Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

“Aye, I did. And you?”

  He sobered suddenly, and shrugged his shoulders, though she could see the teasing in his eyes. “Well, other than a wee bit of snoring from my new bride—”

  “Snoring?” Nora’s hand flew to her mouth, uncertain of whether he’d spoken the truth or not. She must have looked horrified, because Niall at once gathered her closer to him as he chuckled.

  “No, wife, you barely made a peep…and there’s no wonder why. You and I made a fine pair in our impatience to seal our wedding vows.”

  His voice filled with a now familiar huskiness that made her shiver, Nora felt her breath still as he bent his head to kiss her forehead.

  The tip of her nose.

  And then her lips, his mouth so warm…so wonderfully warm. Yet he had no more kissed her when he drew back again to look into her eyes. He’d sobered again, but this time his gaze held no humor.

  “I’d like nothing more than to stay abed with you, but we must go. It’s well past dawn and we’ve another few hours’ journey ahead of us before we’re home.”

  Home.

  Niall’s home in Glenmalure, and soon to be hers as well. Aye, she knew they must leave this place, but as Niall threw aside the blanket and rose from the bed she felt a tinge of sadness.

  Their wedding night was done. Already he strode toward the door, his naked body so magnificent that she could not tear her gaze away from him…the broadness of his back, his taut buttocks and long, muscular legs. Yet he suddenly turned around and came back to the bed, affording her a clear view of that impressive part of him that last night had thrust so powerfully into the very heart of her.

  Her face burning, she felt that she couldn’t breathe. Had he changed his mind and they would linger here for a while longer? She shifted upon the mattress to make more room for him to join her, but instead he stopped at the side of the bed and held out his hand to her.

  “Up with you, wife. We’ve a fine big bed awaiting us in Glenmalure where we’ll have nights aplenty to share together. Will you rise and dress swiftly now so we can be on our way?”

  She bobbed her head and took his hand, astounded again at the miracle her life had become as Niall pulled her up from the bed.

  “What do you mean my bride is gone?” His outraged roar echoing from the rafters of the great hall, Sigurd Knutson swept the faces in front of him from a pale Magnus MacTorkil and his wide-eyed wife Agnes, to a cluster of servants nervously wringing their hands.

  No answer came but a collective shaking of heads and worried glances, which only made Sigurd more incensed.

  He wanted to kill something! To plunge his axe into something! If there was no bride, there would be no wedding this day and by Odin, he hadn’t sailed all the way from Norway to Éire for his own amusement! Spying a young dog lying underneath a nearby table, Sigurd strode over furiously and gave the animal a swift kick, its pained yelps making everyone around him jump.

  “Have you searched the stronghold?” he bellowed, wheeling to face them again.

  “Aye, Lord Knutson, and we’re still searching,” Magnus replied tightly, the stout, gray-bearded merchant clearly not appreciating such a display of foul temper.

  Yet what did Sigurd care? These Ostmen needed him far more than he needed them, though the gold he’d been promised if he wed Nora MacTorkil had admittedly made him sail all the faster to Éire. He ground his teeth. If no bride, then no gold—by all the gods in Valhalla! His fury was so great he was certain his blood had begun to boil.

  “Agnes, you saw her last, did you not?” Turning his wrath upon his beanpole of a cousin, Sigurd strode forward to tower above her, the woman’s pinched face gone white.

  “Aye, Sigurd, my maidservants and I put her to bed—and I left them to sit outside her door—”

  “They saw nothing? Heard nothing?”

  “Not a peep! She must have slipped out the window during the night…but as my husband said, we’re looking for her everywhere. There is no way she could have left the stronghold so she must be hiding—”

  “Hiding from me? Sigurd Skullcrusher? A lord of the house of Earl Hakon, my own cousin, who one day will be king of all Norway? She’s fortunate that I would even look in her direction, the plain-faced chit! Did you teach her no obedience?”

  Sigurd was so incensed now that he’d spewed spittle in all directions, Agnes wiping a thin sticky strand from her cheek.

  “She’s never done anything like this before, Sigurd! It must have been nervousness over the wedding, I’m certain of it! All is prepared, the marriage feast and Father Gilbert here to perform the ceremony. We will find her, I promise you. We promise you, aye, Magnus?”

