by Brit Darby
A low growl escaped Liam. He lunged at King John, but was jerked back by the chains binding him. The King stepped away, satisfied he had, at last, hit a raw nerve. He smiled. “Aye, our little Alianor is a tasty tidbit.”
Liam closed his eyes against the foul image the man evoked. But he could not close his ears to the King’s vile words.
“Love has rendered fools of you both.”
He continued, “Still, we are pleased she has returned to court. Alianor pleads clemency on your behalf, Caomhánach. We hear a rag-tail lot of Irishmen accompanied her and find it most amusing. Where do you find all these dirty miscreants? Followers with misplaced devotion and misguided faith placed in their outlaw prince.”
The King mockingly emphasized the word prince. Again, his laughter rang off the cold stone walls. “Alianor is a fool to think a motley bunch of Irish vermin can sway our decision. These peasants do not warrant any consideration beyond contempt.
“Neither does your sire, although in his younger days O’Connor was a worthy adversary.” King John turned to leave. “But,” he added, glancing back at Liam. “we certainly won’t mind entertaining a bargain in private with the luscious Lady de Lacy. We confess she still has the capacity to stir our loins.”
The smile twisting the King’s lips faded a bit as he touched the purple scar marring his forehead. “But she’ll not catch us unawares again.”
“She should have crushed your skull in.” Liam spat, his words unleashing the violent hate and fury he felt. He wanted to kill this man with every fiber of his being. If pure rage dissolved steel, the manacles would have dropped from his wrists right there.
Anger flashed in the King’s eyes. “We will enjoy watching her face as your head rolls into the basket, or your body twitches and jerks from the drop. We haven’t yet decided which method of execution will torture the lady more. Whatever our decision, once dispatched, we shall bend her over and take her, while your body cools. It will be a lovely sight for the spectators to behold, don’t you think?”
He spun on his heel and left. Liam’s anguished cry echoed throughout the damp, dark dungeon.
ALIANOR GAZED OUT THE window of Fountainhall Castle, her fingers clenched upon the windowsill. She dreaded the coming dawn. King John was going to make a spectacle out of Liam’s execution and had refused to see her until now, only hours before Liam went before the executioner.
She waited in the great hall for the royal summons. Niall stood nearby. He had declared he would not let her go alone for an audience with the King and Alianor was glad of it. She trusted the King as much as a poisonous snake. Saint Patrick had driven the serpents from Eire, but who would banish Lackland from her shores?
She knew the King made them wait to build anxiety and break down courage. Alianor did her best to stay calm and collected, but found each minute ticking by added to her agony. She grew more agitated, pacing and wearing a path in the Turkish carpet.
Drawing in a deep breath, she tried to slow her racing heart as fear nagged at her. Why was she even here? What could she hope to gain from this meeting? It was a gamble, a risk; she prayed she held enough cards to bluff the King.
Would O’Connor’s aid and the unspoken threat of an Irish uprising make Lackland reconsider his position? Or had matters gone too far for either of them to back down? These were questions she couldn’t answer. She only knew she must do everything possible to free Liam.
A door swung open and the King’s justiciar, John de Grey, entered the great hall. She acknowledged him with a deep curtsey, thinking again he had kind eyes.
Shortly thereafter, King John himself entered, William Marshal flanking him. Despite the King’s dislike of the famous knight, he trusted no other to guard his back. Alianor noted the pinched look on the King’s face, the paleness of his skin and dark circles beneath his eyes. Her last encounter with him had left its mark. Besides the bruise upon his high forehead, his eyes reflected hatred when he looked at her. Still, she made her proper obeisance, as did Niall.
King John appeared to ignore her. Still, Alianor saw his covert glances; he could not disguise his interest in her. She made no effort to move closer to him, nor offer any show of respect other than the minimum demanded by law.
It was de Grey who cleared his throat, his slight frown noting her lack of true humility. Alianor stepped forward and looked straight at the justiciar, then turned her stone-like gaze to the King. Still, she made no move resembling groveling.
