A few moments, no more, and life was gone, a question in Gerard’s eyes as he approached Duncan.
“No, let them rot there,” he said before a word was spoken. “As a warning to both Irish and Norman. I guard well what is mine.”
Duncan turned and strode for his horse so suddenly that the Irish tenants who had circled close to watch the hanging fell back and crossed themselves as he passed by, which made him smile grimly. No matter he had come to their aid, any Norman to these stubborn, unruly people remained one of Satan’s own sons, and it didn’t help that he bore the dark looks of his Scots mother. But his smile faded when a wild keening carried from the direction of the stream, which meant only one thing.
The girl was dead. His throat grown tight, he muttered a terse prayer and mounted.
Chapter One
Near the Wicklow Mountains
“Begorra, Maire O’Byrne, have you ever seen a more glorious morning?”
Doing her best to smile, Maire glanced at her older brother Niall, his broad grin tugging painfully at her heart.
“Has the air ever smelled sweeter? Fine spring sunshine, a sound breeze coming down from the mountains. It’s giving me an appetite, that’s what it’s doing. Aye, big enough to eat one of Ronan’s prize cattle!”
As laughter rumbled from the eight O’Byrne clansmen bringing up the rear, their horses trotting two by two behind her and Niall’s mounts, Maire hoped Niall wouldn’t sense her growing unease. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, she couldn’t tell him now. If she did, he might ride back to Ferns, and what good could come of that?
Her hand trembling slightly at the thought, she swept a midnight strand from her face and fixed her eyes upon Niall.
Nearly twenty-seven, he had never looked more handsome or more full of life, his blue-gray eyes dancing as he rode beside her, the sunlight catching glints of red in his dark brown hair. Maire knew he was thinking of Caitlin MacMurrough.
Almost a dozen times now over the past two years they had visited the beautiful daughter of Donal MacMurrough, the most powerful chieftain of the MacMurrough clan, at her father’s stronghold in Ferns. An amazing thing, too, Maire thought with fresh heartache as Niall fell back to laugh and talk with their burly clansman Fiach O’Byrne and the others, leaving her to lead the way across a vast meadow sprinkled with wildflowers. The MacMurroughs had long been enemies of the O’Byrnes, until the day the two clans had joined forces to rescue Triona, her eldest brother Ronan’s spirited wife, from Dublin Castle.
Rescue? Despite her low spirits, Maire couldn’t suppress a smile. Triona? Whenever she thought of the incredible story since told countless times in the O’Byrne feasting-hall, of a ruthless Norman baron and even his own king bested by a copper-haired slip of a woman, Maire still felt a sense of awe at her sister-in-law’s brazen courage.
It amazed her even more that Triona forever insisted she, Maire O’Byrne, possessed bravery that surpassed hers…especially now, when she was feeling anything but courageous.
In truth, she felt a coward. How could she not, when she bore news that would break Niall’s heart?
A burst of infectious laughter behind her made Maire grip the reins so tightly that her fingers hurt, and she blinked against sudden tears.
These past two years had forged a bond between herself and Caitlin MacMurrough as close as sisters; it had been Triona who had insisted Maire accompany Niall on his courting visits to Ferns not only to help build her strength, but because she had believed Maire and Caitlin would become fast friends. And so they had, though Maire almost wished now that she had never made this last journey.
Caitlin’s tearful revelation to her only hours ago had cut her to the quick, but how could she not want her friend to be happy? Yet Niall, poor Niall. He had waited so patiently, at Donal MacMurrough’s firm behest, for Caitlin to reach eighteen years before any talk of a wedding take place, and now that date had come.
But so too, had come a change of heart for Caitlin as sudden as a summer squall, or perhaps Maire had sensed the truth several months ago but had refused to believe it. Refused to believe the radiant light in Caitlin’s eyes during their last visit when she had gazed not upon Niall O’Byrne, but a strapping young Irishman of a neighboring clan, a godson of Donal MacMurrough. It had been barely sunrise when Caitlin had come to Maire’s bedchamber, her lovely features as pale as her linen sleeping gown.
