The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) (14 page)

A wave of shock seemed to pass through those gathered in the hall. Dessia herself knew a surge of sympathy for Bridei, or at least the boy he’d been. It must have been terrifying, to be enslaved at a mere fourteen winters of age, so far away from home and all hope of rescue.

“What happened then?” Aife asked breathlessly.

Bridei’s smile was tight. “Most of what you’d expect. I won’t go into the brutal details, but suffice to say I didn’t like being a slave. But one good thing did come of it. While I was a captive I learned to play the harp. I also found out I had a pleasant singing voice and a way with words. When I finally escaped, I had the means to earn my keep. I was also much better able to fend for myself in other ways. It’s not only the British and Irish races that honor musicians and poets. Most civilized peoples have respect for bards and accord them a place of honor in their households. Your queen, being the exception, of course.”

Dessia suppressed a gasp. The audacity of the man—to imply she was some sort of uncouth barbarian because she’d hadn’t asked him to serve as her bard! She must have made a sound, for Finola turned and looked at her. Dessia froze in dread, wondering if she would be exposed. There could hardly be a worse moment for it, just after Bridei had ridiculed her for her treatment of him.

But everyone else seemed to be too caught up in Bridei’s tale to notice her. “How long were you a slave?” Eth asked. “How did you escape?”

“I was a slave for nearly two years. As for how I escaped, it was simple. I killed my master.” Another murmur of shock and surprise rippled through the hall. Bridei went on: “My master wasn’t well-liked, and once he was dead, no one in his household saw fit to detain me. By the time the authorities arrived, I was long gone. The difficult part was making my way back to Narbonne. The man who’d purchased me lived in a land far to the east, and I had to get passage back across the great sea. But I managed to do it, and even kept the harp I’d stolen. It was an incredible instrument. My master was a merchant and had a house full of rare and beautiful things. Furniture of fine wood, gilded with gold and cushioned with brilliant-hued silk fabrics, gaming pieces carved of ivory and set with jewels. He ate from plates of gold and drank from pearl-encrusted goblets. And the food we dined upon was also splendid—rare fruits, spiced meats, and the most delicious wines.”

Dessia could feel her mouth watering and realized she hadn’t eaten that morning. But it wasn’t simply hunger his words aroused, but a yearning of all her senses, as he painted a picture of a world of exotic, provocative delights.

“And your harp?” Eth asked. “Was it also decorated with gems and gold?”

“Nay, it had no adornments. Its value came from its exquisite tone. With twelve strings, it could capture every sound from the whisper of the wind through the leaves to the boom of thunder, yet it was small enough to fit into a pack. I carried it with me for nearly ten years, until I was forced to leave it behind when the Catraith chieftain gave me to the slavers.”

“But now we’re making you another harp,” Eth said, gesturing to the half-finished instrument on Bridei’s lap. “Soon you can play it, and make all those sounds you told us about.”

“I’ll try,” answered Bridei.

One of the women approached Bridei with a pottery cup and handed it to him. Bridei thanked her and tilting back his head, took a deep swallow. Watching the grace of his movements, Dessia was struck by sheer beauty of the man. She had a strong suspicion why the foreign merchant had purchased him. At fourteen years old, Bridei would still have been a boy, and a strikingly attractive one at that. Dessia had heard of bedslaves, and the taste of some men for young males. The thought of it horrified her and aroused her intense sympathy for Bridei. She couldn’t imagine being used in such a way. To endure such treatment at such a tender age—how could anyone ever get over it?

But was the story true? Perhaps these things had actually happened to someone else, someone Bridei had known in his travels. Yet the cold rage she’d seen on his face as he talked of killing his master—that was surely real. What a puzzle Bridei ap Maelgwn was.

* * *

Had Queen Dessia discovered what she wanted to know?
Bridei sipped the hot cider Beatha had brought him. His gaze strayed to where the queen sat, dressed in her ridiculous disguise. He’d known it was her as soon as she entered the hall. For all her efforts to hunch over and shuffle as she walked, she was too tall to be the withered crone she sought to portray. He was surprised no one else had taken note of her. But these people were comfortable here, while he was a stranger and must always be on his guard.

