Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “No, please, leave me! Let me die. Let me die!”

  “Woman, are you mad? One moment you cry for help and then the next you crawl for the river? I nearly drowned to save you!”

  Niall shook her, hard, and she stopped struggling only to stare up into his face as if seeing him for the first time. He stared back into her eyes, great limpid pools in the glaring moonlight of what color he could not fathom—until suddenly she pulled away from him and curled up into a shivering ball in the mud and weeds.

  Great sobs began to shake her as she wept piteously, while Niall could only stare at her in confusion and shake his head.

  One thing he knew for certain. If he’d been falling down drunk only moments before, now he was stone-cold sober.

  2

  “Easy now, easy,” Niall said above her sobs in an attempt to soothe her. “You’ve had a terrible shock.”

  He reached out to touch the woman’s shoulder, but she jerked away from him and tucked herself more tightly into a ball. He had never heard such weeping…as if her heart was breaking.

  But why? That she had survived and not drowned? He could see in the moonlight that she was a young woman, perhaps no more than eighteen or nineteen years, and well-dressed from the quality of the cloak that had nearly sealed her doom.

  What had she been doing out alone on the dock? There were women aplenty at the tavern eager to satisfy the sexual needs of the rowdy Ostmen, whose appetite for drinking was second only to their lust for whoring. Yet this woman was no such creature, Niall sensed as clearly as he’d begun to shiver himself.

  He felt chilled to the bone, the muck squishing beneath them only making matters worse. They needed a warm fire and blankets, and fast. He didn’t need daylight to see that she quaked from head to toe from her wet clothing, her lips turning blue.

  “Come on, we can’t stay here.” He said no more but gathered her into his arms, and this time she didn’t flinch away from him. Didn’t fight him. Instead she went limp against him, which made him certain his instincts were correct.

  The river might not have claimed her, but if they didn’t find warmth soon the chill would end her life as surely as drowning. As he rose to his feet, swaying to find his footing in the mud, she stared up at him through half opened eyes.

  Tears glistened in the corners and streaked her face, her skin as white as death as she mouthed words that held no sound.

  She looked so innocent.

  So lost.

  So hopeless. Niall felt a sudden catch in his throat. He clutched her slender body more tightly against him as a powerful wave of protectiveness surged through him.

  Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, why had she begged him to let her die? She had been running along the dock—mayhap fleeing something or someone that clearly terrified her—until she had tripped over his leg and tumbled into the river. Niall swore then and there to himself that no one would hurt this hapless woman while he had anything to say about it.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I need to get you warm.”

  She said nothing, her head lolling against his shoulder, and Niall knew then she was barely conscious. He glanced up the shoreline at the ships along the dock, the sounds of carousing carrying to him from the distance. He wasn’t surprised that the fierce current had carried them so far from the more populated area of Ostmentown, which made it all the more a miracle that they had both survived.

  He looked across the river at the towering walls surrounding Dublin, the battlements lit by torches and guarded by Norman soldiers.

  Accursed bastards! For two months he had been only a river crossing away from the O’Byrne clan’s most hated enemies, and he’d learned from the Ostmen that they despised the Normans as well. Yet for some reason the Ostmen and the Normans obeyed an unspoken rule that they each stick to their own side of the River Liffey, which had given Niall the refuge he’d needed among these seafaring people who were as native to Éire as the Irish.

  No one had questioned his presence among them and he doubted they would now either, but for the woman he bore in his arms. No, he couldn’t return to the tavern. He needed a quieter place, a safer place…

  A glance to the east and Niall saw it then, a small stone church flanked by a stable and other outbuildings. Holding the woman close, he cleared the mud along the riverbank and set off with long strides through the tall grass toward the church. He felt warmed at once by his exertion but the woman still shivered uncontrollably, which alarmed him.

