Conquer the Mist

by Susan Kearney

  “O’Rourke will stop the Norman’s army before he leaves the coast,” stated another.

  “What do you think we should do, colleen? Surrender?” the Ard-ri asked to much chuckling among his men.

  “I would have you sanction my marriage to Strongheart the Norman.”

  The Ard-ri banged his spear into the ground with anger. “You are betrothed to MacLugh! Would you go from husband to husband as did your mother?”

  “No, sire. I do not wish to cause a war. Having men fight over me and never knowing if my children will grow up in peace is distasteful to me. But the contract between O’Dwyre and MacLugh was made by our mothers and is not valid.”

  The Ard-ri turned away as if the discussion was closed. “A new contract will be drawn.”

  Dara refused to let him turn his back on her dreams so easily. “Wait! If I marry MacLugh, two counties will be united under one king. The other kings will be jealous. A marriage between myself and MacLugh could cause civil war, even jeopardizing the power of the Ard-ri.”

  The face of one of the men-at-arms turned red with fury. “She speaks treason.”

  “Nay,” the high king countered. “Like her mother, she is shrewd in her assessment of the political situation.”

  “Then you will agree to my marriage to the Norman?” Dara asked, her heart tripping with rising hope.

  The Ard-ri raised his voice. “Give a Norman Eire’s richest county as a deterrent to invading our land? Let him infest Eire with his army of knights? I would rather die with honor upon the field of battle than allow such a thing to come to pass.”

  Dara’s hopes plummeted. She had her answer. Her analysis of the political situation might be correct, but men would prefer to battle than concede to their enemies.

  “Take her to the tower. Dara O’Dwyre of Leinster, you are now my prisoner.”

  “I came to you in good faith,” she protested, her chin high. Inside, she trembled, knowing she had lost this last desperate gamble. She’d lost her home. And she’d lost the Norman’s trust. She’d come all the way here for nothing. War was inevitable.

  The Ard-ri flicked his hand. “Take her away. She might be useful later. Someone send a message to MacLugh. Tell him we have his bride waiting.”

  Laughter filled the hall, and two retainers led Dara away. In their male arrogance, their hands loose upon her arms, they had no idea of the dirk she possessed. No one had searched her person, and she still carried weapons beneath her clothing. Should an opportunity to escape arise, she meant to take it, but she was not so foolish as to take on two burly men at one time.

  From her locked cell in the tower, she had a view of the countryside. She watched as Strongheart’s ships sailed onto the beaches under the attack of O’Rourke’s men. Despite the disadvantage of their position, the Normans soon drove O’Rourke’s men back from the sea and toward the city.

  Dara lost sight of the battlefield under the canopy of leafy trees surrounding the city. But it did not take great imagination to picture the arrows, shot by longbows, picking off Eire’s men.

  Unable to root for either side since either Eire’s men would defeat the man she loved or the Norman would win by defeating her countrymen, she paced, her hands twisting in her tunic. Why did men have to be so stubborn? Why had she fallen in love with the most stubborn man of all?

  She hated the thought of Strongheart finding her here, trapped inside the tower, completely at his mercy. Worse. Suppose MacLugh or O’Rourke reached her first? Her heart sank like a wounded bird. She must flee to meet with Strongheart on more equal territory.

  A creak in the lock warned her the door was about to open. Heart pounding, she pulled her dirk from her sheath and stood to one side of the doorway, ready to attack.

  SORCHA TOLD Strongheart Dara’s destination, but she did not tell him of Dara’s near-marriage to William Fitzralph. She feared that doing so would deter Strongheart from getting Dara safely away from the Ard-ri as soon as possible. It was the right decision, for Strongheart sent Fitzralph back to Britain without a second thought.

  Sailing with three thousand knights, he headed for Waterford on the next tide with a veritable army set on winning this land. Two days later, they fought their way ashore, cutting through the enemy standing between him and Dara. He let O’Rourke’s men retreat without pursuit, anxious to rescue her before she suffered harm.

