“You think this is something new to me, Niall? I may have been Fineen O’Toole’s daughter, but I had to prove myself first to his clansmen to ride with them. Hunt with them. Why should things be any different here?”
She turned around and shoved through the doors, not surprised when the boisterous din of laughter and conversation abruptly ceased. Her eyes swept the large room. She spied Ronan almost at once near the fire, his dark riding clothes and his black hair impossible to miss. And though her heart had begun to beat faster, she squelched the tingling of excitement just at seeing him again.
Boldly Triona proceeded to the front of the hall, ignoring openmouthed stares and grumbled asides as she reveled in the freedom of movement her trousers gave her. If there had been a crucifix handy she would have sworn before them all that she’d never wear another gown, not if she had anything to say about it!
She saw that Ronan was frowning, too; she supposed he had guessed her thoughts and it made her smile. Her smugness seemed to irritate him. But when he spoke, his voice was calm. Almost too calm.
“I’m pleased that you’ve decided to join us, Triona. But I regret to say that my view is not shared by everyone.”
“Aye, Lord, it’s not a woman’s place to be adding her voice to our plans!”
Triona spun, facing a carrot-haired giant who’d hauled himself from his seat to challenge her. “I’m sorry. We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting…”
“Flann O’Faelin, miss, and it’s no insult I’m giving you to say you’re not welcome among us.”
“Then take it as no insult, Flann, when I remind you that there are women warriors aplenty in the ancient tales—”
“Aye, but you don’t look to me like a warrior, a wee thing like you,” added another brawny clansman who thunked down his cup of ale as he arose. “A woman as fair as you would only be a distraction.”
Triona snorted. “You might serve the O’Byrne better to stay at home, then, if you’re so easily bewildered.”
Robust laughter erupted around the hall. Triona saw that Ronan’s frown was as deep as ever.
“Mayhap you O’Byrnes might do better if you told me why you really don’t want me to join you,” she continued, undaunted though every eye was upon her. “You’ve said it’s not a woman’s place, that I’m too small, I might distract you—”
“All that, and we’d be worrying for you every step as if you were a wife or a daughter!” interjected a stout, full-bearded clansman. Many others seconded his outburst with resounding “Ayes!”
Triona, however, wasn’t perturbed by the noise. “Well, it’s flattered I am that you’d be concerned for me, but I’ve already proved I can ride as long and as well as any of you.” Feeling her face growing warm, Triona quickly decided not to elaborate. “And I’m fully capable of taking care of myself—”
“Like you did in Kilkenny?”
She whirled to face Ronan, his eyes burning like quicksilver into hers.
“I thought you agreed that I have a right to be here!” She was furious, though not surprised, that his true colors had won out after all.
“I did, Triona. But if a serious error in judgment was made, I think it would be wise that you admit it now. It could help.”
Aware that the hall had grown very quiet, Triona decided at least this once she would trust Ronan at his word.
“Aye, then, I’ll admit that I might have been reckless in going on to Kilkenny,” she announced, “but only because I wasn’t better armed. Things would have gone far differently if I’d had my bowcase with me instead of a small dagger. I could have avoided putting myself in danger, and stayed at a safe distance. My father’s death would have been avenged rather than us having to content ourselves now with raiding de Roche’s castle—”
“Us she says!” Flann O’Faelin broke in, his voice thundering around the hall. “As if she truly thinks she’ll soon be riding with the Glenmalure O’Byrnes! As if we’re to believe this wee bit of bluster can wield a bow just as she claims!”
Triona’s face burned as guffaws rang out all around her.
“Triona.”
She barely heard Ronan’s voice over the boisterous laughter, but she felt the gentle nudge at her back. Her eyes widened in amazement as he held out her bowcase. Struck by the warmth in his gaze, she almost smiled at him, but she caught herself just in time.
Aye, he was clever, she thought angrily, realizing how skillfully he had engineered this entire confrontation.
“Flann O’Faelin, I seem to have found my bowcase.”
