L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep

by Sharon Schulze

  She fixed her gaze upon his face, measuring, judging him. What she sought he couldn’t guess, but this close, he could see the honesty in her eyes. He thought her a woman without guile. Wary, of a certainty, but a woman in her position would be a fool not to be cautious.

  Control over her future rested in her family’s hands, if she had one, or in her overlord’s. Rannulf s judgment, should the decision fall to him, would depend upon Connor’s report. ′Twas a great responsibility—greater than any he’d ever had thrust upon him. He welcomed it, relished the fact that his brother believed him competent to handle the situation.

  Whatever the situation proved to be.

  He set Lady Moira on her feet in the open area at the end of the path and stepped past her. The ground here was even, the grass a soft, verdant carpet. The dark gray bulk of Gerald’s Keep loomed behind them, but in front of them, the ground sloped toward the sea and the sky.

  Standing there with the wind whipping his hair about his face, he could almost imagine that nothing else existed in the world but this vastness spread out like a feast before his eyes.

  Nothing save the woman whose presence he could feel with an awareness that owed nothing to sight, to sound—to any sense he knew of. But he knew Moira stood behind him, just as he could see her in his mind’s eye—her back straight, her hands cupped protectively about her belly, her eyes closed as she savored the wind’s power to chase away her cares.

  Compelled to prove himself wrong, he turned, his eyes confirming what his mind already knew. ′Twas just as he’d imagined.

  His heart beat faster in reaction to the picture she made—her face awash with pleasure, relaxed, beautiful—or mayhap in response to the eerie sense of lightness that struck him like a lance to see his thought made real.

  The ends of her veil lifted on the wind and swirled about her. Her eyes snapped open and she reached up to capture the billowing fabric, catching it just as it flew off her head. Her laughter surprised him, as did her smile. “Didn’t I tell you it was windy here, milord?” She held the veiling up and let it stream around her like a pennon.

  Her pleasure was an irresistible lure. “Aye, that you did.” He returned to her, noting how the gusty breeze tugged at her body as well. “But perhaps we should find a place for you to sit and rest.”

  She scanned the area, then motioned toward a large, smooth stone at the crest of the hill. “The view from there is beyond imagining,” she told him, already heading for it, her voice carrying back to him on the wind. “′Tis a good place for what we must discuss.”

  He caught up to her as she settled onto the stone and sighed. Her smile, any hint of laughter, had disappeared in the time it took for her to cover the short distance. She held her veil in her lap, wound so tight in her hands that her knuckles looked nearly as pale as the soft white linen.

  Her hair had come free of its bindings and hung loose past her waist, smooth and sleek as it had appeared when he’d watched her this morn, perched above him in the window. It blew away from her, allowing him a clear view of her face.

  And of her anguish.

  He sat down beside her on the rock, near, but not touching her. The pain had returned to her eyes, wound itself tight round her till he thought she’d shatter from its fierce grip.

  But she faced him, reaching up to gather her hair in one hand and send it flying over her shoulder, away from him. “What is it you wish to know, milord?”

  “First off, exactly who is it that threatens Gerald’s Keep?”

  She gazed out over the water, though her eyes seemed focused elsewhere. “′Tis the MacCarthys, our neighbors to the south. They’re an old Irish family. Perhaps your mother spoke of them?”

  Connor shook his head. His mother had seldom mentioned anything of her life before she’d married his father.

  “Their family lost this land long ago, when Lord Striguil—Strongbow—brought the Normans to Ireland. I believe your mother’s family took control of it then. Was she an O’Connor?”

  “Aye. Deirdre O’Connor.” Perhaps he could learn more about his mother, something that might explain to him the woman he knew.

  “My husband was her kin, then—distant, but related nonetheless. Some sort of cousin.” Her expression had seemed to relax, but tension wrapped about her as he watched. “According to Lord Brien, Liam MacCarthy—Hugh and Dermot’s father—had wanted to wed your mother, but her family refused his offer and urged her to marry a Norman they preferred.”

