Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight

by Anna Markland

  The Earl’s words haunted him.

  Dispossessed and tortured men tend to hold grudges. They seek revenge.

  He wished now he had simply hung MacLachlainn. Why had he listened to his brother’s giggled suggestion that they torture him?

  The Earl had sent the one eyed giant to get rid of the MacFintains. Feckless Normans! After everything Lorcan had done for Chester.

  He gritted his teeth and kicked a snoring sot. The man rolled over with barely a grunt. Fothud retreated further into the shadows, but the pallor of his face shone like a full moon.

  “Where are you going, you miserable excuse for a brother?” Lorcan shouted.

  “Just, just—just to relieve myself,” Fothud stammered.

  Lorcan snorted. “Get on with it then. Be quick. We must devise a plan to rid ourselves of Ronan MacLachlainn. It’s evident we cannot rely on this drunken lot. Stealth will have to be our watchword.”

  “Stealth?” Fothud parroted, coming back into the clearing.

  Lorcan slapped the back of his brother’s head. “Aye, dolt. Cunning, strategy, stealth.”

  “Ow!” Fothud wailed sulkily, rubbing his head. “You’re a bully, Lorcan. You’ve bullied me my whole life.”

  Lorcan strode away from his brother, stifling the urge to strangle the wimp. “It’s sometimes hard to believe you and I are brothers.”

  Fothud sulked but did not reply.

  Lorcan resumed his pacing. The snoring had become a cacophony. How was he supposed to think amid the noise? Sleepless nights camping out in the woods seemed to have robbed him of his wits. He dared not return to the Tower. Ronan would strike him down immediately, and he doubted the Normans would do aught to prevent it.

  Anger boiled in his veins. There had to be a way to regain the Tower.

  “What’s that noise?” Fothud suddenly asked.

  Lorcan strained to listen. Something was happening at the tower. Raised voices. Then Lorcan heard it—the strident honking of barking seals.

  To his surprise, Ronan found he liked Emyle Bossuet. The man was the perfect host, and made no bones about his disgust of the MacFintains. There was no sign of the Irishmen at the Tower, though Bossuet’s men reported they were camped in the woods beyond the fields. Ronan had yet to learn how many remained loyal to Lorcan and Fothud, but sensed the number dwindled with each passing day. Bossuet shared his opinion.

  On the second day back, Ronan sauntered through the overgrown herb garden, breathing in the sweet air of Ireland. He stooped to grasp a handful of lavender, crushing the purple blossoms between his palms, inhaling the aroma.

  Suddenly, it came to him. Rhoni’s perfume. “Labhandair,” he whispered to the wind, regretting her loss with an intensity that brought him to his knees. He wiled away an hour amid the patch of fragrant herbs, humming the song he had sung for her, wishing he held her in his arms.

  He wandered the keep, running his hands over the rough stone, remembering. His feet refused to take him into his chamber. Lorcan had murdered Mary there and then taken the chamber as his own.

  Bossuet invited him to dine in the Hall in the evenings. The old banners still wafted in the rafters.

  The two men ate heartily, Bossuet remarking on the sudden reappearance of good food. Ronan churned with resentment that he was treated as a guest in his own home, but preparations were well under way for the Normans to leave. Soon his revenge would be at hand.

  “What is your plan once we are gone, Lord Ronan?” Bossuet asked. “My captain tells me we can sail as early as the morrow. I have decided to leave the boat you arrived in. The large boats we came in suit our purposes better. I am sure the Earl of Chester will not miss one small longboat!”

  Ronan smiled, remembering Rhodri’s words. He was grateful for the gesture. A boat might be an asset, though the Norman crew would be returning with Bossuet.

  The visible relief of the serfs and servants at his and Conall’s reappearance had been heartwarming and he was confident Conall could soon train a worthy crew. It saddened him how few of his people had survived the brutal rule of the MacFintains.

  Ronan sensed Bossuet had tried to temper the brothers’ excesses. He was about to thank his Norman host, when Conall hurried into the Hall.

  “My lord, seals, in the bay, barking. Something is amiss.”

  Ronan came to his feet quickly.

  Bossuet shrugged. “Seals? What of it?”

  The servants grew agitated, looking to their lord.

