THE IRISH KNIGHT

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "You will send a squadron of men to the village and repair the damage, at your costs. Dougal will report to me the results. They will make full restitution, Lord Marshal, and since you condoned the raid, I will hold you personally responsible for their conduct."

  "As will I," Connal said from behind her.

  Her shoulders stiffened.

  Westberry nodded, shivering violently.

  "Get you inside out of the cold, man," she said and turned away and mounted her horse. The troops rushed inside the gates, yet as Sinead rode back toward the castle, Connal sidled his horse close and cut off Westberry's retreat.

  The marshal looked up at him. "Why are you here, PenDragon? With her?" He glared at Sinead's back.

  "My affairs are not privy to you, Westberry. But yours are to me. King Richard has sent me here for just this reason." The marshal paled. "And the lady was too generous…" Connal leaned down till they were nearly face-to-face. "I would have simply gutted you."

  The marshal teetered where he stood, his knees faltering. Then suddenly his back stiffened and he sent the knight an affronted glare. "You cannot speak to me like that! 'Tis an open threat to a subject of the crown."

  "Is it now? And are not these villagers subjects of the crown?"

  Westberry looked to debate, his gaze jerking briefly past him to where Sinead had ridden. "Aye, but you are no more than an Irish prig with royal favor."

  Connal moved the mount closer, his voice still as ice. "Your greed sent you here, Westberry, to the outpost of the uncivilized. And this Irish prig knows exactly why."

  The marshal fell back against the doors of the fort, and whether he trembled from cold or fear, Connal did not know or care.

  Yet the marshal's gaze was filled with a feral hatred Connal had seen often. And heeded.

  "He forgave."

  Connal scoffed rudely as he gave the marshal some breathing room. "He simply forgot about you. I, on the other hand, will not."

  He wheeled about, bolting hard after Sinead.

  Westberry watched him till he was no longer there. Then he smiled, certain he'd done as requested and come away unscathed.

  * * *

  Sinead remained in the village, in Dougal's house, whilst she tended the wounds of her people. As she wrapped a man's burned hand in a thin cloth, she wondered where they'd find the thatch to repair the burned roofs, and the wood for walls. With winter biting the trees, there was little to spare. Finished, she nodded to the fellow and he smiled, thanking her, and left.

  Yawning hugely, she corked her bottles, folded cloths, and, after a fashion, simply dropped into the chair and closed her eyes. The fire crackled and popped comfortingly in the hearth, the wind outside barely penetrating the thick stone walls. Dougal snoozed in a padded chair near the blaze, his wife and children warm in their beds. And safe.

  Sinead's mind drifted into sleep, the moon sinking as Father Sun rose to greet a new day. And in the straight-backed chair, she slept without dreams, without visions.

  A loud crack jolted her awake and she sat up, grappling for the tottering bottles and looking at Dougal.

  Rubbing his face, he stood, frowning toward the door, then moving to open it. Morning sun spilled into the warm house and Sinead leaned out to see, then left her chair and stepped out the door.

  PenDragon knights and troops hauled wood and stones. She walked the path to the road, searching the lane. She spotted Connal leading his war horse toward the home across the way, the animal struggling to drag the pallet harnessed behind him. 'Twas laden with stone and pieces of wood.

  "PenDragon," she called.

  He did not look up as he stopped the animal and gave it a pat. "'Tis too cold to waste a moment, Sinead."

  She watched in awe as he lifted a large rock off the pallet and walked—upright, she was not too stunned to notice—to the burned corner of the house. He positioned the stone in the absent wall, then strode back for another, fitting it in neatly. He yanked away the charred wood and filled it with mud and grass, then forced in more stones.

  Bareheaded and without his cloak, he'd discarded the armor and gauntlets. His hands were caked with wet earth as he dipped into the bucket for more. He'd torn down the entire two walls and had only a small portion left to replace. Farther down the lane near the well, at the first home they'd found burning, his soldiers worked tirelessly to repair the roof with what little they had. Someone had placed an oiled cloth across the damage, and men were now securing it with pegs and nails, then laying saplings and winter grasses over it. The owners were helping, and talk was congenial.

