THE IRISH KNIGHT

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

  Epilogue

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  ^ »

  1193

  Connal was tempted to kill the messenger.

  Aye, he thought, tear his scrawny neck from his shoulders and kick his skull across the hot sand.

  Instead, he tightened his grip on the parchment bearing King Richard's seal and read the declaration again.

  Richard's words were precise and final. Return to Ireland and secure the oath of the Irish kings and his earls before Prince John could do more damage. And specifically, unite Richard's strongest allies in Ireland … the house of PenDragon and the house of DeClare.

  It was enough to make him grind his teeth to powder.

  Marry Sinead?

  His king could not ask more of him.

  His gaze still on the parchment, Connal closed his eyes briefly, tightly, reconciling himself to the task ahead. Duty to the king, he reminded himself. Had he not sworn to Richard that he would do aught to keep him in power? Regardless of how Connal felt about England forcing religion on these people? At that thought, shame swept up to grab him. Connal battered it down.

  He'd no time for regrets or conscience. He was honor bound to obey.

  He fished in his purse, his gaze still on the parchment. "Aziz," he said to the young Moor who stood to his right. "See this man well tended, with water, food, and a soft bed to spend the evening."

  Connal flipped the coins, then spun about, striding down the thinly mapped dirt corridor between a sea of tents. Soldiers and knights stepped back as he passed, peasants scattered, grabbing their children out of his path. He ignored it all and the three men following him as he ducked into his own pavilion. He went immediately to the flagon of wine resting on a small table and drank from the spout, washing away the taste of disappointment thickening his throat.

  Three men ducked inside behind him.

  "Not pleasant news, Lord PenDragon?" Sir Galeron asked, and Connal recognized the man's goading tone.

  Connal cast the knight a thin glance. "I do not recall issuing an invitation." He drank some more.

  And only the tall Maniluke, Nahjar, bowed and made to leave.

  "I know," Galeron said, waving Nahjar back from the entrance. "Mum says I'm cheeky like that. Nahjar is never ten feet from you, PenDragon, so that means naught. Though I'm at a loss as to Bran's excuse."

  "PenDragon's tent is more comfortable." With that Sir Branor dropped onto the plush divan flocked with pillows and flung his leg over the carved side.

  Connal kicked his dangling foot, glaring, and Branor straightened. "You are not fit for proper circles, Sir FitzSinmmons."

  Bran scoffed. "Are any of us?"

  "Speak for yourself," Galeron said, tugging at his surcoat.

  Nahjar folded his bare arms over his naked chest, spreading his feet wide. His fierce look dared anyone to deny him access to the pavilion. Connal opened his mouth to order them all out, then snapped it shut. "Bloody hell," he muttered, splashing wine into three goblets, keeping one, then handing the others to the knights, knowing Nahjar never drank. He moved to the basin on a small table, filling the bowl with water, then soaking a cloth. He washed the dirt from his face and throat and when he pushed back his sleeves, he noticed that beneath the eternal sun of this land, his skin had grown as dark as Nahjar's.

  I am a far cry from the pale Irish youth they will remember, he thought, memories of what he'd seen and done the past years to others to survive, flooding through his mind like dirty water.

  Behind him Branor and Galeron exchanged a concerned glance. Nahjar shook his head, silently telling them not to pursue the matter.

  Bran plunged ahead regardless. "Give, old man."

  Connal stared into the depths of the basin, his hands braced on the table. "King Leopold has given King Richard over to the Holy Roman Empire till he can raise his ransom."

  "Good God, that will cost him," Sir Galeron put in.

  Not what his return will cost me, Connal thought.

  "Sajin PenDragon," a voice called, and he recognized it as Aziz's. He didn't bother to answer. The lad would find him soon enough, he thought, and took another swallow of wine. "Sajin?" Aziz said from the entrance, out of breath.

  "You really must not run in this heat, lad. 'Twill kill you."

  "I am accustomed to it, Sajin."

  Connal twisted a look over his shoulder at the young man. He'd known Aziz since they'd shared a set of shackles in a Saracen prison three years past. The young man, no more than ten and seven, had grown no taller, with no more meat on his thin bones. But he was loyal, and to Connal that counted for more than strength.

