untold number of delays in theirdeparture, which allowed time for her leine to dry before they left the villa. At the last moment, Rowan insisted on bidding his god farewell, which made no sense to Maire. Didn’t the Christians believe their god was always with them?
“Do not fear our God,” Rowan’s mother counseled her as Maire waited impatiently at the open door of the chapel. “He will speak to you when you are ready to listen.”
What the lady had mistaken for fear on Maire’s face was but a battle between the young queen’s heart and mind. The golden cross on the altar would fetch a fine price. As would the master’s bed. Yet, Maire was reluctant to take either one from these people, particularly now that they had names and, for the most part, pleasant personalities to go with them.
Then, though she had defeated Rowan ap Emrys in combat and was forcing him to leave parents he obviously loved, Delwyn ap Emrys hugged her in parting and asked the Christian God to bless their voyage home. For all that the gesture made Maire uncomfortable, it warmed her as well. She’d found Lady Delwyn’s command of humility and authority a source of envy and admiration; although Maire knew full well humility had no place in a warrior queen’s disposition, except to the gods.
Now, as they loaded the ship, the moon ventured an intermittent peek through the clouds above, bathing the narrow beach of rock and sand in silvery light. The loading ramp swung away from the shore, where Roman ships had once loaded coal from nearby mines now abandoned. The foredeck was crowded with six head of cattle, fatter and sturdier in build than those that pastured on Gleannmara. The beasts were calmed by the mixture of herbs and hay Brude had fed them. As further precaution for the three-day return to Erin, they were hobbled and secured in a roped off pen.
Next to them was a pair of horses. Unlike Erin’s traditional small and shaggy native breeds, these were of much larger stock. Maire could not peer over the back of either the stallionor the mare. The matched pair nearly caused another full-fledged battle between Declan and Rowan’s overseer, Dafydd, a little man with the nerve of a giant. Rowan had specified cattle as tribute, but when Declan saw the splendid pair of horses housed in a barn as comfortable as the huts of the people who tended them, the young Scot demanded they be included. The pair was Rowan’s, and—as the last of the clan gathered at the house to await Maire’s command—the argument was settled by his quiet order to fetch them from their stalls.
The family of Demetrius had bred the fine steeds for generations. The stock, he’d explained, was imported from the East centuries before for use by the armies and cavalries and for entertainment during Rome’s domination. Maire could well imagine that such beasts, whether racing chariots in the arena or on the battlefield, were magnificent to behold.
As were Rowan’s pair. Their high-strung natures were somewhat gentled by trusted hands and Brude’s concoction, but they stilled pawed the deck. Rowan attempted to soothe them to counter the unfamiliar sounds created by the creaking boards and straining lines hailing the ship’s departure.
Maire could hardly believe her fortune. She had a bed and livestock fit for a king, in addition to the plunder and tribute stowed above and below deck. None of her clansmen had been lost, although the villagers had left their share of wounds to vouch that not all had come easily. This was indeed cause for the sacrificial fire Brude would make for both their success and Maire’s wedding.
As for her concern about the shore natives regrouping and attacking the men she’d left to defend their means of escape, it had been for naught. The frightened and beaten people had flocked to the small stone church to put out the fire started in the midst of the Scotti pillage, and there they remained until nightfall. At that point, some crept back to
“Do not fear our God,” Rowan’s mother counseled her as Maire waited impatiently at the open door of the chapel. “He will speak to you when you are ready to listen.”
What the lady had mistaken for fear on Maire’s face was but a battle between the young queen’s heart and mind. The golden cross on the altar would fetch a fine price. As would the master’s bed. Yet, Maire was reluctant to take either one from these people, particularly now that they had names and, for the most part, pleasant personalities to go with them.
Then, though she had defeated Rowan ap Emrys in combat and was forcing him to leave parents he obviously loved, Delwyn ap Emrys hugged her in parting and asked the Christian God to bless their voyage home. For all that the gesture made Maire uncomfortable, it warmed her as well. She’d found Lady Delwyn’s command of humility and authority a source of envy and admiration; although Maire knew full well humility had no place in a warrior queen’s disposition, except to the gods.
Now, as they loaded the ship, the moon ventured an intermittent peek through the clouds above, bathing the narrow beach of rock and sand in silvery light. The loading ramp swung away from the shore, where Roman ships had once loaded coal from nearby mines now abandoned. The foredeck was crowded with six head of cattle, fatter and sturdier in build than those that pastured on Gleannmara. The beasts were calmed by the mixture of herbs and hay Brude had fed them. As further precaution for the three-day return to Erin, they were hobbled and secured in a roped off pen.
Next to them was a pair of horses. Unlike Erin’s traditional small and shaggy native breeds, these were of much larger stock. Maire could not peer over the back of either the stallionor the mare. The matched pair nearly caused another full-fledged battle between Declan and Rowan’s overseer, Dafydd, a little man with the nerve of a giant. Rowan had specified cattle as tribute, but when Declan saw the splendid pair of horses housed in a barn as comfortable as the huts of the people who tended them, the young Scot demanded they be included. The pair was Rowan’s, and—as the last of the clan gathered at the house to await Maire’s command—the argument was settled by his quiet order to fetch them from their stalls.
The family of Demetrius had bred the fine steeds for generations. The stock, he’d explained, was imported from the East centuries before for use by the armies and cavalries and for entertainment during Rome’s domination. Maire could well imagine that such beasts, whether racing chariots in the arena or on the battlefield, were magnificent to behold.
As were Rowan’s pair. Their high-strung natures were somewhat gentled by trusted hands and Brude’s concoction, but they stilled pawed the deck. Rowan attempted to soothe them to counter the unfamiliar sounds created by the creaking boards and straining lines hailing the ship’s departure.
Maire could hardly believe her fortune. She had a bed and livestock fit for a king, in addition to the plunder and tribute stowed above and below deck. None of her clansmen had been lost, although the villagers had left their share of wounds to vouch that not all had come easily. This was indeed cause for the sacrificial fire Brude would make for both their success and Maire’s wedding.
As for her concern about the shore natives regrouping and attacking the men she’d left to defend their means of escape, it had been for naught. The frightened and beaten people had flocked to the small stone church to put out the fire started in the midst of the Scotti pillage, and there they remained until nightfall. At that point, some crept back to
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