  “My father, I assume,” Connor said, his voice flat.

  “Evidently so,” Lady Moira agreed. “They left for England after they wed, and when her father was dying, he chose Lord Brien to hold Gerald’s Keep for her heirs.”

  Connor shifted his gaze to stare out at the sea. He’d learned more just now about the O’Connors than he’d heard in his entire life. He’d known he was named for his mother’s family, but that was all.

  Rannulf had been here before, had known Lord Brien. He had to have known more as well, not that he’d thought to share the information with his brother.

  Of course, despite the fact that they’d done much to resolve the problems between them, they’d scarce spoken of their parents. ′Twas too painful to drag their childhood demons out, to expose them to the light of day.

  Connor shook off his abstraction and glanced back at

  Lady Moira’s anxious face. “The MacCarthys never gave up their obsession with regaining this land, I take it?”

  “′Twas quiet for many years. The O’Connors were powerful, in their day, as was my husband. Liam MacCarthy didn’t dare to attack them, to risk drawing down the Normans’ wrath upon his head. I believe he feared your father might come after him.”

  “I can understand that,” Connor muttered.

  “But he instilled his hatred in his sons. Once your father died, Liam had grown too old himself to do much save continue to foster the notion that his sons deserved to hold Gerald’s Keep, not some absent Norman lord. After Liam died last year, Dermot and Hugh decided they’d not allow another old man—Lord Brien—to keep them from what they considered theirs.”

  “No doubt they believed ′twould be an easy victory,” Connor said.

  “Aye, especially since they had help from some of the other Irish families hereabouts. Fortunately for us, after everything that happened here, most of their allies refused to help them further. They feared retribution for their part in causing Lord Brien’s death.”

  “And well they might,” Connor said harshly. “You should have sent for reinforcements as soon as your husband was injured, or at least explained the situation in more detail when you sent word to Rannulf of Lord Brien’s death. He’d have sent you assistance at once.”

  “My husband would not allow it,” Lady Moira said quietly. “And after his death, I didn’t know what to say, what to do.” She glanced down at her fingers, knitted tight together in her lap. “I’m sorry, milord.”

  Connor sighed. “Nay, ′tis I who should apologize. ′Tis too late to change the past. There’s no use blaming you for what is not your fault, milady.” He stood and stared out at the sea, letting the wind cool his thoughts. “The MacCarthys haven’t abandoned their quest to gain Gerald’s Keep, then?” he asked, turning back to her.

  “Nay. They simply waited until Lord Brien died to begin harassing us again. Hugh MacCarthy leads them now, though ′twas Dermot, his elder brother, who caused my husband’s death.”

  “From the letter you sent, we thought Lord Brien died of some sickness, since he . . . ” How should he put this, Connor wondered, without giving insult in some way? “Rannulf told me your husband was some years older than you.”

  “Aye—forty years, give or take a few. He was just past sixty when he died.”

  She said the words so easily, as though ′twas the most natural thing in the world that her husband had been old enough to be her grandfather. The thought alone made him want to shudder, while the reality of this particular young woman, sweet and
lovely, with a man so much older seemed beyond his comprehension.

  ′Twas certainly not a thought he wished to contemplate in any detail.

  Yet his mind would not leave it alone.

  He needed to know all the facts, he reminded himself, else how could he arrive at a proper evaluation of the situation here, and what to do about it?

  The fact that he seemed to have developed a rapidly growing fascination with Lord Brien’s beautiful widow was an unfortunate circumstance he’d do well to ignore.

  “How long were you wed?” he asked.

  “Five years.”

  She must have been a child, he thought with disgust. How had she come to—

  “I was fifteen,” she told him. “Lord Brien wished for a young bride. His first two wives had been older—in their-twenties—when he wed them, and they never were able to . . . ” She gestured toward her stomach. “So he thought they must have been too old to give him the heir he wanted. My family are minor Irish nobles. My brothers were pleased to forge a bond with so powerful a Norman lord as Lord Brien FitzGerald.”