  "The messenger is eating in the cook's tent."

  Connal nodded, pleased. "I am leaving this place, Aziz; you are released from your service to me."

  The young man's disappointment flitted across his features. "I wish to remain with you, Lord PenDragon."

  Connal shook his head. "I am returning to Ireland."

  "What!" Branor and Galeron said at once.

  He looked at the knights and Nahjar. "You three are free to go as you will. Take your treasures and vassals and seek new fortune."

  "Not bloody likely," Galeron said.

  "Aye," Branor agreed. "Ireland sounds like a nice change."

  Nahjar only grunted agreement.

  Connal scoffed. "It will be winter by the time we get there, Galeron. Snow. Remember that infernal stuff?" The thought of Ireland, snow and ice and frosty wind, brought little relief from this land's scalding heat.

  He dismissed Aziz and the youth sulked out of the tent, his head bowed. Connal couldn't ask him to join him. The dangers were tenfold, and although the voyage would be months long, the lad was not accustomed to the cold of Ireland.

  Branor straightened in his seat, leaning forward to brace his arms on his knees. "Why do you not want us to join you?"

  "Aye, 'tis rather insulting, PenDragon," Galeron said, and Nahjar sent him a scowl.

  "There is little fortune and glory in Ireland."

  Nahjar scoffed to himself, eyeing Connal with those dark eyes.

  "And you believe 'tis the reason we are your retainers, m'lord? For the glorious riches?" Branor gestured to the lavish pavilion, the bolts of vivid silks shot with gold, the numerous chests of spices and coin, payment for Connal's services to his king and from Saladin himself.

  Connal's features sharpened with regret. A skirmish in Cypress had bonded them all forever, and he knew the men felt he'd saved their lives, but in truth, their aid in the battle had saved him. Though Nahjar, on the other hand, had been a Turkish slave from the land near the Black Sea, part of a mercenary order when Connal had come upon him. He was dying then, stabbed and beaten nearly to death. For what, Nahjar would not say. Yet now the mercenary served him. And did it almost too well.

  "Nay, I suppose not," Connal finally said. "But know this, once in Ireland, I will not be leaving." Not without the will of King Richard.

  Heat-blistered silence passed before Branor asked, "What has Richard asked of you, Connal?"

  "I'm to secure oaths of Irish kings and nobles, including his own earls, afore John Lackland can inflict more damage. Simple enough task, aye?" He scoffed into his drink, taking sip before dropping tiredly onto a camel saddle he used for a stool.

  "I see the advantage Richard seeks in you," Branor muttered, raking his fingers through his black hair.

  "'Tis your home, PenDragon," Galeron said softly, all teasing gone.

  Connal lifted the goblet to the light, turning it at the stem and watching light play magically across the jewels studding the silver. Home? Briefly the word dazzled in his mind. It had been so lon
g since he'd had a true home. He'd been no more than a traveling vagabond for years now. "My duty is to Richard first."

  "'Tis another portion of the king's missive you've denied us."

  Only Connal's gaze shifted. "I'm to unite the house of PenDragon and DeClare. Permanently."

  Galeron whistled. Nahjar looked between them all, a bit confused.

  "And to do this you must marry, correct?"

  "Apparently."

  Nahjar chuckled, and Connal's gaze shot to the former slave.

  "Wonderful," Connal groused. "'Tis my troubles that finally bring a smile to your painted face, Nahjar."

  Nahjar's lips stretched a bit further, pulling at the thin ribbons of tattoos that arched away from his eyes, nose, and mouth like the feathers of a falcon. "It is chaos, Sajin, only if you choose to see it as such."

  Connal did not want to hear the man's philosophies right then, and focused on emptying his goblet.

  "Married, eh?" Galeron folded his arms and leaned against the thick center post of the pavilion. "Oh, the ladies will be fainting from the sheer disappointment of it."