  “The people of this Tower have learned never to ignore the seals,” Ronan explained, heading for the door.

  They hurried to the shore, many of Bossuet’s men bearing torches. The sea foamed with a myriad of leaping, thrashing seals. The noise was deafening. One seal left the water and slid up onto the sand, barking furiously at Ronan. His heart skipped a beat. The seal was warning him of danger, but to whom and where?

  He peered out at the black waters. While the bay was mostly free of hazards, there was one rock perilous to the unwary. It was named for his mother. His father claimed it was where he had discovered her in human form long ago and stolen her seal skin.

  Conall grasped his arm, pointing out to sea with the other hand. “My lord, there!”

  Night vision had been difficult for Ronan since the loss of his right eye, but on Orlaith’s Rock he made out the shape of a boat aground. Dread spiralled its way up his spine. The seal’s frenzied barking told him someone dear to him was aboard that doomed vessel. “We must get them off there. The boat will break up.”

  Baudoin cursed the incompetence of the captain who had run the longboat aground so close to their destination. They saw what they surmised was Ronan’s tower looming in the darkness. It was thanks to the fool’s drunkenness that they had become lost, otherwise they would have made landfall before dark. Praise the saints one of the oarsmen had known enough about navigation to bring them to the right part of Ireland.

  Rhoni clung to him as the boat creaked and lurched in the foaming surf. He did not want to alarm her, but it would not be long before the vessel broke apart, tossing them into the black water.

  Suddenly his sister tightened her grip and pointed to the water. “Seals! Ronan is here.”

  He narrowed his eyes. Sure enough, several dark shapes swam alongside, and in the distance they heard barking.

  “She has come to save us, Baudoin,” Rhoni murmured.

  “Who?”

  “Ronan is the son of a selkie.”

  Baudoin feared the tumultuous events of the last weeks had sent his sister tumbling into madness. “A what?”

  Rhoni smiled at him. “It’s hard to believe,” she shouted over the wind, “but the seals have come to save us.”

  Baudoin scoffed. “What are we supposed to do, fling ourselves on their backs?”

  Confused shouts from the crew added to the mayhem. One or two had already leapt into the water. The horses had been loosed. One had jumped over the side in its panic and landed heavily. It now lay motionless on the rocks.

  “Thank God I did not bring Fortissima,” Rhoni rasped.

  Baudoin gripped his sister’s arm, his jaw clenched. “We may have to swim for it, Rhoni. I will help you. I won’t let you drown.”

  “Have faith, Baudoin,” Rhoni assured him.

  Suddenly, they heard shouts, and a rowboat appeared out of the darkness, bobbing nearby, followed by another. Ronan stood at the prow of the first boat, his legs braced, a length of rope in his hands.

  Rhoni saw him first. “Ronan!” she yelled, waving frantically.

  He gritted his teeth when he saw her, and raised his hand in salute. He tossed the coiled rope to Baudoin, cupped his free hand around his mouth, and shouted something.

  The words were lost on the wind, but once he caught the rope on the third try, Baudoin knew enough to tie it around his sister’s waist. “We have to jump into the water, Rhoni. Hold on to me tightly. Ronan will pull us into his boat. The water looks dangerous, but at least it isn’t storming. We have to
avoid the rocks.”

  He was amazed and thankful at how calm she was. Testing the knot one last time, he lifted her onto the top rail, climbed up behind, clamped his arms around her and jumped.

  The shock of the cold water took Rhoni’s breath away. Baudoin quickly brought them back to the surface, and she said a prayer of thanks that she had worn the split skirt which allowed for movement. He turned her over, one arm around her ribs, the other parting the waves. Her long wet hair covered her face and she spluttered and spat the water out of her mouth. She had always been afraid of water, but strangely felt no fear now. She clung to Baudoin’s arm, feeling his strength, and the reassuring tug of the rope at her waist as Ronan pulled them to the safety of his boat.

  “Let me do the kicking, Rhoni,” Baudoin rasped hoarsely in her ear. She relaxed, trusting the man she loved, her brother and the seals to complete her rescue.

