most of the women were. A few of them glanced at her curiously, but didn’t say anything. She hoped they’d think she was Glenna, an elderly widow who lived not far from Cahermara and who sometimes came to the fortress to sell honey or baskets. While it would be unusual for Glenna to be out in this weather, it wasn’t impossible.

A woman named Finola gave up her stool so Dessia could sit down. Still keeping her head bowed, Dessia nodded and murmured her thanks. She was very grateful to be able to sit, as standing hunched over was becoming a strain. From the cloth bundle she carried, she took out a half-finished basket and positioned it on her lap. As she pretended to be weaving it, the long sleeves of the ragged tunic she wore fell back, revealing her fingers with their smooth skin and manicured nails. She quickly adjusted the fabric, hoping no one had noticed.

Her heart began to race as she considered how foolish she’d look if anyone recognized her. How would she explain why she’d come to her own hall in disguise? Her tension grew until at last she saw Aife enter carrying a basket of embroidery. Instead of joining the other women, Aife made her way through the men to where Bridei sat near the hearth. Aife sank down on the worn hide at his feet. Bridei immediately leaned down and said something to her, likely offering her a seat on the bench next to him. Dessia saw Aife shake her head and then, getting to her knees so her face was close to Bridei’s, Aife continued her coaxing. Smiling, Bridei shook his head. Aife persisted. Although Dessia couldn’t see her maid’s face, she could imagine her pleading expression, her dainty dimples and small white teeth. Her blue eyes would sparkle and her voice would be soft and cajoling. How could Bridei resist?

Dessia watched as Aife turned and gestured to everyone gathered in the hall. It was clear she was trying to convince Bridei that the rest of the people would enjoy hearing him tell of his life as much as she would.

Bridei responded, and Dessia held her breath. It would be very aggravating if he refused Aife’s request. She would have gone to all this trouble for nothing. All at once he straightened, and smiling broadly, announced to the room, “Aife has asked me to tell you about my homeland and my family. Although it’s a rather dull tale, she assures me that after being stuck inside for two days, you’re all eager for any sort of diversion.”

Dessia smiled faintly. How clever Aife was, to appeal to Bridei’s yearning for an audience. Although he strove to appear modest, his natural arrogance had won out.

“I was born in north Gwynedd,” Bridei began, “on the western edge of Britain. Gwynedd is a rugged land of steep mountains and heavily forested hills, but it also has verdant green valleys and beautiful beaches. Most of my people—who call themselves the Cymry—are not farmers, but herders, as much of the land isn’t suitable for raising crops. We have sheep and some cattle, but not as many as you seem to have here in Eire. I grew up along the coast, at my father’s chief fortress of Deganwy. It’s a stronghold similar to Cahermara, although Deganwy is situated on a hill right above the coast, enabling us to keep watch for raiders from the sea.”

“Is that how you were captured and brought here? By raiders?” asked one of the men.

Bridei shook his head. “In the years before I was born, boats from Ireland used to land on our beaches and steal away women and children to enslave. But my father and his warriors put a stop to that. They killed enough of the slavers that word spread that Gwynedd wasn’t a good place to raid.”

“If you weren’t captured by slavers in your homeland, where did it happen?” asked Aife.

Dessia watched as a bitter expression crossed Bridei’s face. The next moment, it was gone. “It was in the north, at a place known as Catraith. And I wasn’t captured by slavers, but given to them by the local chieftain. You see, I’d angered him, and he decided to get rid of me by giving me to the slavers.”

“What an awful betrayal,” one of the men said. “You must have been very angry.”

Bridei smiled wryly. “Of course, I may have deserved such treatment. After all, I did bed the chieftain’s daughter. She was willing, but still . . .” He gestured casually and continued to smile.

There was laughter among the crowd, but there was an uneasy edge to it. Those men who had daughters weren’t much amused, and some of the women had to be thinking sympathetically of the young princess.

Dessia first reaction was anger and the thought that the wretch deserved exactly what he’d gotten. But then she considered the story more carefully and realized something sounded false. Bridei might be unscrupulous enough to bed a chieftain’s daughter, but he wasn’t foolish, and that’s how this story made him sound. There was also the look on his face right before he answered Aife’s question. The obvious bitterness Dessia had seen didn’t jibe with the carelessness with which he told the tale.
He’s lying
, she thought.
But why?

As Bridei returned to describing Gwynedd and recounting amusing incidents from his childhood, Dessia’s suspicions grew. Bridei had dismissed the matter of his enslavement very abruptly. Perhaps the reason he didn’t give more details was because it had never happened. How was she going to find out more? Perhaps she could have Aife seek him out later and press him for details. But if she did that, she would have to rely on Aife to interpret his answers. Frustration built in her. She’d been so certain this ruse would allow her to see the real Bridei. Instead, she’d discovered more layers of lies and deception.

