Undoubtedly, the men were bringing her to Ronan as a hostage. The MacEgans were already at Clonagh, along with her brothers’ men. The moment they saw her, they would know something was wrong and would try to help. Joan squared her shoulders, gathering her courage.
To distract herself from the pain, she centred her thoughts on Ronan. Though it still hurt that he had not wanted the baby, she believed he would come to accept it and perhaps even love the child in time. He was strong and kind-hearted, a man who deserved a second chance. Above all, she hoped he was safe.
But when they drew closer to the fortress, she saw men and women staring at her. She knew not what had happened here, but the MacEgan soldiers were no longer fighting. The Normans also stood at attention, holding their weapons and shields.
Her heart pounded when she saw a richly dressed man and an older woman in embroidered silk standing at the far end of the fortress. It must be Odhran and Queen Eilis. But when there was no sign of Ronan, her heart began pounding. Was he alive?
The horseman slowed when he reached the centre of Clonagh. Joan’s entire body ached from the riding, but she kept her mind alert on her surroundings and her enemies. She looked around and was relieved to glimpse Rhys and Warrick on the opposite side.
But from the thin-lipped smile on the queen’s face, Joan knew she had been brought here for a reason.
Odhran spoke a calm command in Irish, and the soldier dismounted and lifted Joan down. He held her for a brief moment, allowing her to steady herself. Her knees were weak, and the immense pain in her abdomen was still there. But she had to gather her wits and think of what to do.
Ronan must not be dead—not after all the trouble they had gone to, bringing her here. No, they were using her as a prisoner to manipulate him and her brothers. When she caught Rhys’s eye, he shook his head slowly in silent warning.
It felt as if she were caught in a chess game, and she did not know who was the sacrificial pawn.
* * *
Ronan awakened, feeling as if his head had been split in half. He winced and sat up in the darkness, only to hear a familiar voice.
‘I thought you would not return, my son.’
The sound of his father speaking struck an emotional blow to his heart. Though it had been only a few months since he’d been gone, it felt like an eternity.
‘I did come back,’ he answered. ‘Twice, though you did not know it.’
In the darkness, a hand reached out for his. Brodur’s palm was freezing as he gripped Ronan’s hand. ‘Odhran will never surrender my throne.’
He had suspected that but didn’t know how to respond to his father’s prediction. ‘Did my men free the children?’
‘No. Odhran moved them elsewhere.’
Ronan had hoped that someone would get the children out, but it now seemed that he had failed again. Frustration bore down upon him, though he had done everything in his power to save them.
‘Where are we?’ he asked Brodur.
‘Inside the Mound of Hostages,’ his father answered. He gripped Ronan’s palm harder and murmured, ‘I am glad you are here. I wanted to see you again before I die.’
‘You won’t die,’ he said quietly. He put his father’s hands between both palms and tried to rub warmth into them. ‘I have two armies here to rescue us.’
‘Their efforts leave much to be desired.’ In the darkness, he could not see his father’s expression, but he read the sardonic air.
So did mine, Ronan thought, remembering the lost battle for the children. He leaned back against the frigid wall, trying to gather his thoughts of what to do now.
His father coughed heavily, and Ronan moved closer, steadying him. ‘How did you get two armies to help you?’ Brodur asked. ‘We haven’t that many allies.’
‘I married the daughter of a Norman lord.’
His father coughed again, but this time, it was mingled with laughter. ‘Why am I not surprised, Ronan? You’ve always had a way with women.’ But there was a faint note of censure there, almost chiding.
‘Joan agreed to the match,’ he said. ‘She is a good woman, Father. Beautiful, with dark hair and blue eyes. She always wears white.’ A heaviness settled within his gut, for he knew not whether he would see his wife again. He wanted to believe that the armies would fight for him, that he would overpower Odhran. And at least Joan was safe at Killalough where no one could harm her.
