by Joanne Rock
“I do not know what I can tell you that I have not already related to Lady Sorcha and her father.” Eamon bowed his head in a gentle show of respect.
Sorcha appreciated the groom’s kindness toward her. He’d always been wise beyond his years with a charm that made him a favorite in her father’s court.
“A few points call for clarification.” Hugh’s jaw tightened, his face cast in flickering shadows from the play of the bonfires nearby. “Did you see the man’s body for yourself?”
Eamon shifted uncomfortably and Sorcha guessed he did not wish to upset her.
“I am prepared for your answers, Eamon,” she assured him. Although she would have appreciated a bit more wine to steel her. She’d felt shaky ever since she’d been struck by the stone, but she wasn’t sure if that was because of her injury or the worrisome turn Hugh’s thoughts had taken about her safety since then.
She would not be so frightened if she was the only party at risk. But the thought of anything happening to Conn concerned her greatly. Did Hugh care about the boy because he might be a relative? Or could he truly care about them simply because he wanted to court her? Sorcha did not trust her judgment anymore when it came to men.
“I saw Edward du Bois struck down two days after his arrival on the battlefield in Meath,” Eamon explained. “I dared not venture close to his body since he fought with the Normans for the southern kings against my own lord.”
Sorcha had known Edward was Norman, of course, and thus more inclined to support her father’s opposition. But when he’d left her that winter, she thought he went to discuss a peaceful resolution. She never knew if he’d taken up arms anyhow, or if he’d been killed while seeking peace.
“Then it’s very possible that du Bois fell but did not die.” Hugh’s hand moved to her back, a steadying touch she hadn’t realized she needed until this very moment.
Beside her, Onora squeezed closer, still holding her hand in sisterly support. All around them, a cheer went up for the minstrels as one rousing tune ended and another lively round began. The dancing took place closest to the central bonfire while Sorcha’s party huddled near the farthest fire to the east. Nearby, she could see couples sneaking away from the fire to find privacy in the forest, a reminder that they needed to keep their voices low for a sensitive discussion.
It also reminded her of the forbidden pleasures she would never enjoy again once her father installed her at a convent. She was certain she had not discovered the full extent of what delights a man and woman might share behind closed doors with Edward, but her small knowledge of a man made her curious to learn more.
“But I saw the blow delivered with my own eyes,” Eamon insisted. “It was a grave strike to his head.”
“His head?” Sorcha straightened, setting aside her imaginings about the couples who stole off into the woods behind them.
She’d thought Eamon told her father that Edward had been struck in the heart.
“Aye.” Eamon nodded, his eyes steadfast upon her as if he recalled the detail very clearly. “He did not arise after the blow to the back of his head.”
Sorcha wondered how she could have confused such an important fact. Sure, she had been upset when Eamon had delivered the news and then recounted it again for her father many months after the king discovered her condition. Her unhappiness at the time must account for her muddled memory. And no one else save her father would have heard Eamon’s account since they had strived to keep the whole incident as quiet as possible.
Onora had been purposely left out of such discussions so as not to upset her or, as Sorcha suspected, so as not to romanticize an unsanctioned affair.
“I have witnessed a man suffer such an injury and live through it.” Hugh’s certainty of this fact gave her pause.
Eamon, on the other hand, appeared less certain.
“Have you?” Sorcha watched him carefully, alert to some change in his demeanor, some subtle shift in his expression. “Was it someone close to you?” She did not think about the personal nature of such a query until it hung in the air between them.
“Nay.” His golden eyes went blank and she knew it was no trick of the firelight that made them thus.
Hugh did not wish to reveal any more about the incident that she would wager her cottage had happened to someone very close to him.
“What does it mean if du Bois is alive?” Onora asked, her tone impatient. “We are not even sure of his real name, you know, since our father went to great lengths to find his family and let them know about Sorcha.”
“Did he?” Sorcha’s heart lifted at the news. Even if her sire’s efforts had been to no avail, they demonstrated a desire to believe her story about her unwise “marriage.”
“Of course he did,” Onora admonished, releasing Sorcha’s hand to swipe away a fly buzzing about her head. “I am certain I disclosed as much to you on one of those early visits to see Conn.”
Before Sorcha had banned Onora altogether for fear of the risks she took.
“If du Bois is indeed alive, we must question why he would not contact Sorcha in all this time.” Hugh sidestepped some children hurrying from the woods with sticks and leaves to toss into the flames. “We must also question his use of a false priest. Perhaps at the time he only intended to play a sordid game with a young woman’s affections. But if he lives and has discovered the existence of his son, he might wish to claim the child.”
Sorcha’s heart stuttered in her chest. Could Edward be alive? Hugh genuinely believed that to be so. If it was true, it meant Conn could be in danger and that was a consequence she refused to suffer because of her starry-eyed foolishness. She would protect her son and she would start by making completely certain her new suitor didn’t have any connection to the man who’d lied to her in the past. The man who bore too much resemblance to the golden-eyed knight by her side.
