The Knight's Return

by Joanne Rock

  While she hesitated, one of her father’s men—Donngal—appeared in the doorway.

  “He will see you now.” His expression was hard. Hostile even. Or at least it seemed that way to Sorcha until he looked at her.

  He blushed then and turned on his heel.

  Ah, she had hurt him once and had not intended to. He had wished to court her before she met Edward, but she had been opposed to showing interest in any of her father’s men and had surely rebuffed him with unnecessary vigor. She regretted that now, knowing how a person’s pride could be as fragile as his heart.

  Hastening forward toward the great hall, Sorcha smoothed her skirts and straightened her veils, but she did not bow her head as she entered the large, airless chamber that could be sweltering hot in the summer and frigidly cold in winter. Even now, on a lovely spring day, the hall was still and stale smelling. A few ashes from the fire pit blew around the hearth in the only indication of a draft somewhere.

  Her father was seated in his usual place, upon a small dais where he held court once a month to dispense justice to the villagers and collect accountings from the various men he’d put in charge of his mills and farms, sheep and dairy. Today, however, he merely met with a handful of knights whom he was in the process of dismissing.

  Sorcha strode directly to the dais, ignoring the knights to present herself to her father. Tiernan Con Connacht was not so different from her in his temperament and the way he took his measure of people. She knew he would not respect meek humility from her even after all she’d done to irritate him. He had not raised his daughters to stand in the shadows and hope for acceptance, although Sorcha had been forced to take just such a position with his exile plan.

  “Good morning, Father.” She ducked a shallow curtsy, greeting him the same way she had countless mornings of her youth, then took a seat that one of the knights had just vacated. The rough trestle bench snagged on her worn surcoat, threatening to tear right through the silk that had been washed too many times over the last year. Sorcha had not been able to take the full extent of her wardrobe with her when she was banished, let alone all her furnishings and other possessions. Therefore, the garments she had taken with her had to be tended carefully.

  The king’s eyes followed her progress before he gave a bark of laughter.

  “Cheeky wench,” he pronounced at her modicum of deference, although he did not speak unkindly. His attention then turned to Hugh.

  “Your request sounded urgent. Dare I hope you have made progress wooing my headstrong daughter so quickly?” The king raised his bushy eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

  Embarrassment burned her skin as the other knights, except for Fergus, made their way out of the great hall. She could not help but see a couple of them chuckling at her expense as they adjusted their swords and pulled short capes over their tunics. Sorcha wrestled with an urge to leap to her feet and defend herself, but the king’s watchful expression warned her perhaps this was some sort of test of her composure. She did not wish to give him the satisfaction of flying into an outburst.

  Before she could think of a coolheaded rejoinder, Hugh stepped closer to the king to speak.

  “I find it difficult to court a woman who is in grave danger. Perhaps we would meet with more success if Sorcha was not living on the fringes of the kingdom, prey to every outlaw, thief and invading enemy that patrols your borders.” He took a seat on a trestle table, but instead of settling onto the bench, he made himself comfortable on the eating surface, putting him at almost eye level with the king. “Did your men tell you of the injury your daughter sustained last night at the fair?”

  Her father’s expression clouded. This was new terrain for them. Having an intermediary to intercede on her behalf could have felt like a loss of independence. But instead, she appreciated the presence of someone who could hold his own with the formidable Tiernan Con Connacht. The king’s will was as renowned as his temper and Sorcha had gone toe-to-toe with her sire enough times in her life to appreciate a second line of defense. Or even, as in this case, a first.

  “I heard she became unwittingly embroiled in a raucous children’s game.” He snapped his fingers for one of his hounds and the dog came forward immediately.

  Sorcha could not help but think he would be more satisfied with his lot in life if everyone would respond to his orders so readily.

  “We stood far from the tents, up on the hillside, and still she was a target. I do not think it a coincidence.”

  Her father’s attention moved from Hugh to her.

