THE IRISH KNIGHT

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "Then what do you do with it?"

  "That's the thing, lassie. We roast it slowly and crush it, then put it in boilin' water for a bit. Turns the water muddy as a moat, and after straining, my lord drinks it."

  "Sounds very unappealing."

  "Aye, 'tis bitter, and needs quite a bit of sweetening, if you ask me. I'll give you a taste of it in the morn, for once drunk, you willna be sleepin' for a while." She moved to the rear door again, pushing it open and staring out into the darkness. The sun was just turning the sky purple. "Now, where is that blasted thing? I swear, if Galeron snatched it again, that brute of a man…" she groused. Her voice grew distant as she moved farther from the door.

  "Murphy, do come back in," she called. "'Tis too cold out for you to be traipsing in naught but a robe and slippers." Sinead took a step, pushing the door and calling again. She heard heavy footsteps, the crunch of stone, and Galeron appeared in the door.

  He smiled. "Ah, Lady Sinead, so he's finally released you."

  "I was not a prisoner, and guard what you say, Galeron, or a toad will be wearing your armor." She rapped on his breastplate and he simply grinned. "Find Murphy; she stepped out and has not returned."

  Galeron was turning away when he caught something in his line of vision. A flick of a shadow. Pushing Sinead behind him, he stepped into the kitchen, his sword out.

  The instant he passed the door, he relaxed his guard and frowned. "What are you doing in here at this hour?" he said before something struck the back of his head with a sickening crunch. As Galeron folded to the floor, Sinead turned to run, raising her arms to summon the powers. Someone snatched her wrist, jerking her off her feet and back against his chest. She winced and looked up as a ragged, bushy-faced man wrenched her arm behind her.

  "I've got the little witch," he shouted.

  One hand free, Sinead snapped her fingers, creating fire in her palm and tossing it in his face. He howled in agony, his hair and shirt catching, and he released her. She ran hard, her concentration failing her as she called for Connal.

  A man leaped out of the darkness, latching onto her legs and toppling her to the ground. He fell on her, her breath forced out of her with his weight.

  "I've got the witch!" he shouted. "Gimme that," he said to someone else, and she felt her hands being bound.

  She tipped her head down and whispered, "Tuatha, Tuath—"

  "Damn, she's chanting."

  "Well, stop her!"

  The man was off her and flipping her onto her back. He raised his arm to strike her. "Cease, woman, or I'll do it for ye."

  "Gabh sidhe fae. Gabh de Dannon—" Come faery folk, Come warriors.

  He struck her, her head whipping to the side. Sinead worked her jaw, lifting her gaze to him. Her eyes narrowed. "I know you. You are O'Brien's kin."

  "I haven't kin, witch, because of you and that … knight," he said with disgust.

  "And you will be the last of your line, for Connal will not let you live."

  "He'll be snoring in his bed afore he learns of this."

  "Do not wager that."

  Connal, she chanted in her mind.

  * * *

  Connal slid along the wall outside the kitchens, gesturing silently to Nahjar to use the opposite entrance, that led from the front of the manor. He'd sensed the danger only moments ago, and then heard Sinead's call for help.

  His urge to move quickly was tamped down by caution, her warning of the dream she continued to have each night. Gingerly he eased into the kitchen, and one glance took in the candles overturned, yet still burning on the worktable. It shadowed the figure sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood.

  A stab of grief lanced through him. 'Twas no doubt that Galeron was dead. Half his skull was missing. He crossed the kitchen, stepping outside and moving along the outer wall. Nahjar moved up behind him.

  "Sajin, there are no guards."

  "They are dead or we have been betrayed."

  "Dead." Nahjar pointed to the body slung over the wall.

  Connal looked, fear sweeping through him. To attack his manor was a grave offense, for by right and law he'd done naught to warrant it.

  Connal, he heard in his head. Careful.

  He moved toward the courtyard, wondering why Sinead hadn't used her magic, but when he met the edge, he saw why. She was on the ground, her hands bound behind her back, and a man straddling her hips. He was forcing her to drink something. And God love her, she refused.

