The few who remained after the seizure were terrified of the MacFintains. Even dogs avoided the pair. It was evident at meal times the servants preferred to serve the Normans rather than their ill-tempered, foul-smelling fellow countrymen.
Bossuet knew the effectiveness of rule by fear, but it pained him to see a sturdily built and well-maintained dwelling fall into disrepair as filth and waste accumulated. Lorcan and Fothud didn’t seem to notice. Túr MacLachlainn couldn’t compare to the grand castles of Normandie, yet it had a feeling of comfort, wealth, and prosperity that was disappearing quickly under the rule of the MacFintains.
The pair hadn’t left enough laborers alive to tend the extensive fertile fields. As August wore on, Bossuet feared much of the harvest would rot.
The MacFintains had quickly earned the scorn of his men, all battle seasoned warriors. Many of them itched to be gone from Ireland, but Chester wouldn’t abandon the brothers. The rag-tag mob of undisciplined Irishmen who followed them would never hold the tower alone against an attack. Chester would protect his investment. Bossuet did what he could to soften the excesses, and hoped his employer wouldn’t blame him if the MacFintains squandered all the riches of Túr MacLachlainn.
Ronan hadn’t anticipated any difficulty controlling the Norman crew that rowed him and Conall across the Irish Sea, but had overlooked the possibility of seasickness. Fortunately, the rowers only smirked in disgust as he retched into the bottom of the boat, clutching his dagger, not daring to take his eye off them.
Conall had succeeded in steering the boat and communicating his directions to the Norman coxswain who kept up a steady chant to maintain the rhythm of the rowers. As lord of Túr MacLachlainn, Ronan had never paid much attention to this resourceful young man. He prayed he would repay his debt to Conall by avenging his father’s death. He gave thanks Steward MacCathail had taught his son the rudiments of sailing.
It was a relief when the lad sighted land.
“Where are we?”
Conall peered at the horizon. “If my guess is correct, my lord, we’re south of Sord.”
“Good. Can you see the tower yet?”
After a few minutes of silence, Conall replied. “Aye. Yonder is Túr MacLachlainn.”
Ronan longed to turn to look at the home he burned to reclaim. He gritted his teeth. “Bring us close to shore in the bay below the tower, but not right in.”
As the longboat edged its way closer to shore, Ronan spoke to the coxswain, wishing he’d learned more of Rhoni’s language. “My intent is to deliver the earl’s message to the Norman captain here—no more, no less. You won’t have failed in your duty to your lord, and none of you will be harmed if you obey me.”
He turned slightly to look at the tower with his good eye. The sight of it filled him with nostalgia. He swallowed hard and made an expansive gesture towards his grandfather’s pride. “I’m the rightful lord of this tower, and I will reclaim it, but not at the expense of Norman blood. All the Norman commander has to do is obey the earl’s command to withdraw, and you can take him and his men back to England.”
The coxswain indicated he understood and issued terse commands to the rowers who had been glowering with incomprehension at Ronan. Their relief when they knew what the future held was evident on their exhausted faces.
When the boat was securely anchored off shore, Ronan put one foot on his iron chest and leaned forward to rest his forearm on his thigh. He ordered the coxswain to blow his horn. As the strident sound echoed across the water, one or two men came out from the tower.
“Blow it again,” he commanded.
The second blast brought more soldiers to the shore, all Normans. Ronan fixed his eye on the tall fair-haired man at the front of the group. He remembered him from the fateful night of his capture. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Bossuet?”
The man took a step forward. “I am Bossuet. Who are you and what do you want?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ronan caught a glimpse of Lorcan MacFintain swaggering down the path to the water. When he espied Ronan he turned tail and scurried back to the tower. Ronan’s gut clenched.
Craven coward! Your time is at hand, Lorcan.
He took a deep breath. “I am Ronan MacLachlainn, lord of this tower.”
He took out the parchment and brandished it in the air. “My mission is twofold. I bear a message from the Earl of Chester. You are to withdraw your men and return to England.”
Bossuet fixed his gaze on the document and folded his arms across his chest. “I assume you’ll permit me to see the orders. If they are genuine, I’ll obey them. What is the second part of your mission?”
