Rhys nodded and chose twenty men to accompany him. They moved towards the front gates while Ronan took his men inside the fortress. The tunnel was cold, the walls lined with stone. They did not light a torch for fear of being discovered. Instead, each man rested a hand on the shoulder of the one in front of him, with Ronan leading the way. When he reached the ladder, he climbed up, followed by each of his men. Inside the roundhouse, he saw a woman approaching the doorway. Her eyes widened at the sight of him.
‘Where are the children?’ Ronan demanded. ‘We’ve come to get them back.’
‘Odhran keeps them captive within his home,’ she whispered.
He started to move towards the door, but she caught his shoulder, ‘He knows you’ve come, Ronan. Be careful.’
‘Where is my father?’ he demanded.
‘They moved King Brodur, but we don’t know where they took him.’
And then he understood what Odhran had planned—a choice between saving his father or saving the children. If he chose the king, the people would turn against him for not protecting their offspring. If he chose the children, he would be responsible for his father’s death.
It was an impossible decision, one he never wanted to make. But he knew what his father would want—for him to choose the future of their clan over a single man’s life. A shadowed sorrow flooded through him with regret.
When the last of the men had climbed up the ladder, Ronan directed them to prepare for the fight. All they had was the element of surprise. It was the best they could hope for.
And if there was any means of saving both the children and the king, he would do everything in his power to make it happen.
* * *
It was still dark when Joan rode alongside the MacEgan soldiers, her nerves fraught with anxiety. They had arrived near Clonagh at eventide, just as Rosamund had predicted. She was so grateful that her brother’s wife had sent for the men.
‘You shouldn’t be here, my lady,’ Ewan MacEgan told her. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘I don’t intend to go near the ringfort,’ she said, ‘but I need to know if my husband is safe.’
‘She can wait with Aileen until the battle is over,’ a male voice interrupted. Joan saw Connor MacEgan approaching on horseback with his wife and more soldiers. ‘We will need help with any wounded men.’
Aileen drew her horse closer and dismounted. She had several baskets of supplies tied to the mare, and she greeted Joan with a smile. Joan inclined her head and returned a smile she didn’t feel. Her heart was tangled up with worry.
‘I didn’t need you to take command,’ Ewan said to his older brother.
‘I’ve been fighting longer than you.’ Connor flicked the reins of his horse and walked alongside him. Though Joan knew he was only being an overprotective brother, he was also undermining Ewan’s authority. The adolescent was not tall, but he had clear strength and a stubborn quality about him.
Connor left four guards with them, and the men began setting up two tents for any wounded men who might be brought back. Aileen began untying her baskets from the mare. Joan helped her bring them inside the first tent. It felt awkward because she could not speak with the young woman, and more than once, she wished she knew the Irish language.
The healer built a small fire outside the tent and set out a pot to boil water. She brought out two wooden cups and added chamomile and mint to both. When the water was hot, she ladled it over the herbs to steep.
‘Thank you,’ Joan said when she took the cup of tea from Aileen. In truth, it felt good to sit down for a time. She had been feeling dizzy this morn, and her body ached as if her courses were about to start. Without thinking, she rested her hand upon her womb, to alleviate the pain.
Aileen studied her a moment, a slight smile on her face. Then with a questioning look, she rested her hand upon her own womb and asked a question in Irish.
Joan did not hide her smile and nodded. Aileen brightened and returned the smile, offering more words that sounded congratulatory. Then the healer busied herself, preparing for the wounded. She lit an oil lamp and placed it inside the tent while she set up her supplies.
Joan stood and helped Aileen sort through bandages. It felt good to be useful, and it helped keep her mind off the aching pain in her middle. As they worked together, Joan took a mortar and pestle to grind other herbs into medicines. Aileen pointed to different objects and began teaching her the names in Irish. In return, she gave Aileen the Norman words.
The darkness began to fade, bringing the faint crease of dawn on the horizon. But instead of bringing a rise of hope for Ronan’s return, Joan’s nerves only tightened. She prayed that her husband would be safe, especially with so many men to fight alongside him. But she hated the feeling of helplessness, for there was nothing she could do now.
A sudden pain struck her abdomen, and she inhaled sharply, resting her hand across her womb. It hurt so badly, dizziness washed over her, and she let out a slow breath.
Though she tried to hide it, a ringing sound filled her ears and the dizzy feeling grew stronger. She closed her eyes to steady herself, and when she opened them at last, she saw Aileen’s concern.
‘I’m all right,’ she said, even knowing the woman would not understand her.
But then a sudden twisting pain struck hard, and she gasped, pressing her hand to the area. Aileen was at her side immediately, and her expression blanched.
Joan was so afraid, she could hardly bear it. It was indeed possible that she was in danger of miscarrying this child. Aileen helped her inside the tent and helped her lie back on the ground. The healer lightly pressed a hand to Joan’s stomach in silent question.
Tears welled up and spilled on to her cheeks. ‘I’m afraid,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t want to lose my child.’
