Fifteen men of foot—in jacks of hard banded-leather strips, or ringed-coats of leather and steel—assembled in his muddy courtyard. They bore the black, gold, and red banner of the Gwynn clan.

Eowain had told her father to bring his hardest men.

By the look of them, those certainly fit the bill. Short and swarthy, with black hair and hard-gleaming eyes, they bore shields, swords, maces, spears, and hunting-bows with confidence.

"After all those letters you wrote back and forth, you don't know what to say?" Lorcán shook his head. "Compliment her eyes." He grinned. "I can't remember the last time I saw you this flustered, little brother."

"When Medyr first proposed this arrangement, I had my doubts, but I knew my duty." Eowain turned away. "But then when I met her—?"

"Rescued her from bloodthirsty bandits, you mean?"

"That wasn't my fault—."

Lorcán put up the three fingers of his hand to stop him. "You don't have to tell me."

Eowain shook his head. "But I tell you, when I met her, with that red hair and those fierce green eyes, I loved her. Like I was thunderstruck."

Lorcán slapped his younger brother's shoulder. "Right. It had nothing to do with the fact you live like a damned monk. When are you giving up on that girl—What was her name? The one in Larriocht?"

Eowain looked back through the tower window. "I never imagined myself as a king. I thought I'd have more choice when it came to marriage."

Lord-Drymyn Medyr knocked at the door. "You have as much choice as any free man, where the oracles of the Gods are concerned."

Eowain waved down his advisor. "I wish you would stop going on about all that. There's reason enough to wed her without you mixing the Gods into things."

Lorcán scowled. "With her estate and her rights to the fur trade? Our aunt's keen the lady be granted a charter to start a trading interest. To improve relations between Droma and Ivearda, don't you know."

"I do know, in fact." The Lady Rathtyen, dressed in the black mourning gown of a widowed country lady, had crept up behind them all. "And the Lady Eithne is certainly right to be upset by this insult. The Lady of Gluintír is such a tiresome old hag."

The Lord Ciaran rode forward unhelmed with three cavalry-men on sturdy mountain horses. He and his three men each wore a mailed coat of leather and iron-rings, and carried shields, spears, and long, plain swords.

Along with Ciaran was an old, small, dark drymyn-woman. The merchant had told him about her, though he knew little. She was somehow—Eowain wasn't himself quite sure how yet—involved in the case of their marriage. Her knotted hair spilled from beneath her hood in a shock of white.

Then a fair horse, a whole copper-red shade of chestnut, came forward. Strong and with good wind, by the look of it. Sixteen hands high, and on its left foreleg from hoof to hock, a white stocking.

Astride the handsome horse rode a small, helmed warrior, dressed like the other horsemen in a mailed coat of leather and iron-rings, and bearing arms and armor with every bit as much confidence.

The warrior pulled off the round steel helm, and there was Eithne, red hair bound up in a tight bun. Her green eyes flashed.

Eowain put the best face on it. "Lady Eithne, Lord Ciaran! Welcome back to Dúnsciath. Lady, please, let me help you—."

Eithne swung her leg over the rump, and planted both feet firmly on his courtyard.

"—Dismount." Eowain stood with his hand awkwardly unused. "Your arrival is like sunshine amid gloom, my lady." He leaned in to kiss her. She turned and offered her cheek.

*****

Eithne had taken up a place in front of Eowain in his hall, like any other petitioner. Courtiers, guests from abroad with nowhere better to be, lined the walls.

She'd demanded to bring a formal grievance before his open court. It was her right, as a traveler in his lands. The legal obligations of a king on the matter of hospitality were clear in the ancient texts.

The Lord Ciaran, the strange old drymyn-woman they'd brought with them, and the merchant and acolyte stood as witnesses to her testimony.

Guards and other servants moved through the crowd. Beside his throne, Medyr and Lorcán stood with him to hear the news of the treatment she'd received at Gluintír.

The court had already heard of her arrival in Scíthin, the chilly reception from his cousin Ninnid, and her tour of the shrines in that part of Droma. "Yes." He nodded for her to go on.

"There we were," continued Eithne. "In Gluintír, on the very feast day of holy Padarn, at his own blessed shrine. We'd traveled from Scíthin early, and arrived right at the moment of dawn. I watched the sun rise over a clear view of your kingdom for the first time." She looked him in the eyes. "It's a magnificent land, no question. Rolling grassland hills, two large lakes, the forests to the south, and that great ridge of land that looks like a dragon sleeping on the hills. It was a breathtaking sight."

But her brow furrowed. "Then who comes into the shrine but the Lord and Lady of Gluintír themselves. I've yet to make their acquaintance, not wishing to wake their household so early when there was such a beautiful sunrise to be enjoyed."

Eithne explained how, after a few moments of idle greetings, the Lady Gluintír had said, "I've so looked forward to meeting you. When I'm with one of your people, I'm always reminded of the virtues of the Droma."

Before Eithne could frame a reply to that strange statement, her husband had wagged his head. "Don't listen to her, dear. I imagine meeting us all together must be very intimidating."

Then, once again before Eithne could consider a response, the Lady Gluintír muttered, "I certainly hope so."

Eithne opened her hands to Eowain on his throne. "Well, Your Grace," she went on. "As you have heard, she was already as loathsome to me as a toad, to speak to me in such a manner."

Eowain put his forehead in his hands. He had no particular love for the Lord and Lady of that far-away settlement. They were stingy with their winter taxes, and had left him to make up their shortfall. What has that old windbag gotten me into now?

"If that were not enough?" Eithne paused. "Then the Lady of Gluintír screwed me in my place with a stern eye and said, 'So. You are to be our King Eowain's bride then?'"

Medyr hovered forward. "And how then did you answer, my lady?"

The whole council leaned in.

Eithne flashed them an angry glance. "'I am, madam,' I told her. And she says to me, 'Oh, so it is you. I thought it was a man wearing your clothes. Well, I suppose looks aren't everything.'"

With eyes wide and shocked, Eithne looked to his courtiers for their sympathy, and found it. Even Lorcán groaned beside him.

Over the grand hearth, the great twelve-point rack of a magnificent Great Elk hung. His father had won that trophy. He thought for a moment about his roe-buck antlers and curled ram-horns. He hadn't enjoyed a hunt like that in a long time.

But he turned back to the matter at hand. "So what would you have me do?"

"Well, I wouldn't presume to insist upon any one course of action Your Grace might consider—" She dropped a wry curtsy. "But I have a few suggestions."

Medyr muttered on his other side: "How did I know she would?"

—33—

Look for the next installment in this Continuing Tale of The Matter of Manred: The Romance of Eowain.

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