The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) Read online

  He waited a moment, then sighed deeply and once more looked into her eyes. “Call me a coward, if you will, but I am weary of the war and fighting that has torn apart my homeland. I seek a place of refuge, and this lovely bit of land, bordered by the wild sea, warmed by a gentle sun and blessed with soft, sweet rain, seems the perfect place to mend my spirits.”

  He had her, there was no doubt of it. A sheen of tears glazed her green eyes, reminding him of sunlight shining upon a still forest pool. She looked so tender and sweet . . . and young. He could see the wounded girl she’d been, only partially hidden beneath the trappings of the proud queen. She could still weep over loss and injustice. Her spirit had not formed the tough, impenetrable shell that his had.

  He made himself smile, a wan, weary smile. In a moment, she would agree to let him stay in her household. Then he need only offer a few more soulful looks and touching tales and she would eagerly welcome him into her bed.

  But even as he considered the splendor of this prize, he couldn’t help wondering what he had done—offering up his freedom, his independence, to serve this exquisite young queen. He glanced down at his hands and saw the pale reddish lines marking the place where the iron fetters had encircled his wrists. Those shackles were gone, but it felt as if they had been replaced by other invisible and yet more powerful bonds.

  Chapter 3

  Oh, this Bridei ap Maelgwn was a clever one. Dessia exhaled deeply and sought to compose herself. He knew exactly what to say to bring to mind her own bone-deep grief. But the very fact he played upon her emotions so skillfully made her suspicious. Why should he come here and seek a place in her household? Was he a spy for Tiernan or one of her other enemies? The thought sent a tremor of foreboding down her spine. Her hold upon her Cahermara was so tenuous.

  If he was a spy, it might be wise to keep him close. That way she could control what he saw and heard. For a moment, she contemplated what it would be like to have this man in her household, entertaining them during the long winter nights. That deep, throbbing voice filling the hall. His presence like that of a beautiful wild beast, arousing her fascination. There was no denying a part of her was loath to have him gone.

  Which was why he was so dangerous. He was the most compelling man she’d ever encountered. As her resolve wavered, she knew a sense of disquiet. Perhaps she should call together her warriors and ask for their advice. But to do so seemed weak and indecisive. No man would seek out his advisors in this circumstance. A man would send Bridei ap Maelgwn away without hesitation. She should do the same.

  But if she sent him away, she would never solve the mystery of why he was here. If he was a spy, she would never learn who he was spying for.

  She met his gaze, wondering what secrets those midnight blue eyes concealed. All her life, she’d survived by obeying an inner sense that alerted her to danger. But now that voice was silent. This man made her skin tingle and her heart race, but no sense of alarm or urge to flee came over her.

  She raised her gaze to peruse the dark-haired stranger. Was he truly a bard? He looked like no filidh she’d ever seen. Or was he some supernatural being, come in disguise? The old tales told of heroes and gods who appeared in the guise of swans, salmon, ravens or deer. If a being could be shapeshift into an animal, then perhaps this man could transform himself in more subtle ways.

  Indeed, as she looked at him, the room behind him altered and she saw a great, cavernous hall. Hanging on the wall behind him was a crimson banner emblazoned with a gold dragon. A wind blew through the hall and the banner shifted and wavered, making the golden beast seem to spring to life.

  The image faded and Dessia took a deep, steadying breath. Was it a vision? Her first Seeing? She’d spent countless hours staring into the scrying bowl and discovered nothing. Why would such a thing come to her now?

  You must decide. He is waiting.

  The sound of hammering pierced her awareness and reminded her of her need for workmen to build the fortress wall. A plan began to form in her mind. She wouldn’t send this man away. But neither could she risk having him close by in her household. She would tell him that if he wanted to stay, he must serve her as fitted her purposes. Not as a bard, but a laborer.

  She almost winced, imagining his slim fingers clutching a hammer. His long, graceful back bent over a pile of rocks. That smooth skin begrimed with dust. But then she hardened herself against such thoughts. He’d offered to serve her, and she needed workmen. If he found the situation demeaning, he could leave and seek a place elsewhere.

  She met his relentless gaze. “I’ve decided. You’re welcome to remain here, but not as bard and entertainer. I’ve no need of such services. What I lack are men to help rebuild the fortress. If you’re willing to swing a hammer and carry heavy stones, I can offer you a place in my household. Otherwise, my men will escort you from my lands.”

  She saw his eyes widen, then a surge of anger darkened their vivid blue depths. He reminded her of an imperious raven with its feathers ruffled, or a cat hissing when displaced from its cozy spot by the hearth. A heartbeat later, all trace of animosity vanished from his face. His full sensual mouth quirked in a rueful smile. “I can’t see I would be much use to you for such purposes. Surely there are bigger and stronger men in your household more suited to that kind of labor.”

