His heart lurched.
He’d been named Ronan because his eccentric father claimed his mother was a selkie, a seal transformed into a human, whose skin he’d stolen to prevent her return to the salty depths. When Ronan was five, she disappeared mysteriously while out gathering shells, a pastime he often enjoyed with his mother. This day she’d wanted to go alone.
Bradick MacLachlainn claimed she’d gone back to the sea and wept for his loss. He insisted her sealskin had disappeared from where he’d hidden it. Others said he was mad and she’d merely drowned. It was a common occurrence for bodies to wash up on the beaches of the Irish Sea. Orlaith MacLachlainn’s body had never been found, though her husband had spent most of his time gazing out to sea after her disappearance.
The seal’s appearance resurrected the worries Ronan had hoped to calm. Was it an omen? He turned his horse away from the sands, resolved to return home the next day.
Dylan was furious when informed of his decision. As a peace offering, Ronan agreed to leave his laborers and take only some of his knights with him.
His heart and mind were in such turmoil by the time he sought his bed, he feared sleep would be elusive. But he wasn’t prepared for the gruesome nightmare that caused him to awaken in a cold sweat as dawn broke.
In his dream, the MacFintains had somehow managed to capture his castle. They’d slaughtered servants and villagers then turned their depraved attention on his wife.
Within the hour, he and his knights were mounted and galloping for Sord Comcille. He prayed he would be in time to save his fair-haired Mary and the child she carried, but knew in his frenzied heart he would not.
When the Tower loomed out of the grey skies of late afternoon, he let out the breath he’d been holding for hours. It seemed all was well, though the air reeked of smoke—and blood.
He slowed his gelding, confused when the horse’s legs buckled beneath him. Thrown to the hard ground, he saw the crossbow bolt buried deep in the dying animal’s chest.
Crossbow? Only Normans…
He rolled to his feet in time to see his knights fall victim to the same deadly weapon. Armed men appeared out of the shadows; soldiers he didn’t recognize. He hoped death would come quickly. He drew his sword, though it would be no match for a crossbow.
Then a voice he knew raised the hair on his nape. “On your knees, Lord Ronan.”
His blood turned to ice in his veins. “MacFintain,” he hissed, guilt welling up in his throat. If he’d paid heed…
“Shoot him if he doesn’t kneel,” Lorcan said. “He can join his pitiful wife in hell.”
“But we said we were going to torture him,” his brother whined.
Ronan gritted his teeth, resolved not to give them the satisfaction. Death was a just punishment for his failure to protect what was his. “I will not kneel,” he rasped.
A sharp blow to the skull sent him diving headlong into oblivion.
Conall nigh on choked on the tears he couldn’t shed, lest his sobbing give him away. Hesitation had proven disastrous. He’d come too late. He lay flattened against the wet grass, gritting his teeth to stifle the sob constricting his throat. The hated MacFintains had captured his master and instructed their mercenaries to drag him away to the dungeon.
If Lady Mary hadn’t sent him to accompany Moyra back to her cottage, he’d be lying dead alongside his darling father, slaughtered like many of Túr MacLachlainn’s folk.
When the MacFintains attacked with a murderous gang of foreign soldiers, the sheer size and armed might of the invaders had taken the reduced garrison completely by surprise.
Moyra had urged her son and Conall to hide in the sheepfold. He and Diarmid had crouched there for hours among the bleating sheep, expecting to be dragged out and killed at any moment.
When the distant screaming stopped and no search materialized, Moyra ventured to the Tower with Diarmid. She returned hours later, barely able to tell of the offenses perpetrated against her mistress, the steward and many others, including the murder of her own husband, Cleum.
Conall swore to avenge his father and Lady Mary, but he’d dithered, not knowing exactly when Lord Ronan was due to return; leaving the relative safety of Moyra’s cottage was risky.
Now, lying in the meadow, dread churned his gut. He knew of the brothers’ penchant for cruelty. Lord Ronan was destined to die a painful death. Conall couldn’t let that happen. With the rightful lord of Túr MacLachlainn dead there’d be no one to wreak vengeance on Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain.