He’d let down his defenses in other ways, having told the people of Cahermara more about his life and his background than he’d ever told anyone. He wasn’t certain why he’d revealed so much. Perhaps it was because he’d known Dessia was listening, and he wanted her to realize he’d suffered in his life, that she wasn’t the only one who’d endured terrible things.

But the part about the chieftain’s daughter in Catraith, that had been a mistake. Implying that he’d seduced a young noblewoman hadn’t earned him much sympathy. He’d only told them that because he feared the truth wasn’t convincing. There really was no good reason for Dolgar to have sold him into slavery. Although the Brigante chieftain might have disliked him, it was out of character for Dolgar to plot murder. Someone must have paid him to do it. That awareness had gnawed on Bridei ever since the slavers put shackles on him.

But he really didn’t have time to puzzle on that now. There were much more interesting matters to pursue here. He wanted Dessia to feel sorry for him. To convince her that he’d been wronged in his life as much as she had in hers. This strange business of telling about his life instead of made-up stories might well accomplish that.

He glanced at Aife, wondering what she would ask next. It was obvious Dessia had ordered her maidservant to probe into his background. Aife would never have done so on her own. She was far too absorbed with grim, dutiful Keenan to have an interest in any other man.

Almost as if she could read his thoughts, Aife gave him an uncertain smile and said, “Given what happened to you when you were young, it must have been very distressing for you to be taken captive by slavers a second time. And then cast ashore in a strange land where you knew no one. I’m sure you were very relieved when Keenan rescued you.”

“Aye, my heart lifted as soon as I saw him,” Bridei responded. “I could tell he was a man of character and wouldn’t abuse me. Then when he told me about Queen Dessia, my hopes lifted even higher. He swore she was a most generous and just ruler and I had nothing to fear from her.” As he said this, Bridei looked directly at Dessia. She bowed her head instantly, and he knew an intense satisfaction. How delightful to have this opportunity to make her regret how she’d treated him.

Bridei looked at Aife expectantly, wondering what she would ask of him next. But it was Beatha who spoke. “Have you ever been back to your homeland since your father sent you away? Ever told him what happened to you?”

Bridei felt his stomach tighten. It was one thing to talk about his father as a bard would, describing him from a distance. But relating the story of the animosity and conflict between them cut very close to the bone.

He shrugged, trying to loosen his shoulders. “I don’t see the point of telling him what I endured. Although I’m certain my father didn’t intend for me to endure slavery and abuse, it happened and there’s no unmaking it.”

“So, you’ve never made up your differences?” It was Aife who spoke this time, her voice tinged with regret.

He felt himself becoming angry, and had to fight to keep his voice calm. “Nay, we never did.”

“A pity,” Aife said. “Your father sounds like a good man, and one who is capable of learning from his mistakes. Perhaps if you went back there and spoke to him . . .”

Bridei gritted his teeth and tried to control his temper. He wouldn’t let these people, and Dessia especially, see the resentment and anger he still felt towards his father. “Perhaps,” he answered in a tight voice. “But I’m unlikely to have an opportunity to return to my homeland anyway.”

“Why is that?” Nally asked.

Bridei shrugged. “How would I get there? I have no wealth to purchase passage back to Britain, and I’d rather not travel there the way I came here, on a slaver’s boat.”

“But now that you have a harp, you’ll be able to earn a living again.” Eth’s broad face lit up. The next moment his pleased expression faded. “Not that we want you to leave. We’d like you to stay here forever. Wouldn’t we?” He gestured to those gathered around.

They responded with a chorus of enthusiastic “ayes”. Everyone seemed to be smiling and gazing at him fondly, and Bridei was touched by their obvious regard for him. Although he’d played for halls full of chieftains and kings and been greeted with rousing approval, it had seldom felt as gratifying as this. As he’d told Dessia, these people had suffered and strived for ten long years and were so starved for music and entertainment it was heartbreaking. They needed him. Even more surprising was the realization he wanted to stay, and not only because he had unfinished business with Queen Dessia. There was something about this place that made him feel whole and content. For a man who’d been a restless traveler for nearly his whole adult life, it was an astonishing discovery.

