Drumceatt.”
“Hanged?”
Riona ignored the way her knees turned to water, willing herself to remain upright.
Ninian nodded. “After the hearing was adjourned, I left with the others, when it occurred to me that I’d forgotten my quills. I returned through the back entrance from the kitchen and overheard Maille and the bishop in consult. The lord of Gleannmara is doomed and you are, too,” he told Bran. “Men have been dispatched to see that you meet with some ill fate in the forests on the road to Tara.”
“Then we’ll have to do something on our own,” Riona stated grimly. At least it sounded like her voice. Exactly what the resolute speaker had in mind was beyond her.
E IGHT
I ’ve food for the lord of Gleannmara.”
Riona tolerated the guard’s examination of the basket prepared in the abbey kitchen with admirable restraint until the man stirred the porringer with his grimy finger. She snatched the basket away.
“I don’t think a useful weapon can be hid in porridge and beans, but allow me to break the bread with my clean hands lest you contaminate it as well.”
“Me and Oife is hungry, too,” the guard said. He reached again for the food, but Riona sidestepped him. “You’ve two legs apiece and none of my sympathy. Get your own.” She nodded at the bar of the grainery door. “Now open the door, or shall I advise Bishop Senan and my lord Maille that you offend me?”
Much as Riona was loathe to claim any relationship with the two connivers, distant or nay, it suited her purpose at the moment. Grudgingly, the man-at-arms opened the door and admitted her.
Kieran stood as she entered. There was no light, save that from the late afternoon sun streaming in through the open door. Instead of on her, Gleannmara’s gaze was on the leather-clad men, taking their measure.
“It isn’t lordly fare, but it’s filling.”
“Food is the last thing on my mind, milady,” he growled sulkily.
“Then you’d best change your mind. This, at least, will keep you from tripping over that temper-fired tongue of yours.”
Kieran winced as though she’d dealt him a physical blow. “Yours is its only match.”
Riona smiled. “At least milord knows when he’s well met.” She took the linen cover off the food and spread it on the ground before placing the basket on top of it. “Sit. Eat.”
With a scowl toward the door, Kieran dropped to a cross-legged position and took up the porringer. Despite his claim of no thought for food, he wolfed down the meal as though it were his last.
From all the rumors, that might not be far from the truth. The word of a bishop outmatched that of a tuath king—especially with the evidence that had been put out to indict Kieran. Even now those empowered to condemn him put their heads together over a feast of roast grouse hen in the late abbot’s private chambers. Thankfully, Father Ninian kept a close ear to the goings-on from his station at his desk beyond the dividing wall.
“The way I see it, Bran should be at least three days getting to the high king and that much again and some in return,” Kieran observed aloud. “If Senan doesn’t have me hanged before.”
“I’m certain the bishop will lend more time to this matter, once his shock over Fintan’s death has abated. Reason and grief are a poor mix.”
Kieran’s brow shot up. “You should know well enough.”
“Till then, you need to keep your strength up until Bran returns. Have some honeyed bread.” Riona shoved the delicacy at him. “And take care not to drip it.” The
drip
she referred to had nothing to do with the honey gathered by the abbey’s beekeeper. It had to do with the note she had slipped beneath it.
“I don’t—”
“Eat, fool!” She cut her gaze to the food to make the despondent lord look closer.
Riona suspected the guards would not allow them privacy. A note was the only way to let Kieran know what was going to happen—or what she
hoped
would happen. She made certain her
“Hanged?”
Riona ignored the way her knees turned to water, willing herself to remain upright.
Ninian nodded. “After the hearing was adjourned, I left with the others, when it occurred to me that I’d forgotten my quills. I returned through the back entrance from the kitchen and overheard Maille and the bishop in consult. The lord of Gleannmara is doomed and you are, too,” he told Bran. “Men have been dispatched to see that you meet with some ill fate in the forests on the road to Tara.”
“Then we’ll have to do something on our own,” Riona stated grimly. At least it sounded like her voice. Exactly what the resolute speaker had in mind was beyond her.
E IGHT
I ’ve food for the lord of Gleannmara.”
Riona tolerated the guard’s examination of the basket prepared in the abbey kitchen with admirable restraint until the man stirred the porringer with his grimy finger. She snatched the basket away.
“I don’t think a useful weapon can be hid in porridge and beans, but allow me to break the bread with my clean hands lest you contaminate it as well.”
“Me and Oife is hungry, too,” the guard said. He reached again for the food, but Riona sidestepped him. “You’ve two legs apiece and none of my sympathy. Get your own.” She nodded at the bar of the grainery door. “Now open the door, or shall I advise Bishop Senan and my lord Maille that you offend me?”
Much as Riona was loathe to claim any relationship with the two connivers, distant or nay, it suited her purpose at the moment. Grudgingly, the man-at-arms opened the door and admitted her.
Kieran stood as she entered. There was no light, save that from the late afternoon sun streaming in through the open door. Instead of on her, Gleannmara’s gaze was on the leather-clad men, taking their measure.
“It isn’t lordly fare, but it’s filling.”
“Food is the last thing on my mind, milady,” he growled sulkily.
“Then you’d best change your mind. This, at least, will keep you from tripping over that temper-fired tongue of yours.”
Kieran winced as though she’d dealt him a physical blow. “Yours is its only match.”
Riona smiled. “At least milord knows when he’s well met.” She took the linen cover off the food and spread it on the ground before placing the basket on top of it. “Sit. Eat.”
With a scowl toward the door, Kieran dropped to a cross-legged position and took up the porringer. Despite his claim of no thought for food, he wolfed down the meal as though it were his last.
From all the rumors, that might not be far from the truth. The word of a bishop outmatched that of a tuath king—especially with the evidence that had been put out to indict Kieran. Even now those empowered to condemn him put their heads together over a feast of roast grouse hen in the late abbot’s private chambers. Thankfully, Father Ninian kept a close ear to the goings-on from his station at his desk beyond the dividing wall.
“The way I see it, Bran should be at least three days getting to the high king and that much again and some in return,” Kieran observed aloud. “If Senan doesn’t have me hanged before.”
“I’m certain the bishop will lend more time to this matter, once his shock over Fintan’s death has abated. Reason and grief are a poor mix.”
Kieran’s brow shot up. “You should know well enough.”
“Till then, you need to keep your strength up until Bran returns. Have some honeyed bread.” Riona shoved the delicacy at him. “And take care not to drip it.” The
drip
she referred to had nothing to do with the honey gathered by the abbey’s beekeeper. It had to do with the note she had slipped beneath it.
“I don’t—”
“Eat, fool!” She cut her gaze to the food to make the despondent lord look closer.
Riona suspected the guards would not allow them privacy. A note was the only way to let Kieran know what was going to happen—or what she
hoped
would happen. She made certain her
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