Her pleasure dimmed somewhat when she stepped up onto the dais and discovered Sir Ivor waiting for them, arms folded tight across his chest, his handsome face twisted in a mocking sneer.
Once Lord Connor pulled out the bench for her, bowing over her hand before stepping away and taking a seat to her right, she motioned Sir Ivor closer. “Good humor and revelry are the order of the day, Sir Ivor. I will not allow you to cast a pall over this meal with your ill temper.”
His sneer turned to a frown, but he gave a curt nod and took his seat—thankfully, as far away as he could be from her.
Lord Connor’s questioning look changed to a commanding glare as he glanced from her to Sir Ivor. “Ignore him, milady. I don’t plan for him to be here much longer.”
The level of noise tapered off as people took seats at the tables ranged below them in the hall. Moira rose and clapped her hands together, silencing the last snippets of chatter. “I am so pleased to see smiles and hear laughter,” she said, smiling herself as she gazed about her. “It’s been too long since we’ve had something to smile about. But that has changed.” She turned to Lord Connor. “Our overlord, Lord Rannulf FitzClifford, has heeded our request for assistance and sent his brother with troops to help us. I know you’ll continue to make them welcome and to lend them whatever aid they need. We’ve hard work ahead of us, but for tonight, let us celebrate our newfound good fortune.” She reached for her goblet of wine and raised it to salute the man seated beside her. “Our thanks, Lord Connor.” She sipped the drink as the crowd echoed her words, then placed the goblet on the table before her and sat down.
Father Thomas rose and blessed the food, and the servers carried the platters among the trestle tables below. A young man, tall, slim and unfamiliar to her, knelt and held a basin of scented water for her to wash her hands. “My squire, Padrig,” Lord Connor told her. “He’s come into my service only recently, but already he’s proven himself a valiant assistant.”
Color flooded Padrig’s pale cheeks at his master’s words, and he turned his attention to offering her a linen towel to dry her hands. “Thank you, Padrig,” she said. “I can see that you perform your duties well.”
His flush darkened and he bowed his head. “I’ll do my best to serve you, milady,” he said before turning away.
“He’s a brave lad,” Lord Connor told her as he served her meat and cheese from the platter before them. “You’d not know it to look at him now, but ′twas not long ago that he lay near death with a lung fever. He recovered quickly, and could not wait to get out of bed and to his lessons in swordplay. He’ll make a fine warrior.”
As the talk turned to courteous pleasantries, the level of sound filling the hall rose once again. A motley group of musicians had assembled near the hearth, their music lending a festive air. Moira tried to keep her attention focused upon their lively songs and the activities of those seated in the hall below them, but the man at her side proved a most formidable distraction. All she could do was remind herself, again and again, that she’d nothing to offer any man now.
Nor would she put any man at risk through her actions.
A guard in mail and helm made his way through the hall and approached the high table, carrying silence in his wake. Even the music came to a jangling stop. He halted at the foot of the dais, tugged off his helm and bowed awkwardly to her. One of Lord Connor’s men, for she didn’t recognize him. “Pardon, milady. Milord, there’s a messenger outside—”
Lord Connor cut him off with a gesture and motioned for him to join them on the dais. “There’s nothing wrong,” he called out in the near silence. “Please, carry on with the revels.”
“A messenger from where, Henry?” he asked once the man stood beside him.
Henry leaned close and whispered his reply, too quietly for Moira to hear.
Lord Connor frowned, then nodded. “Bring him in.” He cast a swift glance at the gaiety once more surrounding them. “Let him see that we’re not cowering in fear behind the walls.”
Henry bowed to them again, turned smartly and hurried toward the door.
“Who is it, milord?” she asked as soon as he’d left.
Connor picked up the goblet, raised it to his lips, then set the drink down untasted as he realized what he’d done. “I should have asked your permission before giving the order, milady. This is your home—it should be your decision who enters here,” he said. “I apologize.”