“Oh, Maire, what am I to do? I love Brian! I’ve promised to wed him, too, but we haven’t spoken to my father yet because of Niall. He’s been so good to me, so kind. I thought I loved him all this time, truly I did, but Brian… Jesu forgive me, I don’t know how to tell him!”
Caitlin had sunk upon the edge of the bed in despair, her green eyes, so like Triona’s, stricken with tears, her silken blond hair falling across her face as she bent her head and wept. Maire had wept, too, for her tenderhearted friend, for Niall, for something that clearly could never be…then for the burden that was placed upon her as Caitlin desperately took her hand.
“Maire, please, you must tell him for me. To see Niall’s eyes, the hurt. I couldn’t bear it.”
“Oh, Caitlin, no, I can’t—”
“Aye, Maire, you must, it’s the only way! But not here, not until you return to Glenmalure. He’d want to find Brian, they’d fight, I know it! And if either of them were wounded, dear God, or worse—oh, please, Maire! Triona can help you. Triona will know what to say to Niall.”
Caitlin’s pleading voice echoing in her mind, Maire closed her eyes and prayed fervently that Triona would, indeed, know the right words to say. Niall trusted her, had thought Triona the perfect match for Ronan the moment he’d seen her and then done all he could to help bring them together—
Another burst of laughter startled Maire, and so abruptly that she jerked upon the reins, making her snow-white gelding snort and toss his head. At once it seemed Niall appeared at her side, his hand reaching out to steady the prancing animal, his handsome face grown sober with concern.
“Maire—”
“I’m fine, Niall, truly.” Her cheeks hot with chagrin, she wished she’d been more careful with her mount. All it ever took was the slightest hint of difficulty to send either Niall, Ronan, or both brothers rushing to her aid, their over protectiveness of her undiminished despite the miraculous progress she’d made.
Or so the priest who often visited from the monastery in Glendalough claimed it to be, a miracle.
Maire knew that regaining the use of legs long denied her since a childhood fever, had taken months of hard work as well as countless prayers in her bed at night that one day she might walk as gracefully as Triona or Caitlin, or any other woman. She walked, that was true, but graceful she was not, and wondered if she would ever be.
Mayhap it was that obvious flaw which kept her brothers so vigilant, her awkward gait a constant reminder that they must shield her from hurt of any kind. And after what had happened last autumn…
Maire sighed softly, shoving the unhappy memories away and glancing at Niall to find him studying her, his expression grown thoughtful. At once she mustered a smile, but he didn’t appear convinced.
“Begorra, little sister, that’s a halfhearted attempt if ever I’ve seen one. Out with it now. What’s troubling you? You’ve hardly spoken since we left Ferns, not like you at all”—a slow grin lit Niall’s face—“though I admit I’d be more worried if Triona ever grew silent. Aye, that’s a thought now, isn’t it?”
His low chuckling doing much to quell her sense of panic, Maire tried to keep her voice light. “Things wouldn’t be half as lively, to be sure. Not for Ronan, not for any of us.”
“And they’ll be livelier still when she hears there’s soon to be a wedding. Damned if it hasn’t been the longest two years of my life! Yet I’d never have met Caitlin if not for Triona, and we all know that to be true. She’ll think herself a fine matchmaker now, the very finest in Wicklow… Maire?”
It happened so fast, tears welling in her eyes, that Maire curse
d that she’d never been one to conceal her emotions. Niall sharply reined in his horse and dismounted, coming to her side.
“It’s nothing to trouble yourself over, Niall O’Byrne, nothing,” she said brokenly, knowing the wretched sound of her voice alone would leave him anything but certain that all was well. Within an instant she was pulled gently from her horse, Niall holding fast to her arm as he drew her away from their clansmen, who had reined in their mounts and waited silently, Fiach and several others keeping wary eyes upon the surrounding woods.
“If it’s nothing, then I’m deaf and blind,” Niall said so gently when he stopped and faced her that Maire felt fresh tears burn her eyes. “Now you’ll tell me what’s plaguing your heart…though I’ve a sense of what it might be.”
