IN A STRANGE LAND
CHAPTER 6
King Aedh glanced impatiently across the parchment map at his Chief Poet and counselor. “Oh come now, Forbad, no more lectures. What do you think I’ve done?”
Fothad sighed. They were alone in Aedh’s private audience chamber. The walls were of good, solid stone, the roof of solid slating, but that didn’t stop him from keeping his voice low. “I know, I know. You’ve sent out your spies. There hasn’t been enough time yet for them to report back to you as to who was behind that bungled attempt at killing you. But…”
“I have also sent out friendly little messages to all the underkings, reminding them ever so politely that I hold their eldest sons at Fremainn.”
“As fosterlings.”
“Don’t mince words. I hold them as every High King before me has held vassal children: as hostages against their parents’ continued loyalty.”
“But you treat the youngsters like fosterlings!” Fothad argued. “You’d never hurt a child!”
Aedh’s glance hardened. “Wouldn’t I? As High King I would do what I must, Fothad, never forget that. Unfortunately, the real problem isn’t what I might or might not do, it’s that some virile king might be ruthless enough to say, ‘I can always make more sons,’ and simply sacrifice the eldest.”
“Oh, thank you for setting my mind at ease!”
“Look you, man, I am not taking the attack too lightly. But it could have come from a dozen sources.” The king’s finger stabbed at the parchment, pointing out Meath, Leicester, various clan-sites and lesser kingdoms. “Any one of these rulers could be bearing a grudge or carrying an unseemly ambition. The good God knows I have enemies enough here at court! I can hardly ride out against everyone.”
“Well, no, but—”
“No, Fothad. Let it go. Like it or not, my friend, that bungled ambush can hardly be my prime concern. If I spent all my time worrying about personal safety, how long do you think I’d hold my throne?”
“Ah well, there is that,” the poet admitted reluctantly.
“So now, on to other matters. What have you gathered?”
Fothad glanced down at his parchment scrolls, unrolling them one by one. “First: the two heirs of Meath are already at each other’s throats.”
“ ‘Already?’ Say ‘again,’ rather.” Aedh shook his head. “I hated to divide the kingdom between them—that’s asking two ambitious young men to be as saintly as my father—but what else was there to do? Kill one of them at random and let the other live as the only heir? Better to let them settle it, and only step in if their quarrel threatens to spill over into the rest of Eriu. Go on, what else?”
Fothad studied his notes again. “Father Seadna has probably told you this already, but Breasal mac Segeni, the Abbot of Ia, has died.”
“Hardly unexpected. He’d been in that abbey for… what… twenty or twenty-one years at least, and wasn’t a child when he entered holy orders. Send royal regrets to Ia. What else?”
“The usual. Quarrels and minor battles between this sept and that. Lord Ailell of Cobba has lost a son in one of those fights.”
“Not an Ui Neill clansman, thankfully. I don’t have to get personally involved. Mmm, but I can’t send him official condolences, either. It would look as though I were taking sides in the quarrel. Private sympathies, then,” Aedh decided. “What else?”
Fothad hunted through the scrolls. “Nothing overly dramatic, God be praised. Various small quarrels among the folk here at Fremainn. Nothing warranting your attention. And before you ask: there have been no new Lochlannach raids.”
“Yet.”
The poet glanced up from his notes. “Those raids could have been isolated incidents.”
Aedh snorted. “You don’t believe that any more than do I. That’s a harsh, hard land those Northerners inhabit, and I can’t really blame them for envying us our fertile green Eriu.”
“Indeed.” Fothad’s voice was dry. “All it takes to become a successful raider in the Northern lands is a good ship, a fair amount of armed men, and a totally ruthless mind.”
“And too much idle time. Most of those raiders seem to be landless men or second sons shut out of inheritances.” Aedh smiled without humor. “The Lochlannach aren’t a genuine threat as of now, disorganized as they are.”
“But if they ever do come up with one unifying war leader—”
“We’ll worry about that if and when it happens.” Aedh pushed the parchment map aside. “What of our guest?”
Fothad blinked. “Ardagh Lithanial, you mean? The wandering prince of Cathay? ‘He who is in straits must make shift some way.’ ”
“And, ‘There’s no hearth like your own.’ I can quote proverbs, too. Stop evading. What of him?”
