The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Raymond scoffed. "Nay, they are too loyal."

  His head jerked up, his brow high. "Such a thing does not exist."

  "You have not dealt with many Irish on our journey here, have you?"

  He straightened, a reluctant smile curving his stony countenance. "One or two."

  "This is not Dublin, Gaelan. There is no court and politics here. Look at this place. We have traveled for miles without seeing a village. And the woman … where did she come from, if not nearby?"

  "Mayhaps she was a ghost, a fairy," he said bitterly. He did not have the time to think on her. She was gone and he had tasks to tend. Tasks toward his future. He wanted the coin so he could disband and live out his years in comfort. And to do it, he would tear down every last scrap of Donegal, force its princess and her people to submit and give the lot over to Henry.

  He had to. He did not belong in an Irish castle.

  Then where? a voice whispered. A land without a lord is land free for the taking, and Henry bids you keep it.

  A bastard did not often gain such an opportunity, Gaelan knew, and as Raymond was quick to needle. Yet Gaelan was wise enough to know his limits, and his worth.

  Reese cleared his throat and Gaelan looked down, taking the helm and tucking it under his arm. He strode to Grayfalk and mounted, positioning the blue-plumed helm on his head.

  Raymond eyed him, then swung up onto his destrier. "You will not have to fight the Irish."

  "They will not win."

  Raymond scoffed behind the face guard. "Nay, they will all drop dead at the sight of you."

  He grinned. "So be it."

  * * *

  Siobhàn found her home in an uproar, people rushing about, yet accomplishing naught, men ordering weapons already, ladders lining the wood and stone walls in defense.

  When she rode into the inner ward, Brody came to her as she slid from the saddle.

  "The English are here."

  "They have been for years, Brody." She checked the mount's hoof and plucked a stone free.

  "Not the PenDragon."

  Her head jerked up, her eyes narrowing. "Nay."

  He nodded.

  "How far?" She sent the horse to a stable boy and walked briskly toward the hall.

  "Beyond the Finn River. A messenger just returned." He gestured to a young man in the center of the hall, breathless and sweaty, gripping a wooden cup of wine and draining it as fast as he could.

  "Gather some restraint, Egan," she said, patting his shoulder. "Taste the wine afore you swill it."

  He choked and sputtered, his eyes widening, and at the sight of her, he leapt to his feet. "I saw his pennant and the English king's. The PenDragon with a battalion headed this way."

  "Are you falling to tales, Egan?"

  He gulped for a breath. "'Tis no tale, princess. He thirsts for battle. He has no heart, no honor, and kills for the highest bidder."

  A mercenary.

  A horrible weakness raced through her blood and she felt the color leave her face. Snatching Egan's wine, she ignored the horrifying stories floating around her and drained the remnants of his drink.

  Nay. He was only one knight of many. Had she not heard him mention a DeClare in his midsts? Surely a relative of Pembroke did not serve a Cornish bastard? She set the cup down, smiling a weak apology, then glanced about. Her folk were staring at her, nervous and afraid and looking to her for guidance.

  "Bring everyone from the villages inside. Send two men to scout, Brody, yet wait for Driscoll to return. He will know how best to handle that and can read their direction." They could be headed to Maguire land or O'Niell's. Yet the responsibility lay on her shoulders, and she knew beyond doubt, if she sent word to Ian and Lochlann to send warriors, it would not matter. The PenDragon had nearly a thousand. They were mere hundreds with more women, old folk and children than men. The border clans would keep to themselves, protecting their own or submitting. Even if, collectively, the clans came to their aid, it was suicide. Donegal Castle would not survive a siege.

  There would be no contest but for how much Irish blood would spill. And if the PenDragon wished it, the soil would run red with it by nightfall.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  Gaelan swung, driving his sword downward across the man's body, the blade sailing deep into his shoulder and chest. The impact splattered blood over his armor, and with a growl, he followed through, severing his opponent's arm, then wheeled about to take on another bandit.

  What did these fools think to accomplish with an ambush? he thought again, driving a man back with his boot, dispatching another; then as the living fled, he and his troops gave chase. But as if he fought ghosts, the bandits vanished. Gaelan reined up, his mount skipping to a halt as he studied the thicket. Not a branch moved, no trail left to follow. He turned Grayfalk back toward the clearing.

