CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Aine refused to leave her room for two days, remaining wrapped in her embroidered bedcovers and eating only when the cook sent a tray with Lia. She couldn’t face Macha and her lords, the speculation, the whispers. Lia had put about that Aine was recovering from her ordeal and didn’t feel up to dining in the hall. It wasn’t far from the truth.

On the third day, a knock sounded at her door. Aine rolled over and buried her head in her feather pillow. Lia would enter without knocking, which only left people with whom she had no interest in speaking.

But the pounding continued. Aine threw the blankets aside and padded to the door. She finger-combed her tangled hair and straightened her chemise before she cracked it open.

Master Guaire stood there, a tray in his hand. “May I enter?”

Aine swallowed and dipped her head. The steward nudged the door closed behind him and then set the tray on a low table by her bed. “Do you mind if I sit with you while you eat?”

“Why?”

Guaire smiled. “I’ve served Clan Tamhais since I was a child. I was manservant to Lord Ruaidh, your father’s father. Then Alsandair. And your mother. Of all the ladies of Forrais, your mother was my favorite.”

“Why?” The question escaped for a second time, this time from curiosity.

“You cannot help but notice that Aron is a hard place. And hard places breed harder people. But your mother —she had a light about her. An unusual grace.”

“Is this where you tell me I remind you of her?”

Guaire chuckled. “No, though it’s true. I have a question for you. Do you think your mother was happy here?”

Aine had never thought about it. Lady Ailís had always been placid, loving, dutiful. She’d acted as the wife of a chieftain should, always for the good of the clan and the people who depended on them. But now Aine was ashamed to realize she had never asked.

“I don’t know,” she said finally.

“Neither do I.”

Aine jerked her head up.

“When she came, she was like you. She cried for days over leaving her children back in Seare. I think she wondered if she’d made the right decision.”

That was another thing Aine had never questioned. Why had a Seareann queen married a foreign clan chief in the first place? She looked to Guaire, the question hovering on her lips.

“Things were different twenty years ago,” the steward said. “Faolán had just spent years warring against Sliebhan with great losses on both sides. I don’t recall what began the conflict, if I ever knew. Both the king and his tanist were killed in battle, and Calhoun was barely eight and ten when he was elected king. Siomar saw that as a weakness they could exploit. So did one of Faolán’s lords. He began to sway others in his favor. Gainor was even younger than Calhoun, though he already had shown a mind for strategy. If Calhoun and Gainor could be shown as unfit to rule and removed by the council, power would pass from the clan.”

“Mac Eirhinin. Keondric’s father.” It made sense now. Then Aine realized what Guaire was really saying. “My mother bought Calhoun’s throne.”

“Your father was in a situation similar to your brother’s. He had no heir, and he was under pressure to make peace with Lord Riagain. He refused. Instead he linked Clan Tamhais to Faolán’s royal line —a match no one could refuse —and sent enough clansmen south to secure Calhoun’s throne.”

“Why have I never heard this?”

Guaire smiled sadly. “Because no one could ever know. It simply looked as if Calhoun had hired mercenaries and Ailís had left out of grief over her husband. People suspected, of course, but there was no proof.”

It explained so much that Aine had never thought to question. “Why are you telling me?”

The steward put a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Your mother made sacrifices. In some ways, she never stopped grieving. But she didn’t let it change who she was or prevent her from doing all in her power to help those around her.”

“You’re telling me to stop hiding in my room feeling sorry for myself.”

“I’m telling you that your mother found contentment in having a purpose.” Guaire rose and gave her a deep bow. “It does my heart good to have you back at Forrais, my lady.”

Aine stared at the wall long after the steward left. Guaire was right: she had no way of knowing if Conor were dead or alive. If he had risked all —sacrificed all —to bring her back home, didn’t she owe it to him to make something of her life here?

“My lady?” Lia poked her head into the room. “Granddad —Master Guaire —said you were ready to dress.”

So he’d been that confident in his success, had he? A reluctant smile creased Aine’s face. “I suppose I am. We’ll need to summon a dressmaker soon. I’ve only the pink and the blue.”

“And the green.” Lia dipped her head. “I hope I didn’t overstep, my lady, but I hemmed another of Lady Ailís’s gowns. I thought you might need a plain day dress.”

“Thank you, Lia.” Was the girl really only fourteen years old? But of course, she was Guaire’s granddaughter, and the steward was looking out for her. “May I see it?”

Lia smiled, less shyly this time, and disappeared out the door. She returned with a sage green wool gown draped over her arm. “Shall we, my lady?”

The maid helped her into the matching underdress, then the overdress, and laced up the sides. Aine fingered the fabric, noting Lia’s other modifications.

“The sleeves were old-fashioned. I hope you don’t mind that I changed them.”

“Not at all.” Aine took the brass hand mirror and studied her reflection. Master Guaire wouldn’t let her mope in her chamber all day. That meant she needed to make her presence known at Forrais. “After you do my hair, I’d like to meet the staff. Will you make the introductions?”

Lia bowed her head and curtsied in acknowledgement, but not before Aine saw the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.

By the time Aine made the rounds of the fortress, her head ached with the effort of holding all the names and faces in her memory. Not that the servants would expect it of her, but she’d never wanted to be the sort of noblewoman who snapped her fingers and called every female servant girl.

“What about Diocail and the guard?” Aine asked when they’d finished their rounds of the keep.

Lia’s eyebrows lifted, but she steered Aine into the rear courtyard. Aine paused to lift her face to the dim gleam of sun through the clouds. Somehow the familiar smells calmed her —earth and hay, smoke, food, animals. No matter the location, the scents and sounds of a noble keep were the same. If she used enough imagination, she could see herself striding toward her own little workshop, spending her mornings grinding powders and mixing tisanes.

Well, why not?

Her breath caught in her throat. Why couldn’t she? She might be trying to hide her healing abilities, but she knew as much herb lore as any of Aron’s physicians, thanks to Mistress Bearrach’s tutelage. If she were careful, she could heal with herbs without anyone becoming the wiser. How could Lady Macha object to that when she’d permitted as much before Aine left?

“My lady?”

Aine opened her eyes. “Shall we find Master Diocail, then?”