  “And I suppose this means you seek refuge in my keep?” He lifted an eyebrow, frowning as he motioned for his dog to sit beside him. The big hound settled on the floor, as quiet as Fergus in a chair near Sorcha.

  “You told me to leave this keep, Father. I would never ask to return where I am not wanted.” She regretted the words almost as soon as she said them. She should have used the opening to ask for Conn’s safe return to the keep instead of marching out her pride.

  “I think it would be wise to keep her where there is the necessary manpower to guard a princess.” Hugh gestured to the great hall around them where extra weapons and fighting men sat during most hours of the day. “Either that, or assign men-at-arms to guard her at all times.”

  “Out of the question.” Her father banged a fist on the arm of his chair, causing the hound to jump with a start. “I must prepare for war. I cannot spare any men to chase ghosts at the forest’s edge.”

  It was what she had expected, although she could tell Hugh was surprised.

  “Perhaps you are unaware of the dangers she faces alone,” Hugh’s voice became low and lethal. “I have reason to believe her son’s father may yet live. He could pose a serious threat if he wishes to claim his child.”

  At the mention of Edward du Bois, her father’s complexion mottled and then turned completely red. He gripped the arms of his chair and she half feared he would draw his sword.

  “You will never speak to me of that Norman dog again.” He raised his voice, blaring the message throughout the great hall. “Do we understand each other?”

  Hugh narrowed his gaze. His silence spoke louder than her father’s bluster. Fergus straightened in his seat as the confrontation tensed. The hound bristled and the fur on the back of its neck lifted.

  Sorcha had not seen her father draw a blade in his own hall since she was a child, but the act was not unheard of. And she truly believed no topic had ever made him as angry as this one.

  “Father, neither of us saw the body. And after hearing Eamon describe the blow Edward suffered in battle, Hugh believes it might not have been mortal.” She hoped to share their concerns now, before her father became too enraged to be reasonable. “You know I do not ask for anything for myself. But I do not believe Conn should be placed in danger on the outskirts of the kingdom because of your anger with me.”

  Her father leaped from his chair in a swirl of crimson and blue robes that matched his scarlet tunic and azure-colored hose. His neck bulged with taut veins as he swallowed his anger down past a thick gold torc about his throat.

  “All the more reason you should make ready for the convent and my grandson will take his place in my household.” His icy glare froze her insides as she realized he meant every word. “I will write to the good sisters at once and see if they will accept you as soon as I can deliver you hence.”

  The words wounded her as no others could have. A cry of pain wrenched free from her lips.

  “Sire,” Hugh interjected, “if du Bois knows about his son, he will not rest until he leverages that connection by fair means or foul.” He slipped off the table to stand on the same footing as the king. Hugh towered above him by a head, his easy stride at odds with her father’s restless roaming about the chamber. A maid entered with a platter of food, but Fergus shook his head ever so slightly, sending the woman scuttling back to the kitchen with the breads and cheeses.

  “That bastard will never breach these walls so long as I draw br
eath,” the king swore.

  “But will he breach the convent walls?” Hugh pressed, circling an abandoned pile of minstrels’ instruments off to the side of the dais. “Your enemy could hold your daughter captive until you give him his son. Will you be able to turn your back on her so easily when she is threatened?”

  Sorcha’s belly tightened with a whole new fear she had not considered. She had been so focused on keeping Conn safe she had not thought about what lengths Edward might go to in order to obtain the boy. Her eyes flew to her father’s face, unsure what his response might be and half-afraid to find out.

  “My father would never barter away my son,” Sorcha declared, saving her father from having to make a choice. Or, perhaps, saving herself from hearing her father make the correct choice. “Conn is worth ten of me, and no one knows this so well as the king.”

  Rising from her seat, she hoped this meeting had accomplished all Hugh had hoped for, since she could not sit still in her father’s great hall for even one moment longer.

  Without looking at Hugh, she simply turned and walked toward the door.