Fothad hesitated, then shook his head. “An amazing man, that, truly amazing.”
“You believe he’s what he claims?”
“An exile from a far-off land? Och, yes. There’s an undeniable hint of sorrow to the man. Besides, no one could carry on such a perfect act of being so totally ignorant of everything about us—or feign such a hunger about learning how to live here.”
Aedh grinned. “You don’t exactly mind playing the role of tutor once more, do you? Particularly when the pupil is an adult and not one of my offspring.”
“Ah well, your children are both nice, bright students.”
“When they’re attentive.”
Fothad grinned. “When they’re attentive. They are very young, after all. And,” he added slyly, “they do take after their father.”
“So superior!” Aedh teased. “You weren’t all that much older than I when you tutored me.”
“True. And most terrified of my suddenly high rank. Och, but as for the prince, I must admit that after listening to childish prattle, it is a pleasure to deal with an adult mind.”
Aedh chuckled. “So my wife tells me.” He leaned forward, humor fading from his face. “Speaking of women, one thing more: while my Eithne is far too sensible for such foolishness, the other women of our court seem to be finding our elegant prince quite appealing. And he is not exactly repelling their interest.”
“He is a rather handsome man,” Fothad said carefully.
“So he is. Quite striking. And presumably the morals of Cathay are quite different from our own. But he is technically cu glas, after all, a ‘grey dog’ exile from overseas without legal standing.”
“Though of course,” Fothad added, “as a prince he has a good deal of status.”
Aedh nodded. “But even so, we can’t have a foreign exile causing trouble. Speak to him, Fothad.”
“Me?” the poet said in dismay. “Shouldn’t that be more of a job for Father Seadna?”
“What could he do? Our good monk has already told me Prince Ardagh has not the vaguest idea of Church dogma; the prince can hardly be harangued like some Eriu sinner. Besides,” Aedh added with a wry quirk of the mouth, “what does a chaste monk know of the ways of a man with a woman?”
The wryness, Fothad knew, was because while Father Seadna was, indeed, celibate, it wasn’t unheard of for some monks of Eriu, and even some abbots, to wed. “No, my friend,” the king continued, “the job, as you put it, is yours. Slip a touch of… prudence into one of your lessons.”
Fothad sighed. “Prudence, my king, it is.”
###
Ardagh leaned casually against the wall of his “home,” pretending to be looking out at the grassy yard beyond and the maze of buildings, ignoring the usual light mist that couldn’t quite be called rain. He kept his face absolutely clear of any trace of emotion. “And so, if I understand correctly, the ideal state of grace involves celibacy.”
“Chastity,” Father Seadna corrected, glancing at the prince as if hunting mockery. “The two are not exactly the same.”
“Granted. But either way, if one loves and weds and creates young, one can no longer be in that state of grace.”
The monk, unexpectedly, grinned. “You argue like an acolyte trying to stir up debate, Prince Ardagh, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”
Ardagh hesitated, wondering what would happen if he should choose to take offense. It was amusing to play with the monk, even if these “chance encounters” were happening so often that “chance” was being stretched almost to the breaking point; it was amusing to try to puzzle out the convolutions of human religion even if the monk was almost certainly trying in a gentle, subtle way to convert him.
Odd thought, that, to claim to know the one true path to the Unknowable, and to try to make others worship that way as well.
But at the same time, there was a quiet radiance to Father Seadna, clear to Sidhe eyes, that kept the prince from open mockery; whatever else this monk might be, he took genuine joy in his faith.
Ah well. “I meant no harm,” Ardagh said.
“I know that.” Father Seadna’s eyes were suddenly very serious. “And I know why whenever we meet you banter words with me like this.”
“Do you?”
The monk paused thoughtfully. “You are a very lonely man, Prince Ardagh,” he said at last, “and that, I think, not merely because of your exile.”
Ardagh only just kept the surprise from his face. “What’s this? Are you finally admitting you’re seeking to convert me?”
Father Seadna never flinched. “Were I a priest of Rome,” he retorted, a touch sharply, “in the heart of Mother Church, I don’t doubt I’d be trying my best to convert you from…” he hesitated in an attempt at tact, “whatever.”