  God help him, was she willing herself to die? He quickened his pace, and when at last he came to the church he didn’t bother to knock but gave a thunderous kick to the front door. It didn’t take long for the dim light beneath the door to grow brighter, someone approaching with shuffling steps.

  “Open the door! This woman needs help!” Niall shouted, although he could already hear a heavy bolt being withdrawn inside. It didn’t surprise him that the church would be locked against intruders with all the foreign ships plying the River Liffey, but this humble place surely had little to plunder.

  Golden light from a guttering lantern spilled out into the night as the door was opened by a wizened old priest with great owlish eyes who studied Niall warily. “Help, you say?”

  “Aye, this woman nearly drowned. I saved her, but she needs a bed, a fire, warm blankets—dammit, will you watch her breathe her last at the church door?” Niall didn’t wait for an answer, but pushed past the priest into the small narthex. “I’m no thief and wish you no harm. If it’s coin you need, I can supply it. Where do you sleep, Priest?”

  As if he had suddenly grasped the gravity of the situation, the old man glanced with apology from Niall to the woman in his arms. “This way, forgive me. No coin is needed.” Quickly he shut the church door and drew the bolt, then indicated for Niall to follow him.

  Niall obliged as the priest held the lantern high and led them down the aisle toward the simple altar graced by golden candlesticks and an ornate gold cross with a blood-red ruby at the center.

  Not so humble after all, Niall thought with some surprise when the priest turned to the left and led the way through an arched doorway into an adjoining building constructed of matching stone. A low fire burned in the central hearth, a cot pulled close where clearly the priest must have been dozing when Niall had pounded upon the door.

  At once Niall rushed to the fire and laid the woman upon the cot, and quickly removed her sodden cloak. A sharp gasp behind him made Niall glance at the priest, who had turned away at the sight of the woman dressed only in what Niall realized now was a white sleeping gown.

  A soaked sleeping gown of fine linen that clung to her full breasts, her narrow waist and shapely hips, her rosy nipples pressed taut against the gossamer fabric and a dusky triangular shadow between her thighs…

  “Blankets, man, we need blankets!” Niall swallowed hard and focused on the task at hand, immediately stripping the woman of her wet sleeping gown and covering her at once with a thin scratchy blanket the priest had offered to him. “Surely you have more?”

  The old man nodded and disappeared through a narrow door off to one side, emerging a moment later with several blankets of fine soft wool. Again, he appeared apologetic.

  “My brother priest Gilbert’s chamber. He’s away for a wedding. Lord MacTorkil’s stronghold in Ostmentown—but I’m sure he won’t mind…the use of his blankets, I mean.”

  Niall didn’t say a word, his jaw tight as he replaced the thin blanket with the fine thick ones that he wrapped snugly around the woman. Only then did he rise to stoke the fire smoldering in the hearth until the flames crackled brightly and welcome heat emanated around them.

  Relief filled him to see that the woman’s cheeks held color now, her lips no longer blue but a soft pink hue. He accepted the chair the priest had brought him and sat down beside the cot, staring at her.

  At the richly embroidered cloak lying in a steaming clump upon the stone floor.

  At the discarded sleeping gown as fine as
those he and Ronan had taken during raids upon wealthy Norman lords and ladies to give to Triona, his sister Maire, and other women of their clan.

  At the muddy leather bag still dangling from the woman’s wrist, though Niall was not inclined to discover its contents.

  He had already sensed much about this unfortunate woman, though she had yet to open her eyes or utter another word.

  She lay so still, but she breathed steadily now. Her thick auburn hair that appeared waist-length was no longer sodden but drying in soft tendrils around her face.

  She was no beauty, aye, and some might even call her almost plain, but her skin was soft and smooth and the color of cream. Her hands lovely, her fingers long and slim and showing no hint of toil.

  Whoever she was, this young woman had never known a day’s work in her life but only one of wealth and privilege—

  “M-my lord?”

  Niall glanced at the old priest, who held out a wooden plate laden with bread, cheese, and a slice of salted meat. “I am no lord. Just a traveler.”

