The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) (18 page)

“Couldn’t it be that he felt sorry for Eth and was touched by his interest in music?”

“Really, Aife,” Dessia said as she stood and reached for the towel the maidservant held out. “Sometimes you’re so foolish.”

“I’d rather be foolish than too stubborn to face the truth. I think you’re in love with Bridei, but you’re terrified he’ll break your heart.”

Dessia froze, her fingers clutching the towel. Her first thought was to reprimand Aife for her insolence. Her second was to deny the horrifying words. She finally fought through the waves of anger and outrage and said weakly, “I suppose I am a bit infatuated. Is it so obvious? Do you think everyone knows?”

Aife smiled and her hazel eyes softened. “I doubt anyone else guesses, and your secret’s safe with me. But I do think you must stop denying the truth to yourself. What’s so terrible about being in love?”

“I don’t want to be vulnerable. I
can’t.
I’m responsible for too many people to take such a chance.”

“What chance?”

Dessia looked at Aife, her insides tight and aching. “What if my worst fears about Bridei are true? What if he’s a threat to all I’ve worked so hard for?”

“What if he
isn’t?
You always think the worst of Bridei, but I think you’re wrong to be so suspicious. I think he’s a good and decent person who’s been forced by life to view the world cynically. Maybe if you gave him a chance, you’d find out he cares for you as much as you do him.”

As Dessia finished drying off and allowed Aife to help her into her shift, she considered the maidservant’s words. If Bridei were in love with her, that was almost worse. For then she’d have no reason
not
to give into her feelings. And she didn’t want to care that much for anyone. Because if she did and something happened to them, she’d have to endure that agony all over again. She thought of how despairing she’d been after her family was killed. Even now, thinking of it filled her with a terrible sense of loss and reminded her of how dangerous it was to love.

“You’re afraid,” Aife said softly, as if reading her thoughts. “I understand that. It’s frightening to feel so much for another person. To know that if they died, you would want to die as well. But it can also be glorious. The best thing you’ve ever known.” Aife’s face grew radiant, and Dessia decided that Keenan had nothing to worry about. Bridei might charm Aife, but it was Keenan who held her heart. As Bridei—for better or worse—appeared to hold hers.

* * *

Bridei stood by the worktable in the smith’s shop and stared at the harp. He’d heard the expression “having butterflies in your stomach”, but never known what it meant. It was strange how nervous he was. Well, not nervous exactly, but filled with a sense of expectation so intense it made him breathless. He’d scarcely touched the harp, wanting to give the strings as much time as possible to cure. Playing it tonight would be like going to bed with a woman he’d never met before that moment, entering her darkened bedchamber and reaching out for her unknown body. He’d have to hope the familiar landmarks would be enough to guide him, and he’d be able to guess what would please her from her response.

The idea of lovemaking immediately brought to mind Dessia, and his apprehension grew even more intense. He thought of the song he’d composed for her. Would she be flattered or angry? Anyone listening would know it was composed with her in mind. They would also know that the man who wrote it was in love with her.

He took a deep, shaky breath. He felt like a man wagering everything he owned on one roll of the dice, and it was terrifying and exhilarating.

Not a good state of mind for a performer to be in. Somehow he had to calm himself. He glanced down at his clothing. After Beatha had given him the fine cloak, the other women—not wanting to be outdone—had gifted him with various other garments: a red and blue checked tunic, a fine linen leine to wear underneath it and a new pair of woolen trews. Nally had jested that he would be finest dressed man in the hall, and Bridei knew it might well be true.

But a part of him felt as if he were walking into the hall naked. For the first time in his adult life, he was going to reveal a part of himself he’d always kept hidden. For a brief moment, as he sang that song, he would take off the mask of nonchalance and let them see the uncertain, yearning boy beneath.

The thought made him so uneasy that his hands shook as he picked up the harp. For a moment, he cradled it against his chest, admiring the workmanship. Regardless of what it sounded like, it was a handsome instrument. The wood had been polished to a shining gloss and the silver and gold decorations glinted brightly.

