The city possessed many noxious odors and a hurry-scurry atmosphere. Everywhere they went, craftsmen worked, building houses and ships. She watched millwrights, chariot makers, leather workers, fishermen, smiths, and metal workers—all landless men and unfree tenants. Her father had never kept slaves, saying he preferred other forms of wealth. Their domestic servants performed household tasks for coins, and they had good service from them.
Indeed, as they rode into the courtyard, a stableboy greeted them, a wide grin on his face. Clearly he recognized her, even disguised as a boy.
“We were not expecting you.” His grin faded, and his eyes widened. “Did you come alone?”
“Aye.” Dara tossed the lad a coin. “Feed the horses well. They’ve had a long journey and are probably more tired than we are.”
After pocketing the silver, the boy whistled. At his signal, two servants hurried from the house.
“The lady is tired,” he told them, puffing out his chest with importance. “See to her needs.”
One servant rolled her eyes at the youngster’s antics. The young woman and boy shared a similar coloring, and Dara recalled they were sister and brother.
She yearned to ask if the Ard-ri was currently residing in Dublin but bit her tongue. Although she did not doubt her people’s loyalty, an innocent slip could lead to disaster. She dared not allow MacLugh to find her before she spoke with the Ard-ri.
Dismounting, she shifted her pack from her aching shoulders to her hand. “Please, tell no one I am here. ’Tis very important to keep my presence secret.”
The boy nodded. “MacLugh is searching for you still.”
So even the servants knew her plight. MacLugh’s men could be anywhere.
The boy spoke solemnly. “We will say nothing.”
His sister shoved him toward the stable with a good-natured push. “Be gone with you. Get about yer work now.”
The second maid held out her hand to relieve Dara of the burden of her pack. She shook her head. “Help Sorcha instead. I fear she is even more tired than I.”
The long night on horseback followed by the sea crossing had been hard on both of them. In the past weeks, Sorcha had lost weight, her tunic hanging loosely about her normally full hips. Sorcha had not said a word about Gaillard, but Dara knew she missed the squire. Her brown eyes were as warm as ever—although a few more lines creased the corners.
The passing days had not lessened Dara’s longing for Strongheart, either. While she ate a simple repast of nettle potage, she remembered the meals they’d shared, the flowers he’d scattered in unusual places that had almost always brought a smile to her face. Her hand raised to her neck. She still wore the necklace he’d given her beneath her tunic, hadn’t taken it off since he’d placed it ’round her neck.
Sorcha, sitting across from her in the house’s main room, cleared her throat to gain her attention. “Now what? ’Tis dangerous for you here. That disguise only works with people who do not know you.”
“We need rest, and we need to learn if the Ard-ri is here in Dublin without raising suspicion.”
“I could go to the market, buy a few supplies, and listen for gossip,” Sorcha offered.
“Thank you.” Dara squeezed Sorcha’s hand. “Please do not take any unnecessary risks. You are a good friend, and I think of you as my mother. I could not bear to lose you.”
“A woman could not have a more courageous daughter.” Sorcha bit her bottom lip and cleared the trenchers from the trestle. “I just hope this works out the way you planned.”
“It has to.” Dara took the thought with her to her bed. As she lay tossing and twisting on the skins, unable to sleep despite her exhaustion, her musings returned repeatedly to the Norman she’d left behind. Would he ever forgive her for leaving him? Would he change and become bitter at what he considered her betrayal? She shivered. Would he come seeking revenge?
IT TOOK SORCHA just one day to learn the Ard-ri was not in Dublin and another three days, precious time wasted, to discover that if Dara wanted to meet with the high king, she’d have to travel to Waterford. They packed supplies and planned to leave the next morning.
Dara awakened in the dark to Sorcha shaking her shoulder, a candle in her hand. “Your father just arrived.”
Her heart pounded, and her fingers trembled as she dressed. Could they already have gathered an army of knights? Was it too late to stop them? “How did he get here so fast? Is Strongheart with him?”
“I know not. Come.”
The two women hurried into the hall. Dara spotted her father among a small group of men, none tall enough to be Strongheart. She didn’t know whether to feel relief at not having to face him or disappointment that he hadn’t come, too.
Her father sipped ale with several of his men, including a stranger, obviously Norman, tall, dark, and broad-chested. The sight of the man made her longing for Strongheart all the keener. “Dara, meet Sir William Fitzralph, Baron of Kidwelly. Treat him well, for he has sent for Norman knights to help us.”
Had her father forgotten his agreement with Strongheart? Or merely put his pact with him conveniently aside? Stunned by her father’s announcement, Dara nodded at Sir William. “What of Strongheart?”
“Bah!” Her father gestured wildly. “Strongheart may not arrive in time. William can have his knights in Eire within a fortnight.”
She strode closer to William, wanting to look the man in the eye. “What will you gain from helping our cause?”
William’s eyes widened at her boldness, but she read no treachery there. “Your father has promised me a choice of Meath or Munster for my efforts.”
