The Knight's Return

by Joanne Rock

  Guilt stabbed her even as she careened into Hugh’s back.

  “Go!” she shouted, her hands grasping the fabric of his tunic to tug him aside, the heat from the flames warming her now that they stood closer to the structure. “I need to find my son. Go or get out of my way.”

  Stumbling into him, she tripped on a timber that outlined the herb garden. Hugh’s arms were there to catch her, keeping her upright.

  “Conn!” she shouted between cupped hands. “Enid!”

  Hugh grabbed her hand and dragged her away from the front door where the roses shriveled and blackened in the heat.

  “I am going in the back window.” He raised his voice over the dull roar of the flames and pointed to a small opening on the side of the cottage where Sorcha normally slept. “Stay right under the opening in case I need to hand him out to you.”

  She nodded numbly, quivering inside with the thought of her precious child hurt inside the roaring blaze. All around her, the trees shrank from the fire, the leaves disintegrating into nothing next to the flames raging up through the wooden roof. The stone walls fared better, but they radiated heat.

  Could anyone survive inside the small building?

  “Would the nurse remain with him while he slept?” he asked as he reached for the window’s ledge, his arms impossibly strong to pull himself up to the opening.

  “Sometimes.” She had not required Enid to sleep beside him, but oftentimes, the nurse fell into slumber while rocking the boy.

  She watched Hugh haul himself up onto the window ledge, using his cape as a blanket to protect himself from the hot stones. Why had she taken her eyes off her son for a moment? She had been living in denial by raising him here, far from her father’s armies and the protection of a well-guarded keep.

  “Conn!” Her voice failed her, coming out in a half sob, her throat raspy from shouting and inhaling fumes. “Hugh?”

  Stepping closer to where Hugh’s feet had disappeared through the cottage window, Sorcha leaned in to touch his cape, but she was not tall enough to see inside when she stood close to the wall. Backing up again, she watched anxiously as angry red flames danced all around the cottage. Somewhere nearby, timber cracked and creaked, a shrill cry from the structure that the whole thing might fall.

  Above her, a piece of the roof crashed in, showering her with sparks. Small burns peppered her skin. She drew the skirt of her surcoat up over her head like a hood to prevent her hair from catching fire.

  Fear twisted in her gut, spreading into all-out black panic.

  “Here!” Hugh’s voice was suddenly beside her ear and she had to turn to see him around the fabric she’d drawn up over her head.

  And there, at the window, was her son.

  Swaddled in blankets, Conn peeked out from a woolen wrap that covered his head, his hands and his feet. With a cry, Sorcha reached for him, relief swamping her so hard she feared she would fall to the ground from the force of it. The weight of her son’s body—alive and wriggling inside his shell of linens—was the most welcome burden she’d ever carried.

  “My boy.” She prattled and cooed and stuttered through words of reassurance that were as much for her as for him. “I’ve got him,” she called into the cottage to Hugh. “Can you get out?”

  “I can’t find the nurse anywhere.” He coughed as a wave of smoke blasted out the window. Behind him, another beam from the roof caved in.

  Hugh stumbled forward, his shoulder raking down the stone wall just below the window ledge.

  “You can’t stay inside.” Sorcha hesitated between the need to run clear of the building with Conn and the desire to haul Hugh out with her own hands before the whole cottage collapsed. “Perhaps she is already out.”

  “Enid!” Hugh shouted, his voice gritty with fumes as he raised himself up again.

  Sorcha spotted a burn festering on his shoulder already, his tunic charred away and sealed to the skin around the edges of the burn.

  “Come out!” she demanded, scared and desperate to run from the cottage. “She might have taken some air outdoors.”

  Although wouldn’t the nurse have run back to the building if she’d seen it smoking? Sorcha prayed the young woman was somewhere safe.

  Hugh appeared unconvinced, but before he could sprint off into the burning building again, the structure shifted again, showering her with more sparks.

  “You must come out!” she cried, unwilling to be responsible for Hugh’s death.

