THE IRISH KNIGHT

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "We are watched," she said to him, yet her gaze was on the thicket of gnarled trees.

  He didn't look at her. "I know."

  Suddenly the forest was alive, figures emerging, their clothing white and deep brown, making them nearly invisible until they moved away from the cover of trees. Hoods shielded their faces but not their intentions.

  Pulling his sword free, Connal swung his mount around to face the attack as men raced from the barren forest, the snow doing little to hinder them. His back to Sinead, he said with deadly calm, "Let them come to you," his expression carved with determination. "Sinead, stay behind me," he commanded.

  The enemy hesitated at the sight of the knights, then with a wild war cry, sent a barrage of rocks and stones hurling through the air. Javelins arched like stayes of wheat, wobbling before they plunged toward their targets. They missed flesh and struck soil and glanced off rocks.

  Crowded by Nahjar and Branor's mounts, Sinead jolted, leaning to see around Connal. Something was amiss. And as a PenDragon soldier raced toward the enemy, she instantly recognized the truth. Pushing her mount between the knights' horses, she shouted, "Nay, PenDragon. Cease!"

  A rock struck Connal's temple. He did not flinch and bolted forward, prepared to strike. The sight of him made his attacker freeze where he stood and raise his arms to protect his neck and head. Connal froze, his sword high.

  Sinead screamed out, "Nay, they are children!"

  Connal whipped around, glaring at her, then looked at the men fighting around him. They had no daggers, no swords. Children?

  One young man, armed with only a thick branch, fought a sword-wielding soldier, but his anger was strong, sending the vassal back. The English soldier stumbled and fell on his rear. The Irishman lifted the branch to smash his skull.

  Sinead pointed to him. "Nay!" A brittle tree limb hanging over the pair grew instantly viney, and like a scolding mother, elongated to reach down and snatch the thick log from the Irishman's hands and entangle his arms in the vines.

  The young Irishman, trapped, stared in horror at his unearthly shackles as his foe scooted back on his rump to safety. She turned toward the others. The troops fought the unmounted Irishmen. Connal's command to cease did not reach all ears.

  Sinead rode into the center of it, panicked that more would die if she could not stop this killing lust. She tipped her head back, raised her arms, and said, "Spirits of wind and water, show me your power!"

  The breeze turned violent, so strong it forced men to struggle to remain standing. A quick hard rain fell in all directions, drenching them to the bone in seconds. Snow melted on the slope, instantly turning to ice and making those standing there slip and slide downward. Or be trapped harmlessly in it, futilely struggling to pull their feet free of the frozen ground.

  The wind whipped her hair nearly straight up, and Connal gripped his saddle horn, bowed his head into the gale, and rode to her.

  "You can stop this now, Sinead," he said rather calmly. "'Fore we are all naught but frozen statues."

  Sinead met his gaze and the rain ceased; the sun appeared as the wind settled. A rainbow curved against the sky overhead. No one moved, staring at the sky, then her. Connal glanced about. Wonderful, he thought; even his soldiers who'd done battle with the Turks looked terrified.

  "You've just alerted them all to your gifts, you realize."

  She brushed damp hair from her cheek and said, "To cease the fighting on boys, I would suffer more."

  He sighed. "I know they are children."

  She blinked.

  He took offense to her shocked look. "I do not war on babies, Sinead, nor do I attack men without weapons." He grabbed a poorly made javelin stuck in the ground and snapped the dry stick in half. He tossed the pieces aside and gave her a hard look.

  "My lord, do we give chase?"

  He looked at Galeron, then to where he pointed. The boys who had attacked them now scrambled up the icy slope toward freedom. "Nay, let them go."

  Galeron frowned. Connal did not respond as he angled away and rode to the one injured soldier. The man staggered to his feet, and Connal helped his squire up behind him. "Ansel, are you fit to ride?"

  "Aye, my lord, let us kill some Irishmen."

  Connal twisted in his saddle and frowned. "We are not here to war on anyone, Ansel—least of all boys, and … I am Irish. Do you wish my death for that?"

  "Nay, milord." The squire's pale skin flushed, even with blood oozing from his arm. "But yer one of us, sir."

