by Brit Darby
“Actually, William is Anglo-Norman in origin.”
He grimaced. “Even worse.”
“Well, I prefer this version of your Christian name.”
He stepped forward and grabbed her shoulders, his touch no longer gentle but bordering on painful as his anger surged. Alianor sensed the peril, saw the fury smoldering in his eyes, yet felt a strange exhiliration.
“You dare much,” he muttered.
She saw something else reflected in his eyes. Some emotion she could not read, or mayhap, did not wish to. He released her and she stumbled backwards.
“God’s blood,” he swore, backing away. “From now on, woman, keep away from me. Others will see to your needs. But I … I will have none of you.”
Without another word, he turned and stalked from her cell.
Chapter Nine
MANY MILES TO THE northwest, in the province of Connacht, a shaggy-haired man sat slumped in the great hall of O’Connor, a flagon of ale dangling from his big fist. Brooding, he stared into the glowing embers, the fire neglected since his wife had retired for the eve. Bah, Cathal Crovderg O’Connor thought, I am getting old.
Since he and his elder brother Rory had scrapped over Connacht seventeen years ago, it seemed not a moment’s peace graced his kingdom. He took up arms against the English in Munster when they first started their settlements. Their settling was an ominous sign, one many of his fellow kings did not see for the threat it was.
At one time or another, O’Connor fought de Burgos, de Courcys and de Lacys. He sacked castles at Cashel and signed a treaty at Athlone; an uneasy peace held for four years until he got wind of fresh grants given Normans in Limerick, and de Lacys began to run unchecked again.
What satisfaction it brought to burn the castle at Athlone, in effect spitting on their truce. With his appetite whetted, O’Connor went on to attack the King’s own castle at Limerick, de Burgo’s at Castleconnell, and he launched a great raid into Westmeath. He also seized opportunity to heckle an old enemy, Carrach, but the tide of fortune turned, and when the outraged Sassenach and an Irish rival united to bring him down, O’Connor was driven north.
Two years later he came back, with the support of O’Neill and other northern powers. A fierce struggle and bitter defeat ensued, resulting in loss of his precious lands west of the Shannon. Lands belonging by birthright to his sons.
O’Connor spent the next several years warring, wrangling and conniving both with and against the Sassenach, fighting on the side of whichever Norman lord offered him the best terms, with no particular preference. In the end, he was allowed to hold Connacht in fee as a barony, as long as he paid an annual tribute to the Gall. Realizing they were there to stay, and being a practical if greedy man, he proceeded to artfully play one against another until King John arrived.
In a canny gesture with view to securing these lands forever in O’Connor control, he offered his youngest son Dermot up as a hostage, with the King’s promise of a charter entitling him to a third of Connacht. Lackland agreed, knowing O’Connor was one of the few who could hold his own against his enemies like de Braose.
Unfortunately for O’Connor, his goose-witted wife did not see things the same way, and hid Dermot away when he went to retrieve the boy as a hostage for the King.
Furious, O’Connor had demanded Duvessa turn over Dermot. He saw Connacht slipping through his fingers, but in a gesture of defiance she refused, and he was forced to meet the King at Rathwire without his promised hostage. This was unwise. In his fury, Lackland seized four members of O’Connor’s court as substitute hostages. It took quick dancing, indeed, for O’Connor to extricate himself and his men intact and alive.
In the end, they came to a truce. Though neither English nor Irish king trusted the other, theirs was a practical alliance. On Lackland’s return to England, his justiciar negotiated the last of the terms with O’Connor, and made provision for securing the approach to Connacht with a castle and bridge at Athlone. O’Connor returned to his keep in a white-hot fury, and beat Duvessa black and blue for her insolence. But the bitch was an over proud O’Flaherty by birth, and never did an apology cross her lips.
His first wife, Mor, resided at his estates near Tulsk with his eldest sons, Aedh and Felim. He had only taken Duvessa as a second wife to secure a necessary treaty with his old and powerful enemy to the west, O’Flaherty. But the gesture rankled, and now the damme woman was stuck in his craw and his castle.
Despite the initial trouble, further negotiations with the English crown were successful, and peace and prosperity reigned, if a bit precariously, for the following years.
