Moyra sobbed. “I tell thee true. She is Lord Ronan’s woman, the daughter of an Earl.”
Lorcan strode away, dragging Fothud by the arm. Moyra crawled to comfort her child. “We must seize the Norman woman. Ronan will come after her and we will recapture him. He obviously plans to wed her to bring himself strong allies. It must be nipped in the bud. Bind Moyra to her son.”
Fothud pulled his arm free. “But if this woman is the Earl of Chester’s daughter—”
Lorcan shoved Fothud. “He has no daughter, fool. This woman must be the daughter of some other Earl.”
Fothud shook his head. “This is getting too dangerous. We surely don’t want two Anglo-Norman Earls as our enemies?”
“Bah! We must take back the Tower. We don’t need the Normans. England is far away. What can they do if we control the tower and the land around it?”
“But our clansmen—”
Lorcan slapped the side of Fothud’s head.
“But we have other estates that we—”
Another slap. Fothud glowered at his glaring brother, but said nothing more.
Ronan, Bossuet, Rhoni, Baudoin and Conall were closeted in the Map Room discussing plans to capture Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain.
Suddenly, the door burst open and a Norman mercenary strode in, carrying Moyra. “I found this woman at the gates, mon capitaine,” he explained.
The men leapt to their feet.
“Críost, Moyra. Who has beaten you?” Ronan asked.
The Norman set her on her feet. She closed her eyes, and sobbed out a name. “Lorcan MacFintain. He has Diarmid.”
Her knees gave way, but Ronan caught her. “Where?”
Moyra clung to his arm. “In the Little Wood. He sent me to lure Lady Rhoni away. He promised to spare Diarmid if I did as I was told. But his word is good for naught.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “My son is probably already dead.”
Bossuet gritted his teeth. “I posted men to watch over the cottages.”
Moyra sobbed against Ronan’s chest. “Mortag and Fergal killed the sentries.”
Ronan’s fury intensified. Once more he had left innocent people vulnerable. He took a deep breath and explained what Moyra had told him of Lorcan’s plot. Rhoni gasped and pulled the Irishwoman to her. “Tell her she is a brave woman. I will take care of her wounds.”
Moyra allowed Rhoni to lead her away. Suddenly, she stopped. “Wait! I must tell you their plan.”
Ronan drew her to a chair. “Moyra, I swear to do everything I can to rescue Diarmid. Tell us.”
Moyra fisted her hands in her lap. “Lorcan sent Fothud to procure a rowboat and wait at the mouth of Uisce Cluana. I was to bring the lady to him and persuade her to get into the boat. He would row her out into the ocean and toss her overboard. Lorcan planned to lie in wait with his men for you to come to her rescue, Lord Ronan.”
Baudoin scoffed. “Are these men complete idiots? How was she supposed to lure Rhoni away from the tower? My sister and Lord Ronan have hardly spent a minute apart since our arrival.”
Rhoni blushed, and Ronan bristled, but then saw the glint in Baudoin’s eye.
Moyra shook her head. “He told me that was up to me. He was sure I would think of something. Mortag was to help me.”
Baudoin threw up his arms in disbelief. “They don’t know Rhoni if they think she would sit biddably in a rowboat to be taken to her death.”
Bossuet shrugged. “That is the problem with these brothers. But what they lack in wits they make up for in sheer malevolence. It makes them unpredictable and dangerous.”
Ronan came to his feet. He would wait no longer to rid his land of the MacFintains. “Rhoni, please take Moyra to the healer. She knows the way. Bossuet, muster your men in two groups. You take one to apprehend Fothud at the mouth of the Cluana. I will lead the rest against Lorcan.”
Fothud leaned against the rowboat, longing for a swig of whiskey. He had bitten his nails down to the quick. The seawater lapping at his feet was ruining his best boots.
“Why is Lorcan sending me out to sea to get rid of the Norman woman?” he mumbled aloud. “What is he up to? Does he plan to keep the Tower for himself?”
A twig snapped nearby. Fothud stood up straight, peering at the dunes. “Moyra?”
Sand swirled, the long reedy leaves of sea oats rustled.
Only the wind.
Fothud checked that the oars were secure in the tholes.