  Nodding, Hugh hefted one leg over the window ledge, his cape slipping off the rocky wall as he did so. Sorcha held Conn in one hand and pulled at Hugh with the other, closing her eyes and averting her face to avoid the heat of the fire.

  “Let go and run!” Hugh yelled, glaring at her with the eyes of the damned.

  Still, she yanked at his leg, praying and pulling with all her might.

  Finally, his other boot appeared and he half leaped, half fell to the ground beside her. No sooner had he escaped the inferno when the rest of the ceiling caved in with a horrible whining crack of wood.

  Soot and sparks chased them as they ran deeper into the garden enclosure away from the fire. Sorcha bent forward around Conn to protect him from flying debris while Hugh tucked her to his side, shielding her with his body in much the same way.

  “It’s all right, baby.” She rambled soothing words in her son’s ear, praying they were true. “We are safe.”

  Beside her, Hugh slowed his pace to look back at the burning cottage.

  The acrid scent of smoke hung thick in the garden that still swayed with blooms of every hue. The blossoming trees and babbling brook made a strange frame for the ugliness beyond the enclosed garden.

  “Is there any way out of the garden besides through the cottage?” Hugh’s gaze swept the stone walls that circled the private retreat that had been such a source of pleasure for her during her exile.

  “No.” Heart in her throat, she tried not to mourn the loss of material things inside the cottage. None of it mattered as long as they were all right.

  She prayed Enid was all right.

  Still, seeing the cottage in flames made her think about how much time she’d spent there. How many important events had taken place inside those walls. The birth of her son. Her slow realization that she didn’t need a husband to be happy.

  And of course, there were the material things. Tiny blankets she had woven herself for Conn, the imperfections a part of their appeal since she had improved her skills greatly during her banishment. She’d had such incentive to weave and sew when it was her child who would reap the benefit.

  Now, all those precious little things she’d worked so hard on were gone along with a few of her mother’s treasured possessions. Sorcha had only brought the items that meant the most to her into exile—her mother’s silver comb, a golden brooch, an embroidered veil that she’d worn on the day of her marriage to Sorcha’s father.

  The price of their loss was a small one to hold her boy safely in her arms.

  “Then we will have to scale the wall.” Hugh guided her toward a young pear tree with low-hanging limbs. “If you let me hold Conn while you climb, I can help you up and then hand him to you while I follow.”

  Her arms tightened around her son instinctively, even as she saw the wisdom of the plan. With a kiss to Conn’s forehead, she passed him to Hugh. Perhaps he was too young to be frightened by the fire because he went willingly to Hugh, holding his arms out through the blanket that had come loose around him. Sorcha’s heart clenched to see her son reach out to the warrior who looked so much like his father.

  The man who had more than earned the right to know of the resemblance.

  She vowed to confide the truth in him as soon as they were free of the fire and certain that Enid was all right.

  When they reached the top of the wall safely, Sorcha turned to repeat the process for lowering themselves to the ground. She moved to hand Conn to Hugh so that she could descend first. But Hugh shook his head.

  “
Wait here until I am sure it’s safe.” He edged down the wall, lowering himself slowly.

  “I do not think the fire will spread this far.” Frowning, she turned back to see the cottage from her bird’s-eye view on the wall. She kissed Conn’s head absently, wondering when she would feel safe to ever be apart from him again. “We are well away from it now.”

  The cottage stood in ruins, the structure flattened from the blaze while the wood burned to nothing.

  Hugh gripped her ankle with one hand before he went any farther and she tore her attention from the smoldering debris to discover an intent look on his face.

  “Sorcha, there is a chance that fire was set on purpose.” His hard look didn’t startle her nearly as much as that terrifying possibility. “Think about it. No hearth fire burned. No candle would have been lit at midday. The kitchen is not near the cottage and in fact, that building remained untouched by flame off to one side. We must consider that this could have been a purposeful act, and if so, we need to take care the person responsible does not lie in wait to finish his job.”

