"My lord, 'tis been my duty since—"
"Since the O'Brien hurt her."
Monroe let out a long-suffering sigh, as if he shed a great burden. "Thank God she told you."
"Why?"
Monroe met his gaze. "Because, my lord, the O'Briens are a mean lot. And Markus had brothers." With that Monroe rushed toward the stairs leading below.
Brothers. Connal stopped cold, his gaze ripping over the faces littering the great hall. He examined each one, mentally marking off his own men and the Irish king's guards. King Rory was suddenly at his side.
"You are going to send my folk running with that look, PenDragon."
Connal merely glanced his way, searching for the unfamiliar still
"What do you seek in my home?" Rory asked quietly.
"An assassin. More than one, I'm afraid."
Rory's gaze moved slowly over the crowd. "There are so many, but I will tell you each is familiar, down to the last babe."
"Be sure, your highness, I beg you."
God above, trouble came to him threefold this day, Connal thought. And for a brief moment he felt something … anger? Bitterness? He could not be certain, but 'twas as if it reached out to swipe a claw down his back. He turned, saw Branor, then called to him and two other knights. With them came his squire.
"Spread out and find Lady Sinead. Discreetly." He did not want to alert anyone.
The men moved off, and Connal gave quiet orders to the squire to prepare to leave. He warned him of discretion. Then he faced Rory. "My thanks for your hospitality, sire, but we depart."
"When?"
"As soon as I find my lady."
* * *
Sinead fastened the leather and fur cloak at her throat. "I will meet you outside the castle walls."
"You will come with me now."
Her gaze snapped to his. Hooded and heavily cloaked, his face was barely visible. "You wish this to be clandestine. Then leave the army and put a squire in my cloak." She tossed the velvet mantle at him and he snatched it from the air. He handed it to Nahjar.
"That was the plan." The troops would leave at dawn, and with them, someone wearing Sinead's cloak and his banner. It would give them enough time to get to DeCourcy's without mishap. He knew he could protect her if she would just obey him. Once, he thought. All he asked was one time to have her compliance. The woman was going to turn him gray and old, and he suddenly had great admiration for Monroe.
"I can move between the worlds, Connal. But I cannot do it for anyone else without a strong spell. And you have insisted we have no time for that."
"I do not want you from my sight. Now come with me." He held out his hand, his mantle sliding back.
She tipped her chin and faded out of existence.
Connal ground his teeth and left the chamber, leaving Nahjar behind to give the impression of it being occupied, and to be alert should anyone try to enter with plans to take Sinead's life. Without armor or spurs, he moved soundlessly through the castle, the stone fortress silent but for the groans of a few finding a comfortable spot to rest. He left the hall through the cook house, moving across the yard to the west portal. Glancing for onlookers, Connal fell into the shadows and slipped out, remembering once when he'd done this as a boy, leaving GleannTaise Castle, angry with Raymond for refusing to train him, only to discover that Sinead had followed him. 'Twas the moment she'd confessed her heart to him, a child of no more than four or five. And moments later she'd been kidnapped. He recalled the beating he'd taken trying to help her, and the feeling of failure he'd lived with when he had to tell her mother he'd failed. He would not do so again, he thought, his heart pounding with the memory and the sudden fear that she would not be where they agreed.
But she was. And he let out a breath as she stepped from beneath the tree. He tossed his mantle back over his shoulders and secured the leather bag his squire had prepared. He glanced at her, frowning at the odd look on her face.
Sinead stared at his garments, something akin to pleasure working through her. Gone was the chain mail, the leather tunic he often wore, the chausses and hauberk that spoke of England and studded with pewter. In its place was a deer-hide tunic, finely stitched and tanned dark gold with black and linen trims. Simple, elegant. Irish. His sword belted the garment and his legs were encased in braided leather the color of autumn so snug she could scarcely tell where the fur-lined boots began.
He noticed her inspection. "King Rory lent them."
"They suit you well," she said softly.
The catch in her voice brought him up short. "Do not get ideas, Sinead; they are only clothes."
