‘He left the beach, my lord,’ one of his men called out. ‘The new high King of Islay seeks to insult Máel Sechnaill’s representative.’
Rand frowned slightly at the petite blonde who waited on her own to greet him and his men. Like his man, he’d spotted Sigmund Sigmundson stomp away as they’d entered the harbour but, unlike his sworn warriors, Rand knew of the strife that lay between them, a rift he’d inadvertently caused, and one Máel Sechnaill was well aware of. A deliberate insult from which King?
‘Do we know if Sigmund Sigmundson has received a royal helm and spectre yet?’ one of his men called out.
‘Looks as if it is going to happen today if the sheer number of coracles is anything to go by,’ the first warrior said. ‘Does this alter your calculations, Lord Randolfr?’
‘It fails to alter the charge our King gave me,’ Rand said, absently fingering the vivid scar that ran from his left eye down to the corner of his mouth, a legacy of his sojourn in Agthir. ‘We will make them see reason. We will make them see why they need to ally with Eire and not the North, particularly not with the Brothers Drengrson, who now control Dubh-Linn and menace Tara.’
His men gave a ragged cheer. Their belief in him should have made him feel gratified. But he knew what a difficult task it was, particularly as Thorarinn had absconded with one of the high king’s illegitimate daughters—the daughter King Máel Sechnaill had intended for Lord Sigmund.
Pushing aside all thoughts of his errant cousin, Rand frowned as he studied the shoreline, trying to figure out what was occurring.
Far too many coracles littered the shore, but there were no Northern ships. Whatever was happening here, at least none of the sons of Drengr had appeared, including the malevolent brains of the family, Turgeis. Small mercies. He’d continue with the scheme he’d worked out when he’d discovered the elopement.
Rand fingered the jagged scar, which still throbbed when he was angry. ‘I will prevail because I must.’
The only way to save his cousin’s life was to enlist Sigmund Sigmundson to use his newfound influence over the kings of Islay and declare the island for Máel Sechnaill and Eire and not for the sons of Drengr, as disturbing rumours had reached Máel Sechnaill. To demonstrate the peaceful intent, Rand was supposed to offer up his late wife’s half-sister Rhiannon to be Sigmund’s wife, ensuring the bonds of kinship were strong. He had thought both his cousin and Rhiannon would be travelling with him, but they had eloped instead, a fact which was sure to anger Máel Sechnaill beyond all reason. Rand owed Thorarinn his life after he’d rescued him from Drengr and his heavies, and this was his chance to finally repay that debt.
Perhaps the old man’s heart would be moved by the tale of romantic love, but Sigmund had displayed great cynicism when Rand had confessed that he’d fallen for Máel Sechnaill’s favourite daughter. Earlier, Sigmund had refused him permission to formally court his niece Maer and had insisted they spend a period apart. A few years later, the niece had married and now reigned as Queen of Agthir a saga-worthy conclusion.
Nothing had happened between them except for a few stolen kisses. Nevertheless, he remained uneasy about how things had ended and, looking back, how callous he must have seemed for forgetting to formally break with her before becoming entranced by the King’s daughter.
When he’d met his late wife shortly after the boat had arrived at Dubh-Linn, all other women ceased to matter, and he’d done everything he could to win her. Luckily, it had been her wish to be married to him instead of to the elderly petty king whose suit her father had favoured. They’d had a good life until she’d died from a fever she’d contracted during childbirth nearly four years ago, leaving him with a little girl whom everyone said would swiftly follow her mother. He’d refused to believe them, insisted that she would survive. When his little girl was born, everyone claimed she was dead but he’d cleared out her little mouth and hit her back. His instincts had proved correct. His daughter had gasped and let forth a loud scream. Knowing that she was dying, his wife had smiled and told him to protect their only child. He’d held to that promise ever since.
He pushed all thoughts of his dead wife away. They belonged to his old self, the one who used to smile and joke and had thought life would always be straightforward. How the fates must have laughed at his happiness, particularly as he’d thought how much he deserved it after what had happened back in Agthir.
Now, he had to ensure that his appointed task was completed. His late wife would have expected nothing less of him than to protect Rhiannon as well as serving her father, but then he’d be done. He’d return to his daughter and live quietly at Donaghmoyne, tending his cattle and ploughing his fields.
He waded ashore and walked towards the blonde woman. Despite her finely drawn features and fragile build, an air of authority clung to her. Close up, he could see that she was not in the first flush of youth. He briefly wondered whose wife she was, as he believed Sigmund Sigmundson was unmarried, and why he vaguely recognised her.
‘I’m here to see Sigmund Sigmundson. King Máel Sechnaill of Tara has sent me, Lord Randolfr Fullrson of Donaghmoyne, as his emissary.’
Her rosebud mouth curved upwards. ‘Unfortunately, impossible. The church service has begun. If you would like to attend, leave your weapons in my care and file in at the back of the church. The good father will seek to accommodate you if you wish to worship alongside the others, but I make no promises about Lord Sigmund speaking with you. There is a strict order to such things today as the other kings notice any and all signs of favour.’
Rand permitted a smile to cross his face and deliberately allowed his gaze to linger on her neat curves. ‘You remain on the shore.’
‘I’m from the North. I’ve no wish to cause alarm amongst the worshippers,’ she answered in an increasingly lilting voice. ‘Lord Sigmund and the priest agreed it would be sensible for me to greet any stragglers. Were you invited, Lord Randolfr, or do you seek to impose yourself on the assembled throng of warriors?’
The sound pricked his memory. Rand tried to remember where he’d heard the voice before, but he couldn’t quite place it. It would come to him in time. He suspected that their paths must have crossed once, even if he had no memory of it.
‘The North has many kingdoms. Which one are you from?’ he said, inviting her to confide her name.
‘Agthir,’ she said, as if that ended the matter. ‘I doubt you’ve heard of it. Few have.’
Her tone discouraged any more questions. He kept his face blank, but his brain started to sift through all the women he’d encountered there. It would come to him and he would use the knowledge to further his aims because, whoever she’d been back then, she clearly possessed a trusted position in Sigmund’s household. Her clothes were far finer than those of a simple farmer’s wife and she carried herself with a dignity possessed by only those who considered themselves powerful.
‘More than heard. I visited briefly about a decade ago. Perhaps we encountered each other, but I suspect I’d have remembered one such as you,’ he said, forcing a small measure of incredulity into his voice which he hoped would persuade her to confess something about her role in Agthir. ‘But the old King kept a good table, from what I can recall.’
‘But you failed to remain for any length of time.’ The sing-song quality was more pronounced in her voice. ‘I would have remembered your name if you had, Lord Randolfr.’
‘Alas, the east called me and my cousin. Ended up in Constantinople for a time.’
‘Constantinople… I believe Sigmund Sigmundson spent some time there. Did you know him then?’ The full lips of the woman drew up in an insincere smile. ‘Or do you know him from somewhere else?’
A formidable ice princess with no sense of humour. He’d met enough of that type over the years, populating the courts he’d visited—lovely to look at but without any fire or deep conviction beyond artifice and caprice. He pitied the woman’s husband, if she had one. He swallowed hard and hoped that her husband was not Sigmund.
‘We met in Constantinople but truly got to know each other on the journey to Eire. Aren’t you interested in my time in Agthir? Perhaps we had friends in common.’