  She smiled back tightly. “Aye, I have such men in my household, but they are occupied in guarding my lands. It was those men who rescued you. Otherwise, you would be on your way to the slave market of Ath Cliath at this very moment.”

  Bridei struggled to conceal his displeasure. Queen Dessia’s last words seemed to carry a warning, reminding him his freedom was dependent on her pleasure. He should refuse her request and bid her farewell. Now that he was free of the slavers, he could go wherever he wished. He could explore the rest of the isle or return to Britain.

  But since he possessed no coin or anything else of worth, traveling around this foreign land wouldn’t be easy. He might once more fall victim to unscrupulous men. The thought of being forced to wear shackles again made his blood run cold.

  Or, he could stay here and pretend to accept the bargain that was offered. Over time, he would find a way to improve his circumstances and get what he wished

  He glanced again at the queen, his gaze lingering on her heart-stopping loveliness. Queen Dessia might pretend to be a cool, calculating leader, but underneath that haughty facade was a woman. And it had been a very long time since he’d met a woman he couldn’t beguile.

  His confidence returned. He would persuade Queen Dessia he could be of use to her in other ways than as a crude laborer. Indeed, there was no reason not to make another attempt now. He took a deep breath and began to sing. The song poured out of him easily. A witty tale. It appeared at first to be a love song, a man lamenting the death of his lady. He describes her beauty, her loyal heart, her sweet nature. Then the tale shifts so it seems as if the object of the song is another warrior. The words extol the valiant heart, bravery and loyalty of the beloved one, the battles the two shared together and numerous times they saved each others’ lives. Only at the end, as the refrain praises the loved one’s “clear, fine eyes” and “grace and swiftness, like the hind racing through the woods” does it become clear that the song is about a man’s favorite hound.

  Bridei watched the auburn-haired queen as she listened. He could tell she was impressed with his voice, and caught up in the theme of the tale, grief over the loss of a loved one. At the end, when she laughed as she realized the true subject of the song, he had to struggle not to reveal his sense of triumph.

  But his satisfaction was short-lived, for after one quick outburst of mirth, her expression grew grim and determined one more. “You’re very skilled,” she said, “But that doesn’t change the fact that it serves no purpose for you to amuse me if my fortress remains unfinished and my kingdom in peril. My offer remains the same. Serve me as fits my needs, or don’t serve me at all.”

  She crossed her arms for emph
asis, tantalizing Bridei with the swelling curve of her full breasts beneath the thin linen gown. Her response both irritated and surprised him. Was she immune to his appeal? Had she cut herself off from her womanly feelings for so long that her heart had grown cold and that magnificent body unresponsive?

  Impossible. This woman was too young to live as a crone the rest of her days. Her face and form were sensual in the extreme. Her vibrant hair and brilliant eyes glowed with the fire of a passionate nature.

  Perhaps she’d already given her heart to another. Some women weren’t susceptible to him because they were already in love with someone else. His brother’s woman, Eastra, had been like that. He’d been able to win Eastra’s admiration, but never touch her heart. But if Queen Dessia had a lover, where was he? Dead? Had this lovely queen lost her sweetheart? Was that the source of the sadness that haunted her exquisite countenance?

  To find out, he would have to spend time with her, and once she set him to work as a laborer, it might be days before he saw her again. He couldn’t give up yet. He must try one more time to convince her he had worth beyond her need for workers.

  “You haven’t heard me play a harp,” he said. “If you fetch one, I’ll show you what I can do. I vow that with such accompaniment I can near match the goddess Rhiannon’s gifts . . . and she was said to be able to charm the birds out of the trees with her music.”

  “A harp?” She cocked one auburn brow mockingly. “Where do you propose I get a harp?”

  “Surely . . . somewhere in your kingdom . . .”

  Her mouth quirked bitterly. “Long ago my enemies robbed us of all such luxury items.”

  “You hardly seem poor.” He motioned to the gold circlet binding her hair, the stunning torc at her neck.

  Her expression grew taut. “If not for the treasure my father saw fit to bury before our enemies overran us, I would have nothing. But a bard’s harp was not among the objects spared. And since our vile attackers killed my family and destroyed my home, bringing music and poetry back into the hall has been the least of my concerns.”

  He must try another approach, find another way to demonstrate her need for his abilities. Bowing his head, he said, “You’ve endured a great tragedy. All the more reason you need a bard. I could compose a song paying tribute to your family. With my words I would keep their memory alive and make certain your people never forget what they’ve endured. I could tell the tale of how you survived.” He gazed at her intently. “How you have boldly rebuilt your home and reestablished the rule of your line. There’s great power in words. I can give you and your family a kind of immortality. Having heard the tale I will tell of your despair, your defeat and your kingdom’s rebirth, no one will ever forget it.”

