by Brit Darby
Relief surged within Liam. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“I won’t go,” Alianor said.
He exploded. “Damnation, Alianor. Why won’t you listen to reason?”
“Why won’t you?” she parried.
A low moan escaped Liam, knowing what he must do. “This is futile. Go — go, get out of here.” He pushed her back towards the Queen who stood vigil by the door. “Take her with you to Normandy, Your Grace. Bind and gag her if you must.”
When neither woman moved, Liam looked hard at them, his voice clipped and cold. “You two can do no more here. I suggest you save your own necks.”
Alianor turned and started to walk away from him. She paused at the threshold, and spoke softly over her shoulder. “I’ll go, but I will see you again, Liam.”
“You must stay away,” he said, his fists clenching at his sides in frustration. “Promise me, Alianor,” he demanded. “Give me your word you will not seek me out again. I cannot bear it if you will not give me your promise.”
“You are doomed to disappointment, my love. I cannot give it.”
She vanished with a whisper of skirts, and a groan escaped him. Queen Isabella picked up the lantern, looking at him one last time with pity and regret on her face.
Liam told Isabella, “Tell her Turrean waits at the stables where I left my horse. Perhaps the wolfhound will protect her when I cannot.”
“Why won’t you let her love you? Whatever the cost.”
“The cost is too dear, Your Majesty,” he rasped. “She will be destroyed in the end.”
“Will you not also be destroyed, Caomhánach? I see your heart’s desire in your eyes whenever you look at her.”
He sighed, but did not reply. Instead he asked her, “Why risk so much for us, Your Majesty?”
Isabella was silent a long time. He wondered if she heard him, but she finally spoke. “It seems most women must simply endure their fate and their men. I know had I proven barren, my lord husband would have me cast off as he did his first wife, with nary a care or thought for my welfare. It does my heart good to know there can be genuine love and respect between a man and woman.”
Her somber words made him feel a need to offer reassurance. “Perhaps one day, you too shall experience these things.”
She shook her head. “Nay, I shall never know the pleasure of love.”
With this somber declaration, Isabella turned and departed. The prison door clanged shut, yet Liam was not subjected to manacles again. As darkness descended over him, he felt the sting of his tears as they fell from his swollen eyes.
“I love you, my lady Alianor.”
Surely he imagined the answering whisper down the corridor.
“And I you, my Emerald Prince.”
QUINTIN DE LACY GRITTED his teeth, his jaw aching as he clamped it shut to keep from screaming outright. The monk who tended his wound worked as fast as he could, but every movement he made caused great pain to the tender, raw flesh.
“Bastard,” he snarled, when the inept fellow’s hand slipped and his fingernails grazed the wound. “Be done with it quick, or I’ll carve you up into little pieces and scatter you for the crows to feed upon.” His threat set the monk’s hands to trembling, and Quintin wondered if he might piss his robes from fear as he wrapped a fresh cloth about the injury.
Quintin had little respect for the Church, but he was quick to turn to it in his hour of need. The same monastery he ruthlessly taxed for many years had taken him in without complaint, the elderly abbot in charge agreeing to hide him from the King. Fools, he thought with contempt. He would reward their mercy with higher taxes next year.
When the ministrations were complete, he lashed out with a guttural growl, and all but threw the monk across the room. The fellow crashed into a table then stumbled toward the door, like a panicked rat scurrying from a sinking ship.
“Fetch me more wine. And something for the pain. Now!”
The monk’s eyes widened. He nodded and half-crawled, half-scrambled from the room. Quintin fell back onto the pallet, gasping. Wretched pain clawed its way into his conscious mind. Never had he wanted anything more than he wanted revenge; against the fucking King, the bastard Irishman, and his beautiful bitch-whore of a wife, Alianor.
He touched the puckered scar on his face, remembering how tempting Alianor looked even in her blood-spattered nightgown. The simple white linen revealed every curve, every luscious delight she offered a man. Anger sizzled inside him, creating as much agony as the festering wound in his side.
That pig filth, Lackland, tried to steal his property. He should have split his skull open while he had the chance. Why had he let Alianor distract him?