‘Would that Ardan could have lived to see her.’ His father’s voice was rough with emotion.
Although he knew the words were not meant to bring him pain, Ronan could not stop himself from saying, ‘I accept the blame for my brother’s death. And not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could have changed what I did.’
‘You were not to blame for it.’
He couldn’t believe his father’s words, though they were spoken with kindness. ‘His son died because of me. Ardan lacked the will to live after Declan was gone. So I am to blame, and I will never forget this.’ He pulled his hand away from his father’s. ‘I will restore your throne as best I can. But I realise it will never atone for my mistakes.’
‘I grieve for their deaths, just as you do,’ Brodur said. ‘And I know you regret what happened.’ His father reached out to touch his shoulder. ‘But I forgive you, Ronan.’
The words should have been a balm, but instead, they sliced open his inner wounds. Forgiveness was something he didn’t deserve.
‘I will try to make amends,’ was all he could say.
‘I know you will.’ Brodur squeezed his shoulder. ‘But if something happens to me, you must take the throne from Odhran. Do whatever you must to claim it.’
He didn’t know what his father was implying, but he would not stop until he had reclaimed Clonagh for Brodur. Yet there was another question he had to voice—the fate of the queen. ‘And what of Eilis?’
His father sighed. ‘Her ambitions were greater than I’d guessed. I thought she would be satisfied as queen, but I was wrong. Exile her if you wish, but she cannot be trusted.’
For a time, Ronan was silent. ‘I am sorry for all of this,’ he said at last.
‘So am I. But at least I had the chance to say farewell to you, my son.’
The emotion in his father’s voice seized his heart, for he didn’t want to imagine Brodur’s death. Ronan reached out for the older man’s hand and swore, ‘I will make it right somehow.’
‘I know you will.’
* * *
Joan was permitted to sit near Odhran and his mother, but two soldiers stood at her back with their daggers drawn. Though she tried to remain calm, her nerves were taut with fear. If she dared to run, they would cut her down.
Dear God, what should she do? They would use her to influence Ronan and try to force him to surrender. She couldn’t allow that to happen. And yet, she was too weak to fight back—not without the threat of harming her child.
When she looked back at her brothers, they were standing side by side, their faces locked upon hers. Although their tension was evident, Warrick gave her a slight nod of reassurance.
It looked as if they had planned something, though she knew not what it was. They had the numbers on their side and soldiers who could easily cut down Odhran’s men. Yet, why were they waiting? Were they attempting to negotiate? Or had Ronan ordered them to stand down?
She had to trust that they would guard and protect her. In turn, she would do what was necessary to protect her unborn child.
‘Bring the prisoners,’ Odhran commanded. One of the taller mercenaries went to obey, and he returned a few moments later, accompanied by an older man with a long grey beard. His clothing was tattered, but she could see that it had once been a silk tunic. No doubt it was Ronan’s father, King Brodur.
Though she did not know him, his eyes softened when he caught sight of her. It was as if he knew who she was, and she ve
ntured a slight smile. His expression held regret, as if he doubted he would survive this day. Joan rested her hands upon her womb, letting him guess what he would.
And he returned a genuine smile.
In that moment, something shifted within her. She did not want Ronan’s father to die, or any of his people. With another glance to her brothers, she stared hard at them and then back to King Brodur, letting them know her wishes. Too many had died, and she knew what Ronan’s father meant to him.
Then the mercenary returned with her husband. A spear was pointed at his back, and his hands were bound in front of him. Ronan walked slowly, and she saw dried blood on his neck. She drank in the sight of him, so glad that he was alive. There was shock in his expression when he saw her, and she flushed with her own guilt. Had she remained behind at Killalough, she would not be a hostage now.
Are you all right? he seemed to be asking.
She tried to nod, though she was still afraid for the baby.
The men brought Ronan before Odhran, whose expression turned smug. The new king spoke in Irish, and Joan turned to the men behind her. ‘What is he saying?’