“′Tis nothing. I’m content to leave matters of our defense to you, milord.” She picked up the wine ewer and topped off the goblet, sliding it closer to him. “This does concern our defense, does it not?”
“Aye, it does.” Should he wait, have her learn who had sent the man to them, or warn her now? In her condition, ′twould be best if she were not overset by shock or surprise. “′Tis a messenger from the MacCarthys.”
He thought she grew pale, though it was difficult to tell in the flickering torchlight. He’d been wise to tell her, to give her time to prepare herself.
The door from outside opened with a thud, heralding Henry’s reappearance and silencing the revelry once again. The guard stood aside to allow a tall, bearded stranger into the hall, followed by two more of Connor’s men. One pulled the door closed while the others escorted the stranger toward the dais.
The messenger, his dark brown garb worn, his reddish-brown hair and beard curling wildly around his face, strode through the crowd as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
He stopped before them, standing at his ease with the three guards ranged behind him.
Lady Moira gasped and tried to rise, but Connor remained seated and held the bench firmly in place close to the table. He leaned toward her and whispered, “Stay where you are, milady. There’s no reason for you to greet MacCarthy’s man by leaping to your feet. I doubt he’s worthy of that honor.” She clutched the edge of the table with one hand, her knuckles white with strain. Her other hand lay atop the mound of her belly—which moved as he watched. By the saints! Did the babe feel her tension? “Besides, it cannot be good for a woman in your condition to be jumping about like a mountain goat,” he added, hoping his poor jest might ease the tension that held her wound so tightly.
“You don’t understand, milord,” she said, her voice low, frantic. Her eyes were fixed on the man standing below them.
Ignoring the guards, he took a step closer, grinned and made a mocking bow. “Is this the way you greet me when ′tis been so long since last we met?”
Who was he? Connor shoved back the bench and stood, ready to vault over the table if the man didn’t change his attitude soon.
“And who might this be?” the man asked, all signs of humor gone in an instant. “Don’t tell me you’ve replaced Brien—and Dermot—in your bed already, sister dear.”
Chapter Eight
“′Tis my brother, Aidan O’Neill.” Her body shaking, Lady Moira braced her hands on the table and slowly levered herself to her feet. The glare she sent her brother should have felled him where he stood, but his grin widened in response. “Aidan, this is Lord Connor FitzClifford, my overlord’s brother.”
O’Neill moved forward, hand outstretched. Connor ignored the overture and remained where he stood, lowering his own hand to rest on his sword hilt. Henry and another guard came forward, their faces dark with anger, grabbed O’Neill by the arms and tugged him back.
Taking his time, to give himself a chance to cool his temper, Connor made his way around the table, then stopped in front of it. The urge to leap off the dais and grab O’Neill, to throttle him till his smug smile disappeared, was strong—too strong. Lady Moira might not appreciate it if he strangled her brother, despite the fool’s disrespect toward her.
Instead he leaned back against the table, his hand still resting on his sword. “′Tis your good fortune that you’re Lady Moira’s kin, else I’d slay you here and now,” he growled. “I just might do so anyway.” He glanced back at Lady Moira, weighing her response—not that he’d take the words b
ack.
She appeared stunned and weary, nearly swaying on her feet; he doubted she had even noticed what he’d said. He’d guess the shock of her brother’s arrival, coupled with what the lout had said to her—loudly enough for everyone in the hall to hear—accounted for her reaction.
Connor turned his back on O’Neill and rounded the table again. “Milady, are you well?” he asked, taking her by the arm. The expression in her pain-filled eyes struck him like a knife to the heart. “Sit, lady. Rest.” She resisted his efforts to ease her down onto the bench. “Would you rather retire to your solar or your chamber?” he asked quietly. “We need not continue this discussion here. ′Tis no one’s business but your own.”
She turned so they faced away from the others. “Thank you, milord. The solar will be fine,” she whispered. “And I’ll go there on my own two feet,” she added when he would have lifted her in his arms.
