Briana

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  She opened her eyes. The blaze from the candle held in the nun's hand

  made her squint. "I've only just fallen asleep, Sister. It can't be time to

  pray yet."

  "I haven't wakened you for prayer, child. Mother Superior awaits you

  in the refectory."

  "The refectory? She's eating?"

  "Nay. She is seeing to a meal for the lads who have come to escort

  you home."

  Home. Briana blinked, unable to say the word aloud. Her banishment

  of one year had grown to two, and then to three, as she had railed

  against the injustice of the rules, managing to break every one of

  them. For each rule she broke, the prospect of ever seeing Ballinarin

  again had become so remote, she had feared it would never happen.

  And now, without notice, she was being given a reprieve. Still,

  though there was the slightest flicker of hope, she held back, refusing

  to allow it to burst into flame for fear it would be snuffed, as it had so

  often in the past. "But why now?"

  "I don't know, child. Mother Superior will explain it to you. Now

  hurry and dress." Satisfied that her young charge was not going to fall

  back asleep, the old nun took her leave as silently as she had come.

  Briana slipped off the coarse nightshift and crossed to a basin of cold

  water, washing quickly. Then she dressed in a shapeless brown

  garment and scuffed boots, before folding up her pallet and setting it

  in a corner of the room. A quick glance around assured her that the

  cell was as clean and as bare as when she had arrived, three years

  earlier.

  Despite the time she had spent here, there was nothing of Briana in

  this simple cell. No mementoes of home and family. No small

  comforts. The sleeping pallet consisted of a rough blanket on the

  floor. On a plain table rested a basin and pitcher, which bore no

  adornments. There was no mirror. For that, Briana was grateful. She

  had no desire to see how she must look now, with her hair shorn, her

  hands, rough and callused, the nails torn and ragged from her hours

  spent tending the crops and flocks in the fields. Even her body had

  changed. Gone were the soft, round curves of younger womanhood.

  Over the years she had grown taller and reed slender, with the merest

  slope of hips, and breasts so small and firm, they were easily

  concealed beneath the robes of a peasant.

  She stepped from the cell and pulled the door closed behind her,

  moving soundlessly along the darkened corridor.

  When she entered the refectory, Mother Superior hurried over.

  "These lads have come to fetch you home."

  Briana glanced at the lads who were seated at a long wooden table,

  eating a hastily prepared meal of meat and cheese and crusty bread.

  With a sinking heart she realized that they were the faces of strangers.

  The lads she'd known in her girlhood had probably moved on with

  their lives, no doubt with wives and children of their own.

  "Why am I being summoned home?"

  Mother Superior motioned for her to sit. At once Sister Ascension,

  the cook, waddled over to place a platter of meat and cheese in front

  of her.

  While Briana dutifully ate, Mother Superior explained. "Your father

  was recently wounded."

  "Wounded? What...?" Her words trailed off at the look on the nun's

  face.

  Mother Superior gave a sigh of dismay. Even after three years of

  training, the lass still hadn't learned to hold her tongue. But at least

  she had remained seated. The firebrand who had first come to the

  convent would have leapt to her feet and demanded all the details

  immediately.

  "The wounds are not serious. But your mother desires your assistance

  in caring for The O'Neil. She feels that the challenge is too great for

  her to carry alone."

  Briana's smile was quick. "Aye. My father healthy is challenge

  enough. My father wounded would be unbearable. Especially once he

  started to mend."

  Then another thought intruded. It was her mother who had sent for

  her, not her father. Did that mean that he had still not forgiven her?

  She felt the pain, sharp and quick, then quickly dismissed it. It no

  longer mattered. Once Gavin O'Neil saw her, he would realize that

  she had changed. She would win his love. She had to. It had been the

  one thing that had always driven her.

  She suddenly found that she had lost her appetite.

  The thought that she was really going home had her nerves jumping.

  Because she had often been lectured on the sinfulness of wasting

  food, she gathered the rest of her meal and placed it in a pocket of her

  robe, before getting to her feet. Across the room, the lads pulled on

  their cloaks and headed toward the door. Briana and Mother Superior

  followed.

  In the courtyard, the horses were saddled and ready. Mother Superior

  handed Briana a coarse, hooded traveling robe. "The ermine-lined

  cloak which you wore here was given to the poor. As was the purse of

  gold which your father sent. But though this is a humble replacement,

  it will serve its purpose, Briana, and keep you warm throughout your

  long journey."

  "I care not for clothes, Reverend Mother."

  "I know that, child." It was one of Briana's most endearing qualities.

  The lass had no artifice. And though she was an incorrigible rascal,

  she was much loved by all at the convent.

