‘That is your choice, of course. But you are outnumbered.’ Sir Peter gave a nod towards the opposite wall, where archers waited with bows drawn. ‘We could kill you before your men could release their weapons.’
Although Sir Peter was trying to protect her, Genevieve wanted to curse the man. He had spent nearly each day of the past two moons drinking ale and eating. Not a finger had he lifted to guard her from Hugh. But the moment an Irishman tried to rescue her, he decided to play the role of saviour.
‘This fortress was mine long before the Normans took it,’ MacEgan said. ‘The people are loyal to me. It would not be long before a dagger would slide between your ribs one night.’
Sir Peter shrugged. ‘That is Marstowe’s concern, not mine. My purpose is to guard the Lady Genevieve until her marriage.’
‘You seem to be doing a poor job of it.’
Rage exploded upon the man’s face, and Bevan’s grip tightened around her. She held her breath, afraid of the knife at her throat. Though she didn’t believe he would hurt her, the slightest pressure could make the blade slip.
Where was Hugh? Genevieve did not trust him to stay out of this. Had he run? Or was he plotting against them?
She caught a slight movement from the shadows. The gleam of an arrow-tip reflected in the firelight. Out of instinct, she pushed backwards against MacEgan with all her strength, just as the arrow was fired. The shaft grazed MacEgan’s shoulder, and would have struck her had she not moved in time.
The knife left her throat for an instant, and strong arms dragged her away.
‘Seize him!’ a voice commanded.
Five guards took hold of MacEgan. He fought back, slashing with his dagger, but there were too many of them. Genevieve tried to free herself from Sir Peter’s grasp, but he held firm. After a fierce struggle, they disarmed him. Seconds later, Hugh emerged from the shadows. At the sight of him, Genevieve’s blood ran cold. The expression on his face appeared tender, loving. Genevieve knew the act well.
He took her in his arms and touched the soft part of her throat where the blade had rested. ‘I will kill him for touching you.’ Unsheathing his dagger, he stared at MacEgan. ‘Perhaps I shall slit his throat now.’
Genevieve closed her eyes, knowing that none of the prisoners would be released.
Hugh traced a finger down her jaw. The gesture made her skin crawl. ‘But I would rather have him suffer for what he has done. On the morrow, I will have him executed, so that all will know not to attack Rionallís. He can watch the younger one hang first.’
Genevieve turned to him, unable to hide her hatred. ‘I thought you would let the boy go.’
‘I let no one escape who attacks what is mine. Return to your chamber and bolt the door.’He clapped Sir Peter on the shoulder. ‘Thank you for defending her.’
‘It was no trouble.’ Sir Peter’s hand returned to his sword. ‘Shall we rid ourselves of the rest of them?’
Hugh inclined his head. To his soldiers, he ordered, ‘Secure the outer bailey. Spare no one.’ With those words, Hugh donned his helm and left.
Genevieve forced herself to go above stairs, each step heavier than the last. She could not allow MacEgan to die, not after he had tried to save her. She cradled her arms against her sore ribs, remembering the hungry look in Hugh’s eyes. He had enjoyed hurting her. Her hands moved down to her hips, and she trembled in fear, knowing exactly how he intended to hurt her this time.
She had one last chance. She would find a way to save MacEgan and his brother, even if it meant risking her death.
CHAPTER TWO
Genevieve hid in a chamber used for storing food and herbs until the sounds of battle faded into the distance. The thickness of smoke tainted the air, and she tried not to think of the number of men who were now dead. There were two she could save, and save them she would.
She studied the dried roots and stalks until she found the ones she was looking for. Mixed with ale, their bitterness would not be tasted by the guards, and the herbs would cause sleep.
Hugh had sent the captives to an underground cellar. As Genevieve had anticipated, MacEgan was heavily guarded. She balanced the pitcher of ale and tankards while climbing down the ladder. The cool air raised gooseflesh on her arms, but she squared her shoulders and put on a false smile.
As soon as the guard saw her, he frowned. ‘Lady Genevieve, you should not be here.’
‘I thought you and your men deserved a reward for your bravery this eve,’ she said, holding out the pitcher.