Chapter Eight
“We should seek an audience with your father at once.” Hugh gripped Sorcha’s hand to lead her away from the feast-day dancing.
If there was a chance the father of Sorcha’s child yet lived, Hugh would need far greater resources in order to keep her and the boy safe. Since he had naught to his name and no promise of coin until the summer’s end, he had no choice but to inform Tiernan Con Connacht of this new suspicion.
“Wait.” Sorcha dug in her heels and refused to join him, her lips pursed in a small frown while the firelight limned her auburn hair in an even more fiery shade. “May I speak with you privately first?”
“I know there is no love lost between you and your father but—”
“You’re wrong.” She withdrew her hand from his and folded her arms. “There is a great deal of love lost. But I would like to talk to you before you seek out the king. And besides, I am not ready for my first night of freedom to end quite yet.”
The plea persuaded him like no other would have. He admired the graceful way she’d adjusted to life as an exile and he did not wish to rob her of this night when she’d already lost part of the day to her injury and the ensuing search for a guilty party. He would wait a bit longer to speak to the king.
“As you wish.” He searched the revelry for a private place, his eyes lingering on a kissing couple stumbling backward into the forest.
The vision spurred a hunger for Sorcha he had no right to act upon. That knowledge did not stop his brain from imagining what she would feel like pressed up against him, her soft curves yielding to his roaming hands. Her lush lips parted for his kiss. He could picture the feel of her hair between his fingers. The scent of her fragrant skin as he bent to taste one creamy breast.
“Perhaps we could retreat to one of the vendors’ tents?” Sorcha suggested, her eyes darting away from the amorous couples blending into the shadowed woods.
“Follow me.” His voice scratched his throat with the hoarse response, his whole body attuned to Sorcha’s every move. He took her hand again, careful not to touch her breast as he unwound her folded arms. One false move would sur
ely be his undoing. “This way.”
The tents were a good idea. There was at least some light upon them from the torches lining a path between the kitchens and the fair. People walked along the small thoroughfare, some carrying game boards or flagons of ale while others danced in drunken abandon or carried sleeping children home to their beds.
“The cook’s tent had a table.” Sorcha pointed to the right. “In here.”
He slowed his pace to enter a low canopy raised on skinny, young trees that had been cut and stripped of their leaves for the occasion. The scents of sweet cakes and ginger still lingered even though the cart was empty now. In the back of the tent, a table and bench sat vacant, though a chessboard of rudimentary pieces remained ready for players.
He pulled the bench out for Sorcha. Her skirts caught on a rough edge of the bench as he sat and he tugged the soft fabric free, draping the wayward material on her lap before he took a seat beside her.
In the dark.
They were far enough off the path that no one would notice them unless they came looking for them. And although they were no more alone now than they’d been at her cottage the day before, Hugh had grown far more aware of her in that time. He’d touched her scalp in his search for injury. He’d held her hand in his own. He’d learned more about her passionate, impulsive side.
And he grew more and more convinced they shared a connection she did not want to reveal.
“Tell me of your family.” Sorcha peered up at him in the darkness, her features visible only by the grace of a fickle moon concealed, at times, by patches of clouds.
“My family?” He had no notion what could have brought this on, but he was instantly on alert.
“Aye.” She grinned up at him. “You have seen so much of my feuding clan and yet I know nothing of your people. I should like to know more about the man who would pay me court.”
He wished he could see her better to gauge the sincerity of her words. Was that truly why she wished to know? Or had she begun to suspect something was amiss?
Or—if she had known him in the past—did she seek to test him somehow?
“I thought you would not even consider courtship.” He delayed his response, unsure how to tread.
He debated kissing her instead of answering, but feared he would not be able to stop himself, when he needed to maintain his position with the king.
“Nevertheless, we are here together this night.” She reached to toy with one of the simplest of figures on the chessboard that he assumed must be a pawn. “I find myself curious about the Fitz Henry family seat. Are you a knight beholden to an overlord or do you make your home with your kin?”
Warnings flared up in his head like a watchtower blaze. Did she play a game to trap him? Or was her interest an innocent diversion to prolong her escape from exile?
She twirled the game piece in her hand as if contemplating her next move. Her profile took on a snowy hue in the moonlight, her creamy skin appearing unnaturally pale. One wavy lock of hair fell forward over her shoulder to slide along the bared skin below her collarbone. And while her blue surcoat was completely circumspect, her lush figure created an enticing shadow at the base of the neckline, a valley where the lock of hair disappeared from view.
“As a mercenary, I belong nowhere.” That much was true enough. He knew the answer would scarcely satisfy her.
“But you did not spring to life bearing arms. Where were you raised?”
He told himself she was interested because he’d presented himself as a suitor. But something about the timing of her questions put him on guard.
“North of London.” It was where he’d awoken from his memory loss. “But I became a mercenary to forge my own way in the world after a rift with my family. I prefer only that which I’ve achieved on my own.”
He sent up a silent prayer of apology if he had loving parents somewhere.
