Fateful Encounter

by June Francis

  She was rinsing her hair when the noise of a horse’s hoofs sounded. Her breath caught, and she ducked below a budding branch as she watched the rider dismount. With a heavily beating heart, she drew into the shade of a willow trunk. Had he seen her? Obviously not, because he was dragging off his tunic. He glanced left and right, and peeled off his trews. The muscles in his thighs tautened as he waded into the water. He washed himself in the river, moisture glistening in his hair, darkening its fairness and causing it to curl riotously.

  She wondered why she stayed to watch him, but only when the cold penetrated afresh and she heard her mare shifting did she realise that now was her opportunity to regain her property. Stealthily she pulled herself up the bank, wishing that it had been summer and the willows in full leaf.

  She dried herself sketchily on his mantle, her eyes never leaving his naked back, which she could still glimpse through the branches when he stood up. She stripped off the wet shift beneath the mantle and pulled on her cote-hardie with trembling fingers, before dragging his mantle more securely about her and fastening it with the brooch. Her bare feet made no sound as she made her way to where her mare cropped the sparse grass. When Maeve lifted her head, and whinnied, Constance’s heart seemed to calm its beating as the man slowly turned in the water.

  His eyes narrowed, holding her gaze in a frozen trance. ‘By all that’s holy,’ he murmured, ‘how did you get here?’

  She stirred, and her hand reached for the bridle. ‘I walked, barbarian, following your tracks. Unlike you, horse-thief!’

  ‘You were sleeping, so I — I only borrowed her.’ He began to wade towards her.

  ‘You took advantage of my defencelessness!’ she accused him, her cheeks flushing.

  He stilled in the water, and his eyes, which had never left her face, sharpened their gaze. ‘So far, you have punched me on the jaw; tried to knock me senseless with a rock; slapped my face ...’

  ‘You slapped me first,’ she cried indignantly.

  ‘You punched my face!’

  ‘What did you expect me to do — to lie back and let you have your way with me?’

  ‘There was no danger of that then. I wanted you for a hostage, but we have your kinsman now.’ His eyes gleamed with unexpected amusement. ‘See, had you not fought me — and your kinsman knocked me senseless for a moment, you would have spent the night differently.’

  Heat flooded her body at the look in his eyes, and her hands curled into fists. ‘You are despicable! You forced me against my will! You are all that I hate and despise in a man!’

  His smile vanished. ‘I exerted no force — butyou don’t want to believe that.’ He began to move again towards her. ‘This morning, I went early to make certain your kinsman was safe and well so that I could reassure you, and I was on my way back to you with that news — but I ought not to have bothered. I should have let you worry and fret about him.’

  ‘I have only your word for that! More likely, you hoped, I would wander in the bog and be swallowed up by that — thatfomor you spoke about.’ Her eyes flashed dark fire. ‘If you were in such haste to reassure me, why stop here to bathe?’ He was silent. ‘You have no answer,’ she mocked triumphantly. ‘Ha! You must think me a fool!’

  ‘You are, if you would make an enemy of me, Mistress de Wensley,’ he snapped. ‘Why have you been in the river? I see that your hair is wet.’

  ‘To wash. I,’ she paused, ‘reeked — of the bog.’

  ‘Ay,’ he said grimly. ‘And I did not let that prevent me from keeping you warm.’

  ‘Oh!’ She stamped her foot, and felt like screaming. ‘That is your excuse for what you did?’

  ‘Whatwe did,’ he said, emphasising the ‘we’.

  ‘No!’ she screamed. He was almost at the bank, and panic seized her. Swiftly she picked up his clothes and dropped them in the water. Turning on her heel, she pulled herself up on Maeve’s back, shutting out the noise of his curses and the splashing. She pressed her knees into her flanks, and left him clutching his wet garments to his chest as he waded out of the river.

  Constance rode towards the mound, but when she reached it, she could not remember whether it was left or right she had come, so she chose left, and came out into a different place. She was in a narrow valley where cattle grazed, and there were signs of cultivation. Horses stood in a meadow not far from a small settlement. Near the centre of the valley, on her side, was clustered a group of buildings, some small and conical, but the largest was rectangular. Something about the scene reminded her of her Yorkshire home, and she swallowed a sudden tightness in her throat as a wave of homesickness swept over her. Then she squared her shoulders and started to ride towards the houses.

