by Brit Darby
O’Connor grumbled as he fussed with his blankets. “Entertaining, my arse. In the old days, Lady Justice did not wait. She dealt a swift blow, ruthless, without parading in public a man’s execution merely for the purpose of amusing the rabble.”
“Oh, I quite agree. I am, of course, a bit distressed for your sake, however.”
“Hmm? Why so? Now, where is my feather tick pillow?” O’Connor sorted through the bolsters until he found the one he wanted, and tucked it behind his head. Spent even by a small action, he paused to catch his breath. “Why would a footpad’s death interest me, wife?”
Duvessa hesitated, but the temptation to provoke a fit in this man she loathed proved too tempting. “Because the criminal who will meet his end is your bastard son,” she said, swallowing the laughter threatening to escape her lips.
O’Connor’s face grayed; pain and grief flooded his dark eyes. Duvessa was certain any affection for Liam was spawned from older, deeper memories of Caireen Caomhánach. Even that she could not countenance.
“Liam. Why?” he rasped, staring at her, stricken.
Duvessa shrugged. “’Tis said your bastard is accounted a no-good ruffian, a wastrel outlaw, a lowly thief. Apparently, he followed in his mother’s footsteps, for she was wont to steal what did not belong to her.” She could never resist insulting Caireen; she hated having to compete with the woman’s sainted image all these years. A flash of anger lit O’Connor’s eyes; he had struck her for far less, but he was too weak and she safely out of range.
“Be quiet, woman,” he railed at her, between another fit of coughs which rattled like old bones in his chest. “Send for Moineruadh.”
She made no move to summon the scribe. “There is nothing you can do, husband.”
“I will put a stop to this,” O’Connor vowed, trying to hurl back the covers. Duvessa watched with secret glee as his frail legs refused to cooperate. He scrabbled about in the great bed, helpless as a bairn. He was gasping, his face red as his hand now. She hoped his heart might fail, but alas, he struggled on.
“A spot of ale will revive you,” she suggested, rising at last and fetching the decanter from the sideboard. While he wheezed behind her, she added a few flakes of powder from a small vial hidden in her sleeve into a pewter goblet. She then poured fresh ale atop it, watching to make sure it dissolved.
She turned and smiled at him. “If you flail about so, you will hurt yourself, dearheart.”
O’Connor gasped, clutching at his throat. She carried the goblet over to him, placed it in his shaking hand and wrapped his fingers about it.
“Drink,” she urged. “It will clear your throat, calm your nerves.”
He glanced at the goblet in his violently shaking hand, and nodded. Duvessa started to pivot away, satisfied he would do her bidding, when he hurled the ale at her, the liquid splashing over her face and bosom. She gasped, outraged by his gesture of contempt and defiance.
When she whirled back, his dark eyes glowed with satisfaction.
“I’m not dead yet, wife,” O’Connor snarled at her with a ghost of his old spirit. “I suggest you call off the mourners for a wee bit longer. Now fetch the damned scribe before I throttle you senseless.”
Shaking with fury, Duvessa swept to the door and opened it. It was true, the old cur could still shout for help, or accuse her of all manner of reckless things within the hearing of others. She must play along until he was sufficiently weak. She called out to a passing page, her voice sharper than usual.
“Fetch Moineruadh, quickly.” She made certain O’Connor heard her order, hoping it would placate him long enough for her to institute the next stage of her plan.
Duvessa had no intention of letting her husband send a missive to the King, but she wished it to seem as if she still did his bidding. Let the old goat be lulled by her apparent submission, until he trusted her enough and turned his back. The next time she plunged the proverbial dagger home, it would be swift and sure.
QUINTIN DE LACY LIMPED down the narrow length of Killydrum’s great hall, hands linked behind his back. He had fled to his smaller keep in the northern hills to take his stand against the King. The King had seized Fountainhall, but he still had other keeps and an enormous retinue of Norman soldiers under his command. They were paid enough to stay loyal. But the latest news troubled him; Lackland had sent for more soldiers from England. Quintin knew he must consider his options carefully for they did not advance across his lands with peaceful intentions.