  Such bargains were not unusual—indeed, his own parents had been brought together in a similar fashion, though they had had but five years difference in their ages, not forty.

  Aye, and look how their marriage turned out, a voice in his mind snarled.

  Time to move on, he told himself, before the anger that dwelled deep within him stirred to life.

  “If it wasn’t age that sickened your husband, what did?”

  She twisted the veil in her hands, pulling the material snug about her fingers. “He was gravely wounded in battle,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “But he prevailed?”

  “Aye.” She drew in a deep breath, more of a sob, though her eyes remained dry. “He killed Dermot MacCarthy in hand-to-hand combat, but his injuries were severe. He lingered for months before his body simply could not fight any longer.”

  “MacCarthy was of an age with your husband, I take it, for Lord Brien to have beaten him?” Connor couldn’t imagine how he’d have overcome MacCarthy otherwise.

  Lady Moira stared out at the sea, then shifted her attention to the twisted veil in her lap. Why did she hesitate to answer now, when she’d been so forthcoming with information before?

  And why had her eyes filled with tears, when talk of her husband’s death had left them dry?

  He reached down and caught her hands in one of his. “Milady?”

  “Dermot MacCarthy was a young man, no more than thirty, I would guess.” A tear traced its way down her cheek unchecked. “He was hale and strong, but Lord Brien’s rage was so immense … He fought like a wolf—cunning, wily. He felt the stain on his honor could only be washed away with blood—either his enemy’s or his own. I don’t believe he cared which.” She released her grip on the veil and, pushing Connor’s hand away, stood and faced him.

  Grimacing, she clutched at her stomach.

  “′Tis enough, milady. I should not have insisted you speak of this now. I wish no harm to come to either you or Lord Brien’s child.”

  Tears poured down her face. She wiped them away with her veil, then tossed it to the wind. Hands placed upon her belly as though protecting the babe, she said, “Your concern may be misplaced, milord. I’m surprised you haven’t heard already—especially with Sir Ivor so busy spewing poison into every ear that will listen. This babe I carry may not be my husband’s.” She took a step closer to him, her eyes meeting his. “There’s just as much chance ′tis Dermot MacCarthy’s child.”

  Chapter Five

  Moira watched—waited—to see the look of shock cross Lord Connor’s face, to see condemnation or distaste fill his dark brown eyes. When it did not, she simply stood there, uncertain what to do.

  What more could she say, after the revelation she’d just made?

  He nodded finally. “I had wondered what could have forced your husband to meet a man half his age in hand-to-hand combat. Now I understand. MacCarthy took you captive?” He glanced down as a flush tinted his face, then looked up and held her gaze, his eyes earnest, intent. “Raped you?”

  More tears filled Moira’s eyes, tears of relief—of disbelief. How was it that this man, who knew nothing of her, did not immediately believe she’d willingly given herself to Dermot, and that her husband had found out?

  ′Twas what Sir Ivor thought. He’d made no secret of it.

  But Lord Connor was wrong in his account, as well, though she’d no intention of sharing the complete truth of the matter with him.

  With anyone.

  “MacCarthy waited till Lord Brien and a troop of men left Gerald’s Keep—lured him away, I’ve always believed, though I’d no way of proving it. The MacCarthys came in force soon after, their army flush with reinforcements from some of the other Irish families hereabouts.” The sound of their war cries, the clash of battle and the moans of the dying echoed in her mind, sending a chill down her spine. “It had been quiet here, peaceful, for a long time. We grew lax, relaxed our vigilance too much. They found it a simple matter to overcome our defenses, since most of our fighting men had gone with Lord Brien.”

  “What did they do?” he asked.

  “Once they’d fought their way into the keep itself, they gathered all our people into the bailey.” She closed her eyes, reliving again the terror, the helplessness that had nearly overwhelmed her, until she’d realized that only she remained to fight for the people of Gerald’s Keep. That knowledge alone had permitted her to master her fear, to meet their invaders with her head high, her courage renewed.

