Conquer the Mist

by Susan Kearney

  His presence would bring war. And war brought death.

  Blinking back tears of frustration at her failure, she stared at his gleaming leather boots and forced herself to remember she was not a maid free to flirt with a man. She was the Princess of Leinster, and her actions would have consequences, not just on her life, but on all her people.

  Strongheart’s voice softened to a husky whisper. “Dumping a man on the ground is no way to show your feelings. Perhaps we should try another kiss so you can practice proper appreciation, Princess.”

  Princess. His tongue wrapped around the word more like a caress than a title of respect. Instead of soothing her anger, the reminder of his attempt at seduction increased her rage. She ought to smack him across the face.

  Her head jerked up and their gazes locked. At the sight of granite-hard, glittery anger that matched her own, for once she controlled her violent impulse. However, she couldn’t rein in her tongue. “The only feeling I have for you is disgust. The only thing I need to practice is ridding my people of a cursed Norman before our enemies invade and do it for us.”

  Or before he steals your heart.

  Now from whence had that traitorous thought come?. Despite the bad seed who had spawned her, she’d worked hard to earn the respect and trust of Leinster’s men-at-arms, their women, and their children. For the most part, she’d succeeded. No bold Norman warrior could ride into Leinster with his plans of conquest and cheat her out of the respect she’d worked so hard to gain, or harm her people.

  “I did not come here to hurt you, Princess.”

  He sounded so earnest she almost believed him. Almost. But she was not so naive to believe a warrior like him would not assess Leinster’s vulnerabilities and take advantage for personal gain. His great size and his hardened muscles bespoke an accomplished warrior, a victor of many hard-fought battles. The lowing of Leinster’s cattle would act like sirens’ music upon his ears. The lush verdant fields of green grass and herds of fattened cows were too tempting a prize for such an ambitious man to ignore. And Strongheart was more than ambitious. She sensed a ruthless determination in him even as he’d softened his words to soothe her temper, but though she could not control her physical response to him, his honeyed words would not work on her.

  Nor did she owe him explanations, and so she refused to respond to the honesty in his expression. He might believe in his heart what he’d told her, but he didn’t know this land, and it was not her place to educate him. He hadn’t been born here. He didn’t know and love the spume-packed cliffs of the coast with winding promontories and spiked inlets, golden strands of beach, deep, blue lagoons, and clear rocky bays. He’d never appreciate the giant Irish deer and great auks or their forests and bogs, the mountains covered with bracken and shrouded in mist. He’d never come to love the ever-falling rain, the magnificent daytime skies.

  He didn’t realize how difficult it was to defend the huge herds of cattle that comprised most of Leinster’s wealth. By their nature, cattle needed acres of grazing land, and to find enough food the herds roamed the mountain glens and forest passes from Dundonnell to Cabury.

  Protecting the herds from raiders was an onerous task that made usurping the land much easier than holding it. O’Rourke, their nearest enemy, was an expert at sneaking across the border to steal sheep and cows from the vast pastures, hiding the animals in the marshes, then later stampeding a herd back into his own lands. It was the nature of men to take from the weak, so she had to be strong.

  “Let me go,” she demanded in as even a tone as she could muster.

  His hands flexed, and his mouth opened to speak. The thunder of hoofbeats galloping across the damp dirt and sweet-smelling grass interrupted his words. In one swift movement, Strongheart pushed Dara behind him, sheltering her with his huge body, and drew his great sword.

  Dara peeked from behind his broad back, recognized her father’s man-at-arms Seumas by his awkward seat on his horse, and mounted Fionn. Once astride Fionn and out of Strongheart’s reach, she explained, “That’s my father’s man, and he detests riding a horse. Something is wrong.”

  From the lather on his mount, Seumas must have ridden all the way from Castle Ferns. As he neared, he shouted across the clearing, his face grim. “MacLugh has come for his betrothed. He says he’s waited long enough to claim his bride.”