He stroked his fingers along the strings, then paused, surprised by the sweetness of the sound. It was as if all the love and care that had gone into the making of the harp had infused it with a warm and vibrant tone. He strummed it again, then plucked each string individually, adjusting the pins, tuning it as he went. The fear and anxiety seemed to drain out of him as he played.
This he knew. This was a part of him
.

* * *

It seemed half of Ireland was coming to Cahermara, Dessia thought as she stared out the tower window. A steady stream of people filed up the trackway leading to the gate, more than she could ever recall since her parents’ day. She felt a vague stab of anxiety, wondering if there would be enough food. They would have to serve the wine she’d purchased after all; she didn’t want to deplete their entire stock of mead, and she couldn’t expect the adults to drink cider. And where was everyone going to sit? They’d probably have to eat in shifts, then remove the tables and let everyone crowd in to hear Bridei.

She sought to identify the people she saw. Some of the adults looked familiar, but she didn’t recognize any of the children. How long had it been since these families came to Cahermara? How had she failed to stay in contact with so many of her people? She should go out and visit them, as her father had. But she’d always thought it too dangerous to travel far from the rath, and it was difficult without horses. A pang of longing went through her. For generations, her family had been known for the beautiful horses they bred, and now she didn’t possess a single one. There was no reason not to have horses now, except she’d have to go to Ath Cliath to purchase them, and then worry about them being stolen as she brought them back to Cahermara. While her enemies might believe the rath was protected by a magical spell, once she was away from it, she feared they would pounce.

The thought made her sigh. She might as well be a prisoner. The only time she felt truly safe outside the rath was when she went to the Forest of Mist. It was a lonely, suffocating existence, although she’d never thought of it that way until Bridei came. When she considered all the places he’d been and the things he’d seen, she knew a pang of envy.

Did everything about that man have to upset her? He made her want things that she’d long ago decided were impossible. Forced her see her life for what it was—stark and lonely. If only she could make things to go back to the way they were. She hadn’t been happy, but she hadn’t been discontent either. And what Bridei had done to her people was much the same. Having experienced some pleasure and beauty and enjoyed themselves, how would they ever be able to go back to their grim, dutiful existence?

She sighed again, then turned as Aife entered. “You look lovely,” she said to her maid. “Is that a new gown?”

“Nay. I merely trimmed an old one with some braid I purchased from the traders.”

“It’s very becoming. The blue sets off your eyes.”

“Thank you,” Aife said shyly.

Dessia turned back to the window. Even her maid wasn’t the same. After all this excitement, the rest of the winter was going to dull and miserable for her, too.

“What’s wrong, milady?” Aife asked. “You seem so melancholy.”

“I’m just thinking how hard it’s going to be to go back to our usual lives after this feast is over and the traders leave.”

“But if Bridei’s still here, it won’t be so bad, will it?”

“Aye,
if
he’s here.”

“Has he told you he’s leaving?” Aife asked.

“Nay, but he will someday. What’s to keep him here?”

“I suppose you’re right. From what he’s said, he’s never stayed in one place long before. Then again, perhaps no one’s ever given him a reason to stay.”

Dessia turned to Aife, frowning. “And what would that be? I have scant wealth to pay him, and serving as my bard offers little status, especially to a man who has played for the high king of Britain and other important leaders.”

“But maybe that’s not what Bridei’s looking for. Maybe what is he seeks is a place to belong.”

“You think he belongs here? But he’s not even Irish.”

“Aye, I think he belongs here. Even the land accepts him. Keenan told me the day Bridei left the hall in the rainstorm he went to the Forest of Mist. Other than you, no one I know has ever been allowed into that realm.”

“How does Keenan know Bridei went there?”

“Because he followed when you left the rath, then waited near the edge of the forest until you came out. Bridei appeared only moments after you did.”