King John flashed Alianor an angry look, telling her without words he had noticed her defiant stance, and considered it an affront. When she still made no effort to speak, he finally did so, chagrined to be the one to break the strained silence between them.
“So, Lady de Lacy,” he snapped, already showing his impatience with her. “You have come to beg us for the Irish bastard’s life.”
Alianor didn’t flinch. She refused to crawl before this maggot of a monarch, despite her earlier intentions to do so. “I speak no words even remotely associated with begging. I shall not bother. I know too well you have no heart, nor a conscience of any kind, Sire.”
The insult was clear and hit him squarely. He drew himself up to his full height in an effort to intimidate her with his power and position. “Your King and Master does not tolerate insolence. Watch your serpent’s tongue, Madame, or we shall have it cut from you, so you shall never speak again.”
Alianor was beyond the caution fear brings. Niall grasped her elbow and whispered in warning, “Can you refrain from poking the hornet’s nest, colleen?”
She shook off Niall’s warning. “Would you gouge out my eyes as well, Your Majesty?” Her words released the venom surging inside her. “Then I cannot glare my hatred of you.”
The King sucked in a long breath, the sound echoed by de Grey’s gasp. Even Niall shot Alianor a look of shock, his eyes wide with dismay. He feared Alianor had signed their death warrants, but she knew they were already in place. She realized the King had no intention of letting them leave alive the moment he entered the chamber and looked at her. There was no more lust in his eyes, only fury. His pale, watery eyes narrowed on her. “You would be wise to remember you are at our mercy, Lady de Lacy.”
“Yes, I know what kind of merciful cards you deal out. Do you think me a fool who will fall prey to false hopes again?”
“The only hope we grant you is knowing you shall die alongside your Irish lover,” King John spat. “But first, we will break your stubborn spirit, and before death takes you, you will beg for our mercy. We are determined upon it.”
Alianor looked at him, all fear gone. “You would be wise to hear me out, Your Grace, lest you find an Irish army at your doorstep on the morrow.”
“Irish army? You call that flea-infested, mongrel lot you brought with you an army?” He snorted derisively.
Alianor waited for him to quiet. “Perhaps you were misadvised, Your Majesty. Last I heard there were thousands, and still they gather across Connacht.”
He sobered, and looked in Marshal’s direction. The elderly knight nodded. The King scowled. “The Irish dare no act of outright war. Why would anyone care what happens to one measly thief and his leman?”
“Because Liam Caomhánach is a son of Ireland,” Alianor said softly, proudly. “He is the Emerald Prince.”
“Emerald Prince. Bah! What has an insipid faery tale to do with all this?”
Alianor drew the cross from the bodice of her dress. The gold gleamed against her stark black gown, and the emerald glittered with the promises it held. “It’s not just a legend, and I, a daughter of Eire, am here to take Liam Caomhánach home.”
King John did not hear most of her words, his greedy gaze drawn to the Jewel of Knowledge, Seòd Fios. He stepped forward as if to touch it.
De Grey reached out and stayed his liege. There was worry sketched on the bishop’s face; he looked as if he actually feared for the King’s life if he touched the sacred stone. He murmured something to the King.
Glanci
ng at his justiciar, King John reluctantly abandoned the notion. Instead, he sniffed and his lip curled in disdain. “Only a trinket. It means naught.”
Alianor shrugged. “Perhaps. Yet to the people of this land, it means everything, as our Prince does.”
One of Marshal’s captains burst into the great hall, his manner harried as he hurried to his superior’s side. He whispered to Marshal and de Grey who leaned in close. Hushed words were bandied about, and the men looked alarmed.
Alianor suspected the captain brought news of the gathering throngs, the growing crowds demanding their Emerald Prince. They continued to travel here from every corner of the island, all sworn to uphold the legend with their faith, with their lives if need be.
“Would you risk war with the Irish, Your Majesty? Over the life of one man?” Alianor’s question made the huddled group of men turn their attention back to her.