“My people have their beliefs, I assure you.” Not as rigidly shaped or held as those humans professed, of course; no Sidhe would be so arrogant as to claim to know every Answer, or name Names as lightly. “But you are not a priest of Rome. Nor, I think,” he added, one brow raised, “would you wish to be.”
“You misunderstand me. We may be far from Rome here in Eriu, but we are all still children of the one Church.”
“Even King Aedh.”
“Especially King Aedh! He was ordained by the Church in the sight of God and man.”
“Even if he is not always a totally dutiful child of that Church? I have heard rumors of quarrels with this abbot and that, over politics, over status, over the fact that he never fostered his son in a monastery as they wished.”
“A king’s life,” Father Seadna said sternly, “is not an easy one, particularly when that man is High King of Eriu.”
“And he has only the one precious son and heir, and doesn’t want to risk him.”
“One can hardly blame him. And you are trying to stir up contention yet again, Prince Ardagh.”
Ardagh grinned. “Perhaps.”
Father Seadna shook his head. “You must surely be aware by now that there are many other monks here at court attending to the folk of Fremainn. The Ard Ri could have requested any religious man he wished to minister to his own soul’s needs, up to the greatest of abbots, yet he chose me. I still am not certain why.”
I am, thought Ardagh. Your sincerity shines like a light. Being Sidhe, he added with cynical honesty, It keeps you from being a political threat to him.
“That he has,” Father Seadna continued, “is still a matter over which I fight a daily battle against the Sin of Pride.”
“And you will not hear anyone speak out against him? Fair enough.”
Father Seadna sighed. “You twist words nicely, Prince Ardagh. As a monk of Eriu, just as if I were of Rome, I should be doing my utmost to turn you to the Light. But—”
“But I am a prince,” Ardagh cut in sardonically, “and a royal guest.”
“But I will not,” the monk corrected sternly, “I cannot force you to salvation against your will.”
All at once, Ardagh was very weary of the conversation. “I will find my own salvation, thank you,” he said. “Good day to you.” With a curt bow, he left.
They really do speak so incredibly casually of Names of Power, without once considering the risk of angering those Names; they prattle easily of the Hereafter when they don’t even know that much about the Here; they have one Church, but the branch of their faith that’s based in Rome—I assume that’s yet another far-off city—that Roman faith seems alienated from the one here in Eriu—
Bah, I will never understand their ways!
But how had that monk been so damnably sure-sighted? Ardagh’s stride slowed to a stop. “A very lonely man.” How had Father Seadna known—
“Ha.” Easy enough to guess that an exile would be lonely, and to pretend from that guess to have great insight. All at once fiercely impatient with himself for having wondered, even for a moment, Ardagh stalked away.
###
Fothad mac Ailin, poet and minister, sat alone in his chambers, bent over his harp, all and only poet at the moment, lost in the song that insisted, come what may, on being created now. Every few seconds he would stop to scratch notes down on the scrap of parchment on the table at his side. More work for my Sorcha to transcribe, poor lass! the poet thought vaguely. But the song was still calling to him, and Fothad surrendered, diving into the sea of music once more.
A sea from which he surfaced after a time with a sigh of satisfaction. There were places in the melody that weren’t yet quite right, and a few rough rhymes that definitely needed smoothing, but overall—
Fothad looked up with a start. “Ah. Prince Ardagh.”
No telling how long the man had been standing there, watching with those clear, uncanny green eyes of his. Fothad knew better than to ask how he’d gotten into this private chamber; in the days since the prince’s arrival, Ardagh had proven he could move as silently and secretly as a cat when the fancy took him, and had a very odd notion of what was or was not proper.
Uncanny, indeed. That the man really was a prince, Fothad had no doubt. As he’d told the king, Ardagh’s every move spoke of noble breeding. But what was going on in that elegant, sharply planed head… even after these several days, Fothad still had no idea of that. Prince Ardagh was swift as the wind when it came to learning whatever he wished to know. But what he wished to know—there was no predicting that.
