Briana

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  taste an English sword. Then your babbling turns to the bleating of

  lambs at slaughter. Prepare yourself, lad. You're about to face your

  own slaughter."

  He stepped forward, giving a deft jab with his sword tip. To his

  surprise his opponent danced to one side and caught his arm with a

  sharp slice. The yelp that bubbled to his lips was quickly turned into a

  string of oaths, in order to save face in front of his watching men.

  "The Irishman must pay for that, Halsey," one of his soldiers called.

  "Aye." Gritting his teeth, Halsey charged forward, determined to

  inflict pain.

  Instead, his opponent once more managed to avoid his sword and

  swung out, catching his shoulder with a sword tip.

  As blood spilled down the front of his tunic, his eyes narrowed to tiny

  slits. Gone was the sly smile of a moment ago. Now, this was no

  longer sport. It had become deadly serious.

  "I tire of this game, Irishman." He signalled to two of his soldiers.

  "Hold the lad while I teach him a lesson."

  Briana turned to face the two men who advanced. Wielding the sword

  like a club, she swung out viciously, and had the satisfaction of seeing

  them back away rather than face her weapon. But, with her back to

  Halsey, she was defenseless. She felt the white-hot thrust of a sword

  as it pierced her shoulder. The weapon dropped from her fingers and

  fell to the ground.

  Stunned and reeling, she turned to face her attacker. His smile was

  back. His eyes were glazed with a lust for blood.

  Up close she could see that his face bore the scars of many battles.

  His nose had been broken. His left ear had been cut away, leaving

  only a raw, puckered scar.

  "Now will you know death, Irishman." His voice was a low taunt.

  "Not only your own, but the death of this land, as well. For all of it,

  and all who live in it, will answer to an English sword."

  "Hold him," he shouted to his soldiers. "And this time, see that he

  doesn't break free."

  With one soldier on either side of her, holding firmly to her arms,

  Briana was unable to move. She kept her eyes open as the one called

  Halsey drew back his hand and brought the sword forward with one

  powerful thrust. When the blade entered her chest she felt nothing at

  first, as her legs failed her and sent her crashing to the ground. And

  then there was pain, hotter than any fire, burning her flesh, melting

  her bones. Pain that seemed to go on and on until she could no longer

  bear it.

  A loud roaring, like thunder, filled her head. Then, from far away,

  came the sound of laughter. And Halsey's voice, that seemed to rise

  and fall. "Come. Let's find a tavern, and wash away the taste of these

  filthy Irish."

  And then, mercifully, there was only numbness. And a deep black

  hole that swirled and swirled, stealing her sight, her mind, enveloping

  her in total darkness, as it slowly closed around her and took her

  down to the depths of hell.

  Chapter Two

  Bloody barbarians." The old man from the nearby village knelt beside

  the body of his brother, cradling the familiar head in his lap.

  "Aye." His son nodded toward the lord of the manor, who had

  brought a wagonload of servants to survey the carnage. "And there's

  another one of them."

  "Aye. Bloody Englishman. A pity, what he's become. I knew his

  grandfather. Now there was a true and loyal son of Ireland."

  "You can't say the same for his father."

  "Nay. A wastrel, true enough. And now his son has returned as a titled

  gentleman. The only reason he came home was to claim his

  inheritance. With his father dead, he'll take the fruits of our labors

  back to England, to live as his father before him, like royalty."

  ' 'The bloody English will soon enough own all the land and everyone

  on it."

  Though Keane O'Mara couldn't help but overhear the mutterings of

  the villagers, he gave no indication as he moved among the dead. On

  his face was a look of complete disdain. It was the only expression the

  villagers had seen since his recent return to his childhood home.

  When he came upon a body that had not been claimed, he paused.

  "How many, Vinson?" he asked his servant.

  The old man hobbled closer. "I've counted a score and ten, my lord."

  Keane struggled to show no emotion. Thirty men, women, even a few

  children. All caught by surprise, apparently, while tending the fields.

  With nothing more than a handful of weapons among them with

  which to defend themselves.

  He'd come upon this sort of thing so many times lately, he'd begun to

  lose count of the bodies. The bloody scenes of carnage had begun to

  blur together in his mind, so that they all seemed one and the same.

  And yet, each was different. Each time, he was reminded of the

  families who would grieve. The widows who would never again see

  their husbands. The orphans who would grow up without knowing

  their parents. He winced. The parents who would carry the loss of

  their children in their hearts forever.

  "Has Father Murphy finished the last rites?"

  The old man nodded.

  "Order the servants to begin loading them into wagons for burial."

  "Aye, my lord." Vinson shuffled off, and soon a staff of servants

  began the terrible task of lifting the bloody, bloated bodies onto carts

  and wagons for burial in the field behind the chapel, on the grounds of

  the family keep.

  Many of the villagers had brought their own carts, and they now

  trailed behind in silence, unable to give voice to their grief. Only the

  anguish in their eyes spoke of their pain and sorrow.