  Although Strongheart had enough knights to retake Leinster, without Dara by his side, any victory would be empty. She meant more to him than all the land that comprised Leinster’s riches. Despite her betrayal, despite her lack of trust in his ability to do what was right for both of them, he wanted her. Without her, his heart was like creeping ivy, which would wither unless it had Dara to entwine around. Strongheart awakened each day with thoughts of her. He recalled her sleepy-sweet smiles in the morning, her sparkling laughter during an afternoon ride, her long legs wrapped around him at night. She had brought a warmth to his days, a luster to his nights. Strongheart had no intention of reverting to the man he’d been before meeting Dara—and ending up a cold, bitter warrior like his father, who used his children as pawns to gain wealth and more wealth.

  Through men racing away on foot, between the ruins of smoking buildings, O’Rourke, with a patch over one eye, rode out to meet Strongheart. Although he rode straight in the saddle, his bearing didn’t conceal his gray hair and weathered skin, tough from years of hard campaigns. Clearly, his glory days were over.

  Strongheart raised his sword, hesitant to fight an older, weaker man. “I have no quarrel with you, O’Rourke. Go home.”

  O’Rourke drew his horse to a halt. “Conor stole my wife. Now I shall have his daughter to replace the woman he took.”

  Dara had been right. Half a lifetime later, men still fought over the perfidy of her mother. Nevertheless, Strongheart would never give Dara up. “Dara is mine.”

  O’Rourke dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. The valiant animal charged forward. Strongheart held his ground, hefting his sword and waiting to defend against the attack.

  The animals brushed so close, Strongheart smelled the other horse’s sweat, saw its eyes widen and its nostrils flare. The sound of hoofbeats thundered in his ears.

  O’Rourke lunged to the right. Strongheart raised his shield arm, protecting his body from a mortal blow. At the same time, he thrust under his opponent’s shield, finding his mark.

  Mortally injured, O’Rourke slid from his horse, hate in his eyes. “My son will avenge my honor,” he vowed, before his eyes glazed in death. Before he sank to the ground, another man took his place. Strongheart smote him down, and then another. The Irish fought the Normans, until the streets ran crimson with the blood of the injured and dying. The wounded screamed in agony and around them buildings burned, red sparks curling amidst black smoke and searing the throats of the living.

  His knights fought their way through the city to the fort surrounding a few stone houses. They laid siege to the city defended by the high king’s men, hoping no one would realize the value of the hostage within the fort.

  Strongheart would give up his dream to own Leinster if he thought the gesture could save Dara from harm. Where was she now? His gaze scanned the stone buildings, searching for a sign of her. Damn it! Where was she?

  He took in the fortification, estimating the number of men he would lose if they rushed the barriers. The Ard-ri’s men held the advantage and could pick off his knights with their spears. He would risk it, if he thought they stood a chance of success.

  Gaillard rode up, interrupting his thoughts. “One of our men noticed a house projecting over the walls and supported by props from outside. If we cut the timbers and the house falls, we might breach through and rush the fort.”

  “Let it be done,” he ordered, stilling his racing heart, unable to put away the hope of seeing Dara soon. “The first ma
n through shall earn ten pieces of gold.”

  INSIDE THE FORT, the Ard-ri pointed to a tunnel that led out of the city. “Go to MacLugh,” the high king ordered Dara. “Marry him before all is lost.”

  Dara would not permit the high king to maneuver her life like a playing piece in a game of chess. When she’d been brought from the tower, she thought Strongheart might have arranged her release. Instead, she’d learned the Ard-ri wanted her to escape to marry MacLugh.

  “No, sire.” She trembled, her whole body shaking at defying her king. She deeply regretted fleeing Britain. She’d stupidly sacrificed her love for naught, naively thought the Ard-ri would prefer peace to war. How many men had died because she had come to Waterford?