Suddenly unable to breathe, Maire stared at him, wondering wildly what he might say. “Y-you do?”
“Aye, and if I could change things for you this very moment, I swear I would. I know my happiness with Caitlin makes you long for your own…and I’m certain it will come, in time. A fine husband, children. Ronan may hold a different view, but only because he doesn’t wish to see you hurt again. Yet you can’t allow what happened last year to make you think it’s impossible. Will you promise me, Maire?”
So relieved that she’d been spared telling Niall the truth, at least for now, she could only nod, though the ache inside her had grown near to choking her.
To hear Niall speak of a dream which had once seemed so close to her grasp…only to turn to disaster and, for a time, throw such a terrible wedge between Ronan and Triona that Maire had feared for their love. Triona had never wanted but to help her, spending countless hours with her as she learned to walk again and ride a horse, forever encouraging her, and even finally convincing Ronan that he should consider finding Maire a husband.
Yet she didn’t have to close her eyes to recall the look upon Colin O’Nolan’s face when the chieftain’s son had come from the Blackstairs Mountains in Carlow to meet her. She could still feel the thunderous beating of her heart when she had so eagerly and hopefully walked across the crowded feasting-hall toward the head table, knowing Colin had been told of her legs and yet still wished to consider her for his bride…only to reach him and feel all hope die.
Saints help her, how could she ever forget the dismay, even repulsion, on his face as if he wondered whether her lower limbs were made of uneven blocks of wood rather than flesh and blood?
How could she ever forget mortification and anguish so deep, the pain cut her still?
How could she ever have dreamed any man would want a wife who dragged one leg behind her and swayed like a hobbled horse when there were other young women both healthy and whole…?
Gazing blindly across the sunswept meadow, Maire brushed away tears that fell as much for Niall as herself, yet she allowed herself only a moment’s self-pity.
With time the memories would fade, and, after all, she had much for which to be thankful. A family who truly loved her. Ronan and Triona’s little Deirdre, whose sweet smile could brighten any day. And, right now, Niall deserved her only concern.
“One of Ronan’s prize cattle, did you say?” she somehow managed to tease, grateful when Niall’s endearing, familiar grin cut across his face. Aye, she would hold her unhappy news until they were safely home, where Triona and Ronan both could help sway Niall from doing anything rash. “I feel a wee bit of an appetite myself. Too bad we’ll have to wait hours before a feast could be prepared—”
“Mayhap not.” Niall looped his arm securely through hers as he drew her back toward the horses. “I thought I might ride ahead and share with our brother that a MacMurrough bride will soon be coming to Glenmalure. That is, if you wouldn’t mind our clansmen escorting you home. I know Fiach is a sober sort, but every once in a while he manages a smile.”
“He’ll make fine company. I don’t mind at all.” As she was lifted back onto her mount, Maire decided it was a good thing Niall leave them, for her heart began to ache anew that he looked so merry.
With a last squeeze of her hand, he vaulted onto his horse’s back and wheeled the powerful bay stallion around, calling out to Fiach and the rest of their clansmen to guard her well and see her swiftly home as he galloped headlong across the meadow. In moments, he had disappeared into the thick trees, and only then did Maire let her cheerful facade crumble.
But not so her clansmen could see her distress, all of them riding a length behind her as they set off at a canter. Keeping her face forward, she let the tears come. The horses’ thundering hooves drowned out her prayer that Niall not think Donal MacMurrough had somehow encouraged Caitlin’s change of heart and swear vengeance.
That the chieftain had allowed the younger brother of the legendary rebel Ronan “Black” O’Byrne to court his much-beloved daughter had shown the truce was solid between the two clans. Yet peace was forever so fragile—
“Ah, God!”
The agonized cry had come from behind her, Maire gasping as an arrow zinged past her ear, another O’Byrne suddenly shrieking in pain. Incredulous, she jerked hard on the reins and spun her horse around as another arrow struck a third clansman in the throat, her eyes widening in horror at the blood spurting from the wound.
