Servants brought a chair for the Earl. He sat down heavily as he greeted them. “I am delighted and honoured to have almost the whole Montbryce family visit me, but I cannot help but wonder what brings you here on such short notice?”
Ram did not hesitate. “My son and I have a matter of importance to discuss with you, and my wife and daughter are so enamored of your castle they insisted on accompanying us.”
The Earl frowned, but recovered quickly. “Good! Good! It is a beautiful edifice is it not? We Normans certainly build worthy castles.”
“Indeed!” Mabelle gushed.
The Earl grunted to his feet and offered Mabelle his hand. “May I escort you, Milady Comtesse?”
The Earl of Chester tapped a forefinger against his bottom lip, his double chin supported by his thumb. “Lord Ronan, you say? Ah! Of course! Now I recall. The one-eyed giant.”
“The same,” Ram conceded, playing along with the act.
Chester yawned. “Still at Ellesmere is he?”
Ram accepted a tankard of ale from a maidservant, and took a long swallow before replying. “Non, he has gone back to Ireland.”
Chester lurched forward in his chair, gripping the arms. “Already? But I thought—that is, have you provided him soldiers?”
Ram took another swig, stretching his long legs and propping his feet on a footstool provided by a servant, one ankle crossed nonchalantly over the other. “Non.”
Chester relaxed and drank from his tankard.
Ram bided his time, then, “I gave him money to hire mercenaries.”
Hugh d’Avranches choked on his ale. He coughed and spluttered.
You’re losing your touch, old friend.
Once his breath returned, the Earl wheezed, “Why? What is he to you?”
Ram affected a look of amazement. “I told you. I owed him a debt. He saved my daughter’s life, and probably that of her Captain. He also rid us of the Saxon brigands, something Warwick seemed incapable of. In that regard you are also in his debt. They would have continued their northerly trek had Ronan not dispatched them. He lopped off the head of one of them, I understand, with one swing of his sword. You saw the sword, I believe?”
Chester’s hand went to his throat. “Oui—impressive.”
They sat in silence a while longer, sipping their ale, before Chester ventured, “What is his plan?”
“To retake his lands and wreak his vengeance.”
Chester scowled. “I meant, how does he intend to carry out this attack?”
Ram shrugged. “He will hire mercenaries. However, it would assist him greatly if the mercenaries you have summoned back from Ireland were to change allegiance and fight for him.”
D’Avranches furrowed his brow. “You don’t miss much, do you Montbryce?”
Ram examined his fingernails. “I try to keep informed.”
Chester guzzled a long draught of ale, then wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “But why should I instruct my men to fight for him? What’s in it for me? And indeed for you?”
“Ronan MacLachlainn is not a man to have as an enemy, and might in time prove a useful ally. Sooner or later, Ireland will fall to a Norman invasion.”
Chester rasped the back of his knuckles against his chin. “There is more though, isn’t there, old friend?”
Ram counted silently to ten. “How is your young wife, these days, old friend?”
The Earl’s eyes widened. “Ermentrude? She is well. She prefers to stay in Normandie.”
Again Ram waited before he spoke. “And your boy, Richard. How old is he now?”
Chester clenched his jaw, his face red. “Three years.”
Ram raked his gaze over the Earl’s obese body. The man was at least five years his senior, but looked one hundred. “Ermentrude must worry a great deal.”
The Earl shifted his considerable weight several times. “Get to the point.”
“When you leave this earthly realm, Hugh, who will protect your infant son from those who would steal your earldom away?”
D’Avranches took a deep breath, seemingly intending to get up from his chair, but it caught in his throat and he coughed and wheezed. “I have named a Steward who will rule for him—until his majority.”
Ram kept his voice calm. “I am confident this Steward would be mightily relieved to learn he has the support of the Earl of Ellesmere.”
Chester thumped his palm repeatedly with his fisted hand, his sly eyes fixed on Ram. “How can I be sure the Earl of Ellesmere won’t be one of those coveting my lands?”