“England is already strapped because of your war with France, Sire. You lost your French territories and have accomplished little in your many attempts to get them back. What will your English lords think if you must tax them even further to fight the Irish as well? Not to mention the loss of Irish revenue.”
The King reddened. “What do you know of politics?” he raged at her.
She raised her chin and would have sworn a smile touched The Marshal’s lips before he returned to his stoic manner. “As much as I know about chess, I wager.”
Reminded of his former humiliation, the King sputtered, “You are but a woman and know nothing of war. The Irish kings have sworn their allegiance to us, and even the O’Connor sided with us against de Lacy.”
“Why not?” Alianor shrugged. “The Irish are practical. If you kill de Lacy, it’s one less invader they will have to deal with. But O’Connor has pledged Connacht’s aid to save his son. Be warned, Sire, the common men will fight for Ireland. Their hearts long for freedom from the English and their own bickering rí tuathe.”
The Marshal and de Grey looked interested, so she continued. “If you let Caomhánach go, war can be avoided. You will appear a forgiving and merciful King. Or, you can fight and risk losing everything, including your throne.”
King John stared at her, appalled. It was clear few had ever spoken to him so. No women, certainly. It galled him, and his jerky movements made his fury clear as he shook a fist at her.
“Never,” he cried. “You shall be thrown in the pit of despair with your Irish lover, Lady de Lacy. We shall delight in your deaths and dance upon your graves. Ireland and her sons shall burn for your perfidy.”
De Grey whispered in the King’s ear as guards entered to take Alianor away. Both William Marshal and Niall stepped to block them, prepared to defend her.
“Wait,” Bishop de Grey ordered, stilling the King’s men with a raised hand.
The King looked furious, but the bishop leaned close to his liege and spoke in quiet, measured tones. In the end, the King nodded, though grudgingly. He pouted like a spoiled child denied a treat.
The justiciar continued. “I suggest Caomhánach be given the Test of Truth. Thus he has opportunity to prove his innocence in the charges brought against him.”
Alianor had heard of the archaic practice, though it had been many years since the last Test of Truth was held in a royal court. She listened, curious.
“If the King agrees, we shall administer this challenge in front of the people of Ireland. If Caomhánach is innocent, he shall be granted life and freedom. If he is guilty, he shall die by the poison of his own taking.”
Alianor knew how it went. Two cups of wine, one poisoned, the other not. A person had one chance at life, another at death — a quick death from fatal wolfsbane. She did not like the odds, but realized de Grey was offering the only chance she had to save Liam.
“Innocence cannot be determined by mere chance. I could do better throwing dice for his life,” she said.
The King shoved his justiciar aside and approached Alianor. He quivered head to toe with rage. “Aye, the simpletons here will delight in a ritual as ancient and foolish as their legend. We shall abide by this trial, Lady de Lacy, but only if you are the one to test the challenge in the Irishman’s stead.”
He wanted her dead. He wanted her death so much he was willing to gamble Liam’s freedom to achieve it. “I agree,” she whispered, but seeing the triumphant light in the King’s eyes, their depths glowing with anticipation of her failure, she added one caveat.
“I have but one condition.” She gestured to the Bishop of Norwich. “Bishop de Grey must prepare the wine. I believe you would poison them both.”
King John scowled, but nodded. “But if you fail, the Irishman still dies, as planned.”
Alianor licked the dryness from her lips. “Agreed.”
“THIS IS INSANITY,” NIALL exploded.
They stood alone in a tower room where they would wait out the last hours before dawn. His eyes were filled with anger and hurt, and Alianor wanted to comfort him, but didn’t know how. Her own heart hammered in her chest with fear, but it eased as she walked over and stroked his arm in a comforting manner.
“I cannot bear to stand back —” Niall began.
Alianor knew what he was about to say and interrupted. “Niall, you cannot stop Destiny.”
He shook his head. “Liam will ne’er forgive me for letting you come here.” Alianor heard the pure pain in his voice. He closed his eyes and a tear squeezed out beneath one eyelid.
