THE IRISH KNIGHT

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Connal arched a brow, doubt bright in his clear green eyes.

  DeClare studied him, anger blending with faint amusement. He would learn soon enough. "I warn you only once, lad." Edged steel sharpened his tone, the seasoned look in his eyes gone glacial with impatience. "Remember whose daughter you seek to master." With that DeClare called to his knights and spun his stallion about. He rode to where he knew Fionna waited patiently near the high road to the castle, the sound of hooves thundering in the winter quiet

  Connal sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  "Good go, Connal," Galeron said from behind him. "Anger the earl, make him not want to give his daughter's hand, and destroy the king's—"

  "Enough!" Connal snapped. His gauntleted fingers clenched the ice-stiff reins as he searched for the patience and calm that had kept him alive in the Saracen prison. "We arrived two days afore and she's yet to show herself."

  "Mayhaps she does not know," Branor said.

  "Oh, she knows." And that proved she was still the spoiled girl, Connal thought, urging his horse forward. His gaze narrowed suddenly as he noticed a figure moving slowly atween the mist of the sea and the silent fall of snow.

  The hair was unmistakable. Incredibly long. And red. Like a vivid banner of defiance to test his patience again.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  GleannAireamh

  Upon an outcropping of rock on the edge of the shore, Sinead stood, the wind and cold battering her face, snapping at her cloak. To the right of her in the sand, a sword pierced the shore. Near her feet, a tiny fire hovered a breath above the stones.

  She lifted her arms toward the sky and tipped her head back, her fur-lined hood pooling on her shoulders, letting loose the heavy mass of hair.

  It fanned out behind her, undulating ribbons of deep, vivid red as she gave thanks for the bounty they had now and for the snow and cold that would tenderly hold beneath its white blanket the wild things waiting for spring.

  The sea roared, foaming in swirls, and she smiled. Fish leapt from the dark waters like arching arrows before plunging into the sea.

  "Come, come. Ahh, you have not forgotten our need of you, little ones," she whispered, and the flames near her feet rose higher.

  From behind her, a crystal flurry of snow raced across the land and funneled around her, enveloping her, glittering in the sun so desperate to reach the earth. It tickled her cheeks and lifted the heavy hem of her cloak. The elements were playful this day, she thought, laughing softly as she lowered her arms.

  The sea softened, and a tranquil calm settled over her as the fire died into naught but a whisper of smoke.

  "Conjuring, Sinead?"

  Sinead tensed, but did not turn. She'd no need. Though his approach hadn't penetrated her concentration moments earlier, his presence in Ireland had. For days now, he'd perched himself in the dreams she tried forcing from her mind every night. The voice was deeper than she'd suspected it would be. And sharper. She could almost feel the anger and distaste he bore her in the past. And his impatience with her now.

  So bleeding what?

  Connal O'Rourke PenDragon was a royal pain in her Irish behind, and she'd no desire to be near him. He was a mark in her life, nothing more. Once a boy she adored, he was now only the proof of how an innocent heart can rule.

  And ruin.

  Her right hand shot out and the sword left the sand and came into her palm.

  Connal cursed softly.

  Sinead knew he'd not come all this way to leave her be, so she turned, the hilt of the sword grasped in both hands. The flare in his eyes, the quick glance up and down, told her that he'd not expected her to look as she did. Thirteen years past was a long and innocent time ago, she thought, managing to smother her shock at the sight of him as well.

  Wee faeries, he was a giant. Standing several feet from her on the rocky slope, he gazed back with a stare that held naught but his green eyes. No hint of old friendship, no tenderness, no greeting. The cold of the wind compared little to the ice of Connal PenDragon's glare.

  It burned into her soul.

  She did not like it much. Nor had she expected more.

  Wind stirred the fur-lined mantle draping from his shoulders to the ground, and beneath it, his arms were folded over his chest, metal gauntlets glimmering in the smattering of sun hovering above. Clad in dark brown leather hauberk and silver chain mail, he was without a helm, yet his garments bore the trappings of the English as if they were branded on him. Chilled air caught his sable hair, showing the red still lingering from his childhood, and a long thin scar running straight down a cheek earned as a man. She inspected him further, seeking the boy she knew, the newly knighted lad who'd made her heartbeat skip.