Ram leaned forward, his palms flat on his thighs. “Because I give you my word. I am not a greedy man, Hugh. You know this of me, and my sons. We are content with what we have, though a piece of Ireland might not go amiss.”
Chester guffawed. “Content! You Montbryces control more land in England and Normandie than anyone else of my acquaintance!”
Ram smiled. “You are probably right, but we have won it with valour, sacrifice and hard work, not cunning and murder.”
Chester averted his gaze and harrumphed. “It may be too late. As you rightly stated, I have recalled Bossuet and his men.”
Ram came to his feet. “Give me a signed and sealed document instructing Bossuet that Ronan MacLachlainn is his new commander. I assume he knows who MacLachlainn is?”
The corners of Chester’s mouth edged down further. He hesitated only a moment, then with a wave of the hand sent a pageboy off to seek out the scrivener.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Rhoni scurried to greet her father. “What news?”
Mabelle came to her feet in one of Chester Castle’s opulent chambers and looked at her husband anxiously. “She has driven me and Baudoin mad with her pacing. Put us out of our misery.”
Ram reached into his doublet and produced a furled parchment. Rhoni seized it. “What is this?”
Ram caught his daughter by the wrist and retrieved the parchment from her grasp. “Calm down, Rhoni. All will be revealed. I must sit. My knees—”
Rhoni followed him to the hearth, a spark of hope flickering in her breast. Her father seemed pleased with what he had accomplished.
He sat down and tapped the document against his thigh. “Chester has signed over command of his mercenaries in Ireland to one Lord Ronan MacLachlainn.”
Blood rushed to Rhoni’s head, making her dizzy with relief. She wanted to laugh, to cry. She fell to her knees at her father’s feet and lay her head on his lap, sniffling back her tears. “Papa, merci. I cannot imagine how you accomplished such a thing.”
Mabelle put her hand on Ram’s shoulder. “Neither can I.”
Ram shrugged. “I pointed out what was in it for him.”
Rhoni frowned. “I don’t understand, but you have given Ronan a chance to regain what is rightfully his.”
Ram stroked his daughter’s hair. “There is only one problem.”
Rhoni’s head jerked up. “Problem?”
Ram again tapped the parchment against his thigh. “Chester has already sent word to recall his men from Ireland. Time is of the essence if we are to get this message to them.”
Rhoni struggled to get off her knees. Baudoin took a step forward. Both spoke at once. “I will take the message.”
Mabelle bristled. “You will do no such thing, Hylda Rhonwen.”
Ram put a hand over his wife’s, still on his shoulder. “Chester has provided a small longboat. I propose Baudoin go to Ireland with Chester’s captain and crew and a few Ellesmere men.”
Rhoni put her hands on her hips. “I insist I go with Baudoin. Ronan needs me.”
Baudoin and her parents gaped at her. Her father spoke first. “You may be right, Rhoni, but there will be danger, and Ronan will not be happy if you are exposed to it.”
Rhoni took hold of her mother’s hands. “When Papa went to England with the Conqueror, did you not long with all your heart to go with him, despite the danger?”
Ram de Montbryce coughed and her mother blushed as she looked at her husband and murm
ured, “Oui.”
Everyone in the room was aware of what had befallen Ram in England when Mabelle was left behind in Normandie.
“But it was impossible. I would never have been allowed to go.”
Rhoni tried her luck with her brother. “Let me accompany you, Baudoin. Please. I won’t be a liability. I can ride as well as any man, and I haven’t inherited Papa’s tendency to mal de mer.”
Her father groaned. “Don’t remind me. The idea of boarding a boat again makes me ill.”
Baudoin turned to his father. “I will protect her if she comes with me.”
Rhoni’s heart soared. Surely her Papa would relent. “If you do not allow me to go to Ireland, I fear I might never see Ronan again.”
Ram de Montbryce tapped his fingers on his thighs, then stole a glance at his wife. She nodded. He handed the parchment to Rhoni. “Very well. The longboat leaves at dawn on the morrow.”
She took the document and clutched it to her breast with trembling hands. “Merci, Papa, Maman.”