  “Aye,” came the Ostman’s terse answer, while Sigurd began furiously to pace in front of them.

  “You say you’re searching everywhere, MacTorkil, but is there any chance she might have fled from the stronghold?” he demanded.

  “No chance at all, the guards at the main gate saw nothing. No one left or entered last night but a driver and his wagon to fetch more ale—”

  “Damn the bastards, I’ll skewer their corpses to the gate myself!” Sigurd was already striding to the doors of the great hall, the dozen strapping Norsemen who’d accompanied him falling in behind him. “My bride is cleverer than you gave her credit for, MacTorkil! When I find her, a good beating will come before the wedding, and that I promise! She’ll learn not to defy her elders or her husband ever again!”

  7

  Nora wrapped her arms more tightly around Niall and breathed in the sweet summer air scented with wildflowers.

  She’d never seen a place like Glenmalure. The steep-sided valley flanked by rugged mountains lay awash in light and shadow as the midday sun peeked behind puffy white clouds and then disappeared again. Niall had told her that his brother Ronan’s stronghold lay at the other end so they still had a bit of a ride ahead of them, but that would give her some time to calm her emotions.

  Aye, she was nervous to meet his family and excited, too, she couldn’t deny it.

  Her new family. The infamous O’Byrnes that were known throughout Éire as a fierce rebel clan whose lands no men trespassed upon if they valued their lives.

  She’d heard many a tale in her father’s great hall of Ronan O’Byrne and his men’s countless raids against the Normans, the Ostmen envious of their brash daring and dreaming of such exploits themselves. Niall’s elder brother had been described as the very devil himself, with midnight black hair and slate gray eyes that darkened when angered, and black clothing when raiding that had earned him the ominous name Black O’Byrne.

  Would Ronan be pleased to see Niall again? Niall had told her only that he’d been away for two months and that he and his brother hadn’t parted well, his face grown so serious that she hadn’t pressed him to tell her why. Yet when Niall had mentioned Ronan’s wife Triona, once an O’Toole, another famed rebel clan, his expression had gone from dark to light in an instant and he’d burst out laughing.

  Nora had realized then how fond Niall was of his fiery-haired sister-in-law. During the ride when he’d shared with her the tale of Ronan and Triona’s tempestuous courtship, Nora felt truly eager to meet this unconventional young woman who had won the heart of Ronan Black O’Byrne.

  Yet it was when Niall had mentioned his younger sister Maire that Nora had sensed not only his love for her, but deep unspoken concern. Once again Niall had said little else and Nora had grown quiet with him, just hugging him close and knowing that soon she would learn much about her new home and family. So they had ridden for the past half hour in companionable silence, but now she felt Niall growing tense as he kicked their mount into a canter.

  “Are you ready to start an uproar?” he shouted above the gelding’s pounding hooves as they rode down a rocky slope, Nora’s hair flying behind her.

  She squeezed him tight and nodded against his broad shoulder.

  In truth she had no idea what Niall meant, but she knew as certain as she was eternally grateful for the new life
he’d given her that she’d find out very soon.

  Ronan sat at the far end of the feasting-hall, staring into the fire burning in the immense hearth. Thankfully the place was empty but for servants clearing away the remnants of the midday meal, his clansmen, their wives, and their children gone about their daily affairs.

  So, too, had Triona left him to put their little Deirdre to bed for her afternoon nap, well, if she could get their willful fourteen-month-old daughter to agree to lie down. Born as stubborn as her mother, Deirdre preferred to play with her toys or totter after her snow-white kitten until she crumpled with exhaustion, and only then would Triona be able to scoop her up and deposit her in her bed.

  Aye, it was a daily tug-of-war between his beautiful wife and daughter, which made Ronan smile to himself though he quickly sobered. Deirdre possessed her mother’s headstrong temperament and unruly curls, midnight black instead of coppery red, but her soft gray eyes reminded him so much of his sister Maire.

  By God, why did the pain of her leaving Glenmalure with Lord Duncan FitzWilliam still cut him so deeply? No doubt they were married now, his sweet lovely sister wed to one of the most powerful Norman barons in the land.