  A man leaned down in her face and said something to her. Her neck stretched as she looked around at the walls, at the men slumped over the stone parapets. She opened her mouth to drink the potion.

  Do not, he called to her in his mind. Do not drink!

  She stilled and clamped her lips shut. Angry, the man hauled her to her knees, glancing around. He muttered something to a giant man standing to his right.

  Connal stood back in the shadows, surveying the small bailey. The gate was open, the guards dead, and though he'd men positioned in the upper floors, where was Branor and Monroe, and his squire, Ansel? His gaze snapped to the stable. Shadows moved slowly within the faint light.

  "Come out, PenDragon, I know you're there," Sinead's captor called out.

  Connal remained still and silent, ignoring the fear pounding in his heart, waiting for the opportunity to take his wife back. He looked about for a diversion, then took a risk and whistled for his mount. Ronan's hooves smashed at the walls of the stable, the wood splintering and the horse's neigh screeching in the night. Several turned toward it, and Connal counted only a half dozen men. But that did not mean there weren't more.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Connal rushed her captor, knocking him to the ground.

  Behind him, Nahjar swung his curved sword. A half dozen more of his men raced into the bailey, yet Connal saw only Sinead.

  Her eyes widened. "Behind you!"

  He turned as someone struck him on the side of the head. He stumbled, and sheer will kept him on his feet, his sword in his fist. Yet 'twas time enough for another foe to grab his wife and put a knife to her throat.

  "Do not move!" Connal shouted to his men.

  The slightest touch and Sinead would be bleeding to death at his feet.

  Silence pulled at him, and he forced his gaze from her when a man stepped from the darkness, his gate loose-limbed and almost vulgar. A sword swung at his side, but he did not touch it.

  "Well, well, PenDragon." The man pushed his black gloves deeper between his fingers.

  "Release her or die."

  The man flicked a hand and his comrade lifted Sinead by the hair as another man put a cup to her mouth.

  "Nay! Sinead, do not!"

  "'Tis a drug, not a poison," she whispered, and 'twas like a shout in his head. "You will find me. Let them go, so you can find me."

  He shook his head.

  "I think we need some … inspiration here," the dark-haired man said.

  The bearded man pricked her throat.

  Connal saw no fear in her eyes, only her trust in him.

  Sinead swallowed hard, despite the blade at her throat. "You must, the troops are drugged, not dead, Connal. But he will kill them."

  "Nay, fair lady witch, not when I will earn them as my own soon," the man, dark-haired and slender, said with a glance over his shoulder at her. "But I will kill him." He withdrew his sword.

  "Nay!" Sinead shouted, and the man holding the cup poured the liquid into her mouth. He clamped a hand over her nose and mouth, forcing her to swallow or choke. Sinead's eyes narrowed, speaking of retribution, then they closed in a drugged sleep. They let her fall helplessly to the ground.

  Connal's heart thundered with anger. "Who are you?" he demanded, his sword already.

  "A messenger from Prince John."

  Nahjar stood at his back as men circled them. "We are outnumbered, Sajin."

  "Kill as many as you can."

  Nahjar nodded and sliced out, cutting a man's arm off cleanly at the shoulder. He
fell, screaming, and Nahjar muttered, "You will live," then attacked a second.

  Monroe, Sir Kerry, and three more joined him, and Connal and his men positioned themselves in a circle of power, protecting each other's backs as they fought. Years of service, the Crusades, and internal patience made them strike with precision and lethal intensity. Swords hummed through the air, cutting through tender flesh and bone, each man, knowing the weakness of armor.

  Their opponents dropped to the ground like unwanted baggage and they widened the circle, protecting his people, his home. He edged toward Sinead, lying on the ground, motionless.

  Then the invaders threw a torch to the ground, the winter-dry earth igniting quickly as Connal swung at the leader. Swords clashed, the sound ringing in the burning bailey. Servants rushed to put out the fire as men fought and died. Out of the corner of his vision he saw men carry Sinead to a horse, and panic filled him.

  "I consider this an honor," his opponent said, slashing hard at Connal.

  He blocked and parried, his blade catching his cloak and slicing off a chunk of it. "Really."

  "You're a bit of a legend, PenDragon. Something like your lady there."

