by Joanne Rock
“You will not send her away without allowing me to see her again,” Onora told the king.
“You do not rule here, daughter,” he informed her, closing the door with a thud behind her.
Ensconced in the king’s private antechamber, Sorcha lowered herself into a seat near a low window looking out over the village’s main gate. Eamon retrieved the banner Onora had dropped, tucking it into his coarse woolen cape before settling onto a simple bench in front of a tattered old tapestry.
Hugh tried not to think about what it meant that he resembled the last Norman Sorcha had cared about. Right now, he needed to convince the king to allow for better protection for Sorcha.
Before he could speak, her father turned to him.
“You must wed my daughter and leave this night.”
Hugh knew he must have heard the man wrong.
“Sire—”
“Take Eamon with you,” the king continued, “and put as much distance between you and Connacht as possible. We’ve heard a Norman army approaches and I’ve got my hands full with an upcoming battle. I cannot look after Sorcha if the father of her child launches his own attack.”
“I will not wed again,” Sorcha protested, rising from her chair. She wavered on her feet and Hugh realized she must be overwrought from all that had happened.
And, perhaps, she would never bind herself to a warrior who might be related to a man who had deceived her. At very least, Edward du Bois had not admitted his true identity when he married her, lest the king find his family through diplomatic connections in England.
“Then Hugh can deliver you to the convent.” The ruler turned on Hugh, dark accusation apparent in his angry gaze. “It’s the least he can do for allowing your enemies to burn your house down around your ears while he was present and paying court to you.”
Hugh wondered how the wily old king had managed to maneuver him so skillfully. Had the monarch marked him for a husband to the fallen princess all along? Or was this idea of marriage a mere convenience when the Irish overlord did not have enough manpower to protect his keep let alone manage a daughter with a mind of her own?
But then, what did it matter when the old man was right? The crafty ruler knew without question that Hugh would make sure Sorcha was safe.
“It is not time for me to enter the convent yet,” Sorcha argued, her green eyes lit with fear and worries she should not have to bear. “I will not be separated from my son so soon after he had such a frightening experience, especially not when I had no plans to leave for another fortnight at least.”
“Would you prefer to remain here where battle is imminent?” her father shouted, stomping about on a dusty rush mat in a narrow chamber crammed with furnishings. “I am sending Onora away in the morning with the man I hope will be her groom. I will not have my daughters here when Connacht is attacked by invaders.”
Suddenly, all the activity in the courtyard and the frantic efforts of the masons made sense. The king prepared for war. He had not bothered to attend his own village’s fair because he had been too busy making hasty preparations to marry off one daughter and send the other into the care of the nuns because his reign might very well be finished.
But even if Hugh could bring himself to trust Sorcha’s safety to someone else, he needed to stay close to her when she might very well hold the key to his past.
“I will take her with me,” Hugh agreed, suspecting the king had foreseen exactly how this meeting would unfold.
Perhaps the cottage fire had only hastened along the end result he had fully anticipated from the start.
“I will not leave my son,” Sorcha protested, turning the full impact of furious green eyes on him.
“We will bring him with us,” Hugh assured her, watching Conn squeal with delight as the gray cat batted the laces of the boy’s tunic. “I will not take you to the convent.”
The anger in her gaze switched to confusion. Surprise.
And, at last, betrayal.
“I do not understand.” She bit the words out between clenched teeth.
“We will wed.” He was no more prepared for such an event than her. He did not know if he had other commitments or if he had made promises to someone else at another time. But he would not let her remain here with a father determined to send her away with anyone willing to have her.
At least this way, he knew she would be safe from harm and free to help him uncover the mystery of his past. He could not leave Connacht without her when she was his only link to his identity.
But he would not bed Sorcha again until he was certain she was free of any romantic feelings for the father of her child. After all, he couldn’t discount the notion that she’d allowed her broken heart to dictate her actions with Hugh, sleeping with him without telling him of his resemblance to du Bois. Only a fool would subject himself to the kind of intoxicating passion Hugh and Sorcha shared if there was any chance those powerful feelings were one-sided. So, no matter how much the effort cost him, Hugh would not touch his new wife.
Besides, whether or not Sorcha realized it, their vows would not even be legally binding since they could not be married under his rightful name. No marriage was lawful when conducted under a false identity, a fact Sorcha should know all too well after her brief marriage to the elusive du Bois.
With that settled, Hugh only wanted to depart Connacht. But seeing the fury return to Sorcha’s expression, he anticipated the battle she created over this union would soon rival the advance of the Norman army on her father’s gates.
Chapter Fifteen
He took a huge risk.
Eamon slipped from the keep at sunset, unwilling to watch the princess Onora’s public courtship by a foul-mouthed lord. More importantly, Eamon needed to find Gregory Bartlett in order to discover who burned Sorcha’s cottage to the ground. So Eamon galloped past the outlying villages near the king’s lands to roam the empty forests of Connacht. He knew the direction of Bartlett’s encampment and he wore no colors to identify him as one of Tiernan Con Connacht’s men. He should be able to slip into the Norman camp quietly.