“To kill the worm who just slithered back into his hole, and his worthless brother.”
To his surprise, the Norman snorted with laughter. “I would like to help you in that, Lord Ronan, but I suspect those are not my orders.”
The men standing with him snickered their agreement.
Bossuet glanced back at them and they quickly quieted. “What next? Will you come ashore and hand me my orders?”
Ronan smiled. “I think not. I’ve sampled your hospitality before.”
Bossuet rubbed his chin. “I’ll guarantee your safety until we leave, then it’s up to you.”
There was a time when Ronan wouldn’t have trusted the word of a Norman, but that was before he’d met Rhoni and her family. “As a friend of the Earl of Ellesmere, I accept your invitation.”
Two days later, as night fell, Lorcan paced. “Where are the rest?”
Leaning against a tree in a wood near the tower, his brother fidgeted with the laces of his leggings. “Don’t ask me. The word was spread our men were to meet here.”
Lorcan scowled at the score of clansmen who had heeded his call. To a man they lay prostrate in the grass in various stages of intoxication, grumbling about the interruption of their revelries.
A shiver of fear marched up Lorcan’s spine as he surveyed the miserable crew on which he was now dependent. Their stench stuck in his throat, along with the knowledge Ronan MacLachlainn was a guest of the Norman commander in Lorcan’s very own tower. Why had the earl withdrawn his support? How had Ronan managed to ally himself with powerful Normans? The man had been half dead when he escaped.
The earl’s words haunted him.
Dispossessed and tortured men tend to hold grudges. They seek revenge.
He wished now he’d simply hung MacLachlainn. Why had he listened to his brother’s giggled suggestion that they torture him?
The earl had sent the one eyed giant to get rid of the MacFintains. Feckless Normans! After everything Lorcan had done for Chester.
He gritted his teeth and kicked a snoring sot. The man rolled over with barely a grunt. Fothud retreated further into the shadows, but the pallor of his face shone like a full moon.
“Where are you going, you miserable excuse for a brother?” Lorcan shouted.
“Just, just—just to piss,” Fothud stammered.
Lorcan snorted. “Get on with it then. Be quick. We must devise a plan to rid ourselves of Ronan MacLachlainn. It’s evident we cannot rely on this drunken lot. Stealth will have to be our watchword.”
“Stealth?” Fothud parroted, coming back into the clearing.
Lorcan slapped the back of his brother’s head. “Aye, dolt. Cunning, strategy, stealth.”
“Ow,” Fothud wailed sulkily, rubbing his head. “You’re a bully. You’ve bullied me my whole life.”
Lorcan strode away from his brother, stifling the urge to strangle the wimp. “It’s sometimes hard to believe you and I are brothers.”
Fothud sulked in reply.
Lorcan resumed his pacing. The snoring had become a cacophony. How was he supposed to think amid the noise? Sleepless nights camping out in the woods seemed to have robbed him of his wits. He dared not return to the tower. Ronan would strike him down immediately, and he doubted the Normans would do aught to prevent it.
Anger boiled in his veins. There had to be a
way to regain the tower.
“What’s that noise?” Fothud suddenly asked.
Lorcan strained to listen. Something was happening at the tower. Raised voices. Then Lorcan heard it—the strident honking of barking seals.
To his surprise, Ronan found he liked Emyle Bossuet. The man was the perfect host, and made no bones about his disgust of the MacFintains. There was no sign of the Irishmen, though Bossuet’s men reported they were camped in the woods beyond the fields. Ronan had yet to learn how many remained loyal to Lorcan and Fothud, but sensed the number dwindled with each passing day. Bossuet shared his opinion.
On the second day back, Ronan sauntered through the overgrown herb garden, breathing in the sweet air of Ireland. He stooped to grasp a handful of lavender, crushing the purple seeds between his palms, inhaling the aroma.
Suddenly, it came to him. Rhoni’s perfume. “Labhandair,” he whispered to the wind, regretting her loss with an intensity that brought him to his knees. He wiled away an hour amid the patch of fragrant herbs, humming the song he’d sung for her, wishing he held her in his arms.