Baudoin stood behind his sister, his hands on her shoulders, legs braced to the movement of the longboat as it pulled away from the dock. Rhoni clutched the wood of the top rail with one hand, the other raised in salute to her parents.
Ram and Mabelle de Montbryce sat motionless atop their mounts on the shore. Rhoni knew her mother was crying. Her father raised one hand in a gesture of farewell, Fortissima’s reins in his other hand.
They had faded from view when Rhoni lowered her hand to gather her cloak against the chill of the wind. Her tears blinded her. Would she ever see them again?
Baudoin turned her to face him. “You will see them again, Rhoni. I won’t let anything happen to my little sister.”
She leaned into him. “We do not even know if Ronan has reached Ireland. You are risking your life for him, and I love you for it, dear brother.”
“I’m doing it for you both.”
As they approached the Irish Sea, the waters became rougher. The captain advised they seek shelter under the canvas erected for them. They were soon glad of it when the rain started.
A brisk wind filled the square sail, but the oarsmen kept rowing. Speed was essential. Rhoni had not slept well and soon the grunts of the rowers, the rhythmic splash of the oars, the tom-tom of the oar master’s drum, the pelting of the rain on the canvas: all conspired to lull her into a fitful sleep.
She dreamed of Ireland, of the lush fields Ronan had described to her. Would she love his land as much as he did? She heard again the strains of the song he had sung for her. She swam with seals.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Emyle Bossuet rued the day he had set foot in Ireland. He had spent his adult life in the pay of one nobleman or another, and had jumped at the Earl of Chester’s generous offer to command a band of mercenaries charged with assisting in the capture of Irish estates.
But Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain disgusted him. They were not noblemen in his opinion, but uncouth louts. Their malodorous presence offended his Norman sensibilities. They personified everything he had ever heard about the barbaric Irish.
He was not in their employ, but the Earl had put him and his men at the disposal of these thugs. He had seen and participated in many brutal acts, but never had he inflicted pain for the amusement of it.
His gut clenched whenever he recalled the unnecessary torture and maiming of the rightful lord of the tower now renamed Túr MacFintain. The prize had been secured. No information needed to be extracted. If Bossuet had been in command he would have had the man executed. He was almost glad the wretch had escaped, but as long as what had happened to him remained a mystery, he represented a threat.
Rape was commonplace after a battle. Who could blame bloodied men for satisfying their male needs when a wench was to hand? But Bossuet had rarely seen a woman brutalised as the fair haired mistress of Túr MacLachlainn had been by Lorcan MacFintain—and she was with child. Why had it been necessary to kill her?
The few servants who remained after the seizure were terrified of the MacFintains. Even dogs avoided the pair. It was evident at meal times the servants preferred to serve the Normans rather than their ill-tempered, foul-smelling fellow countrymen.
Bossuet knew the effectiveness of rule by fear, but it pained him to see a well built and maintained dwelling fall into disrepair as filth and waste accumulated. Lorcan and Fothud did not seem to notice. Túr MacLachlainn could not compare to the grand castles of Normandie, yet it had a feeling of comfort, wealth, and prosperity that was disappearing quickly under the rule of the MacFintains.
The pair had not left enough labourers alive to tend the extensive fertile fields. As August wore on, Bossuet feared much of the harvest would rot.
The MacFintains had quickly earned the scorn of his men—all battle seasoned warriors. Many of them itched to be gone from Ireland, but Chester would not abandon the brothers. The rag-tag mob of undisciplined Irishmen who followed them would never hold the Tower alone against an attack. Chester would protect his investment. Bossuet did what he could to soften the excesses, and hoped his Earl would not blame him if the MacFintains squandered all the riches of Túr MacLachlainn.
Ronan had not anticipated any difficulty controlling the Norman crew that rowed him and Conall across the Irish Sea, but had overlooked the possibility of seasickness. Fortunately, the rowers only smirked in disgust as he retched into the bottom of the boat, clutching his dagger, not daring to take his eye off them.