Sand swirled in the dunes again. He heard a strange sound. He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. Was it the wind sowing through the dune grass? Or sand shifting?
The certainty that he was no longer alone on the beach crept up his spine. His bowels clenched as he scurried into the rowboat. Moyra was not coming, but someone was in the dunes. He made ready to escape up the Cluana.
Suddenly a lone seal appeared at the top of a dune, watching him. He cursed his brother for leaving him alone in this godforsaken place. He pulled on the oars, never taking his eyes off the dune. Four more seals joined the first one. “Críost!” he murmured, pulling harder. He rowed frantically, his eyes locked on the sea creatures, but when he blinked they were in the water alongside his boat.
He looked over his shoulder to make sure he was headed up the Cluana. A panicked cry emerged from his throat when he saw more seals ahead—and he was headed out to sea! How had that happened?
“Lorcan,” he whimpered. “Help me.”
The safest course was to return to the beach, but when he looked back, riders were galloping onto the sands. Relief swept over him, until he saw it was the cursed Normans!
Emyle Bossuet called his men to a halt. They watched Fothud struggle with the oars of his boat, seemingly in a panic. What ailed the man?
One of Bossuet’s men pointed to silvery shapes streaking through the water near the boat. “Là. Phoques!”
Bossuet had seen seals in the area on occasion, but never in such numbers. What were they doing? Were they pursuing the rowboat?
Fothud struggled to stand. He had lost one oar, and was fending off the sea creatures with the other. Several seals rammed the boat repeatedly. It tipped alarmingly. Fothud lost his balance.
His shriek of fear echoed off the water as the boat capsized, catapulting him into the midst of the seals. They tossed him from one to the other like a plaything. Suddenly he was dragged beneath the waves. He broke the surface a moment or two later, only to be dragged down again into the roiling foam.
The seals disappeared quickly, leaving behind an eerie silence as the Normans gaped at the grey emptiness of the sea.
Lorcan poked his head up from the ditch where he and his men lay in wait. Was that Fothud yelling? Why had the fool not moored the boat where it was visible? How was he supposed to know when his worthless brother had the woman safely out of the way? Fothud had probably misunderstood the directions. “The idiot never listens,” he mumbled.
He sank back into the ditch, his back to the beach, frustrated he had seen nothing. Not to worry. There would be no mistaking Ronan’s approach when he came thundering to the rescue.
An icy hand gripped his vitals when he became aware he was looking up at a pair of boots on the other edge of the ditch. He felt for the hilt of his sword and stole a glance at his men. Every one had a Norman sword pointed at his throat.
How the hell?
The one-eyed giant to whom the boots belonged put his fisted hands on his hips. “Get out of the ditch, Lorcan.”
“Lord Ronan! I was hoping, that is I am waiting—”
“I know what you are waiting for. Get out of the ditch.”
“It was Fothud’s idea. The torture, I mean.”
“Get out of the ditch.”
Lorcan scrambled out on the opposite side to Ronan.
Ronan chuckled.
Warm piss trickled down Lorcan’s legs. He swallowed hard, watching Ronan’s icy stare turn into a disgusted grimace. “I repent, I repent. You cannot kill me. I confess my sins. I am pe
nitent.”
“Where is the boy?”
“Boy?”
“Moyra’s lad. Tell me now or die where you stand.”
Sweat beaded on Lorcan’s brow. “He’s alive. Don’t you fret about that. In the Little Wood, tied to a tree.”
Ronan folded his arms across his chest. “Draw your weapon, Lorcan, and face me like a man.”
Lorcan’s heart thudded in his throat as he struggled to unsheathe his sword. It seemed to be stuck in the scabbard, but eventually he managed to draw it. Ronan leapt the ditch. Lorcan staggered backwards. His eyes bulged when Ronan drew his sword. To his surprise his enemy lay the enormous weapon on the ground.
Ronan’s next words bit into his bowels. “I won’t need a sword. I intend to kill you with my bare hands.”
Once Rhoni was satisfied Moyra was taken care of, she rushed to the stables and commandeered a horse. The startled stable boy gaped.
“Which way did Lord Ronan go?”
The lad shook his head.