"They are Irish clothes, Connal. And you wear them well."
Ah, the power of that smile is unequaled, he thought, returning it as he realized 'twas the simple things that pleased Sinead more than gifts of gold. "Come, we must make haste," he said, grabbing hold of the saddle to mount.
"Are we to find Genevieve along the way?"
He glanced. "The blind beast is in the stable. Too many saw it and know she is yours to make this work. She must leave with the rest. My horse is there, too, and Galeron will ride it and wear my banner."
Sinead nodded. "'Tis gallant of him."
Connal rolled his eyes and mounted, then reached for her, depositing her before him.
"Would it not be best if I rode behind? Should we be attacked, how can you fight."'
"Should we be attacked, I want you to do that disappearing thing and hide." He adjusted the reins and headed south, slowly. "Promise me."
She tipped her head to meet his gaze and saw the grave concern in his eyes. "Aye, I promise."
He shook his head. "Your oath that you will not try to help me as you did with the bolt."
She looked at him as if he'd grown antlers. "I cannot swear that."
"By God, must you be so dammed stubborn?" he said between clenched teeth. "And who said the other night we'd grown wiser?"
There was a pause before she said softly, "If I swear with restrictions I've bound myself, and I will not do that again."
In the dark, his expression flinched with sympathy. "Forgive me, Sinead. I forget oftimes that there are rules to magic."
In the moonlight Sinead saw the concern he showed and the fear he held from her. It touched her and the words tumbled out. "I swear to you, should the need arise, I will use my magic to protect myself." And you, she added silently. "So I say, so mote it be." She touched her heart, and Connal sighed when the night air glittered softly.
"Good enough." Without pause, he kissed her, a quick play of lips and tongue that left them breathless and burning.
Her eyes drifted open slowly, her senses stirred and drained in the same instance. In the moonlight he held her gaze trapped with his own. She did not have to see his eyes to know. They had the power of touch. How long could she defy her heart for her pride? she thought. And would he always see her as more duty than woman? More goal for his king than need for himself?
"Rest," he murmured in a tight voice, and she settled back against him as he directed the horse southward. As the animal picked its way through the darkness, Connal shifted her on his lap, a bit shocked and pleased when she slipped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest.
Her sigh was audible in the dark, like a ripple against his body. "I am safe only here, Connal."
His throat tightened and he kissed the top of her head tucked beneath his chin. The words were a gift, a rite of passage. A piece of her trust. And he realized he would rather die than lose it.
* * *
John DeCourcy stood at the window of his private chambers, his hands behind his back, his gaze on the activity beyond the thick stone walls. The courtyard was populated with lords and ladies, some waiting for an audience with him, some there to pick up a bit of gossip or a new lover. He loathed that his beloved castle had turned into such a ground for intrigue. But such it was. With Pipard and La Petit's appointment and the loss of his power as justiciar, DeCourcy sought other means to keep King Ri
chard in power. The ten cantreds in Connacht was bargained more for his old age than for power, but the alliance with Covderg gave him a foothold until Richard returned from the Crusades and settled his little brother's interfering. Prince John ruled Ireland, aye, but when Richard learned how he was using it, the situation would change.
The wind kicked at the drifts of snow and he smiled to himself. Ireland was a land he'd easily loved, despite having fought against most of her kings and lairds for Richard's father, Henry. He almost missed his battles with Hugh DeLacy and was glad his son was of better temperament and less ambitious.
A knock shook the door, and DeCourcy smiled to himself.
"Come in, Walter."
The door swung open and the man strode in, chain mail shaking, armor chinking.
"How the bloody hell do you always know 'tis I?"
DeCourcy smiled patiently. Walter was the image of Hugh, big and robust, and he was not going to reveal that he was the only one who shook the hinges with a single knock. It proved to DeCourcy that the man had confidence.
"What brings you here?"
Walter tucked his helm beneath his arm and stepped near the fire roaring in the wide hearth. "I've news from the port."
DeCourcy pulled the velvet robe close, chilled, then sat in a carved chair near the fire.