  Soon they were abreast of the rowboat. Strong hands lifted them aboard. “Steady, steady,” she heard someone shout. Then suddenly she was enfolded in the safety of Ronan’s arms, sitting on his lap wrapped in a blanket. “Rhoni,” he rasped, his fingers combing her wet hair off her face. “Rhoni.”

  “Ronan,” she murmured through chattering teeth.

  “I will warm you,” he whispered.

  Baudoin clutched his blanket around his shoulders and coughed, trying to catch his breath. “Merci, Ronan. I feared we were done for.”

  Ronan took the hand Baudoin proffered. “What are you doing here?”

  Rhoni cuddled into Ronan. “You left without saying goodbye.”

  Baudoin shook his head, patting his sodden doublet. “We have a message for Bossuet, from the Earl of Chester. It may have got slightly wet.”

  “I brought a message for Bossuet. You have another?”

  Baudoin and Ronan stared at each other in confusion. The warmth from Ronan’s body was seeping into Rhoni. She looked up at him, longing to see his beloved face. “The Earl has instructed Bossuet to put himself under your command. They are to help you regain your Tower.”

  Ronan looked down at the woman he loved but believed he could never have. Sea water had made her hoarse, but he had never heard anything as sweet to his ears as the words she uttered.

  It was a miracle, a means to regain his lands, and perhaps then turn his attention to wooing Rhoni. With a well trained Norman force he would easily oust Lorcan and Fothud. How had she accomplished this? He suspected her father’s hand, but would not question it.

  He was so grateful, he had no words of thanks. He brushed his lips across hers. She responded by snaking her arms around his neck and licking him, sending shivers of desire through his body. He kissed her deeply, savouring the salty tang of her skin. “Still wearing outrageous outfits, I see, Lady Rhoni.”

  As the rowboats pulled into shore laden with survivors, Baudoin jumped into the shallows to help moor the craft. Bossuet leapt from the other boat. He accosted Baudoin. “I am Emyle Bossuet, Commander of the Norman forces here. You and your travelling companion have had a narrow escape. What brings you to these shores?”

  Baudoin secured the knot before replying. “I am Baudoin de Montbryce, son of the Earl of Ellesmere.”

  Bossuet bowed. “Milord, forgive my impertinence. I did not recognize—”

  Baudoin turned to help Ronan as he lifted Rhoni from the boat. “You could not have known who we were, Bossuet, drenched to the skin as we are. This young lady is my sister, Rhoni de Montbryce. We come bearing a message from the Earl of Chester.”

  Bossuet frowned as he bowed to Rhoni. “Milady. I have already received the Earl’s message. Lord Ronan brought it.”

  Baudoin handed Rhoni back to Ronan. “These are new orders. You are to remain here and place yourself at the disposal of Lord Ronan.”

  For a split second Bossuet’s gaze met Ronan’s. It was fully dark now, but he was sure a hint of a smile flitted across the Norman’s face.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Rhoni insisted she was not injured, but Ronan refused to allow her to walk. He carried her to a chamber, issuing orders for a bath to be prepared. It felt good to be in his arms, so she did not protest overmuch. He kicked the door shut behind him and set her down on her feet.

  She clutched the blanket more tightly, missing the warmth of his body. “Are you angry with me?”

  Ronan raked a hand through his hair. “Rhoni, I want to take you over my knee and smack you like a naughty child for your foolhardiness.”

  She arched her brows and smiled.

  He took hold of the edges of the blanket and drew her to him. “But I am so happy to see you, I want to fall on my knees and thank God you have come. I have missed you. You are in my blood.”

  Rhoni longed to press her body against him, but she was still soaking wet. She pouted. “I’m cold. I need to get out of these wet things.”

  Ronan took a deep breath. “You are a temptress, Rhoni de Montbryce, but I have sent for a maidservant to assist you. You’ll feel better once you’ve bathed. Then you can descend to the Hall and explain how you come to be here and how your father persuaded the Earl of Chester to hand his mercenaries over to me.”

  Rhoni discarded the now wet blanket. Water pooled at her feet. She tucked her wet hair off her face. “I am a wreck. In truth, I do not know how my father manipulated the Earl. He guessed, I think, that Chester had ordered his men home, and somehow persuaded d’Avranches to put Bossuet under your command. What has happened to the MacFintains?”