“Indeed, miss.” The big Irishman propped his fists at his waist, a look of pure condescension on his face. “I don’t suppose there’s a chance you’ve even the know-how to string the bow?”
Triona had to fight the overwhelming urge to send a missile streaking right past his huge bumpy nose, opting instead to have a little fun. “Oh, my father showed me a time or two.”
“Aye, the O’Toole was a renowned bowman to be sure, but that doesn’t mean—”
“Is this right, Flann?” Purposely, Triona came very close to stringing the bow only to let it clatter to the floor as she pretended that she’d tweaked her finger. “Begorra, the damned thing!” Sighing with frustration, she picked up the bow as if to try again, but the Irishman rushed forward and took it from her hand.
“Now, now, miss, it’s easier than it seems. See?” In an instant, the bow was strung and handed back to her.
“You’re right, Flann, that did look easy. And it’s such a pretty thing, too,” she said, turning the bow back and forth as she admired it. “The wood looks so smooth and shiny.”
“She called it pretty!” a clansman shouted scornfully, his guffaws joining those of his neighbors. “A damned bow!”
“Deadly, too, I would imagine,” she added, glancing behind her to find Ronan watching her intently, the barest hint of a smile on his face. Feeling a shiver, she quickly looked away.
“That is, deadly if I could only learn to shoot straight.” She set an arrow to the string so suddenly that Flann gaped at her in surprise. “Is this how I aim?”
She pointed directly down the center of the hall, twenty startled clansmen diving for cover as the arrow zinged over their heads to embed harmlessly in the opposite wall.
“Begorra, now, that wasn’t very good, was it? I’ll try again. Mayhap I can hit something more interesting this time.”
The arrow had no sooner touched the string than it flew right past the brawny clansman who’d claimed she might distract him, the poor fellow dousing himself with ale as he lunged beneath a table.
Triona sighed, shaking her head. “Only a chair that time.” Expertly stringing the bow once more, she smiled at Flann, his face fast becoming as red as his hair. “Do you see that wooden cup in Niall’s hand?”
Flann looked to where Niall was standing near the back of the hall, nodding as he glanced back at Triona.
“Niall O’Byrne, might you finish your drink so you can throw your cup into the air for me?”
“My pleasure, Triona.” He obligingly downed the contents, then saluted her with the empty cup just before tossing it high over his head. There was a whizzing sound followed by a thunk, Niall grinning broadly as he swept up the skewered cup. “Aye, I’m glad you warned me first. It would have been a waste of good ale.”
Smiling back at him, Triona still wasn’t satisfied. “Mayhap one more shot, wouldn’t you say?” she asked Flann, who had sunk onto a bench.
Just to show him that she could do it, she deftly restrung the bow, another fletched missile zinging across the room before the poor man could even nod. She wasn’t surprised at the astonished shouts, clansmen rushing to see where this last arrow had shattered the one already embedded in the wall.
“Aye, Flann, my dear father showed me a time or two.”
“So it seems,” the big Irishman agreed, shaking his head as he began to chuckle. He pointed to the clansmen emerging from beneath tables and benches and his shoulders began to
quake, a great bellow of laughter rending the air. As others joined him, Triona glanced at Ronan only to feel her heart seem to stop.
He was smiling, too, perhaps not as devil-may-care as she remembered from all those years ago, but smiling just the same. And in his eyes was something so unsettling she forced herself to look away, focusing instead on the crowd gathered around the rear wall. But she barely saw the clansmen, she was so stunned by the admiration she’d glimpsed in Ronan’s gaze.
Had she truly impressed him? Yet she just as quickly dismissed the thought, telling herself it hardly mattered. Anything Ronan said or did was only part of his plan to deceive her, and she’d do well not to forget it. She started when his voice sounded above the din, his tone so commanding that she didn’t need to look at him to know that he was no longer smiling.
“Enough, men, we’ve raids to plan. That is unless any among you still hold reservations about Triona O’Toole riding with us?”
She waited, holding her breath, but there were none.