His sons all grew and married and started their own legacies, awaiting the fortunes their father had secured them. On the whole, O’Connor was pleased with things as they sat. Except for one niggling little matter. Liam Caomhánach, his bastard.
O’Connor did not learn of the boy’s existence from Caireen, but from her greedy sod of a mother. Caireen herself hid the child from him, perhaps fearing the sire might kill the offspring as the great lions often did.
When Liam was seven, his maternal grandmother brought him to O’Connor’s hold at Baile Átha Luain. She prodded the defiant lad before her. Already young Liam’s jaw bore a stubborn set, and his green eyes glowed with a mixture of defiance and anger that intrigued O’Connor.
“He’s the spittin’ image of you, O’Connor,” Eithne said, grabbing the back of the boy’s hair and forcing him to execute obeisance to the rí tuathe of Connacht.
O’Connor saw Liam’s eyes flash during the gesture of submission not only slow in coming, but mocking and insincere when it did. A grin spread across O’Connor’s face. Aye, Liam was his throw, all right. From the shock of black hair tumbling across his brow, to the deep green eyes hurling daggers at him, the lad was an O’Connor.
His eldest sons Aedh and Felim both looked like their mother, Mor, a stout, redheaded O’Brien wench. His third son, Dermot, favored his mother Duvessa’s people as well, and was pasty-skinned and pale-eyed. He could not help but be pleased his affair with Caireen Caomhánach spawned a miniature O’Connor.
O’Connor steepled his fingers under his chin and studied Liam. Bastard sons were oft useful. This lad looked sturdy, one his other sons could use someday in their own retinues. O’Connor intended one of his legitimate heirs assume the tuath in his wake, and to this end, the support of kin was critical. Mor was generally indifferent to his schemes and rarely interferred in politics, but he knew Duvessa would not be pleased by his thoughts. She knew of Caireen’s existence and bitterly resented her rival. She sensed her husband’s true affections lay not with the bride bartered from the banks of the Boyle, but the winsome colleen from Inis Córthaidh.
“What is it you want, old crone?” O’Connor demanded, as Eithne’s shrewd gaze observed him and marked his interest. “Money?”
“Why, naught but your promise the boy will come into his rightful inheritance,” Eithne replied, assuming the mock role of a doting grandmother. She pulled Liam back against her, as if threatening to take him away, and stroked the boy’s hair while Liam scowled at his amused sire. “I’ve heard your other wives are unable t’ bear you further sons,” the old woman slyly added with false sympathy.
O’Connor bristled. He got two strapping lads off Mor years ago, but no more since, and all assumed her loins barren now. Duvessa proved a poor breeder, too, presenting him with Dermot who was oft sickly as a babe, and a passel of worthless, mewling girl-brats who must all needs be dowered and tax his precious coffers. He had not bedded her since she produced her fourth daughter a year ago. He had numerous wenches willing to sate his base desires, and he did not find his second wife appealing.
Theirs was a political marriage, and he had only been able to bed the sour-natured bitch by pretending it was Caireen he sported with, she of the bonny blue eyes and silvery laughter. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully upon the result of their fierce and passionate union: Liam. Trust Caireen to throw a son worth ten of
any other woman’s.
“How would you like to come live at Baile Átha Luain, boy?” he asked Liam in his booming voice. O’Conner knew everything Eithne told him was a bald-faced lie. She had nothing to do with her daughter when she had discovered Caireen was with child out of wedlock. Driven from her home, Caireen had gone to live with her brother, Niall, but it amused O’Conner to see Eithne would feign a grandmother’s love now for a bastard to extort a bit of gold from him.
“Go dtì Infùrnn!”
Go to hell. O’Connor’s eyes widened at the Gaelic curse, and Liam wrenched free from his grandmother’s grasp. He was gone in the blink of an eye, before any in the hall could think to snag the brat in passing. O’Connor threw back his head and laughed; he had not been so entertained in a long time.
Seeing he was more amused than enraged, Eithne’s eyes took on a calculating gleam. “A bit of òr is still not out of line, O’Connor. I’m willin’ t’ leave the little bastard in your capable hands.”