  And she found him gone, replaced by a man her soul did not recognize.

  "Nay, I am not conjuring, PenDragon. Not that my doings are yours to inspect."

  Connal frowned, the bite of her words hitting him in the chest. He never dreamed the girl who'd cast on him, who'd followed him, who'd interfered with his training and too often sent other girls running—was this same woman.

  No longer the girl, atall, he thought, but a woman full grown and breathtakingly exquisite. He could easily admit that, for she'd been a beautiful child, yet he knew better than anyone the foul temper that lay hidden behind those innocent deep blue eyes. And the havoc it could wreak.

  Yet … those moments past when she was speaking to the elements, 'twas how he would forever remember her. Sparkling in the gloom of winter. Green velvet and snow-white fur. Her hair obeyed the wind, the long locks wrapping across her chest as if shielding her from him. The charms woven in the scatter of thin braids flashing with sunlight and mystery. Her green gown and cloak spoke of nobility, the large gold Celtic knots trimming the hems shouting the princess she was, regardless of what England had decided. And she carried herself as such. Her chin tilted above the wisps of white fur, her eyes teeming with challenge.

  "Your doings are my business now, Sinead."

  She put up a hand. "Speak no more, PenDragon. I know why you have come. 'Twill not be a marriage atween us."

  "And why not?" He'd known she'd deny him, but why was he feeling jilted all of a sudden?

  "Because I say 'tis so."

  His lips twitched with amusement, but Sinead could see the condescension lying beneath it. "You cannot defy the order of the King of England, Sinead."

  She scoffed, almost rudely. "For a king who cannot remain in his own country long enough to keep it?" She lifted the sword and started walking. "Open your eyes closed by the English, PenDragon, and watch me." She marched past him, toward the castle road.

  He caught her arm.

  He half expected to feel his palm burn.

  But he only felt—energy. Pouring from her and directly into him with the force of a blade plunging into his skin. Sharp, almost numbing. His heart thundered and roiled in his chest, threatening his breathing, making him labor for it. As if he'd run the distance from GleannTaise.

  Instantly he let her go. "What did you do?" His gaze moved roughly over her painfully beautiful features.

  Her lips thinned along with her gaze. "You accuse me of casting on you already?" Her fingers tightened on the sword hilt. "I am no longer a willful child, PenDragon, but I see in that judgment, you have not changed." She looked down briefly at her fingers on the sword. "Yet all else has."

  He scowled. "What the bloody hell does that mean?" When she did not respond, he took a step closer and added, "Say what you will, Sinead. Offending me has never stopped you afore."

  She looked him over, his English garments, his English sword and manner. It almost broke her heart to see it. "Even your brogue has faded," she whispered, and the grief of it swept her. "I choose my own destiny, knight. I work it, fight to keep it. I will not be told what to do or whom to wed—especially by a king who hasn't the decency to visit a land he rules."

  Connal refrained from arguing that she'
d no choice but to obey and said, "His brother is prince regent here."

  "And know you the mishandling he's done? For the love of Bridget, he rewards Ireland in pieces as if 'twas a puzzle, then takes it away at the whim of a … boy! And we suffer. Battles have escalated to bloody wars and Ireland is in more turmoil than England."

  "I am here to settle some of that."

  A single tapered red brow lifted. "Are you, now? For the good of whom, PenDragon? My Ireland or your England?"

  The slap of her words stung and he straightened, glaring down at her. "This is my home, too."

  Her gaze raked him unkindly. "If 'tis so, then why has it taken you a dozen years and a king's decree to get you to return?"

  The air stilled between them, and Connal felt the sorrow in her voice that he could not ignore. It sounded so much like his mother's when he'd visited Donegal. But he had his own reasons for not returning. For not wanting to relive his last moments here and feel the burning shame of it. And, he vowed as he had that day, to keep them private. He would battle legions to keep it that way.

  "I've been … occupied," was all he could say.