  As Keane approached yet another bloody section of field, his servant

  looked up. "These five were not of the village, my lord."

  "You're certain?"

  "Aye, my lord. Neither the priest nor the villagers has ever seen them

  before. They must have been strangers, who were just passing

  through."

  "A pity they chose this time." Keane turned away. "Before you bury

  them, examine their cloaks and weapons. Perhaps you'll find a

  missive or a crest that will tell us the name of their village."

  He hadn't take more than a dozen steps when the elderly servant

  called excitedly, "One of these lads is alive, my lord."

  Keane returned and stared down at the figure, crusted with mud and

  dried blood, the face half hidden in the folds of a twisted hood.

  "You're certain?"

  "Aye, my lord." Vinson leaned close, feeling the merest puff of

  warmth from between lips that were parched and bloody. "There's

  breath in him yet."

  ' 'From the looks of him, he put up a bit of a fight. Take him to my

  keep and see to him, Vinson."

  "Aye, my lord." The old man got to his feet. "Though his heartbeat's

  so feeble, he might not survive the trek."

  Keane gave a sigh of disgust. So many wasted young lives. "All we

  can do is try. And hope he survives."

  A servant approached, leading the lord's stallion. Keane pulled

  himself into the saddle and began the long sad journey to the chapel,

  where he
would try to give what comfort he could to the grieving

  villagers. If he were his grandfather the villagers would accept what

  he offered. But because he was viewed as an outsider, his attempts

  would be rebuffed.

  All along the way he prepared himself for the storm of anger and grief

  and bitterness that would be expressed. There was a groundswell of

  hatred festering, and for good reason. There would come a time, he

  knew, when it would spill over into war. And when it did, there would

  be even more death and destruction. For the English would never give

  up their hold on this land and its people. And though he understood

  the need for vengeance, he also knew the futility of it. Despite the

  growing tide of sentiment against the English, this small, poor land

  was no match for England's armies.

  Hadn't he learned the lesson well enough? And hadn't he already paid

  the supreme sacrifice for his devotion to the wrong cause?

  The thought of his loss brought an ache so deep, so painful, it nearly

  cut off his breath.

  Aye. He'd paid. And he'd learned. But that didn't mean he'd given up

  hope. It just meant he'd mastered the art of patience. For a while

  longer he would bide his time and get his father's affairs in order. And

  then he would leave this sad land, with its sad memories, and try to

  make a life somewhere. Anywhere. As long as he would no longer

  have to remember the past with all its bitterness.

  "Good even, my lord. Mistress Malloy has kept a meal on the fire for

  you."

  Keane shrugged out of his heavy cloak and shook the rain from his

  hair. "I've no appetite, Vinson. Bring me a tankard." He started

  toward the stairs, favoring his left leg. He only gave in to the pain

  when he was too tired to fight it. At the moment, he was on the verge

  of exhaustion. "I'll be in my chambers."

  "Aye, my lord." The old servant cleared his throat and Keane paused,

  knowing there was something important Vinson needed to say. It was

  always the same. When the old man needed to speak, he first had to

  clear his throat and prepare himself for the task.

  "Perhaps, my lord, you could step into the chambers next to yours on

  your way."

  Keane gave a sigh of impatience. The events of the day had dragged

  him to the depths, and all he wanted was to wash away the bitter taste

  with ale. "I'm sure there's a good reason?"

  "Aye, my lord." The old man carefully hung the damp cloak on a

  hook, then picked up a tray on which rested a decanter and a silver

  tankard. He climbed the stairs behind his master.

  At the upper hallway Keane gave a fleeting glance at the door to his

  chambers, then resolutely moved past it to tear open a second door.

  Inside a serving wench looked up from the figure in the bed, then

  stepped aside to make room for the master.

  "Ah. The lad." Keane walked to the bedside. "With all that transpired

  this day, I'd nearly forgotten about him. I see he survived, Vinson."

  "Aye, my lord. But..." Vinson cleared his throat again.

  Keane waited, a little less patiently.

  'The lad isn't. A lad, I mean. He's a...lass, my lord."

  Keane turned. The old man was actually blushing. Carrick House had

  been, after all, a male bastion for a quarter of a century. Except for the

  serving wenches, and a housekeeper who had been in residence since

  Keane's father was a lad, there had been no females under this roof.

  "I'd managed to wash away most of the mud and blood from his...her

  face. But when I cut away his...her cloak, I..." Vinson swallowed. "I

  summoned young Cora to see to her."

  Keane took a closer look at the figure in the bed. Several thicknesses

  of bed linens hid the shape of her body, but he could recall no hint of

  womanly curves beneath the shapeless robes she'd been wearing on

  the field of battle. Now that the face was washed, it was obvious that

  the features were decidedly feminine. A small, upturned nose. High

  cheekbones. Perfectly sculpted lips. The hair had been cut so close to

  the head, it was little more than a cap of tight red curls.