  Hugh would not allow the king to turn his daughter away this time. Tiernan Con Connacht should not have sent his daughter out into the woods with no more protection than a lone knight and a groom more concerned with bedding women than guarding them. And Hugh should not have allowed it to come to pass.

  He nodded to the guard in the gatehouse as they approached the keep. The drawbridge was lowered unless the king was under attack, so taking shelter inside the stalwart walls was easy enough. Convincing the king to allow Sorcha to stay within the walls might prove more difficult.

  But that’s exactly what had to happen.

  The courtyard teemed with activity. Masons applied their craft to the outer stone ring, strengthening the castle’s defenses. Maids carried milk from the dairy while young boys hauled wood in for the day. Horses drew carts full of hay in from the fields toward the stables, the rhythmic clop of their shoes ringing on the cobblestones. In the distance, the grind of metal on stone suggested a blacksmith was hard at work.

  “Sister!”

  From across the courtyard, Onora waved to her sibling.

  The dark-haired young princess held a bright length of cloth in one hand as she spoke with Eamon. Too bad Hugh had encouraged the groom to make haste for the keep today or he might have seen who had set the fire.

  Sorcha hastened into Onora’s embrace and only then did she allow someone else to hold Conn. Hugh had offered numerous times to take the child on their tense ride through the forest back to the castle, but Sorcha had been pale with worry and insisted on carrying Conn. He was relieved to see her take some aid from her younger sibling.

  “What happened?” Onora’s startled blue eyes roamed the three of them, no doubt taking in the burned clothes, soot-covered faces and the thick scent of smoke.

  “We must see the king at once,” Hugh told her, ushering the group toward the entrance to the keep. “There’s been a fire.”

  Onora’s cry of dismay did not distract Hugh from observing Eamon’s reaction. The groom may not have been overly vigilant in his duties, judging by his lack of haste to see the king earlier today.

  Yet the quick loss of color in Eamon’s face told Hugh he was as upset by the news as Onora. Perhaps the realization of how grave the consequences could be for losing focus would spur him to be all the more committed to his duty.

  It was a lesson Hugh took to heart as well. He had not forgiven himself for allowing those moments in the garden with Sorcha to undermine his watchfulness.

  “How did it happen?” Eamon asked at the same moment Onora hugged Conn tighter and asked, “Are you unharmed?”

  “We are fine,” Hugh assured her, hastening their pace through a narrow alleyway that led into the keep. He bypassed the waiting area for visitors, determined to see the monarch immediately. “I will tell you all I know at the same time we tell the king.”

  They passed a troop of servants bringing jugs of wine up from a storage area, while young girls skipped ahead of them with clean rushes in hand, presumably for the hall floor.

  “What is afoot here?” Sorcha asked. “There is so much activity. Has the meal not been served yet?”

  Hugh had expected to see the king after supper and was surprised to think they hadn’t even served the food yet. He hoped that wouldn’t prevent the king from sending men to the cottage to search for Enid and look for clues about how the fire started.

  “We have an honored guest tonight,” Onora informed them, her eyes narrowing with clear disdain at the mention of the guest. “We play host to the king of Breifne, and Father hopes to arrange a marriage for me to the ancient drunkard who is as known for his temper as he is for outlasting his wives.”

  Hugh guided the party into the hall and was disappointed to note the king had not yet taken his seat.

  “Where is he?” Impatience simmered along with anger. At the king, at himself, at the notion that he could not claim Sorcha even if he wanted to, since Hugh wasn’t even certain he had the means to support a family.

  After what had happened between them, he feared he owed her his name as well as his protection. But what if those things meant little? What if he had other commitments at home? Of course, the time to consider those things had passed when he pulled Sorcha’s garments off and succumbed to temptation.

  “I think Father is in his chambers,” Onora answered. “Let us go up and see him together.”

  Hugh nodded, appreciating the young woman’s fast assessment of the situation. Then again, perhaps she was only too glad to put off a meal that might end with her betrothal to a quick-tempered old man.