  Connal snarled in his direction, then set the goblet down with more force than necessary. He stood and called for Aziz. When the boy arrived, he gave him final orders to pack. Connal looked at Branor. "We will hire a ship, or purchase one, if I must. Then find more for the troops." His eyes glittered like bottle glass, and he pinned Branor with a hard stare. "We leave no one behind who does not wish it." He scooped up a leather purse from the chest and tossed it to Galeron, then promptly added two more to the cache. "Supplies, Sir Galeron. Food, water, a few men capable of sailing the damned ships would help, I imagine."

  The bit of levity was lost on the men. The knights continued to stare, waiting for Connal to name his betrothed.

  He did not. And instead, he stripped off his hauberk and strolled outside in less than perfect garments. His white linen shirt snapped against the hot dry breeze as he adjusted his sword. Branor and Galeron ducked out and stood near, frowning behind his back. Nahjar moved to the right of Connal, where he always positioned himself.

  Connal called for their mounts.

  "Who is she, Connal?"

  "DeClare's eldest."

  Galeron grew thoughtful. "Haven't heard about her."

  "And you won't. I imagine DeClare has kept her sequestered. My only hope is that the contracts and missives to Raymond and my father have not reached Ireland in time, and she is already married and well-bedded to some chieftain's son."

  "Good God, you loathe this woman?"

  Connal hesitated, scowling more at himself than the question. Hate her? Nay. Distrust her? Very much so. "Let me say that I would rather suffer in a Saracen prison, torture of the Turks"—his voice rose only a fraction with his temper—"than deal with this one Irish witch."

  Galeron's brows shot up and he glanced at Branor, his look bespeaking his disbelief. "A witch? That could prove interesting."

  The squire handed Connal the reins of his war-horse. "It could prove bloody damned hellish," he growled, checking the girth and the care of his animal. His movements jerked with each word he spoke. "I grew to knighthood around the spoiled brat. Whilst her father trained me, she interfered in my life whenever she had the chance, and followed me like a lost puppy for nearly five years." The memory of the little child using her magic on him, the agony of it, surfaced to silently stir the old humiliation in him again. 'Twas past, like most of his memories, dead and buried.

  "So … you broke her heart."

  Connal's gaze shot to Branor.

  "How many times?" Galeron asked as he pulled his own mount near.

  Enough, Connal thought. Enough that she would be no more pleased about this than he was. He didn't want to imagine the trouble she could bring on the king's plan when her temper was up.

  But 'twas his duty. His loyalty to his king tested. Again.

  And the reward of land dangled afore him like freedom to a condemned man, he thought, and swung up onto the saddle. The silver-gray stallion, a gift from his king, pranced regally beneath him, its black mane and tail shivering in the sun. "Nahjar, come with me. You two, join me at the harbor." He wheeled around and rode toward the sea. Toward a ship that would sail him back to Ireland.

  To an island he'd not set foot on in thirteen years. A land his soul hungered for.

  * * *

  Winter, Northern Ireland

  GleannAireamh

  Three months later

  Connal halted at the top of the wide sweeping glen. Sharp gusts of frosted air steamed from his horse's nostrils as his mount pranced, eager to continue the run. Below, the shore stretched for over a league, as untouched as he remembered it but for the fishing boats tipped on their sides like sleeping turtles waiting for spring to return. GleannAireamh. Nearly forty leagues south of GleannTaise, 'twas the grandest of the gleanns. Ripples of snow covered land folded and creased upon itself, wild moors bracketing the rocky walls gently sloping into the sea. 'Twas untamed but for the crop of cottages dotting here and there. In spring 'twould be alive with green, he thought, and though the weather was no warmer, the terrain was less treacherous than GleannTaise.

  On the hill above the sea lay the ruins of an ancient castle.

  Croí an Banríon. The heart of the queen, its blistering white stone blending with the snow, its reconstruction nearly complete, yet halted now for the weather. Weather he'd missed. A land he'd missed. He hadn't expected to, but the instant the long boat scraped Ireland's shore, Connal had experienced a wave of something close to joy.

  Home.