  "She is my wife."

  "Delightful," he said without a shred of pleasure. "When you die, I'll marry her and get your lands."

  Fury boiled in Connal's blood, clearing his mind. "You will never have Sinead. Never."

  "Oh?"

  They struck blades, Connal's hilt locking with his opponents and bringing them face-to-face. "You will never have even a fistful of Ireland. And if I were you I'd be very careful what you did to my wife. She has a mean temper."

  The man paled. Connal shoved him back, fury unleashing as he pounded the man, slash for slash. His home invaded, his friend killed, his wife taken. This man would not live.

  The man back-stepped, his cloak falling to the ground in shreds, and knew PenDragon was playing with him.

  Connal swiped with precision, and his opponent's sword belt tangled at his feet, the cut leaving behind a bleeding slice in his belly. He could hear the man's harsh breathing, and he stumbled backwards.

  "You're out of practice, aye?" Connal said, wanting to be done with this. "I, sir, am not."

  Connal advanced, merciless with his silver blade, and the man glanced around in panic at his fallen men, then at one coming toward him. "Take her away," the intruder ordered one of his men.

  "But Sheriff—" O'Brien said.

  "Take her now!"

  "You will die for this, O'Brien, like your brother," Connal swore, his eyes speaking of retribution. As they dragged Sinead across the ground, Connal rushed the sheriff, the serration of his sword tearing through fabric and flesh and leaving a bloody sheen on his blade. "I will kill you."

  The sheriff rushed backwards, then suddenly the sheriff stopped, pressed his sword into the ground, and folded his hands over it. "Nay, you will not." The sheriff nodded.

  Connal turned sharply and faced Branor. His gaze dropped to the thin blade his knight held. An instant later, Branor stabbed out, the sharp steel singing deeply into Connal's flesh and coming out the other side. Pain burned through him, spilling in his groan. He blinked, stunned.

  "Why?" he managed, folding his fingers over the bare blade. It cut into his hand as he tried yanking out the sword.

  "You follow King Richard's pet for years without rewards and ask that?" was all Branor said.

  "I would have given you aught you wanted … friend," Connal choked, falling to his knees with a jolt. His breathing rapid, he yanked on the blade, growling as he tossed it aside. "Damn you!"

  A moment later, Nahjar let out a harsh battle cry. Branor turned. Nahjar swung, his scimitar cutting through Branor's neck and severing his head so quickly, his body remained upright for several seconds. Then Monroe kicked it to the ground.

  Connal clutched his side and staggered to where Sinead was bent over a horse's withers, her hair touching the ground. Three men set fire to the hay behind him, the winter-dead grasses instantly going up in flames. He lifted his hand to her, calling her name. The edges of his vision blurred, and he dropped to the ground, his gaze struggling to remain on her. Blood flowed over his fingers, soaking the ground, and Connal knew her prophecy had come true.

  "Sinead!" he coughed. The sheriff rode out the gates with his wife, her hair a flying red banner across the horse's black coat. 'Twas the last thing he saw.

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  « ^ »

  The sheriff sanded his hands together more for warmth than glee as he moved to the table laden with food. Prince John would be terrible pleased, he thought, sampling bread and dipping it in a pot of clotted cream. Several of his men, including his cousin, lounged about, eating. Their numbers were fewer, yet anyone who'd failed him at PenDragon's manor was dead anyway.

  "Where did you put her, cousin?"

  "In the tower." Guy sucked grease from his fingers.

  "Ah, well. Bound and gagged as well?"

  "Aye. She cannot get free."

  The sheriff's gaze mapped up. "You are quite certain of this? For if she is missing when Prince John arrives, you are dead. Make no mistake of that."

  Guy stood, giving him a sour look as he tossed the turkey leg to the dogs and trudged off toward the captive.

  "Out, all of you," the sheriff said, settling into a still warm chair and pulling his cloak about him. He gestured to a servant to stoke the fire.

  PenDragon was dead. His betrayer dead. Now, if the thieves would cease praying on his people and the barons would arrive, he'd be in a much better mood.