  She looked back at Connal, then walked across the avenue and stopped at his side. "Why?"

  He was about to slap more mud into the crevices, yet paused, not looking at her. "These are my people, too, Sinead. And aside from the cold, I do not believe Westberry's men would have done a decent job."

  She simply nodded, her throat so tight she had difficulty swallowing. Shame filled her. Who was she to question the depth of his compassion? She'd thought only the worst of him. And to even ask why was an affront to the knighthood he prized so well. He was sworn to protect the weak and downtrodden, and though her folk were neither, this day they needed. She might not accept his part in her life, but he already did.

  He pushed mud in, watching his moves. "Nary a comment from you, lady?"

  "Forgive me for questioning you," she said, and hoped he did not notice the fault in her voice. "And you have my gratitude, PenDragon."

  He shook his head, cramming more in the cracks. "By God, I wish you would cease calling me that."

  "Do you not like your name?"

  He made a strange sound on a snicker of breath. "It sounds like an insult from your lips."

  "'Tis not meant to be."

  He lashed his hand out to the side, throwing off the mud, and stood, facing her. Taking a rag from his belt, he cleaned off his hands, gazing down at her. Though her head was bowed, he could see a smudge of soot on her chin and the breeze tore at her single braided rope of hair. Beneath her leather cloak, she wore an aged gown, its deep rust hue faded to a dull clay. It had made her look like any other maid and less the guardian of the elements. He saw her again facing Westberry. With dignity and grace, and aye, wisdom. Connal would have done much worse. She had the power of magic at her fingertips and could have, without harming, scared the life from the marshal. He understood her control, especially when he'd felt the true pitch of her anger.

  She wanted peace and would sacrifice justice to see it done.

  "Galling me PenDragon is formal, and distant. We cannot go beyond, lass, if we keep so much animosity clearly there."

  She did not look at him, yet he heard her breath catch when he touched her chin, smoothing the soot. Then he tipped up her face.

  Her eyes were closed, and when her lashes swept upward, Connal suddenly had trouble drawing air into his lung. "Sinead?" The anguish in her eyes slayed him, blistering his heart.

  "To say your name makes us familiar." It sounded foolish to even her ears. But 'twas so. "And I will admit 'tis difficult when I cannot trust your intentions."

  "They are honorable, this I vow."

  "But they are not of your heart." Sinead stared up at him, her soul suddenly breaking free to plead for more than duty. "They honor the king's wishes. Not yours, nor mine, and we will be the ones to suffer the consequences."

  Connal could not argue but to say, "I know this. But 'tis the way it must be."

  "Nay," she said, stepping back, and the gloss of her blue eyes beckoned that she say more. "'Tis the way it cannot be."

  She turned away, whistling for her horse, and in the center of the street mounted the mare and rode away. Connal's gaze was riveted to her back as she paused by Monroe and spoke. Clearly the warrior did not care for her decision, whatever it was, and Connal tossed down the rag and started for her.

  But he heard the sharp command of, "You have my orders," afore she rode toward the path to the castle. Alone.

 
; Monroe looked at him, his gaze accusing him of an unspoken crime before he went to finish the work. Leaving Connal to wonder why she continued to fight this marriage and why hearing his name from Sinead's tart mouth had suddenly become a quest that rivaled that of the Holy Grail.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  Marshal Easton Westberry listened intently as the soldier gave his report.

  "You remained hidden?" The frost on the man's helm spoke of exactly how long he'd spied on the village. "Of course you did." He laughed congenially. "Or PenDragon would have slit you from arse to chin strap." His grin was wide and slow as the soldier's expression went slack, his complexion paling.

  "They left five warriors behind to guard the village, lord marshal."

  "Relay to all to stay away from that village. Leave them be."

  The soldier nodded, eyeing the tankard of wine on the rough table. Westberry cleared his throat then, and the soldier's gaze snapped back to his. He did not offer his personal stores to the troop and both knew he never would.

