Lady of Conquest (7 page)

Gelina gave him a guarded look. “You know—him. Your benevolent liege. Where is he now?”

“My benevolent liege is downstairs at the feast, being recognized as the hero he is,” Nimbus replied, surveying her suspiciously.

“Ah, yes, my savior,” Gelina said, irony coating her words like poisoned honey.

“He did save yer life. Ye seem rather ungrateful considering the circumstance of yer rescue.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “He did save my life.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to the echoes of merriment that drifted up from the hall below.

“Shouldn’t you be down there regaling the crowd with your wit?” she asked.

“Probably. Shouldn’t ye?”

“I can’t go down there. I am not a jester. I can’t juggle or tell jokes.” She wrinkled her nose in confusion.

“The crowd wants to see ye. They want to hear yer tales of captivity and murmur in sympathy over yer pale skin. Conn has refused all requests that ye join the celebration, saying only that ye are too ill and have suffered a memory lapse.”

“He has, has he?” She took her bottom lip between her teeth, her curiosity piqued. “Find me something to wear. I’m famished.”

His enthusiasm evaporated. “Wait a minute, lass. Ye’re ill. I can’t just prance ye down there against Conn’s wishes.”

“Surely he would be delighted to see his charge so quickly recovered. Jester, where is your sense of adventure?”

“ ‘Tis in me head, which I’d like to keep on me shoulders.”

Her bottom lip protruded, and she stared sadly at the hands folded in her lap.

His lips curved upward. “Are ye truly hungry?”

“Starved. I’ve eaten nothing in a month.” As his eyes widened, she amended, “Nothing in three days anyway.”

“Conn sent yer garments to be burned but I’ll go and filch something for ye to wear.”

He clambered off the bed, sliding sideways until his feet touched the floor. Her smile spread to her eyes, lighting up their depths for the first time. Nimbus paused, dazzled by the promise of beauty that sparkled in her shadowed eyes.

“One question before I go.” He reached up and took her hand in his. “Do ye have a name, princess?”

Her smile faded. “Anything but princess. You may call me Gelina. I am afraid my memory lapse has obliterated my clans name.” She squeezed his hand and freed him to scurry off on his mission.

He returned with a bundle and a hasty whisper of instructions before leaving her alone. She slid out of the bed, every muscle in her body crying out in protest. Her hands clutched the wooden canopy, seeking to straighten her wobbly legs.

“Maybe Conn did not lie. Perhaps I am too ill,” she murmured.

The very thought gave her the will to stand tall and straight. She slipped the woolen shift over her head and made her way naked to a huge mirror of polished silver that crouched in the corner. She reached out a tentative hand and touched the gilded frame. Five years had passed since she had seen beautiful metal like this. Her eyes were caught and held by her reflection.

She was pale. The bones stood out of her ribcage; the cheeks, which had been so pinchably fat in childhood, were sunken as if sculpted by her sharp cheekbones. Her auburn hair was short, barely covering her ears in front and just resting on the nape of her neck in back. It stood at attention in all directions. She turned and gingerly touched the wound on the back of her shoulder. Although still shiny, it had lost the scarlet of infection. She heard an echo of her own scream and saw blue eyes burning into hers. She closed her eyes and shuddered, moving her hand away from the wound.

Shaking her head in disgust, she examined the silk shift and dress that Nimbus had brought. She washed her face, combed water through her hair, and reluctantly donned the offensive garments, wishing for a nice snug pair of breeches and her own leather jerkin. The dress fit poorly, hanging straight over her small bosom and missing the floor by several inches at the wide hem. She twirled in front of the mirror, nearly losing her balance as her knees betrayed her.

The sound of applause came from the door. She turned to find the dwarf’s head poked shyly into the room. “Sorry about the fit. I fear Cook’s daughter is as plump and short as ye are slender and tall.”

“Slender is a kind word, sir. I fear I am skinny.” She turned back to the mirror with a smirk. “Couldn’t you find me any breeches?”

