"Sweet God, Connal, I'm so sorry."
"Where is the bird?"
Lady Marian frowned.
"Where is it?"
Marian pointed behind the boulder, and Connal shouted for them to stay back as he moved around it. He cried openly, sinking to his knees before the pure white dove. "Sinead?"
The air shimmered around the dove, silver white and blinding. At once the creature's feathers lengthened, blending to slender limbs as the beak receded to form nose and lips, the blue eyes rounding, and the feathered plumes twisting into long red curls. Connal gasped for breath as she tipped her face up.
And smiled.
He gathered her into his arms, clutching her tightly, sighing her name. "Oh God, oh God, Sinead."
She kissed his throat, his chin, then assaulted his mouth, her body bare and lush and warm in his arms. On their knees atop the castle, Sinead sobbed against his mouth, plowing her fingers through his hair.
"I cannot believe you are alive; when you fell I thought—God above."
"I know, I know," she soothed.
"I thought you needed your hands for your strongest magic."
"Apparently, not always," she said between kisses. "Not always."
"Thank God." Later, Sinead thought, as he kissed her again. Later she would tell him of being drugged and powerless, and how the silence of the trappings had freed her mind and revived her control. Aye, she thought, later.
Someone cleared her throat.
Connal dragged his mouth from hers and twisted. Lady Marian held out her cloak and Connal nodded, taking it and wrapping her.
"'Tis over," Robert said. "And I do believe Richard has arrived."
Sinead stood and rushed to the edge to see, and Connal yanked her back, eyeing her a warning. He looked down, the battle below subdued as King Richard rode into the bailey.
"Now John is in for it."
"Prince John is gone," Sinead said.
"Really?" Robert said.
"Aye. He said if Richard could control me, he could have me."
Connal choked on a laugh.
"Somehow Lady Sinead, I do not think even Connal can do that." Robert looked at Marian. "Come let us greet your cousin."
As Robert led her below, Lady Marian kept glancing back at the pair, still stunned by what she'd witnessed, and touched by the love shining like a sunbeam around the Irish couple. And she decided that, for now, she believed in magic. Very much.
Sinead looked up at her husband and smiled, and Connal threw his head back and laughed to the sky, picking her up, then burying his face in the curve of her throat. He chanted his love for her, how she made him whole and strong and he never wanted to be parted from her. Aye, 'twas a life of surprise when Sinead had rein of her world. He set her on her feet, kissing her, then pressing his forehead to hers.
"I love you, Connal."
He grinned, touching her hair, her face. "Richard will be pleased to meet you."
"Well, then," Sinead said, "I suggest you hotfoot it belowstairs."
Connal's brows furrowed.
"My only gown is on the ground, Connal, unless of course you'd like your king to meet me like this." She opened the cloak, showing him her naked beauty, and Connal grabbed her up, laughing as he pulled her hard against him.
He looked down at her, his expression fierce as he pushed his fingers in her hair, and growled, "I love you, woman, I love you," giving a little shake for emphasis.
She touched his hand. "Ah, Connal, 'tis my strength in that, the center of my soul is you. I love you."
He kissed her, and kissed her, as if trying to bring her into himself, for he'd been warned this day not to waste a moment of life.
"Well, that's a fine thing," Murphy said from somewhere behind, and the pair turned. She held a fresh gown, garnered God knew where. "The king arrives and our lady is bare as a bride. Shame on you, my lord." Murphy tisked, butting between them, and both noticed the tears in her eyes. She helped Sinead into the gown and Connal folded his arms, watching her fuss, his gaze never leaving his wife's. "I tell you, I'm a wee bit tired of England."
"Then we go home," Connal said, and Murphy sobbed as she laced Sinead in.
"Good, then you'll both be givin' me babies to care for soon, aye."
Sinead arched a brow, silent and grinning.
He held out his hand and Sinead came to him, slipping into his arms and tipping her face back. "Aye, let us go home and do that."
Connal kissed his wife, ignoring Murphy's clucking. The shout of Nahjar's accented voice came up from the stairwell. And the bellow of the king.
Naught mattered but the woman in his arms, the happiness spilling in the heated kiss.
The air spun wildly, pushing at their hair, their clothes, and bringing the wet mist of their homeland. Below on the ground, blazes set in anger rose high and straight, startling people and sending tendrils of flame and smoke to tease the heavens. Flowering vines burst from barren stone, rivering across the parapet to climb and envelop them in fragrant flowers, sealing them together.
The moon, new in the sky, shone down on them, silver soft and liquid with rapture.
Sinead and Connal sighed together, the power of their love lighting the stars in the sky.
Earth, wind, fire, and water spoke for them, showing the world what they knew. And against her mouth, Connal smiled.
A life born in betrayal, a heart wounded in bitterness, now healed, not for the power of magic but the love of a hot-tempered woman willing to share her tender soul with him. And he knew, in the center of his world, lay the spirit, the first element, cast centuries afore, a destiny now fulfilled.
* * *
Epilogue
« ^
Croí an Banríon Castle, Ireland
Connal watched the chaos of people celebrating the return of the O'Malleys. Dillon was in the center of it, his expression filled with happiness as he danced with his sister, Moira. And Connal did not know what pleased him more, his holdings returned or that devilish grin of Moira's that was attracting every man in the hall.
"You are looking rather pleased with yourself."
"I had little to do with it, love. 'Twas you who convinced Richard that Ireland would prosper if he left more of it in the hands of those who'd worked the land and ruled for centuries."
"He's not such a bad sort."