  As Constance neared the buildings, two huge hounds came bounding towards her, followed by a girl. Her hands tightened on the reins, but when the girl called the dogs, they came to an abrupt halt. She approached swiftly, stopping a yard or so in front of her. When she spoke, it was in lilting Irish, which nevertheless did not conceal the warm welcome in her voice. Her braids were fair and her face dusted with freckles. The wide blue eyes fringed with thick gold lashes smiled at her.

  Relief flooded through Constance. She felt as if she had found a friend, although the girl could not have been more than seventeen, and she seemed to speak no English.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Constance, smiling.

  The girl’s heavy brows drew together and she moved closer, and spoke in French. ‘What are you doing here? We do not have many visitors, so you are more than welcome.’

  ‘Thank you,’ murmured Constance, dismounting. ‘I am seeking help. I was lost by the bog last night and had to spend the night there. I need to find the nearest town. Perhaps you can help me?’

  The girl sucked in her cheeks and nodded. ‘Of course, but you must come in. My elder sister and I were about to break our fast. If you have spent the night in the open, you must be hungry.’ She seemed to look beyond Constance, and she turned round swiftly, thinking that perhaps the barbarian had already caught up with her, but there was nobody there.

  ‘You are alone?’ asked the girl in surprise.

  ‘Last night — last evening,’ she amended quickly, ‘I wasn’t. I was with a group of travellers, among whom was my kinsman. We were attacked, and they escaped — but he was captured. In the mist, I lost my way.’

  Sympathy filled the girl’s face. ‘You must be cold and hungry. There is a fire lit inside — come and warm yourself.’

  Constance’s eyes filled with tears at her kind words, and she followed her in, leaving Maeve tearing at the grass in front of the house. A fire burned in the centre of a long narrow hall. Over it, with a spoon in her hand, stood a girl, her dark thick braids dangling either side of her rosy cheeks. She stared with suspicion at Constance, who was immediately aware of her animosity.

  ‘Perhaps I have come at the wrong time?’ she said to the girl at her side.

  ‘Of course you haven’t. Brigid is always wary of strangers since our foster-brother went back to the hills.’ She spoke swiftly to her sister, who answered her sharply before beckoning Constance forward. A stool was placed for her in front of the fire.

  ‘You will have some porridge?’ Already Brigid was ladling it into bowls set upon a plank on the floor.

  ‘Thank you.’ Constance lowered herself on the stool. Her body was aching, and she was glad to stretch her legs towards the warmth of the fire. She listened as the fair girl told her sister how she had got lost in the mist and that her kinsman had been taken.

  ‘You saw the men who took your kinsman?’ asked Brigid.

  ‘Only one of them.’ Constance hesitated, before adding, ‘He rescued me when I fell in the bog.’ She lowered her eyes to the bowl of porridge as Brigid handed it to her.

  ‘Honey?’ asked the younger girl, smiling down at her.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Constance held the bowl gingerly on her knee. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Kathleen,’ she said, spooning a genero
us dollop onto Constance’s porridge. ‘And yours?’

  ‘Constance.’ She looked up. ‘Your sister is Brigid, you say? My dead husband’s father spoke of Saint Brigid, telling me of her generous spirit. I do thank both of you for your kindness.’

  ‘You are a widow?’ Brigid paused in the act of taking the jar of honey from Kathleen. ‘That is sad. You have children?’

  ‘No.’ Constance bent over her bowl. Her childlessness had been a bone of contention between Milo and herself. According to him, the fault had lain with her.

  ‘That is also sad,’ whispered Kathleen. ‘Your husband was English?’

  ‘Anglo-Irish.’ Constance dipped her spoon into the porridge and supped the oats. They tasted slightly toasted, and she recalled hearing of the Irish custom of burning the oats in the straw to separate the grain from the chaff. ‘My husband had land over here; now it is mine.’ Her brow clouded. ‘I must not forget Robin, my kinsman. I must go to the nearest town to seek help.’ She stood abruptly. ‘I don’t know what I’m thinking of, sitting here and eating, when Robin’s life could be in danger,’ she whispered in a strangled voice. ‘I must go.’