But he dare not let anyone see how he felt. If there was one thing he’d learned in life, it was that caring for anything too intensely inevitably led to suffering and loss. He cast a quick look at Dessia, wondering what she was thinking. Had he won her over? Did she feel sorry for him instead of distrusting him? He should continue talking, and force her to endure her unpleasant disguise for a while longer. But he was suddenly anxious to get out of the hall.

Rising, he bowed to the gathering. “If you could excuse me for a time. I need to stretch my legs.”

Aife got hastily to her feet. “If you’re going out, you must take your cloak.”

“Aye,” “Aye”, and “Of course he must,” murmured other people around him.

Bridei put on the roughly-woven, stained garment he’d been wearing as he worked on the wall, and started for the door. He’d barely reached it when he saw Beatha approaching. She held out a cloak of thick wool in a brilliant plaid of green and red. “Here, wear this.”

“Nay, I couldn’t,” he responded. “It’s too fine.”

“Not any finer than the stories you tell. Please. It’s my gift to you.” Beatha was a plain woman, with weathered skin and rather pinched features, but at this moment her face was made lovely by the warm smile she bestowed on him. Bridei tried to recall what he knew about her. He seemed to remember she was widowed. She’d probably made this cloak for her husband. A lump formed in his throat as he took the cloak and put it on. He turned and hurried out of the hall.

Outside, the rain was coming down steadily. He pulled up the hood of the cloak, bent his head and trudged forward. His plan had been to go to the midden and relieve himself. But now that he was away from the hall—and already getting soaking wet—he realized he wanted to leave the hillfort altogether.

He made his way across the yard toward the gate, trying to avoid the largest puddles. No wonder he’d always told tales to his audiences. Revealing the real story of his life was far too distressing. In doing so, he’d reawakened memories buried for years. Feelings he hadn’t experienced in nearly a decade choked his throat and made his stomach clench. Images of the past that he usually glimpsed from a distance suddenly loomed large and threatening, like ominous shadows cast upon a wall. He was a boy again, feeling the helplessness and despair.

He paused at the gate, trembling with remembered turmoil. Fists clenched and breathing hard, he sought to make the memories go away. To shrink them back to insignificance.

“Bridei? What are you doing out here?”

He jerked around to see Keenan. The warrior wore an oiled leather cape over his tunic, but despite the protection, he appeared soaked to the skin.

“I’m leaving the hillfort,” Bridei said.

Keenan frowned at him. “I’m not sure the queen would approve.”

Bridei fought back the fury that leapt inside him. It would be foolish to get into a confrontation with someone who wore both a dagger and a sword. He sought to speak appeasingly. “Don’t worry. I’ll come back. If I were going to run off, I’d choose better weather for it.”

Keenan hesitated, clearly uncertain what his duty was. Bridei waited, his muscles as tight as bowstrings. If he had to fight Keenan, he would do so. The mood he was in, he thought he might even prevail.

Keenan motioned with his head toward the gate. “Go. If you don’t come back, I’ll consider it good riddance.”

Bridei’s anger notched higher. He longed to tell smug Keenan that he’d just spent the last few hours in the dry, warm hall with the lovely Aife at his feet, and that she’d listened to his every word with rapt attention. But his urge to leave this place was much greater than any satisfaction he could obtain by taunting Keenan. He met the man’s cold expression with a frigid look of his own, then went to the gate, and grasping the opening winch, jerked it to the side. The gate creaked open, and Bridei slipped through.

He called himself a dozen sorts of fool as he made his way down the hillside. The trackway was muddy and slick and with every step he struggled to keep his balance. But if he walked in the grass instead, his leather shoes would end up a sodden mess. Of course, that was inevitable anyway. He was going to get soaked to the bone and probably die of a chill. But it didn’t matter. He had to get away before the walls of the hillfort closed in on him. Somehow he had to clear his head and regain his composure.