Despite the fact that the King’s army surrounded many of his castles in Connacht, Quintin was convinced King John would eventually agree to meet in chambers rather than on a battlefield. He had been a faithful, heavy-handed vassal lord who extracted every last silver penny from his tenants, and John knew it. The royal coffers were never full enough, for the King was a spendthrift. In the end, he knew this fact would drive John to the negotiation table, despite his treachery.
He smiled when he received word William Marshal requested safe escort to Killydrum, so they might speak.
“Let him come,” Quintin told his guards, realizing this gesture meant the King was reconsidering his order of death, even sooner than expected. He flung himself down into a chair before the huge hearth in the great hall to wait and grimaced from the pain in his side.
He drew a deep breath and thought of his second bane. Alianor. As soon as the unpleasantry with Lackland was done, he intended to fetch her posthaste and resume his plan for her complete, utter subjugation. He did not fear the King would destroy her; nay, Lackland was as fascinated as he by Alianor. The woman had bewitched them both.
Within an hour, the infamous old knight bowed before him, though a trifle shallower than he liked. Narrowing his eyes on Marshal, Quintin said curtly, “Well-met, sir. What news do you bring from the King?”
William Marshal straightened, meeting de Lacy’s gaze without a flinch. He knew what manner of man de Lacy was, evil to the core, and despised him accordingly. He was disgusted with the King for wishing to deal with this Norman snake, but John was oft blind when it came to filling his coffers.
Nobody could deny de Lacy’s holdings enriched the Crown each year. It was always prudent politics to deal with powerful lords like de Lacy, no matter the depth or extent of their treason. Also, in the event of war, King John did not wish to risk losing de Lacy’s properties to old enemies like de Braose. Hence, he was willing to deal to keep the income he desperately needed as well as their alliance, though-be-it a shaky one.
However, King John was too cowardly for distasteful dealings, and sent his minions in his stead. This meant William had to deal with scoundrels like de Lacy and push his own feelings aside in order for him to serve his liege.
“His Majesty King John sends greetings and would remind his loyal subject Lord de Lacy it’s oft prudent to deal over a table rather than a field,” William said. His rote words were belied by his clenched fists at his sides, and he knew de Lacy could not miss the distaste on his face.
“Methinks you consider this a sore task, Marshal,” Quintin said with a chuckle. Folding his arms, he regarded the elderly knight with a mixture of amusement and disdain. While he admired Marshal’s prowess in battle, he could not respect a man who did not use ruthlessness to advantage when crushing enemies. He had heard Marshal had captured dozens of knights in one siege, yet freed them all alive, unharmed. Chivalry belonged in the days of yore; there was no place for it nowadays. “Pray tell me, Marshal, how do you enjoy the role of royal toadie?”
Marshal stiffened. “I do not deny it sits ill with me, milord. However, I am sworn to serve my liege in any manner I might. I do not take vows lightly.”
“Oh, of course not,” Quintin flippantly replied. “Tell me, what does the King demand of his loyal subject this time?”
“Complete, immediate, and absolute surrender,” Marshal retorted. He no longer maintained a pretense of civility, but eyed Quintin sternly. “I suggest you acquiesce to this offer, milord, and swiftly. There
is not much time remaining for a peaceful surrender.”
Quintin arched an eyebrow. Suddenly, he had no stomach for submitting to Lackland. “No? What a pity. I intended inviting His Majesty and his sweet wife for harvest festivities.”
Marshal frowned. “Milord, this is no matter for jesting. The King has ordered all your properties be confiscated and thereafter forfeited to the Crown, and a death warrant signed if you do not surrender this day.”
“Nay, I think I shall refuse his generosity.”
“Are you certain, milord? ’Tis unwise to trifle with the King.”
“Oh, you are wrong, sir. I well know the bulk of Lackland’s troops remain in England, and I have more than enough men here to meet and counter him thrice over before he can get more to swell his ranks.” Quintin smirked, feeling confident. “Besides, a certain vassal kingdom finds itself displeased with the English yoke of late, and has sworn support for my efforts.”
Marshal looked dubious. “Which Irish kingdom, milord?”
