The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) (5 page)

The other workers included a man of middle years with a scraggly brown beard and one eye missing, a massive fellow whose blue eyes had a vacant gaze that suggested his wits were not quite right, and three youths whose ragged, plain-woven garments and uncouth manner suggested they were farmers’ sons. Misfits and farmers—those were his companions.

At the thought, Bridei’s anger resurfaced. He was no crude laborer Queen Dessia could use as she saw fit! He was descended from a line of kings. He’d been an honored bard and translator for the great warlord Arthur ap Uther. Only a woman would treat him like this, he thought contemptuously. A man would easily see his skills as a poet and musician were much more valuable than the strength of his muscles. A man would place Bridei beside himself in his hall to sing his praises and extol his valor and magnificence as a leader. But Queen Dessia was a woman and so she dismissed him.

Bridei nursed his resentment for awhile, then forced himself to let go of it. He’d learned years before not to let any emotion affect him for long. Men who allowed their feelings to rule their lives usually ended up doing stupid things. He was cleverer than that. He would find a way to get what he wished of Queen Dessia. Someday the proud Queen Dessia would yield, and yield utterly. At the thought, a smile quirked his lips.

But to reach his goal, he must learn more about her. He must press these workmen for information.

The opportunity arose when it began to rain. As the downpour intensified, the workmen sought refuge beneath a shelter made up of several hides stretched over timbers anchored in the ground. Bridei joined them, grateful for the chance to rest and to be able to question his companions. Turning to the big, bald workman, he asked, "How long have you served the queen?”

The man answered in a rough, guttural voice. “All my life.”

“What sort of mistress is she? Does she treat you kindly?”

The man shrugged. “She shares what she has with us. Even if she wasn’t generous, it wouldn’t matter. My father’s father’s father served her family.”

“What of the rest of you?” Bridei’s gaze probed each man in turn.

They all answered the same. Their families had served Queen Dessia’s family and so they also served her.

Bridei turned back to the bald man and inquired, “How long ago was the queen’s family killed?”

The man frowned at him. “Why do you wish to know?”

Clearly, these men were protective of the queen. He would have to earn their trust before he probed deeper. He bowed his head in deference. “Forgive me. I haven’t introduced myself. I am Bridei ap Maelgwn of Britain. I was taken captive by a group of slavers and brought to this place.”

He motioned to each man in turn and they gave him their names. The balding man was Nally, the one-eyed one, Cori. The slow-witted youth was Eth and the three rough farmers, Birr, Usan and Derry.

Bridei started to ask another question about the queen, but the one-eyed man, Cori, stopped him. “I don’t believe you’re a slave,” he said. “The queen has never used slaves.”

Bridei gave Cori a reassuring smile. “You misunderstand me. I said the slavers brought me here. Then Queen Dessia’s commander—Keenan, I think his name is—took me to the queen and I chose to serve her.”

“Breaking rocks?” Nally snorted.

Bridei smiled. “I’ll admit I didn’t choose to serve her in this particular way. I’m a bard, a
filidh
. I offered to entertain the queen and fill her hall with laughter and music. She refused.” Bridei felt his smile tighten at the thought of the lady’s rejection. He shook off the bitterness. These men must not see his resentment. “Since I no longer have a harp nor any possessions of value, I feared it might be dangerous to travel on to the next settlement. Although mixing mortar is not my favored task, at least I know that here I’ll be treated decently. It seems Queen Dessia has a care for your comfort and safety.” He motioned to the rain, still falling steadily. “Many leaders would insist you work even in foul weather. And they wouldn’t think to provide shelter.”

The man named Nally nodded. “Aye, the queen has always been concerned for her people, even workers such as us.”

Bridei nodded back. “A most considerate and noble woman. And one who has suffered a great deal. Apparently her whole family was killed and her home destroyed?” He looked at the men questioningly.