  "We have enough food to last till the bad feelings are soothed. Lady Sinead will make good her promise to provide more, regardless." Aye. She was so willing to assure there was no more trouble rather than seek recompense right now. But she would. He did not doubt that for a moment. She'd adhere to the letter of the law because she was fair and female. But PenDragon, he was another matter altogether.

  His law was his sword, and his right as a knight of the realms.

  He could do all he'd threatened. Mete out justice as he saw fit in the name of the king.

  Richard the Lion Hearted trusted him. With more than anyone thought possible, he knew. 'Twas the reason for the attack. He smirked to himself at that, but the pleased look did not last long. The Irish whelp was not a man to disregard. Though PenDragon had seen to the damage himself, that proved him to be not far from his base upbringing, but also of a gentle heart for the people. And it would be his downfall.

  Easton was to do nay more for the time. Delay them in GleannAireamh, and delay the marriage of Lady Sinead and the Irish knight. 'Twas all Prince John wanted. Easton did not care why, really. Stripped of his lands and title, he'd been sent here in punishment, he thought, with a disgusted look at his meager surroundings. And he'd do anything to escape exile for another Irish winter. Even throw himself in with Prince John. Richard deserved to be dethroned for the way he'd treated him. And for what? 'Twas not as if he'd killed anyone. 'Twas just a little thing, keeping that girl in his cellar.

  Easton dismissed the soldier. The wind was howling through the open door, and he barked at the man, "Close it and be quick about it!" He leaned toward the fire, warming his pudgy hands, then inched his toes out from under his robes and furs toward the blaze.

  Godforsaken place, Ireland. Filled with naught but godless heathens and snow. Suddenly more than cold prickled his skin, a feeling as if someone laughed behind him. Slowly, Easton looked back over his shoulder, his gaze scanning the empty chamber.

  Aye, he thought, pulling a knife close. Godless heathens and red-haired witches.

  * * *

  Something had changed between them, Raymond thought as he secured his bags to the saddle, then moved to check his wife's mount. Around them, his knights champed to be off, squires moving quickly to load the wagon.

  "You see this?" Raymond's gaze moved meaningfully to Connal as he yanked on the straps of his saddlebags.

  "'Tis hard not to notice. And we are not the only ones," Fionna said, her gaze shifting between the pair. Sir Galeron and Branor stood behind Connal with the tall Moor. The foursome had been ever watchful over the safety of the castle since their return from the village, though Sinead's vassals were, without question, strong and vigilant. Yet 'twas the way Connal kept looking at their daughter that gave her pause. 'Twas not a bad stare, she thought, but nor was it pleasant either. Regretful? Or was that hope?

  Fionna moved closer to her husband. "You think 'tis wise to leave them like this?"

  "They are not children, love, and I trust Sinead and Connal to find a solution to this atween them."

  "You believe, still, that she will accept him?"

  Raymond sighed hard, checking tack that did not need his attention. He touched the pouch containing the unsigned marriage agreement. "I cannot force her, Fionna." He looked at her. "How can we?"

  Guilt spirited over her beautiful features, sharp and pricking his heart. Raymond gripped her arms, gazing deep into her eyes. "Listen to me again, love, 'twas not your fault."

  "I keep telling myself that, that we could not have known … but my memory is good and I cannot banish the sight of her—"

  "She is protected," he cut in, not wanting to relive the detail in his mind or in the words. "By her magic." He chanced a look at Connal. "And I trust him to keep her safe as well. If aught, Connal knows his duty." And, he silently added, Connal would not allow his daughter's independence to stop him.

  Fionna sighed against him, laying her head to his chest and listening to the reassuring beat of his heart. But the situation was grave and Sinead's refusal would put them between the king and his orders. 'Twas treason, and although she'd hoped Sinead's innocent heart of old would see Connal as the man she'd once loved, Fionna knew 'twas not possible. And 'twas selfish. Sinead had the right to marry for love. 'Twas necessary for her soul, as it was for her magic. Joining with a man she did not love would be her doom.

  When she drew back, she found her husband frowning. She waited patiently for him to speak his thoughts.

  "She is a noblewoman of marriageable age, and Richard has found a way to use it." His look was rueful. "He has sent Connal to marshal power on his behalf and that includes Sinead." And what will I do when Richard learns my other daughters are magical as well? "'Tis not Richard I worry over, but his brother."