One of the Ó Callaghan men stepped forward and translated the words for her sake, and she listened closely to their conversation.
Odhran directed his next words to Ronan. ‘You thought to attack us, did you?’
‘You already attacked our forces at Killalough,’ he countered, remembering his wedding day. ‘And you imprisoned the Ó Callaghan children. I thought only to save them.’
His stepbrother shrugged, not bothering to deny it. ‘But you did not succeed. And now the people see you for what you are...a failure.’
The man’s arrogance irritated Joan. He was behaving as if he was above everyone else, when truthfully, he was a tyrant. To the translator behind her, she directed, ‘Tell him my words.’
Then she took a step forward and addressed Odhran. ‘A true king would never need to hold hostages to keep his throne. Your reign is a false one built upon fear, not a birthright.’
After the man translated for Odhran, his face reddened with anger. ‘If you married Ronan in hopes of gaining a throne, it will never happen. He killed his nephew and his brother.’
If he thought his words would shock her, he was mistaken. ‘Their deaths were an accident, and he grieves for them. The people know the truth, and so do you.’
‘Ronan is a coward, nothing more.’
She didn’t believe that for a moment. Ronan had sacrificed everything to bring help to Clonagh, and he was doing all he could to prevent needless deaths. She could see the tension in the people’s faces and how they looked to him for leadership.
One of the men jabbed his spear lightly at Ronan, forcing him to step forward. Odhran regarded him. ‘As punishment for your rebellion, you will die. But before you are executed, you will watch the death of either your father or your wife. Only one will live.’
It felt as if the blood had drained away from her face. Panic clawed within her as Joan tried to decide what to do.
Ronan’s face remained stoic. ‘I would never make such a choice.’
‘If you do not choose one, then both will die. It matters not to me.’ Odhran motioned towards his soldiers, and two of them seized Joan by her shoulders. They jerked her to stand up, and one pressed a blade to her throat.
Her mind was screaming at her to struggle, to fight for her life against these men. But then, a strange calm descended over her. She squared her shoulders and faced Odhran. To Ronan, she said quietly, ‘I trust in you.’
She heard Ronan’s father speak in Irish, and the translator relayed his words for her sake. Brodur was urging Ronan to sacrifice him, so that she might live.
A sudden anger roared through her, that this was happening at all. She would not simply stand here and let Odhran kill her husband or anyone else.
There was no curse and never had been. There was only misfortune and sorrow—and she would not remain passive while her loved ones were threatened. She had come to love Ronan and the unborn baby within her. She could not let anything happen to either of them.
She had full faith in Ronan and in her brothers. But it didn’t mean she could not also fight herself. Upon the ground, she saw a stone the size of her fist.
She had the element of surprise. And she intended to use it.
* * *
Ronan didn’t like the look in his wife’s eyes. Joan intended to fight for her life, and he could not risk her being hurt.
‘Ronan,’ his father said. ‘Save your wife and let her go with her brothers. I am old and have lived my life. You know he will kill me anyway.’
But Ronan couldn’t turn his back on his father. He had already caused the deaths of his brother and his nephew. The thought of losing Brodur was unfathomable. Then, too, he knew that his stepbrother was lying. Odhran would spare none of them.
‘I will not choose,’ he repeated, and his stepbrother’s face tightened with frustration. Ronan didn’t know what the man wanted. Was Odhran trying to demean him in front of his people? All around, he saw kinsmen who were only afraid for their children. They wanted no part of this fight.
And then he realised what he could do to undermine Odhran. The man thought he could prevent an attack because Ronan’s armies did not want to harm the Ó Callaghan people. But he was wrong.
Ronan knew exactly how to cause the chaos needed to win this fight. He raised his voice so that all could hear. He focused his attention on his kinsmen and said, ‘This is not your fight. My men have orders not to harm you. Instead, go and find your children while my men fight for you. Search everywhere until you have brought them back safely.’