  Twice attacked in as many days, Gaelan could see no purpose and would swear they were the same men who'd attacked him in the copse with the woman. Such foolhardy tenacity was abominable, for this time they knew they were sadly unmatched for battle. Were all Irish willing to die so readily?

  He looked around at his men and was well pleased the cost was in injury and not lives. Sir Raymond leaned over his mount's neck, trying to catch his breath, waving Gaelan off when he started for him. Sheathing his sword, he dismounted, striding to the nearest body and jerking the oiled rag from the ambusher's face. Disgust raged at the sight of the soft chin and beardless face of a boy. There were no excuses for sending the unseasoned into battle. With a curse foul enough to rot trees, he severed a portion of the tartan wrapping the youth. Staring down at the lad, he stuffed it inside his bloody breastplate before turning back to his mount. His intention for clemency to the Irish obliterated, he dug his spurs into Grayfalk's side and rode toward Donegal, prepared to take his due, at any cost.

  * * *

  "Silence," Siobhàn shouted over the din, and the talk ceased. She looked around the hall filled with her clansmen, to the faces she'd known for years, to the warriors prepared to die for the wood and stone castle. And they would die. The PenDragon was close enough to see their torches. "The burden of keeping peace will be mine, Driscoll." Clearly the folk held the same opinion as he, that she could not do it, and she wondered if they'd oppose the method were Tigheran here, then knew they would not have dared.

  "Siobhàn," Rhiannon warned and her sister speared her with a glance. "You cannot sacrifice yourself."

  Siobhàn's brows rose, her look aghast. "'Tis not my intention. We will not offer resistance and they will have no reason to slaughter us."

  "'Tis a dishonor not to fight!"

  She rounded on Driscoll. "And 'tis a crime to survive?" She stepped closer to him. "Would you have me bury your wife, your children?" She lashed her hand toward the dark-haired lad bravely smothering his fear beside his older sister. "How will you all stand against English swords and Welsh bowmen? We are Irish, not idiots!"

  Her temper high, her expression begged them to understand her motives. Survival, warmth and food would help her people. The PenDragon's reputation preceded him. He pillaged and burned. He slaughtered all who opposed to justify his coin. He was a landless knight with naught but a valiant name to call his own. Siobhàn doubted the king of Camelot would claim such a destructive man as an heir.

  "Send for the O'Niell," came from several servants and freemen.

  "Aye, the English will be no match for his warriors and ours."

  "'Tis too late. O'Niell nor the Maguire would arrive in time." She suspected that was the PenDragon's intent, though she'd not call for more souls to perish when she could resolve this without bloodshed. She spun about, striding toward the doors. "Bridgett, you and Rhiannon see to the preparations. This eventide, we feast instead of mourn."

  Grumbles of disagreement came from behind her as she swept out the heavy doors and into the yard. She possessed no guilt over her decision. Not a drop of Irish blood was worth the English ki
ng's claim, she thought, as several women rushed to her, halting her flight.

  "Our thanks, princess, praise be," a woman crooned, hefting her child as she hugged her. "They will not admit, but 'tis for the best."

  "I am frightened," Kathleen whispered, her eyes teary. "He wishes to die so easily." Her gaze shifted to Liam, tapping a club into his fist.

  "The way of war and men," Siobhàn groused, then eyed the group, twisting to catch each woman's gaze. "I trust you will help convince the others to be civil?"

  They nodded collectively. "He will take us prisoner, make us his slaves, won't he?"

  Siobhàn lifted a child, inspecting a cut she'd tended days before. "I do not know, Manna." Satisfied, she met the woman's gaze. "He is a warlord, not a man of the land. I will not lie and tell you he has not come to war on us, for he has. But I will do my best to see none suffer." With a kiss to the babe's brow, she handed him back to his mother.

  "And who will protect you, m'lady?"

  No one, she thought, yet smiled and smoothed a strand of brown hair from the young woman's cheek. Their concern moved her deeply and Siobhàn was further convinced she'd made the right decision.

