by Brit Darby
Liam blocked the wild blow with ease, and Alianor gasped when his hands clenched in defensive instinct. His dark green eyes sparkled dangerously, yet he did not strike Camber. Perhaps because her brother’s love for her was sketched on his anguished face, or maybe because he understood Cam had lashed out in pure frustration at his own part in this fiasco.
Alianor intervened and took control. “Cam,” she said, grabbing her brother’s arm so he could not swing at Liam again. He might not be so lucky a second time; even Liam had a limit to his tolerance. “It’s true. I agreed to marry de Lacy to keep you safe.”
Camber blinked, dazed. He had never struck another man before, nor even tried to. Not even in self-defense. Nora brought out his protective side, but her gentle rebuke shamed him. It had always been thus. Nora was the one in charge, the elder sister who mothered him. He stepped back from Liam, glancing sheepishly at her.
Alianor nodded, pleased with his decision to stand down. “Don’t you see, Cam, my original fate was postponed due to Caomhánach,” she said. “Indeed, it was a fortunate turn of events, for otherwise I would be de Lacy’s wife. A fate I fear I would not survive.”
Camber nodded. “I heard tale of his first wife’s death. Rumors say ’twas no accident.”
“I believe it’s true; de Lacy insinuated as much to me. He made it clear I should not make the same mistakes Lady Juliana had.”
Liam glanced at her, startled. A snarl curled his lip. “What loving brother lets his sister be bartered off to a fiend?”
Alianor immediately came to Cam’s defense. “He did not know, Liam. I told him nothing of the King’s threats. It would only bring danger upon Cam and his brethren. Why should innocents suffer for the King’s evil games?”
“Why should you?” With an angry oath, Liam pushed past them and disappeared into the gawking throng. The blood drained from Alianor’s face as the full impact of the danger they all faced crept past her weariness. She buried her face in her hands.
“Nora.” Camber pulled her back into his arms, his voice trembling with distress. “Oh, Nora, please don’t cry.”
“De Lacy tried to kill Liam,” she cried, her voice faint and husky, her shock and exhaustion reflected in her hushed tone. “He almost succeeded. But I couldn’t let it happen, I couldn’t let Liam die.”
She sensed Camber’s silent question: why? Her shoulders shook with sobs. “I love him, Cam,” she whispered against his shoulder. “Heaven help me, but I do.”
LIAM KICKED OPEN THE door to the hut, startling the two people inside. The sight of Rosy cuddled in Torin’s arms sent his anger over the top. When the couple looked over in surprise, his eyes narrowed.
“Liam!” Rosy’s shock seemed genuine. “Liam, you’re alive.” Her face paled as she scrambled to her feet. It was obvious she had not expected him to return from the hostage exchange.
“You bastard,” Liam growled. Torin jumped up from the cot, unable to meet Liam’s accusing gaze. He shifted nervously, inching towards the door Liam blocked. “How much did de Lacy pay you to betray me?”
Rosy screeched and whirled on Torin. “You wanted Liam dead? Why?”
Hatred twisted Torin’s face. “Why?” he spat. “Because I’ll no’ play second fiddle to yer heart, Rosy MacNeal. As long as Liam lives, I know you’ll be pining for him, wishing it were him riding between yer thighs, no’ me.”
“Then no’ ransom after all,” she said, and pointed at a bag lying on the nearby table. “’Tis blood money. You lyin’ son o’ a slag!” Rosy slapped Torin hard across the face. Shaking with fury, she marched over and grabbed the bag, turned and threw it at Torin. The bag hit him square in the chest before it dropped and burst open, scattering coins onto the dirt floor. “You’ve sacrificed us all ’cause you feel less than a mon?”
Rosy turned on Liam next, her eyes snapping with equal fury for him. “And you,” she shrieked as she stabbed at the air to punctuate her words, “I s’pose you brought your Sassenach slut back with you.”
Liam ignored her, looking instead at the bright coins spilt before them. “Looks like you were paid well, Torin. I hope the sum was worth betraying your people.”
“Wolf Haven is safe,” Torin sneered. “De Lacy wanted only the woman. But he promised me you would die in the bargain. ’Twas good enough for me.”
