by June Francis
At Athy, they left the rest of the company to travel the remaining few miles alone. A castle came into sight, just as the note of a horn sounded. Into view rode several horsemen and a pack of hounds. Two men, walking, carried a deer bound by its feet to a pole laid across their shoulders.
‘The one in the fur-trimmed surcote is Desmond,’ commented Master Brandon in a pleased voice. ‘But Kildare is not with them.’
Constance’s eyes followed his, and instantly she realised why he had pointed the earl out in such a way. The rest of the party were clad in tunics and plaid trews. She stiffened suddenly.
‘Let us go and make ourselves known.’ He spurred his palfrey into action.
Constance followed more slowly. Her incredulity was fighting for dominance with her sudden rage. There among the riders, astride her own Maeve, was Niall O’More! She met his eyes, which were brimful of amusement, and her mouth tightened as he inclined his head. How had he come here? Surely it could not be coincidence? The sheer audacity of the man to be riding her mare, and not to seem to be in the least put out by meeting her! Was he a friend of the Earl of Desmond? If that were so, what chance had she of obtaining help from that quarter? She was on the point of despairing of gaining Robin’s freedom through that channel, when at that moment Master Brandon signalled to her. With a great deal of reluctance she went forward.
‘Your Grace, this is Mistress Constance de Wensley,’ Brandon introduced her, his manner slightly nervous.
‘De Wensley,’ murmured the Earl of Desmond, smiling at her encouragingly. ‘I have surely heard that name recently.’ He turned to Niall. ‘Was it not you, O’More, that mentioned it?’
‘Ay, my lord.’ He caused Maeve to move closer to the earl. This is the woman I spoke to you about. The one I rescued from the bog.’ His grey eyes surveyed Constance.
A hot tide of angry scarlet coloured her cheeks. ‘Rescued! I would not have been in the bog had you not pursued me! And then you took my mare, and left me alone in a foreign land.’
‘You missed me, perhaps?’ he teased.
She snorted. ‘I missed my mare! Just as I did yesterday. Your Grace,’ she turned to him, ‘ask Master O’More whether that mare he is riding is not mine.’
The earl turned his head to Niall. ‘O’More, what say you to that?’
‘It is true — but she has something of mine,’ he said, seemingly unperturbed.
Constance gasped. ‘I have taken nothing belonging to you!’
‘Surely you have.’ He stilled Maeve’s sudden skittishness with a skilfulness that caused her a sudden pang of jealousy, and part of her dream was suddenly vivid in her mind. He had long slender fingers that could coax pleasure, however unwilling the recipient, and shemust have been unwilling!
‘It is not true,’ she muttered, lowering her eyes. She would not put it past him to be able to read her mind.
‘Hush now, children,’ commanded the earl. ‘I would know more of this that is between you — but later.’ The lines about his eyes and mouth deepened as his glance took in both of them. ‘You shall eat with us at the high table, and after we have eaten, you may both say what you have to.’ He gave a brief nod and rode on towards the castle. The rest of the hunting party, with Niall in their midst, swept past Constance and Brandon, leaving them staring.
‘Well, would you have expected your enemy to turn up here?’ grunted Brandon with obvious annoyance. ‘And Kildare isn’t here, after all. He was called away on an urgent matter. Still,’ he smiled, ‘there’s no good in worrying about that. Tomorrow I shall have to go on to Kilkenny, come what may. O’More seems friendly with the earl, which might prove in his favour. What did you take from him? You never mentioned it.’
‘I took nothing,’ she snapped. ‘He is lying!’
‘He seemed pretty confident.’ Brandon flicked the reins, and cantered ahead without waiting for her.
Constance gave serious contemplation at that moment to turning round and going back the way she had come. If there had not been Robin to consider, and Maeve — she wanted her horse back! — she might have done so. She sighed, and pressing the horse’s flanks with her thighs, she headed towards the castle.