  A howl came from abovestairs and he paused in biting into a piece of meat and sighed. "I am surrounded by inept people," he muttered, biting into the food. A second cry came, and he cursed and left the chamber.

  As he climbed the stairs he tested his arm, the cut PenDragon had given him clean but deep. He hated scars, he thought, and stopped outside the tower chamber. He pushed open the door and found Guy strung against the wall like a crow for the fields.

  His gaze snapped to the witch and he took a step back.

  * * *

  Sinead's call to the faery folk had been incomplete, yet they'd heard her pleas. And now Kiarae, Galwyn. Brigit, and Sairah hovered over her husband.

  Connal lay between life and death, the veil thin. Galwyn looked at his lover, his expression grave. "I fear he will not live."

  Kiarae flew down to stand near Connal's head. "He must or she dies, too." She touched his forehead, hot with fever.

  Monroe slipped into the room and the faeries remained, looking up at him defiantly. He sighed, not truly startled to see them again, and brought the tray he carried to the side of the bed. He sat in a chair, then pulled gently at the bandages stained dark red.

  Nahjar entered after him. "Most are alive, Monroe."

  "Good. Galeron?"

  "I have buried him on the hillside."

  Monroe's features tightened. He'd grown fond of the man, and his death was useless. "Why would Branor betray them? Us? He was treated like a brother."

  "Ah, but not as favored. Some men are greedy for things they cannot have and believe owed to them."

  "How long have you known him?"

  Nahjar thought on that as he motioned Monroe aside and tended to Connal's wound. Tugging the ties of a leather case, he rolled out his tools and, after cleansing the wound, began to stitch. "Branor was always secretive." Nahjar shrugged, his thick arms and big hands moving with a delicacy that belied their size. "I knew him years and did not suspect his discontent. It no longer matters." The faeries perched themselves on the pillow above Connal's head. Nahjar glared at them. "You are a genie?"

  Galwyn tipped his chin and shook his head.

  Nahjar took another stitch. "Can you not heal him?"

  Kiarae glanced up sullenly. "Nay. Her mother mayhap, but she is too far to come."

  Nahjar worked over him, pushing Connal on his side to repair the torn skin near his waist. The faeries buzze
d close, blocking his view.

  "You, go!" he barked, and they flew high. "Find a plant for healing. And one to purge."

  "He will live?"

  "Sajin PenDragon has endured worse." Laying him on his back, Nahjar pointed to the scar on his opposite side below his ribs. "Go," he growled. The faeries looked at him with wide eyes, then blinked out of existence. "The men are rousing," Nahjar said. "But 'tis taking a while. Each is spewing up his last meal."

  Monroe rubbed his face, exhausted, and angry they'd been fooled by Branor and taken so easily by a handful of men. "Damn him, Branor! He must have put something in the water. Anyone who drank it was asleep during the assault. At least they are not dead, thank God. Oh, a goodly portion of the horses were released, too."

  "A careful plan." A tinge of admiration colored Nahjar's voice.

  "Aye. One we should have expected."

  "You are not at fault, Monroe. Neither am I. We thought the threat came in Ireland, as it had in O'Brien's brother. Branor fooled us all well, including his friend." He gesture to Connal, then wrapped the wound. "We could not know the threat was in this household."

  "'Tis damn good he's dead," Monroe snapped, then sighed and said softly, "I will go find Mistress Murphy. She must be beside herself with worry."

  "Tell her to prepare food stores for a trip."

  "What?"

  "We will leave. When he wakes. He will not be contained."

  Monroe nodded, crushing back his own worry for Sinead. Married or nay, she was his charge to guard.

  "Go, brother," Nahjar said softly and tipped his head toward the man. "And learn who that black-haired bastard was."

  "Oh, I know," a voice said from the doorway.

  They looked and found Peg, her pretty face creased with worry and showing the signs of a good cry. "'Twas the sheriff."

  Monroe frowned. "The sheriff of what? Who would give that arrogant pisspot such a position of power?"

  "Prince John. That man, he's got the prince's confidence, and he's helpin' him rally the barons and paying them for their oath to John."

  "'Tis the only way they will gain a path to that weasel." Monroe's anger grew.