“Well, O’Roark, as you see de Lacy failed. Are you man enough to do the job he could not?”
From the back of his trews, Torin drew a knife. “Aye. I reckon I am the man to send you to hell, Caomhánach.”
Quick as a cat, Liam whipped his own blade from his boot. He stared back at Torin with stony deliberation. Torin was stockier, rippling with muscle in fact, but he saw the sweat on his brow and the touch of fear in the blond man’s eyes.
Like a cornered cur, Torin growled and charged. He picked Liam up like a ragdoll and together they slammed back through the door and out into the gathering crowd. They landed hard on the ground. Torin straddled Liam, knocking both breath and blade from his opponent. Weaponless, Liam head-butted Torin, who howled and grabbed his broken nose, blood spewing from it. Liam seized the chance to buck him off.
Both men scrambled to their feet, circling each other warily. Torin still clutched the knife in his beefy fist, slashing the air. Crazed eyes rolled in his bloodied face, and his mouth curved in an ugly snarl.
Seeing the fight erupt before them, Alianor felt the strength leave her legs. If not for Camber’s support, she would have crumbled to the ground. Shaking, she left her brother’s side and stumbled over to Niall. “Please, you must stop them.”
“Nay, colleen.” He shook his head. “This is ’tween the two of them.”
Fear and tears choked her. “Liam could get hurt — or worse.”
Niall turned his sympathetic gaze to her. “Aye, ’tis possible. But none here will interfere. The leader must hold his position without help.”
His tone brooked no argument. Given no choice, Alianor stood and watched. Torin lunged, his blade slicing only air as Liam nimbly jumped from its bite. Again and again, the stocky man struck out fiercely, but Liam danced out of reach. Every time his knife failed to draw blood, Torin bellowed with growing frustration.
Camber hurried over to Alianor and his grip found her elbow. He held his breath with each attack Torin made. “Why doesn’t Caomhánach fight back, Nora?”
“He but bides his time, Cam.”
Overhearing her comment, Niall nodded. “You know much ’bout fighting, colleen. ’Tis twice today you have impressed me with your knowledge and skill.”
“I do not understand,” Camber confessed.
Without taking her gaze from Liam and the macabre dance between the two men, Alianor explained to Cam, “As you can see, Torin is a bigger man, more muscular and stronger than Liam when it comes to brute force. But Liam can use Torin’s bulk to his advantage. He bides his time, for he is quicker and can avoid Torin’s attacks. Already Torin tires.”
“Aye,” Niall confirmed. “O’Roark is weakening.”
Torin’s face reddened from exertion, his breathing rasped and his movements slowed. Within minutes his feet dragged and sweat blinded him, forcing him to stop and mop his brow on his tunic to see his adversary.
Liam could almost smell the fear in Torin as the blond man lashed out blindly, frantically. Torin’s wild-eyed look and harsh pants revealed his desperation. Even so Liam would not relax his guard. He understood his own limitations — two days of hard riding and no sleep made his legs feel like they were weighted down in a muddy bog, and the air in his lungs burned like the fires of hell.
Torin stumbled and Liam seized his chance. In one swift movement, he dove, rolled and swept up his fallen dagger from the dirt, and leaped across the short spanse toward Torin. The bigger man looked almost comically surprised by the cat-like attack. Liam’s blade deftly slid in above Torin’s ribs and into his heart; a quick and deadly move. Liam stepped aside, the last of his energy spent. Torin fell back onto the ground, his
face turned towards the sky, but his eyes no longer seeing it.
Liam dropped the bloodied dagger. He rubbed his eyes and staggered away from the scene. God’s bones, he was tired! Tired of fighting the English, and tired, too, of fighting his own people in some things.
He heard a wail and saw Rosy fling herself over Torin’s body, keening like a banshee.
“Torin, m’ love. M’ heart.” Her grief seemed real enough. Perhaps it took the man’s death to shock her into feeling her own true emotions. After sobbing a bit, she raised a tear-streaked face and stared at Liam. “I will not forgive you for this, Liam. Not ever.”
Angry at her spiteful tirade, Liam pointed an accusing finger at her. “He brought this on himself, Rosy. And you’d best watch what you say, lest I decide you were party to his betrayal.”
Fear touched her tear-filled eyes and she said nothing more.