  Chapter Four

  BETROTHED? HIS bride! Why had no one told Strongheart Princess Dara was betrothed? The news struck him as hard as a death blow. He turned to Dara’s worried face for answers. As if guessing his intent, she urged Fionn toward Seumas, racing across the moor, leaving him to eat her dust.

  Strongheart sheathed his sword, then mounted, swearing softly under his breath, knowing he wouldn’t catch the Princess of Leinster until she reined in her stallion. The armor, saddle, and heavier load slowed his powerful warhorse down.

  Breathing in the soft morning air, he galloped after her. In the magic Irish light, Dara O’Dwyre looked more a wild hoyden than the titled princess of Ireland’s richest county. As she rode, her slender body seemingly part of her horse, her magnificent red hair cascaded behind her, and he imagined how she would look with that fiery hair splayed on a white silk pillow. Another man’s pillow.

  Acid burned his stomach at the thought. He would not give up so easily. No matter how many guards had surrounded them last night, what manner of father would have left her alone with one man when she was promised to another? And if her heart belonged to another, why had she kissed him with such passion?

  He reminded himself that all was not yet lost. The lass was not yet wed. Perhaps there was still time to change the King of Leinster’s mind.

  Although Strongheart had said otherwise, with her flashing red hair and snapping green eyes, men from far and wide would have sought her hand if she were a mere peasant. As King O’Dwyre’s sole heir, Dara’s husband would one day assume leadership of Leinster’s vast lands. With her lands and beauty, she’d make any man a fine wife. So why was the princess only betrothed and not already wed?

  Dara pulled her horse to a skidding halt in the middle of the clearing and pressed her head close to Seumas’s in hushed conversation. When Strongheart arrived, Dara’s lips had settled into a hard line, her eyes pinched tight with distress.

  “Has Sorcha taken a fever?” Strongheart asked.

  Seumas shook his head. “Nay. We were discussing MacLugh’s visit at Castle Ferns.”

  Dara sighed, tugged on the reins, and reeled Fionn around, looking as if she carried the weight of Ireland on her slumped shoulders. Under Strongheart’s appraising eyes, she straightened, a look of resignation on her face. “Da needs me, but I must check Sorcha first.”

  What had Seumas been whispering in her ear? Strongheart didn’t like the disadvantage of being taken by surprise. If Castle Ferns’ visitors represented a threat, he should have been apprised of the situation.

  The castle defenses were poor compared to Norman standards, and he estimated an armored band of knights could easily overrun Dara’s home. It was a good thing he and Gaillard were the only Normans in the county.

  There was opportunity in this green land for a man with a strong sword and the will to fight. While his people were the foremost race in Christendom, their courage and ruthlessness had made them conspicuous. Dara’s acute suspicions extended far beyond her years or experience to recognize the vulnerability of her land.

  From his exhibit with his longbow, she must have realized his people had mastered archery with bows that carried death at a distance. Could she foresee the consequences of a battle where Norman cavalry, clad in mail armor and armed with long lances and shields, fought the undisciplined Irish who still fought with rocks and slings? His people had conquered every region from the Elbe to the Pyrenees and established internal order. This land would be no different.

  Dara was right. What man would not
covet this rich country of rolling hills and open air where forests still covered the greater part of the earth? It was not by accident he’d come to County Leinster to win lands to replace those his father had lost. He’d given equal consideration to the other counties of Munster, Connaught, Meath, and Ulster. But Leinster was the most vulnerable, hence his opportunity would be greater.

  All his careful plans had not taken into account Conor’s daughter. Eyes blazing in the innumerable greens of the pastures challenged him at every turn. Like a mythical creature in a fairy world, she seemed to know his intentions when he’d done naught to create suspicion.

  His eyes strained to follow the slender figure on horseback ahead. Dara had almost ridden out of sight when she drew alongside Gaillard and Sorcha. When Strongheart caught up with them, Dara had already checked her charge and seen to reseating her maid across Gaillard’s thighs.

  “I am fine,” Sorcha assured Dara, her hand pressing Gaillard’s chest. “He makes a fine pillow.”