He choked. “I didn’t look. Conn would have me head if I trotted ye down there in his breeches.” He circled her. “Ye look . . . well . . . less deathlike.”

“Thank you, leprechaun. ‘Tis the sweetest compliment I’ve had in months. You have truly mastered the art of flattery.”

“Bend over,” he commanded.

She followed his instruction only to find what he could grasp of her cheeks pinched soundly between his fingers. She howled and straightened, shaking him loose.

Rubbing her cheeks, she said through clenched teeth, “What in curses are you doing?”

“If ye’re going to convince Conn ye miraculously regained yer strength, ye must have some color in yer cheeks.”

“I’m going to put some color around your eyes if you do that again,” she threatened.

He looked truly offended, bowing his sandy head and sticking out his lower lip. She squatted beside him and placed his hands on her cheeks.

“Go on. I know you have my best interests at heart.” His smile was blinding. She stood still, allowing his ministrations as he fluffed up her hair with both hands and found a sash for the ill-fitting dress. Hiding a smile behind her hand, she watched as he combed his own hair and observed himself in the mirror. Straightening his jerkin, he turned to her and offered her an arm. She stretched out a hand and placed it on his arm, the most she could do from her height. They walked gracefully from the room.

Crouching behind a curtain on a platform high above the crowd, Gelina watched the scene below with wide eyes and clenched fists. The hot heaviness of the day had been replaced by a cooling fog, and two blazing fires erupted from the immense fireplaces at both ends of the hall. The room was awash with golden light. Torches glowing yellow and orange lined the walls in golden sconces, their cheery light reflected by goblets, sword hilts, jewels, and gleaming golden plates. At one end of the hall, the hands of five jugglers blurred as they tossed swords, golden apples, and balls into the air with flawless rhythm.

“Child’s play,” Nimbus whispered. “I could do it blindfolded.”

The cupbearers filled empty flagons with a never-ceasing flow of ale at the moment of another toast that lifted the goblets high in the air. Cheers echoed through the rafters. The servers struggled to keep the massive trestle tables against the wall groaning under their burden of stewed meats, boar’s head, capons, and roast heron. Gelina’s nose wrinkled at the rich, unfamiliar aroma of the steaming meats. Her stomach churned dangerously, its only memories of fish caught deep in the recesses of the cavern. She pressed her hands over her rumbling belly.

Deafening noise rose from the hall. The harps and mandolins struggled to make themselves heard over the din. A huge man in ragged clothing belted out a bawdy ditty about a wench named Kathleen that set Gelina’s ears to burning. Finally the musicians conceded and joined in the tune. The crowd cheered. Jesters bounded in and out among the reeling dancers, mocking them with their acrobatics and ribald mime. Gelina watched in amazement as a huge pig pranced nonchalantly through the crowd, stood on his hind feet, and began to dance a jig in the midst of the merriment.

“ ‘Tis Murphy. ’Tis not a real pig,” Nimbus assured her.

He watched her as her eyes were drawn to a table on a raised platform. The color in her cheeks paled as she recognized Conn in the central seat, head thrown back in laughter as he leaned toward a swarthy brunette whose hand rested intimately on his arm.

Gelina nudged him, nearly unbalancing his precarious stance. “His wife?”

Nimbus shook his head, feet shifting to regain his balance. “No wife. ‘Tis Sheela, the Dark Rose, widow of Ryan Ó Brosnahan. She finds the king an ample comforter in her grief.”

A green tint replaced Gelina’s pallor as she recognized the name. Her gaze traced the table where Conn sat. Laughing, cheering, and raising their goblets in toast after toast were the king’s favored men-at-arms. Tall and well built, a tilt to their heads that implied, demanded, and deserved respect, they sat like kings themselves, surrounding Conn in the full uniform of their station. Their long hair lay unbraided, loose and shining on their shoulders. Soft leather vests covered forest green shirts and breeches. Around each waist was draped a belt with a name burned indelibly into it.

Ó Murchada, Ó Brosnahan, MacRuairc, Ó hArtagain. The names were burned indelibly into Gelina’s brain, and visions of empty chairs danced in her head.