Seeing Rosy understood him well enough, his gaze locked with Alianor’s next. He saw unshed tears there too as she looked back at him, some emotion deep in those shimmering blue depths he could not discern.
Wearily he turned and walked away, saying to Niall in passing, “’Twas a nasty business, but it’s done. Make sure the traitor’s coin given Torin is set aside for the village. Before Rosy decides it’s her fucking inheritance.”
After he had gone, a shocked silence fell upon the crowd. Camber went and knelt beside the fallen man, said a short scriptural verse, the Lord’s Prayer and a final blessing. He uncapped a vial of holy oil he wore on a chain about his neck, and made the sign of the cross upon the dead man. He crossed himself and rose.
“Can we go inside the abbey, Nora?” he quietly asked Alianor. “There are urgent matters to discuss and plans to make.”
Alianor nodded, still gazing after Liam. “Yes, Cam, I’ve a room of my own here. None shall disturb us there.” Least of all Liam, she thought, feeling as if her heart had been pierced like Torin’s today.
FOR A LONG TIME Liam wandered the woods, trying to still the grinding worry swirling through his head. He needed the time to gather his thoughts and try to figure out what to do next. Near sunset he stopped and rested near the ancient mound. To his surprise, Turrean joined him there.
He had not seen his dog much since Alianor came, and he found himself talking to Turrean as if she was human. “Nice of you to turn up.”
Turrean whined and slid down on her haunches in the grass, avoiding his gaze.
“Where were you when I was being tackled by that bloody traitor? Wait, let me guess,” he plucked a blade of grass and thrust it in his cheek to chew on, “you’ve got a handsome cur courting you and you have fallen for his winsome ways. Be warned, sweet girl, do not let him break your heart.” Something tasted strange and he spat it out in his palm. He found it was not grass after all but a little dog-violet, sadly crushed. Sailchuach liath.
Turrean made a snorting sound. “You laughing at me?” Liam tossed the broken violet aside. He refused to consider a silly flower an omen. Felicity would, of course, but he had common sense. He sat a long while until evening fell and cast him in darkness. Resigned, he rose and retraced his footsteps, returning to camp with Turrean a silent, slinking shadow at his side. Questions remained unanswered and solutions proved elusive this day, but he was glad of one small thing — Torin’s body was gone upon his return.
When he approached the abbey, Liam saw Camber standing alone outside, holding a torch and gazing pensively up at the stars. The poor lad must be thinking all manner of dastardly things. Mostly about him. Mostly justified.
Liam made a little noise as he approached so he wouldn’t startle the monk. When Camber turned and their gazes met, he decided amends must be made. As long as Alianor’s brother regarded him with distrust, tension threatened to create an ever-widening gulf between the siblings.
“Evening, Camber. Do you look to the heavens for solutions? I hope so, because I can use divine guidance.”
“Aye, I imagine you can,” Camber gravely responded. For a long moment, the only sound was the flame crackling in the torch he held.
Grasping for any straw of common ground, Liam asked, “Where’s Alianor?”
“Nora’s asleep. I think she’ll sleep a long while. She was exhausted and upset.” Camber’s tone implied whom he considered responsible.
Liam sighed. “I’m sorry we started off so poorly. Why don’t you come into the hall, share some cakes and ale?”
Camber looked surprised and hesitated before nodding. He followed Liam and Turrean into the main building, returning his torch to a holder and tucking his hands into his sleeves. Others had gathered in the hall, and most turned and nodded respectfully in passing. They might be outlaws, but few had forgotten their religious roots. He relaxed, sensing none here would assault a man of God.
When Liam reached one of the rough plank tables, he motioned for Camber to take a seat. The monk sat at the invitation, but his posture did not relax. He regarded Liam with caution; his blue eyes reminding Liam of Alianor’s.
“You’ve explaining to do, Caomhánach,” Camber said.
“Aye,” Liam agreed, slumping onto the bench across from the monk while Turrean stretched out at his feet. Weariness came fast upon him, clouding his mind. But he owed this man an explanation. Not because he represented the Church, but because he was Alianor’s family.
Felicity bustled over to their table with a tray containing two pewter goblets filled with golden ale and an assortment of small cakes. Sugar was dear, but hospitality came first even among outcasts.