Odd man, odd man. But I don’t think there’s a bit of harm in him—or rather, the poet amended, no harm in him for anyone who’s helping him. There’s something about those clear, sharp eyes …I don’t think I’d like to be on the wrong side of his anger.
“Forgive me,” Prince Ardagh said. “I was enjoying your music. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Fothad waved a hand, feeling a little surge of pleasure at the genuine appreciation he heard in that melodic voice. “No matter. I need to take a rest from the song before I can put the final polish to it.”
“ ‘A poem ought to be well made at first,’ ” the prince intoned with false solemnity.
“ ‘For there is many a one to ruin it afterwards,’ ” Fothad capped, smiling. “Adages come in handy, don’t they?”
“In any language,” Prince Ardagh agreed. “But as a poet of Eriu, you can wield more than mere adages, am I not right?”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“Isn’t it true that a Chief Poet is able to compose Powerful satires?”
The emphasis on “Powerful” left no doubt the prince referred to magic. “The… ah… bards of the past were supposed to be able to create satires with enough strength in them to kill, yes.”
“And now? Isn’t one of your duties to protect the king from sorcery?”
Fothad stirred uncomfortably. “Prince Ardagh, you speak of the old, pagan days. Of course,” honesty made him add, “any poet worth the title is quite able to take revenge on anyone who crosses him, and without needing a touch of magic. Just think of how catchy some tunes can be, haunting the mind and spreading from one person to another.”
The prince chuckled. “And if those catchy melodies are linked to scandalous, equally catchy words about an offender, words that also linger in the mind and spread from one person to another—ae, yes, that would be as good a revenge as anything magical!”
Fothad decided to drop the subject before it went any further. “So now, adages and satires aside, do you wish a lesson?”
“Indeed.”
The poet struggled to hide his pleased grin. He had to admit, born tutor that he was, that he took fire from the prince’s seemingly endless hunger for knowledge about the land, about its customs and politics, its duns and monasteries and villages, and even the names of its birds and beasts and the tales of its people (particularly stories dealing with doorways into magical Realms; no accounting, Fothad mused, for what someone found interesting). The prince was absorbing social customs with ease, seemed puzzled by the tenets of Christianity—the poet gingerly decided to leave that topic to Father Seadna—and showed a fascination with Eriu’s convoluted politics. Och, and he also revealed a most satisfying love of, no, a downright hunger for, music! There was a satisfaction in teaching such an eager student Fothad admitted he hadn’t known since he was a very young man and King Aedh was a boy.
And even Aedh was never quite so quick. “What would you like to study today?”
The humor left Prince Ardagh’s face. “I wish to know more about the laws of this land.”
“Now, there’s a broad topic! Can you give me a specific—”
“What,” the prince asked flatly, “is a cu glas?”
He must have overheard someone talking about him. Hedging frantically, Fothad began, “Well, it literally means ‘grey dog,’ but it doesn’t really apply to you.”
“Does it not? Is not a cu glas an exile from overseas?”
“Ah, yes, but…”
“What I wish to know, Fothad mac Ailin, is how status is calculated in this land, and what constitutes honor. In particular,” the prince said, fixing the poet with a steady green stare, “I wish to know my own legal standing here.”
“It’s a bit unusual,” Fothad admitted. “In ordinary cases, a man such as yourself, an… ah… exile from overseas, would… well… be without an honor-price. You know what that is?”
“The fine one must pay when he has injured or slain another. Reimbursement, as it were, to the victim or the victim’s family.” A slanted black brow arched up. “Are you saying that anyone can try to slay me with impunity?”
“No, no, of course not! Even if you are a—a foreigner, you are still a prince, and so no one would dare raise a hand against you.”
“Wise of them,” Prince Ardagh murmured almost too softly for it to have been a threat; for a moment the green eyes were alarmingly cold. “Then, since I am a prince and do, apparently, have some manner of honor-price even though no one can puzzle out exactly what sort, does that mean I am bound by the restrictions you folk put on royalty?”
Fothad hesitated, considering carefully. “Yes and no. Wait, hear me out.” The poet ticked the rules off on his fingers. “A king, and by extension any royal man, must not work at common trades. But I can hardly see you in that situation.”
“Hardly,” the prince agreed.