Conall had succeeded in steering the boat and communicating his directions to the Norman coxswain who kept up a steady chant to maintain the rhythm of the rowers. As lord of Túr MacLachlainn, Ronan had never paid much attention to this resourceful young man. He prayed he would repay his debt to Conall by avenging his father’s death. He gave thanks Steward MacCathail had taught his son the rudiments of sailing.
It was a relief when the lad sighted land.
“Where are we?”
Conall peered at the horizon. “If my guess is correct, my lord, we are south of Sord.”
“Good. Can you see the tower yet?”
After a few minutes of silence, Conall replied. “Aye. Yonder is Túr MacLachlainn.”
Ronan longed to turn to look at the home he burned to reclaim. He gritted his teeth. “Bring us close to shore in the bay below the tower, but not right in.”
As the longboat edged its way closer to the shore, Ronan spoke to the coxswain, wishing he had learned more of Rhoni’s language. “My intent is to deliver the Earl’s message to the Norman Captain here—no more, no less. You will not have failed in your duty to your lord, and none of you will be harmed if you obey me.”
He turned slightly to look at the Tower with his good eye. The sight of it filled him with nostalgia. He swallowed hard and made an expansive gesture towards his grandfather’s pride. “I am the rightful lord of this Tower, and I will reclaim it, but not at the expense of Norman blood. All the Norman commander has to do is obey the Earl’s command to withdraw, and you can take him and his men back to England.”
The coxswain indicated he understood and issued terse commands to the rowers who had been glowering with incomprehension at Ronan. Their relief when they knew what the future held was evident on their exhausted faces.
When the boat was securely anchored off shore, Ronan put one foot on his iron chest and leaned forward to rest his forearm on his thigh. He ordered the coxswain to blow his horn. As the strident sound echoed across the water, one or two men came out from the tower.
“Blow it again,” he commanded.
The second blast brought more soldiers to the shore, all Normans. Ronan fixed his eye on the tall fair haired man at the front of the group. He remembered him from the fateful night of his capture. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Bossuet?”
The man took a step forward. “I am Bossuet. Who are you and what do you want?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ronan caught a glimpse of Lorcan MacFintain swaggering down the path to the w
ater. Suddenly he espied Ronan. His mouth fell open and he scurried back to the tower. Ronan’s gut clenched.
Craven coward! Your time is at hand, Lorcan.
He took a deep breath. “I am Ronan MacLachlainn, lord of this tower.”
He took out the parchment and brandished it in the air. “My mission is twofold. I bear a message from the Earl of Chester. You are to withdraw your men and return to England.”
Bossuet fixed his gaze on the document and folded his arms across his chest. “I assume you will permit me to see the orders. If they are genuine, I will obey them. What is the second part of your mission?”
“To kill the worm who just slithered back into his hole, and his worthless brother.”
To his surprise, the Norman snorted with laughter. “I would like to help you in that, Lord Ronan, but I suspect those are not my orders.”
The men standing with him snickered their agreement.
Bossuet glanced back at them and they quickly quieted. “What next? Will you come ashore and hand me my orders?”
Ronan smiled. “I think not. I have sampled your hospitality before.”
Bossuet rubbed his chin. “I will guarantee your safety until we leave, then it’s up to you.”
There was a time when Ronan would not have trusted the word of a Norman, but that was before he had met Rhoni and her family. “As a friend of the Earl of Ellesmere, I accept your invitation.”
Two days later, as night fell, Lorcan paced. “Where are the rest of them?”
His brother, leaning against a tree in a wood near the tower, fidgeted with the laces of his leggings. “Don’t ask me. The word was spread our men were to meet here.”
Lorcan scowled at the score of clansmen who had heeded his call. To a man they lay prostrate in the grass in various stages of intoxication, grumbling about the interruption of their revelries.
A shiver of fear marched up Lorcan’s spine as he surveyed the miserable crew he was now dependent on. Their stench stuck in his throat, along with the knowledge Ronan MacLachlainn was a guest of the Norman commander in Lorcan’s very own tower! Why had the Earl withdrawn his support? How had Ronan managed to ally himself with powerful Normans? The man had been half dead when he escaped.
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