The chieftain shook his head. ‘I deny nothing. It was only what he deserved for dishonouring my daughter.’
Before Flynn could continue, Morann nodded to Aileen. ‘I thank you for your testimony. You are no longer needed in this judgement.’
She hesitated, waiting for Connor to speak. ‘May I listen to the outcome?’
Connor levelled an angry look at her. ‘I do not want her here,’ he said. The woman could not see what she had done with her interference. Did she believe she was helping him? She had publicly voiced her doubts. Connor’s frustration tensed like an arrow hovering at the bowstring, poised to shoot.
Aileen’s face paled at his fury, her eyes bewildered. At last she surrendered beneath his anger and left. Though it would take time, Connor refused to leave the tent until he’d unravelled the damage she had wrought with her testimony. He would fight again.
And the Ó Banníons would meet his blade and his challenge. His honour was at stake.
Outside the tent, Aileen moved through a haze of wounded feelings. Faces blurred, sounds echoed in her head. She saw a group of storytellers, strangers she had not seen before. One man coughed, a hacking sound that tore at his insides.
Aileen knew she should stop and ask if he needed help, but right now her own heart ached. She moved past the crowds, toward the edge of the meadow. When at last she stood alone, the wind whipped at her face, cooling her hot cheeks. Connor had humiliated her before thebrehons. Foolishly, she had thought to help him.
For long moments, she watched the descent of the sun as though it were her own spirits.
‘Mother?’ a voice whispered.
She turned and opened her arms. ‘Rhiannon,a iníon.’ She clasped the dark hair of her daughter to her breast, hugging her fiercely. ‘Tell me of your doings this day.’
Rhiannon’s mouth curved with pleasure. She spoke of winning a foot race and of her excitement at the games. ‘Did you see the bards? Duald says they have come all the way from Wales.’
‘I did.’ Aileen recalled the coughing man, wondering again if she should have stopped to offer aid.
‘They will tell the tale of Brian Boru.’ Rhiannon took her hand and pulled her toward the fires where a throng of folk had begun to gather. ‘Come with me and listen.’
Aileen allowed her daughter to lead her toward the hillside. Small fires flickered in the evening twilight, offering warmth to those who huddled near. Already she saw couples moving toward the isolation of the forest groves. It was early yet, but as the mead flowed, more folk would enjoy a private celebration of their own.
Grateful she was that Rhiannon was far too young for such. With her straight limbs and flat chest, it would be many years before womanhood would blossom in her young body.
‘I want to move closer to hear them.’ Rhiannon guided her past the tribesmen, at last reaching a tight circle where the folk stood. Many small children clung to the shoulders of their foster-fathers while elder boys jumped, trying to gain a better look.
Aileen held her daughter against her, letting her palms rest upon Rhiannon’s shoulders. They listened to the first play, then another. The tale of a roving friar held them in laughter, but Aileen grew distracted when she saw Connor standing to the side. He did not see them yet, and her hand tightened upon Rhiannon’s shoulder.
What would he say when he met his daughter for the first time? Would he recognise his own features in her face? Aileen steeled herself for the possibility that he would loathe her for what she’d done. She had stolen a child from him, seduced him on the ritual night. She didn’t want to see the hatred on his face.
‘We should go.’
‘But, Mother, I want to hear the next tale,’ Rhiannon pleaded.
Aileen’s throat tightened. She had hidden her secret for over seven years. Should she stay and face him? Or should she run? The choice was taken from her when Connor sighted them.
The air slipped from her lungs, but Aileen kept her hands upon Rhiannon’s shoulders. So be it. Let him think what he would.
‘Mother, you are hurting me—’
She loosened her grip. ‘I am sorry.’
Moments later, Connor stood before them. Aileen held herself upright, prepared for his accusations. His attention flickered over Rhiannon for a fraction of a second, but he said nothing.
‘This is my daughter, Rhiannon,’ Aileen said. She held her breath, keeping her eyes locked upon his face.
‘Rhiannon.’ Connor greeted her with a polite nod. ‘Your mother has spoken of you before. I was sorry to hear of your father’s death.’
The gentle tone, the simple offering of sympathy, turned her insides to ice. He didn’t recognise his own daughter, his own blood. Tears and hysteria warred within her, for this was the moment she had feared most.
And he didn’t even recognise Rhiannon. Her secret was safe, and she need not be afraid any longer. It should have been a liberating release. Why, then, did the tears bundle up inside her, threatening to break free?