  “I have tried to protect you, Sorcha,” her father called. “You have never made it easy to keep you safe, but I have tried.”

  There was a weariness in his voice she had never heard before, a note of regret that plucked at her heart even after all this time. He was telling her that he had given up on her. But perhaps he did so with some misgivings. Hesitating, she slowed her step.

  “I know. But some of us find it harder to be ruled than others.” She knew it was nowhere near the apology and begging for forgiveness he’d always sought, but it was as close to an explanation as she’d ever attempted to make for her actions. “In that small way, at least, we are alike.”

  Striding away without another backward glance, she hoped Hugh would follow her out. It was enough that she’d been assured Conn would have a place in the kingdom. Now she knew for certain her father would accept him, and after the way he had banished her, that was more than she’d dared to hope for.

  At the age of twenty-two summers, she had already betrayed her father by denying him the political alliances that should have been his by right through her marriage. She had borne a child without the blessing of a legal wedding and brought shame onto her family’s name. Her sister might never make a good marriage because of her. True, she had delivered a beautiful boy into the world, but at what cost to everyone around her?

  Out in the courtyard, she peered back to the keep to see Hugh approaching. And for the first time, she did not see a man who looked like Conn’s father or a man who wanted to court her.

  As her gaze roamed over his battle-hardened frame, she saw only a man who had kissed her. A man who cared enough about her to ask her father to relent on his terms for her exile.

  No matter that Hugh did not know his name or his past, he had attempted to intercede with the king for her in a way no one else had ever dared. And looking at him right now, she could no longer see a man to be wary of.

  Instead, she spied a knight who would be the last man to court her before she was sent to the convent. Her last chance to know some taste of passion before she relinquished all claim to worldly pleasure.

  And suddenly, she no longer feared the temptations he’d shown her the night before. A more sophisticated woman now than she’d been after her false marriage, Sorcha understood what to do to prevent another pregnancy. Her midwife and her wet nurses had given her most valuable information on that score. Right now, with the upheaval of the meeting with her father still squeezing her heart tight, Sorcha longed for nothing more than to fling herself into Hugh’s arms with all possible haste.

  * * *

  It took a supreme effort to unclench his fist as Hugh stalked back into the great hall for a word with Tiernan Con Connacht. He knew Sorcha was in a hurry to return home to her son, but he had made an excuse to return to the hall privately, explaining that her father might listen to reason if he could speak to him alone. She’d nodded an unhappy consent and he’d wasted no time retracing his steps.

  “Sire.” Hugh reentered the hall without an escort, ignoring the heated conversation the king seemed to be having with the knight closest to him. Fergus.

  Both men looked up at him. Hugh didn’t give them a chance to return to their conversation.

  “I do not understand your actions.” Frustration beat an angry rhythm through his veins. “You wished me to protect the princess without her knowledge because you said she is opposed to your guards. But she recognizes the dangers and came with me today to ask for protection, so why do you not—”

  “Did she?” The king’s expression darkened. “I heard her request protection for her son, not for herself. She is as obstinate as ever and I will not bring a willful and arrogant lass back into my keep. Her sister is young and impressionable, and I will not allow her chances of a good marriage to be compromised by Sorcha’s influence.”

  The king glared at Hugh and then glared at Fergus, dispensing his warning looks equally. Had Fergus argued for more leniency with the princess as well? Perhaps he was an unexpected ally.

  “So do not bring her to the keep. I merely ask for assistance in protecting her at the cottage.” Hugh could not understand the old man’s motives. “Whether or not you care for her any longer, she remains valuable to your enemies. If for no other reason than that, you should—”

  “You will not tell the king his business.” Tiernan flew out of his chair, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his face flushed with rage.

  Hugh knew a moment’s temptation to draw his own sword, but he was a more temperate man than that. He would not embroil himself in a civil uprising or international politics by pointing a blade at a sovereign king.