  “Aye, of course, but you must be hungry…and thirsty as well. I’ve freshly brewed ale—”

  “No ale,” Niall said, still amazed that after all the wine he’d consumed that night, he felt so clearheaded. Yet he supposed that nearly drowning could do that to a man. Then he thought better of the priest’s offer, not for himself, but for the woman. She probably could use a sip or two of something bracing. “Aye, bring the ale…and my thanks.”

  With a humble nod, the priest retreated while Niall set the plate of food upon a low stool. In truth he wasn’t hungry, so he would save the meal for the woman. As for the rest of him, his tunic and trousers were almost dry and his knife thankfully not lost to the river but still sheathed at his belt. His brown leather boots were soaked through and perhaps ruined, though. With a resigned shrug, Niall tugged off first one boot and then the other and set them next to the hearth to dry.

  There was nothing else to do but sit…and wait. Niall stared into the flames as he ran his hand through his damp hair and wondered what he was going to do next with this woman whose life he’d saved.

  A woman who had begged at first for help and then begged to die, as if by sinking into the river’s depths all hope had sunk as well within her.

  Yet he had known his own despair these past two months, drinking himself into a stupor each night to attempt to escape his anger, hurt, and a stabbing pain in his heart that never seemed to leave him—

  “Ale, my lord.”

  Niall sighed heavily as he glanced over his shoulder. He took the cup from the priest, not wooden or pewter but brightly polished silver. “Your brother priest’s cup?”

  “Aye. Father Gilbert is a well-born man and enjoys some finer things around him, though I bear it as no sin. He’s long been a priest to the MacTorkil clan. He left only this morning to officiate tomorrow at the wedding of Lord MacTorkil’s daughter to a man come all the way from Norway to have her—”

  “No…”

  The sound had been no more than a whisper. Niall turned around to find the woman staring at first him and then the priest as if they had both grown two heads and meant to devour her.

  Staring at them with eyes as beautiful and brilliant a blue as any Niall had seen…and widened with fright.

  “No!”

  Her outcry ringing in the room, she flung aside the blankets and vaulted suddenly from the cot. Niall nearly toppled from the chair, the ale cup clattering to the floor, when she shoved against him to add momentum to her flight.

  Her long tousled hair flying behind her, she fled naked toward the door while the priest stumbled out of the way and crossed himself.

  Doused with ale, Niall lunged after her. She was fast, but he was faster. He caught her in his arms just before she reached the door.

  “No! Let me go! Let me go!”

  He’d thought she had fought him before, but now she kicked and flailed and struggled in his arms as if possessed. Her shrieks were shrill, terrified.

  “Woman, I told you I wouldn’t hurt you!” Niall countered as he carried her back to the cot. “You’re safe here, I swear it. By God, I swear it!”

  As if his words had seared into her brain, she ceased her struggles and fought him no more as Niall laid her on the cot and covered her with the blankets. Either that or she had simply exhausted herself as she stared at him with those incredible blue eyes now filling with tears.

  Swallowing hard, Niall doubted he had ever seen a more wretched sight…and he felt more determined than ever to discover what lay at the heart of her distress.

  “Leave us, Priest!” he commanded over his shoulder, not taking his gaze from her face. Nor did she take her gaze from his face as if truly seeing him for the very first time.

  The door closed behind the priest, leaving Niall and the woman alone. He drew the chair close to the cot and sat down beside her, and kept his voice low.

  “I want to help you, woman, but first you must tell me your name. Who are you?”

  3

  Tell him her name? This stranger who had saved her from drowning and sworn that she was safe? That he would not hurt her?

  Uncertain of what to do, Nora could only stare at him silently as hot tears blurred her vision. Yet she still could see that his blue-gray eyes were kind and filled with concern.

  That his face was handsome in spite of a bushy, unkempt beard, his dark brown hair long at the neck and glinting with red in the firelight.