He nodded. He understood how important it was for her to remain in control, especially in light of her brother’s insults. Connor stepped away from her as she turned toward the crowd watching them in near silence. “Henry, please bring my brother to my solar,” she ordered. “And post a guard in the corridor.”
“Aye, milady.” Henry bowed, then motioned for the guards to carry out her command. They tugged O’Neill around and urged him toward the wide path that had opened up in the midst of the gathering, leading straight to the stairs at the opposite end of the hall.
Lady Moira drew in a deep breath and clapped her hands—not that she needed to capture anyone’s attention. All eyes had shifted back to the dais once O’Neill disappeared from sight into the stairwell. “We gathered here to celebrate. Please, let the revelry continue.” After a discordant start, the musicians struck up a lively tune that was swiftly accompanied by the hum of renewed conversation.
The others seated at the high table had remained silent throughout the byplay, but now Will rose and drew Connor aside. “What would you have me do, milord?”
Connor glanced about the chamber, his gaze coming to rest upon d’Athée’s satisfied expression. While he doubted d’Athée had had any part in bringing O’Neill here, that he’d enjoyed the man’s insults to Lady Moira was obvious. “Send Padrig to make certain Henry kept a strong guard posted, and have him learn what he can about how O’Neill came here,” he said in a low voice. “Send word to the guards along the cliffside to redouble their vigilance. You stay in the hall and keep watch over the revelers,” he added, with a meaningful glance at Sir Ivor. “Lady Moira has worries enough without more being heaped upon her.”
“Do you need any help upstairs?”
He shook his head. “With three guards there already? You’ve a poor opinion of my abilities.”
Will grinned. “Nay, milord. ′Tis just that I hate to miss any of the excitement.”
“I doubt it will be exciting,” Connor said wryly. “Maddening, I’ve no doubt. But Lady Moira’s presence should be sufficient to keep me from strangling her brother—unless, of course, she decides she wants me to.”
“The bastard deserves it,” Will said, his smile gone, his voice cold. “Simply for what he said to her, never mind anything else he might have done.” He raked his hand through his hair. “But since she’s a gentle lady, she’ll not let you harm him.”
“You might be surprised,” Connor said, recalling Moira’s determination to defend her child. If she thought her brother—or anyone—represented a threat to the babe, she’d do whatever necessary to protect it.
He’d do well to remember that himself, should he and Lady Moira disagree about what was best for her.
He clapped Will on the back and gave him a push toward the table. “Go on, keep them busy while I find out why O’Neill came here.”
Will caught sight of a buxom maidservant headed their way with a platter of food. “I’ll do my best, milord,” he said. His grin restored, he motioned Padrig to his side.
Satisfied that Will would keep everything here well in hand, Connor left the hall.
Moira stood in the corridor outside her solar and waited for Lord Connor. Only the guard’s presence beside her door kept her from slumping against the plaster wall and giving in to the despair enveloping her.
If she sought refuge within her bedchamber, she’d never find the courage to leave it while Aidan remained within Gerald’s Keep. No matter how much she dreaded—and needed—to hear what her eldest brother, her least favorite, had to say.
Why had Aidan come here? Why now? Henry had said the messenger came from the MacCarthys. Did this mean her brothers had decided to join forces with her enemy once again?
Anything was possible with the three of them. If they believed they’d gain some advantage from such a scheme, they’d forge an alliance with the devil himself.
Well she knew the lengths they’d go to get what they wanted. When they’d decided ′twas necessary for them to form a connection with the Normans who’d risen to power in Munster, they’d seen her wed to Lord Brien.
Not that it had done them much good, she thought dryly.
Her husband felt they were too wild, too erratic to be of much use to him. He’d thrown that fact in her face more and more often as the years passed, barren years when she did not provide him with the heir he’d married her to gain.
A chill ran through her as she recalled Lord Brien’s last months. She rubbed her hands over her arms, but the usually soothing motion could not chase the bone-deep cold away.