“Aye? What does Caireen say of this plan, old woman?”
Eithne hesitated, and smoothed her coarse russet skirts in an uneasy gesture. “Caireen is dead.” He sensed her distress issued more from fear he would refuse her gold than any grief over her daughter’s passing. “She died at Candlemas, of the ague.”
O’Connor felt a pang all the way to his bones. He hadn’t realized how much he missed Caireen until he heard she was gone. His hand trembled from memories as he lifted the goblet to his lips. He had never imagined his one true love would die. But in his mind, Caireen would always be young and beautiful.
He never expected Liam to make it past the fortified gates that night, either, but the canny lad had slipped his grandmother’s clutches and vanished, headed back to Caomhánach lands. O’Connor gave the old woman her gold anyway. He owed the family something. Yet he never achieved his aim, of coercing Liam into the ranks of aire tuise under his half-brothers. Even a proposed promotion to a noble Irish rank, the lure of rich trappings and an honor-price, did not lure Liam over the years.
Instead, the young man remained among the boaire, commoners, and later took up the sorry cause of outcasts. When his people needed food during the winters, Liam turned not to his wealthy O’Connor sire, but his own devices. Stealing, raiding, whatever it took. Pride, that’s all it was. Stupid, cursed pride. In this he resembled his mother, who had refused to ask O’Connor for anything.
Glowering at the fire-pit, O’Connor tossed back the last of the mead, but it tasted bitter on his tongue.
Liam’s antics had been humorous as a boy, but as a man he threatened his half-brothers’ inheritance. By defying the English King, and kidnapping de Lacy’s new bride, Liam stepped on the toes of enormously powerful men, including his own father.
O’Connor knew it was only a matter of time before Lackland discovered Liam was his son, albeit a by-blow. If the justiciar did not tell him, his bitch-wife Duvessa well might. She was not above sending a missive to the English King herself, if she thought it would protect Dermot’s inheritance. She had lost her fear of O’Connor over the years, and lived only to spite him and further her son’s cause.
He knew what Lackland’s reaction would be when he found out Liam was an O’Conner by blood. He winced at the thought of losing more land than he already had, of forfeiting one precious inch of Connacht soil on account of his bastard’s sheer orneriness.
O’Connor’s fist tightened on the goblet. It looked like he must join the hunt. In the end, the man known as Cù Glic, the Clever Hound of Connacht, might well be the only one canny enough to run Liam Caomhánach to ground.
ALIANOR WOUND HER WAY through the dark halls of Wolf Haven’s abbey and stepped out into the sunlight. Sounds of life stirred in the camp and comforted her. Her early morning foray to the well went unnoticed. A fortnight had passed, and all but one seemed at ease with her presence.
At the well she hooked and lowered the pail on a rope until she heard it splash into the water below. She then pulled it up and rested it on the well’s lip a moment before carrying the full pail to the abbey steps. Alianor carefully poured the empty pitcher sitting there full of clean, cold water; the rest went into a bowl for Turrean.
Soon Felicity would appear and retrieve the pitcher for her morning ablutions. A devout woman, she always bathed upon rising and said her prayers at the still-standing altar in the abbey. Sometimes Alianor joined her, gaining a curious comfort from their meditations.
Felicity had seen to all her needs since coming to Wolf Haven, and the two women had bonded in a quiet companionship, often reading or sewing together. Felicity preferred the cool shadows of the abbey, and Alianor always welcomed the chance to get fresh air and sunshine, if nature chose to bless them. So, every morning she gladly fetched the water from the well and looked forward to her time alone.
Today was perfect. A soft and lovely spring lay over the woods and verdant slopes. Not a speck of cloud marked the sky, only a lone hawk soared into sight. It reminded her she must loose Goliath later to hunt for his meal like his brethren. Something else she looked forward to.
Distant laughter caught her attention. Curious, Alianor set aside the pail and traced its source. She followed the sound floating on the wind through the woods to a clearing on the other side of camp. There, she came upon a large group of boys, ranging in age from about five to fifteen, practicing sword play. The clunks and clinks of their wooden weapons and shields cut through the air, and likewise her heart.
