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After his conversation with her mother, Simon understood why. At least in part. How could anyone bear to have their heart so wounded and still go on with a smile?
It troubled him that she remained unwed and unattached to another. A woman so full of life as she, with her wicked smiles and bright laughter, deserved more.
Had men tried, and failed, to secure her heart? Perhaps she didn’t want to love again. Or couldn’t.
He’d brooded too heavily over those questions and had watched her behavior all day in hopes of finding some hint as to the state of her heart. Was it missing? Was it whole? Instead of finding an answer, he’d only succeeded in shutting Isleen out of his own thoughts and feelings.
A quarter of an hour passed, with Andrew and Josephine trying to draw Simon into conversation he didn’t feel like having. Isleen did not return. And Simon couldn’t stand her absence from the room a moment longer.
“I will go ask about rooms,” he said as he stood from the table, and his sister and best friend looked up at him with startled expressions, as though he had interrupted a conversation. Perhaps he had. He hadn’t been paying attention to them for several minutes.
He left before they could call him back and shut the door with a hard snap behind him. He went into the main room, his eyes searching out a dark red riding habit rather than the innkeeper’s apron-clad form.
He found Isleen at once, beside a fire, with a small crowd of people around her. Her eyes gleamed happily, and she gestured gracefully with her hands.
He knew that look.
She was telling a story, and her audience listened raptly.
He stayed in the doorway, tucked halfway in the shadowed corridor, his shoulder against the corner. And he watched and listened as best he could. Perhaps she hadn’t been as distressed as he thought when she left the room.
Perhaps she had only needed to get away from him.
“Niall of the Nine Hostages wasn’t always High King of Ireland,” she said in her sing-song way. “But in vision, the bard Torna knew Niall must one day come to the throne. Of course, the king’s wife wasn’t having it. She had fathered four sons for the old king, and she demanded a successor be chosen. The king had no desire to choose from among the sons he raised and the people’s beloved Niall.”
“Why didn’t the rule go to the first son?” The question came from across the room, but Isleen answered with a wide grin.
“That wasn’t always how things were done in the past. The first born wasn’t always the most worthy to be king. Think on your Old Testament for evidence of that—wise men were given the task of selecting kings, based on omen and prophesy. Why should ancient Ireland be any different?”
Simon’s throat tightened. The first born wasn’t always the most worthy. A thing he often wondered about. Many a man in positions similar to his accepted their place as god-given, through right of birth. Yet he grappled with his place in the world. If only a wise man, with the gift of reading portents or prophecy, could pop out of the reeds and tell Simon what to do.
A general murmur of agreement went through the room, and Isleen took up the thread of her tale again.
“The king called for his advisor, Sithchean, though whether the man was a blacksmith or a druid, we know not. But it was his duty to set a challenge for the five men to determine which ought to be king.” She narrowed her eyes and looked around the room, theatrically, taking in the faces of her listeners. “So Sithchean sent them into a forge. ‘Each of ye make a weapon,’ he said, ‘and that weapon will tell who among you is worthy.’ But as the fifth man walked inside, the old man shut the door behind them and set the forge ablaze.”
Gasps went around the room, and Simon’s eyebrows shot upward. Had she told this gruesome tale to the schoolroom children? James would eat up every word.
“The men were not trapped long, and as each of them emerged from the smoke, they carried something with them. This was the true test of their worth, for Sithchean could tell what manner of men they were by what they rescued from the blaze.” She briefly adjusted her posture, sitting straighter. “Have we any blacksmiths here?”
“Me pa’ was a blacksmith,” one of the farmers from near the window said.
“Then you will like this end, I think. Here is what happened. The first man to emerge from the burning building was called Brian, the eldest of the king’s sons. He came carrying hammers, which meant he was a strong man and a bold fighter, but he would not be best for the people. Fiachra came next, carrying a cask of beer. This meant he would be a father of art and science, but not king. Aillil came third, carrying a chest of weapons. He would be the man who carried out the people’s vengeance and justice, but he also would not be king. Fergus was fourth, and the last of the wicked queen’s sons. All he carried was a bundle of kindling, worthless, marking him as unsuitable to bear a royal line. And finally, out came Niall.”
Isleen paused for dramatic effect, and Simon had to smile to himself. Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breaths, waiting to discover what came next in a tale that had been told thousands of times in Ireland.
“Niall carried the anvil itself, and upon seeing this, Sithchean pronounced that Niall would be High King of Ireland. For what use is a smithy without its anvil? The anvil is how all things are shaped and made. Niall’s decision showed an understanding of the people, an understanding of past strengths and future needs. And from that day, the king knew Niall—his long-lost son—would be king.” She lowered her voice, as though telling a secret as she finished her tale. “Of course, the wicked queen herself wasn’t best pleased, and once again tried to take matters into her own hands. But that is another tale entirely.”
Someone started clapping, and then the room as a whole applauded the tale. Simon joined in, impressed with her ability to hold an entire room in her thrall. Isleen blushed and stood, bobbing a quick curtsy; it was when her eyes rose with that motion that she saw Simon standing there, applauding with everyone else.
She bent to speak to a young girl Simon recognized as the daughter of a wealthy farmer, then picked her way across the room, weaving between tables and chairs, to come to his side.
Her cheeks were still red, and her eyes bright, but when she spoke her voice was subdued. “I left quite rudely before. I hope you can forgive me. And Sir Andrew, and Josephine.”
“There is nothing to forgive.” He looked down into her dark brown eyes, nearly black in the semi-darkness where they stood. “I worried for you.” He hadn’t meant to admit it out loud. When she lowered her eyes from his to the front of his coat, he felt certain he had said the wrong thing.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice low and sweet. “It is a reassurance to know someone cares, even when we behave poorly.”
“You didn’t behave poorly.” He touched her arm lightly, and he saw her swallow with the contact. “Was it I who caused you distress?”