He wandered the keep, running his hands over the rough stone, remembering. His feet refused to take him into his chamber. Lorcan had murdered Mary there and then taken the chamber as his own.
Bossuet invited him to dine in the hall in the evenings. The old banners still wafted in the rafters.
The two men ate heartily, Bossuet remarking on the sudden reappearance of good food. Ronan churned with resentment that he was treated as a guest in his own home, but preparations were well under way for the Normans to leave. Soon his revenge would be at hand.
“What is your plan once we’re gone, Lord Ronan?” Bossuet asked. “My captain tells me we can sail as early as the morrow. I’ve decided to leave the boat you arrived in. The large boats we came in suit our purposes better. I’m sure the Earl of Chester won’t miss one small longboat.”
Ronan smiled, remembering Rhodri’s words. He was grateful for the gesture. A boat might be an asset, though the Norman crew would be returning with Bossuet.
The visible relief of the serfs and servants at his and Conall’s reappearance had been heart-warming and he was confident Conall could soon train a worthy crew. It saddened him how few of his people had survived the brutal rule of the MacFintains.
Ronan sensed Bossuet had tried to temper the brothers’ excesses. He was about to thank his Norman host, when Conall hurried into the hall.
“My lord, seals, in the bay, barking. Something is amiss.”
Ronan came to his feet quickly.
Bossuet shrugged. “Seals? What of it?”
The servants grew agitated, looking to their lord.
“The people of this tower have learned never to ignore the seals,” Ronan explained, heading for the door.
They hurried to the shore, many of Bossuet’s men bearing torches. The sea foamed with a myriad of leaping, thrashing seals. The noise was deafening. One seal left the water and slid up onto the sand, barking furiously at Ronan. His heart skipped a beat. The seal was warning him of danger, but to whom and where?
He peered out at the black waters. While the bay was mostly free of hazards, there was one rock perilous to the unwary. It was named for his mother. His father claimed it was where he’d discovered her in human form long ago and stolen her seal skin.
Conall grasped his arm, pointing out to sea with the other hand. “My lord, there.”
Night vision had been difficult for Ronan since the loss of his right eye, but on Orlaith’s Rock he made out the shape of a boat aground. Dread spiraled its way up his spine. The seal’s frenzied barking told him someone dear to him was aboard that doomed vessel. “The boat will break up. We must get them off the rock.”
Baudoin cursed the incompetence of the captain who had run the longboat aground so close to their destination. They saw what they surmised was Ronan’s tower looming in the darkness. It was thanks to the fool’s drunkenness that they’d become lost, otherwise they would have made landfall before dark. Praise the saints one of the oarsmen had known enough about navigation to bring them to the right part of Ireland.
Rhoni clung to him as the boat creaked and lurched in the foaming surf. He didn’t want to alarm her, but it wouldn’t be long before the vessel broke apart, tossing them into the black water.
Suddenly his sister tightened her grip and pointed to the water. “Seals! Ronan is here.”
He narrowed his eyes. Sure enough, several dark shapes swam alongside, and in the distance they heard barking.
“She has come to save us,” Rhoni murmured.
“Who?”
“Ronan is the son of a selkie.”
Baudoin feared the tumultuous events of the last weeks had sent his sister tumbling into madness. “A what?”
Rhoni smiled at him. “It’s hard to believe,” she shouted over the wind, “but the seals have come to save us.”
Baudoin scoffed. “What are we supposed to do, fling ourselves on their backs?”
Confused shouts from the crew added to the mayhem. One or two had already leapt into the water. The horses had been loosed. One had jumped over the side and landed heavily. It now lay motionless on the rocks.
“Thank God I didn’t bring Fortissima,” Rhoni rasped.
Baudoin gripped his sister’s arm, his jaw clenched. “We may have to swim for it. I’ll help you. I won’t let you drown.”
“Have faith,” Rhoni assured him.
Muffled shouts preceded a rowboat that appeared out of the darkness, bobbing nearby, followed by another. Ronan stood at the prow of the first boat, legs braced, a length of rope coiled in his hands.