  Ronan clenched his jaw. “They are gone for now, but lurk in the woods nearby. It will be an easy matter to wreak my vengeance with Bossuet’s help. I cannot thank your family enough.”

  A tap at the door signalled the maidservant’s arrival. Ronan allowed her entry and took his leave. “Moyra will take care of you. She was my wife’s maid, one of the few to escape the MacFintains’ bloody rampage.”

  “Aye,” Moyra acknowledged, bustling in with linens and gowns. “My husband Cleum didn’t survive the siege, but at least our little lad, Diarmid, was spared. He’s the spitting image of his da, and praise be to God we have not come to the notice of those two scavengers. There’s one or two of their mangy clansmen have thought to take advantage, like Mortag MacRuff, but a sharp heel of the shoe on his foot soon put him in his place.”

  Hot water arrived. Moyra gave the two burly lads permission to enter then chivvied them to be done quickly filling the wooden tub.

  She hustled them out, stripped Rhoni of her wet clothing, tossing it aside, and helped her into the hot water.

  She chattered on as Rhoni let the heat of the water penetrate her body, thankful for the warmth of this peasant woman who had kept her buoyant nature in spite of the ills visited upon her.

  Moyra left the Norman woman sleeping peacefully, wishing she felt as sure about the lack of danger surrounding her as she had claimed.

  Like the rest of the people of Túr MacLachlainn, she had been overjoyed at the return of Lord Ronan. Life under the rule of the MacFintains had been hell. But she feared neither the brothers nor their cronies would surrender willingly.

  Mortag MacRuff was still a concern. He had lusted after her for years and she suspected it was he who had killed Cleum in the battle for the Tower. He had not taken kindly to her rebuff of his advances.

  She feared for Diarmid and fretted about him whenever they were apart. Though he was strong for a lad of ten years, he would be no match for a grown man. It was a relief Bossuet had posted guards around the village. She hurried home now to her cottage, stopping dead in her tracks at the sight of Mortag lurking in the shadows near the door.

  Where was the Norman guard? She tried to keep the fear out of her voice. “What are you doing here, Mortag? Best be away back to Lorcan’s side. Lord Ronan won’t be too pleased to find you here.”

  Mortag staggered into the moonlit path, swaying as a belch escaped his lips. His red hair was wild, his beard unkempt, his tunic stained. In the darkness she could not tell for certain if the
stain was blood, but her heart lurched, knowing the Norman was dead. Mortag had never been a handsome man. Now he looked like a drunken demon.

  She glanced to the neighbour’s cottage, dismayed to see Mortag’s cousin, Fergal, lurking in the shadows between the two dwellings. Dread filled her. Had they killed Diarmid? Was it his blood on Mortag’s filthy clothing? She straightened her spine, pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders. “What have you done with my son, you drunken brute?”

  Mortag belched again, squinting at her. “He is safe, and will remain so, if you come with me quietly now.”

  His whiskey laden breath almost felled her. She lifted the hem of her skirts and opened her mouth to scream for help, but Mortag clamped a beefy hand over her face. “Can’t have that, Moyra.”

  She struggled to free herself from his grip, but Fergal lumbered over and grasped her legs. She kicked and flailed, but Mortag’s filthy hand covering her nose and mouth robbed her of breath.

  The last thing she remembered was being hoisted over a broad shoulder.

  Lorcan slapped the wench across the face again. She tried to evade the blow, but Fothud held her fast. “Tell me what happened.”

  Fothud spat. “She knows naught.”

  Lorcan shoved his brother. “Aye, she does. She was there when they brought the people in from the wreck. Weren’t you, pretty Moyra? That’s why my faithful Mortag brought you to me.”

  “Aye,” Moyra replied in a whisper.

  “Who are they? Tell me or your whelp will bear the next beating.”

  Moyra gasped, narrowing her swollen eyes to peer at her son tied to a nearby tree. “Normans.”

  Lorcan glanced up sharply at Fothud. “From where? England?”

  “Aye.”

  “Their names?”

  “Lord Baudoin and Lady Rhoni.”

  Lorcan shoved her to the ground. “You lie. A woman would not make the dangerous crossing from England.”