  ‘Surely you have time to eat,’ soothed Kathleen, patting her arm. ‘And if your kinsman has been captured, it is likely that his life is in no danger. They will hold him as a hostage.’

  ‘That is true.’ Constance sat down again. ‘That barbarian who rescued me told me that was so.’ She took a spoonful of porridge, although she suddenly had little appetite for it.

  ‘This — this man, he told you that?’ said Brigid. ‘And he allowed you to go free?’

  Constance was suddenly still, her cheeks flushed. ‘I escaped him.’

  ‘Escaped?’ The two girls gazed at her, noting her embarrassment.

  ‘He did not hurt you?’ enquired Kathleen in a gentle voice.

  ‘No, he did not hurt me,’ she replied quietly, toying with her spoon.

  ‘If he did not hurt you, then all is well.’ said Brigid. ‘Where was it you were going?’

  Constance lifted her head from her contemplation. ‘Naas.’

  ‘It is not so far,’ said Kathleen, her face brightening. ‘I could show you the way.’

  ‘Would you?’ Constance’s voice was eager. ‘I would appreciate that kindness.’

  Kathleen nodded. ‘But you must eat your porridge first, for it will do you good.’

  As Constance obeyed, her eyes roamed the hall. If only, last night, she had known this place was here, she might have been able to reach it. It was a nice hall, although in need of refurbishment. The walls must have once been whitewashed, but now they were blackened with the smoke of winter fires. Against the wall opposite stood a large wide wooden bed. There was a chest, and crowded on the floor were wooden and earthenware vessels. In a far corner she could see a hand-loom and what she thought was a distaff. Beyond that it was difficult to be certain about anything, because the two small windows were at the front of the house.

  Had the barbarian known it was here? It was probable, if he knew the area. Perhaps he might be seeking the help of his companions in the hills, although the wetness of his clothing and the lack of a horse might make that difficult. A slight smile curved her mouth. Even so, later in the day, it was possible that he could come here to seek her. She put the empty bowl on the floor.

  ‘I think I should go now.’ There was an air of determination about her. ‘That man might come here, and I would not like you to be placed in an awkward position because of me. Your parents ...’

  ‘Our parents are dead,’ said Kathleen. ‘Mother died several years ago, and our father fell from a horse and was killed last autumn. If Niall were here, he might be able to help you because he spends more time in the hills now. Niall is our foster-brother.’

  ‘Even so, I think I should go.’ Constance straightened her girdle, which she had fastened about the mantle.

  Brigid watched her, a frown on her face. ‘You say your husband was Anglo-Irish, yet you speak like an Englishwoman — and not one accustomed to this part of Ireland.’

  ‘I’m newly come from England — and I’m thinking that perhaps I should have stayed there,’ she added with a touch of humour.

  ‘Perhaps you should,’ said Brigid coolly, picking up her bowl from the floor.

  Although Constance was a little taken aback, she did not allow her discomfiture to show on her face, but held out her hand to Brigid. ‘I am grateful for the food and shelter. I only pray that I shall be able to obtain help from the authorities in Naas, and that I am quickly reunited with Robin — my kinsman.’

  ‘Let us hope so.’ Brigid, ignoring Constance’s proffered hand, walked away with the bowls.

  Kathleen touched Constance’s arm, and smiled. ‘Come. I must pick a horse that will be a match for that beautiful creature you have outside.’

  The embarrassed flush faded from Constance’s face. At least this sister was friendly and did not seem to mind her being English. Quickly she went with her outside.

  After a few minutes, they were followed by Brigid, but it was not until the two girls were mounted that she spoke. ‘This man — how was it that you managed to escape him and your kinsman did not?’

  He lost me in the mist,’ Constance lied in a cool voice, before nodding her head in farewell and turning her horse’s head.

  Kathleen kicked her horse into motion, an expression of suppressed excitement on her face. ‘Let’s be on our way before my sister can think of an excuse to stop me from helping you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Why should she? Perhaps she would have liked to come with us?’ murmured Constance.

  Kathleen shook her head. ‘She hates the English and their towns!’ She waved vigorously to Brigid, and then the horses moved away swiftly.