“I told Keenan to stay at the hillfort and guard it. How dare he defy my orders!”

“Keenan sought only to protect you. He doesn’t trust Bridei. I guess he was afraid if you were alone with Bridei, something might happen.”

Something had happened, Dessia thought uneasily. She’d looked into the depths of the lake and seen Bridei standing beside her, looking as if belonged there. She asked Aife, “Doesn’t it concern you that Keenan mistrusts Bridei so much?”

Aife shrugged. “Keenan is just like that. He tends to make up his mind and then never change it. Besides, Bridei is so different from him, I think it makes him uneasy.”

“But what if his assessment of Bridei is correct?” Dessia pressed.

“Quit worrying, milady,” Aife answered, smiling. “It’s time for you to dress for the feast.”

* * *

Bridei observed the packed hall from a spot near the stairs to the tower. By now, almost everyone had had something to eat and drink. Except for him. He’d found he was too nervous to consume anything—not an ideal circumstance since he was drinking mead. Perhaps he should switch to cider.

He fingered the harp through the rough cloth he’d wrapped it in, since he didn’t want his audience to see the instrument until he played, and told himself to relax. No performer had ever had a more receptive audience. Everywhere he looked people were smiling and talking, their faces were flushed, their eyes bright. Their stomachs were full of beef, pork, cabbage and spiced apples. It was probably the best meal some of them had had in years, at least since the days of Dessia’s father. The only sign of discontent were a few small children, who, overexcited by all the activity, had begun to fuss. Bridei wasn’t concerned for them. Once he started to play, they would settle down and listen, then fall asleep. He was utterly confident of his craft, so why was he nervous?

Ah, there
she
was, the reason for the vague queasiness in his belly. He watched Dessia move through the hall, speaking to her people, admiring children and babies. She wore a gown of deep red wool, set off by a golden belt and a simple gold neckpiece at her neck. Her hair was unbound and it flowed down from the gold circlet around her temple like the waves of a wine-colored sea. Rosy color suffused her fair skin and her verdant eyes shone like jewels. Taller than most of her subjects, even the men, she looked every inch the proud, glorious queen.

Seeing her, his heart filled with lust and an aching longing he’d never experienced before. Despite her bold, impressive appearance, he was struck by an urge to protect Dessia, to keep her safe. The feeling was utterly new to him. Never before had he responded to a woman this way—or perhaps anyone.

His mood shocked him and increased his unease. He must start playing soon. If he waited much longer, he would be undone.

He started to make his way to the hearth. People moved aside to let him pass and as he heard their murmurs of excitement and expectation, some of his tension began to ease. He’d done this dozen of times before. Nay, hundreds. By the time he took a seat on a stool near the hearth, he was feeling much better.

He waited until the people on the very edges of the hall had quieted, then pulled off the cloth to reveal the harp. A sigh of satisfaction and delight seemed to sweep through the crowd as they saw the instrument. Bridei delicately strummed the strings, then set about tuning them again. As he did so, he heard murmurs and whispers as a description of how the harp had been made passed from person to person. For Niall, and Eth and the other workmen, this was their moment of glory, and he meant to make the most of it.

As soon as he was done tuning, he held up the harp and said, “I know you’re all eager to hear me play, but first, I must thank the people who made this beautiful instrument. First of all, I laud Eth. It was his idea that the harp should be made, and his persistence and dedication that inspired everyone else. Many people were involved. Eth found the wood. It was shaped and smoothed and put together by Nally and Cori. The cook, Doona, supplied the gut for the strings.” He paused and smiled. “Which means that some of the rest of you gave up some sausages that might have been made instead.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Bridei continued, “With their patience and craftsmanship, they built this fine instrument. “Then Niall . . .” he gestured to the burly smith. “He made the harp a work of art.” Bridei held up the instrument again, then turned around so that those behind him could see. “I’ve traveled as far away as Narbonne on the great eastern sea and never seen metalwork that could surpass this.”