His words had the intended effect. The men and women scattered, while the soldiers remained, closing in on Odhran and the hostages.
Then Ronan twisted away from the men holding him, holding out his bound hands so Warrick could slice the ropes. There was a roar as the men charged forward, closing in on Odhran’s mercenaries. Ronan seized his own blade and watched in horror as Joan fell to the ground. One of the mercenaries tried to grab her, but she struck him in the face with a large stone. His heart nearly stopped when he saw another man raise his weapon, and Ronan shoved his way towards her, blocking the blow with his own sword.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. She nodded, but her face was the colour of milk. He cut her bindings and called out to her brother, ‘Rhys, take Joan out of here!’
The warrior cut a path towards his sister and led her away. Relief poured through Ronan to know that she would be safe. But he lost sight of his father as the two armies converged, slaughtering the mercenaries.
In the distance, he heard the cries of children, and the sound brought back the memory of Declan. He fought hard, his blade biting into flesh as he cut a path towards Odhran. And when he reached the man’s side, he faced the man who had harmed so many.
‘Your reign is over,’ he said quietly.
There was a thin smile on Odhran’s face. ‘It might be,’ he agreed. ‘But then, so is your father’s.’
Ronan glanced in the direction Odhran was looking and saw the fallen body of Brodur. Anguish ripped through him at the knowledge that his father was dead. He had failed again, and grief overtook him. He had gained Brodur’s forgiveness, only to lose him now.
A sound of rage tore from his throat as he attacked his stepbrother. He fought against the man who had stolen the throne and murdered his father. Damn Odhran for this.
He let the fury consume him as he struck hard, caught up in a storm of vengeance. Odhran was a skilled fighter, and he evaded Ronan’s blows, striking back with his own blade.
‘You’re going to die today, Ronan,’ his stepbrother said. ‘And when you are dead, I will take your wife’s body and claim her.’ A mocking smile came over his face.
Never in a thousand years would Ronan let this man liv
e. He was aware that the fighting all around them had stilled. The children were in the arms of their parents, and both the de Laurent and MacEgan armies had surrounded them. He could no longer see his father’s body, and he guessed that it had been taken away to protect it for burial.
Grief and regret tangled up inside him as he swung his sword, over and over. The clashing metal reverberated through his arm, but he felt none of the force—only sorrow that he had lost his father, and there was no one left.
No one, save Joan and their unborn child.
A rush of emotion slid through him, for at least they were safe. Even if he failed now, it would not matter. Joan had the child she desired, and her brothers would take care of her. It was enough.
And yet, he wanted to live to see this baby born. He wanted to see his wife’s joy and the softness in her eyes when she looked upon the child with love. Joan would make a good mother; he was sure of it.
Weariness ached within him, but he continued to fight, dodging blows until at last he saw Odhran beginning to slow. He renewed his assault, and when the man lunged, he twisted and sliced his blade into Odhran’s side. His stepbrother gasped, and Ronan ended the fight, stabbing him in the heart. Odhran sank to his knees, clutching at the weapon as he died.
A woman’s piercing scream tore through the silence, and Ronan caught a blur of motion as Eilis ran towards her son.
But instead of dropping beside Odhran, she unsheathed her own dagger and drove it into Ronan’s ribs.
It happened so fast, he was hardly aware of anything, save the fierce pain and the blood flowing down his tunic. His hand closed around the hilt, and the world tipped sideways, making him fall to his knees. He searched through the crowds of people for one last glimpse of Joan. He desperately needed to see her before he died.
But her brother had already taken her away, as promised.
His last thought before he succumbed to the darkness was that he’d never told her that he loved her. And now he never would.
Chapter Eleven
A hot ball of pain gathered within Joan’s stomach as she saw Ronan fall. She wanted to scream, but not a sound escaped her. Her heart was shattering into pieces, and she could hardly breathe.
Forbidden Night with the Prince Page 18