She tapped her foot and folded her hands beneath her breasts to cover her agitation. “Meath and Munster are not my father’s to give. Even if they were, the Ard-ri would never—”
William spoke softly but with steely determination. “What I win, I hold. The Ard-ri will not have a choice.” His tone gentled then, and he held out his arm in a gallant gesture. “But you are too pretty to worry over politics. Perhaps you would care to walk in the courtyard and watch the sun rise?”
Her gaze flew to her father, who sipped his ale, his innocent gaze meeting hers above the rim of his goblet. What mischief had he concocted? Had he neglected to mention to William her betrothal to Strongheart?
Deciding it would be easier to worm the information out of William than her father, she placed her arm through William’s, vowing to find out what had been said. She led him through the back of the house to a walled courtyard where her mother had planted a garden. During the intervening years a gardener had maintained it. But when she breathed in the scent of cornflowers it was not her mother she thought about, but a dark-eyed Norman. Where was he? How soon before he would arrive? What would he think of William Fitzralph, Baron of Kidwelly?
“I watch the sun come up every morn,” William told her, his hand too proprietary on hers for comfort.
She drew away and faced him. “Why?”
He seemed taken aback by her question. Then he chuckled, and in the first rays of dawn she noted he was a handsome man—not as swarthy as Strongheart, nor as tall, but he shared a certain confidence of manner with Strongheart that she’d always found appealing.
He raised his hands to her shoulders, and from the glint in his blue eyes she thought he might kiss her. “’Tis the promise of a new day when all things are possible—a new land, a new woman.”
“Have there been many women in your life?” she asked, steering the subject toward his discussion with her father.
“Not like you.”
Begorra! She’d been right. The man was flirting with her.
She placed her hands on her hips. “Just how would you be knowing such after our short acquaintance?”
He chuckled again. “Never has a woman challenged me. Although ’tis most unus
ual, I rather like it.”
“’Tis doubtful you’ll like it when I have Da send you packing.”
William shook his head. “Your father needs my men too much to do anything so foolish. Did something I say offend you?”
Offend her? When she wanted Strongheart so much she ached, this man’s mere presence offended her. For the first time in her life she wished she could be more like her mother. She missed Strongheart so badly she wished another man could make the pain in her heart recede. But perhaps this once she could test herself to find out the depth of her love for Strongheart. Before her stood another handsome Norman, eager to please her. If she encouraged him, no doubt he’d kiss her, and she would finally know if her love was true.
Taking a deep breath, she coyly peeked at him and uttered the flirtation. “I think you are most comely.”
He leaned closer, their lips less than a breath apart.
She could not appear too eager. She placed her hand on his chest to keep him back. “I am betrothed.”
“Betrothals can be broken.” He captured her hand and lowered his lips to hers.
She allowed the kiss, testing her response to an attractive man. Her elation soared when she felt absolutely nothing—not even a tiny flicker of excitement in her breast. William’s kiss could have been the kiss of a brother, a father, a friend.
The discovery that she was not interested in her new suitor lightened her heart like the joy of a new day. As the first rays of sunrise spread lovely pink tentacles across the sky, a weight lifted from Dara’s shoulders. She wanted to sing aloud that she was different from her mother. Not any rich, handsome man could win her. The last of her doubts about her love for Strongheart melted away with the dark.
It was only Strongheart she wanted, and one man was enough for her. Hugging the delicious knowledge to her, she knew she owed William much for banishing her last doubts, leaving her free to fight for Strongheart and their future together.
But she didn’t explain; instead she watched the sun rise and faked a yawn. “I fear ’tis much too early for me to be up.”
“I look forward to our next meeting,” he told her formally, and she briefly wondered if he was as untouched by their kiss as she.
She recalled her first kiss with Strongheart when he’d tumbled her to the ground. The sparks between them could have set the dry grasses aflame. She’d wanted him then, only she’d been too frightened by her awakening desire. Now, she would settle for nothing less.
Leaving William in the garden, she returned to her bed. She needed her sleep for her ride to Waterford this night. This time, a smile on her lips, she fell asleep almost immediately.
SHE STOOD ON a rocky spit of land, the wind whipping tendrils of hair back from her face, her hand to her eyes to shade them from the light of a rising sun. She wanted to run toward the sea and Strongheart, but her skirt swirled around her feet, tripping her.
Strongheart came to her, his strong, bronzed body rising from the sea, spindrift spewing in his eyes, his dark hair slicked with water droplets and spiking his long lashes. His lip curled with a lazy smile, and his hard thighs churned toward her, creating ripples of ever-broadening splashes.
When she realized he wore no clothes, her eyes widened with surprise, then pleasure. She would let nothing stand between them, and she threw off her clothes, strewing them across the shoreline as she ran toward him. “I love you. Only you,” she cried out, flinging herself against his chest.
He gathered her into his strong arms, and she lifted her face to kiss him. They had so much to discuss, but more importantly she needed him to tell her he loved her, that he would always love her.
His familiar lips formed the words, “I love you.”
Then his face changed. He was no longer her Strongheart but the other Norman, William Fitzralph.