  "You do not think either know of her gifts?"

  Raymond shook his head, stepping back. "Only that she is ours, Fionna, and beneficial. Yet whilst Richard contents himself with moving the chess pieces of his kingdom from afar, and right now, finding his ransom, should John learn of Sinead's power, he will try to use it as well. This I am certain."

  Fionna nodded, trepidation swimming through her veins. The battle of brothers will touch my children, she thought, looking briefly at her daughter. Already King Richard had their eldest son in his army. And tithe paid to the king was feeding a war that neither Fionna nor her husband believed in. How long would it be afore Richard developed a new plan for their family?

  "I simply wish Sinead would tell us what she wants."

  Fionna shrugged, pulling on her gloves. "Mayhaps 'tis only to be loved for other than her magic."

  "At least Connal has not run from her because of it."

  She looked up, glancing once at her daughter. "He does not trust her not to wield it on him. And she refuses to enlighten the man. You are right, this is her problem to deal with now, Raymond."

  "But she is my daughter and heir and I will see her happy, dammit."

  Fionna looked at her husband. His expression was fierce, protective. Her heart burst again with love for him. Sinead had been his legal daughter since she was four summers old and he adored her, doing everything in his power to see that she was happy and never felt that she was anything less than his flesh and blood. Though she was not. He trusted Sinead, and that meant everything to him, to her and to their people. The king would never understand the wisdom and patience of magic. But, thankfully, Raymond had.

  "Aye, love, and you want to carry her burdens for her. You cannot. Just as I could not allow her to suffer mine when she was young." She kissed him too quickly for his liking and whispered, "Let us be off so they can mend what ails without our watchful eyes."

  Fionna turned away and called to Sinead, meeting her halfway and taking the basket of food wrapped in cloth before hugging her tightly.

  Raymond watched them, his gaze darting to Connal as he moved forward to say good-bye. He hugged Fionna a
s well and, when done, stepped back and stood close to Sinead. She glanced up at him, a weak smile tugging at her lips. He returned it, uncertainty spoken without saying a word.

  Raymond would not force his daughter to wed a man she did not want, even if he considered Connal the best and only choice of a husband. For the truth was, he'd chosen poorly once afore and distrusted his judgment. But the truth of the matter was, King Richard had the reins of their lives. And even his absence had not stopped him from wielding his power.

  Raymond kissed his daughter, spoke his good-byes, then mounted his stallion. He rode out of the gates, his wife at his side, his men filing behind them, unaware that soon he would feel the bite of his monarch's word, where it would hurt him the deepest.

  * * *

  "Westberry deserves punishment," Monroe said. "By Brehon law at least."

  Sinead looked up from the meal she was not tasting. Monroe was to her right, Connal to her left, above the salt; Nahjar as usual was to Connal's left and, farther down, Galeron and Branor across from him. The table stretched afore her, her own vassals eating happily, enjoying the wine and ignoring their conversation.

  "Hunger can make a person crazed." She recalled years ago the crimes committed for something as simple as food.

  "Sinead," Connal said patiently, "you saw yourself that the marshal was well fed, as were his men. Not a reedy one amongst them." Connal shook his head. "'Twas at great risk that he waged the attack."

  "Aye, a treaty could have been severely torn," Sinead murmured, leaning back in her chair and sipping wine.

  "If not for your generosity," Connal said, and Sinead offered a smile at his acknowledgment.

  Branor arched a brow at Galeron. Galeron quickly whispered the story Connal had told him.

  "'Twas not generous really." She almost laughed to herself. "The MacGuinness will not be pleased I have offered his stores, and I doubt any attack on his village would go without swift and complete retribution. I did not want a war."

  "Neither do I, but why even do this? First, they have food. His troops attack a village, which he knows will bring you to his door. And though he knows he deserves punishment, he seemed confident you would smooth the trouble, even whilst you have the law on your side." Connal shook his head. "The risk was to his fort, his supplies, and his men. He had everything to lose. Westberry has not been near England for some time; I doubt he could be following orders."