Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight

by Anna Markland

  Aiweeda lay on the sand like one of the jellyfish they had grimaced at earlier, quivering before a barking seal. The wet skin of the first seal Rhoni had ever seen gleamed like polished silver mottled with brown spots. Though it seemed distraught, the comical the way it barked and slid rapidly back and forth on the sand enchanted her.

  Rhun took aim.

  Rhoni shoved him. “Non! Don’t kill her.”

  The arrow skimmed harmlessly into the water.

  Rhun shoved back. “Stupid Norman,” he yelled.

  Rhoni landed on her derrière in the sand. Rhun reached into his quiver for another arrow, but his father waved him off. “Put it away, Rhun. The seal is not attacking.”

  Rhoni struggled to her feet and ran to join the group approaching the seal, frustrated by her shoes bogging down in the sand, impeding her progress.

  The animal seemed to sense it had an audience. It lumbered into the water, then out again, in then out, barking furiously. Rhoni had seen their dogs do the same thing when they wanted—

  “She wants us to follow her.”

  Several faces turned her way, derision writ plain, but only the sneering Rhun voiced the opinion. “And how are we supposed to do that?”

  Rhoni frowned, sure in her heart the seal was trying to convey a message. She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked out to sea.

  “There!” She pointed, shouting over the roar of the surf. “What’s that?”

  Everyone strained to see what she had seen. Out on the water bobbed a strange object, round, adrift.

  “Looks like a boat,” Myfanwy observed.

  “There’s someone in it,” Rhoni yelled, not understanding how she knew, but certain of it.

  Rhun bristled beside her. “It’s too small to be a boat.”

  Rhodri suddenly unbuckled his scabbard and tore off his doublet and boots. “Rhun, get more bowmen. Rhoni might be right. It’s a coracle.”

  He strode into the water and swam towards the craft. The seal followed him like a sleek shadow. Men came pouring from all directions and several joined Rhodri in the water.

  The women huddled together on the sand, watching Rhodri and the others haul the boat to shore. The men dragged the coracle out of the water. Rhoni broke away from the nuns and ran to the swirling foam at the water’s edge, deafened by the thudding of her heart in her ears.

  Dripping water, and winded, Rhodri stopped her. “Don’t look, child.”

  She grasped the side and pulled against him, compelled to look inside. Curled up in the waterlogged craft were the bodies of a young boy and the biggest, most striking man she had ever seen, a man who had been cruelly tortured. His suffering tore at her heart. She wanted to soothe away the pain of the abominated eye, the burned and bruised leg, the scarred wrists. A sob lodged in her throat. She leaned on Rhodri, trembling from head to toe.

  He issued commands, pulling her from the scene. “Get them out of the boat. We’ll see to their burial.”

  She wrenched away from him. “Non! They can’t be dead. The seal thought they were still alive.”

  Rhun seemed ready to utter another scathing remark about her sanity. She put her hands on her hips, braced for an argument.

  “Water.”

  All heads swivelled to the bodies. The boy had levered himself up on one elbow, eyes wild, lips parched.

  Rhodri sprang into action. “Rhun, get water from the cart. Quick.”

  Rhodri easily lifted the boy from the coracle, but it took six men to extricate the man and lay him on the sand.

  If the boy lived, the man might also have survived. Rhoni dropped to her knees at his side, took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. He was ice cold. She leaned over to listen for breath.

  Faint, but there. She turned to look at him and found herself gazing into a dark eye more compelling than the brutally marred flesh that had been his right eye.

  “Mo aingeal,” he rasped.

  An overwhelming desire to kiss his wind-ravaged lips swept over her. She wanted to fill his lungs with the breath of life. She squeezed his hand. “He’s alive!” she screamed, laughing through salty tears, rocking back and forth on her knees, speechless with relief.

  Rhun came running with water skins and helped the boy drink. Rhodri knelt at Rhoni’s side and spread his doublet over the man’s chest. He held a skin to his parched lips and poured a little water into his mouth. The man spluttered, coughed and choked, but then grabbed the water skin and drank greedily.

  “Easy now,” Rhodri advised, helping him sit up. “Not too fast.”

  The wretch did not seem to comprehend. He frowned, looking over to the boy. “Conall?”

