Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

Wild Moonlight

  Miriam Minger

  Prologue

  Ostmentown, Ireland, 1212, North of Dublin along the River Liffey

  “Plague us no more with your tears, Nora MacTorkil! You shame us all if you continue to carry on so! Your father has decreed that you shall wed, and so you shall. If your sister had lived, God rest her, she would have wed on the morrow, but she did not and so the duty to our family rests with you!”

  Our family? Nora rested her forehead upon the shuttered window and closed her eyes against the hot tears blinding her.

  In vain she tried to close her mind against her stepmother Agnes’s shrill words that still rang in her ears.

  The woman wasn’t her true family at all, but a second wife who had married Nora’s father Magnus last summer only days after her beloved mother had fallen ill and died.

  A sharp-tongued shrew of a woman who had swayed Magnus with an ambitious plan to marry off Nora’s twin sister until poor Kristina had taken to her sickbed as well.

  A sickbed that soon became a deathbed, Kristina laid to rest beside their mother while the cruel weight of Agnes’s plans fell upon Nora. Swept by nausea at the thought of the man she would wed, Nora bit her lip hard to keep from retching.

  “Such a fortunate bride you will be!” enthused Agnes, who paced with agitation behind her. “My cousin Sigurd Knutson is cousin as well to Earl Hakon of Norway and one of his most famed warriors—and Earl Hakon will be king one day. Think of it! The MacTorkils of Ostmentown will be joined by marriage to the royal house of Norway. With such an alliance it will not be long before the Ostmen of Éire gain strength enough again to challenge these accursed Normans!”

  Sigurd Knutson. Now Nora could not prevent the bitter bile from filling her mouth.

  Not a man, but a monster, her husband-to-be. She was just turned eighteen while he was fourteen years her senior, and already with four wives rotting in their graves.

  None had borne him a legitimate heir and so Nora was to be his fifth bride, his animal lusts rumored to be as voracious as his thirst for an enemy’s blood upon his sword. He stood nearly seven feet tall and had earned the name Skullcrusher in battle for his love of shattering men’s skulls with his bare hands—

  “To bed with you now, Nora, and no more tears! Do you hear me? It’s bad enough your sister was the beauty while you’re only passing fair. Your face is red and swollen as it is without more of this useless weeping!”

  A sharp clap of Agnes’s hands brought two maidservants running, and Nora found herself propelled by them toward the bed. Agnes, thin as a pole, her lovely features marred by a perpetual frown, followed close behind.

  Nora did not fight the busy hands removing her lustrous blue silk gown for an equally fine sleeping gown, only the most exquisite fabrics adorning the daughter of the richest merchant in Dublin. As much Irish blood as Viking blood ran through the MacTorkil line after centuries of intermingling, but her father believed himself Norse first and so he had agreed all too readily with Agnes’s plan.

  The Norse in Éire who had long since called themselves Ostmen hated the Normans, and Magnus was no different even though he traded with them. It was his distant cousin after all, Asculf MacTorkil, the King of Dublin, who had been cast out by the ruthless invaders forty years past, the Ostmen forced to settle outside the city walls north of the River Liffey. Why not give consent to a marriage that might bring them closer to vengeance?

  A marriage Nora was certain would lead her to an early grave like all of Sigurd Skullcrusher’s other wives—God help her!

  “Enough!” Agnes snapped at the maidservants as they helped Nora, trembling now, into bed. “At first light the women will return to help you bathe and wash your hair, unruly mess as it is. Pity it’s not silken blond as was your sister’s. How is it that two could share a womb and look so different? One so beautiful and the other almost plain—aye, thank God you’ve your father’s wealth to secure you a fine husband! You’d not win one without it.”

  Fine husband? Nora clutched the covers under her chin as Agnes turned on her heel and went to the door, the two maidservants extinguishing all but one candle and scurrying out of the room ahead of her.

  An instant later Nora was alone, her eyes welling again even though Agnes had thrown a last disapproving glance over her shoulder before closing the door.

  Yet there was nothing Nora could do. She could no more stop the tears streaming down her face than she could quell the panic rising in her breast.