“That’s true.” Cori nodded. “Ten years ago, the original fortress was attacked. The rath walls were made of wood back then and the enemy warriors burned the place to the ground. Everyone was killed, except the queen, who was but a girl at the time.”

“How did she survive?” Bridei asked.

The workmen seemed to hesitate, then one of the farmers, Usan it was, spoke in a breathless whisper. “She shapeshifted into an animal.” He nodded, dark eyes shining. “None can agree on whether it was a raven, a cat or a deer, but there can be no doubt it was some cunning, wary creature. That’s how she survived.”

Bridei repressed a snort of laughter. While it was intriguing to imagine Queen Dessia—with her jewel-green eyes—as a sleek, elegant cat, he wasn’t such a lackwit as to take the story to heart. A tale it was, enhancing her status among her people, a compelling legend to make them hold her in even higher regard. “What happened after that?” he inquired. “How did she wrest her lands from her enemies?”

Another of the gawky youths answered him, Derry this time: “The people sheltered her in the countryside until she was a woman grown. She trained as a warrior all the while, learning the skills of sword, bow and arrow and spear. Then, when the enemy had become lax and unwatchful, she gathered together those warriors left remaining from her father’s forces and took back her lands, including this place.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three turns of the seasons,” Nally answered. “She decreed the rath must be rebuilt in stone, so it could not be burned. But it’s a long, hard task.” He gazed wearily at the piles of undressed rocks lying nearby. “And she can spare few men for the doing. Those who know how to wield weapons are needed to guard her lands. Nor will she take men away from tilling the soil and looking after the herds, lest we all go hungry.”

Cori spoke again. “When winter comes, she asks for younger sons to come to the rath and put in a turn at the work. In a few weeks, I expect more to join us. But even with a score of workers, it’s slow labor. We can only hope we’re able to finish these walls before our enemies fall upon us once again.”

“Who are your enemies? What tribes do you fear?”

“Mainly the Ruathfia,” Nally answered. “Tiernan O’Bannon is their chieftain. ’Twas he and his men who killed the old king and razed the fort. Now he waits for his chance to fall upon us once again.”

Bridei was puzzled. “Why doesn’t this O’Bannon attack now, while the curtain wall remains unfinished? It seems to me this place is ripe for the taking.”

“Oh, aye,” the simple-looking man, Eth, answered solemnly. “Many have thought so. But Cahermara is guarded by magic. That’s what keeps our enemies at bay.”

“Magic?” Bridei quirked a brow. “You believe some sort of spell surrounds the rath?” Despite his skepticism, as he said the words, Bridei felt a strange sensation, like a cold finger tracing the length of his spine.

The men all nodded gravely. Eth said, “The queen is a powerful sorceress, and she’s worked great magic to keep Cahermara safe.”

This was the same story that the two warriors had told him. He supposed Queen Dessia did look the part of a sorceress, with her fiery beauty and impressive bearing. And perhaps men here were more easily awed than those of his homeland. The priests swarming over Britain had done much to discredit the old tales, to make magic and sorcery things that educated men didn’t admit to believing in.

A part of Bridei couldn’t help wondering if there wasn’t something to the stories of the protective spell. Since he'd called down a storm using a power he didn’t know he possessed, his skepticism in such matters had weakened considerably.

Still, he couldn’t quite accept that Queen Dessia had magical abilities. It was more likely a clever way to intimidate her enemies. Even he, who was no warrior, could see how vulnerable Cahermara was. With the defenses unfinished and a good share of her men scattered over the countryside rather than patrolling the area immediately around the fortress, the dun—or rath as the Irish called it—would not be difficult to take with a strong, determined force. Not that he wished for something like that to happen to Queen Dessia or her people.

That thought reminded him to ask, “What’s your tribe called?”

“We’re known as the Fionnlairaos,” Nally answered. “It means people of the white mare.”