Camber pushed up his sleeves in order to take one of the goblets from the tray, and as he reached up Felicity cried out and the tray she held clattered to the floor, spilling its contents. Startled, Liam looked at the woman, her face pale and her hands trembling. Before he could speak she dropped to her knees and scrambled to pick up the mess.
“Leave it, Felicity,” Liam said, rising to help her to her feet.
“I’ll fetch another,” she muttered, and hurried off before he had a chance to reply or ask what was wrong.
Liam sat again and glanced at Camber, wondering what had disturbed Felicity so. A curious red mark on the inside of the monk’s left wrist about three inches long caught his eye. At first glance he thought it blood, but on closer inspection he realized it was an actual staining of the flesh itself.
Seeing where his gaze rested, Camber chuckled. “Methinks you’ve noticed my strawberry.” He turned his arm so Liam might see it better. It was obviously a birthmark, though stranger than any Liam had ever seen, for the shape of it bore resemblance to a wavy yet distinct cross.
“Strawberry?” he asked.
“Aye, Nora calls it thus. But I prefer to think of it as the Lord’s claim on my flesh.” Camber smiled a little, as Felicity returned with another tray. Camber thanked the woman, his manners as refined and gracious as Alianor’s, and while Liam took a healthy swallow of his ale he studied the younger man above the rim of his goblet. He had seen few men truly born to the Church, but Brother Camber appeared to be one. Many were younger sons, some of noble birth but mostly baseborn.
Pious parents dedicated extra or unwanted “children to the cloister,” and for these sons a curacy meant a chance to wield influence in a village and relief from the burdens other peasants shouldered. Consequently, many did not see their faith as a sacred obligation, but rather a means to better themselves. Hence some believed this gave them license to plunder coffers, deceive parishioners, and otherwise abuse holy office.
A few, however, were chosen by the Church itself for their true calling, and Liam suspected Camber fell into the latter category. Despite their rocky beginning, Liam sensed serenity, innate warmth and wisdom in the Cistercian.
He decided the time had come to tell Camber of the events before he arrived. With resignation but a smile on his lips, Liam toasted the other man.
“Fàilte ri Wolf Haven, Brother Camber. May I suggest we begin again, with a clean slate?”
Camber did not
respond, but looked thoughtful at his offer.
“I promise I shall answer all your questions honestly,” Liam said with a wry smile. “Well, as honest as an Irish outlaw is able.”
He saw a corresponding twinkle in the monk’s sky-blue eyes, before Camber raised his own goblet and touched Liam’s in a gesture of truce.
Chapter Twenty-two
DARKNESS PREVAILED, REFUSING TO lend benefit of sight. The ebony depths rejected mercy and pulled her down, down into a chilling embrace.
Màthair. Athair.
She called out to her parents. She stretched out her arms, reaching for them, longing for them. Crying for them.
Her adult mind relived the sea’s cruel claim. I’m finally joining you, in your watery grave.
Two dim figures floated before her. A blue-eyed man, a pale-haired woman. Both had shimmering, kind countenances. They beseeched her to join them. “We’ve waited a long time, sweet colleen. Come home with us.”
Alianor bolted awake, the oppressive darkness in the room much like the abyss left in her mind. She gasped, choked for air. Trembling, she sat up, hand at her throat. The sensation of drowning was real, but there was no water here, and cool air filled her grateful lungs.
She stared into the void of night, trying to banish the last remnants of sleep clouding her mind. Bit by bit, she recalled her dream. It impressed her with its vividness for she remembered the words she had cried and those of her parents with aching clarity. She was sure she had suffered the same nightmare before. Two misty figures hovering over her — their words she understood, the meaning she did not.
Why would she dream of her parents in a watery grave? They died from the plague, not by drowning. She had this same haunting experience when she nearly drowned hours before. Was fear distorting her mind? Provoking this strange dream-nightmare?
Recalling the images of her dream, however vaguely, puzzled her further. They did not look as she thought her parents did. She remembered Walter mentioning both Lord Geoffrey and Lady Maud had dark hair and dark eyes. Had her child’s mind somehow confused them with someone else? Someone she might have known? If so, who? Why?