  The lad was on his hands and knees, taking in gulps of air. “Aye—”

  The man put a trembling finger to his swollen lips. “Praise be to God we’re alive, son.”

  The boy coughed and frowned. “Aye, da.”

  Myfanwy had studied languages. “They are speaking Irish,” she said. “They are father and son.”

  Rhun spat. “Irish barbarians.”

  It was urgent they get back to the priory as quickly as possible. Rhodri and his men had no dry clothing. Conall and his father were in dire need of Rhonwen’s expert care. Carys was her mother’s apprentice, but there was little to accomplish at the beach.

  Nevertheless, Rhodri deemed it wise to put Carys in the same cart as the one-eyed man. Like her mother, Carys possessed a mystical ability to heal that had nothing to do with potions and salves. Rhoni insisted on being allowed to ride with them. Myfanwy completed the group. The boy was deemed fit enough to ride behind Rhydderch.

  The Welshmen who strained to lift the man into the cart laid him on his back, but he gritted his teeth, struggling to turn on his side. The back of his tunic was bloodied.

  “He’s been flogged,” Myfanwy whispered.

  Bile rose in Rhoni’s throat. She grasped his hand. She was aware torture existed, indeed was used by her father’s men when necessary, but what had this wretch done to deserve such extreme punishment?

  Carys and Myfanwy relied on soothing words and gentle touches to ease the man’s pain. Rhoni held his blistered hand, elated to feel warmth return. It was the first time she had touched a man’s hand so intimately. It dwarfed hers and did strange things to her insides. She wanted to press it to her cheek again, but by the look of his clothing, this man was a peasant, far beneath her rank.

  Myfanwy wiped his forehead with the hem of her white robe. “What is your name?”

  He licked his lips. “Ronan. Ronan MacLachlainn.”

  Rhoni mouthed his name. Ronan.

  Myfanwy’s eyes widened. She turned to Rhoni. “Son of a seal. His name means son of a seal.” She signed a crucifix across her body.

  A shiver of eerie certainty stole into Rhoni’s heart. Her gaze remained fixed on Ronan’s ravaged face. Only his name had escaped his cracked and swollen lips, but the musical lilt of his husky voice sent small winged creatures fluttering in her belly.

  Suddenly he smiled weakly at her and she felt the light press of his thumb against her palm. Wet warmth flooded between her legs. The earth had moved. Shame warred with desire. Had the other women noticed? She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. He would not understand her language anyway.

  “Do you know where you are?” Myfanwy asked.

  Ronan hesitated, his one eye still fixed eerily on Rhoni. “Ynys Môn?”

  Myfanwy shook her head. “No, this is not Holy Island. You came ashore at Prestetone.”

  Ronan frowned. “Drifted.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Sord Colmcille,” he rasped.

  “He is from St. Columba’s Well,” Myfanwy explained to the others. “It’s a place of pilgrimage in Ireland for many who believe its waters cure ailments of the eyes.”

  Rhoni wanted to scream. Tears streamed down her face. She choked on the bitter irony.

  When Ronan first saw a golden haired aingeal kneeling over him on the beach, he thank
ed God for his deliverance to heaven. But then awareness of intense pain returned, along with sounds of male voices shouting commands in a foreign tongue, women whimpering. Hell then?

  Once it penetrated his wits that he and Conall had both survived, he had to make sure their identity remained hidden. He did not know where he was, nor who had rescued them. The quick witted Conall had caught on, despite his exhaustion.

  They had landed in the midst of a bevy of nuns. Saints be praised! The lilting words of the nun and the girl who might be her sister soothed him, though he did not understand the language they spoke.

  But the woman with the blonde hair whom he had first believed was an angel—he was compelled to stare at her. Her fair face was a reassurance he still lived. She had not spoken, only held his hand, but even in his wretched state his shaft had turned to granite. Thank the Lord for the baggy trouzes. It was an arousal the like of which he had never experienced with Mary. It shamed him, but at least that part of his body was still working. He might yet live!

  What a sight he must be, yet the woman did not seem repulsed. He was grateful for the warmth of her hand. He tried to smile and managed to press his thumb into her palm. He felt the ripple of desire that her eyes betrayed. The scent of female arousal assailed his throbbing nose.

  This was dangerous. She was obviously a noblewoman, and he wanted them to believe him a peasant.