  *

  Brigid stood, watching them grow smaller and smaller. Suddenly a hand dropped hard on her shoulder, and she whirled round and stared up at her foster-brother.

  ‘Who was that?’ he demanded harshly.

  Brigid stared at him in astonishment. ‘Kathleen, and an Englishwoman who came here for help. Why are your clothes so wet?’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ he rasped, a pulse beating rapidly near the thin white scar next to his eye. ‘Is she dark-haired and brown-eyed — and beautiful?’

  She thought. ‘If you are a man, I suppose she might appear beautiful, but I did not consider her so.’

  ‘Her name is de Wensley,’ he said in carefully controlled tones. ‘De Wensley, sister. And when I catch up with her, she’ll rue the day she tried to get the better of Niall O’More.’

  ‘De Wensley!’ exclaimed Brigid in an incredulous voice. ‘What is she doing here?’

  ‘She’s looking for her estate,’ he replied brusquely. ‘Where has she gone with Kathleen?’

  ‘To Naas. To seek help to regain her kinsman.’ Brigid folded her arms and stared at him. ‘How do you know she’s a de Wensley?’ She paused. ‘It wasn’t you who —’

  Faint colour tinged Niall’s high cheekbones. ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘That a man rescued her from a bog — then lost her in the mist.’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘It’s not likeyou to lose anyone! And what is this about her kinsman being taken as a hostage?’

  ‘We needed someone to exchange for Dermot,’ he murmured, pushing away the wolfhound attempting to lick his face. ‘And wasn’t it right that I should rescue the woman?’

  ‘It would be the kind of chivalrous act you would perform — but I presume that was before you knew who she was.’ Her expression darkened. ‘We don’t want her here, Niall, interfering and changing everything. We had plans ...’ She wrapped her hands round his arm.

  ‘You had plans.’ He pulled his arm out of her grasp. ‘You’ll just have to change them.’

  ‘But couldn’t you get rid of her?’ Her rosy face was sulky.

  Niall loosed an impatient breath. ‘And how do you suggest I do that?’

  She smiled slyly. ‘You could always drop her in a
nother bog!’

  His expression was suddenly still. ‘You sound like Sil. You haven’t been seeing him again?’

  A peculiar expression flashed in her eyes. ‘Of course not! He — he frightens me. But he — he won’t be pleased about your having a hostage to exchange for Dermot.’

  ‘No?’ Niall’s mouth took on a mutinous twist and he tossed back his wet hair. ‘Haven’t you realised yet that I’ll never be cowered by my cousin’s dark powers, despite this?’ He touched his scar. ‘Dermot is the man who will be the leader after his father dies — and he is the one to stand up to Sil.’

  ‘What are you going to do then?’ asked Brigid irritably.

  His pale grey eyes were suddenly bright. ‘Go after her.’

  ‘Why?’ There was suspicion in her face again. ‘How was it that she escaped you? I would have thought ...’

  ‘Don’t think, sister,’ he said softly. ‘Mistress de Wensley is a resourceful woman, and not to be underestimated.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘Now I must find some dry clothes.’ Turning, he went into the house, praying that some of his old clothes were still in the chest.

  Now that the walls of Naas could be seen rising ahead, Constance began to wonder if she would be stopped at the gate. She knew that it was illegal to ride without stirrups in the Irish manner; just as it was forbidden to speak the Irish tongue and to wear their style of dress, although she had heard that many among the English occupants of the English-held towns defied the law. As it was, the guards at the gate paid her scant attention, being involved in a heated argument with a couple of men with a cart. Kathleen called a greeting, and one of them waved, and they passed through into the town.

  Constance looked about her curiously, and the younger girl leaned towards her. ‘Once this was the centre of the Irish kingdom of the Ui Dunlainge and their successors — long before the coming of the Normans — or even the Norsemen. Now it is a frontier fortress town for the English.’

  ‘It looks like it,’ murmured Constance, gazing up at the castle. There were men-at-arms going about their affairs, and officials and priests hurrying hither and thither. Her heart lifted. Maybe Master Upton, the man appointed by her father’s agent to guide them from Dublin, would still be here.