  “I come from a family of warriors, milord.” She laughed, the sound as harsh as the memories prompting it. “My father was infamous as a man who would fight over the most trifling matters. And my brothers are worse.” Meeting Lord Connor’s gaze, she added, “But I’ve never met, before or since, anyone who took such pleasure from war as Dermot MacCarthy did. He gloried in it, savored every moment he held sway over his opponent.” Her voice shook; she took a deep breath and waited, hoping ′twould calm her, but it made no difference.

  Lord Connor took her hand and led her back to the rock where they’d sat before, releasing her as soon as he’d settled beside her. “Such a man is not a warrior, milady. That is not honorable behavior.”

  “There was nothing honorable about Dermot MacCarthy,” she said, sorrow closing her throat till she could scarce say the words. “But I did not realize that fact until ′twas too late to change the course I had set upon.” She stared out at the sea, at the gulls wheeling and swooping on the wind. Their freedom made a mockery of her life, pulling tight upon the tangled threads she’d woven about herself …

  And everyone within her milieu.

  How she wished she could send Lord Connor away, before he found himself wound firmly within this sticky web! But ′twas already too late for that, she knew, too late for all of them.

  God alone knew how this would end. All she knew was that it could only end badly for her.

  She prayed no one else might suffer for her folly.

  Lord Connor touched her arm, his hand gentle, until she met his gaze again. “Milady, I know it must pain you to relive this. I’m a stranger to you, and you likely wish me to the devil for pressing you, but I must know what happened here if I’m to protect you and your child, your people. I beg your forgiveness, but I will learn the truth of it, and soon.” He sighed. “I believe I’ll hear a more honest account from you than from d’Athée. Tis clear he’s no friend to you, or to anyone with Irish blood flowing in their veins.” He nudged her with his shoulder, his mouth curling into a faint smile. “The fool.”

  Moira couldn’t help but smile in return, though the thought of Sir Ivor and his lies wiped away the brief sense of sharing she’d felt. “You’ve the right of it, milord, but ′tis not because I’m Irish that Sir Ivor hates me—at least that’s not the only reason. He’s always borne me a grudge, whether from jealousy or something else, I cannot say. He was ver
y loyal to Lord Brien.”

  “Whatever the cause, I doubt he’s capable of speaking on the topic of the MacCarthys—or you—for more than a word or two without his true feelings tainting everything he says.” Connor shifted on the rock so that he bore the brunt of the wind pounding at them. “I’ll take my chances with you, milady, and trust you won’t prove me wrong to have done so.”

  As Connor watched her, he could see the internal struggle she waged revealed on her face, in her eyes. He doubted she could lie with any success at all. He hoped he was right, for he needed the truth from someone here, and she appeared the most likely candidate.

  At last she focused her expressive blue eyes on his face, as though judging him, weighing him. “I thank you, Lord Connor, for your trust—and your honesty. I will try to live up to it, I promise you.” A shudder passed through her. “You’ve the right of it, though ′tis a hard thing to admit to you what a fool I was. Stranger or no, ′twould be difficult either way.” She huddled deeper into the loose folds of her gown, tempting him to wrap his arms about her for warmth, for comfort—for whatever she needed. Willpower alone kept him from doing so; she’d not welcome such familiarity from a stranger, nor did he wish to tempt himself further.

  Sitting next to her, being enveloped in her nearness, her scent, the feel of her, was temptation enough as it was.

  She laid her hand on his forearm, surprising him. “I trust you to do all you can to help me protect my child, milord. I know your brother to be a kind and honorable man. Tis clear to me that you are no less so. The FitzCliffords have dealt fairly with the FitzGeralds till now, and I believe you’ll continue to do so.”

  “You honor me, milady.”

  Sighing, she turned her gaze to the sea. “I cannot tell you these things to your face, milord. ′Tis too embarrassing. I hope you don’t mind.”