  Although the young man had only served as his squire since his return from the east, Connal wasn't going to take the time to explain further, especially when he didn't know what to say to that. Scowling, he rode to a mounted troop and helped Ansel on the back of another man's horse. Dismounting and moving away, he looked at Sinead, inclining his head to the lad she'd trapped in the vines.

  Frantically, the lad fought his bindings. Sinead waved and released him; the youth tumbled back onto his behind. 'Twas justice for starting such a hopeless fight, she thought, riding close and staring down at him.

  With a flick of her wrist, the poorly made hood jerked off. "Andrew!"

  His eyes widened as she pushed back her own head covering. "Oh, mother of God … my lady!" he gasped, his face red with shame. He jumped to his feet, looking at the knight across the clearing, then to his lady.

  His eagerness to run showed on his whiskerless face, and her anger simmered on the surface, flushing her cheeks. "Why did you do this, boy?"

  "They attacked the village."

  She frowned. "You are wrong. They have been with me for days now."

  "'Twas last night."

  "Not these men," she said with finality, refusing to explain to an angry boy that Connal's men were traveling then and not this far south yet. "Is anyone hurt in the village?"

  "A few bruises, naught serious, my princess."

  "Your uncle did not sanction this, did he?"

  The lad's shoulders straightened and he gazed straight ahead. "Nay, my princess."

  "This is not the behavior of a future leader, Andrew." If the boy could have reddened further, he did. "You've attacked English and Irish without evidence."

  Frowning, she looked over at Connal. His troops were gathering the attackers that had not fled into the forest. As he helped a man to his feet, he lifted his gaze to her. His frown immovable, he walked to her side. She offered what the youth had told her. Connal did not argue the matter.

  "The MacGuinness will not be pleased with this," she said.

  Splendid, Connal thought. A man he needed as an ally now had more reason to distrust.

  "Then I suppose we are headed there."

  "Nay," Sinead said, and Connal looked to throttle her. "The troops will only raise alarm, and we come for his oath, not his sword in battle."

  "Hot-tempered, is he?"

  "Do you not remember Duncan?"

  Connal's brows furrowed as he drew on childhood memories. "He was not the eldest."

  "Afore the English came my father was. Now Duncan leads," Andrew said, and Sinead wished she could calm the fear in the lad's eyes. He had not taken his gaze off Connal, nor could she tell if 'twas awe she saw there or anger.

  Connal's stare nearly leveled the boy where he stood, and Andrew took a step back. Yet the boy did not give more; even surrounded by English soldiers and knights, he stood his ground proudly. Connal admired that, and saw himself in this lad. As a boy he'd done all he could to push an English conqueror out of their lives. 'Twas a pitiful resistance, using his slingshot on the man he now called father, Gaelan PenDragon. He'd hated Gaelan then, for his presence marked an end to Ireland's kings, to his own birthright to rule Donegal and the strong threads of the clans. The rage in him then had escalated when he understood that his mother cared deeply for the English lord. And during their marriage ceremony, he'd vowed to kill him.

  'Twas his aunt who'd convinced him that his mother had no choice and if not Gaelan, then another would come in his place
. 'Twas a sacrifice she made for them all. And 'twas Gaelan who'd offered his strength to Donegal and a hand out to the fatherless boy. He'd brought him into manhood, against his mother's protests, and earned his love. He'd been fortunate to have Gaelan guide him. But this lad had lost his father, his clan leader, and could not see there was no stopping the English invasion after all these years. God above, he was just like Sinead in that.

  Just as he had been. Once. And now he was the man to force a boy into battle and rage.

  "Who are you?" the boy suddenly blurted out, studying him hard. "You sound like an Irishman."

  Connal folded his arms. "Mayhaps because I am."

  "This is PenDragon, Andrew," Sinead said. "He is—"

  The boy's eyes flared, then narrowed sharply. "I know full well who he is, my lady," Andrew sneered. "But yer English now, eh?"

  "Many Irishmen serve King Richard."

  "But not all lead the battle on their kin, do they, Prince?" He gave Connal a thorough look, then spat at his feet. "Traitor!"