He trembled with fury, slamming a balled fist against the pallet. If he had killed the King, most of England and Ireland would have rejoiced. There were no witnesses. He could have framed Caomhánach for the deed, made it appear the Irish bastard somehow escaped the dungeon and murdered Lackland for Ireland’s glory. It would have been perfect. Alianor would be a witness, true, but he could keep her prisoner at Fountainhall for the rest of her life — however short that might prove to be.
Now, the King would be relentless in his bid for revenge. He did not take treason lightly. Besides, Quintin saw the way Lackland looked at Alianor, even after she struck him — he still lusted for her. It seemed she drove every man from highborn kings to Irish peasants into senseless, desperate frenzies.
How could one woman hold so many men entranced? There was only one explanation.
“Witch! You are a witch, Alianor de Lacy.” He clutched at the blood-soaked bandage over his throbbing ribs and mumbled, “Regardless, I will settle my account with you, wife. I will not be denied, no matter what spells you bring to my bed.”
CATHAL CROVDERG O’CONNOR SLUMPED in his high seat at Athlone, his narrowed gaze taking in the festivities transpiring in the hall. Since his return from Ulster, where he had battled the northern chieftains in a bloody attempt to gain more land, he sensed a subtle change in the wind at Connacht.
Nothing he could put his finger on, but it disturbed him the same. He glanced at his second wife seated beside him. Duvessa shone tonight, her dark beauty as bright as a ruby’s, or perhaps smooth as a bloodstone. Clad in crimson velvet and gold silk, she was mesmerizing to watch, her graceful movements fascinating every man there. Including the O’Connor himself.
With an irritated noise, he tore his gaze from her. He did not trust Duvessa, and he had never loved her. She had done her duty and bore him a son, but of late, he wondered if the lad had any O’Connor blood running through his veins at all.
His attention fell on Dermot, his third legitimate son. The young man’s pale hair gleamed under the hall sconces, as he bent over his trencher, noisily savoring the feast.
The O’Connor frowned at the memory of Dermot’s reaction in the last battle. Short of fleeing, he froze in indecision, a costly mistake indeed for the men he led. Fortunately, he had not trusted the boy with an entire troop.
The lad put on a brave facade, but in truth he was a coward. Like many cowards and bullies, he was capable of being cruel, even vicious, but when confronted he was swift to roll over and show his soft underbelly. O’Connor snorted in disgust. He’d hoped the spirited Duvessa would whelp a litter of strong pups, but in the end it was his gentle Caireen who birthed the one boy who showed promise.
Liam was an O’Connor by blood, but the over proud wastrel refused to use the name. O’Connor was secretly tickled by the lad’s stubbornness — a familiar trait. Had not Caireen dubbed him her Tarbh, her beloved great bull? He sighed at the memory of her gentle touch, her laughing eyes and merry voice teasing him during bed sport. A pang clenched his gut, and he glanced at the pewter goblet in his hand, wondering if the ale was spoilt.
Duvessa noticed her husband’s thoughtful frown. His gaze lingered on the goblet he set aside, and she stiffened. Surely he had not tasted the potion in the strong drink? Fear fluttered in her belly; O’Conno
r’s fury was legendary and deadly both. He always employed a taster, but this was a special potion, cleverly designed to remain inert until combined with the pewter of the goblet.
Therefore, the taster sampling the wine in his wooden cup was unaffected by the concoction. She was pleased by her ingenuity. The poison was already working on O’Connor’s system. Still, she must proceed with caution, lest too strong a dose rouse suspicion.
She was not foolish enough to kill him outright. Though O’Connor had many enemies, his kin were loyal and would not rest until they had run the culprit to earth. Many found his marriage to an O’Flaherty distasteful; they would welcome the chance to rid Connacht of Duvessa and her family.
This drug was no ordinary poison, hence its price was dear. She licked her lips, the briefest of doubts teasing at her. O’Connor should detect nothing over the length of its administration, but others would witness his gradual weakening, an indecisiveness and growing confusion. It would appear a natural consequence of aging, and since he was no longer a young man, no suspicions should arise.