Aileen held her hand and brought over a small pillow which she placed under Joan’s hips, elevating them. Then she drew Joan’s feet atop a stone, as if to hold the unborn child in place. If only it were as simple as that.
God help her, what would happen when she had to stand again? The aching had not receded at all, and she could not remain like this all day. Panic snared her senses, and she rested her hands upon her swollen womb, as if she could calm the babe and keep it within her.
Aileen gathered other herbs, blending them into another type of tea. She gave Joan the new cup and bade her drink the hot liquid. She obeyed without question, though a part of her was desperately afraid. Her hands moved to grip the wooden cross Ronan had carved, as if she could draw courage from it. She prayed for the child and for his safety. Somehow, Ronan had to come home to her.
Aileen beckoned to one of the Irishmen and spoke with him, giving an order. Joan wasn’t certain what it was, but the man hurried away, retracing the steps the other soldiers had taken. Perhaps he had gone to tell Connor, but Joan didn’t want any distractions to interfere with Ronan’s battle plans.
She wished Aileen had said nothing at all. But she could not dwell upon it, for at the moment, it felt as if someone were trying to split her skin apart.
Please let the baby be all right, she prayed. She was fully aware that this could be the last and only child she ever bore. Though she likely should not have come this far from Killalough, Ronan had needed the MacEgan men. She had to do everything in her power to help him.
She steadied her breathing, feeling such fear, it nearly consumed her. Over and over, Joan told herself that it would be all right. She only had to have faith.
But when she looked down, she saw the blood.
Chapter Ten
The soldiers moved with stealth through the fortress. Ronan kept searching for a sign of Darragh, but his friend was nowhere to be found. One of the women spied him, and her expression transformed into alarm. Ronan raised a finger to his lips and she remained silent. Slowly, he lowered his weapon and approached.
‘T
ell our kinsmen that they will not face any threat from us. We are here to free the prisoners, nothing more. Spread the word among the others that they must not attack.’
The woman’s eyes filled up with tears, and she nodded as Ronan moved back into the shadows. He pointed towards the main dwelling and said, ‘We will split our group and surround my father’s house.’
But the soldier shook his head. ‘It feels like a trap,’ he muttered beneath his breath. ‘They may be waiting for us inside.’
Though it was possible, Ronan saw no other choice but to encircle the structure. If the children were free, then his people would join him in overthrowing Odhran—he was sure of it.
He motioned for the men to split and move into position. ‘Wait for the signal from outside the gates. When they sound the alarm, we move in.’
In the darkness, they kept near to the shadows of the outer wall. The bitterness of the night air was freezing, but Ronan felt none of the chill. Instead, he waited in silence.
He knew the dangers that lay in wait and there was no question Odhran wanted him dead. Ronan wasn’t afraid to meet his own death, but he needed to free the prisoners first. It felt as if Fate had given him a second chance to redeem himself for losing Declan. If he returned the children to their parents, it would atone for his sins. And he might be able to reconcile himself to a new future with Joan. A sudden pang struck his heart as he thought of the child. It was too soon to know, but if he survived this battle, he wanted to be a man of worth. Someone his son or daughter would be proud of.
As he moved forward, he couldn’t deny the soldier’s premonition that something didn’t feel right. It was entirely too quiet. Even if his own kinsmen had held back from attacking, the mercenaries would not. There was no sign of them anywhere.
There should have been an alarm sounded by now, for surely someone must have seen them. Or at the very least, Darragh would have received word and joined him in the fight.
Yet an unnatural silence stretched over the fortress, shrouding it in foreboding. Ronan waited for what seemed like an eternity, but there was still no signal from the main gates. Had Rhys and Warrick been harmed in some way? Why had they not created the distraction as promised?
The cold encircled them, and Ronan noticed the underlying tension among his men. Whether it was the icy weather or uneasiness, he could not say. The dozen soldiers remained in formation, hidden in the darkness surrounding his father’s dwelling.
When the first reddish tints of dawn creased the sky, Ronan finally heard the roar of an attack coming from behind the gates. He waited for his kinsmen to take up their weapons and fight—or at the very least, he expected to see some sign of Odhran’s fighters. But again, there was nothing.
He could wait no longer. Ronan raised his hand and signalled his men to join him. With his shield raised and his sword drawn, he shoved the door open and charged inside his father’s dwelling.
Only to find that it was empty. There were no children, no prisoners, and no sign of anyone at all.
Had the woman lied to him? Damn her for this. Time was of the utmost importance, and he could not waste it by lingering here.
Ronan motioned for his men to retreat, but the moment they did, mercenary soldiers blocked the doorway. They were trapped inside, unable to spread out their forces. There was no choice but to bring the battle inside so they had the space to fight properly.
Ronan raised his shield, and his sword struck hard against his assailant’s blade. He used his shield to defend the blows while slashing with his weapon. The blade cut through his opponent’s flesh, and he let himself fall into the familiar pattern of fighting.
He could only numb himself to the battle while his thoughts turned inward. He had come here to fight for his father and for the children. And if he did not push back their enemies, the failure would once again rest upon his shoulders.