"You should divest yourself of that armor, Walt, afore you cook inside it."
"I am accustomed," the younger man said, settling easily and leaning toward the blaze to warm his hands. "I heard that someone readies a ship. Aye, I know it's a port, and that is what it is for," Walter said with affection, knowing DeCourcy would point that out. "But Richard's banner was spotted."
"I'm to understand 'twas not intentional?"
Walter shrugged. "I was riding the street near the wharf and a chest fell off a cart. I'd thought little of it till I saw a coat of arms. 'Twas Richard's."
If Walter thought such news would shock DeCourcy, he was mistaken. The man, whose calm helped him through many a battle, only looked mildly interested. If Walter was not used to it, it might have irritated.
"The owner of the cart confessed?"
"I admit that it did not dawn on me till I was some distance away." He blushed a bit at that. "When I returned there was no sign of cart, man, or the others surrounding him. But 'twere English, that I can say. These men were commonly dressed but did not carry themselves so."
DeCourcy frowned. Prince John's men, mayhap. In disguise? Or had they plans to use Richard's banner as a ruse? "Pipard and La Petit could be behind this. Gathering an army? But for what? They're the justiciar here now."
"Mayhaps to take to England? Or the Crusades?"
It was possible, DeCourcy thought, but word was, Richard was returning. Since then, DeCourcy knew little more that. He trusted few at Prince John's court to tell him the truth.
Without knocking, DeCourcy's wife pushed into the room, directing servants with trays. Affreca glanced at her husband, smiled gently, then quietly supervised the meal being laid out. "Join us, Walter?" she said without looking at him as she let the servants out.
"My thanks, my lady, but nay, I've duties." Walter stood and John's wife, an Irishwoman, daughter of the King of Man, moved close to her husband, fussing with the velvet blankets. 'Twas a good match for one made for alliance, he thought.
"Learn what you can of Prince John's doing. Go to Pipard and make yourself a nuisance if you must. Or send a trusted man to do it."
Walter nodded, picking his helm off the floor.
"A woman would find out more," Lady DeCourcy said softly.
The men exchanged a smile.
He was nearly to the door when John asked, "How did they carry themselves?"
Walter turned smartly to face him and found DeCourcy with his arm around his wife's waist, as if caught in the act of pulling her onto his lap. It made him smile.
"Like soldiers. Well trained, efficient."
"And?"
"That makes them deadly, my lord."
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
They were well beyond the boundaries of the gleanns by late the following day, and Connal was thankful for his Irish garments as they passed through yet another village. Wearing Richard's coat of arms had not been helpful thus far, and though he could ride through without notice, Sinead was recognizable and drew a crowd of folk if they stopped to rest near homes. He'd watched her play with children, offer herb cures for the sick and, much to his irritation, made a dry well flow with water for the village folk. He'd warned her about using her gift for all to see, but she ignored him. Damn me, but I should not be surprised.
Say left and she will go right, he thought, and yet whilst he purchased some food and wine for them, Connal kept his gaze on Sinead as she stepped into the trees and vanished. It gave him pause, the sight of her moving through a doorway that did not exist, and after all they'd been through on this journey, he was not comfortable with her being alone. Even to relieve herself. Though she'd balked at his close proximity the entire trip. Hurriedly paying the proprietor, he slung the sack over his shoulder and headed into the woods. Apprehension slithered over his spine when he did not find her, and between his worry, he swore he would tie the woman to his saddle to keep her safe. He trudged on, calling her name. They were farther south, the air a wee bit warmer, the snow only in patches and melting. His boots sank into the soggy earth, his voice echoing through the barren trees. He was nearly running when he smelled smoke.
He stopped short when he spied several men huddled around a small fire, the land close to them surprisingly void of snow. A niggling feeling crept up his spine as Connal moved closer. Gypsies, he thought after a better look. He searched the band for their leader, and deduced the fellow on bended knee was in command. There was an air about him that could not be mistaken. His hair overlong and shaggy, he fed damp wood into the flames, speaking and gesturing to someone, yet his broad shoulders blocked a view. Then he sat back on his haunches, and Connal's heart slammed to his stomach.