  How many more men would die before they could have peace? They’d heard O’Rourke, her mother’s first husband and her father’s old enemy, was dead. The Ard-ri and his men could not withstand an assault from the skilled Normans. Did Strongheart realize that, with his army, he could push North to Dublin and capture the heart of Eire? After that, it would be a simple operation to conquer the rest of the country.

  Before the Ard-ri shoved her through an escape tunnel against her will, she heard an enormous popping sound. The earth trembled beneath her feet. Dropping to the ground, she coughed on dust rising into the air. The Ard-ri retreated at a run.

  Men panicked, shouting of a breach in their defenses. Knights poured into the streets. She spotted Strongheart among the first men through the opening, his tall frame and warhorse easy to pick out among the throng of knights.

  She would have gone to him, except her knees felt as if they were made of water. Dara called out and waved from the ground. Somehow, through the noise and confusion, he heard her, and within moments, he’d scooped her onto his warhorse.

  Squeezing her eyes tight, she hugged his mail, welcoming the bite of metal rings against her hands. She’d never been more relieved to see anyone in her entire life. She’d been wrong to run from him, wrong to place herself in danger, and she intended to tell him.

  The fighting around them died within minutes. The Ard-ri, knowing he was outnumbered and losing, sounded a retreat. His soldiers, carrying their wounded, withdrew to the forests.

  “After them,” Strongheart shouted, the words she’d feared most.

  Dara opened her eyes. “No! Let them go.”

  “I will have the Ard-ri,” he said grimly, his voice granite-hard.

  As the Norman urged his destrier into the woods after the Ard-ri and his men, Dara slumped in the saddle, too weary to cry. Strongheart had lied to her. She’d been right not to trust him. Just like every man, he craved power. Why else would he go after the Ard-ri?

  Perhaps she should follow in her mother’s footsteps after all. She could enter a monastery to find the peace she sought. For how could she bear to watch Strongheart spend years fighting her people to conquer and hold this land? Her people would rebel, and she would be torn. And as the man she loved inevitably aged and weakened, it would be up to their sons to spend their lives fighting to rule.

  As shouts went up in the woods to find the Ardri, her father’s men emerged from the forest, cutting off the high king’s retreat. Drawing his destrier to a halt in a clearing, Strongheart waited, his arms tight around her. For several long moments, he said nothing, and the tension between them grew.

  “You will never run from me again.” His voice harsh, bitter, grated on her nerves.

  Though she’d meant to apologize, the words stuck in her throat. In their time apart, Strongheart had grown more forbidding. Perhaps it was the helm covering most of his face, perhaps it was the dark eyes burning through the holes, or maybe it was the stiff way he held her, but a knot of fear swelled and grew tight inside her.

  Had she killed all his tender feelings for her? Would he treat her with this stiff coldness for the rest of their lives?

  Swallowing the tight lump, she decided not to allow that. And then, with a sharp pain in her heart, she realized he could treat her any way he chose. No one could stop him. He would take her land. He would take her people. He could take her every night if he so desired, and no one would dare gainsay him.

  She slumped in hopelessness, bitter gall rising in the back of her throat. Nothing she could do would alter her fate. Strongheart would conquer as he willed, and all her protests would come to nothing more than a mosquito irritating a bear. If she bit him, he would swat her down. He wouldn’t physically hurt her—she knew him better than that. But watching him subjugate her people would cause her more pain than any beating.

  Gaillard rode into the clearing and halted beside Strongheart. “We have the Ard-ri.”

  Strongheart wheeled his warhorse around. “Bring him with us into Waterford. I shall speak with him there.”

  Stunned that the Ard-ri was alive, Dara wondered what Strongheart wanted of the high king. Did he intend a public execution? She shuddered and fought the queasiness in her stomach, wishing for a quiet moment to lie down and settle her thoughts.

  But that was not to be. The ride through the flaming streets, with the bodies of the dead and dying strewn around, agitated her upset stomach into a roiling nausea. Dara had witnessed many border raids, but this destruction by the Normans seemed far worse.