Quintin shrugged. “You think I’m bluffing. Believe what you wish and ask His Majesty if he is willing to risk the truth of my words on the field of battle.”
“I shall convey your response to His Grace. May I caution you to reconsider, milord?”
“No,” Quintin said flatly. “I see no reason for surrender, especially knowing the King will neither guarantee my personal safety, nor my wife’s.” He drummed his fingers upon the arm of the chair, wincing as his wound started throbbing again.
Marshal looked puzzled. “Alianor is no longer in the King’s custody.”
“She escaped?” When Marshal did not answer, Quintin laughed. “Of course she did. Even our infallible monarch underestimated the sly wench, didn’t he? Well, no matter. I will find her. You see, I still owe the little bitch for this.” He traced the scar on his face, brooding.
Finally Quintin snapped, “I will instruct my men to find her, and when my wayward little wife is captured, she shall be returned to me, unscathed.”
Marshal regarded him grimly. “So you may scar her yourself?”
“What I choose to do with Alianor is no concern of yours, sir knight. She is but chattel and has grieved me to no end with her antics.”
“I knew Lady Alianor’s first husband, Walter Coventry. If I may observe, milord — you are not worth the shit scraped from his boots.” Marshal bowed again and abruptly took his leave. Quintin glowered after the knight. For once, he was at a loss for words.
Chapter Thirty-seven
SATISFACTION SURGED THROUGH KING John as he watched the last of de Lacy’s lesser castles burn. He kept Fountainhall, the finest and largest of the castles for himself, and plunged his army through de Lacy lands in a destructive sweep, routing the last of the enemy’s men in his wake.
De Lacy’s refusal to surrender infuriated him, and without further talk of truce he ordered his troops to strike. It was done, and he proved his dominance supreme. In his obsession to vanquish the Norman, he postponed Caomhánach’s execution. An insignificant Irish outlaw was no threat to him. He would deal with that irritant in due course.
Yet de Lacy himself escaped, evading his soldiers and final vengeance. “We want him found and brought to us,” he ordered Marshal from atop his horse. “Fail us again and we shall be unmerciful.”
Standing on the battlefield below, Marshal bowed. “As always, I will do my best, Sire.”
King John waved aside the knight’s words. He was tired of excuses for incompetence. He gazed over the burning rubble of Killydrum, mollified by the destruction left in his wake. “Those who cross us will regret it,” he muttered. “We will not be denied our vengeance in the end.”
AT WOLF HAVEN, ALIANOR often paced like a caged animal. Sometimes, the confinement of the abbey walls made her want to scream. She felt helpless, though not without support. The capture of the Emerald Prince and his eminent execution spread across Connacht, and people began to straggle into the village, a trickle at first, but soon, a virtual flood. Men and women from every walk of life, from wide-eyed peasants and farmers to whores and horse thieves, all clamored to fight for their outlaw prince. All ready to follow the descendant of Fand and Seòd Fios.
As the camp swelled with followers, Alianor recognized more than a few faces. Even Dubhan and Hilda left their farm and came to lend support, Hilda clad in her prized red cloak. Their loyalty to Liam touched Alianor. But Liam was not the only one who inspired devotion.
One day, she spied yet another familiar face in the crowd. With a little cry of joy, she ran to hug Ione. The older woman laughed at her surprise and delight. “I take it you missed me, Alianor?”
“Of course, but how did you know where to find me?”
Ione’s eyes twinkled. “The grand story of the Emerald Prince and his lady love sweeps over Eire like the River Shannon, colleen. From bishops to stable hands, ’tis all they speak of with faith and hope renewed. I am a Connachtwoman by birth and was weaned on the legend — I could not ignore the call.”
“But what of Cill Dara, and your love for St. Brigid?”
Ione smiled. “I can serve my dear lady anywhere.” She caught up Alianor’s hands in her own and squeezed them. “I felt I must rally to the cause. And, offer a friend my help and support if she needs it.”
“I do, and accept your offer with gratitude.” Alianor noticed Niall nearby, watching their reunion, his curious gaze resting on Ione a little longer than it had the others who came with her. “But first, introductions are in order.”