Rhoni
Ellesmere Castle, Welsh Marches, Salop, England
Ram de Montbryce paced back and forth in front of the hearty fire burning in the hearth of his solar. “Let’s face it,” he lamented to his wife, “we’ve spoiled Rhoni. She’s always had the best of everything.”
“I suppose it was inevitable,” Mabelle replied, holding her hands to the heat of the flames. “She’s our youngest, and the only daughter of a wealthy earl.”
“A young woman who is adept at manipulating her older brothers.”
Mabelle laughed. “Not to mention her father.”
Ram stopped pacing and chuckled. “I suppose that’s true, and it’s not that I regret showering love on her, something I swore to do years ago when you were all delivered from captivity in Wales.”
Mabelle kissed his cheek. “You’ve been a good father.”
He pulled her to his body and wiggled his eyebrows. “And a good husband?” He inhaled deeply when she pressed her mons to his arousal. Her nearness never failed to excite him, though they’d been married for thirty years.
“Always,” she whispered.
He leaned his forehead against hers. “Nevertheless, Rhoni has to marry, and soon, before she’s considered too old.”
Mabelle broke away and paced. “But she hasn’t liked any of the suitors you’ve invited to the castle.”
“She’s too picky.”
“That’s because she craves what we have. She wants to marry someone who loves her.”
Ram shook his head. “She’ll have to accept that you and I are unusual. Few noblemen of my acquaintance care a whit about their wives.”
“But doesn’t she deserve to find love?”
“I’ve introduced her to titled young men from all over England. Where else do you propose we look?”
Mabelle hesitated only a moment. “Robert will succeed you as Comte de Montbryce; as our second son, Baudoin will inherit Ellesmere. All that’s left for Rhoni is Alensonne in Normandie. Perhaps we should search for a Norman capable of being master there.”
Ram slumped into one of the upholstered chairs. “There’s no shortage of greedy Norman barons who’d like to get control of Alensonne, but none I would trust with my daughter. I hate to admit it, but I can’t envisage Rhoni as mistress of Alensonne. She’s too immature for a large castle of such strategic value.”
“Well, we’re close to Wales here. A Welshman?”
Ram frowned, but then smiled when he detected the mischievous glint in his wife’s eyes. “You jest, of course. It’s bad enough Baudoin is infatuated with our Welsh healer.”
Mabelle leaned over to cradle his face in her hands. “He’s not infatuated, he’s in love, and Carys is the daughter of a Welsh prince.”
He put his hands over hers, relishing their warmth. “Let’s hope Rhoni isn’t the second of our children to fall in love with someone completely unsuitable.”
Torture
“Máire Bhán!”
Ronan bellowed out his dead wife’s name in agony as the hot poker destroyed his eye. He strained in fury and despair to wrench the manacles loose. His grandfather had proudly boasted that nothing short of the entire edifice crumbling into dust would ever dislodge the iron hooks fixed in the stone ceiling. The memory tolled like a death knell in Ronan’s brain. His ancestor would turn over in his grave if he knew his grandson had been strung up like a deer for gutting in the dungeon of his own tower.
With a derisive snort, Lor
can MacFintain thrust the rod back into the embers of the brazier. “How touching! He calls for his fair-haired Mary. No point in that, MacLachlainn. She’s dead and gone, and you’ll soon be joining her. What a useless fyke she was anyway.”
Though a furnace blazed in his eye socket, Ronan squinted at his grinning tormentor with his good eye, gathered what little saliva remained in his mouth, and spat. To his surprise, the spittle struck the cheek of the murderer who had boasted of strangling Mary after violating her.
Lorcan took off his studded leather gauntlet, wiped his cheek with the kerchief offered by his smirking brother, and backhanded his victim hard across the face with the glove. It wasn’t the first time Ronan had felt the sharp sting of a broken nose, but it would be the last.
He’d nothing left to live for. His estate was forfeit, his sweet Mary gone, along with the child in her belly. He seethed inwardly that he’d failed to avenge her murder, failed to protect ancestral property built by his grandfather. The King of Munster would be ashamed of his nephew.