  Tomorrow night she would be a bride.

  Sharing a bed with her brute of a husband as he…as he…

  No, she couldn’t think of it!

  Nor would she think of how Sigurd Skullcrusher had leered at her in the feasting-hall tonight, his head shaved and emblazoned with tattoos, his broad face scarred by the pox, his callused hands massive around his ale cup and his fingers thick, his battle-honed body so broad at the chest and shoulders that he looked a giant even seated at the table.

  A giant that tomorrow night would pin her down and spread her legs while he covered her mouth with a massive palm to still her screams—

  “No! Jesu, help me, no!” Despair overwhelming her, Nora threw back the covers and sprang from the bed. She spun for a moment in her bare feet, looking with desperation at the door to her bedchamber and then to the nearest shuttered window.

  She could not stay here awaiting her fate like a lamb to the slaughter. She must run! Flee!

  Her heart pounding fiercely, she took only an instant to don a pair of leather slippers and then she darted to the window. There she unlatched the shutters and threw them open to a balmy summer breeze wafting into the room. At once the single lit candle near the door was snuffed out, leaving Nora in darkness but for the ghostly light spilling across the floor from the ripe full moon.

  With a start she realized she looked like a ghost, too, in her stark white sleeping gown that would alert anyone to her flight.

  Growing frantic that Agnes or one of the maidservants might return to check on her, Nora ran to an ornate clothing chest and flung open the lid. Wildly she dug through silken gowns to find a dark cloak with a hood, which she pulled out and whirled around herself. She dug again to find a soft leather pouch that held jeweled brooches and arm-rings given to her by her parents. Her fingers trembled as she secured the pouch’s golden cord around her wrist, and then she fled back to the window.

  As she hoisted herself onto the narrow ledge, she could hear carousing and raucous laughter coming from the distant feasting-hall, and that only increased her panic. She was so desperate to flee that she threw herself out of the window to land hard on her side upon the ground, knocking the breath from her body. Yet she didn’t hesitate, gasping as she drew the hood over her thick auburn hair and rose shakily to her feet.

  Rows of longhouses made up her father’s stronghold rimming the River Liffey, her next obstacle the guarded palisade. Fresh despair seized her as she kept her head down and ran quickly from the shadow of one building to the next toward the main gate.

  How would she ever make her way out? Her only comfort lay in that most everyone was still celebrating in the feasting-hall, her furtive flight garnishing little notice. She could have cried aloud with relief when she spied a wagon drawn by two lumbering draft horses making its way toward the main gate. She ran hard to catch up, her lungs burning. With a desperate lunge she pulled herself aboard and squeezed between empty ale barrels to hide herself in the nick of time.

  “Not a drop left for us, man?” a guard called out to the driver as the tall heavy gates creaked open.

  “I’m bound to the storehouse for more barrels!” the driver said with an incredulous laugh. “These Norsemen are sure to drink Lord MacTorkil dry this night!”

  “No surprise with eight shiploads of them come from Norway for the wedding. And from the size of the groom, I’d wager he drinks enough for five men.”

  “Aye, he finished off a barrel all on his own! Split it open with his axe and dran
k it down in one swallow!”

  Sickened by their approving laughter, Nora ducked her head and prayed with all her might that she not be discovered.

  Prayed that clouds would hide the bright full moon that shone so mercilessly down upon her. Only when she heard the heavy gates thudding shut behind the wagon did she dare to take a deep breath.

  The driver was headed to one of her father’s storehouses alongside the river.

  The river where ships bound for distant places lined the docks.

  All she had to do was board one of those ships and hide herself just as she’d done in the wagon.

  Hide herself and hope the ship, once it set sail, would take her far away from Sigurd Skullcrusher and the cruel fate he had in store for her.

  1

  Glenmalure

  Wicklow Mountains, Leinster

  “No, Ronan, Niall is not dead. He can’t be dead! How can you say such a terrible thing about your brother?”

  Horrified by the words that her husband had just uttered, Triona stared up at him in dismay as they lay together in bed. She’d seen Ronan Black O’Byrne, the feared rebel chieftain of the Glenmalure O’Byrnes, angry many times before but never with such a dark countenance upon him.