She drew Ione over to meet Niall, and did not mistake their mutual interest in one another. Perhaps they each sensed the secret tragedy behind the other’s eyes. Niall blushed when Ione’s serene gaze first met his, but he recovered quick enough to offer his greeting. “Welcome to Wolf Haven, milady,” he finally managed to say.
Ione smiled, a gentle and warm smile everyone felt. “Thank you. I feel welcome, indeed.”
“Now,” Ione took Alianor’s hand in her own, “I have something for you.”
Alianor was curious and followed her friend to the small hand cart the group had brought into camp. Ione pulled a canvas off something and Alianor heard a familiar chirp.
“Goliath,” she cried, lifting the cage out from among the other items filling the rickety conveyance. “How? Why …?”
Her questions remained unfinished. She was too happy to care how he got there. Goliath wore a black silk hood with black leather jesses and bells, his perch made of the finest mahogany inside a beautiful gilded cage.
“Queen Isabella came to the White Abbey to pray before she left for Normandy and her confinement,” Ione said. “She knew ’twas where you were captured, and while there asked if someone could aid her. As much as your gift of Goliath touched her, she said she couldn’t bear the thought of separating him from his mistress. When she heard I was coming to Wolf Haven, she asked if it was possible for me to see the tercel reunited with you. I promised the Queen ’twould be done. Her Grace seems to hold you in great fondness, Alianor.”
“As I do her,” Alianor said. Niall took the cage and followed the two women as they walked inside the abbey, arms entwined as they chatted happily.
Later, Alianor spied Niall and Ione walking and talking together. She chuckled. It seemed Ione was especially welcomed by one person at Wolf Haven.
NIALL AND THE FEW older men who remained behind soon planned their strategy for dealing with the King. Whilst Lackland was occupied with subduing de Lacy at present, they did not doubt he would hear rumor of unrest in Connacht and send out soldiers to subdue any trouble before it started.
Within days, Wolf Haven’s newest arrivals brought word of the strange happenings at O’Connor’s keep. Whispers flew fast and furious among the staff, about O’Connor’s wasting illness and the clever manipulations of his wife. Gossip said the dark Queen of Connacht conspired with a secret lover while waiting for her lord husband to die. Though Alianor knew Liam bore no familial love for his father, she wondered if O’Co
nnor could help his son. Anything was worth trying to save Liam’s life, even if it was something Liam himself would never do.
If the rumors about Lady Duvessa were true, she doubted a missive would reach O’Connor. Alianor realized the only chance was for her to appeal to O’Connor herself. Despite Niall’s protest, she was determined to go. She had no choice; by the time sufficient followers gathered and marched south to save Liam, he could well be dead.
DUVESSA PURRED WITH PLEASURE, stretched out beside her lover. Together they lay in a tangle of furs in her bedchamber, a single oil-lamp casting a golden glow over their sated flesh.
“You take great risk in coming here,” she whispered, moving her lips over the man’s shoulder. She looked into his eyes. “The King is hunting for you, and my husband will kill you if he even suspects I offered you sanctuary.”
Quintin shrugged, toying with a lock of her ebony hair. “O’Connor was a great warrior in his day, but he is a shriveled old apple now, my dear. We need not fear suffering anything save his unpleasant bout of apoplexy should he discover us together.”
“What a lovely thought. ’Twould save me the trouble of poisoning him further. God’s blood, but he is stubborn and lingers on to spite me.” Her laughter mirrored the evil glint she saw in his eyes.
“Patience,” he chuckled. “As soon as O’Connor is gone, sweet Duvessa, you can bring his men to rally for me — for us. We shall rout Lackland and rule over Connacht together.”
She smiled. “Shall we reign as King and Queen of carnal pleasures, my love?”
Quintin reached out to roughly knead her breast, and she pressed closer. “Aye. Truly, you are a worthy adversary in that respect, my queen,” he murmured, as his mouth moved over her jaw, throat, higher. He sank his teeth into her tender earlobe. Duvessa shivered with pleasure. Her bruised body still ached from his brutal lovemaking, but regardless, a heady desire swept through her again. She realized she was obsessed with this man, and it both terrified and delighted her.