  "Ahh," she said thoughtfully, sage wisdom in the look. "Forcing a faith on the infidels? Slaughtering for the riches of Islam? What will you do to my people, my faith, in the name of the king?"

  Her implications scored through him, and his features sharpened to near menacing. He took a step, looming over her like a great beast about to devour. "I am a knight of King Richard, Sinead. 'Tis my duty. My kind are necessary for peace!"

  "I am not blind to the art of politics," she snapped back at him, unafraid. "'Tis not your kind that offend me. 'Tis the man who hides behind the shield and sword of another and forgets his own kin that does!"

  "Ireland held naught for me, then," he said, trying to keep his temper in check.

  "'Tis selfish thinking, sir knight. You fled to follow the English, yet whilst I have remained and weathered the storms of conflict, you now return to take what is mine?" She leaned closer, her blues eyes ablaze with challenge. "Never." She turned away and marched up the hill, using the sword like a walking stick.

  "Sinead!"

  She kept going, seeming to float over the snow, her cloak dragging several feet behind her.

  "'Tis done, woman," he called. "Antrim belongs to the king."

  Her voice carried to him on the cold wind. "And so do you."

  Connal scowled blackly as he climbed the rocky slope after her, toward his men positioned on the hillside.

  "I see that did not go well either," Galeron muttered, handing over the reins to Connal's horse.

  Connal scoffed, then looked to where she was, walking near the trees. "'Twas more tame than I expected." Yet he knew she would only gain momentum and unleash it on him. She was hiding more of her feelings, much more than she let on. And though he knew 'twould be wiser to leave it unsaid, he could not.

  He mounted his horse, and as he adjusted in the saddle, he glanced around. "She is alone? Completely? Where are her retainers? Her guards?" Though she carried a sword, 'twas too heavy for her to wield.

  "There was no one, m'lord," Galeron said, frowning between the two as the lady made a path toward the castle road.

  "'Tis just the sort of trouble she'd enjoy," he muttered and rode toward her, calling her name. She did not respond, covering more ground than he thought she could on foot. As he neared, he noticed a small covey of tiny birds fluttering around her, chirping a greeting, one settling on her shoulder. Several brown rabbits emerged from hollows nearly covered in snow and pounced after her like eager puppies.

  She paused to cup a straggling baby rabbit in her hand and cuddle it close. She spoke to the creatures, though he would hear no more than the muted murmur of her voice. She set the baby rabbit on the ground, encouraging it to hop on its own, then continued on her way. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The bunnies were like brown bubbles popping up and down in the snow behind her and covering little distance.

  A sound, one he recognized instantly, pierced the quiet, and Connal twisted to look behind, then watched in horror as a hail of arrows sailed through the air and pierced the rabbits trailing behind her. The birds scattered.

  "Cease fire, cease!" he shouted as her legs failed her, buckling, and for a moment Connal thought she'd taken an arrow. His heart pounding, he leapt from the saddle as she twisted to look at him. Bleak disappointment shone in her eyes. Then an arrow skewered the infant rabbit nearest her.

  Blood splashed the snow.

  Her low moan sang on the air.

  "Sinead!" Connal shouted, yet before he reached her, she rose and lifted her gaze to his.

  "You have been here but days and already you have brought death with you."

  Her words hit like the arrow tip, deadly and where he thought himself shielded. Memories bled past his barriers, swelling with resentment. "God above, woman, they are warriors, and hunt for food when they can. 'Tis instinct!"

  Her eyes flashed with impatient anger. "Not a soul in Antrim has gone hungry since the end of my mother's banishment! We see that all are well fed and we hunt what is necessary!"

  We? "Most of my men will live outside the castle and will not be provided for except by their own hand. And afore you start to make more demands," he interrupted before she could, "I will give no such order to cease hunting."

  "Then tell them to hunt the full grown." With the sword, she pointed to the bloodstained snow. "Not the babes!"

  They were the most tender, he wanted to remind her, but wisely kept his counsel. "'Twas accidental. For that I offer my regrets." He glanced at the game at his feet. "'Twill not be wasted."