During his mental dimming, Duvessa intended to take advantage of his weakened authority, and rule Connacht from the shadows. Already she planned to isolate O’Connor from his trusted advisors, by convincing him emissaries should be sent to neighboring kingdoms in attempts of securing a united pact against the northern kings.
When Ragallach and Bregon were gone, her tensions would ease. O’Connor was not so daunting without his advisors flanking him, watching her every move like twin hawks. Duvessa was aware they had never liked nor trusted her, being O’Connor’s bastard half-brothers. Certainly they aspired for power, not only for themselves but their sons.
Suppose O’Connor entrusted Liam with a similar position someday? She knew the thought had crossed her husband’s mind. Only Liam’s refusal to associate with his paternal kin had preserved the hall from his presence.
Still, the day might yet come when Caomhánach was hungry or desperate enough to appeal to O’Connor. When greed overcame pride, Liam might eye his legacy in Connacht with a thought to overthrowing his legitimate half-brothers, including her own Dermot.
She glanced at her fair-haired son, admitting to a secret disappointment in the boy; he had the infamous O’Flaherty mean streak but not the stamina nor courage to carry it through.
Duvessa realized she would be forced to rule Connacht through her son, as powerful empresses and sultanas had in the past. Dermot’s first wife had died after producing only three sons, none of whom showed potential. Already she cast about for a suitable second bride for him, thinking if he married and gave her grandsons worthy of a powerful legacy, she would perhaps forgive him his considerable shortcomings.
Right now, however, the biggest threat to Dermot’s inheritance was his half-brothers and the wavering faith of his sire. O’Connor refused to officially declare Dermot his successor, though it was commonly assumed either he or Mor’s sons would inherit the seat upon their father’s death. And after his recent failure upon the battlefield, she feared there was little chance that Cathal would think him fit to rule.
But intrigues in the querulous Irish kingdoms left doors open for treachery and usurpers, and Duvessa must leave nothing to chance. Hence a subtle poison, weakening O’Connor by slow degrees. There was also her secret conspiracy with de Lacy to bring about Caomhánach’s downfall.
Reminded of her mission, she said, “I am planning a great harvest celebration for this Lughnasa, Cathal. I wish to invite the lady Mor and her sons. It’s past time we made amends.”
He only grunted and she proceeded carefully. “In fact, I wish to invite many of your kin, but the messages must go out soon, so I know the numbers to expect for the feast.”
He waved his red hand dismissively. “Have the priest take the invitations ’round when he travels.”
“Of course, husband, but what of your other son?” she lightly asked.
“Other?” He looked at her sharply, his eyes searching like a hawk’s.
“Liam.” She dropped her gaze, fearing he would spy the calculating gleam in her eyes. She smoothed her skirts and said, “Father Malachy has been counseling me, Cathal. I regret my unkindness in earlier years. I would break bread with Liam, as well.”
She felt a bead of sweat roll down her cheek and drip onto her bodice as he studied her. Her heart beat faster, fearing he sensed something amiss. She risked a glance up.
Cathal shrugged. “You will have to find him first.”
She exhaled quietly, relieved. “Surely you know where he lurks, husband. Tell me where to look, and I shall send a messenger with the invitation this very day.”
Aye, she would send a messenger, all right. De Lacy. Her lips curved, remembering the intense, violent passion she and Quintin shared. It was as if they had the same dark founder, for nothing existed in their realm save forbidden delights and the sweet edge of pleasure-pain.
Cathal’s eyes narrowed. “You need not concern yourself with Liam, woman. He is my cross to bear.”
Realizing she would get no more information out of him in his foul mood, Duvessa wisely retreated from the subject. But she could not so easily banish the reminder of de Lacy from her blood.
She tingled with the memory of Quintin’s powerful hands clamped upon her shoulders, his mouth ravaging hers. Biting, licking, nibbling until she screamed for mercy, she clawed at his back, her legs wrapped tight about his loins. Hunger swirled in her at the memory, and the need for relief was overwhelming now.