Sinead. Damn her hide! He'd been worried that she'd been hurt or stolen, and here she was, sitting comfortably around a gypsy's fire, laughing. With a stranger. The leader leaned forward and, their heads together, she smiled at the man. A tender smile she'd yet to bestow on Connal this day. His gaze riveted to her face, something akin to jealousy speared through his blood. She was his woman, his by order of the king. And after her injury, she'd no right to scare him like this.
Forcing himself to remain calm, he stepped into the clearing and called, "Sinead," when all he wanted to do was snatch her up and cart her from the forest.
She looked up, her features pulling tight with guilt. His hand on the hilt of his sword, his grip tightened when the man grasped her arm, as if holding her down. Connal took a step closer. Quickly, she removed the man's hand and came to him, putting herself between him and the gypsies.
"I should do as I thought and tie you to the horse," he said between gritted teeth. "What the bloody hell possessed you to wander off?"
"I did not wander," she snapped. "I knew you would follow. And they are harmless."
"To who, Sinead? Ireland?" Connal made a rude sound. "They thieve on the less fortunate."
"Nay, they only survive." Though his gaze was directed beyond her, to the gypsies, Sinead sensed his anger. Their discord had no place here, and yet 'twould be her fault if he unleashed it on the innocent.
"When will you cease thinking the worst of me?"
She blinked.
"I can feel it, the unsurety in you, the doubt you hold for me," he said.
Though his expression was fierce, his voice colored with hurt, her smile was slow and light.
"Do not look so pleased with that, woman; I am angry with you for vanishing like that."
"You found me easily. So what is the harm? Is it mayhaps that you found me with another man?" She was goading him, opening herself for hurt, she knew, but Sinead could not help it. She wanted more from Connal,
more than duty, more than simple friendship, for in her dreams she not only saw his death. She saw the hint of future, murky at best, but there. 'Twas that she clung to.
"Any man is a threat to you."
She inclined her head to the gypsies. "I have naught that they want."
He scowled. But you do, she was not saying aloud. Her land, her right of rule. A piece of Ireland for himself. Aye, he wanted more from her, and Connal was beginning to question his right to it. What had he done to earn it? "Come with me now. We must leave to meet the contingent afore reaching DeCourcy's."
Sinead nodded, took a few steps away, and yet when she opened her mouth to speak, the tallest of the group moved to stand in front of her.
"What say you here? And what business you have with the lady?"
Behind the gypsy's back Sinead rolled her eyes. This is why women should rule, she thought, and moved around him. "If you think 'tis flattering, you are sadly mistaken."
"'Tis none of your concern." Connal spoke to the gypsy as if she had not.
The man's sword came up, the point positioned near Connal's heart. "I am making it mine."
Connal loosed his weapon from its scabbard. "'Tis unfortunate for you then, for she is my woman."
The leader scowled, glancing for confirmation from her.
Connal arched a brow, waiting.
Sinead ignored the tiny thrill Connal's words gave her and looked at each man as if they had turned into toadstools, with just as much brains. "Well. Go on, then." She waved to get the battle done. "Off with his head! Cut each other to ribbons, since you seem ever intent on doing so. Without cause."
Connal's lips pulled in a flat line, his skin flushing a bit.
She looked at the gypsy. "Challenging him will gain you what, sir? Gold? He carries none. A horse? 'Tis yonder"—she flicked a hand toward the village—"and the beast is exhausted from carrying us both."
Her gaze snapped to Connal. Neither my honor nor my life is at risk, she thought, and Connal sheathed the sword.
"I only thought—" the gypsy began.
"Nay, you did not bother to use your brain, or the two of you would not be so ready to battle like hounds over a bone that does not exist," she said, leveling an irritated look between both men. "You growl and roar when simple patience will solve. If I thought womankind would be better, I'd think of a way to make you all mute!"
THE IRISH KNIGHT Page 17