She screamed in protest. Her fists pounded his shoulders. Her bare feet uselessly kicked his shins. William laughed and slung her over his shoulder, carrying her back toward the sea.
A wave slammed into her face, and she gulped and sputtered. Struggling wildly, her back arched in an attempt to lift herself higher, out of the water. Too late she realized William would drown her. “Let me go! I cannot breathe.”
SHE THRASHED AND awakened for the second time that morning to Sorcha’s shaking. “’Tis a bad dream, lass. Och, I fear what I have to tell you is not any better.”
Blearily, Dara rubbed the sleep from her eyes, a dark foreboding slithering down her spine. “What is it?”
Sorcha’s warm brown eyes teared with worry. “Your da has betrothed you to Sir William.”
“But I am already betrothed to Strongheart.” Dara threw her blankets aside, thinking her father had lost his reason. “I will go remind him.”
Sorcha grabbed her hand. “He has a priest waiting to marry you in the other room. If you go in there, you will not escape this marriage.”
Chapter Eighteen
WITHOUT SORCHA’S quick thinking, Dara would never have escaped the city. Luckily, her provisions had already been packed, and it was a simple matter for Sorcha to have a horse waiting in the gardens.
Dara had climbed through a window, left Sorcha behind, and escaped Dublin. She knew her father’s desperation to regain Leinster did not excuse his outrageous behavior in marrying her to the first mercenary who promised to lend them men. But she suppressed her anger at her father, for truly his memory was worsening. Her escape from an immediate marriage to William Fitzralph would at worst delay her father’s latest scheme. At best, her flight might win the right to marry the man she loved.
Hoping her disappearance would deter William from bringing the knights to Eire, she rode hard. Heading south, she estimated, if all went well, she’d reach Waterford in less than half a fortnight. She passed through the wild and mountainous hills of Glendalough, picking her way around impassable bogs. She skirted Wicklow, Ferns, and Wexford, arriving in Waterford on her fifth exhausting day of travel.
As much as she hated arriving at the Ard-ri’s residence in her grimy traveling clothes, she did not have the luxury of time. She rode in, listening to Waterford’s residents buzz with the news of many ships spotted on the horizon. Strongheart and his men! With the knowledge of a coming attack, the residents had thrown up a temporary fort around the stone structures in the middle of the city. No one paid attention to the slight lad riding amongst them.
Dara left her horse in the stable and requested an immediate audience with the Ard-ri. She’d met the high king only once before when she’d been but a lass of ten. Even then, he’d seemed enamored of her red hair, which was just like her mother’s.
Hoping her name and his curiosity to see how she’d turned out would gain her an audience, she smoothed the wrinkles of her tunic as best she could and combed her fingers through her hair. Fretting at the time wasted, she paced the small alcove. How long until Strongheart arrived?
As much as she longed to see him again and explain the reasons for her flight, his sudden arrival would put a dent in her plans and worse, bring the war she dreaded. She’d hoped to slowly sway the Ard-ri to her way of thinking, but now she must use more direct methods.
Finally a maid returned to fetch her into the hall. “The high king will see you now.”
Dara followed the girl into a great hall where men dressed for battle in leather jerkins huddled ’round their leader. The Ard-ri was short of stature, but the commanding breadth of his shoulders under the rich silk tunic trimmed with fur left no doubt to his station.
When the Ard-ri lifted his shaggy, gray-haired head and pierced her with a cold-eyed stare, a shiver of apprehension walked across her shoulders. Suddenly her plan to convince him to see her way of things seemed foolish.
Drawing a deep breath for courage, she curtsied, hoping she wouldn’t have to present her plea in front of his men-at-arms. The room grew so qu
iet she could hear her own heartbeat. Why didn’t he say something? Anything would be better than this nerve-wracking silence.
She licked her dry lips and realized that being the image of her mother could work against her with this man. She could only hope he still harbored some small feeling for the woman who’d betrayed him with a stableboy. Or maybe he wouldn’t hold the sins of the mother against her child. She forced herself not to shudder at the memory that this same man had locked her mother behind the walls of a monastery where she remained until this day.
“Has Murgain’s ghost come back to haunt us a full year after her passing?” asked one of the Ardri’s advisors.
So her mother was dead. The answer did not unduly disturb her. How could it, when she couldn’t even remember her mother’s face? Still, a fleeting sadness washed over her. Now she and her mother would never speak.
More important, the messages from her mother through Mata had been a trick. The Ard-ri had wanted her da to suffer and think the woman he loved remained locked behind monastery walls.
The Ard-ri pushed his way through his men. “Rise, Dara O’Dwyre, and tell us what brings you here.”
The crowd murmured. A hushed voice rose above the others. “She’s not a hostage?”
“I come of my free will in the hopes of preventing war,” she began.
Hoots of derision and laughter followed her pronouncement, and a sick knot of fear settled in the pit of her stomach. Despite their reaction, she continued. “As we speak, Strongheart draws closer. You cannot defeat an army of Normans using longbows, wearing mail, and fighting upon horseback.”
“Do you think so little of our abilities, lady?” sneered one of the men.
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