The guard brightened at her offering, allowing her to fill his cup. He lifted his tankard in a toast, then drank heartily. Genevieve poured ale for the other soldiers, and soon they relaxed with a game of dice. For a moment she waited, to see if anyone responded to the drugged mixture, but nothing happened.
Had she added enough? Or, worse, would the herbs take effect at all? Tonight was her only chance to help the MacEgans escape, while Hugh was occupied with the Irish invaders. She glanced towards the prisoners, shrinking back at the sight of Bevan MacEgan’s suspicious glare.
He rested on his haunches, both wrists chained. Though outwardly he appeared calm, she sensed he was biding his time. He exuded strength, a caged wolf prepared to tear out the throat of his enemy, given an opportunity.
Was it the right decision to free them? If it were only the young boy, Ewan, she’d not hesitate. But she knew nothing about Bevan MacEgan, nor whether he was an honest man.
She moved towards the ladder as if about to leave. Another soldier raised his hand in farewell, and she pretended to step upon the ladder. When their attention was firmly on the game, she slipped into the shadows. She leaned back against the cool stones, her pulse thrumming in anticipation.
In the darkness, she saw MacEgan staring at her. His penetrating gaze made her shiver, though he said nothing to reveal her presence.
It was taking far too long for the herbs to take effect. Genevieve did not know what she would do if the guards did not succumb to sleep.
The younger boy struggled with his chains, fighting to gain release. MacEgan settled back against the wall, not a trace of emotion upon his scarred face. He waited with the patience of a man who had known captivity before. Genevieve prayed she had not been mistaken about trusting him.
Before long she heard footsteps approaching. Hugh’s voice echoed off the stones as he descended the ladder. ‘I want to speak with the prisoners alone.’
At the sound of his voice, she tried to shrink back further. She found a small niche behind one of the barrels, pulling her body into a tight ball. The guards climbed the ladder, but none seemed aware of her. She clenched her hands together, every muscle tensed.
Hugh withdrew a dagger and fingered the edge of the blade. The steel flashed silver in the torch light. He stood before MacEgan, a grim expression lining his mouth.
‘You should not have touched her. She belongs to me. Any man who threatens her will die.’
The boy paled, but MacEgan met his adversary’s gaze evenly. ‘Then you must be ready to face death yourself. It was you who beat her, was it not?’
A murderous rage darkened Hugh’s face. He unsheathed his dagger and slashed it at MacEgan’s cheek, carving a wound that mirrored the scar on his opposite cheek.
Though a flash of pain dimmed the Irish warrior’s eyes, he did not move. He stared at Hugh in a silent challenge. Genevieve held her breath, her hand moving towards her bruised ribs.
Then Hugh plunged the dagger into MacEgan’s shoulder, where the arrow had skimmed it earlier. Genevieve expected MacEgan to cry out, but he made not a sound. Instead, he met Hugh’s gaze, his features tight with pain.
She had seen enough. If she didn’t act now, Hugh would slit MacEgan’s throat next. She emerged from her hiding place, grabbing the pitcher of ale. The fragile pottery shattered across Hugh’s head, but he remained standing. Genevieve tried to move away, but he caught her.
He struck her across the face, and a fierce pain blasted through her ch
eek. She couldn’t stop the cry that slipped from her mouth at the terrible agony. His fist collided with her bruised ribs, expelling the air from her lungs. For the first time she glimpsed the face of death. She had crossed the boundary past fear and anger, slipping into the need to survive. Her knees buckled, for she could not breathe. Darkness hovered at the edge of her periphery.
Bevan seized the opportunity and wrapped his chains around the man’s throat. He tasted blood, but ignored the fiery pain in his shoulder. A clear sense of focus sharpened the anger rising within.
When the Norman knight had struck Genevieve, it had been as though he were seeing a vision of his wife. Past and present had blurred, and the images of a battlefield had filled his mind. He saw his wife, Fiona, crying out for help while the Normans chased her on horseback. He had fought against the hordes of enemy soldiers, trying with all his strength to reach her.
His failure had haunted him ever since.