  No, not even when his beloved sister Maire had ridden away three days past with Lord Duncan FitzWilliam to become his bride.

  The Baron of Longford in Meath, no less, one of the most powerful Norman lords in Éire.

  Truly, Triona had feared Ronan might kill the man when the two had clashed with swords outside the O’Byrne stronghold, Lord Duncan come by himself to Glenmalure to claim Maire for his own. Triona had run in anguish toward Ronan to try to stop their fighting, but it had taken gentle sweet Maire to stand up to her eldest brother and proclaim her love for Duncan and that she wished to be his wife.

  Oh, aye, Ronan’s face had been thunderous that day, too, when he had said Maire would be dead to them if she left with Duncan, and then he’d turned his back to her. Yet thank God he had somehow found forgiveness in his heart to turn around to watch Maire and Duncan ride from Glenmalure…and granted them the only blessing he could.

  Triona had stood within Ronan’s embrace that day, their little daughter Deirdre cradled in her arms as she, too, watched Maire leave her home and family behind for the man she loved. Just as Triona lay nestled in Ronan’s arms right now, his magnificent body so wondrously warm and yet with tension emanating from every muscle.

  He loved his brother Niall, she had no doubt of it, and had feared for him since he’d disappeared two months ago. Yet for Ronan to say now that Niall might be dead—

  “Aye, Triona, it’s true, he cannot be dead. If he was I would feel it. Know it.”

  Triona nodded and snuggled closer to Ronan, relieved to hear that he had relented from his harsh stance as she rested her hand upon his chest. His heartbeat thrilled her, so steady and strong, like the man she loved more than life itself.

  “We would both know it, husband. One day Niall will return home, aye, a changed man, to be sure. How could he not be after waiting for two years to marry Caitlin MacMurrough only to have her choose another man over him? He truly loved her and believed she loved him, too. Begorra, it was an awful thing to have to share such news with him. To see the light die in his eyes—”

  “It’s for the best, harsh as it sounds. We’ve a fragile peace between the O’Byrnes and the MacMurroughs. If Caitlin’s heart wasn’t fully in the match, then she spared Niall from an unhappy marriage and us, from an unhappy Donal MacMurrough. Your uncle holds a great fondness for you, but we need no such strife that might turn our clans once more into enemies.”

  Triona fell silent, praying that such a day might never come. It was a wondrous thing to know some measure of peace, Ronan even suspending his raids against the Normans so as not to cause trouble for Maire as she settled into her new wedded life with Duncan FitzWilliam. There had been some grumbling when Ronan had made that surprising announcement to his clansmen, but the stronghold’s storehouses were full of provisions and cattle grazed in the pastures while game aplenty roamed the hills.

  Triona knew that in time the raids would begin anew, so she cherished every moment of Ronan being home with her and Deirdre instead of riding hard through the woods to attack a Norman settlement. Especially sweet moments like these when one bout of lovemaking this night would soon lead to another, her cheeks flushing hot with anticipation.

  Although married for two years with one wee daughter and another babe due in seven months’ time, she and Ronan shared a blazing hunger for each other that never failed to take her breath away. Their love burned so brightly between them…a deep unbreakable bond that she hoped Niall would find one day—

  “Enough of my brother, woman.” As if he’d read her mind, Ronan’s husky whisper thrilled Triona to her toes as he gathered her closer against him. “In time Niall will find another beautiful blonde to capture his heart…though I swear when he returns, he’ll have much to answer for to have worried us so—”

  “Kiss me, Ronan.” Triona didn’t wait for him, but pressed her lips to his as she felt his tension rising again over Niall. She sighed against the warmth of Ronan’s mouth and teased him with the tip of her tongue, and whooped with delight as he rolled over onto his back suddenly and pulled her with him.

  Now she lay atop the length of him, a rock hard bulge pressing at the heart of her thighs, a lusty look on his handsome face as she raked her fingers through his midnight hair. With a low intake of breath he shifted his hips and then she felt him thrust slowly into her, filling her, his strong hands cupping her bottom to draw her closer.