Rhoni saw him first. “Ronan,” she yelled, waving frantically.
He gritted his teeth when he saw her, and raised his hand in salute. He tossed the coiled rope to Baudoin, cupped his free hand around his mouth, and shouted something.
The words were lost on the wind, but after catching the rope on the third try, Baudoin knew enough to tie it around his sister’s waist. “We have to jump. Hold on to me tightly. Ronan will pull us into his boat. The water looks dangerous, but at least it isn’t storming. We must avoid the rocks.”
Her surprising calmness reassured him. Testing the knot one last time, he lifted her onto the top rail, climbed up behind, clamped his arms around her and jumped.
The cold water took Rhoni’s breath away. Baudoin quickly brought them back to the surface, and she said a prayer of thanks that she’d worn the split skirt, which allowed for movement. He turned her over, one arm around her ribs, the other parting the waves. Her long hair covered her face and she spluttered and spat. She’d always been afraid of water, but strangely felt no fear now. She clung to Baudoin’s arm, feeling his strength, and the reassuring tug of the rope at her waist as Ronan pulled them to the safety of his boat.
“Let me do the kicking,” Baudoin rasped hoarsely in her ear. She relaxed, trusting the man she loved, her brother and the seals to complete her rescue.
Soon they were abreast of the rowboat. Strong hands lifted them aboard. “Steady, steady,” she heard someone shout. Then suddenly she was enfolded in the safety of Ronan’s arms, sitting on his lap wrapped in a blanket. “Rhoni,” he rasped, his fingers combing her wet hair off her face. “Rhoni.”
“Ronan,” she murmured through chattering teeth.
“I’ll warm you,” he whispered.
Baudoin clutched his blanket around his shoulders and coughed, trying to catch his breath. “Merci, Ronan. I feared we were done for.”
Ronan took the hand Baudoin proffered. “What are you doing here?”
Rhoni cuddled into Ronan. “You left without saying goodbye.”
Baudoin shook his head, patting his sodden doublet. “We have a message for Bossuet, from Chester. It may have got slightly wet.”
“I brought a message for Bossuet. You have another?”
The two stared at each other in confusion. The warmth from Ronan’s body was seeping into Rhoni
. She looked up at him, longing to see his beloved face. “The earl has instructed Bossuet to put himself under your command. They are to help you regain your tower.”
Ronan looked down at the woman he loved but believed he could never have. Sea water had made her hoarse, but he’d never heard anything as sweet to his ears as the words she uttered.
It was a miracle, a means to regain his lands, and perhaps then turn his attention to wooing Rhoni. With a well-trained Norman force he would easily oust Lorcan and Fothud. How had she accomplished this? He suspected her father’s hand, but wouldn’t question it.
There were no words to adequately express his gratitude. He brushed his lips across hers. She responded by snaking her arms around his neck and licking him, sending shivers of desire through his body. He kissed her deeply, savoring the salty tang of her skin. “Still wearing outrageous outfits, I see, Lady Rhoni.”
As the rowboats pulled into shore laden with survivors, Baudoin jumped into the shallows to help moor the craft. Bossuet leapt from the other boat. He accosted Baudoin. “I am Emyle Bossuet, commander of the Norman forces here. You and your traveling companion have had a narrow escape. What brings you to these shores?”
Baudoin secured the knot before replying. “I am Baudoin de Montbryce, son of the Earl of Ellesmere.”
Bossuet bowed. “Milord, forgive my impertinence. I didn’t recognize—”
Baudoin turned to help Ronan as he lifted Rhoni from the boat. “You couldn’t have known who we were, drenched to the skin as we are. This young lady is my sister, Rhoni de Montbryce. We come bearing a message from the Earl of Chester.”
Bossuet frowned as he bowed to Rhoni. “Milady. I’ve already received the earl’s message. Lord Ronan brought it.”
Baudoin handed Rhoni back to Ronan. “These are new orders. You are to remain here and place yourself at the disposal of Lord Ronan.”
For a split second Bossuet’s gaze met Ronan’s. It was fully dark now, but he was sure a hint of a smile flitted across the Norman’s face.
Vengeance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 4) Page 18