“A king—in theory at any rate—must never be defeated in battle. But since you are not a ruler, that law doesn’t really apply to you, either. The good Lord willing, none of us shall see combat soon anyhow.”
“Indeed. Go on.”
“Let me think a moment… ah, yes. A king must never default on an oath—”
“My people,” the prince cut in, “do not lie.”
“I see. Then that isn’t a problem, either, is it?” You’re babbling, Fothad scolded himself. Stop it. He was used to dealing with emissaries from all the many kings of Eriu, reflecting all the aspects of human emotion, without so much as flinching. But there was something about the steady stare of these odd green eyes, revealing nothing of the thoughts behind their coolness that was very unsettling. The next law that Fothad had been about to mention was the antiquated one that a king’s body must be without blemish, but looking at the elegant creature before him, the poet didn’t even bother mentioning it.
“Of course even a king must obey the law,” Fothad continued hastily, “but once again, that should not be a problem. You are not a criminal, nor one who—”
He stopped short. Prince Ardagh had, without warning, dropped his gaze to one of the parchment scrolls that shared the table with Fothad’s music, as though all at once bored with the whole subject of law. As the prince gently began unrolling the scroll, revealing a map of Eriu, Fothad asked warily, “Is there anything else you would like to know?”
“Yes. More about the geography of this land, if you would.”
I cannot puzzle the man out. He shifts interests as swiftly as a child, but there’s certainly nothing juvenile about that keen mind. Watching the prince study the map, a slight melancholy all at once surrounding him, Fothad felt a sudden stab of pity for this lost exile and asked impulsively, “Are you happy here?”
Prince Ardagh glanced up, not a trace of emotion in those cool green eyes. “What would you have me say? I am grateful for this sanctuary, yes, and for the time you and the High King have spared me. But I am still too well aware of being a stranger. As the people here are aware.”
“You can hardly blame them for still staring,” Fothad murmured. “We don’t see one like yourself very often.”
“No,” the prince agreed, and Fothad caught the faintest hint of a smile on the fair face. “This edge of land, here.” An elegant forefinger tapped the eastern coast. “What lies beyond?”
“Didn’t you come that way?” Fothad asked. “Most travellers do pass through Cymru on their way to—”
“Cymru. That would be the homeland of the warrior Cadwal.”
“Ah… yes.”
“What is a man of Cymru doing here? Is there friendship between the two lands? I thought not.”
“No,” Fothad admitted, “not exactly. Though the folk there are said to be our distant kin.” He glanced warily at the prince. “Then you have seen Cymru.”
“No.”
Fothad glanced at him in surprise. “Then how would you know how things stood between the two lands?”
“I have eyes and ears,” the prince reminded him. “And I see how folk here look at Cadwal and his men. Or is that faint contempt shown because they are mercenaries?” He hesitated over that word, as though it was particularly foreign to him, then shook his head. “We do not have such a concept as ‘mercenary’ in my land.”
“Ah… I see.” Fothad felt like a man struggling upstream, fighting to keep up with the prince’s unpredictable leaps of logic. “I suspect it’s a little of both his origin and his profession with Cadwal. Though he’s never once shown any desire to return to Cymru and stays as loyal to our king as any born of Eriu.”
“More so, I should think,” Prince Ardagh mused, with just the slightest touch of cynicism. “At least as long as the High King’s gold continues. An odd thing, that, to buy a warrior’s honor.”
“Well, yes, in a way, but it is as fitting for a king to include such mercenaries in his retinue as those he has saved from injustice, servitude or—So now,” the poet said firmly, determined to regain control of the conversation, “if you didn’t pass through Cymru, which way did you travel? Down from the lands of the Lochlannach?” At the prince’s blank stare, Fothad added with a small touch of triumph, “Then you had to have come through the land of the Franks. Now, there’s a long way about to reach Eriu! I hope you are a good sailor.”
An impatient shrug; Prince Ardagh, Fothad noted, managed to make even that simple gesture graceful. But then, such a beautiful fellow could hardly be anything but graceful.
Which reminded Fothad of that one rather awkward subject the king had instructed him to broach. Thank you, Aedh, he thought with heavy irony. I truly appreciate your leaving this task to me.