Though it was Genevieve who had fallen beneath Sir Hugh’s fists, it was his wife he was seeing as he tightened the metal chain around the man’s throat, strangling him. The chains strained and the knight’s face grew slack, his body slipping into unconsciousness.
Motion caught his eye, and soldiers began descending the ladder, swords drawn. He was forced to release Hugh, though he wished he’d had time to twist the life from him. Any man who struck a woman was not worth the dust beneath his feet. He risked a glance at Genevieve, and saw her cradling her ribs. She was alive, but it unnerved him, having a woman try to rescue him.
A blade arced towards him, and Bevan caught the blow with his chains. Years of training made it easy to defend himself, and he waited for an opportunity to disarm his opponent.
Strangely, the soldiers were unsteady on their feet, behaving as though they had drunk too much ale. One of the men aimed for Ewan, and Bevan twisted to take the blade’s impact upon his chains. He breathed easier when the men left his brother alone.
Ewan dropped to the ground, using his feet to trip one of the guards. Bevan evaded more slashes while fighting to remain on his feet. Energy surged through him when one stumbled, and Bevan seized the sword. Seconds later, the man lay dead upon the ground.
The second guard stumbled forward, his expression vacant. A dagger lay embedded in his back. Behind him stood Genevieve, her face ghostly pale. Bevan had seen that expression before. The first time she’d killed a man, he’d wager. And she looked as though she expected God to strike her down for the sin.
Bevan no longer cared about his soul. He’d lived through everlasting damnation during the past two years. He seized the third guard, wrapping his chains tightly around the man’s throat and aiming the sword at his belly. ‘Unlock our manacles.’
The guard glanced towards the ladder. Bevan’s patience disappeared. ‘You will be dead before they get here unless you unlock these.’
The man fumbled for the heavy iron ring of keys at his waist, and unlocked the chains.
‘Now my brother.’
When the last chain fell free, the guard tried to bolt towards the ladder. Bevan swung his sword towards the man’s head, striking him with the hilt. The guard crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
‘You didn’t kill him,’ Genevieve murmured.
‘I keep my word.’To his brother he said, ‘Get our weapons and free the men. Tell them to alert the others and return to Laochre.’
Ewan scurried to the far end of the storage chamber to do his bidding.
Bevan helped Genevieve stand, though she was still guarding her ribs. ‘You’re hurt.’
‘Not as badly as you,’ she managed. ‘Let me tend your wounds. Your shoulder is bleeding badly.’
‘There is no time.’ His injury was not a mortal wound, though the pain staggered him.
‘You have to leave. They’ll kill you.’
He knew it, just as surely as he knew that he had to take her with him. It was the only way to keep her safe. ‘Are you coming with us?’
Genevieve’s eyes glimmered with tears, and she stared at the fallen body of Hugh. ‘He’s still alive?’
Bevan shrugged. ‘For now.’
‘I can’t stay here. Not any more.’
Ewan returned, carrying a bow and arrows, as well as two swords. The blade was easily more than half the boy’s height, but Ewan clutched it with fervour. ‘The men have left. Through the souterrain passage, as you ordered.’
‘Good.’ Bevan sheathed his sword and held out his hand to Genevieve. ‘Go or stay. It is your choice, a chara.’
With a fearful look back at the man who had beaten her, she put her hand in his. ‘I’ll go.’
* * *
They escaped through the narrow passageway, the scent of wet soil and clay surrounding them. Bevan led them to a secondary tunnel that opened out into the forest. The night had grown cold, its chilled air biting their faces as the harsh wind swept by.
Genevieve clutched her side, her face tight with suffering, but she made no complaint.
A kind of madness had overcome him, to bring a woman along. It was his weakness that he could not stand to see a woman beaten. He suspected that Sir Hugh was someone close to Genevieve—a relative, or her betrothed.
Bevan knew he had to find shelter for the three of them. The journey back to his brother’s fortress would take days, and there had been no time to retrieve the horses. The voice of doubt sank its teeth into his confidence. He didn’t know if they would make it.