  “As you wish. But I cannot fathom why I should pretend to court your daughter when we both know what she needs is a guardian at all times.” The ruse made no sense and he resented deceiving her, especially after last night’s kiss.

  After her experience with Edward du Bois, Sorcha deserved better from Hugh than more lies.

  “Well, you would not have gotten anywhere near my daughter if you had arrived at her gate with my blessing as her protector.” Some of the flushed color drained from his face as he rocked back on his heels. The anger transformed into a self-satisfied smirk so fast that it made Hugh uneasy.

  Suspicious.

  “Nevertheless, there is no need to pretend now.” He could not risk kissing her again while this untruth sat between them.

  “Then you shall leave my lands as much a pauper as you entered them.” The king returned to his seat beside Fergus, his fur-trimmed robe draped carelessly over the arm of his chair. “You are free to choose, Norman.”

  Hugh could not afford to choose freely. With no memory, no past and no home to return to, he had to rely on his reward to buy him the freedom to recover his identity. Having coin in his pocket would help assure he was not taken for a madman when he returned to England.

  “Will you at least consider making Eamon a man-at-arms?” Hugh knew the groom had not been properly outfitted as a warrior.

  “He has little training,” Fergus entered the conversation for the first time and Hugh wondered if the knight was in charge of training the keep’s fighting men.

  “He is sharing the watch with me. He needs a fast horse and more weaponry,” Hugh insisted, determined to wrest some compromise from this stubborn monarch. The maid returned with the tray of breads and cheeses and Fergus waved her deeper into the hall. The scent of the food reminded Hugh he had not eaten since yester eve.

  “Aye,” the king finally agreed. “I will see it done today if you send him to me. Onora will sew my crest upon a banner for him. Take Sorcha some food before you leave.”

  The king pointed the maid toward Hugh and she held out the platter to him. Sweet and savory breads had been cut into slices beside three kinds of cheese. Seeing that the food and a few more weapons was all he was likely to get out of the Irish king, Hugh helped himse
lf to the maid’s tray and turned to leave.

  He was no closer to understanding the king’s design, but at least he knew to expect no help from that quarter. Sorcha’s mistake would be held against her for as long as the king’s disappointment with his daughter remained. Judging by what Hugh had just heard, that could be a long, long time.

  Still, Hugh was only obligated to protect Sorcha until she left for the convent. And it sounded like that time would approach much faster than either of them had originally thought.

  He should be relieved that he only had to pretend to court her for another sennight or perhaps a fortnight at most. But given that Sorcha had been the only person in Connacht to betray any hint of recognition when they’d met, Hugh was not eager to lose his connection to her.

  Besides, after the kiss they’d shared, he couldn’t help but think that locking up such a beautiful, passionate woman for the rest of her days was too cruel. Sorcha was a devoted mother. A beloved sister. She did not deserve the fate her father would banish her to.

  As he exited the great hall and spied her seated on a bale of hay near the rings where the horses were tied, Hugh promised himself he would thwart the king’s plan for as long as possible. Even if that meant deceiving Sorcha against his will.

  Chapter Eleven

  “What would you do if you knew you had only a sennight to live?”

  Sorcha had worried the question to pieces the whole ride back to the cottage, unsure how to handle her final days of freedom.

  Such as it was.

  She was an exile, banished from her home and her family. So it wasn’t as if she could enjoy all the normal experiences she had grown up with—such as the early-morning breakfasts with her sister sneaking rolls from the kitchen before the household awakened. She could not sit at her favorite loom in her mother’s old solar, weaving her daydreams into the bright colors her father’s wealth could afford. Nor could she practice her skill with a crossbow in secret behind the keep, her aim a source of pride among the few men who’d been with her father since he was a mere baron with naught but a few farms to his name. She no longer had the luxuries she used to or the run of an extravagant household. But she did have her son and her own modest home. They had brought unexpected pleasures that surpassed many of her old experiences.