“What of Conn’s father?” she asked, shifting the chess pieces around the board as if to begin a game anew. “Edward du Bois was—or is—a Norman like you. Is his family name familiar to you?”
Perhaps this was her larger purpose then. Some of the tension went out of his shoulders.
“His family was very prominent,” Sorcha continued. “In fact, Edward once received a post with the king’s seal upon it.”
He watched the chessboard, realizing all at once that she wasn’t rearranging the pieces to start a new game. She was playing a game herself—a fast-moving affair in which she made her plays as well of those of her opponent. Moreover, she seemed to be playing quite well on both sides. Her easy mastery of the board stalled out, however, as one side checked the other.
Hugh knew she was sharp. Sorcha’s understanding of politics and her ability to read and write were proof enough. Seeing her game strategy played out on the board only confirmed Hugh’s instincts about her. If he denied knowing a prominent Norman family, would she call him out for an impostor?
“His name is du Bois?”
“Aye.”
“I do recall a family with that name,” he lied, his memories wispy bits of nothing that formed disjointed pictures in his mind.
“Truly?” She gripped a chess piece in midair, her fingers obscuring the shape.
“I did not know them personally,” he clarified. “I merely recognize the name.”
She rocked the game piece back and forth faster.
“You would be the only one then.”
He stilled. “What do you mean?”
“After Edward died, my father sent secret missives all over your native lands.” She plunked the piece down decisively on the board. “And no one acknowledged knowing any family called du Bois.”
He reeled at the revelation, seeing his misstep. Recognizing her trap too late.
“And since you don’t know the names of the country’s most prominent families, I would guess that you are not a knight of any consequence, the way you would have my father believe.” She backed away from the table and rose from the bench. “No matter how you look at it, you are most certainly lying about who you are.”
Hugh straightened, recognizing the need to settle this matter immediately. Before she went to her father. He reached for her as she turned to depart.
“Wait—”
“Too late, Hugh.” Her shoulders were rigid where he touched her. She shrugged him off. “Checkmate.”
Sorcha had always wanted an opportunity to put her former deceivers in their place. During the long months of her confinement, she’d dreamed about taking revenge on that fat priest for lying about his status as a holy man. She’d also imagined herself confronting her false husband with the fact that he’d given her a name no one recognized and claimed a fake priest for a friend. In her imaginings, her self-righteous triumphs raised her up and made her feel strong. Empowered.
Her victory over Hugh’s lies had no such effect. She picked her way through the darkness with Eamon on her return to her secluded cottage dwelling, her mood darkening more with each step when she should feel glad that she’d discovered Hugh’s deception. He’d asked for a chance to explain himself, but she’d been in no mood to hear more untruths. When he’d insisted she at least speak to her father about obtaining better protection for herself and her son, she’d refused to do so with Hugh at her side, but had promised to send her father a note in the morning to inform him. She would be sure to mention Hugh’s perfidy as well.
And where, at one time, she would have reveled in the chance to show her father how unsuitable his choices were for men to court her, now she felt only deflated. She had wanted to like Hugh.
“My lady?” Eamon’s voice interrupted her thoughts just as she’d reached a humiliating conclusion.
She seemed to still be attracted to the wrong sorts of men.
“What is it, Eamon?” She allowed her courser to lead the way. The animal knew well how to find its oat bin. Sorcha might not be allowed far from her cottage, but the horses were kept exercised thanks to Eamon.
“He
follows us.” The groom kept his voice low as he leaned closer in the darkness.
“Who?” She peered behind them through the trees, but all she could see was a vast darkness.
“Fitz Henry.”
She pulled up sharply. “What?”
“Hugh Fitz Henry follows us, my lady. I assume he wants to ensure your safe arrival at the cottage, but if you would like me to call to him—”
“No.”
“Very well then.” Eamon slid from his horse. “The cottage is just ahead. Shall I take your mount?”
Sorcha was disoriented, not having seen her small home through the trees. Her father’s keep could be seen from many leagues distant, the ramparts a beacon to travelers throughout the kingdom. Even at night, torches flickered from the central watch posts. Her cottage was dark as a new moon; the squat design backed into a hillside so that a traveler might never spot it if not for the bright flowers Sorcha had trained around the door. Even the garden walls, while high, were covered in ivy and stacked with natural stone that used no mortar. The whole structure hid within the forest as if it had grown up from the earth.
“Yes. Thank you.” Sorcha swung a weary leg over her horse’s back.
“Good night then.” With a soft command to her courser, he led the animals away for the night.
“Good night, Eamon.” She stretched up on her toes to ease her legs, not used to such full days of revelry and riding. Though, in truth, she was more heartsore than physically tired. Between Onora’s insistence that Sorcha would be leaving at the end of summer, Hugh’s deceptions and his suggestion that Edward yet lived, her mind recoiled from all she needed to worry about. She could not wait to see Conn and hug the warmth of his tiny body to her breast before he fell asleep. Each moment with him was all the more bittersweet now that she knew he might soon be taken from her forever.