His lips twitched. She had fascinated King Richard and yet she was only mildly impressed, insisting that her husband held more power in a single look. 'Twas just as well, for he wanted to be the only man with power over Sinead. "I'm glad you think so."
"You wish to be with him?"
Connal laughed to himself as he looked down at her. "Nay, my love, I do not." His gaze skipped over her with heat and love.
Sinead felt her insides pulled tight. "You've a while afore you can truly do aught with that sort of look, PenDragon."
His gaze lowered to her round belly; then his hand swept over it, feeling their child push at him. "She stirs."
"You're certain 'tis a girl, then."
"Aye." He smiled widely. "With red hair and green eyes."
Sinead felt a sharp punch to her middle and folded, reaching for him. He helped her to a chair, waving away Murphy, who was never more than a few feet from her. Nahjar, she noticed, paled a bit.
"There is something I must tell you, love. And I do not know why I have not."
Connal knelt and frowned. "What? Are you ill? 'Tis your time?"
"Aye, 'tis my time." He started to panic. "Nay, wait; she will for a while."
"Ah, so you are certain, too, 'tis a girl."
"Well," Sinead hedged, "'tis the girl herself that I must tell you about."
Connal touched the side of her face, worry written in every line.
"Speak of it, love; we have no secrets."
"Well, 'tis no secret but—"
"Sinead," he warned.
"If this child be a girl, Connal, she will be like me."
He grinned. "Aye, I knew that.
"
"Nay, she will be more powerful than I am."
His eyes flew wide and the color drained from his face. "What!"
She winced. "And every girl child born of this child will grow stronger."
"Oh, God." Connal sank to the floor at her feet. She stroked his hair and he lifted his gaze to her. "Only the girls?"
She shrugged. "I'm not sure. My uncle Quinn is rather talented."
"Sinead!"
"Aye, more than the males," she blurted.
"We are in for it now."
"Nay. Listen. Do you remember when we loved?"
His smile was warm and seductive. And Sinead loved him more for the memory playing in his eyes. "Of course."
"Had I not loved you, I would have died, and so the line would have been broken, the line of women. Should a witch of the druid blood marry for aught but love, so will the line break."
"And then what?"
"And then 'twill take centuries to rebuild the power." The thought made Connal sad.
"But 'tis nay our worry, love, not now."
Sinead winced, the pain throbbing through her abdomen. "You must be with me when she comes."
Now he paled.
"You must be the first to hold her, Connal. To give your blessing and love. My mother did not have Doyle's love, or Cathal's blessing, and her life was ruined for years." Sinead gripped his hand and whispered, "And we best be doing it now."
* * *
Several hours later, at the stroke of midnight, Connal saw his child born. He hurt for Sinead, for the pain he knew she was suffering, but witnessing the miracle left him naught short of breathless. Murphy handed him the squalling baby wrapped in a simple cloth, and Connal listened to his daughter take her first breath, test her voice. And 'twas loud.
Her face scrunched up and turned red.
"She's got your temper," he said, looking at Sinead, tears in his eyes. Her hair was damp and twisted atop her head. Murphy busied herself with cleaning her up, yet Connal came to her, sitting beside her and kissing her gently. Sinead touched the child.
"She hasn't a name yet."
"'Twill come to you," she said.
"Me?"
"Aye."
"Nay, you name her."
Sinead sighed and closed her eyes, refusing to give on this. Connal shook his head, knowing when to give up the fight, and rose. He walked to the window, pushing it open, the warmth of summer drifting on scented wings into the chamber. The night sky was alight with faeries dancing on the gleanns. Fires glowed from below, a celebration of her birth, he knew. He pointed to the stars above, whispering to his daughter.
The baby snuggled into his chest, and Connal knew unconditional love and felt it bloom through him. "We'll call you Etain," he whispered. "Shining one." Pleased at his choice, he walked back to Sinead, climbing into the bed and handing her their child. She sighed against him, whispering his name, her love. Connal wrapped his arms around his family, thinking that the Crusades and kings were a thousand lifetimes ago. He'd returned home with a fortune in his purse and a desperate need for a piece of Ireland of his own and found more than he'd dreamed. In his arms was the proof, a magical feeling to sing through the centuries and touch their descendants. And they will know, he thought, to cherish it, for its fortune lay not in the power of magic one can see and touch, but in the love that flourishes beyond it when two hearts meet and beat as one.
He looked down at his daughter. And please Goddess, don't let her turn any man into a goat.
* * * * *
Author's Note
Thank you for reading The Irish Knight, and I hope you've enjoyed the last of the Irish trilogy. Though the story is wholly a product of my imagination, there is some truth to it. In The History of Medieval Ireland, a book I've referenced for the most accurate accountings of Ireland's history for the three stories, claims that Prince John, the "count" of Ireland, appointed his own people of authority, over his father's (Henry) choices. While Ireland suffered, John was, at the time of this tale, in England plotting to dethrone his brother with barons and Nottingham while leaving his brother Richard to rot in Leopold's prison. In March he was put down, by Richard himself, as some history records, but legend speculates it was Robin Hood. Hood, I've learned, could have been a number of different men, the most frequent and common reference was Robert, the earl of Huntington, Lord Locksley.
In the choice of a name for the sheriff of Nottingham, my research brought no concrete name associated with Hood, King Richard, and Sherwood Forest. In taking literary license, I chose Eustance of Lowdham, the thirteenth-century sheriff. Besides, he was an ugly man and deserved an unattractive name.
Erin Gòh Braugh!
THE IRISH KNIGHT Page 28