When he’d first realized she was with child … ′twas fortunate for her he’d been too ill to rise from his bed, else he’d surely have struck her dead. How he’d ranted about old warhorses and young stallions, claiming ′twas her fault his seed had fallen on fallow ground while MacCarthy’s had ripened.
His words had embedded themselves in her mind to taunt her, making her wonder again and again if there could be any truth to them.
Was everything that had occurred her fault?
As time passed, her husband’s ire had abated. Though he had never apologized for his accusations, eventually they ceased. The last month or two before his death—as her belly grew bigger, making every glimpse of her a reminder of all that had happened—he’d changed his stance completely. In both word and deed he’d claimed her child as his own.
What should have been a blessing, however, felt more to her like a curse, for it became a constant reminder of her guilt.
The noise rising from the hall masked the sound of Lord Connor’s footsteps on the stairs. She looked up and he was there, standing at the top of the steps, watching her.
Though she wanted to look away from his probing glance, she met his gaze, raised her chin in challenge.
Pray God her thoughts had not shown themselves upon her face, else he’d know all her secrets.
“I thought you would have gone inside by now,” he said, closing the distance between them, his eyes still focused on her with uncomfortable intensity.
“I’m too big a coward,” she said. “I’ve no wish to meet him alone.”
Lord Connor came forward and took her arm, the warmth of his touch soothing, lending her strength. “You need not speak to him. If you’d rather, I can question him about why he’s come. Though I admit I’d find your presence a help.” He gazed down at her, his expression apologetic. “It’s not my intention to insult your family, but your brother doesn’t strike me as trustworthy. Since you know him, you may be able to judge if he’s telling the truth.”
“I suppose such a miracle is possible, but I wouldn’t depend upon it.”
“That he’d be truthful, or that you’d be able tell if he lied?” he asked. “He’s your brother—wouldn’t you know?”
“If you have the unfortunate pleasure of coming to know my brother better, you’ll realize that fact matters not a whit.” Her laugh sounded bitter, as close an emotion to what she felt toward Aidan as any. “Indeed, if he comes to know you better, ′twill only supply him with more weapons to use against you.”
&
nbsp; “Then I hope you’ll come in with me now,” he said, drawing her along with him to the door. “For I know your opinion will prove useful.”
Taking a deep breath to calm her quaking stomach, she gave him a weak smile. “Such flattery, milord. Though in this instance, your need dovetails well with my desire.” He raised an eyebrow in question. “I want to know what he’s doing here, why he’s come now.”
He nodded and raised the latch, but hesitated before opening the door. “Do you want me to go in first?”
She didn’t understand why he asked, but as she weighed his serious expression, she realized what he meant. “Nay—he’ll not harm me, with you and two guards here. His tongue was ever his favorite weapon, milord. I assure you, I’m used to it.”
“As you wish.” Lord Connor pushed open the door and stood back so she could enter the solar.
Two branches of candles had been lighted, and the fire in the hearth sent off the homey scent of burning peat. The chamber should have felt welcoming and cheerful, but the scene laid out before her made her want to scream with frustration, not smile with pleasure.
Aidan sat sprawled at the head of the table, his chair tipped back on two legs, one booted foot resting atop the fine polished tabletop. He held a goblet in his hand and wore a taunting grin on his face.
′Twas just as she’d imagined; he’d make himself comfortable anywhere, whether he was welcome or not.
Henry stood by the window across the room, his hand clutched about the hilt of his sword and his face twisted into a scowl as he stared fixedly at Aidan, while the other guard, his visage emotionless, maintained a position just inside the door.
Aidan raised the goblet in salute, then tipped it back and drained it. “Moira, my darling little sister. Not so little now, though, I see.” He scanned her from head to toe, his grin changing to a leer. “You have been busy since I saw you last.” He swung his foot off the table and thumped the chair legs down on the floor. “The brat you carry must be slowing you down. I thought you’d never get here.” Banging the empty cup onto the table, he belched and reached for the ewer of wine set before him. “I’d think you’d be eager to see me, after all our time apart.”
L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep Page 7