  Irish and Norman! It seemed the world Ronan knew was changing around him every day. Though reared from infancy as an O’Toole, Triona bore Norman blood in her veins and MacMurrough, too, that clan loyal to England’s King John a hated enemy of the O’Byrnes not so long ago.

  His daughter Deirdre bore Norman blood, and any children born to Maire and Duncan would be the same. Yet Ronan fully intended to continue his raids against the vile intruders that forty years’ past had begun their scourge upon Éire, stealing land, raping, and murdering.

  Ronan’s fist tightened around his ale cup, and he lowered his head with a heavy sigh.

  Mayhap that was why his pain ran so deep. He felt torn, and he knew it.

  Duncan FitzWilliam had shown himself to be an honorable man unlike any Norman that Ronan had ever encountered. Triona had tried to convince him as much, and Niall as well before he’d disappeared to God-knows-where, but enraged at both of them Ronan had refused to listen.

  It was only when Duncan had ridden courageously into Glenmalure—alone!—to fetch his bride four days ago that Ronan had seen for himself the true mettle of the man.

  A Norman! How it galled Ronan still, but he wanted Maire to be happy so he had forgiven her as best he could.

  He had suspended raids for a time, again, for Maire’s sake, but he knew it would not be forever. If Ronan bent too far against everything he believed in, everything he’d fought for, he would break—

  “Ronan!”

  The bellowing voice of his clansman Flann O’Faelin echoed in the feasting-hall. Ronan rose at once from the table, thinking something must be amiss. From the look on the giant carrot-haired Irishman’s face as he rushed toward Ronan, he was certain of it.

  “Flann?”

  “A rider comes across the glen, Ronan—and by all the saints, I believe it’s Niall!”

  Ronan had already rushed past his clansman before Flann had finished uttering the words. He could hear already a great commotion outside the feasting-hall, excited shouts and whistles, and he knew everyone must be rushing to the inner palisade of stout red oak.

  Only days ago they had thought it was Niall returned home at last, but it had been Duncan FitzWilliam instead. As Ronan ran outside into the sunlight, it seemed all faces were turned expectantly toward him for the signal only he or Niall could give to open the three massive sets of gates that guarded the stronghold.

  A signal he gave at once, Ronan trusting implicitly Flann’s pronouncement that the rider must be Niall.

  Intense relief filled Ronan, as well as a blaze of anger.

  Where the devil had Niall been these past two months? His long absence had fueled many sleepless nights and endless anxiety for himself, Triona, and his clansmen, who now began to cheer wildly.

  Aye, his younger brother and own Tanist was nothing if not loved by all who knew him. Again Ronan felt immense relief as he made his way through the crush of his people as the first set of gates, the tallest and heaviest, was hauled open by the eight strong men needed for the task.

  “Ronan, is it true?”

  He spun to meet Triona, her lovely face alight and her coppery curls flying as she ran toward him and threw herself into his arms. “Niall’s come home?”

  Ronan hugged her tightly, nodding. Together they hastened through the outer two sets of gates built into the massive earthen ramparts while their clansmen whooped and waved to the approaching rider.

  Thankfulness overwhelming him, Ronan watched as Niall raised his arm in greeting and reined in his lathered mount in front of them.

  Remorse flooded Ronan, too. The last time he’d seen Niall he had struck his brother for claiming that Duncan FitzWilliam must be an honorable man for Maire to have fallen in love with him. Ronan saw at once that Niall must be recalling that wretched moment as well from the wary look on his face.

  Yet it wasn’t his guarded expression so much that drew Ronan’s attention but that Niall wasn’t alone.

  A young, auburn-haired woman held him fast around the waist and stared wide-eyed over his shoulder at all the commotion as cheering O’Byrnes surrounded them.

  Ronan saw that Triona stared too, open-mouthed, as she glanced from him to Niall, whose one hand held the reins while his free hand gripped the woman’s arms as if to reassure her.

  Ronan doubted he had ever seen his beloved wife look so surprised, or struck virtually speechless. And was that a priest’s robe the woman was wearing?

  “Ronan, Triona, my clansmen!” came Niall’s raised voice above the din, everyone falling silent around him. “It’s been a long ride for us so I pray you offer a fine welcome to my bride, Nora O’Byrne!”