With Master Upton’s horse stabled, Constance walked sedately across the courtyard. To her ears came the tap-tap of a mason’s hammer as he worked to repair a wall. Brandon waited for her at the entrance to the hall, slapping his gloves against his thigh. ‘You have taken a long time. Could you not have allowed one of the grooms to see to your horse?’
‘I did,’ she replied calmly. ‘It was Maeve that delayed me. I wanted to be sure that the man had not damaged her in any way.’
‘And had he?’ he said impatiently.
She gave a reluctant shake of her head, then felt guilty. She had not wanted Maeve to be injured or badly treated, but she had wanted another reason not to like the man. ‘Shall we go in?’
Brandon nodded. ‘You do realise what an honour it is to be asked to sit at the high table?’ he said, somewhat pompously.
‘Ay, but I have also heard that the Irish do not care for such things. That they have different ways from ours. And many of the earl’s party were dressed in the Irish manner — so I presume that they are Irish.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he muttered, following her into the hall. ‘Some of the Anglo-Normans like their barbaric costume.’
‘I see.’ Constance shivered slightly as she looked about the hall. The sun had been warm, but it could not penetrate the walls of the building, which was gloomy, little daylight managing to pierce the openings in the walls.
All was noise and chatter, hustle and bustle. Serving men and women scurried everywhere, carrying salvers and pitchers. The odour of cooking meat was strong. The strains of a harp being tuned mingled with snatches of song, as a baritone voice sought the right key. Most of the tables were already filled, but a few spaces remained at the high table, which stood on a dais at the top of the hall.
The Earl of Desmond was already seated, and next to him sat the harpist, his head tilted a little to one side as he listened to the notes he was plucking. There were several women of mixed ages, all dressed in bright colours, scarlets, greens and blues. Some wore tunics, while others were glad in gowns similar to that worn by Constance. There was the dull gleam of gold and silver on mantles, and about throats and on fluttering hands. Two young men were vigorously arguing, and for a moment she thought that a fight would break out, but the earl broke off his conversation with the harpist and they drew apart. Then she saw Niall, his tawny head close to one of the girls, and she heard him laugh. At that moment he looked up, and their gazes held before he turned back to the girl at his side and spoke to her.
As they came to a halt in front of the earl, Constance’s hands curled into fists. What had Niall O’More said to him about her? Had he already prejudiced her case by fabricating a tale different from hers? Was he speaking to that girl about her? She was pretty, and she seemed taken with him.
The earl looked up at them, not seeming at all angry that they were late. ‘Ah, you have found your way here, both of you. Find yourselves places. Sorcha, make room for Master Brandon and Mistress de Wensley beside you,’ he called down the table, and the girl to whom Niall had been speaking smiled at them both, and moved closer to him. He murmured something, and she giggled. Constance experienced a spurt of irritation, wishing herself anywhere but where she was. It was likely that hewas talking about her, and she hated him for doing so! She was glad when Brandon sat on the other side of the girl so that there were two persons between her and Master O’More.
A page came forward, a silver bowl in his hands and a towel laid across his arm. He offered the bowl to her, and she dipped her fingers in the warm scented water before wiping them on the towel. Presumably the rest of the table had already washed their hands. A trumpet blared, and the hall marshal entered, carrying a silver platter bearing what looked like — and smelled like-mutton. Behind him followed several other servants bearing dishes.
She ate and drank, and like Brandon’s her eyes roamed the hall, occasionally coming back to glance along the table to where Niall O’More sat. Several times she heard the girl’s light bubbling laughter, and a pang, almost painful in its intensity, shot through her. It seemed a long time since she had laughed like that.