  Everything fell away but the cool night breeze wafting through the window and the bright moonlight spilling across the floor…as he stared into her eyes and rocked her into sweet, heavenly oblivion.

  Ostmentown, Ireland

  “Oh, God.” With a groan, Niall O’Byrne rolled onto his back upon the dock and stared at the brilliant full moon shining down upon him.

  Mocking him. Laughing at him. The cold heartless orb daring him to raise the wineskin to his mouth for another swallow…although Niall was so drunk that he doubted he could lift his arm.

  He’d been drunk for two months and this night was no different.

  The same dock. The same raucous laughter from the riverside tavern that he’d stumbled out of only moments before. Or was it an hour past now? Who could say? All he knew was that these wild-haired Ostmen could drink more than any men he’d ever known, although he’d done his very best to keep up with them.

  Sleep like the dead all day, choke down enough food to stay alive, and then drink long into the night until he passed out again upon the dock where he lay now, tormented by visions of Caitlin MacMurrough.

  Damn her, why would she not leave him in peace? With ships from countless ports lined up along the dock and the dark water of the River Liffey coursing beneath him, Niall squinted against the moonlight.

  Why did the silvery beams have to remind him so torturously of her long blond hair that had once slipped like silk between his fingers? Why could he not forget the incredible emerald green of her eyes? The softness of her skin? The beauty of her smile? Her sweet laughter? Her kiss…ah, God, her kiss! Damn it all, he clearly wasn’t drunk enough yet!

  Now Niall lifted the wineskin above him to squeeze the tart liquid into his mouth, though he missed and sprayed his bearded face and the front of his tunic. Cursing under his breath, he used his thumb to wipe droplets of wine from his ear and then attempted to sit up—only to collapse back onto the dock.

  Aye, perhaps that merciful oblivion where he felt nothing, remembered nothing, was closing in upon him after all. He shut his eyes against the relentless moonlight and the taunting visions of Caitlin, his beloved Caitlin—no, the treacherous and fickle Caitlin!

  “Damn all women,” Niall muttered, rolling with effort onto his side. “Damn them to hell—what the devil?”

  He had felt the sharp kick to his shin even
as he heard a piercing shriek. Grimacing in pain, he glanced up to see a wild flash of white fly past him.

  Fly past him with arms flailing as the screeching apparition toppled headfirst from the dock and into the River Liffey, splashing Niall with cold water.

  This time he did sit up, but he heard nothing. Only silence. Had he imagined that someone had just fallen into the river?

  Then Niall saw it, a slim white arm in the moonlight breaking through the surface as if grabbing for something, anything to hold onto even as a desperate cry burst from the woman’s throat.

  “Help me! Please!”

  She disappeared as suddenly, her head and then her arm slipping beneath the lapping water even as Niall hauled himself to his feet. He didn’t think, he didn’t blink, but dove into the river at the spot where he’d just seen the woman sink below the surface.

  Wildly he spun underwater, but he felt nothing, could see nothing. Had she already been carried downstream? His lungs bursting, he dove deeper instead and then caught a handful of hair. He tugged upward and grabbed the woman beneath the arms, her body limp against him.

  The river seemed a live thing sweeping them along in the current, threatening to drag both of them down into the cold black depths. With all the strength he possessed, Niall kicked upward powerfully and broke through the surface, gasping for breath even as the woman seemed not to breathe at all.

  He could but swim with her to the shore, the moonlight a bright beacon as his feet found bottom and he swept the woman up into his arms. Within an instant he had hauled her out onto the muddy bank where he laid her down and rolled her onto her side.

  Relief filled him to see that she was breathing, barely. He pounded her back once, twice, and then she coughed and sputtered, her thick wet hair covering her face.

  No wonder she had sunk like a rock, what with the heavy cloak she had wound around her, a white garment underneath clinging to her like a second skin. He saw then a thin glistening of gold at her wrist, a leather pouch lying in the mud. He leaned over her to wipe sodden hair from her face, but she pushed away from him and struggled back toward the water.