  It had been plain, from her first day, that she would never fit in to the

  life of a humble sister. But it was also plain that she was kind, and

  dear, and with her impulsive behavior and irrepressible humor, the

  most impossible challenge of Mother Superior's life. As she looked at

  Briana now, she wondered just how she would fit into that other

  world beyond the convent walls. She'd had no time to flirt, to dance,

  to experience the things of young womanhood. By now, the women

  Briana's age would be wives and mothers. And though this sweet lass

  would be treated like a woman, by those who met her, she was still, in

  her heart, that naive girl of ten and five who had burst upon their

  silence and order, bringing with her chaos and passion.

  The older woman lifted a hand and Briana bowed her head. "Until we

  meet again, child, may God hold you safely in His hands."

  "And you. Reverend Mother." Briana turned away and was assisted

  onto her mount.

  With a clatter of hooves, the horses moved out.

  Briana turned for a last glimpse of the Abbey of St. Claire. Mother

  Superior stood, her hands folded as always inside the sleeves of her

  robes. Behind her the roof of the building, and the cross that rose

  from the highest peak, were still cloaked in darkness.

  Briana turned her head and stared straight ahead. Toward the sunrise,

  just beginning to tint the sky. There lay Ballinarin. Her heart fluttered

  with unrestrained happiness. At long last, she was going home.

  "What is it? Why are we stopping here?" When the leader of their

  little group signalled a halt, Briana urged her mount forward.

  "A village, my lady." From his position at the top of a small green

  hill, the lad pointed. In th
e distance could be seen the thatched roofs

  of sod huts, and the smoke from turf fires, and beyond them, the

  towers and turrets of the distant keep. "We'd be wise to seek shelter

  before it grows dark."

  "I'm not yet weary. I could continue for a few more hours." For every

  hour would bring her closer to home.

  "You have been away now for several years, my lady." He kept his

  tone respectful, but Briana felt the sting of censure. ' 'There are many

  more English soldiers in our land now. And no one, man or woman, is

  safe after dark."

  It was on the tip of Briana's tongue to remind thelad that she was an

  O'Neil, and that the decision should be hers and hers alone. But

  though it stung, she knew he was right. She had been sheltered so

  long, she had no way of making a proper judgment. The lad was only

  looking out for her safety.

  Reluctantly she nodded. "Aye. We'll seek the shelter of a tavern then,

  and be on our way again in the morning."

  Below them lay a field of green. Peasants from a nearby village could

  be seen tending their flocks. It was a pleasant, peaceful scene that

  brought a smile to Briana's lips as she and her escorts urged their

  horses down the hill. This was what she had missed. Laughter, as

  clear and tinkling as a bell, carried on the breeze. The sound of voices

  raised in easy conversation. How long had it been since she had heard

  such things? Even in the fields, the sisters and novices never broke

  their vow of silence.

  As her horse moved in a slow, loping gait between the furrows, she

  lifted a hand and waved, and the men and women straightened and

  returned her salute.

  She was halfway across the field when she heard the thunder of

  hooves. For a moment she didn't know what to make of it. Then,

  seeing the lad in front of her turn and mutter an oath as he unsheathed

  his sword, she followed his gaze.

  An army of English soldiers, perhaps fifty or more, was heading

  directly toward them from a nearby forest.

  With a feeling of dread Briana looked around. They were-taught in

  the open. Trapped. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to seek

  shelter from the trained warriors bearing down on them.

  The leader of her escorts, a fierce, muscular lad of perhaps ten and

  six, shouted orders. "The village. At once. It is our only hope."

  As they urged their horses into a run, Briana glanced over her

  shoulder. The peasants, caught off- guard, were being cut down by

  the invading soldiers' swords. In the blink of an eye, five, then ten,

  then more, were seen falling to the ground, screaming in anguish.

  The air was filled with the sound of voices shouting, swearing.

  Women weeping. The sharp clang of metal on metal as those few

  peasants who were armed strove to defend themselves. Horses

  whinnied in pain as they died, crushing their riders. That only made

  the soldiers more determined to retaliate against those peasants who

  dared to fight back.

  The once tidy rows of grain were now slashed and torn, the earth red

  with blood as the mounted soldiers overtook the fleeing peasants and,

  in a frenzy of killing, left not a single one standing.

  When they had finished with the peasants, the soldiers turned their

  attention on the five horsemen, fleeing across the fields. Within

  minutes they fanned out, determined to cut off any chance of escape.

  Seeing that there was no hope of making it to the safety of the village,

  the leader of Briana's escorts signalled for the others to form a circle

  around her. "Come lads. We must defend the lady Briana with our

  lives."

  "Give me a sword," she shouted.

  But her voice was drowned out by the thunder of hooves and the

  shouts and jeers of the approaching army. As soon as Briana and her

  escorts slid from their saddles, their terrified horses took off at a run.

  The lads formed a ring around her, swords at the ready, determined to

  defend her to their last breath, as the soldiers bore down on them.