But she wouldn’t give up. The day was early yet. She listened as Bridei talked about his father, Maelgwn the Great: “They call him that because he’s very tall. Taller than any man at Cahermara. My eldest brother inherited his height, but I did not. We have different mothers, and my mother, the lady Rhiannon, is a tiny thing, as dainty and fine to look upon as one of the fey folk, who your people call fairies. I have my smaller stature from her, and because I was not a huge monster of a man, I chose not to become a warrior.” The look of bitterness crossed his face again. “It was a matter of great contention between my father and myself. He never believed there was any other worthwhile life for one of his sons. Odd in a way, considering that he spent nearly five years in a house of holy men.”

Several people gasped in surprise. It was Eth who asked what they were all thinking. “Your father became a holy brother? But why, if he was a warrior and a great king?”

“It’s a strange tale, and a sad one,” Bridei answered. “You see, my father’s first wife, a Roman British woman named Aurora, died in childbirth. The babe died as well, and my father was very distraught. Although the match had been made for political reasons, my father loved this woman. When he lost her, it broke his heart. He cared for nothing and almost lost his will to live.”

Dessia could almost hear a sigh of sadness fill the hall. Who among them had not lost someone they loved and been so bereaved they could scarce go on? She herself had dealt with that crushing grief for many years after her family was killed.

Bridei continued, “I think in some way my father blamed himself for Aurora’s death. A senseless idea, and yet many people react that way. He also had many regrets, for although he came to love this woman deeply, the early days of their marriage had been stormy and wrought with strife. He couldn’t stop thinking of all the time he’d lost. And then there was the babe that perished with her. His son, the promise of his line.

“He didn’t know it then, but he had another son. My eldest brother was conceived before my father was married. Rhun’s mother kept his birth a secret, for reasons of her own. And so, after Aurora died, my father was beyond caring for anything. He went to a nearby priory and told them he wanted to give it all up—his kingdom, his power, his wealth. He became a brother and lived a modest and holy life of prayer and contemplation for nearly ten years.”

“What happened then?” Eth asked. “Why did he leave the priory?”

A faint smile quirked Bridei’s mouth. “The story he tells is that one of his former warriors came to him and told him his kingdom was falling apart and the people of Gwynedd desperately needed him. He says he returned to being king because it seemed to be his duty, what God wanted him to do. For myself, I think he must have become heartily bored in the priory after all those years and was more than ready to leave.”

There was laughter at this, and Bridei joined in. “At any rate,” he continued, “he came back, fought to regain the lands that had been lost, married my mother—which is another tale altogether—and once again reigned as the powerful warlord they call the Dragon of the Island.”

As she had the first time she hear Bridei call his father by this name, Dessia felt a chill down her spine. Her vision didn’t waver and she didn’t see a crimson banner with a gold dragon on the wall, but she vividly recalled the image and the way it had appeared, and wondered again what the gods were trying to tell her about this man.

Bridei continued to regale his audience with stories about his father’s rise to power and his prowess in battle. Dessia grew impatient. This was all very interesting, especially the part about his father’s first marriage and his decision to enter a priory, but it brought her no nearer to finding out Bridei’s true motives. She wondered if Aife was ever going to coax Bridei to turn the subject back to himself. Her back ached from being hunched over and the awful cloak she wore was scratching her skin.

At last, Aife said, “You’ve told us a great deal about your family and homeland, but I can’t help wondering why you haven’t returned to visit for so many years.”

Dessia watched as Bridei’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. You’re thinking that if my father is such a great man, why do I want nothing to do with him? Yet it was he who sent me away. We had a falling out when I was very young, only barely grown, and we’ve never repaired the rift.”

“What was the falling out over?” Aife asked, her voice so gentle that Dessia could barely hear her words.

“It hardly matters now,” Bridei answered brusquely. “I was only fourteen winters when he banished me from his household. I was resourceful, but fourteen is a very young age to be on one’s own.” He paused and looked around the room, making eye contact with his listeners. As he glanced her direction, Dessia swiftly ducked her head.

It wasn’t until he began speaking again that Dessia dared raise her gaze. Bridei seemed to be looking far off into the distance and his voice had grown contemplative. “When I left Gwynedd, I was yet a boy in many ways. But somehow I survived. I found my way to the eastern coast of Britain and hired on with a ship’s crew. It wasn’t a pleasant life, but it enabled me to eat. I traveled many places. North to the land of the Saxons and Frisians, west to Less Britain, where the people speak a tongue very close to that of my homeland, then south and down through the narrow straits of the Pillars of Hercules. Passing through there, we reached an inland sea and followed the coast of the land of the Iberians until we reached Gaul and its chief port, Narbonne. I’ve told you about the market there, but I haven’t told what happened to me the first time I went there. I made the mistake of getting separated from my shipmates. Some men seized me and took me to the slave market and sold me.”