Annoyance surged forth, lending her strength. “Liam? Liam does not have any say in what I do. Men! You all assume too much. I have my own mind, and make my own decisions.”
He opened his eyes and blinked in confusion at her outburst.
“If I should choose wrong and die, it is no one’s fault but my own,” she added.
“There are other ways, colleen.”
“War, I suppose?” She folded her arms, frustrated with the whole male gender. “Do you think it better to send hundreds, maybe thousands of men to their death for the sake of one? It’s madness. I hoped the bluff would sway the King, but truly I do not wish to see any more death.”
“Battle is an honorable way to die.”
“Yes, men think so, don’t they?” Alianor sighed, trying to control her anger. Niall was not her enemy, she reminded herself. “Well, you will always have the option of war, should I choose the wrong chalice.”
Niall grimaced. “Why did you agree, colleen? ’Tis plain the King wants you dead. The hate spills from him like a foul fissure sprung from the earth.”
“The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”
Niall reached out and brushed his finger over Alianor’s cheek, wiping the single tear escaping her own eye. She sniffed and pulled away, filled with apprehension but searching for courage.
“If Lackland’s all-consuming hatred of me makes him willing to gamble a chance for Liam to live, I am willing to gamble the chance I might not.”
“You will not fail, colleen. Have faith.”
The thought made Alianor want to run away, hide from the terror lurking beyond her sanity. As if sensing her fear, from across the room Turrean lifted her head to look at her. Alianor’s eyes were drawn to the dog’s soft, golden ones. A gradual peace stilled her trembling, and somehow she found strength again.
She squared her shoulders and raised her head high. “I don’t plan on failing, Niall. But,” she hesitated, trying to control her wavering voice, “i-if I do, you must not. Eire and her Emerald Prince depend on you.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
A FEW HOURS BEFORE dawn, Liam was taken from his cell and, to his surprise, allowed to wash in cold water, and he even managed to shave by the light of a candle. Provided with clean clothing, he at least would die with dignity intact, rather than ridden with vermin and filth.
As he hobbled out into the dimness of morning, even the overcast day was too much for his eyes. They had grown used to the darkness he had lived in the past days and revolted against the change. He stumbled blindly,
prodded forward by the King’s guards.
When his eyes adjusted to the light, Liam’s breath caught at the sight. Thousands packed in close, a virtual sea of bodies, all gathered for his execution. The crowd hushed when he came into sight upon the scaffold, surrounded by the King’s men. He studied the crowd, hoping in vain to catch sight of Alianor.
Soon Liam stopped looking for his silver flame, deciding it was best not to see her hopelessness, her pain. It would be all he could do to die like a proud Irishman, walking calmly to his end. To see Alianor’s anguish would be too much to bear.
The King appeared on the makeshift stage, distracting him. Anger again seethed in Liam. This royal villain had attacked Alianor, harried her like an insane hound for years. Something in him broke.
“Lackland,” he snarled, lunging like a madman at the English monarch, itching to feel his fingers wrap tightly around that pudgy throat. Chains clattered, and the guards struck out at him with their pikestaffs. His knees buckled from the blows, and the crowd roared with indignant fervor.
With a raised eyebrow, the King regarded Liam, remaining safely out of his range. Finally he raised his hand and the people quieted. “Liam Caomhánach stands accused of crimes against England and Ireland.”
A disgruntled murmur rippled over the crowd, then quieted again, waiting for him to continue. “However, apparently this man holds status in the eyes of Irishmen. In order to be just and fair, we have decided to allow Caomhánach’s innocence, or guilt, to be determined by the Test of Truth.”
Another explosion of excitement sounded from the surprised onlookers and Liam watched, like a spectator at the melee playing out before him. He, too, knew it had been many years since this challenge had been issued and accepted.
The odds were fairer than King John liked. Since he had taken the Crown, he alone determined a defendant’s guilt or innocence — the latter rarely found in his judgment. In his opinion, there was no need for ancient rituals or superstitions. He alone was judge, jury and executioner.
