Chapter Four
M y whole body trembles. Though I feel not quite here, somehow I don't have the nerve to raise my head, either. Not even when Prince Ruairi acknowledges me. I barely manage to mumble out a reply.
This fantasy of mine has been paid for by a few coins and a promise of the high queen’s patronage. It turns out, a bard’s love can be bargained for quite cheaply. Which means my heart’s been sold for just as little.
Cillian Cloudtongue is going to remain here at court. And everyone is to believe we’re having a torrid love affair. My cheeks burn at the very thought!
For what could be worse than being ignored by the Cloudtongue, my love never acknowledged? There’s only one thing, I tell you.
It's feeling his tender gaze falling upon me while knowing it’s a ruse.
I do not hate High Queen Fiadh. But right now, I wouldn’t mind it if someone shoved her head into a bucket of jam.
This is intolerable. Unbearable. It’s wicked—it’s torture! Any minute now, Queen Fiadh will lean over to whisper in the High King’s ear, and King Tadhg will call for entertainment.
And when the Cloudtongue is through playing, he’s going to award me a rose to declare his affections for me to all. They’ll see that I did not have the place of honor at the bard’s garden performance because of Prince Ruairi, but because it was given to me by the bard himself.
I hate everything about this plan. So why is my pathetic little heart beating so hard anyway?
At last, Queen Fiadh leans toward King Tadhg, her hand resting upon his thick forearm.
“Send for the Cloudtongue!” the High King bellows, summoning a wave of cheers from the room.
How strange it is, knowing that half these smiling faces want him off the throne because they do not trust his queen. They probably even want him dead. Oh, I wish I’d never come here! What honor is there in serving a queen when she rules over a nest of vipers?
In all too little time, the Connact Bard is taking his place before the nobles and royals of the court and my heart is pounding in my throat. As he perches on the edge of the chair brought for him, positioning the lute he will use for tonight's performance, his eyes travel to the high table. And I know without a doubt that he will look past the high king and queen and into my eyes.
Except he doesn’t. He casts one furtive glance at the table, sighs and then sings the saddest love song I’ve ever heard. The topic is two lovers kept apart by social circumstance, wondering whether they’ll ever be together. Whenever they pass each other in the streets, his heart leaps with joy and breaks at once, for she offers him the same sad smile. One that he knows says what he feels: I wish I had another's life, and pray I’d know you still .
By the time he reaches the refrain, tears stream down my face.
Prince Ruairi slumps over in his chair, yawning audibly.
With the exception of the prince, the entire court is grief-stricken by the time Cillian has finished the seven songs of his performance. Only two of the songs were brighter, both on finding love at last. Cillian’s performance is so masterful, I almost forget what’s to come after he plays his last note.
As he rises, he pulls a white rose from his lute’s worn leather case, holding it high for all to see.
“Good sir, if I may,” he addresses the high king, “I wish to award this rose to the loveliest, gentlest lady in this room. I beg your leave to give it to your queen.”
King Tadhg’s mighty chest swells, pleased by the compliment. But Queen Fiadh touches his arm once more, shaking her head.
After a few words exchanged too quietly between them to hear, the high queen speaks. “Cillian called Cloudtongue, you flatter me, but after so many songs of truest love I cannot rightly accept. Pray, give the rose to the one your heart desires.”
“By your leave,” Cillian says, his voice almost raspy as he bows.
Then his gaze sweeps the room, a mischievous glint in his eyes. A few of the ladies gasp, one swaying on her feet.
I’m not much better than her. I fear this wall is the only thing holding me up. His showmanship prolongs my agony most wickedly.
Gradually, the Connacht Bard makes his way toward the dais, his long legs bringing him of a level with the royal family with barely a hitch in his stride. In one hand, he still holds the neck of his lute. In the other, the white rose.
He is so close now, I can see how carefully the flower has been stripped of its thorns.
At last, Cillian Cloudtongue pauses before the table, almost directly across from Prince Ruairi. “Queen's Maid Laoise,” he declares, his voice carrying as when he sings, “would you do me the honor of accepting this token of my true and honorable affection?”
The chorus of gasps that fills the room sounds like the sizzle when the tide consumes a bonfire on the beach. One of the ladies faints from shock, or maybe it's disappointment.
Thank the gods my body knows what to do, for my mind is a miserable mass of shark's teeth and stones. I round the table, passing Prince Ruairi as I do so. I barely register the furrowed brow, and what might be thinly veiled fury, on his face.
Walk to the bard. Just walk to the bard. Don’t think of anything else. As a moment of panic grips me, I add, And for the love of all puca kind, do not trip.
Which is precisely what causes me to trip.
As my whirling mind intervenes and makes my movements self-conscious, the toe of my slipper catches on the mortar between floor stones. I tumble headlong, my arms flying out.
A discordant jangle fills the room. Suddenly, lithe arms envelop me and fingers grasp my back through the fall of my hair.
I’m in the arms of Cillian Cloudtongue.
And he has just dropped his lute to catch me.
As he rights me, he present the rose to me, virtually unharmed. My gaze travels from the white petals to the precious instrument lying facedown on the ground.
“Your lute,” I say, stunned.
“Yes, my poor lute,” he says, his voice too low for anyone else to hear. “I was forced to choose between saving two things important to me. My beloved instrument did not stand a chance.”
His smile then is so gentle, so sincere, that I almost can’t believe it’s a ruse.
I accept the white rose and return the expression.