  "I will not need protection, for mercenary or nay, he is a knight, a nobleman. I am still the princess of Donegal and he is on Irish soil." Codswallop. Naught will matter to this warrior, she thought as she moved through the group toward the ladder leading to the parapet. Yet English knights were sworn to protect the weak, and she prayed that the PenDragon, regardless of his foul reputation, possessed a shred of honor.

  Or she would find herself laying beneath him this night. Irish law or not.

  Moments later a blue-white mist enveloped the stone and wood keep, the vapor shifting across the land, only delaying the inevitable.

  * * *

  Gaelan slowed his mount, the fog heavy, yet in the distance, Donegal loomed. It was massive, covering a larger amount of land than he'd expected. Turrets and a tower hovered above the fog, the outer curtain skirting a small mountain. A stone wall topped with wood. Easily besieged, he thought, and easily burned. He rode hard through the mist, and swore this land wept for its people.

  * * *

  On the parapet, Siobhàn leaned back against the battlement, unable to stare at the landscape another moment. The guards watched her with covert glances. Culhainn moved to her side, nudging her palm, and her fingertips whispered over his luxurious coat. "You think me a fool too?" she said to the beast, and he tipped his big head back and licked her hand. "Your loyalty astounds, Culhainn, when you will have to share your place with his hounds." The dog whimpered, then suddenly spun about, growling as Rhiannon approached.

  "Good beastie," Rhiannon said, rewarding him with a slice of meat, and the animal settled in a plop at his mistress's feet to feast. "Keep him with you," she said. "None will pass close enough to do harm."

  Before Siobhàn could assure her sister that she would be careful, Culhainn leapt to his feet, lunging at the wall and barking. She jerked around as the rumble of hooves shook the earth.

  "Jager me," she whispered. Her heart pounded, her tranquil calm evaporating at the vision unfolding in the mist. Torches, spitting red fire and protected from the wind with black meta hoods, lit the twilight, glowing like phantom eyes from a skull. Silver flashes of armor sparkled with each trod, the jingle of spurs and weapons, the crash and creak of carts peppered the air. God save us, she did not think so many would be mounted.

  A man raised his arm and the army halted, the banners snapping in the breeze; a rearing black dragon clawed its deep blue background, his head looking over its back, the bend sinister of a bastard slashing meanly across the grand hazard. Held higher above it and in the forefront was the king's banner proclaiming this mercenary the English monarch's voice … and iron hand. Her gaze scanned the invaders, searching for the familiar, for the giant in the ranks, when a single mounted knight nudged his horse forward, the huge black destrier prancing elegantly.

  The PenDragon.

  Each story that spread across Ireland came to her, unfolding into reality as he tossed a fur mantle over his right shoulder. Blood stained the silver and black armor in a hideous drip. She glanced at her sister and recognized her horror.

  "We are done for, Siobhàn. He has killed already this day and has the taste for more."

  "By my soul, he will not find it here," she hissed, fingering the dagger at her waist.

  PenDragon tipped his head, and though Siobhàn remained a few feet back, aware he could not see from his position unless she fairly leaned over the mortar wall, she swore he met her gaze. A chill curled up her spine.

  "Donegal keep," he called into the stillness. "I am Gaelan PenDragon, servant of his majesty King Henry. Do you yield?"

  "Unmask, sir knight, so I might see my foe." Frowning, Gaelan's hand stilled on its way to unfasten his helm, the voice bearing an odd tinge familiar to his ears.

  "A woman, Gaelan?" Sir Raymond said from just behind him.

  "I cannot believe 'tis the princess, but who knows with the Irish and their strange ways." He yanked, pulling the helm off and tucking it beneath his arm at his side.

  Siobhàn instantly lurched back from the wall. Rhiannon gripped her arm. "'Tis he?" she fairly shrieked.

  "Aye. He cannot know I am here, not yet. We must get him inside afore we meet."

  Her sister smirked. "You have already met. And right thoroughly, I imagine."

  Siobhàn jerked from her grasp, irritation flaring in her eyes.

  "Mind your tongue, Rhiannon. If he knows 'tis me, we will have no power to bargain. None. I stuck him with my blade, I escaped his capture." And I let him kiss me as if I were naught but a bush woman bedding her way across the county.

