The Heart of a Queen (A Historical Romance)

Chapter 23

Though the ride home was long and gloomy with an unseasonable drizzle, Isobel was happy, and Brienna was cheered by her friend's countenance and their new closeness, now that all their secrets were shared between them. Well, almost all. The feelings she harbored for Llewellyn were on the tip of her tongue the whole way home, but Brienna hadn't managed to form words around them by the time the castle loomed into view.

They'd arrived just in time for the evening meal, and joined the head table in the great hall. Donnall and Ruarc sat on either side of Llewellyn at his usual place at the end, and Brienna sat next to her brother instead of her fiancé, hoping he would assume it was out of modesty.

As they ate, the men were full of talk of the coming gathering, its political implications, and potential allegiances that could be made with the other kingdoms of Wales and the clans of Ireland. Donnall didn't participate much in the discussion. From the moment she'd walked in, he'd pinned a steady gaze on Brienna and she began to grow uncomfortable under the unceasing scrutiny. She hoped that Isobel would strike up a conversation with him, to distract him, but she was passing covert smiles back and forth with Moira, who was serving them.

"I had an idea," she spoke up, hoping to break Donnall's spell. "Why not invite some of the kings of Scotland to attend?"

Ruarc scoffed. "That's a terrible idea. We might as well invite the lords of England who keep attacking our land."

"Yes, you should invite some of them, too," Brienna insisted.

Llewellyn regarded her seriously. "Why? It's not very likely that they'll want to sign any treaties with us."

"Nor us with them!" Ruarc blurted.

"No, maybe not," Brienna agreed, "but the clans and kingdoms have never been united before, that's always been one of our weaknesses, and perhaps seeing us make allies before their very eyes will put some fear into them. At least they'll think twice before they try to attack us next time."

The table was silent, but Brienna could see that Llewellyn was considering her proposal. Ruarc, however was not.

"It's silly to speak of this in front of my sister, and yours, isn't it? We mustn't bore them with matters beyond their comprehension," he said, leaning into Llewellyn. "Instead of war, let us talk of more joyous events, like marriage," he suggested.

Donnall immediately perked up, his long frame uncoiling like a spring. "Yes," he said, eyes flashing at Brienna.

"No, I meant another marriage," Ruarc interrupted. "That is, if I can persuade the princess to consider me, a lowly king of Connaught, to be her husband."

To her horror, Ruarc was raising his cup at Isobel. Brienna glanced at Isobel, but she was glaring vaguely across the room as if there was a moth on the wall that had done her wrong.

"You're not king yet," Brienna said, attempting to be jovial, hoping it would all blow over as a joke on Ruarc's part.

"But I will be eventually," Ruarc said through thin lips, kicking Brienna under the table. He smiled at Isobel again. "And I think Llewellyn and I can both agree that a continued partnership between our two households would be highly advantageous."

Abruptly, Isobel turned to Llewellyn, her tone lifted in warning. "My esteemed brother, your best ideas for me are always hatched in my absence, when you manage to forget completely who I am."

"It wasn't my idea," Llewellyn said, hands held up in defense.

"It was mine," Ruarc announced.

"Oh, brother," Brienna said under her breath.

"A double wedding," Donnal cried, startling all of them, "how wonderful!"

The shatter of a jug of wine crashing to the floor snatched them away from the conversation. Brienna looked over to see Moira, her face crestfallen, standing a few feet away with broken pottery all around her feet. The men shot up from the table to avoid the spreading puddle growing red across the floor, and Brienna went to fetch another girl from the kitchen to help clean up the mess.

When she returned, the men had retired to the war room, and Moira was on her knees, picking up the sopping pieces, her face red. Isobel remained at the table, staring forlornly into her lap.