  "Halsey." A soldier's shout had the leader of the army turning in the

  saddle. "Look at this. These lads are spoiling for a fight."

  "Then, let's give them what they want." The one called Halsey threw

  back his head and roared. It was obvious that he was enjoying the

  killing. "I'll do the honors myself. The rest of you can see that the

  sniveling cowards don't escape."

  His soldiers held back, allowing him to lead the charge. He singled

  out the leader of the band of defenders, plunging his sword through

  the lad's heart with a single swipe.

  His voice rang with disdain as the lad fell to the ground, writhing in

  pain. "Embrace death, Irishman. And may your sons and their sons

  join you in it."

  At his words the other soldiers began to laugh. When the remaining

  lads formed a tighter circle around Briana, several of the soldiers slid

  to the ground and drew their swords.

  "Jamie," Halsey called to a comrade. "Throw me your weapon.

  Mine's buried too deeply in the Irishman."

  The soldier tossed his sword, and Halsey easily caught it before

  engaging a second lad in battle.

  Brj.ana watched with sinking heart as the lad fought bravely. But

  each time he managed to dodge a thrust from Halsey's sword, the

  soldiers behind him would strike him about the head and chest with

  their weapons, leaving him dazed and bloody. Soon, seeing that the

  lad was too weary to defend himself, Halsey gave a final death thrust

  with his sword, sending the lad to the ground, where he gasped his

  last.

  "That leaves only three," Halsey said with an evil grin. "Who would

  care to test his skill next?"

  The last of Briana's defenders stood back to back, keeping her

  between them. With drawn swords, they fought with courage and

  skill, though they knew they had no chance to win. Even if they were

  to best the one called Halsey, his soldiers outnumbered them by fifty

  or more. His death would make their own that much more painful.

  Still, they had sworn to see the lady Briana safely to her home. No

  matter what the odds, they would fight to the death to keep their word

  to the lord of the manor.

  "Do you think two Irishmen can outfight one English soldier?"

  Halsey's voice rang with contempt. "Not even a dozen could best

  me."

  As if to prove his boast, he cut down the first lad with a single thrust,

  then turned his attention to the second. Though the lad was clumsy,

  he was tall and strapping, with muscular forearms. His first blow with

  the blade caught Halsey by surprise, and the soldier had to leap aside

  quickly to avoid being wounded.

  Annoyed that his soldiers' taunts had gone suddenly silent, he slashed

  out, catching the lad's arm, laying it open. With blood streaming

  down his arm, the lad fought back, but was quickly slashed a second

  time, and then a third, until his tunic and breeches were stained with

  his own blood.

  "Come, Irishman. Is this the best you can do?" Halsey leapt forward,

  causing the lad to back up too quickly.

  He tripped and lande
d on his back. Like a feral dog, Halsey stood

  over him, the tip of his sword at the lad's throat. "You'd best pray that

  the God you worship is merciful, Irishman. For you're about to meet

  Him." With a laugh he plunged his sword through the lad's throat.

  Then, for good measure, he pulled the blade free and thrust it again,

  directly through the lad's heart.

  His men sent up a cheer as he turned toward Briana, who stood alone.

  If her years in the convent had taught her anything, it was that death

  was not to be feared, but rather to be embraced. She took a deep

  breath and lifted her head, prepared for what was to come.

  "So, lad." Halsey glanced around at his men, clearly enjoying his role

  as fearless enforcer. "I see you're too young to be entrusted with a

  sword. Is this why the others were protecting you?"

  Briana blinked. It took her several moments to realize that this man

  and the others mistook her for a lad. No wonder. In the coarse robes

  of a peasant, with her hair shorn, she would never be mistaken for a

  noblewoman.

  "It's too bad." Halsey took a step closer, his sword raised for the kill.

  "I would have enjoyed a bit of a challenge before retiring for the night

  with my men. Ah well. I suppose it was too much to hope for."

  As he stepped over the body of his last victim, Briana took that

  moment of distraction to bend toward the lad lying at her feet. In one

  swift motion she pulled the sword from his chest.

  She cursed the fact that it had been too many years since she'd

  handled a weapon. She was surprised at how heavy it felt. It took both

  hands just to hold it aloft.

  Halsey looked up, his eyes narrowing. Then, seeing how she

  struggled with the heavy weapon, his lips split into a grin.

  "That's my sword you're holding, lad. I'd wager it doesn't like being

  held by Irish hands. Be careful the hilt doesn't burn your flesh."

  The others roared with laughter.

  "Maybe you're the one who should be careful." Briana slowly

  lowered one hand, flexing her fingers. Though she hadn't held a

  sword these last three years, she had held her share of plowshares and

  scythes. Her work with the flocks and in the fields may have whittled

  her weight, making her lean, but it had also made her strong. She

  tightened her grip on the hilt of the sword and tested its strength.

  Halsey's smile grew. "You Irish always have so much to say until you