Duvessa glanced around the hall, searching for any prospects. O’Connor had in essence banished her stock of bed sport partners when he cleansed his holdings of any young, strapping males, sending them north to fight for Connacht.
Her gaze flicked over the remaining servants and guards, dismissing them one by one. Most were too old, some pock-marked, a few she knew bore disease or body lice. Despite her hungers, she was fastidious about her lovers. Frustration mounted when she saw none who would serve her cause. After de Lacy, other men paled by comparison.
O’Connor’s hand fell upon her knee, and she looked at her husband. He leered at her across the space between their chairs, his gaze dulled by drink.
“Restless loins, lovey?” He massaged her leg roughly, and Duvessa endured his touch with gritted teeth. God’s pikestaff, how she loathed the filthy brute. He had never been brilliant, but there was a certain animal keenness about him; he often sensed when she was plotting something, and she must be wary.
“Aye, my husband, I missed your touch,” she murmured, leaning over to whisk her lips across his. She was careful to hide her disgust — he reeked of ale and sour sweat. Her nose wrinkled in protest, but she held her breath and forced herself to imagine Quintin groping her instead.
With a moan, O’Connor grabbed her and massaged her breast through the velvet of her gown. He often pawed serving wenches thusly, but Duvessa revolted against manhandling before an audience. She saw O’Connor’s bastard brothers smirking at her predicament as they dined at the table below the salt. She dared not refuse her lord husband, but neither did she wish to end up publicly rutting in the hall.
“Oh milord, it has been too long,” she gasped, clutching his soiled tunic as he yanked her bodily from her seat, onto his lap.
“Aye, woman,” O’Connor growled, burying moist lips against her neck. He felt her shudder, but neither of them mistook it for one of pleasure. With dogged intent, he unlaced the bodice of her gown while the other diners looked on.
Noting Dermot’s shock, O’Connor paused and called out, “Best take notes, lad. You might learn how to handle a lively bitch like your mother.” Dermot reddened, and Ragallach and Bregon hooted and hollered encouragement.
“’Tis said O’Flaherty wenches run hot,” Bregon called out.
With a grunt, O’Connor buried his face between Duvessa’s breasts. Others in the hall stared uncomfortably and a few snickered at the lewd scene playing out before them, yet none gainsaid their lord’s desires.<
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Bile rose in Duvessa’s throat as he exposed and kneaded her breasts, suckling upon one nipple and then the other.
“Please, Cathal, let us retire to our chamber,” she begged, horrified when he yanked up her skirts and groped her backside as well.
He bit her nipple in reply, and when she cried out he looked at her, grinning malevolently.
“Why?” he demanded. “I hear you do not play so coy the vixen with visitors, and I am your lord husband, after all.”
Duvessa nearly swooned in his arms. Had someone betrayed her? How much did he know?
Cautiously she said, “I but seek to elevate our status, Cathal. I would have O’Connor hospitality be known as legendary.”
He gave a shout of laughter. “Oh, ’tis already legendary, my dear. We shall be fending off everyone from abbots to serfs with your brand of hospitality.”
Duvessa gasped in outrage. O’Connor pawed at her, seeming intent on humiliating her before the entire assembly. He mauled her while his cruel grip kept her in place. He ripped her skirts in his haste, and she almost feared he was going to kill her in the frenzy of anger and lust.
When she continued to fend off his drunken advances, he finally gave a gutteral growl of disgust and shoved her off his lap. She landed hard on her backside as the onlookers roared with laughter.
“I’ve had five-pence whores who bored me less,” he said, taking a deep swig of the ale in his tankard.
“Aye,” she taunted him from the floor. “The last one’s name was Caireen.”
A collective gasp echoed in the hall. Too late. O’Connor reached down and cuffed her, his red hand sending her sprawling across the dais.
Duvessa stared with hatred at him, touching her bloodied mouth. She straightened her torn gown with icy dignity, rose and relaced her bodice as if it was every day she found herself mauled and brutalized before others. Head held high, she turned and descended from the dais, ignoring the coarse sniggers in her wake.