And he had seen no sign of his men. It bothered him, for he knew not if they had escaped detection. In the blackness of the forest, he paused to look back at Rionallís. Fiery torches blazed in the darkness amid the glinting of chain-mail armour. They needed more distance, and he increased their pace.
The slickness beneath his tunic reminded him that he would have to stanch the bleeding. The pain had become a vicious reality, but he had no choice except to move onward. If they stopped now, they were dead.
His brother was keeping up, but Genevieve had started to fall behind. She leaned up against a tree, her arm wrapped around her ribs. ‘Grant me a moment,’ she pleaded, catching her breath.
‘We can’t. They’re following us.’ He studied her, assessing her injuries. Lowering his voice, he asked, ‘Would you rather stay here? Return to them?’
‘No.’ Rebellion blazed in her eyes, and she straightened her shoulders. ‘I’ll never go back to him.’ She steadied herself, then began walking once more.
‘Who is he? Your husband?’
‘My betrothed.’ She increased her pace until they cleared the forest. ‘But no longer. Not if I am free of him.’
They traversed the open field, instinct guiding him upon the right path. Shrouded in darkness, he used the dim glow of light coming from the church. With each step he felt his strength ebbing.
Genevieve must have sensed it, for she stopped him. ‘You need to bind your wounds.’
‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘She’s right, Bevan.’ Ewan gripped his hand. ‘You would not make it much further.’
He didn’t like admitting a weakness, particularly when both of them depended upon him for their survival. Yet he would be no good to them were he to stumble and fall. His gaze fixed upon the lights in the distance. At last he said, ‘I know a place where we can stay. But if there is any sign of Sir Hugh’s men, we must leave.’
When they reached the outskirts of the tenants’ lands, Genevieve motioned towards a beehive-shaped cottage. Bevan shook his head. ‘I’ll not endanger my people.’
There was only one possibility for shelter. He pointed to a round stone tower in the distance that rested beside the church. ‘Stay behind me.’
As they approached they saw that the church was small, but the tower would provide the greatest protection for the night. Bevan spied a candle lit in the window and raised his fist to the door. A tall, thin priest answered his knock. He recognised Father Ó Brian, a quiet man, who had been known to wield a sword in his younger days. He respected
the priest, and the man’s strength of faith.
‘We seek a place to stay,’ Bevan said.
The priest glanced at the three of them, his attention caught by the bloodstained tunic. ‘Bevan MacEgan.’ He rubbed the brown beard on his chin and opened the door wider for them to enter. ‘It has been a long time. Almost a year and a half it’s been since you were at Rionallís.’ The priest gestured for them to enter. ‘I am glad to see you. We have prayed for your return since the invaders came.’
Bevan caught the silent censure. But, after Fiona’s death, the emptiness of Rionallís had made it unbearable to stay. For that first year he’d travelled from one tribe to another, hiring his sword. Then, last spring, his people had endured attack and conquest.
He clasped the priest’s arm. ‘We will return again. I swear it.’ His younger brother Ewan’s face flushed with embarrassment. The boy blamed himself for the failed invasion.
‘Good.’ Father Ó Brian gestured towards the small chapel. ‘What can I do to assist you?’
‘We need shelter for the night, and food. Horses on the morrow, if that is possible.’
The priest nodded. ‘I believe the round tower would be best.’ He led them back outside, behind the church. The stone tower stood high against the shadows of the landscape, narrow in diameter. The priest brought a ladder for them to ascend to the entrance, leading the way. Once inside, he closed the door and lowered a rope ladder to the next level.
‘What is this place?’ Genevieve asked.
‘We use it for storage,’ Father Ó Brian replied. ‘But we can also detect our enemies from a distance. It has been here for hundreds of years. Some say the priests used to hide religious treasures in these towers.’
Using a torch for light, he led them up several levels, but did not take them to the top. High above them was the bell used to sound the hours. Six windows surrounded the topmost level. Bevan intended to use them to sight their enemies.
‘There is no fire, but you should be warm enough on this level. There is a pallet, should you wish to sleep.’ Father Ó Brian gestured towards Bevan’s wound. ‘I’ll bring a basin of water to tend your injury—’
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 55