“Prince Ardagh…” the poet began hesitantly. “I don’t mean to meddle in your affairs…” Oh, ridiculous choice of words! “But I don’t know how the laws of your land stand in… ah… one particular matter.”
“I don’t—”
“I mean in regards to… to women.”
The prince stared blankly at him. Fothad sighed deeply and tried again. “Regarding the courting of women,” he corrected.
The uncanny eyes sparked with understanding, then went very cold. “There is a limit to how I will obey your laws,” Prince Ardagh murmured. “What I do or do not is not the business of any other. And I do no harm to any of your people or their honor.”
“Uh, no…” Fothad began. “But… you can’t court every woman.”
To his astonishment, the prince chuckled. “If you mean by that delicate phrasing what I think, no. Even were I as hot-blooded as one of your sturdy little stallions, I could not possibly ‘court’ every woman in this fortress.” But there was no matching warmth in his eyes. “Fothad mac Ailin, I do appreciate your teachings. But you are not to meddle in my life.”
“Dammit, man, I’m not meddling! I’m trying to keep you out of duels!”
“Ah, that. I would not fear such things.”
There was suddenly such a chill, inhuman delight in the prince’s smile that Fothad felt a thrill of horror stab through him. But before he could find anything to say in reply, the coldness was gone so swiftly he was left wondering what he’d seen.
“Don’t fear,” Prince Ardagh continued gently. “I will even vow this: I will not bring needless harm to you or yours or any here, nor will I do damage to the hospitality King Aedh has granted me.” He paused, this time smiling quite charmingly. “There. Does that set your mind at ease?”
Not exactly. But one could only argue with a prince so far. Particularly a prince with such uncanny eyes. Fothad grinned wryly and held up a hand in surrender.
###
“My lady?”
At the servant’s hesitant voice, Sorcha ni Fothad looked up with a start, blinking in surprise at how dark the little chamber had grown. Och, it couldn’t be nightfall already?
“Do you wish me to light a lamp, my lady?”
“No. I’ve done enough work for now.” Sorcha rubbed her eyes with a weary hand, then got slowly up from the table, stretching stiff muscles, feeling far older than the young woman she was. “Just cap the ink bottle, if you would, and rinse the pens.” Glancing down at the newly drawn lines on the precious sheets of parchment, she added, “Don’t touch these. Let them dry thoroughly. I don’t want to have to draw them again.”
“Ah, no, my lady.” The woman paused. “Will you be joining the royal court for dinner?”
Was it that late already? “Of course. No,” Sorcha added, wiping her hands clean on a scrap of linen, “you don’t have to escort me.” Not a man of King Aedh’s court would ever dare to raise a hand to a woman of that court, let alone one who was the Chief Poet’s daughter.
No time to change clothing, not if she didn’t mean to make a dramatic entrance long after the other women had retired. Well, what she was wearing was decent enough. Sorcha hastily checked hands and face for inkstains, peering into the precious little glass mirror the servant held for her. Snatching up her soft woolen brat and wrapping it about herself, she paused long enough for the woman to pin it securely at the shoulder, then hurried out of the chamber.
The day had passed so cursedly fast! Not that she had done much with it, no, even though her father would have claimed she had earned her keep by transcribing his songs from those ridiculous scrawls of his (easier, he admitted to her, to decipher the old druidic ogham) into something more easily read by those who came after him. Sorcha flinched from the thought of her father not being there someday, and set her mind instead to complaining about being used like some priestly clerk.
Might as well be a clerk stuck in some monastery—That made her laugh aloud. Not that I’d ever be suited to a monastery, not mentally and most certainly not physically! But isn’t there anything else I can do, not as my father’s daughter but as myself? As an adult?
But that was the way the law was written, like it or not: a woman was under her father’s protection until she wed, and then she was under her husband’s protection. Well, Sorcha thought, she’d been a wife once, however briefly. Even if Meallan hadn’t exactly been the husband of every girl’s dream, he had at least allowed her to think for herself.
Allowed? Ha, no, he was thankful someone else could take charge of things for him.