Suddenly there came a hammering, and a hush slowly settled over the gathering. The harpist rose to his feet and spoke slowly in Irish and English. ‘Our most illustrious Lord Desmond will now delight us with his latest tale. Pray silence, friends.’ There was a cheer, which was quickly quelled as the harpist plucked several notes. The earl rose to his feet.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ whispered Brandon, who had turned to her as soon as the harpist spoke, ‘they call him Gerald the Poet. I doubt we shall understand a word of it, because it will be in Irish. You know of their way of handing down their history and legends in such a manner?’
She nodded. Had not Milo’s father told her such tales? Niall O’More, as she had first seen him running alongside her mare, was suddenly vivid in her mind. And as she listened to the earl’s voice lifting and soaring, falling and deepening, without understanding a word, pictures were painted in her head. Spellbound, she closed her eyes, oblivious of those about her.
Niall, a few feet away, watched her. He rubbed at his scar, wondering whose side Gerald would take, or whether he would choose to interfere in this affair. One never knew with Gerald. It was well known that he was a man of wonderful bounty, cheerful in conversation, easy of access, and charitable in his deeds. He was also a man of wit and ingenuity. But what was Constance to Brandon? A De Wensley widow with land in the offing. Did he have her in mind for a wife? If that was so, he himself would definitely have to consider a way of preventing such an event!
He glanced at the earl, wondering if he knew what business Brandon was about. They were to speak privately later. He had overheard as much when Gerald had spoken to Brandon outside. A frown creased his forehead as he toyed with the stem of his cup. There was something here that puzzled him. Did Mistress de Wensley have any part in it? His eyes rested on her face again, and he watched her as the earl finished speaking. He saw her stir and her eyelids lift. She seemed dazed as she looked about her, and she appeared suddenly vulnerable. There was a peculiar tightness about his chest as she noticed him, followed by a soaring of his spirit because there was no antagonism in her eyes. Then Brandon leaned forward and cut her off from his vision.
There was movement all over the hall now. The pages came with their bowls, and any grease that had not been wiped on the diners’ bread was washed away in the scented water. Those at the lower tables began to file out. There was plenty to be done out of doors at this time of year, and Constance almost wished she was going with them. Her mood of relaxation had not dispersed yet, and she had no mind for animosity, but she must regain her mare and strive for Robin’s freedom.
Master Brandon rose, as did the majority of those at the high table, and quickly she stood also. Perhaps the earl had forgotten about her being there, and her dispute with Master O’More? But even as she thought that, he spoke, commanding her to come in front of him, along with Master O’More. ‘The rest of you may go. All but you, Brandon. I presume that you know something of this matter?’ His humorous eyes rested on him. ‘After all, it was you’ who brought the lady to me. An unexpected guest, but quite delightful.’ He turned his gaze to Constance. ‘You are welcome to stay the night. Tomorrow I shall be leaving for Munster.’
‘Then you do not believe me to be the thief that Master O’More called me, Your Grace?’ she asked boldly, smiling at him.
‘Even if you were, child, I would forgive you. If you stole something from Master O’More, I am sure you must have had a good reason.’ His eyes lingered on the bare graceful neck revealed by the cut of her gown.
‘My Lord!’
‘Your Grace!’ Niall and Brandon spoke in unison, and then glared at each other.
Constance spoke quickly. ‘Your Grace, I did not steal anything from this man.’ She rested one hand on the high table as she half turned towards Niall. ‘But he has used me disgracefully! Deny, if you can, that you chased me and caught me with evil intent in your heart.’
‘I do deny it,’ he said vigorously. ‘I would not have kissed you if you had not tried to kill me and put our lives at risk.’ His grey eyes mocked her. ‘Denythat if you can!’
‘I had no intention of killing you,’ she countered, her hands curling into fists. ‘Only of knocking you senseless.’
‘And you would not call that evil intent, I suppose?’ His voice lilted.
‘I would call it prevention, Master O’More. You had every intention of making me your captive,’ she responded icily.