And then, he would have his answers. Did du Bois and his men set the blaze? And if so, had they set it in retaliation for Eamon’s failure to steal the boy?
If that was the case, they had taken a deadly chance. The boy could have been killed. Sorcha and Enid could have been killed. Thankfully, Enid had been found by the king’s men, exhausted and overcome by fumes, frantic about the safety of her young charge.
Still, Eamon had been livid to think the fat clerk would undermine his efforts that way. Besides, he did not wish any harm on the child. He would find Gregory if it took all night since Sorcha and her son would leave Connacht two days hence.
If Eamon hoped to gain the coin from handing the boy over to his father’s men, he needed to do so with all haste.
Nearby, he heard a shout go up from a small group of men—perhaps fifteen or twenty voices raised in cheer. Steering his horse toward the sound, he slowed the animal to a walk, treading carefully so as not to be overheard.
Soon, he came upon the Normans. Many of the knights stood around another brightly dressed warrior seated on horseback, a leather glove in one raised hand. The mounted knight whistled an elaborate call and Eamon spied a prized white gyrfalcon flying overhead, a fresh kill in its talons.
Clearly, one of the men had brought his falcon to provide sport and entertainment. The cost of keeping such a bird was vast at home, requiring a falconer to train it and hunt regularly, as well as an aviary and special equipment. On the road, the cost must be prohibitive for all but the wealthiest of men.
Perhaps he had found du Bois.
Turning, Eamon hoped to avoid seeing Sorcha’s onetime lover. The man whose fortunes had paid Eamon to falsely swear he’d witnessed du Bois’s death. Taking care to move silently through the wood, Eamon slid off his horse’s back to lead him around the encampment in search of Bartlett.
He never saw the trip wire or the men who lay in wait
holding the ends.
In an instant, he fell to the ground, dragging his horse’s bridle as he tumbled. The animal reared, pawing and snorting above him as he scrambled out of the way of the hooves. But free of that threat, he landed into another. A heavy hood descended on his head, covering his eyes and stifling his nose and mouth.
Like a falcon returned to its master, his world went black.
“I will not wed him!”
Onora’s words echoed what churned in Sorcha’s own heart.
The sisters sat together in the small solar they had shared before Sorcha’s exile. Since the evening meal, they had been preparing for the quick nuptial ceremony that would bind Sorcha to Hugh the following day. Onora’s future groom had agreed to wed her as well, but not as quickly as her father had hoped. The visiting lord had only acquiesced to the match on the condition he could bring his new bride back to his Breifne home for the wedding that would ally the Connacht and Breifne lands. Onora’s future husband hoped the union would soothe his restless knights and tenants who feared the Norman invasion and—perhaps already made plans to welcome a Norman lord.
Now, while Conn slept on a pallet nearby, Sorcha sorted through her old wardrobe to find garments to pack for beginning a new life with Hugh. A life that would begin with a journey to—where? She wasn’t sure even Hugh knew where they would settle.
“I do not see how either of us can avoid it,” Sorcha counseled, refusing to give in to her own childish urges to run away from what was expected of her.
And yet, wouldn’t she have reacted the same way as Onora two years ago? In fact, she had reacted precisely the same way and look at all the heartache she had caused with her rash, reckless decisions.
“But you will marry a man who has shown you nothing but honor.” Onora jammed a needle through a thin piece of silk, her stitches bound to reflect her angry state as she sewed flowers on a veil she would wear for her marriage ceremony. “I will wed a man who groped me under the trestle table. And then again in the corridor on my way to the garderobe. And once upon the darkened stairwell on my way to my apartments yester eve.”
She fumed with her anger, and Sorcha’s heart ached for her sister. Sorcha set aside her packing, her small trunk already stuffed with all the garments it would hold. She knew Onora required comfort to face the lack wit she would wed. Sorcha recalled too well when their father had threatened to wed her to such a lecherous lord some two years ago and it was after that debacle that Sorcha had attempted to form her own alliance with Edward while her father was off on a military campaign. Of course, her own machinations had hurt her as much as they had wounded her father and robbed him of his right to benefit from her marriage.
Time had taught her well that she did not have all the answers. She also knew happiness could not be found by running away from one’s responsibilities. Sorcha had an obligation to her son now, and that was something she would not forsake, even if it meant marrying a man who did not care for her. The betrayal in Hugh’s eyes had been all too apparent when she’d confessed his resemblance to Conn’s father.
What might life have been like if she’d met Hugh before Edward du Bois entered her life? Back when she’d had the chance to marry a man based on her own whim? Ah, but it did no good to look back and wish. She would wed Hugh now because he could keep her son safe. And that ability was worth far more to her than her own happiness.
“True enough.” Sorcha took the small sewing project from her sister’s hands before Onora tore the delicate veil. “But at the time I thought I was marrying Edward, he had shown me nothing but honor as well. Some men hide their shortcomings and deceits better than others.”
Hugh seemed to be a man full of honor, she thought as she smoothed the fabric Onora had crinkled. Hugh also seemed to be a man who would live up to his promise to protect her son. But until he remembered his past, how could she be completely certain? If he harbored some relation to Edward du Bois, Hugh might find he’d been sent to Connacht for the most underhanded of purposes.