While he lived. Meallan’s unexpected death had brought her back here to where she’d been raised. She was her father’s legal heir, since Fothad had no other child—at least the law granted her that much, woman or no—with nothing much to do now that she was a widow but follow Fothad’s wishes and wait to inherit.
I don’t want to inherit, not if it means my father’s death. But oh, I don’t want to be trapped here, either!
Fothad had expected his daughter to use her brain, teaching her everything from music composition (though she knew her songs were pale imitations of his own) to writing, and she thanked him for it. But what good was all her learning? If only there was something different for her to do with it, something different to see, someone with whom she could discuss what she knew!
Lost in these frustrating thoughts, hardly watching where she was going, Sorcha nearly collided with a tall, dark-haired man—
“Prince Ardagh!” she gasped.
Of course she knew he had been studying with her father on and off in the past few days, learning about the land of Eriu, but up to this time Sorcha had managed to avoid him. How could she possibly face the man? Sorcha reddened every time she thought of how she’d found him huddled in misery on the ground, how she’d harangued him for drunkenness.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted.
His eyes—those amazing green eyes—studied her coolly. “No harm was done.” His voice was smooth as flowing water.
“No, you don’t understand. I—I’m talking about the other night. When I…” She shook her head. “I had no right accusing you as I did. You are a royal guest. What you do or don’t do isn’t my business.”
But a small voice in her mind was protesting, But he’s a hero; he shouldn’t have been wallowing on the ground like a sot. Like Meallan.
“I was not drunk.” This time the words were said without rancor. His eyes really were most remarkably green, Sorcha thought uneasily, clear as glass yet revealing absolutely nothing of the mind behind them.
“Of course not,” she said hastily. “I—”
“You don’t believe me? Do you think me a liar?” There was a hint of barely controlled anger in the smooth voice, as though she’d accused him of something obscene.
“I’m sorry,” Sorcha said, and meant it. “Look you,” she added in sudden fierce honesty, “my late husband, Meallan, was a man of good, noble birth, but he drank too much. He often rushed out into the night to—to—”
“Empty his stomach?” the prince finished delicately. “I see. And you thought I, too, was in a similar state.”
“You don’t understand. Meallan died that way. One night, he just… didn’t return. By the time we found him, sound asleep in the cold and wet, he—he had caught a fatal chill.”
“Ah.” The eerie, too-steady green gaze gave up nothing of his thoughts. “You were concerned for the royal guest.”
Was he mocking her? “I was disappointed,” Sorcha said flatly, “that a prince of Cathay should prove just as weak as anyone else.”
This time he did laugh. “Whatever else I may be, I am not a supernatural creature, Sorcha ni Fothad. Don’t try to turn me into something more than I am.”
His eyes were still cool as before, but a new warmth hinted in his elegant voice, a new music glinted in its smoothness. Sorcha was astonished to find herself taking a step forward in spite of herself, fascinated by the strange, finely carved beauty of his face and the lithe, graceful lines of his body. Meallan must have been a fine-looking man in his youth, but time and drink had done their damage. Being of noble birth, daughter of the Chief Poet, Sorcha had never been allowed to do more than dream about any other men (not, she thought wildly, like the old, pagan days, when a woman could take any man she wished without shame). Now, without warning, here she was wondering what it would be like to be in the arms of this elegant stranger who—
This was ridiculous! She didn’t know the prince, she didn’t even truly like the prince, and she was not some silly little servant girl to let a smooth voice sway her! Backing up in sudden fury, Sorcha snapped, “No, Prince Ardagh, I wouldn’t dream of turning you into something you’re not. Royal blood or no, you’re nothing more than a man, just like any other.”
His smile was infuriatingly amused. “Not exactly that.”
Sorcha didn’t wait to hear more. She turned and stalked away. Behind her, she could hear Prince Ardagh calling her name, a touch of surprise in his voice, but Sorcha, trembling with anger, refused to listen.
###
King Donnchadh of Clonach cut and slashed and cut again at his opponent, driving the hapless warrior back across the grassy practice field, hardly noticing the frantic light in the man’s eyes, taking out in this bout all his savage frustration.