‘Of course I did. That’s why I ran after you. You had a fair chance of escaping, and I wager if you had ridden in a sensible manner, not side-saddle, you might have done so.’ He smiled, before adding, ‘Fair’s fair now. I caught you, and if it hadn’t been for your kinsman taking an unfair advantage, we would not be having this argument, would we?’
She gasped, staring at him unbelievingly, before turning to the earl. She gripped the table with both hands. ‘Your Grace, you heard him admit to planning to take me captive. He should be detained and placed in gaol.’
‘You know that’s right, O’More,’ he declared in a serious voice, his eyes going from one to the other. ‘Child, is that what you would like me to do with him?’
‘It is what he deserves,’ put in Brandon, folding his arms across his chest.
‘But to be sure, my Lord, I did not plan it,’ said Niall unemotionally, staring at Constance. ‘It was a spur-of-the-moment deed. You know how it is — you see something you fancy, and you go after it.’ His eyes rested on the earl’s face. ‘It can involve a man in all sorts of trouble.’
‘That is true,’ replied the earl, with a touch of regret. ‘Perhaps it would be simpler if you returned Mistress de Wensley’s horse to her, and she returns whatever it is of yours she has.’
‘Much simpler,’ murmured Niall.
Constance made a strangled sound. ‘I don’t believe this! I haven’t stolen anything of his. He holds my kinsman captive, Your Grace! If it were only a simple matter of a mare — much as I love Maeve — I would not have come here. I knew this could happen as soon as I set eyes on him, and he accused me. You knew my name because he had spoken of me to you.’
‘He spoke only of Master Brandon, asking whether I had met him, and if I had known your late husband.’ The earl leaned forward, his eyes intent. ‘I had no thought to it earlier, but I have been thinking since. Kildare once mentioned your late husband’s father.’
‘He fled with my husband over twenty years ago, but he was born in Ireland. Did you know him, Your Grace?’ Constance pushed back her braids, which had fallen forward.
The earl tapped his fingers on the table, not seeming to have heard her question.
A great weariness washed over her, and she was aware that Niall was standing extremely still. She tried again. ‘My father has business contacts in Dublin. He could lose all or most of what he has built up over here, if my kinsman is kept prisoner for long. There are men he has to see,’ she said urgently. ‘Please, Master O’More must know where he is.’
‘Ahh! I have it now,’ cried the earl, lifting his head, gratification written on his face. ‘Milo de Wensley. Wife dead. He abducted some Iris
hman’s wife. She was alone while the husband was on a raid with the rest of the men. The two of them spent only a short time together — I doubt it was a week. Perhaps they thought that the husband might not return, but he did. De Wensley barely escaped with his life, and the wife returned to her husband. Don’t remember what happened to her afterwards.’
He smiled at the three of them. ‘You say that your husband is dead, Mistress de Wensley?’
‘I think you already know that. Master O’More, perhaps, told you?’ she said through stiff lips.
He nodded. ‘Is his father dead, too?’
‘Ay,’ she whispered. ‘He was a gentle man, a dreamer, who never stopped talking about this country, which he loved. I often wondered why he never came back, but now I realise that he was frightened to return.’
There was a silence, and she was conscious of Niall’s eyes upon her face. Brandon had moved away, and was leaning against the table’s end.
‘Why have you come here, Mistress de Wensley?’ asked the earl gently.
‘The manor he possessed is now mine. We had no children.’ Her fingers pleated a fold of her skirt. ‘The way he talked about it made me want to see it — to live here, if I could.’
‘I doubt there is much land. He was not a rich man.’ The earl toyed with the cup in front of him, a sympathetic expression on his face.
‘The wayhe spoke of it — but then ...’ She was remembering Robin’s words. Distance lends enchantment. Had the old man imagined the past to be far brighter and bigger and better than it actually had been? A laboured sigh escaped her.
‘Does this land mean so much to you?’ Niall’s question made her lift her head. His grey gaze was sombre. ‘I thought a woman like you ... your clothes ... you said your father was rich.’