Would his loyalties shift forever once he remembered his true identity? She had not told anyone Hugh’s secret, although it occurred to her confiding the truth to her father might be her only way out of the marriage now. But given the king’s distracted state and his haste to send his daughters away before war broke out, Sorcha feared he might choose a husband even less suitable. At least with Hugh, there was a chance he would retain some of his protectiveness of her. Or some of the tenderness she’d seen in his eyes before he discovered the guilty secret she carried around with her.
Remembering the way he had looked at her on the stairwell jabbed at her heart more than she would have ever dreamed possible given how short of a time they’d known one another.
But that magical time together in the cottage garden had bound them somehow. Even though their bodies were no longer physically joined, there was a connection between them that could not be undone simply because they walked away from those heated moments they’d shared.
“You could take me with you tomorrow.” Onora tugged Sorcha’s arm, destroying the stitch she’d been in the process of making.
“Have you lost your wits?” Sorcha set aside the veil, regretting neither of them would be able to wed using the veil their mother had been married in—the veil lost in the fire at the cottage. “Father would disown us both. He would be within his rights to withhold my dowry if my husband protected his other daughter from making an advantageous marriage. I do not think Hugh would thank us for bringing another small war to his gates.”
“Please?” Onora rose from the small cushion where she’d been working and lowered herself to sit at Sorcha’s feet. Draping an arm over her sister’s knee, Onora turned pleading blue eyes on her. “Can you not at least ask Hugh? You know how wretched I will be wed to Rory of Breifne. Did I mention he is rumored to have driven his other wives to early graves?”
“People gossip to that effect whenever a man outlives his bride.” Sorcha knew it to be true, but that didn’t prevent guilt from twisting her insides.
In Onora’s place, she had avoided marriage at all costs, hoping to find the kind of love her parents had known. But her recklessness had hurt everyone she loved. And perhaps it would be her son who suffered the most from her rash act. If anything were to happen to him—
Sorcha could not think of it.
“But you would not wed Rory of Breifne. You ran away from just such a marriage when you wed Edward while Father was off on campaign.” Onora picked up the wedding veil Sorcha had set aside and flung the expensive silk clear across the chamber to land in the woodpile near the hearth.
“And I do not see why I should wed a lecherous old drunk either.”
“But could you honestly be happy being banished from everyone you care about? Knowing you caused your father such disgrace and disappointment? It is easy enough to threaten disobedience and another to feel strongly enough to carry it forward despite all the hardship.” Sorcha peered over at Conn’s sweet baby face, knowing she could not have withstood the seclusion if not for him. “I have often cooked my own meals and baked my own bread, lest I subsist on cold food alone.”
Onora pouted, her blue eyes still dark with anger and resentment.
“But Cook brings you food every Saturday.”
“Aye. And it isn’t warm even on Saturday. By Wednesday, that food is gone and I must prepare something from what meager supplies I keep in stock.” She had spent hours attempting to learn how to prepare meals when she’d first been banished. Shortly afterward, she’d realized the importance of having a garden and taking care of it. “I have to wash my own garments. Entertain myself even though there are no instruments, no games, no guests or diversions, save nature and Conn.”
Onora tilted her head to one side, considering.
“You realize it is likely I will never see you again?”
The stark truth hit Sorcha like a lightning bolt. They had not even gotten to share the last year and a half together, as their meetings s
ince the banishment were hasty and infrequent.
“I will try to see you,” Sorcha promised, not knowing how she could make it happen, but vowing to make an attempt.
She owed Onora that much. Her baby sister did not even have the warm memories of a mother that Sorcha did. Because of that, Sorcha had always tried to spread some of that happy contentedness to her younger sister the way their mother seemed to be able to lift others up just by being around them. Sorcha experienced a deep grief at the loss of time with her sister—time she would never retrieve because of her long exile.
An exile she’d been as responsible for creating as her father had been. Today more than ever, Sorcha realized how much unhappiness she had caused by her selfish decision to thwart her father’s attempt to marry her off. Now, Onora would never know the brief glimpses of happiness that Sorcha had—first in the hopes she’d had with Edward, even if they proved to be false. And later, in the moment of passion she’d shared with Hugh.
For that, and so much more, Sorcha vowed to do whatever she could to visit her sister after her wedding.
Nodding, Onora swiped a hand over her eyes and stood.
“I will try, too.” She moved to Conn’s bedside and kissed her nephew. “But by the saints, if he beats me, I will not care what disgrace I bring to our father’s house. I will learn to cook and do my own washings and gladly live like a hermit.”
“I pray it does not come to that.” She could not envision Onora thriving away from the entertainment of a big keep.
“Hadn’t you better prepare for tomorrow?” Onora scooped up Conn and brought him over to Sorcha.
Sorcha hated to leave Onora so soon, but understood her sister’s wish to be alone. Taking her son, she clutched him close to her heart.
“I thought we might visit longer since, as you said, we may not see each other for a long time after tomorrow morning.”