Chapter Twenty
Triona looked out over the silent manor, Ronan crouching so close to her in the dark that she could feel the warmth of his body through her clothes. Flushing, she shifted a few inches away from him.
Jesu, Mary and Joseph, was he going to hover around her all night? Just because this was her first raid didn’t mean she needed a personal escort. And why were they just waiting around? They’d been atop this hill for what seemed an eternity, waiting…waiting…
“Are you always so cautious?” she hissed, glancing from Ronan to the double row of neat cottages and the huge manor house that was surrounded by a timber palisade. “Surely everyone must be asleep by now and the guards are so few—”
“Quiet, Triona.”
She glared at him, his tone silencing her more than his command. Stern, severe, aye, just like the tyrant she knew him to be. Yet in the next instant he leaned over to her, his hard thigh brushing her leg.
“Aye, I’m cautious, when my men’s lives are at stake,” he said in a very low voice that didn’t sound half so stern. “Your life, too.”
Triona swallowed. His eyes were glittering silver in the moonlight. Annoyed by the flush creeping once again over her face, she whispered back, “Don’t be worrying about me! I’m not Lady Emer, remember? I can take care—”
“I know, I know. You can take care of yourself.” Her indignation did little to ease Ronan’s mind.
His clansmen might have claimed to be worried for her safety yesterday morning, but none could know the depth of his concern. Even assigning Flann O’Faelin and his second cousin, Sean O’Byrne, to watch out for her under the guise of showing her how things were done had given him no peace.
At least Triona was good with the bow, Ronan tried to assure himself, staring at her exquisite profile. By God, she was good with the bow. He hadn’t been pleased when so many of his men had spoken against her, but she’d quickly proved herself. He needn’t have worried his plan to win her might be thwarted.
“Ronan, the men have taken up their positions,” came Niall’s whisper behind him. “They await your signal.”
Ronan gave a nod, his thoughts snapping back to the danger at hand. “Triona, stay close to Sean and Flann. Keep your eye on them. Do what they do. Remember. We’ve only a few moments to accomplish our aims. Arklow Castle is no more than a mile from here. If word somehow gets to them that the manor is under attack, help would come quickly. We ride in, take what we want, then ride out. Do you understand?”
A tart comment flew to Triona’s lips that of course, she understood, she wasn’t an idiot, but she merely stuck out her chin. Ronan was in command, after all. She did respect order. If she had been a new male member of these O’Byrne rebels, she imagined she would have heard much the same lecture.
And now was certainly not the time to thwart him. As Ronan had said, lives were at stake, hers as well. Any slip could mean death. But there would be no slip, at least not on her part.
She watched in silence as Ronan gave a sharp signal to the clansmen who’d already crept down the hill to the palisade. As they began to hoist each other up and scale the timber walls, she, Ronan and the rest of his men moved stealthily back to the trees and remounted their horses, the animals so well-trained that they’d made scarcely a nicker.
There they waited, the night silent around them but for the wind whooshing through the branches, thin clouds moving swiftly across the starry sky.
But they didn’t have to wait long. Triona’s eyes widened as the palisade gates suddenly swung open, the manor’s guards clearly having been subdued. She didn’t have even a moment to wonder about their fate as Ronan raised his arm and kicked his horse into a gallop, the rest of the O’Byrnes following him as they swooped like a dark thundering wave down the hill.
The commotion was immediate. They careened through the gates, Irish tenants rushing screaming out of their small wattle cottages only to fall silent and huddle together after one look at the legendary Black O’Byrne and his men. Ronan had told her that the common folk who worked the land for their Norman overlords rarely took up arms against Irish rebels. With Flann O’Faelin and Sean O’Byrne flanking her, Triona rode hard for the manor house, Ronan and a phalanx of his men already crashing through the doors.
She dismounted and rushed inside, her bow drawn, an arrow set to the string, only to be greeted by a scene of controlled chaos. As house guards were overcome by clansmen, other O’Byrnes were rounding up terrified servants and herding them like sheep into the hall. Still other clansmen searched for the family of the house, Ronan among them, the crying women and children in their fine white sleeping gowns being driven into the hall at sword point. An old couple was among them, too. Triona felt a tug of pity for their bleary-eyed confusion.