  "A natural enough mistake. What do you make of it, Vinson?"

  "Cora found this around the lass's neck." The old man held up a small

  cross, tied to a simple cord. "A nun, I'd say."

  Keane nodded as understanding flooded his tired mind. "Aye. Of

  course. That would explain the simple garb and shorn hair. But what

  of the lads with her?"

  The old servant shrugged. "I haven't fathomed that, my lord. We can

  only hope that the lass will live long enough to tell us."

  "How does she fare?"

  The old man and the young servant exchanged glances. "The wounds

  are extreme. The one to the shoulder is festering. The one to the chest

  left her barely clinging to life. The sword passed clear through,

  missing her heart. She hovers between this world and the next. If her

  heart and her will to live are strong enough..." The old man shrugged.

  "The next day or two will tell the tale."

  Keane nodded, then turned toward the door. "You'll wake me if she

  grows weaker."

  "Aye, my lord." The serving wench returned to her bedside vigil,

  while Keane and Vinson took their leave.

  In his chambers, Keane strode to the fireplace and stared into the

  flames.

  Vinson filled a tankard and handed it to him. "Will I fetch you some

  food now, my lord?"

  Keane shook his head. "Nay. The morrow will be soon enough. Take

  your rest, Vinson."

  "Aye, my lord." The old man seemed eager to escape to his bed.

  Nearly disrobing a young female had left him badly shaken.

  When he was gone, Keane drained the tankard in one long swallow.

  Then, after prying off his boots and removing his tunic, he refilled the

  tankard and drank more slowly, all the while staring into the flames.

  He thought about the lass in the next room, hovering between life and

  death. She'd barely had time to live. If Vinson was correct, what few

  years she'd had were lived in the shelter of a cloister. No time to

  laugh, to play. He frowned. No time to know the love of a good man.,

  nor the joy of children.

  A pretty enough face. No visible scars, though heaven knew, most

  scars were carefully hidden. Weren't his own? Still, he wondered

  what it was that drove young women to seek the seclusion of an

  abbey. Were they really there to serve God? Or were they hiding from

  the world?

  No matter. This one appeared young and innocent.

  Why was it always the innocent who must pay for the sins of

  arrogance committed by those in power?

  He walked to the bedside table and picked up the framed miniature,

  studying once again the face of the one who held his heart. There

  were times, like this moment, when the pain was too deep, the sense

  of loss too painful to bear. But he had done the right thing. The only

  thing. Yet, if that be true, why did he feel like such a failure?

  Suddenly overwhelmed by sadness and frustration, he hurled the

  tankard against the wall. With a string of oaths he dropped onto his

  back on his bed and passed a hand
over his eyes.

  Would there ever be an end to the misery? Or would he be forced to

  watch helplessly as all those he loved were forced to pay for his

  mistakes?

  Dear God, he was weary. So weary. He prayed sleep would visit him.

  Else, he would be forced to fight his demons until dawn chased the

  darkness away.

  "My lord."

  Keane awoke instantly and found himself bathed in sweat. The

  demons, it would seem, were especially vile this night.

  "Aye, Vinson. What is it?"

  The old man stood beside the bed, holding aloft a candle. His robe

  had been hastily tossed over a nightshirt, his silver hair sticking out at

  odd angles. "The wench, Cora, summoned me. She feels the lass is at

  death's door."

  Keane sprang from his bed. Without taking time for a tunic or boots

  he led the way to the room next door.

  The young servant straightened when the lord en-tered the room. In

  her hand was a square of linen, which she had been wringing out in a

  basin of water.

  "Oh, my lord," she whispered. "The lass is slipping away."

  Keane touched a hand to the lass's forehead and pulled it away with a

  jerk. "Her flesh is on fire."

  "Aye. I can no longer bring down the fever, my lord."

  He studied the still, pale figure in the bed, seeing another's face in his

  mind. How tragic that so many innocents were lost in battles not of

  their making.

  "I've done all I can, my lord. But I fear we've lost her."

  Perhaps it was the finality of the servant's words. Or the futility of his

  own nightly battles with his demons. Whatever the reason, Keane

  became infused with a new sense of purpose, a fresh burst of energy.

  This was one battle he wouldn't lose without at least putting up a

  fight.

  "Wake Mistress Malloy. Tell her to prepare a bath."

  "A...bath, my lord?"

  "Aye." He took the linen from her hand and dipped it into the basin.

  "A cold bath, Cora."

  As Vinson watched, Keane placed the cool cloth on the lass's

  forehead, then moved it across her cheeks, her mouth, her throat. As

  quickly as the cloth touched her fevered flesh, it became warm to the

  touch. Keane then dipped it into the basin once more, wrung it out

  and repeated the process.

  Holding the candle aloft, the old man watched the lass's face for any

  reaction. There was none. No sign of relief from the fever that burned.