Again, Bridei experienced a sense of premonition. In his country the white mare was the symbol of the goddess Rhiannon, who rode a pure white animal as she collected the souls of the dead and bore them back to the underworld. Everywhere he looked there seemed to be reminders of gods and magic. It made him uncomfortable. He thought of the storm and of how he’d summoned the powerful forces of the sea and the sky. It was those forces that had brought him to this place. Why? And what price would he have to pay for calling on their aid?

She huddled in the near darkness of the root cellar. From above came the sounds of fighting  
. . .
and dying. Screams and cries. Dessia crouched low and put her fingers in her ears, trying to block out the terrible noises. A few moments later, some instinct jerked her to alertness, and she removed her fingers from her ears and listened intently. Footsteps above her. Very near. She glanced up at the wicker covering over the entrance to the cellar. A shaft of light pierced the gloom and she knew she’d been found.

She looked around the crowded chamber for something to use as a weapon. Spying a basket of cabbages, she pulled it near. She grabbed one of the cabbages and prepared to fling it. A dark form filled the opening, blocking out the light. The next moment the man was in the cellar. His huge sword gleamed in the torchlight filtering in from above as he moved towards her. Dessia let out a scream of rage and terror and flung the cabbage at his head

* * *

Dessia sat up with jerk. She was shocked to find herself lying on her bed in the tower room. The dream had seemed so real, so incredibly, appalling
real
.

She took gulps of air as she tried to calm herself. Perspiration glazed her skin and her throat felt raw, as if she really had screamed. Fierce emotions broke upon her consciousness, grief and horror to realize how much of the dream was true. Her family had died that day. They were gone forever. She wondered why the dream had come to her now. What did it mean? Was it a warning? Or a chastisement?

The gods might be angry with her because she hadn’t avenged her family’s death. Surely that was the reason she’d been spared. The gods had sent the phantom cat that guided her to safety. She'd been allowed to live because the gods meant for it to be so. The dream was a reminder of their claim upon her.

Anguish forced her from the bed. Wrapping her arms around herself, she began to pace about the small chamber. Tears of frustration stung her eyelids. She was doing the best she could. How could the gods reproach her? A child had no chance of wreaking vengeance. She’d had to grow up first, and learn to defend herself. As soon as she was able, she’d returned to the crumbling ruins of her father’s once proud fortress. It had taken nearly a year to build a settlement there and raise the walls in timber. Then she’d realized such defenses were not enough. The rath must be rebuilt in stone. She'd told herself she dare not take revenge on O’Bannon until she and her forces had a safe place to retreat to, but perhaps that belief was false. Perhaps the gods wanted her to attack now, this winter. The dream might be a sign.

She went to the window and threw open the shutters. Cool, damp air assaulted her face and chilled her sweaty skin beneath her fur-lined bedrobe. In the east, she could see a faint thinning of the gray curtain of night. Almost dawn. She would never sleep now. Her body seemed to pulse with wild energy.

She dressed quickly, not bothering to wake Aife. Rather than putting on a gown, she donned a warm woolen tunic and trews. From one of the clothing chests, she removed a broad leather swordbelt and secured it around her hips.

She slipped out the door and ventured down the dark stairway, moving stealthily. The realization that she was sneaking out of her own home made her smile, then the weight of her responsibilities again descended. She could escape the rath, but she couldn’t escape her duty. The awareness seemed to crush her, making her feel as she had that night in the cellar, overwhelmed and helpless. She shoved away the gnawing self-pity. Life was hard and brutal, a struggle for all creatures. She should not bemoan her lot. To do so was to risk angering the gods.

Down in the hall, one of the maidservants was tending the hearth fire. Dessia nodded to the woman, then moved behind her father’s chair and took down her shield and sword from the wall above. As she sheathed the sword on her belt, she considered that no one who saw her make this early morning journey would be alarmed. By now the people of Cahermara were used to her going off alone. They imagined her “powers’ would protect her. The thought brought another smile to her lips.

Outside the hall, she headed for the gate. The guard there bid her good morning, then climbed down from the watchtower to undo the latch. As soon as the man had opened the gate the width of her body, Dessia slipped through.