As the Normans were commanded to drop to their knees, the women weeping loudly as they clutched their children to their breasts, it became clear that the men of the house must have gone to fight with King John just as Ronan had suspected. Only a handful of house guards had been left to protect the family, and they had proved as helpless as the rest.
Helpless, that is, except for one foolish man who somehow wrested a knife from his O’Byrne captor. Another clansman skewered him in the stomach with his sword, the Norman crumpling to the floor, his lifeblood a scarlet pool around him. At once the women began to scream and wail, their fear like a cloying smell in the richly appointed room.
“Silence!”
Triona jumped. Ronan’s harsh command seemed to shake the very rafters. At once the crying became frightened whimpers, all eyes upon the tall, black-garbed, black-maned Irishman who stood at the center of the hall.
“Who is the lady of the house?”
Ronan’s demand was greeted by a sharp intake of breath, an older dark-haired woman rising shakily to her feet. But she fell to her knees when Ronan strode toward her, tears choking her voice.
“Please, sir, please do not molest us. It is only my dear parents here, my three daughters…and—and their children—”
“We do not rape women or kill children.” Ronan’s voice did not lose its cold edge. “Unlike your accursed kind, woman. Now where are your jewels?”
“In—in the coffer”—the Norman lady pointed with trembling fingers to a doorway leading from the hall. “My bedchamber—”
“Show me.”
As the woman rose and hastened to obey, Ronan striding after her, the three daughters began to cry noisily until he shot them an ominous look. At once they fell silent, their drawn faces grown nearly as white as their sleeping gowns. Before Ronan left the hall, he commanded his men, “Take what valuables you want, but do it quickly.”
Immediately O’Byrne clansmen went scrambling about the hall and into adjoining rooms, stuffing silver candlesticks, plates and other fine things into cloth bags, while some remained behind to guard the prisoners. Triona, too, held her ground, her bowstring kept taut, while Sean and Flann had their swords at the ready beside her. She glanced
at the Norman lying facedown, swallowed hard and then looked away, straight into the stricken face of a young boy whose wide brown eyes were full of tears.
“Jesu, Mary and Joseph,” she breathed to herself, feeling another strong wave of pity. A terrible business, raiding. Terrible. It would be one thing if they’d come upon armed knights spoiling for a fight, but innocent women and children?
“You’ll grow used to those tears, miss,” Flann murmured, the huge Irishman clearly sensing her thoughts. “Just remember one day that Norman whelp will wear armor and fight against us, rape our women, rape our land. Unless we can drive the spawn back across the water, saints help us.”
Triona said nothing, looking away from the boy. Instead she focused upon the door where Ronan had disappeared, wondering what was keeping him so long. Struck by concern more acute than she could have imagined, she glanced at Flann. “Mayhap we should go after Ronan…”
The clansman’s nod made her look back at the door, relief flooding her as Ronan strode into the hall, the pale lady of the house rushing ahead of him to embrace her sobbing daughters. But Triona’s relief became alarm when a Norman guard suddenly appeared upon the balcony and aimed his crossbow right at Ronan.
“Ronan, duck!”
Triona released her bowstring at the same moment Ronan fell to his haunches, the Norman’s arrow skimming over his head to embed with a sickening thunk in the wood floor. The Norman wasn’t so fortunate. A terrible gurgling noise came from the man as he clutched at the arrow sticking from his throat. An instant later, he slumped dead over the railing as the women below began to scream at the blood dripping down upon them.
“Out of here! All of you!” Ronan roared to his clansmen, his eyes burning into Triona’s as he straightened. “If that guard escaped our notice, then others could have gone to alert the castle! Move!”
Triona wanted to run, but her feet were stuck to the floor as if in warm pitch. She stared at the Norman, at his thick fingers twitching even in death. She had never before killed a man. Deer, wolves, waterfowl, but no, never a man…
Lords of Ireland II Page 131