  His squire’s face reddened, and he twirled one end of his mustache. “Are ye saying I’m soft, woman?”

  “Aye. Soft in the head,” the maid huffed.

  Dara giggled, her eyes brimming with merriment. “Well, I’ll leave you in good hands. Da needs me.”

  “Promise me,” Sorcha demanded, “you won’t be riding that demon so fast your guards cannot keep up with you. ’Tis not safe.”

  “I promise,” Dara agreed as she remounted.

  She’d given in too easily. Apparently her maid didn’t believe her any more than Strongheart did.

  Sorcha snorted. “I mean it, missy. I’m responsible for you, and I don’t want anything to happen—”

  “If she rides out of sight, when I catch her at the castle, I’ll beat her,” Strongheart said, hoping he’d sounded convincing since he could never lay a hurtful hand on the lass. Her head jerked to stare at him, and at the challenge he glimpsed in her eyes, he thought perhaps he could win these rich lands without fighting a bloody battle—if MacLugh and a betrothal agreement didn’t stand in his way.

  Strongheart realized with a sinking feeling she’d never forgive him for fighting MacLugh and bringing war to her land. They’d both seen the effects of war. Sometimes it took years for the villagers to rebuild their homes. With the men off to war, if the crops could not be brought in by the women, many often starved through harsh winters.

  And after meeting Dara, he’d rejected his plan to take her home by force. Why fight hundreds of men and risk destruction of the land when he had only to break one betrothal agreement and convince one small lass to wed? Somehow, he would find a way to win her. As he and Seumas rode hard, following the lady, the idea brought him immense satisfaction.

  A wife would give a man comforts and heirs. These people would accept his rule more easily with Dara O’Dwyre, the rightful successor, at his side. She would see to his meals and clothing during the day, warm his bed at night. In turn, he would conceal her follies, defend her and her home, offer her security, solace, and serenity—a fair trade for what he’d ask of her.

  Now he had to convince Conor and the princess—no small task, but then he wasn’t considered one of the most wily and determined knights in Christendom without reason. The fact that his reputation had not preceded him could work to his favor. Perhaps MacLugh would accept a challenge for her hand.

  With a small grin of satisfaction, he set about planning his campaign.

  WITH THE SUN directly overhead, Dara rode through the triple rings of stone, left Fionn in the stable, and gave instruction to a groom to cool him down well before giving him an extra ration of oats. Hurrying across the bailey, she spotted Strongheart.

  When he didn’t dismount, she hid behind a pillar of bronze. Among Leinster’s men, who were clad in black wool tunics, Strongheart, in his burnished mail, shined like the sun among the night stars. He might make a tempting target, but she’d seen his fighting skills and knew he could defeat the best of her father’s men.

  From her position she watched Strongheart deploy the men-at-arms, checking each for weapons before sending them to guard the stronghold. With the likes of MacLugh about, he’d taken sensible precautions, ones she or Da should have ordered. As she watched the Norman give one man a slap on the back and another a dressing down for drunkenness, she realized the ease with which Strongheart assumed command.

  Having the burden of defense lifted from her shoulders should have eased her worries. Da’s forgetful spells had made him grow lax, and she’d covered his deficiency as best she could. In addition to managing the household staff and seeing everyone clad and fed, she oversaw much of the estate, keeping the accounts of their lands, listing the revenues and profits of their clan. She managed the tilling of the fields, decided which crops to plant to ensure winter fodder for the horses, pigs, and cows, and sent hunting parties out for game. One less job would lighten her load. But leaving the castle defenses in Strongheart’s obviously capable hands made her uneasy. She didn’t trust the Norman’s motives any more than she trusted O’Rourke’s or MacLugh’s.

  “There you are.”

  Dara jumped, then winced at the sound of Neilli’s shrill tone. She’d hoped to steal into the castle and make her way to her room undetected. Even though she meant to cancel the betrothal agreement, she would not have MacLugh see her looking like a dairy maid. If Sorcha had been there, she would have helped smuggle her inside, but Dara would just have to convince the heavyset cook to help instead.