“Lord Ronan,” she insisted.
He pointed and she was off, riding like a madwoman. Dread filled her heart. Ronan was a capable warrior, but he had only one eye. If she lost him now—
As she neared the beach, she saw him. He stalked a man brandishing a sword. But he was unarmed, the weapon Rhodri had given him lying on the sand.
She slid from the horse and crouched, her heart beating too fast. Not wanting Ronan to be distracted, she smoothed her hand over the horse’s nose, as much to calm herself as the animal.
Compelled to watch, despite not wanting to, she gasped when MacFintain swung at Ronan. Ronan ducked and swayed, advancing slowly but surely as Lorcan swung and lunged wildly.
The strength seemed to drain quickly from Lorcan’s arms. His movements were out of control and with one frantic swing he came dangerously close to cutting off his own leg. He sobbed, begging for mercy.
Ronan kept walking towards him, forcing him to the water. “I will show you the same mercy you showed Mary, and the others you murdered. The same mercy you showed me when you poked out my eye.”
Suddenly, Lorcan threw away his sword and staggered into the sea, wailing pitifully. Ronan pursued him, an inexorable shadow.
Soon Lorcan’s arms and legs thrashed wildly as he tried to keep afloat. The waves were up to Ronan’s chest when he stretched out his arms and dove smoothly under the water, disappearing from view.
Rhoni leapt to her feet, startling the horse. Baudoin ran to the water’s edge and she hurried to join him. She gripped his arm, her heart pounding in her ears. “I can’t see him. Where is he?”
Lorcan still thrashed, then suddenly he too disappeared.
Rhoni looked back at the beach. The Normans had rounded up the MacFintains’ men. She returned her gaze to the sea. Surely Ronan should have resurfaced by now, his vengeance complete.
They waited.
Baudoin shook his head. “They’ve been too long beneath the waves.”
Panic surged through Rhoni, but then she remembered. “He’s the son of a seal. He will return from the sea.”
Baudoin eyed her curiously, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Ronan broke the surface, one arm hooked around Lorcan’s neck.
Rhoni breathed a sigh of relief, thankful her trembling legs had kept her upright.
Ronan swam effortlessly to shore, dragging Lorcan behind him. He dumped the coughing and spluttering wretch on the sand as he strode from the water, making sure his eye patch was still in place. Rhoni ran to embrace him, throwing her arms around his neck. He kissed her deeply. She delved her tongue into his mouth, savouring the salty taste, weaving her fingers into his wet hair.
The kiss ended only when the need for air broke them apart. She looked up at his face. The darkness that had haunted him was gone. The stiffness had left his shoulders. “I could not kill him, Rhoni. I wanted to drown him, but I am not a murderer.”
She had believed she could not love him more than she already did, but his words sealed her fate. “I love you, Ronan. I have loved you from the moment I set eyes on you curled up in the coracle.”
He smiled and bent to kiss her again. A shout of warning rent the air, followed by the whoosh of an arrow. Ronan turned quickly to protect her. Lorcan swayed in front of him, a dagger in his hand, an arrow through his eye. He sank dead to the sand.
Ronan looked to the dunes. Conall already had his bow slung on his shoulder and was striding towards them. He came to stand beside Ronan and they looked at Lorcan’s body, the water ebbing and flowing around it.
Ronan put his hand on Conall’s shoulder. “It is fitting that you killed him. Your da would be proud.”
“Aye!” Conall murmured.
CHAPTER FORTY
Rhoni saw little of Ronan over the next sennight. He, Bossuet and Conall were kept busy restoring order to the Tower. A court was convened to render judgment and decide punishment for the crimes of the clansmen who had abetted the MacFintains. Bossuet advised Rhoni and Baudoin it was not a good idea for any of the Normans to attend. Rhoni was relieved.
Whenever she caught a glimpse of Ronan he was very much the Lord of Túr MacLachlainn, a commanding presence, a man to be reckoned with. It was a miracle after what he had endured.
When he noticed her, he nodded politely. She longed to share words of endearment, to touch his face, to ask how he was, but he seemed preoccupied. He had not acknowledged, nor returned her avowal of love. She toyed with the idea of complaining to Baudoin. The old Rhoni would have done so without thinking twice. The new Rhoni would hold her tongue and be patient.