Ronan poured himself into the fight, lashing out at the mercenaries. He hacked at them over and over, releasing all the rage and frustration from the past few months.
But it wouldn’t bring back his loved ones.
Ardan and Declan were dead. His father might be gone, too. The weight of guilt was crushing, but he forced it back.
Near the gates, he heard the sounds of more fighting, but it was muted, as if from a distance. He had no time to think upon it, for two men attacked him simultaneously.
His muscles burned, and metal clanged against metal in the dawn stillness. As Ronan struck down his opponents, he barely felt their blades cutting into his flesh. There was no time to consider his own pain—only how he would win.
Behind him, he heard a shout but kept his attention on the man before him. He ducked to avoid a blow and heard the sickening crunch of bones as another man wielded a mace.
In the distance, he thought he heard a faint cry. And then he realised what the woman had meant. The children were in his father’s dwelling, but not in a place where they could be seen. The slight noise seemed to be coming from the floor, and he remembered that his father had a small storage space below ground for wine and ale.
The knowledge renewed his inner strength, and he struck his opponent with the shield, knocking him to the ground. The rest of his men had left the house and were now fighting outside. Ronan had only moments to discover the source of the sound while keeping watch over the doorway.
He pushed back the rushes that covered the trap door entrance, but before he could open it, two more men charged inside. One was a seasoned mercenary, a man far taller than most, with massive strength. The other was shorter, but there was a thin smile on his face as if he welcomed the fight.
The shorter man swung his sword, and Ronan blocked the strike with his shield. He lunged with his own blade and barely sidestepped a blow from the taller mercenary.
‘Rhys, Warrick!’ he called out. But no one came. He knew all the men were engaged in their own fight, but he was outnumbered here. And so it fell to him to defend those prisoners who could not help themselves. Somehow, he had to get the children out.
If Ardan were here, his brother would have done anything to win this battle. He would have sacrificed himself if needed, to save those who were too weak to defend themselves. Could he do less for these children and his own father?
With a renewed spirit, Ronan ignored the pain and exhaustion. He struck again and again, dodging blows and ignoring the minor wounds. A pang of regret caught him when he wondered if he would ever see Joan again.
God above, he wished he had not been so callous when she’d told him of their child. It was something she had dreamed of, and he should have buried his own fears and celebrated her happiness. And now, he might not live to see her grow heavy with child or to see her smile when she held their newborn.
Joan had brought her spirit and her joy into his life, and he didn’t want to think of losing her. She had pushed back the darkness, and her courage had brought him from the edge of failure.
She was intelligent, kind, and her heart held enough love for every man, woman, and child of his tribe. If he somehow lived through this, he wanted her to be queen of the people.
His blade moved swiftly, and he defended himself against the sea of blows. He was the only one who stood between these men and the prisoners below the floor. The children needed him to win their freedom. He fought hard, though the odds were not in his favour.
And when a blow caught him on the back of the head, he staggered forward, raising his shield in defence. Pain blasted through his skull, and he sank to his knees before all went dark.
* * *
Although Aileen had stopped the bleeding, Joan still feared the worst. Her child was in terrible danger, and she did not dare move. Worst of all, she could not ask the healer questions about what to do. Instead, she could only try to rest within the tent and pray for the sake of the baby.
A noise outside caught her attention with the sou
nd of horses approaching. At first, she thought it was only the MacEgan men returning, for she could hear them speaking Irish. But when she heard Aileen cry out, fear seized her. What was happening?
One of the men entered the tent and stared at her. His face faltered a moment when he saw her lying down. He hesitated but then gestured for her to stand.
Joan shook her head. ‘I cannot.’ She rested her hands against her womb, hoping he would understand.
Instead, he reached down and lifted her into his arms, making it clear that he intended to take her with him. For what reason? She wanted to struggle, but if he dropped her, it might harm the unborn child. No, it was better to see what he planned.
He carried her outside to where the others were waiting. The four guards left behind were on the ground, and Joan could not tell if they were dead or only wounded. She met Aileen’s terrified stare, praying that somehow they would be all right.
Her attacker lifted her atop his horse and swung up behind her. Before he could ride away, she spoke her husband’s name. ‘Ronan Ó Callaghan.’
He turned back to study her, and she spoke two other words he might understand. ‘Flaith. Clonagh.’
There were few words she knew, but prince was one of them. And he would undoubtedly recognise Clonagh. Was that where he was planning to bring her? It was possible that Ronan’s stepbrother Odhran had sent these men.
A stillness descended over Joan along with a sense of calm. Though she did not dare risk running away for the sake of her baby, neither would she go meekly into captivity. Instead, she would watch these men and wait for the right moment to free herself.
They rode in the direction of Clonagh, and every mile brought her excruciating pain. Joan bit her lip, trying to keep herself calm. When they reached the halfway point, one of the men lifted Aileen down and abandoned her in the meadow while they rode away. Joan prayed for her safety, though she knew not if the healer would go back towards the camp or await the MacEgans where she’d been left.
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