Warrick was already running forward while other men seized the queen. Joan tried to go to Ronan, but Rhys held her back. ‘Wait. Aileen needs to see him, to try to heal his wounds.’
‘It’s too late,’ she whispered bitterly. No man could survive being stabbed in the ribs.
‘You don’t know that.’ Her brother pulled her into an embrace, and she clung to him while Warrick carried her husband’s fallen body back. The blade was still embedded, and though he breathed, she knew not for how long.
Her fear and grief consumed her, but she could not let the woman who had done this go unpunished.
Joan stood and beckoned for one of the men who had translated earlier to come forward. ‘Tell the Ó Callaghans to put Eilis in chains to await her trial and sentencing.’
The men who held the queen in custody started to obey, but the older woman protested, struggling to escape while she shouted her own orders.
The translator said, ‘Queen Eilis says that you have no authority over the Ó Callaghans. She demands to be set free.’
Joan said quietly, ‘Tell the people I am Ronan’s wife. As such, I will speak for him until he is able to do so.’
He inclined his head. ‘As you command, my lady.’
Were it her choice, she would have the woman slain this very moment for attempting to murder Ronan. But all had witnessed Eilis’s treachery, and she had to trust that the people would hold the woman captive.
Warrick and Rhys had helped Ronan into a cart hitched to two horses. Joan climbed inside with her husband, and asked her brothers, ‘What about the dagger? Should we remove it?’
Rhys shook his head. ‘It’s keeping him from bleeding too badly. Aileen should be the one to take it out. We will bring him back to the camp so she can treat him.’
She understood the reasons, though she hated the thought of the blade still buried in his flesh. ‘The men abandoned Aileen between here and the camp.’
Her brother found Aileen’s husband and told him what had happened. Within moments, Connor seized a horse and rode swiftly to find his wife.
They began travelling towards the camp. Another cart contained other wounded men who also needed care, but Joan paid little attention to them. Instead, she lay beside her husband, holding his hand. His skin was like ice, and she stroked back his hair, murmuring, ‘I am here, Ronan.’
It felt as if she had been the one stabbed by the blade. Her heart was bleeding for him, and she could not stop the tears. ‘You have to live,’ she told him. ‘You must fight to stay with me.’
Her husband did not speak, but she would not let go of his hand. She could not release the terrible fear inside her, and she rested her head against his shoulder. This man had wanted nothing more than to help his people, and he had faced obstacles at every turn.
The cart jostled along the grass as her brothers hurried to bring them to the camp. With every mile, Joan’s own pain intensified. She had managed to push it back earlier, but now, she pressed her hand to her abdomen, praying that her child and her husband would survive.
When they finally reached the camp, Connor was standing with his wife Aileen. Joan learned that he had found her running back towards the camp, and he had brought her there on horseback.
The healer came to the cart and began issuing orders in Irish. The men helped lift Ronan, and they brought him inside the tent to rest upon a pallet on the floor.
Joan started to ask what she could do, but one of the men shook his head. ‘Aileen wants you to rest for the sake of your child. She does not want you here while she treats Ronan.’
The healer was already cutting away Ronan’s tunic, and she was calling out orders to the men. Her demeanour was like a warrior, fighting against the hand of Death. And though Joan wanted to be there, the men gently escorted her outside.
She walked towards the other wounded men, hoping to find someone she could help, even if it was only to wrap a bandage or wash away blood. She closed her fingers around the wooden cross Ronan had carved, praying that Aileen could heal him. There was nothing worse than being powerless to help a loved one fight to live.
‘My lady,’ one man called out in a heavily accented voice. She turned towards the other cart of men, most of whom were bleeding or bruised. The man was holding a broken arm, but he directed Joan’s attention to another wounded man. The sight of him made her heart quicken. She had no idea how he had managed to drag himself among the wounded, but somehow, he had survived.
‘Help him,’ the first man pleaded. ‘I beg of you.’