  Her eyes filled with tears when the nun explained where he had come from. He had an urge to brush them away, but a peasant would never be so bold.

  The nun wiped his forehead again. “I am Sister Myfanwy, Prioress of a nearby convent. We will take you there. This is my sister, Carys. Our mother is at the convent. She is a renowned healer. She will mend your body.”

  But what of my soul?

  He still did not know the name of the blonde woman. He stared at her full lips. They could bring relief to the ache in his loins. Shame flooded him again. What had happened to his loyalty to Mary? Mary had never put her mouth on him, never tasted him.

  The woman leaned over, her lips close to his face, her warm breath tickling his ear. She smelled of the sea, and something else, something he could not name. Her unbound hair fell about his face. She tucked it back behind her ear. Her breasts strained at the fabric of her gown. More blood rushed to his loins. It was the best he had felt for many a day, a good ache.

  He barely heard her strained whisper. “I am Rhoni de Montbryce.”

  Críost! A bluidy Norman.

  He closed his eye, groaned and withdrew his hand.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For a sennight, Rhonwen and Carys laboured day and night to heal Ronan. The convent’s Infirmirian conceded supervision of her domain to Rhonwen, recognising her as the superior healer, not to mention the wife of the Prince of Powwydd and mother of the Prioress.

  The salt crust was washed from his body and hair. The fractured bone in his leg was set and rendered immobile with a hardened casing made from ground sea shells, egg whites, flour and rendered fat. The deep welts on his back, the many burns, and the scars at his wrists were cleansed and salved, his nose reset, and his blinded eye packed with padding and bandaged.

  Conall did not budge from Ronan’s side.

  The nuns offered up perpetual prayers on billowing clouds of incense for the two survivors.

  Rhoni stayed away from the Infirmary, tortured by the memory of Ronan’s rejection. What did it matter that a peasant who was possibly an escaped criminal had scorned her? Her preoccupation was ludicrous, yet she spent hours on her knees with the nuns in the chapel, praying for him.

  As the day of departure approached, she plucked up courage to ask her mother if she might stay at Llansanfraid, strangely numbed by the prospect of being far away from Ronan.

  Mabelle de Montbryce looked at her curiously. “It’s out of the question, Hylda Rhonwen. It’s safer if we travel together.”

  Myfanwy gathered everyone in the Refectory to discuss Ronan and Conall.

  Rhodri had visited them several times, trying to coax information. “Ronan claims to be a farmer from an estate in Ireland that was attacked by brigands. His Master was killed and he and Conall managed to escape, but not before they had tortured him.”

  Mabelle drummed her fingers on the table. “Why would they torture a farmer? Conall was not tortured.”

  Rhodri folded his arms. “I don’t believe Ronan’s wounds were inflicted to extract information. He was tortured for the amusement of it.”

  Rhonwen’s nod confirmed his suspicions.

  Rhoni wanted to be sick.

  Her mother eyed her curiously. “Why do you want to stay, Rhoni? You can’t bear to listen to what happened to the wretch.”

  Rhoni studied her hands, tightly clasped in her lap. How to explain the deep seated need to be close to Ronan that she could not understand? Her mother thought her an empty-headed ninny. This would confirm it. Perhaps Ronan was the son of a seal, sent to bewitch her. Myfanwy had explained the legend of the selkie to everyone. It had added to the mystery of Ronan’s identity.

  Rhodri came to his feet and paced slowly. “Despite his injuries, he does not have the body of a farmer. He is well-muscled, much like a knight who has spent many hours in training yards.”

  Rhoni felt her face flush. She pressed her thighs together to assuage the warm ache.

  “Are you ill, Rhoni?” her mother enquired.

  Rhoni could only shake her head.

  Rhodri went on. “He does not have the hands of a farmer and often reaches without thinking to grasp the hilt of a sword at his hip.”

  Myfanwy interjected. “He hasn’t the brogue of a peasant. I believe he is an educated man.”

  Rhodri braced his legs. “I have decided we will invite them both back to Powwydd. I cannot remain here much longer, we are too close to the border. Rhonwen and Carys will take care of them at our llys. Are they fit enough to travel on horseback, Rhonwen?”