Despair buckled his bruised knees, leaving him dangling by his bloodied wrists. His shoulder muscles screamed. His chest burned as air fled his lungs. He took a shallow breath and surrendered to the suffocating blackness.
Lorcan smirked. “Pitiful!”
Fothud retrieved the poker and slammed it against Ronan’s shin. They heard the bone crack but their victim didn’t cry out. “Let’s leave our wretched Cyclops. No use giving him pain if he can’t feel it. We’ll come back later and blind the other eye. I’ve a raging thirst.”
Lorcan examined his glove for blood spatters. Satisfied, he thrust his hand back into it, enjoying the feel of the leather on his skin as he flexed his fingers. They were too big, but he wasn’t about to tell Fothud that. “You’re right. It’s time to enjoy the fruits of this estate now it’s ours.”
Fothud spat. “Ours and our cursed allies.”
Lorcan held out both hands, admiring the craftsmanship of the gloves he’d filched from Ronan’s chamber. “Have a care, brother. Normans hold the power in England and most of Wales. It’s only a matter of time before they turn their attention to Ireland. Better to have them as bedfellows now. We need the mercenaries the earl provides.”
Fothud shrugged, throwing an arm around Lorcan’s shoulders. They jostled playfully on the narrow stone steps that led out of the cells beneath Túr MacLachlainn.
Fothud giggled like a girl. “We’ll have to rename this place. Too bad we don’t yet have Ronan’s body to drag before his people. That would dissuade any who might think to aid him.”
Lorcan shoved his younger brother hard as they came to the top, sending him stumbling forward. “He’s beyond help. Summon a wench. I fancy ale.”
Fothud’s grin fled his face. He glared at his brother but went to do his bidding.
Ronan felt the bite of cold water on his face. It did nothing to ease the fire in his eye. His nose was numb. He kept his good eye closed. His tormentors might believe him still witless.
A hand patted his hip. Someone was fiddling with the manacles that had already dug bloody grooves into his wrists. What new torture had they devised?
“Wake up, Lord Ronan, wake up.”
He preferred not to awaken, but something about the voice caught his attention. It didn’t belong to Lorcan or his brother. He slowly opened his eye, sticking out his tongue to slurp the water dripping from his bloodied hair. The blurry figure wobbling beside him atop a three-legged stool looked familiar. “Conall?’
His steward’s son put a finger to his lips. “Aye, ‘tis Conall. Best make no noise, my lord.”
Ronan tried to take a breath, but his lungs weren’t working. “What are you doing here, boy?”
Conall put a hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “I’m rescuing you, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Ronan swallowed, tasting blood in his constricted throat. “How are you—”
Suddenly his hand was free of the manacle. His arm flopped to his side, pain spiraling through his bicep as the blood rushed back. “Holy Mother of God. You might have warned me.”
Conall fiddled with the other manacle. Ronan feared his racked arm was about to break. He flexed his knees, thinking to stand upright, but only one leg bore his weight. Next thing he knew he was on all fours on the cold stone floor.
Conall jumped down from the stool, chuckling. “I’ve always said there isn’t a lock in this tower that can outwit Conall MacCathail.” Then he gasped. “Jesu, what have they done to your back?”
Ronan toppled over on to his side and held out what appeared to be three trembling hands. “Help me up. Where is your father?”
Conall grasped Ronan’s hand with both of his and pulled. “Dead.”
Ronan came unsteadily to his feet, leaning heavily on the lad. Two of everything danced before him and an uncontrollable tremor racked his body. His head was pounding. Something was wrong with one leg. His lacerated back was on fire. Anger added to the torment. He might have known Lorcan and Fothud would kill his trusted right hand man. He gritted his teeth. Condolences would have to wait. “Where are the MacFintains now?”
Conall spat and thrust a bundle of clothing at his chest. “They’re drinking and wenching in the hall. Lorcan is terrorizing the serving maids. Fothud has passed out.”
Ronan hopped on one leg, gripping Conall’s shoulder, and managed to get the rough peasant’s tunic over his head. The coarse wool abraded the lacerations left by the lash, but he felt better with his nakedness partially covered. The trouzes were baggy, but still Conall had to help him don them. He got the cloak around his shoulders, and the boy fastened the ties.