* * *
His face was burning hot. Ronan tossed amid the sheets, feeling as if his body were on fire. When he touched his ribs, he felt an agonising pain.
‘Shh,’ came a woman’s voice. ‘You’ll be all right.’
He opened his eyes and saw Joan sitting beside him. She reached out and placed a cool damp cloth against his forehead. He detected the subtle aroma of mint and basil.
‘Where are we?’ he asked.
‘We brought you back to Killalough, along with the other wounded men. You needed time to recover.’ Her voice broke, and she added, ‘I thought you were going to die. So many nights, I stayed by your side, praying that you would live.’
Ronan hadn’t realised so much time had passed. He knew he ought to be grateful that he’d survived Eilis’s blade, but in truth, it only brought back the memory of his failure. He grieved for the loss of Brodur, wishing he could have saved the man. He was deeply thankful they had spent a few last moments in captivity together, but he wished for more time. There was an empty hole within him, for now he had no family left.
Weariness and sorrow weighed upon him, but he could not find any words to say to Joan. In the dim firelight, her dark hair was haloed by the flames, and her clear blue eyes held love.
At last, he asked, ‘Are you and the child well?’
She hesitated a moment, but admitted, ‘I...started to bleed, but Aileen kept me from losing the baby. She bade me to lie down and drink teas.’
He reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘I am glad.’
When she drew his palm to her abdomen, he felt humbled by the presence of their unborn child. And though he would always regret what had happened to Ardan, he was beginning to understand what lengths a father would go to, if it meant saving his son.
‘There is something else,’ she murmured. ‘Your father—’
He didn’t want to speak of Brodur’s death. The man had not deserved to die in such a way. Not after all he had done for Clonagh. Grief swelled within him, but he managed to ask, ‘Did they bury him already?’
‘No.’
Ronan closed his eyes, wondering what Eilis had done with the body. He didn’t trust his father’s wife to hold a proper Mass.
‘Ronan, there is something I must tell you. There is a reason we did not bury Brodur.’
As Joan was speaking, the door to the bedchamber swung open. A man stood at the threshold and remarked, ‘There was no need to bury me. Not if I am still living.’
Ronan’s attention jerked towards the voice, and he saw Brodur standing there. A wave of thankfulness filled him with a rush of emotion. His throat closed up, and he fought to maintain control. ‘Thank God.’
‘Your father was among the wounded in one of the carts,’ Joan explained. ‘My brothers helped him escape.’
‘I wasn’t about to lie on the ground and let Eilis kill me,’ Brodur said. ‘Better to feign death and behave as if she succeeded. And when you distracted them, Lady Joan, I managed to slip away among the other wounded men.’
‘Were you badly hurt?’ Ronan asked.
‘Not so badly as you.’ Brodur drew closer to the bed. ‘But when you are healed, we will return to Clonagh.’
‘You should go back without me,’ he urged his father. ‘You are the rightful king.’ It hardly mattered whether he returned
at all, but their people needed a leader. Eilis had been imprisoned for her involvement in the rebellion, and justice had to be served.
His father sat down, and his face appeared tired. ‘I can no longer be king, and you know this.’
‘Why? The people respect you.’
‘Not any more. Not after the uprising.’ His father’s expression was careworn. ‘It is time for you to take my place.’
‘I could never be king. Not after all that I’ve done.’ Ronan refused to even consider the idea. All his life, he had looked up to his father, knowing he was the rightful ruler. Leadership was never something he’d wanted, and after everything Brodur had endured, Ronan wanted to give the throne back to the man who deserved it. He looked over to Joan, but her expression was serene and calm.
‘They do not blame you for Ardan’s death or for Declan’s. It was an accident of fate.’ His father’s voice was calm and reasoned. But the unconditional forgiveness was difficult to accept. Declan’s death was preventable, and Ronan knew he should have been more alert that day.
‘I cannot lead the people,’ he insisted. ‘They would never accept me.’