  Rhun came to his feet. “Father, it isn’t a good idea to bring two Irish brigands to Powwydd.”

  Rhydderch grunted his agreement.

  Rhonwen glared at her twin sons. “You must learn to have more compassion. Ronan will manage a horse if the going is slow, and if he knows how to ride. Many farmers do not own a horse.”

  The redheads scowled.

  Rhoni crossed her fingers and sat on her hands, rocking back and forth. “Maman, may I accompany them to Powwydd? I have never been there. Perhaps I can learn some healing skills from Rhonwen, and Carys. After all, our healer is getting old. You remember Caryl Penarth, Rhonwen?”

  She took a breath, her eyes darting from one face to another. “Mayhap Rhodri will take me to visit Cadair Berwyn, where I was born. I have longed to see it for myself. Rhodri’s men will provide me safe escort when the time comes for me to return to Ellesmere, as they do when Rhonwen visits. Papa won’t mind as long as he knows I am safe.”

  Rhun rolled his eyes and elbowed his brother.

  Mabelle stared at her, open mouthed. Rhoni took another deep breath, painfully aware she had babbled on as usual.

  It was Rhodri’s eldest son, Rhys who quietly broke the silence. “What’s the harm?”

  Rhodri rubbed his chin and looked at Mabelle. “Perhaps it is Rhoni’s destiny—to go to Cadair Berwyn, I mean.”

  Rhoni was sure he winked at her mother, whose face bore a puzzled expression.

  Rhonwen smiled.

  “Very well,” the Countess of Ellesmere conceded.

  A wave of relief swept over Rhoni. She dug her nails into the flesh of her palms and fought to steady her breathing and control the urge to laugh out loud.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ronan fingered the bandage covering his blighted eye, then lightly touched his nose. The pain had lessened, thanks to the tireless efforts of Rhonwen and her daughter. It was indeed a miracle they had drifted to that particular beach.

  He had been allowed to get off his pallet for brief periods and hobble around with the aid of crutches. It was g
ood to be up and about again, though the scars on his back hurt like the devil when he walked. He had made it to the bench in the priory garden where he paused to regain his strength, enjoying the breeze on his face.

  Conall had remained at his side at first, but Rhonwen had admonished him to go for long walks and fill his lungs with fresh air. He hoped the boy would not let their true identities slip in some way. Conall did not have a dishonest bone in his body and it was contrary to his nature to lie. It was fortunate he did not speak Welsh.

  Ronan was relieved the Norman woman had not come to the Infirmary. He had learned from Conall she was the daughter of an Anglo-Norman earl. The MacFintains were known to have Norman confederates in England who supplied them with mercenaries. Ronan must not get entangled with her. He had a dead wife and child to avenge, his lands to regain. Yet his gaze wandered often to the doorway, willing her to appear.

  She came to him in his otherwise tortured dreams, her full breasts, warm touch and beautiful face the only happy vision that got him through the nights.

  They were foolish dreams. A woman such as Rhoni de Montbryce would not want a scarred and disfigured man, even if it were possible to woo her. She was a young Norman noblewoman from a wealthy family who could have her pick of knights. An Irish exile bent on revenge would have no chance.

  He chafed at his preoccupation with her. Was it because hers was the first face he had seen in his delirium? He had spent a mere hour in her presence. She had only whispered her name, yet the memory of her sultry voice, golden hair, and beautiful breasts, all remained firmly fixed in his mind.

  Her absence from the Infirmary no doubt signified her lack of interest in him.

  It had been decided he and Conall would go to Powwydd, to the castle of the man he now knew was a Welsh rebel chieftain. At least that would put him out of reach of Rhoni de Montbryce and give him a chance to regain his health. Winning back his lands and wreaking vengeance on the MacFintains would take strength and allies.

  Feeling light-headed as the evening chill settled on the garden, he leaned heavily on one crutch and hauled himself to his feet from the bench. Once upright, he tucked a crutch under each armpit and started off towards the cloister. Intent on keeping his good eye on the ground before him, he bumped into a woman. Startled, he gripped the crutches, struggling not to fall. He looked up sharply and at first thought it was Rhoni, but then realized the woman with her hand on his elbow was older. This must be the Countess of Ellesmere, Rhoni’s mother. “A thousand pardons, my lady,” he stammered in English.