Why had he been given such terrible luck? He was of the royal clan, the Ui Neill sept—as Derval never failed to remind him. Oh, granted, his was a distant branch, but he was Ui Neill just the same. And yet here he was, stuck in his rocky little ancestral kingdom while Aedh mac Neill held the Ard Ri’s throne.
Stuck with a shrew, Donnchadh thought with petty malice.
No. Whatever else Derval might be, she was never anything as small-minded as a shrew. The woman frightened him sometimes: it was like living with a sword crafted by a master—sleek, sharp, and ever dangerous. Derval, Donnchadh mused, had nothing of womanly softness to her; there were times when he wondered how she’d ever managed to bring children to term. And he knew she held him, her husband and king, in contempt as a weakling.
I’m not weak, damn you, he snapped at her (but silently, always silently). I am a king. I cannot act as rashly as you would like.
And yet, Donnchadh reminded himself, he had let her persuade him to send those assassins. Aedh might be dying, dead, even now.
Then why have I had no word? Where are my men, curse them all? Where are they?
Donnchadh’s sword wavered, and the warrior, laughing in surprise, pressed his sudden advantage. The king came back to himself with a start just in time to ward off defeat, and drove his opponent staggering back.
A sudden commotion broke his concentration, making Donnchadh turn in anger to see who dared interrupt him. Several servants were gathered about a fallen warrior, helping the bedraggled, tattered man to his feet.
Dear God. Oh dear God.
It was one of the men he’d sent to kill the High King. Fierce with panic, Donnchadh strode forward, brushing the servants away. “Well?” he asked sharply, catching the warrior before the man could crumple again. “What news? What happened to the rest of your men?”
“Dead.” The man’s voice was a weary whisper. His eyes closed and he sagged in Donnchadh’s grip. “Betrayed.”
“Betrayed! By whom?”
The warrior shook his head slightly. “Never saw him before… we were in ambush… the way we planned. King… King Aedh would never have known we were there… not till too late…”
For a time he was sure he wasn’t going to get an answer. But then the warrior roused enough to repeat vaguely, “Never saw him before… he was beautiful as an angel… but he could fight like a devil.” The man chuckled weakly at his own wit. “Like a devil…”
“And the king! What of King Aedh?”
The warrior stared up at Donnchadh with wry, feverish eyes. “King Aedh lives, never fear… King Aedh lives…”
“But does he know who sent the ambush?” Donnchadh asked fiercely. “Answer me! Does he know?”
But with a small, weary sigh, the warrior slipped away into death and left Donnchadh alone with his fear. He let the body fall with a shudder, turning away—
To be faced with Derval. Her face a beautiful mask, she said only, “We must talk.”
When they were alone in her grianan, Donnchadh began to stammer out his fears. But Derval held up a restraining hand. “There are only two possibilities. One: Aedh has no idea who sent those men, and we are safe. Two: he knows, and we must prepare accordingly.”
“Easily said!” Donnchadh snapped. “What would you have me do? Declare open war on him? Try my tiny army against the forces of the Ard Ri?”
“No. Of course not. Whether or not Aedh knows what you attempted—”
“Me!” Donnchadh exploded. “It wasn’t my idea alone. As I remember, dear wife, it was you who goaded me on!”
Her perfect mouth tightened ever so slightly. “Whether or not Aedh knows what we attempted,” she said, “we must find ourselves a powerful ally.”
“And who would you suggest?”
“There are other kings. Many who are not happy with Aedh holding the throne.”
“Many who are not happy with any of the Ui Neill sept! Would you have me deal with my enemies? Or maybe you’d rather I allied myself with the Lochlannach!” To his horror, Derval actually fell silent at that, eyes thoughtful. “You can’t be considering that!” Donnchadh gasped.
After a long moment she shook her head. “No. That would hardly be wise.”
He snorted. “Of course not. I’m not stupid enough to deal with those Godless barbarians!”
“You’re not strong enough,” she corrected quietly. “And no, I am not insulting you, husband, merely stating a fact. You are not as strong as them.”
But Donnchadh, astonished, surprised a flicker of fear in Derval’s eyes. She’s as frightened as me! Frightened of Aedh—“We must have an ally before our luck runs out,” Derval murmured. “But who? Who?”
Husband and wife fell silent, thinking feverishly. But neither could find an answer.