  Connal lowered his arms and went still as glass as the boy darted into the winter-worn forest. The lad's thrashing echoed and still he remained as he was, his fists clenched at his sides. His features offered naught, carved with indifference, yet Sinead could see his anger like an open wound in his eyes. Sympathy swam through her, yet she remained silent. He had to see she was not the only one who thought he'd turned his back on them. Suddenly he turned and strode to Nahjar, questioning him. Luckily there were few injuries, and all minor. The Irish lads had fled too quickly to be questioned. Connal looked at the ground, dabbed two fingers on the cut on his temple, and stared at the blood. 'Twas a skirmish not worth pursuing, yet he had to see something done about the village.

  "Branor, take three men and find this village but do not enter." He looked up at the somber knight. "You will frighten them," he explained. "Find a trail, no more."

  "I will see it done, my lord." Branor nodded, pointed to two mounted men and, with them, rode into the forest.

  Connal turned back to his mount and swung up onto Ronan's back. He rode to Sinead, stopping short when he noticed her clothing was dry and her hair was curling about her.

  "My thanks for sending Branor," she said softly, her smile melting something inside him.

  "You think me the worst of my kind." It bothered him more than he preferred.

  "Not the worst."

  His lips quirked at that evasive response. "You must not conjure like that, Sinead. There are other ways to stop a fight."

  "Aye, with the dead."

  He went on as if she had not spoken. "I cannot keep you safe if you continually put yourself in danger."

  "I am not the threat here, PenDragon. And I can take care of myself."

  "Mayhaps, but you are under my protection now."

  She thought to argue again, then clamped her lips shut. If Connal wanted to think he was doing her a grand favor, then so be it. Men needed to roar once in a while. She inched her horse closer and with a cloth from her satchel blotted the blood on Connal's temple, thinking she was not about to ask his permission to use her magic when he'd no right to make such a demand.

  Connal stared at her as she ministered to him. Her blues eyes sparkled, her scent, of wild roses and spice, climbing through his senses and clawing him from the inside out. The sudden grip of desire was tight and hard, the unearthly power of it coupled with the need to taste her. By God, how could she drive him mad with anger and frustration one minute and delirious with passion the next?

  "I know a spot where we may camp for the night in safety," she said softly, examining the wound. "This needs a stitch or two."

  He shook his head, his gaze never leaving her lush mouth. "Add it to the hundreds of other scars."

  "There are many?" she asked with a glance down his body as she opened a small tin of salve.

  "Aye. One day you will see them all."

  Amid applying a dab of salve to his cut, Sinead's gaze flashed to his, his meaning clear. Naked, in his bed. The thought made a spot low in her belly clench and flex. Longing stretched through her like a lazy cat, begging for his touch, his laugh, and for him to smile at her. Then his head tipped closer, his breath dusting her lips. Anticipation of another storm within his arms flowed like heavy wine through her blood. She met his gaze, the softness she saw in his eyes swallowing her like the tide. Oh Goddess, 'tis unfair this weapon he wields, she thought, for once tasted, he'd be more of a danger to her heart than his armies had been to the walls of Jerusalem.

  She dabbed the cut, effectively pushing him back and saving her from another bout of weakness.

  Connal shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, his groin full and aching without so much as her touch.

  "You should not bring all these men with you to see the MacGuinness."

  He chuckled at her avoidance and suddenly craved the day she'd speak his name again.

  "Then you will come with me."

  She blinked in surprise.

  "You would have insisted regardless," he said magnanimously. She was his to protect, he reasoned, and he needed time with her, without so many about clinging to their every word. He wasn't going to woo her, but a little consideration would likely smooth the path to the marriage he needed.

  For Richard, or for you? a voice niggled. God above, that was going to be a trial. Galeron was right: He and Sinead had a tidy war waging between them.

  "Aye, I would." She smiled. "However, I will keep my word and be silent."

  "Praise be."

  She made a face. "But…"

  He chuckled softly, shaking his head and knowing even before that she would not allow him the last word.