“Did you bring my sword?”
Conall snorted. “What do you have in mind to do with your sword, my lord? You can barely stand.”
Without thinking, Ronan touched the back of his hand to his nose. The walls closed in as pain flared to life. He tightened his grip on the lad’s shoulder. “I must avenge—”
Conall strained to hold up his master, the top of his head level with Ronan’s chest. “This isn’t the time for vengeance. You’ll get yourself killed. I need you to help me avenge my da. Now, we must be gone from here, before those murdering sods return. I’ve a currach waiting in the bay.”
The heavy cloak had brought some relief to Ronan’s shivering frame, but felt like lead on his scarred back. He was so weak he doubted he would make it far. The loss of his eye had robbed him of his ability to think.
A currach was barely big enough for Conall, never mind a man who stood taller than six feet. Conjuring a vision of the two of them curled up in a tiny round boat like walnuts in the shell, he had an urge to laugh. But if he started, he might never stop. Madness lay that way. “A currach? To take us where?”
“Ynys Môn, my lord.”
It was a ludicrous plan, conceived in the mind of a child, but better to drown crossing the waters of the Irish Sea than die a painful death at the hands of his tormentors.
Leaning heavily on Conall, he limped out of the postern door of the cells, relieved the beach wasn’t far away.
Spoiled
Rhoni de Montbryce would be the first to admit she was spoiled. The only daughter and youngest child of the powerful Earl of Ellesmere, she’d learned at an early age how to cajole her brothers and parents into accommodating her every wish.
She wore the latest fashions, dined on gourmet fare prepared by Ellesmere’s gifted cook and rode the finest horseflesh, a mare descended from her father’s favorite stallion. He’d been delighted at her suggestion she name the mare Fortissima after Fortis, the horse that had helped keep him alive during the Battle of Hastings.
Her father, a member of Normandie’s elite mounted cavalry from boyhood, insisted he be the one to teach her to ride. By the age of five, she was an expert rider.
Jacquelle took care of her needs. The granddaughter of her mother’s long time maidservant, the girl had been well trained. Giselle had become Mabelle de Montbryce’s confidante. Rhoni often
confided in Jacquelle.
“Life is dull now my brother Robert has gone off to Normandie,” she complained, luxuriating in the hot water hauled up from the kitchens to fill the wooden bathtub.
Jacquelle stood ready to enfold her mistress in a drying cloth. “But he’s the eldest. He must learn to be the Comte of Montbryce when your father passes on.”
Rhoni pouted as she stepped out of the tub. “I know, and I wanted to go with him to Montbryce, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. All maman could say was ‘It’s out of the question, Hylda Rhonwen.’ I hate that she uses my full name for a scolding. Hylda is old fashioned.”
The maid secured the linen cloth around Rhoni’s body, then used another to rub her mistress dry. “Your brother Baudoin is back from Constantinople now.”
“You’re right, and at first the incredible tales he and Papa told of their journey to rescue my newly discovered half brother from the Crusade were entertaining. But Baudoin seems older and wiser than before he left. He no longer has time for his little sister. It’s as though he has suddenly become aware he’s destined to be the Second Earl of Ellesmere.”
Jacquelle pointed to the edge of the bed and Rhoni obediently sat while her maid dried her feet. “For a while you enjoyed the company of your half brother’s wife and her baby twins.”
Rhoni sighed as Jacquelle helped her don a linen chemise. “Oui, Aidan and Blythe are adorable, but now that Caedmon has returned from the east safely, he and Agneta gone off to their own hall in Ruyton. I’m bored.
“But I have a plan. I’m going to suggest to my mother I accompany her to the Anointing of Myfanwy Mabelle as the new Prioress of Llansanfraid. The route will take us through Chester where Maman plans to stay overnight. Chester is an enormous castle with many interesting things to see and do.”
Jacquelle smiled as she gently tugged a bone comb through her mistress’s wet hair. “I recall your mother’s delight at being invited.”
Vengeance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 4) Page 2