Loneliness struck Alianor as the sounds spurred memories of Walter. How many hours had she watched him instruct the squires under his tutelage? Their practice was much like these young men, mock-serious and playful both. As she watched, one youngster smacked another on the rump with the flat of his sword and dashed off into the protection of the trees, shouting gleefully.
Tears filled her eyes. How far away her old life seemed. Like a dream.
“Here, Grady.” A strong voice broke through her reverie. “Hold it like this.”
Still misty-eyed with memories, Alianor searched for the owner of the deep voice. He towered above the boys as he wove through them, stopping before what looked to be the youngest member of the group. He turned and she half-expected to see Walter, a kind but serious expression on his craggy face as he patiently instructed a squire. It was not Walter, but Liam. Reality crashed into her recollections with a piercing pain.
The intensity of the moment took her breath away and Alianor tried to still her trembling. For days, she had stayed away from Liam as ordered and only glimpsed him from a distance. And likewise, he did not seek her out
Her hand covered her heart and she felt the wild pounding there. She must leave. Liam mustn’t see her there in the shadows of the trees. But she feared the slightest movement might catch his attention. She stood still as a deer, watching, afraid to breathe.
Liam dropped to his knees in the grass beside the youth. He took Grady’s hand and wrapped it around the practice sword’s hilt, his bigger fingers helping the lad to clasp it more firmly in his small grip.
Alianor couldn’t hear Liam’s words anymore, he spoke quietly to the child and the spring breeze carried his words away. But she witnessed the obvious tenderness with which he helped Grady. She watched the wooden blade slicing through the air again and again, each time with growing confidence. Liam turned in her direction, the sunlight casting bluish highlights in his raven hair.
“Come, Breasal, show our Grady how to strike a proper blow.” At Liam’s invitation, another boy a year or two older than Grady walked over to them, ready to fight. Liam remained on his knees behind the smaller lad, moving with him, blow by blow, helping Grady to elude and deflect each parry from Breasal’s blade. Finally Breasal swooned and fell to his knees, executing an overly-dramatic death scene to the cheers of all the boys.
At his mock victory, Grady’s triumphant cry filled the air. His high-pitched giggles came in stark contrast to Liam’s deeper, hearty laughter.
“Now, G
rady lad, what do we tell our vanquished enemy?”
“I hereby reclaim Eire for her native sons,” Grady shouted. Both the words and pride in his voice sounded familiar to Alianor.
“Dhuine! Dhuine!” Liam yelled, as teacher and victor both were swarmed by the remaining boys. Little Grady valiantly held off the entire mob for a minute with Liam’s help, until they were stormed and taken down in a mass of kicking legs and flying elbows, giddy laughter and joyous cries.
Alianor couldn’t stop the smile curving her lips. The playful scene touched her. How extraordinary to see the contradiction in the man. An outlaw, a thief, mayhap even worse, yet one who showed tenderness and love to these boys. She slipped back into the woods before they disbanded, and hurried back to the abbey. Thank Jesu Liam had not seen her. She remembered the cold anger in his voice the last time they spoke, the way the icy words cut her: From now on, woman, keep away from me.
She reached the abbey steps and found the pitcher was gone as expected, but so was the pail she had left there. Had Felicity picked it up, too? Alianor frowned, puzzled as she looked about. A noise nearby startled her and she turned to find Liam at the well a few yards away. He lowered the bucket back down for fresh water, the clank of the pail hitting the stone walls in its descent. Once retrieved, he hefted the bucket off its hook and sat it on the ground beside him, then pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.
How in the world did he reach the abbey before her? He must have run, an easy enough feat for a fit man. Seeing him, Alianor found she couldn’t turn away. She knew it was indecent of her to stare, but found herself in an unwilling trance.
The sight of Liam’s bare chest caused a strange flutter within her belly, and stoked a withering heat between her thighs. She remembered with startling clarity how his lips had felt when he kissed her, the way his tongue had touched her own. How his masculine smell infused her and she thrilled at the feel of his hard muscles pressing against her. She saw those muscles now, sculpted by hard labor and gleaming with sweat.