  Bride? As Ronan’s own mouth dropped open, he doubted if Niall had suddenly sprouted two heads, his people would have looked more astonished.

  Everyone merely stared, silent, while Niall’s mount nickered and bobbed his head as if confirming what Niall had just announced.

  Only Triona quickly regained her composure and left Ronan’s side to rush forward, her arms outstretched to Niall as he dismounted to embrace her tightly. “Oh, Niall, I’m so glad you’re home!” Yet she’d no sooner disengaged herself, glancing over her shoulder pointedly at Ronan, when she reached up to squeeze the young woman’s hand. “Welcome to Glenmalure, Nora!”

  “Aye, shall we stand here all day outside the gates?” Ronan shouted, his mind overrun by questions as Niall shot him a glance that still held wariness. “We’ve casks of wine to tap and a marriage feast to prepare! Niall is safe and finally home among us again…and with a new wife! Tonight we’ll celebrate!”

  Nora leaned her head back against the tub, her head still spinning from how quickly she’d gone from atop a horse to a warm, soaking bath that felt like heaven.

  Aye, Niall had been right! Their arrival had started an uproar unlike anything she’d seen in her life. Riding across the glen had been exhilarating enough, but when they had stopped in front of the imposing gates as people spilled out from the stronghold, Nora doubted she had ever felt her heart beating so wildly.

  The cheering and the shouting had been deafening…only to subside into stunned silence and thunderstruck stares as soon as Niall had announced to his clansmen that he’d brought home a bride. Why had they gaped so? Had Niall sworn never to marry or some such thing?

  Thank God the beautiful young woman Nora had recognized from Niall’s vivid description as Triona had rushed through the crowd to warmly greet them. Meanwhile Ronan Black O’Byrne, his expression inscrutable, had taken charge and sent everyone hastening back into the stronghold.

  With him standing taller than most men and his midnight hair, Nora had known at once that the formidable-looking rebel as handsome as his wife was lovely was Niall’s older brother and chieftain of the Glenmalure O’Byrnes.

  Nora had sensed, to
o, the palpable tension between the two men, which both puzzled and concerned her. Yet thankfully they had locked arms to greet each other when she, Niall, and their exhausted horse were swept into the stronghold by the boisterous O’Byrnes who had begun to cheer again.

  The next thing Nora knew, Niall had lifted her to the ground in front of a dwelling-house he had murmured in her ear was their home. She didn’t have a chance to utter a word, though, when he immediately handed her off to Triona and strode away with Ronan.

  Nora had stared after him, stunned, her heart sinking.

  She imagined Niall and his brother had much to discuss, but to leave her without a kiss or embrace? What of the intimacy they had shared only hours ago? Aye, she knew well enough that he hadn’t married her out of love, but did he have no tender regard for her at all?

  A gentle squeeze at her elbow had broken into her thoughts, and Nora had met Triona’s stunning emerald eyes to find she looked troubled. Why that would be Nora had no clue, but there had been no time to dwell upon it as Triona led her inside the dwelling-house.

  At once the place had come alive with maidservants bearing buckets of hot water, wine, and food. It seemed that before Nora could blink she had been gently stripped of her clothing and settled into a tub set by the hearth that surely was large enough for Niall, which had made her heart race. She missed him so, she couldn’t deny it. Nor that her feelings for him like a yearning ache seemed only to be growing—

  “How is the water? Warm enough?”

  Startled from her thoughts, Nora nodded at Triona, who gestured for a maidservant to stack several linen towels atop a stool set within her reach. “Aye, it’s wonderful,” she murmured as another girl poured a stream of lavender-scented oil into the tub. “Thank you, Triona—may I call you Triona?”

  “Of course you can, we’re sisters now!” Triona flashed Nora a warm smile and then glanced over her shoulder at an oaken table surrounded by heavy carved chairs. “There’s a bowl of venison stew and wine for you when you’ve finished bathing…and a choice of gowns laid out upon the bed in the next room. They’re some of my own, mayhap a wee bit short for you, but I’m sure they’ll fit well enough. I’ll set the seamstresses to sewing you some new ones straightaway.”