  That his chest and shoulders were so broad…and she’d already felt the powerful strength of his arms when he’d carried her from the river and just now back to the cot.

  How could she have come upon such a man? She recalled running in desperation along the dock, trying to choose a ship where she might find refuge. A ship that would hopefully sail at first light and take her far away from Sigurd Skullcrusher and a marriage that would spell her doom.

  Too late she had spied someone lying flat out on the dock and she had tripped over him, falling headlong into the river.

  Nora grimaced as she recalled the water’s icy chill, her heavy cloak dragging her down, down into the black depths…

  “Whoa, now, it cannot be as bad as all that,” came a low, teasing voice as Nora met again the stranger’s eyes to find him smiling at her reassuringly. “You’re warm here by the fire…and there’s food and ale if you wish it—”

  “Was that you on the dock? I-I tripped—”

  “Aye, it was me.” He had sobered suddenly, though his gaze was still kind. “Forgive me. It wasn’t my intent that you should take a moonlit swim. Nor myself for that matter, but what could I do? You cried out for help…well, at first you did. I couldn’t let you drown—”

  “I wish you had.” Overcome with despair, Nora closed her eyes against fresh, burning tears and turned her face away from him. “You cannot help me. No one can help me.”

  He didn’t answer, but fell silent except for a heavy sigh. Nora started when she suddenly felt his fingers at her chin as he gently turned her back to face him. He looked so serious, any humor she’d seen in his eyes moments ago all but fled.

  “I understand. I’m a stranger to you, asking your name when you’ve no idea whether you can trust me. You were running from something—someone. I swore after I carried you from the river that no one would hurt you, and I swear it to you now, as surely as my name is Niall O’Byrne.”

  She blinked at him, recognizing at once a rebel clan name that had become legendary in Éire.

  The O’Byrnes’ raids upon the invading Normans were the stuff of admiring tales told in her father’s great hall, the Ostmen longing for the day when they regained power enough to rise up as well against that hated enemy. Yet now by running away from a marriage arranged to achieve that very end, she had thwarted her own people—no, she would not think of it!

  “Tell me no more,” she said softly, knowing he had revealed much in just his name. “The priest might hear you—”

  “Let him hear. I
would have you trust me…so now you’ve my life in your hands. As Tanist to my brother, Ronan Black O’Byrne, chieftain of the Glenmalure O’Byrnes, I’ve a price on my head triple my weight in gold. Those bastard Normans across the river would love nothing more than to see me hang from the highest tower of Dublin Castle—”

  “No, please, you must not tell me anything more!” Without thinking, Nora reached up and pressed her fingers to his lips to silence him. His mouth was warm, his breath upon her fingertips strangely moving her. She had never touched any man before. He reached up and removed her fingers from his lips only to encompass them in a hand so much larger than her own.

  A strong hand. His palm rough and callused no doubt from wielding a sword against a hated enemy to Irish and Ostmen alike. His gaze hadn’t left hers and now he leaned closer, intently staring into her eyes.

  “Woman, I would know your name.”

  “Nora,” she breathed, feeling suddenly unable to help herself. “Nora MacTorkil.”

  “Nora MacTorkil?” came the priest’s astonished cry from across the room. He stood as if rooted to the floor, a fresh cup of ale in his hand. “Daughter to Lord Magnus MacTorkil? Why…why you’re to wed tomorrow—ah, lord, please don’t kill me!”

  It had happened so fast that Nora could only gape as Niall had lunged from his chair to rush over and press his knife to the old priest’s throat.

  “I told you to leave us, Priest.”

  “I-I did, but you had spilled your ale, lord! I thought you might want more…if not for yourself, then for the esteemed lady—oh, God help me.”

  Esteemed lady. A terrible ache in the pit of her stomach, Nora thought for an instant she might be sick. The priest had recognized her name and knew who she was. All was lost. All was lost!