  Rhiannon frowned. "What plan you then?"

  "Make him wait, offer comforts he has not known."

  "Ahh, weaken him."

  "Yours is the face that weakens men." She looked at the army prepared to destroy her home, her life, her kinfolk. "Open the gates," she said to the tower guards, then motioned to Rhiannon. "Bid him welcome."

  Her eyes widened. "I cannot."

  She gave her a push. "'Tis no time to be mush-hearted, Rhi. He will certainly not be."

  Siobhàn fled down the battlements, running into the keep, grabbing Driscoll and delivering her plan. With Culhainn at her heels, she headed above stairs and slipped into her son's room. He flew into her arms, his tiny hands lost in her hair. The bells chimed, soothing her, and for long moments she held him, then helped him undress for bed.

  "Will he kill us all, Mama?"

  "Oh nay, my poppet, nay," she cooed, kneeling beside his bed and tucking in the coverlet. "I would not let him hurt you, I swear." Oh, she would die for this innocent child, she thought. So willingly.

  Pressing her lips to his forehead, she stood, then went to her chambers. She dropped to her knees, lighting a candle, sprinkling herbs around her. Culhainn watched her from the far side of the chamber. Softly she chanted words as ancient as the stones beneath her home, calling on her ancestors to give her strength to endure his wrath.

  * * *

  Gaelan unsheathed his sword as the gates opened, men and women spilling out like rats, calling greetings and gesturing them inside. He rode forward, suddenly surrounded by at least fifty people.

  He frowned at Raymond.

  DeClare shrugged. "Irish hospitality."

  He was not stupid enough to fall into a trap and barked a command, motioning them back, and only a few scattered. "Does a soul in our ranks speak the tongue?"

  "I speak yours."

  Gaelan looked down as a tall, thick-chested man neared, his torso wrapped in the dark green and blue tartan, his legs covered in furs. His hair was overlong, his features, hidden in a heavy beard.

  "I am Driscoll, her highness's personal guard." He tipped a bow.

  "Bring her to me."

  "She is … indisposed, sir."

  Gaelan smirked to himself. Indisposed. Likely cowering under her
bed.

  "She bids you enter and rest yourselves. There is food for your knights. Come, come." Driscoll turned away, expecting him to follow, and Gaelan nudged his mount forward, giving orders for the brigades to secure the exits. He did not want her highness fleeing into the night. And since he knew naught of the royal family, he could not demand a hostage sent out, when it could be a commoner they cared little about. He needed the princess in his power to succeed. He brought ten knights and their squires inside with him. The gates remained open, several of his archers lining the way and as he entered the inner ward, Gaelan scowled at the meager fortress, ill-placed buildings, the wood and mortar he could penetrate with a battering ram.

  "What think you of this, Gaelan?" Raymond asked.

  "Me thinks we are being served up for a pagan sacrifice." He dismounted, handing his leads to Reese and ordering Sir Niles and the other knights to remain there and report his suspicions. Gaelan and Raymond mounted the steps, Sir Owen, Mark and Andrew directly behind them.

  "At least they have not dropped dead at the sight of you."

  Gaelan arched a brow in his direction, smirking, then strode into the hall, people scattering like rabbits. The conversation fell like breaking glass. He'd grown accustomed to such a response and was loathe to admit how much it rankled him lately. He approached her man Driscoll, taking note of several other warriors with battle-axes and spears flanking a large pair of chairs.

  "Bring your princess to me at once."

  Driscoll folded his arms over his chest, widening his stance. "You would ignore her hospitality?"

  "She would ignore the king's man?"

  "This is Ireland, sir, not England. And here the princess rules."

  "Not anymore."

  The guard unfolded his arms, pulling at his short sword in open threat.

  "Driscoll!"

  Gaelan's gaze snapped to the staircase, a shapely figure stepping from the hollow where it curved into the wall and disappeared to lead above. She met his gaze, her own assessing and judging in one glance as she came to him, her pale blue gown regal, her carriage straight. Her hair was golden red, unbound, uncovered, and flowing to her full hips.