  She made a rude sound. "'Tis already a waste! Warn them—" She nodded toward the handful of knights and troops. "If they kill the young not yet able to breed—we will have no food atall." She swept her cloak up across her shoulders and melted into the forest.

  Connal blinked and wondered why he was so shocked when she vanished, a wisp of red mist left behind with her footprints. He'd never seen her do that as a girl, and though forewarned, he'd hoped only her mother could weave such magic. What other talents did she possess? And how was he to deal with them? As her husband, he could forbid her to use magic. Instantly, he knew 'twas impossible. The land and people would survive, but Sinead would rebel. He dropped his head forward. And, no doubt, with her usual subtlety.

  The wonder and awe in his soldiers' voices penetrated his thoughts, and briefly he glanced back at the crowd of armored men and soldiers. Most looked frightened, except Galeron and Nahjar. Did she have to make such a display before the wary? Obviously she thought herself safe from those who'd easily kill her for merely whispering the word magic. Including a few in his own ranks.

  You have been here but days and already you have brought death with you.

  The thought thrust images into his mind, the guilt to swiftly ride over his spine like claws. He pushed them down deeply, his gaze falling on the dead rabbit at his feet. 'Twas minor, food for his men, but the thought of bringing death and destruction to his homeland sickened him.

  He tipped his head back, his gaze roaming the land. He was finally home, prepared to face the demons clinging to him for thirteen years whilst more cropped up to prick him.

  The soft crunch of snow came to him, and he turned as Nahjar approached. A great tower of fur, the Moor looked like the rest, odd, out of place, especially with the tattoos on his face and the neatly wrapped turban on his bald head.

  "Should I be protecting your carcass from her as well, Sajin?"

  Connal slid him a thin glance. "I have survived a prison of Saladin the First; I can certainly handle one woman."

  "When? I saw no sign of it."

  Connal growled something under his breath that was not fit for the ears of even a seasoned Moor, then mounted his steed, Ronan, and gave orders to head to the castle.

  He rode ahead, determined to do the king's bidding … even if it meant tying Sinead to the altar. He'd witnes
sed oceans of blood and war and would not allow a woman to stop him now. Sinead's defiance, he thought, was simply wasting his time.

  * * *

  Prince John slumped in the chair, his elbow resting on its arm, his finger tapping his lips. He stared toward the window, watching motes of dust powder the air for several moments till the men around him fidgeted.

  Then, only his gaze shifted to the spy. "He is in Ireland already, you say?"

  "Aye, your highness." The messenger did not look at him, his gaze downcast. "He has been ordered to wed."

  John sucked his tongue, then glanced around, his tone rueful. "My brother believes he can lock doors to me still by sending emissaries," he muttered, his chancellor and head of his war counsel agreeing. His gaze flicked to the spy. "Who is this bride?"

  "Sinead of the Nine Gleanna."

  John eyed the messenger up and down. "You say that with reverence, Irishman."

  "The lady is daughter of Fionna O'Donnel and Lord Raymond DeClare, my liege. And a…"

  The man hesitated.

  "What keeps you from speaking up now when you have already betrayed your people?"

  The messenger flushed with anger and lifted his gaze. "She is a witch."

  "Liar."

  "Of course, my lord," the spy dared to say, yet his hands trembled.

  John relished the man's fear, then glanced at his counsel. One man, dark haired and standing in the farthest reaches of the throne room, nodded ever so slightly.

  John's attention came back to the Irishman. The house of DeClare and PenDragon united. The thought made John sit up a little straighter in his chair. Though he'd never met either earl, he'd heard enough of their reputations to make him ill. He should have taken their holdings afore now, but since peace was well in the north, he did not. And how had he not heard of this unmarried daughter of DeClare's? "Tell me more of this woman." He reached for a bowl of figs and examined the fruit afore he bit into it.

  "She is from a very old family. Her lineage ancient, sire. Like her mother, she wields the elements."

  And my brother will use her against me, John thought, discarding the stem and wiping his hands on an embroidered cloth. "You believe she can do such things?"