At once Fiach O’Byrne, his bearded face stricken, spurred his mount to her side.
“Normans, Maire! The devil take them, ride with you! Ride with you after Niall!”
Chapter Two
Dear God, Normans? So close to the Wicklow Mountains?
Almost in a daze, she stared at the host of mounted knights bursting from the opposite trees, their terrifying battle cries chilling her, their mail shirts and brandished swords blinding in the sun.
“Saints preserve you, woman, ride!”
Maire cried out as Fiach slapped her gelding’s flank, the startled animal lunging so suddenly into motion that she nearly lost her seat. Desperately she grabbed the horse’s snowy mane and held on, her throat constricting in disbelief as the terrible clamor of sword hitting sword rang over the meadow. She was already into the trees where Niall had disappeared moments ago when she heard more screams, hideous death screams. Her flesh crawled with fear.
None of her clansmen had ridden after her. At least she thought none, until the heavy pounding of hooves made her hope wildly, giddily, that she wasn’t alone. Swiping the hair from her face, she dared a glance over her shoulder, only to feel her stomach knot in terror.
Three Normans were bearing down upon her like apparitions of hell covered from head to toe in fearsome metal, their horses great lunging behemoths to her smaller mount. It was then she began to pray desperately that Niall was nowhere near, that he wouldn’t hear her screams and return to harm’s way. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, protect him! Protect her!
With cramped fingers she clutched the gelding’s coarse mane all the tighter, her cheek pressed to his sweaty neck, her breath tearing at her throat as the animal weaved and raced through the trees at a breakneck pace that rekindled a shred of hope that she might yet escape. As if in a blurred dream the forest flew past her, flashes of deep green melding with mottled sunlight and an occasional brilliant shaft that broke through the dense leaves. She squinted against the sudden brightness, daring once more to lift her head and look behind her…
It happened so fast, a violent thud and then pain so intense that Maire scarcely realized she was lying sprawled upon the ground, a low-hanging branch wavering and shimmering above her. And again came the piercing sunlight through the leaves, blinding her as she fought to drag air into her lungs, fought to fend off the strange darkness threatening to overwhelm her as the terrible throbbing in her head grew stronger, more fierce. Dazedly she heard horses snorting and blowing, and men’s voices growing near.
“God’s breath, does she live?”
“Barely, I’d wager, after that blow. Hit the branch square on, she did, foolish little bitch.”
“Ah, Henry, you’re only grousing because you’ll have to wait now to spread her legs.
A pretty bit, too, for an Irish wench, though too thin for my taste.”
“Anything would be too thin compared to the big-breasted sows you take to your bed, man! Gather her up and let’s get back to the others. Lady Adele should be well pleased with today’s sport, wouldn’t you say?”
Coarse male laughter ringing deafeningly in her ears, Maire groaned as she felt herself being lifted, the pain in her head grown so acute she was aware of little else. Nor did she think to fight her captor, her limbs useless and limp, the world become no more than a hazy blur. Within what seemed an instant, the shadow of trees and leaves was gone, only open sky above her, and more blinding sun.
“You ran her down! Delightful!” came a feminine voice. A cool palm slipped across the left side of her head, which throbbed and thundered. “A terrible lump, though, big as a chestnut. Did you strike her, FitzHugh?”
“Ha! A branch felling her was hardly the surrender I had envisioned—”
“And you’ll leave her be, too, Henry, if she’s to recover. Since Gwyneth died aboard ship, you know I need another maid. This wench will do nicely…an Irish savage to amuse me. Then again, she might amuse my dear brother, too. She’s surely lovely enough. And what better way to show the man I want only the best for him, yes? A humble gift to herald my surprise visit!”
Gay laughter piercing her skull, Maire blinked in agony as she was jostled once more, nearly retching when she was flopped onto her stomach over a saddle. But she did vomit when she spied the bloody carnage upon the ground, Fiach O’Byrne’s severed head staring up at her with sightless eyes.
“God’s nightgown, my lady, now I’ll stink like Irish puke!”
Lords of Ireland II Page 150