‘You brought together two armies to overthrow Odhran. You saved their children from captivity. The brehons have already met, and it was decided by the council,’ his father continued. With a rueful smile, he said, ‘Whether you want to be their king or not, the people have chosen you.’ His father rose and departed the room, leaving him alone with his wife.
A hard lump caught in Ronan’s throat, and he knew not what to say. He studied Joan, wondering what she thought of this. When she said nothing, he told her, ‘I have no desire to be king.’
She reached for a linen cloth and dipped it in water once more, before she wrung it out and laid it upon his forehead. He was grateful for the cooling effect on his skin. ‘What do you think we should do, Joan?’
She sponged his burning cheeks and regarded him. ‘It was never my wish to be a queen,’ she answered honestly. ‘But it seems that governing a tribe is rather like being a mother. There are many responsibilities, and no one will ever be fully pleased with your actions. And yet, I suppose there are moments when you look upon your people and see goodness.’
She drew her hand over his face. ‘I will go wherever you go, Ronan. Whether you become a king or not, I believe in you. And I have every faith that you would make a great ruler over the Ó Callaghan people.’
He caught her fingertips and drew them to his mouth. Her blue eyes met his, and in them, he saw the emotions she was holding back.
‘I was so afraid for you,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t know if you were going to live.’
‘Neither did I,’ he admitted. ‘But I would have given my life for yours without hesitation.’
‘I am glad you did not have to.’ A tear slid down her cheek, and he felt the need to hold her.
‘Lie beside me, Joan,’ he bade her, moving over. She did, and he drew his hand over her face and down to her womb. ‘I am going to live. Whether there is a curse or not.’
‘You have to live,’ she agreed. ‘Because our child needs a father.’ She leaned in and kissed him lightly. ‘And because I need you.’
Although he was still burning with fever, he knew she needed consolation. He was careful to avoid his wound but tried to draw her closer. ‘I love you, Joan.’
‘I love you, too.’ She was crying softly now. ‘And whatever you decide, I will be with you.’
He kissed her lips gently and felt the need to console her. But as he stroked the outline of her face, he realised that Joan was right. Leading the people was not about raising his own rank—it was about bringing them together and ensuring their welfare.
If anyone deserved to be a queen, it was Joan. And if his people needed him to become their king, he would not turn his back on them in their time of need. He would take on the mantle of leadership if necessary.
He regarded his wife and drew back. ‘Thank you for saving my father’s life.’
She smiled at him. ‘To be fair, he saved himself.’
‘My father is a stubborn man.’ And not one who would surrender without a fight.
‘Like his son,’ Joan answered. For a moment, she lay beside him, and he took comfort from her presence. He drew his hand along the lines of her body, back down to the rise of her abdomen. He imagined a daughter with Joan’s face, and was startled at the wave of protectiveness that struck hard. He could easily imagine holding a little girl in his arms, her small hand clinging to his. And he would guard her with his life.
‘We must return to Clonagh as soon as we can,’ he said at last. ‘My place is with them.’
Joan nodded. ‘Then so is mine.’ She laced her fingers with his in a silent promise. He did not know what he would find when he returned with Joan and Brodur. But he had to face Eilis and decide upon justice.
* * *
They could not return to Clonagh until Ronan regained his strength. Instead, Joan sent Norman soldiers to keep the peace until her husband was well enough to return.
She tended to Ronan and tried learning the Irish language as best she could. Though she had feigned confidence about becoming a queen, the truth was, it terrified her. His father, King Brodur, had spent time with her, for he understood some of the Norman language. The older man was kindly, and he shared his knowledge of Clonagh with her.
Joan veiled her fear of becoming queen and spent her days absorbing as much as she could. It did seem that the earlier danger of losing the child had passed, and she had not bled any more. Rosamund kept her company and offered her advice on motherhood. Rhys’s daughter Sorcha sometimes climbed into her lap, seeking comfort.
But this morning, the young girl came running into the gathering space, overjoyed. ‘Mama is here! Mama has come!’