  "This little fight speaks for the turmoil unsolved." She gestured to the torn, snow-covered ground. "The English conquer and, once done, continue to beat our people down. My parents have seen GleannTaise returned to its glory and the people are well and happy. Yet Mother's touch does not stretch so far. Mine does." Her chin lifted. "The Gleanns are mine to rule. Oh, do not look so affronted, you big ox. You are not my husband, nor would that matter. I will not abandon them to you."

  "You would side with the MacGuinness against me?"

  That dilemma hit her like a slap. "I will do what is best for my people."

  "So will I! And deny that I am without morals or fairness, Sinead," his voice rising with his anger, "and I will…"

  "What?"

  "Gag you!"

  She looked affronted and amused. "Oh, now that is truly fair, for certain, knight."

  "You are magical," he groused, feeling again the helplessness of his trials with her. "There are few rules I can make with you."

  He looked so much like a sullen boy just then, she tried not to laugh and failed. From beneath a shock of dark brown hair, he glared harder, yet there was no anger in the look.

  "I make no promises I cannot keep."

  "I suppose keeping your mouth shut is too much to ask?"

  "In Duncan's presence, aye."

  He groaned, shoving his fingers through his hair, and Sinead took mercy on him. "If we hurry we can make it by nightfall," she said gently.

  He nodded and went to relay their plans to Galeron as Sinead shifted her mount around his, riding across the clearing to Nahjar. Regardless of the momentary truce, the turmoil he'd thought was gone from Ireland existed, and he was learning how deep the wounds still festered.

  He studied her as she spoke to Nahjar and on instinct knew she was concerned over the wounded. The men would refuse her, especially after that display of wind and rain. For all his warnings, it amazed him each time she worked the elements, and he wondered at the true depth of her power. He'd rather she not have it but long ago had accepted her for what she was. Yet after only a day with her, he realized she was naught like the troublesome female he once knew, and again contemplated why she was so opposed to marriage, and not just to him.

  His gaze swept her, her hair trailing over the back of her blind horse—he chuckled to himself o
ver that—to her dainty feet in old leather boots peeking out from beneath the gown and cloak. Her profile in his sight, he admitted that she not only took his breath away, but deep inside he wanted her trust.

  And her love? a voice chanted in his mind. Can you count yourself worthy enough for this woman's heart? A denial that he needed her love shot through him. He noticed the men staring at her; Galeron, the skilled flirt, said something that made her laugh. The sound floated across the distance like tinkling glass, warming him, and he rode closer as Sinead handed Nahjar the tin of salve. He rode near, curious, as he gave orders to move on.

  "See that they clean the wounds and dress it with this," she said. "Wrap the injuries in clean cloths, too, Nahjar. The lads have likely poisoned the javelin tips."

  He accepted the tin and went to do her bidding. None would refuse Nahjar, Sinead suspected, then looked at Galeron. The poor man was shivering and trying to hide it.

  Sinead could not conjure on anyone without permission so she asked, "You wish to be warm?" knowing Connal was displeased with her.

  "Aye. Of course." He eyed her, as did most of the shivering men.

  She leaned out, her hand slightly cupped and near his knees. "For the chill and rain I gave, I banish with warmth and comfort," she whispered, lifting her hands slowly.

  Galeron's heart skipped a beat as a gentle breeze ruffled beneath his garments, a heavy warmth rolling over his skin, fluttering his clothes to his throat.

  "Better?"

  He plucked at the knees of his chausses, and realized his garments were dry. "My thanks, my lady." Instantly images of what she could do with those powerful hands collided in his brain, and he considered Connal was damned lucky and too pigheaded to realize it.

  "Forgive me for drenching you."

  "'Twas naught to be forgiven, my lady."

  "Me, too, my lady," her own vassals shouted, and she repeated the chant, repairing the damage she'd done. Even a few English bravely insisted on her aid.

  "Dammit, Sinead, must you cast … so often?" Connal said from behind, and she twisted.

  "Why have the power if not to use it for the benefit of others? And since you hate it so much, then you can remain cold and wet." Not that she could cast on him anyway, she thought, and wondered when he'd learn that truth. She rode to Monroe, ignoring his protests when she told him their plans.