  He glanced to the side, at Raymond DeClare of the O'Donnel's astride his mount. Though his hair was liberally salted with gray, he looked no different than when Connal had left Ireland. A belted earl, his garments were rich and well appointed, yet 'twas the O'Donnel tartan slung across his chest and shoulder that spoke of his loyalty and power. An English chieftain, Connal thought, mildly amused.

  "I imagine she is down there, somewhere," Raymond said, and Connal frowned at him.

  "You know not where she is, my lord. A'tall?"

  Raymond smiled, the brogue he'd acquired growing heavier. "It would not matter, Connal. She is her own woman and where I think she is last, she never is."

  Raymond watched the man's features tighten with understanding. He did not offer more of his daughter, for if Sinead was to marry this knight, then he would need to discover all that she was on his own. Raymond almost grinned at that, and if the situation had not turned so grave upon Connal's arrival, he'd have found all this rather amusing.

  "Then she knows I am here, Your Grace." Anger seethed that she did not have the decency to show herself to him.

  "Everyone does, Connal. Your arrival has been heralded from Donegal to south Antrim. And I'm afraid to say, lad, not all joyously."

  Connal ignored the sting of that. "I care not, my lord. I have a duty to tend and 'twill be done."

  "Shall I remind you what my thoroughness to my duty to the king nearly cost me?"

  Memories spat through Connal's mind like the biting breath of a dragon. "I do not seek to build a fortress on the Sacred Stones and destroy the faith of a race."

  "Oh?" Raymond arched a brow. "Then what, pray tell, were you doing on the Crusades?"

  Connal's lips flattened and when he made to respond, Raymond waved him off. To defame the king's choices was treason. Nor did DeClare take offense at the jibe. His regrets were long since dead and he had learned from them. But this young man, he thought, had changed greatly. He felt no warmth near Connal, little laughter, and much attention to duty and honor. 'Twas not such an awful thing, but the young knight kept his opinion in silence, something Connal had never done as a lad.

  Raymond considered that after the death of King Henry, the knight's loyalty had come under question far too often for any man's liking. With good reason. He'd been Henry's favorite, and when the king's sons warred on him, 'twas Connal who led the counterattacks that defeated them. Yet af
ter the king's death, he'd been ostracized, for neither Richard nor John believed Connal PenDragon's loyalty could be trusted. 'Twas a grave mistake on their part. For in that time and against his father's wishes, Connal had become a mercenary, his skills at warring legendary and gaining him a reputation that, in Raymond's opinion, surpassed his father, Gaelan.

  Those battles had hardened him, Raymond knew. They did every soldier. As they had with him. Until Fionna had awakened his heart and touched his very soul. Dare I give my Sinead over to this man? When I know little of him these past dozen years?

  "Nay, Connal," Raymond said into the silence. "You do not seek to build on the Sacred Stones, yet I think it no worse than that you seek to take my child from me."

  Connal sighed, his breath frosting the air. He'd reconciled himself to this on the voyage here. He respected Raymond and Fionna as if they were his own parents. The man had trained him into knighthood, and though he'd seen him but once more since King Henry placed the sword on his shoulder, he'd missed the man's counsel and friendship. And he did not want to destroy it, at any cost.

  "My lord…" Connal stared out onto the land for a moment, then looked at DeClare, speaking honestly. "I am nay more pleased of this than she will be."

  Raymond scowled. "Then I will petition the king. He cannot force her to wed."

  "Aye, he can, and you know this. King Henry forced you to take an Irish bride."

  "I did so willingly, and the woman of my choice."

  Connal scoffed. "Not until 'twas nearly too late, my lord."

  Raymond put up a hand for silence. "This is not about me, PenDragon. 'Tis about you wedding and bedding my daughter when she may not wish it. Sinead is more…"

  "Headstrong than afore?"

  His lips quirked. "Aye. She must be." Instantly all humor faded from his features. "Her life has not been simple, Connal. She is no stranger to hurt and I will not have you give her more. Never. No matter how much I imagined you wedding my daughter, if she does not wish this match, I will fight the king for her. Sinead does as she needs, not as she wishes," he said cryptically. "And even Richard cannot stop her."