Joan could not help but smile at the girl’s exuberance. She was surprised to discover that Rhys’s wife Lianna had travelled so far from home with an infant, but it was possible that he had sent for her.
Joan rose from her place near the hearth and went outside to welcome her. Lianna had vivid red hair, and her new baby son was swaddled and bound to her torso.
Rhys helped her down from the horse and embraced his wife, kissing her hard. He murmured something in Lianna’s ear, and the woman sent him a knowing smile. Then Sorcha broke free and threw herself into her mother’s arms. ‘I’ve missed you, Mama.’
‘As I’ve missed you, my sweet,’ Lianna answered. ‘And look, your brother is crying, for he missed you, too.’
A suspicious look crossed Sorcha’s face, but she didn’t argue. Rhys took the infant from his wife’s arms to keep him from being squeezed by his sister. ‘Come here, lad.’
Lianna lifted her daughter to her hip before she approached Joan and embraced her. ‘I heard that my Sorcha was right, and you married an Irish prince.’
‘I did, yes.’ She ventured a smile. ‘When we arrived in Ireland, unfortunately Murdoch Ó Connor was already dead. Rhys and Warrick set up a new betrothal on my behalf.’
‘I look forward to meeting your new husband,’ Lianna said. With a look back towards Rhys, she added, ‘You’ve been gone a long time. I’ve missed my family.’ She dropped a kiss on Sorcha’s head and set her daughter down.
Her husband only smiled, and a silent look was exchanged between them before he gave the baby back to her. Lianna cradled the infant and said, ‘All of us are hungry, if you could see to a meal for us.’ Sorcha held on to her mother’s leg, as if unwilling to let go of her.
Rhys nodded and went inside. Lianna put her arm in Joan’s and said, ‘I’m wanting to hear about your new husband. Tell me everything.’
Joan admitted, ‘He is recovering from wounds he received in battle. But we are returning to Clonagh in the morning.’
Lianna paused a moment and nudged a stool with her foot so that it was even with the other sto
ol. ‘You seem uneasy.’
Joan tried to hide her feelings and behave as if it did not matter. ‘There was a rebellion and a good deal of fighting among the people. I don’t know what we’ll find when we return.’
Lianna bade Sorcha to go and play while she sat upon the stool, gently patting her son’s back. ‘How does your husband feel about it?’
Joan joined Lianna and sat across from her. ‘Ronan intended to bring his father home to restore the kingship. But King Brodur has said that the people have chosen Ronan to be their new ruler.’ Though she tried not to reveal any emotions, Lianna knew her too well and read her fears.
‘Which means you would have to be their queen.’
Joan let out a sigh and shrugged. ‘It is my place to follow where he goes.’ There truly was no choice but to accept the role.
Lianna lifted her son to her shoulder, patting the infant as he shoved his fist into his mouth. ‘I know what it means to feel alone among strangers. My advice is to befriend the women. Let them help you, and all will be well.’
‘I have to learn their language,’ Joan said. ‘It won’t be easy, but I will try.’
Lianna nodded in agreement. ‘Learn all that you can.’ A mischievous glint formed in her gaze. ‘And you need not tell them that you understand every word.’
Joan bit back a laugh at that, for Lianna had once done the same. She had pretended to only speak Gaelic, when in truth, she knew the Norman tongue well.
Footsteps approached, and when Joan turned, she saw her husband standing with Rhys. Though Ronan still wore the bandages beneath his tunic, his strength had returned.
‘This is my wife, Lianna.’ Rhys introduced her to Ronan. ‘And our son, Edward.’
Lianna rose from the stool to greet Ronan. She smiled warmly, sinking into a slight curtsy. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Prince Ronan.’
He took her hand. ‘We do not use the title in that way here. You need only call me Ronan.’ He raised his knee in a mutual show of respect. Then his eyes descended upon Joan, making her feel self-conscious. It was as if he were trying to ascertain whether she was feeling well, and she tried to venture a smile.
Forbidden Night with the Prince Page 19