When they gathered in the hall for meals, the men became engrossed in their discussions. It was evident, however, that the people of the Tower rejoiced in their liberation and the return of their rightful lord. Children played, adults smiled and chatted amiably. It was a castle reborn.
They love him.
It was difficult to sit close to him without touching. She was grateful that she was relegated to the end of the table, yet it irked at the same time. Was her opinion worth naught? Had Mary also been expected to sit quietly and say nothing?
But Ronan had confided that Mary wanted to be a nun. Perhaps obedience and conformity sat well on her shoulders? Rhoni shivered. She did not have it in her to be that kind of wife—if Ronan ever asked her! Her parents had encouraged her to be forthright, to contribute her opinions.
She wanted to explore Ronan’s home, but he had not invited her to see anything other than the Hall and her own chamber. Baudoin had been shown other parts of the Tower and there was a great bustle of activity from which she was excluded. Perhaps rushing to Ronan’s aid had been yet another impetuous mistake.
Ronan spent two days in discussions with Bossuet and Conall regarding the future of the Tower. They inspected every chamber but one, planning renovations and restorations. They talked with servants, tenant farmers, serfs, labourers. He drew Conall aside. “I’ve asked Bossuet to stay on as Steward.”
Conall averted his gaze for a moment, chewing his lip. “Has he accepted?”
“He jumped at the chance to leave the uncertain life of a mercenary.”
Conall studied his feet. “’Tis a good choice, though he is a Norman.”
Ronan slapped him on the back. “Good! We want you to be his Second. In time you’ll take over and follow in your father’s footsteps.”
Conall threw himself at his master, his eyes welling with tears. “Thank you, my lord.”
Ronan took him by the shoulders. “Conall, you will make a good Steward. You have proven your worth and I thank you for my life and for Lady Rhoni’s.”
Conall wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I have grown to admire Lady Rhoni.” He winked. “Even if she is a Norman.”
Ronan laughed. “I like her too, Conall. I never thought I would take another wife, after Mary. But it’s time. There is but one more thing to do before I can ask her to wed me. I’ll need your help. Fetch Lord Baudoin. Meet me at my old chamber in an hou
r.”
Reluctantly, Ronan slowly climbed the steps to the third level of the Tower. He inhaled deeply and pressed his palm against the wood, feeling the grain of the door his grandfather had crafted. He shoved, but hesitated on the threshold, scanning the interior. The bed was the same, the one he had been born in. The tapestries needed cleaning, but they were the ones his grandfather had hung. The cherished oaken chest Mary had brought with her was scuffed, but whole.
He held his breath, grinding his teeth, tempted to close the door and order the room sealed off. But then the MacFintains would have won, and the Tower would never be his completely.
He took a step inside. He smelled Lorcan, heard Mary’s desperate screams, saw the signs of MacFintain’s excesses—empty tankards, soiled linens, mouldy trenchers, mouse droppings, the blackened chimney. Bile rose in his throat. Was it possible to reclaim this chamber? It was a vital part of his heritage. He wanted to bring Rhoni here as his wife, join his body with hers in love, create children to carry on his name.
Clearing out Lorcan’s filth would be the easy part. Getting rid of the ghosts would be more difficult.
He sensed a presence at the doorway. Baudoin hesitated on the threshold, Conall behind him.
He beckoned. “Come in, Baudoin. Conall, leave us. I will summon you in a while.”
Conall nodded and left. Baudoin entered hesitantly.
Ronan gestured expansively. “This was my chamber, before—”
Baudoin looked around, but said nothing.
“Mary died in this room.”
Baudoin picked up a tankard and put it on a table. “And Lorcan has cavorted here ever since.”
Ronan squared his shoulders, nodding grimly. “Aye.”
Baudoin wandered around, examining the tapestries. “What are your intentions with regard to the chamber?”
Ronan cleared his throat. “Since your father is not here, I ask your permission to woo Rhoni.”
Baudoin stared at him, apparently taken aback, then smiled, proffering his hand. “Woo her? My sister is in love with you. It won’t take much wooing.”
Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight Page 18