  Already the story was taking shape in his thoughts, his mind working away at how he would use the pain of Queen Dessia’s past to create to song that would touch all who heard it. Perhaps this was why he had been sent here, borne upon the fierce wind of the storm to this isolated realm. Here he had found a subject worthy of his talents. A beauteous queen, the victim of cruelty and slaughter. But one who rose triumphant from the ruins, like the magical bird called the Phoenix in the tale told by the Greek bard in Narbonne.

  Caught up as he was in the glorious potential of the story, he was unprepared for Queen Dessia’s response. She rose to her feet, her expression so full of fury, he was startled. “I don’t need to be told what I’ve lost, bard,” she said in a low, throaty voice. “Or praised for how hard I’ve worked and struggled to overcome the blow my enemies dealt me. What I need is strong hands to carry stones to rebuild the walls of Cahermara. It’s protection from my enemies I require, not cruel reminders of what they’ve taken from me!”

  She climbed down from the platform where her chair was situated and swept past him. The swiftness of her movements stirred the air of the hall, leaving behind the faint scent of herbs and the provocative odor of her body. He breathed it in, recognizing the sweetness of female skin overlaid with a hint of perspiration. Not the sweat of labor, but emotion. Anger, pain and fear made up the heady brew filling his senses.

  He felt stunned, and more intrigued than ever. This woman possessed many mysteries. Mysteries that aroused his mind and loins with equal intensity. He had no intention of leaving now, not until he’d fully explored Queen Dessia's enigmatic thoughts . . . and the provocative curves of her lush body.

  * * *

  Dessia lay on her bed and tried to relax. Her heart still pounded, forcing the blood through her veins as fiercely a spring flood surging down a mountain glen to the sea. What was wrong with her? What had this man done to her? It was madness to allow him to remain at Cahermara. By the gods, the effect he had on her was terrifying. She sat up, her muscles taut as iron, her breathing shallow and rapid.

  “My lady, are you ill? Can I bring something to soothe you?”

  Dessia turned to see Aife watching her with a worried expression in her blue eyes.

  “I’m . . . well enough.” Dessia lay down again, thinking of the great crest of emotion that had washed over her when the man offered to compose a tale about her family. His words had brought all the horror of it rushing back, as fresh and bitter as if it had happened yesterday. For a moment, she’d feared she would break down and weep in front of him. Curse him! How had he guessed at the raw wound inside her?

  She let out her breath in a sigh. He was a clever man. A bard who used words as a skilled warrior uses his sword. And you have just offered him a place here.

  The thought made her get up from the bed and go to the window. How could she have been so foolish? Even if Bridei ap Maelgwn remained on the other side of the rath breaking rocks, that was still far too close. She should send someone after him right now and tell him she’d changed her mind. Have her men escort the visitor off her lands and warn him not to return.

  But how could she justify banishing him? What tale could she tell her people that would make such a response appear reasonable?

  She could always say he’d insulted her or made improper suggestions. Indeed, there had been something almost insolent in his manner. The way he looked at her, as if he were imagining how she would appear naked.

  But it was hardly enough of an affront to order the man off her lands. There were certain laws of hospitality that must be respected. She’d already behaved quite rudely. To go beyond that was to risk offending the gods. The legends and tales were full of stories of deities testing leaders to see if they behaved in an honorable fashion. What if this man really was a god in disguise?

  The thought made Dessia shiver. Bridei ap Maelgwn was comely enough to be a deity. And his strange offer to serve her also reminded her of the old tales . . .

  Stop it, she told herself. He’s as human and mortal as you are. This was ridiculous—worrying that offending him might bring some sort of curse on her household. “Nonsense. Utter nonsense.” She repeated the phrase to herself, trying to quell the tremors of unease in her stomach.

  * * *

  Bridei sat down near the pile of worked stone and wiped his brow. He could feel the eyes of the other workmen on him, but he didn’t care. If they commented on his taking a respite, he would say he’d taken on this task of his own free will and therefore could rest when he wished.

  They were probably making wagers on how long he would last. As well they might. This was the first time he’d ever done this sort of physical labor—the tedious and exhausting task of crushing rocks to form the mortar for the rath walls, then mixing it with lime, sand and water and stirring it into a paste. At least it was less wearing than carrying and shaping the stones, the task that occupied most of the other men.

  Bridei examined his fellow workers. There was the mason, a stout, balding fellow who did none of the lifting or carrying or mixing, but instead directed others, making certain the mortar was the proper consistency, the stones laid evenly and sealed in securely. Every little while, the mason would climb up on the scaffolding and get out a string with weights and
assess whether the work was straight and even. Or, he would walk over to where the workmen were shaping rocks and examine several pieces, sometimes dropping them on the ground to gauge their weight and solidity.

  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.