of the room’s painted panels, which were artfully displayed over a stippled dado base of the same colors.
The renegade skim of emotion that had touched her when watching mother and son resurfaced at the sight of the devotion between husband and wife. Maire vaguely recalled the same between her parents and envied that still evident between her foster parents. Would she ever know such love? A discreet glance at the somber Rowan ap Emrys was not encouraging.
The man on the finely dressed bed studied Maire as his wife tucked a pillow behind his balding head to raise him. Like hisson, his jaw was scraped clean of hair. A thin white line on one sunken cheek proclaimed the survival of one near brush with death’s blade. No doubt there were other such banners of valor, shrinking away with his age.
“I am Demetrius, Queen Maire, but you needn’t feel sadness for me. God has seen fit to turn my sickness into a blessing. He has seen fit to send an able and loving son to do what I cannot. And I have faith that Rowan’s leaving, too, shall lead to good. You seem a maid with a heart as tender as her sword is skilled.”
For all his failings, the man had eyes like a hawk’s, Maire thought grudgingly. No one ever saw her cry. No one! Not since she’d been told of her mother’s death.
“Your mother Maeve would be proud.”
“You know of Maeve?” Now here indeed was a surprise.
“Your bard’s voice carried to the chapel room when the shouting hushed at the climax of the contest. My son says you were a worthy opponent.”
“I bested him.” How could it occur to the old man that she was anything but? She shifted uncomfortably, recalling that, but for the shock of her proposal, the Welshman had gained the upper hand. Regardless, when all was said and done, she was triumphant.
Maire wiped her cheek against her arm, smearing the blueing. It only made her more aware of the contrast of her filthy state to that of the villa and its inhabitants. By now, it had formed a paste with sweat, dirt, and dried blood—the fisherman’s at the village, hers, and that of Rowan ap Emrys. The skirt of her saffron tunic was stained dark from her final blow against him. Part of her wanted to wear the leine as a badge of hard-earned victory, while another longed to accept Lady Delwyn’s offer of a bath to be rid of it. She wondered how Maeve had dealt with the plague of such womanly notions.
“Our men have gone to collect the choicest of our herds while the servants pack my trunk. Is there anything you see in the house that you would have as a bride’s gift?”
Rowan’s question snatched her from her whimsy. The house. That’s what Maire wanted to answer, but that was impossible. What a palace it was!
Her gaze flickered over the luxurious bed with its thick mattress and exquisite coverlets. Claw feet of bronze supported it, curving up on each corner to support the head of a lion. No, she couldn’t bring herself to oust an invalid from it. Not when there was one just as royal in another apartment, one so long and wide that she could easily stretch out with arms over her head, or to her side, and not touch the edge of the plush mattress. It was a far cry from the narrow carved bed box she used with its cushion of leaves and needles.
“The bed in the westernmost apartment and all its trappings,” she decided, giving in to her fancy. She’d earned it, well enough, and woe be to the man who dared taunt her over the frivolous nature of her choice.
“Take it as our gift to our son’s bride,” the man on the bed told her.
“I gratefully accept, sir.”
Maire could hear her brothers’ protests now—their ship was barely large enough to hold a few prize livestock and the clan’s plunder—but she’d silence them quick enough. She’d come as a sister in arms, but she returned as their queen.
“An excellent choice,” Rowan seconded his father with enthusiasm. “It was made to accommodate my height, but there’s room for us
The renegade skim of emotion that had touched her when watching mother and son resurfaced at the sight of the devotion between husband and wife. Maire vaguely recalled the same between her parents and envied that still evident between her foster parents. Would she ever know such love? A discreet glance at the somber Rowan ap Emrys was not encouraging.
The man on the finely dressed bed studied Maire as his wife tucked a pillow behind his balding head to raise him. Like hisson, his jaw was scraped clean of hair. A thin white line on one sunken cheek proclaimed the survival of one near brush with death’s blade. No doubt there were other such banners of valor, shrinking away with his age.
“I am Demetrius, Queen Maire, but you needn’t feel sadness for me. God has seen fit to turn my sickness into a blessing. He has seen fit to send an able and loving son to do what I cannot. And I have faith that Rowan’s leaving, too, shall lead to good. You seem a maid with a heart as tender as her sword is skilled.”
For all his failings, the man had eyes like a hawk’s, Maire thought grudgingly. No one ever saw her cry. No one! Not since she’d been told of her mother’s death.
“Your mother Maeve would be proud.”
“You know of Maeve?” Now here indeed was a surprise.
“Your bard’s voice carried to the chapel room when the shouting hushed at the climax of the contest. My son says you were a worthy opponent.”
“I bested him.” How could it occur to the old man that she was anything but? She shifted uncomfortably, recalling that, but for the shock of her proposal, the Welshman had gained the upper hand. Regardless, when all was said and done, she was triumphant.
Maire wiped her cheek against her arm, smearing the blueing. It only made her more aware of the contrast of her filthy state to that of the villa and its inhabitants. By now, it had formed a paste with sweat, dirt, and dried blood—the fisherman’s at the village, hers, and that of Rowan ap Emrys. The skirt of her saffron tunic was stained dark from her final blow against him. Part of her wanted to wear the leine as a badge of hard-earned victory, while another longed to accept Lady Delwyn’s offer of a bath to be rid of it. She wondered how Maeve had dealt with the plague of such womanly notions.
“Our men have gone to collect the choicest of our herds while the servants pack my trunk. Is there anything you see in the house that you would have as a bride’s gift?”
Rowan’s question snatched her from her whimsy. The house. That’s what Maire wanted to answer, but that was impossible. What a palace it was!
Her gaze flickered over the luxurious bed with its thick mattress and exquisite coverlets. Claw feet of bronze supported it, curving up on each corner to support the head of a lion. No, she couldn’t bring herself to oust an invalid from it. Not when there was one just as royal in another apartment, one so long and wide that she could easily stretch out with arms over her head, or to her side, and not touch the edge of the plush mattress. It was a far cry from the narrow carved bed box she used with its cushion of leaves and needles.
“The bed in the westernmost apartment and all its trappings,” she decided, giving in to her fancy. She’d earned it, well enough, and woe be to the man who dared taunt her over the frivolous nature of her choice.
“Take it as our gift to our son’s bride,” the man on the bed told her.
“I gratefully accept, sir.”
Maire could hear her brothers’ protests now—their ship was barely large enough to hold a few prize livestock and the clan’s plunder—but she’d silence them quick enough. She’d come as a sister in arms, but she returned as their queen.
“An excellent choice,” Rowan seconded his father with enthusiasm. “It was made to accommodate my height, but there’s room for us
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