“Take me back!” She stood, rapping her head sharply on the trapeze bar hanging from a peg. Panic flared in her eyes as Nimbus reached out a hand to steady her. “I said, take me back! Now! Please, Nimbus.”

“What is it?” Nimbus gripped her elbow, seeking to lead her from the alcove.

Mistaking his tighter grip as an attempt to keep her trapped in view of the scene below, she whirled around to find herself tangled in the red velvet curtain that had been waiting for just this opportunity to loose itself from its moorings and fall to the floor below, covering several dancers and the pig named Murphy.

For the second time in that endless day, Gelina found all eyes upon her as the music slowed to a halt. The huge, rough-looking man belted out a few more stanzas about Kathleen until an even huger, rougher man clapped his hand over his mouth.

Conn stood slowly, his eyes locked on the tall, slender figure above them, every muscle in his body tensed. Gelina glanced at Nimbus to find his eyes as panicked as hers.

Recognizing the murderous look on Conn’s face, Nimbus flung out an arm with forced aplomb. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have yer attention, please!”

He halted until the group below could extricate itself from the heavy curtain, the human pig poking forth a curious snout. Only Nimbus’s hand propelling her forward prevented Gelina from fleeing.

“As ye know, we have a new guest at Tara.” He gestured to Gelina. “A young lass who was rescued from great distress by our Ard-Righ.”

A tentative cheer rose from the crowd as they turned to Conn, unsure of what their reaction should be. Conn sat down and began to stroke his beard in a motion Nimbus knew only too well.

He spoke faster. “This lovely damsel, even in her weakened condition and with little recollection of her ordeal, has requested to join us and add her tribute to ours.” Strong applause greeted his words this time.

Gelina plastered a smile on her face even as she hissed out of the corner of her mouth, “You carry this too far, kind sir.”

He muttered, “They love it. Trust me.”

As the applause died down, Nimbus gestured toward the stairs they had ascended. Gelina had another thought. Reaching for the trapeze, the child in her emerged with a spark in her eye that Nimbus didn’t recognize until it was too late. She hoisted herself on the narrow bar and sailed out over the crowd. Gasps greeted her as her dangling feet nearly brushed the heads of those below.

As she sailed back toward Nimbus, she cried out gaily, “They love it. Trust me.”

The dwarf had covered his face and was peering cautiously between his fingers, waiting for the slam of her body on the floor below. The trapeze lost momentum; she ignored a blushing youth’s outstretched hand and the twinge of pain in her shoulder and slid off the bar to the floor unassisted. A path cleared through the crowd, a path to the table where Conn sat, not moving a muscle.

Drawing in a deep breath, she forced her bare feet to move. Anonymous hands reached out from the crowd to touch her arms and shoulders. She shied away, unsure of their motives until she realized there was wordless sympathy in the hands that propelled her toward the king. Stepping up on the dais, she flinched as the men of the Fianna stood at attention one by one. Conn was the last to stand, and she found herself leisurely studying his leather boots, unable to meet his gaze. He extended his hand, and she could sense from its rigidity that failure to take it would have severe repercussions.

His voice remained carefully neutral as he said for all to hear, “Welcome. Tara is your home for as long as you choose to remain here.”

She accepted his hand, mesmerized by the impenetrable blue of his eyes and the beads of sweat standing on his brow. Dropping to one knee, she brought his hand to her lips.

“My liege,” she said clearly.

A throaty cheer traveled through the crowd, and only Gelina heard Conn’s words as he leaned to her and murmured, “And your allegiance?”

Without giving her a chance to respond, Conn straightened and gestured for silence. “I seek private audience with our guest. Mer-Nod will accompany me.”

He continued to grip Gelina’s hand, pulling her out a side door as Mer-Nod separated himself from his company of poets and followed them. The brunette who had been seated next to Conn watched them go, a gleam in her dark eyes. Nimbus sat, legs dangling off the platform and face in his hands, wondering just what he’d done.