  At the fetid stench of burnt flesh, she covered her nose with her sleeve, but the odors seeped through the cloth. Giving up the battle to keep down her last meal, she leaned over the side of the horse and heaved.

  Strongheart brought his horse to an immediate halt, his forehead creased in a frown. “Are you ill, Princess?”

  She dismounted, glad for a moment to be on solid ground. “What your people have done to mine makes me sick.”

  His swarthy skin paled at her remark. His lips tightened, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he handed her a flask of water and watched her intently.

  She washed the sour taste from her mouth and handed back the flask, uncomfortably aware that his dark gaze had never left her face. She frowned. “What are you staring at? Are you afraid I will drop dead before you can force me to wed?”

  “Does your sickness mean you carry my child?” he asked stiffly, dismounting when he finally realized her reluctance to remount.

  Damn him! How could he have guessed before she had? With all he had put her through, it was no wonder she’d lost count of the days. Still, that did not necessarily mean she carried his child. But it did, her heart argued back. The moment he’d said the words, she’d recognized the truth.

  Apparently reading the answer in her eyes, he reached out to steady her, a pleased expression on his lips.

  She dropped her hand to curl protectively over her flat stomach. A bairn! The next generation. She had to be strong, not only for herself and her people but for the new life she carried in her womb. Lifting her chin, she peered square into his eyes without flinching. “Loving you is not enough compensation for the years of war I anticipate.”

  His tone softened. “What would you have me do?”

  “Send the Norman army back to Britain.”

  He shook his head, taking her elbow. Together they walked toward the cathedral, one of the few remaining buildings untouched by fire and, from the horses tied outside, his temporary headquarters. “We need those men to retake Leinster and to make a home for our children.”

  She tried not to think how pleasant it would be to make more children with this man. Her heart warmed a little that he wanted her still. “Do you wish our child to be born in a country torn apart by war?”

  His voice hardened, but he spoke gently. “The best way to protect you and our child is to retake Leinster with Norman knights.”

  Perhaps she should allow him to make the military decisions. “I dream of living with you in Leinster, raising our children there.” Her hand gripped his, tightly. “But I would rather give up the land than lose my children to raide
rs in the same way I lost my half-sister Eva. The thought of losing you, of losing a child, terrifies me.”

  “I will keep you and our children safe,” he promised.

  Vultures circled overhead. A pack of wild dogs raced through the streets, while slowly villagers returned to recover what they could.

  “Empty are your promises, Norman. With your ambition, I could be a widow before our child is born.” She stopped then, released his hand, and raised her chin, ignoring the pain that flickered in his gaze. “You can force me to be your wife. You can force me to bear your children.”

  “I have never forced you to my bed.”

  “Though I cannot control my body’s reactions to you,” she admitted, “you will find my heart as elusive as Ireland’s mist unless you give up your ambition to rule all of Eire.”

  He raked his hand through his hair and emitted a sigh. “I told you before that I had changed, that I no longer want to conquer all of Eire.”

  She’d been a fool to believe him. “You gave me sweet words to allay my suspicions. What I have seen this day are powerful warriors killing my people.”

  His lips tightened in anger. “Should I have allowed the Ard-ri to marry you to MacLugh?”

  She slung her hair off her face and straightened her spine in challenge. “So, Norman, do you intend to conquer Ireland or my heart?”

  Gaillard rode up, and the question she’d thrown down like a gauntlet between them remained unanswered. “The archbishop is waiting in the church with Conor.”

  “And the Ard-ri?” Strongheart asked.

  Gaillard frowned. “Is proving stubborn.”

  “I shall see to him myself.” Strongheart strode off without a backward glance, leaving Dara with Gaillard.

  Sorcha came running into the street with a wide smile on her face. She hugged Dara, answering her question before she could ask. “I sailed with the men from Dublin. And I brought you a wedding dress. Come. We must hurry. Your Norman has given me only thirty minutes to prepare you for the ceremony.”