  Neilli planted her fists on her ample hips. “Our visitors will be needing a meal, and that lazy Roisin left the soup to boil over in the fire. I told her to put in the salt, and she spilt it over the butter.”

  Dara contained her sigh at this minor calamity. Why couldn’t her servants solve problems when they arose? Did she have to do all the thinking around here? “Melt the butter in a dish over the fire, and the salt will fall to the bottom of the bowl. The rest of the butter will be sweet, and the salt can be put in the soup.”

  “And how would you be knowing such things? Last time you baked bread, ’twas hard enough to break a tooth on,” Neilli teased.

  Dara never had been good at cooking. While she knew by heart every recipe cooked in the castle, for some reason her mind never stayed on what her hands should be doing. “Never mind that. I must reach my room without MacLugh seeing me like this.”

  “Och, if your Da catches onto your shenanigans, he will not be pleased.”

  Dara lifted her tangled hair from her shoulders. “Neither will he be pleased if I come to the dinner table looking like a banshee.”

  Neilli stuck her head inside the hall, then waddled back, her hips swaying. “If ye be quick up the stairs, I think you can pass without notice.”

  The strains of the harp hurried her steps, and, safe in her room, Dara shut the door behind her and tugged her tunic over her head. She had planned her meeting with MacLugh for some time. She had her arguments ready. But a trickle of fear wound down her spine. Could she break the betrothal without causing a war? She tossed the tunic to her stuffed mattress and clenched her fists, vowing never to bring war to this land.

  Hurriedly, she picked out clean clothes. Instead of the bath she longed for, she would make do with the bowl of boiled rosemary water atop the table beside her bed.

  She placed clean clothing over the back of a chair and turned to the water basin. She stopped short with a gasp, her eyes widening in surprise.

  Atop her bedside table rested a giant bouquet of primroses in an empty wine bottle. The yellow blooms amid the green leaves perfumed the air with their sweet fragrance. The tension inside her eased. The flowers were a pleasing surprise, but who could have done such a thing?

  Suddenly she recalled the handful of flowers Strongheart had given her, the ones she’d arrogantly tossed in the dirt, and knew he’d been responsible. The man was too bold.
How had he arranged to place the primroses in her room so quickly? During the return ride to Castle Ferns, Strongheart must have collected the flowers that thrived in the peat bogs. He’d gone to considerable trouble to please her. In her experience, when a man sent gifts, he wanted something from the recipient. Aye, she knew what he wanted from her, but it would take more than flowers to cause her to lose her good sense.

  This was not the first time he’d taken her by surprise. She still couldn’t put from her mind the kiss he’d stolen, but if she allowed herself to dwell on her response, she’d go daft with worry of yielding to her passionate side. Concern replaced her pleasure. The Norman must not interfere. He must not challenge MacLugh, but allow her to settle the matter. Somehow, she must get word to him. With guests waiting below, this was no time to dally.

  Quickly she washed her face and hands, replaced her tunic with a fresh one of soft green wool that brought out the color of her eyes, and braided her hair. Grabbing her embroidery, she sedately descended the narrow stairs, careful to keep the wool from brushing the rough stone walls.

  Dark smoke spiraled its way from the hearth through the hole in the castle roof, and a shiver of apprehension trickled over her. From the stairs, she had a clear view of the scene below. King Borrack MacLugh’s men had not removed their weapons, which wasn’t all that unusual. But the constant handling of those weapons was.

  While a kitchen girl turned a roast on the spit and the dripping fat sizzled in the fire, men gathered ’round, drinking ale and listening to the blind harper, rumored to have the second sight, pluck his tune.

  Morcolle, her father’s warhound, padded over to greet Dara, placing his cold nose in her hand, and she ruffled his thick fur. Ignoring the Norman’s nod, she took the chair beside her da, pretending an ease she didn’t feel, grateful for the warmth of the warhound at her feet.