  “Hugh.” Sorcha hung back as Eamon, Onora and Conn led the way up a staircase at the back of the great hall.

  Hugh paused and waited for her to catch up, although their delay allowed for a good distance between them and the others.

  “What is it?” He hated seeing the worry in her eyes, the soot smeared across her pretty face. He had failed her on so many levels this day.

  “We had never met before you arrived in Connacht a sennight ago. But I can explain why I might have seemed unsettled to see you that first day in the forest.”

  His foot missed a tread on the narrow stone staircase dotted with arrow slits and hidden alcoves for knights to surprise invading forces.

  “I thought you recognized me.” He recalled how her reaction had demanded he remain in Connacht as much as his gut instinct that he was meant to be here.

  “You bear a striking resemblance to my false husband,” she confessed.

  Hugh’s thoughts spun with the admission. He’d wanted some hint to his identity, some clue to his past. But not like this. Not when the only link that came to light marked him as—what? Kin to a lying, cheating bastard?

  Worse still, might Sorcha have lain with him only because he reminded her of another man? The idea bludgeoned the feelings he was beginning to have for her.

  “I did not remark on it because I was unsure if you were here on his behalf. I thought you might be a brother or—”

  “Sorcha!” The king’s voice boomed from the private chambers above. His footsteps fell heavy on the stairs and he intercepted them before they could reach the apartments. “What happened?”

  Above them, Eamon and Onora stood on the landing with Conn between them. The boy’s blanket had slipped to the floor and he appeared eager to pet a fat gray cat winding about his chubby legs.

  Hugh was grateful for the king’s interruption, lest he reveal some of the tumult of his emotions. He planned to step back from Sorcha on a personal level even though he’d resolved to protect her physically.

  “I am fine,” Sorcha asserted, stiffening at her father’s approach. “The cottage burned to the ground. Hugh rescued Conn, but could not find Enid. You must send men to search for her.”

  The king hugged her, his scarlet robe wrapping around her like exotic wings. Sorcha wavered on her feet but softened, leaning into the father who had banished h
er.

  “Of course.” The king raised a hand and Fergus appeared on the stairs, squeezing his large frame past them. No doubt he went to do as Sorcha had suggested.

  Hugh still reeled with Sorcha’s admission about his resemblance to Edward du Bois, but as Fergus stomped past him, he recovered himself enough to stop the descending knight.

  “There is a chance the fire was purposely set,” he told Fergus, recognizing the man’s intelligence. He was obviously well trusted by his overlord. “There were no fires lit within the cottage and the blaze did not start in the kitchen. Given the threats we have feared to the princess’s safety, you might search the surrounding area. If you have men who are accomplished trackers, take them with you.”

  Fergus looked to the king, but Hugh could not discern the glance they exchanged.

  “Let us speak privately,” Tiernan proposed, steering Sorcha up the last few steps. “Onora, you must ready yourself for our guest tonight. Eamon, you may remain.”

  The protest from Sorcha’s younger sibling was evident even before she opened her mouth to speak. The bright cloth she’d been holding fell from her hand and Hugh realized it was a banner bearing her father’s standard.

  “I have been separated from my sister for a year.” Onora’s voice wobbled, but Hugh suspected it had more to do with anger than tears. She clutched her father’s arms with both hands, attempting in vain to gather up the old man’s attention when he peered away from her with studied effort. “You cannot mean to ban me from her presence now when she could have been killed in that godforsaken outpost you’ve punished her with.”

  The king pried her hands gently off his shoulders, his ringed fingers strong but insistent as he nudged her toward the door.

  “I have already lost the chance to make one political alliance with my eldest. I will not lose another when we are so close to meeting the terms of your marriage.”

  Hugh wondered if anyone else noticed the tears Onora blinked back or the blind fury that darkened her features for a fleeting moment. The king certainly seemed oblivious as he thrust her toward the blue velvet curtains covering the heavy wooden door to his apartments.