Emerald Prince

by Brit Darby

  To Dubhan went a pair of dead soldier’s boots of fine calfskin leather. They would serve the farmer well, or he could sell them. To Hilda, he presented a red cloak trimmed with fur. He heard Alianor’s gasp and knew she was surprised, mayhap even angry.

  “Too fine for me by half,” Hilda cried, but looked delighted as she clutched the cloak to her ample bosom.

  “The color suits you, Hilda,” Alianor said. Liam looked at her, expecting to see judgment in her eyes; instead he bore witness to sincerity. Perhaps he misjudged his captive. Then again, it could be part of her strategy to relax his guard.

  He swung up behind Alianor and his body reacted to her warm, soft flesh pressed against his. The faint fragrance of violets still clung to her. The scent annoyed him today as much as it had charmed him yesterday, and he curbed Biorra a tad sharper than usual.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Alianor asked.

  The blindfold. Swallowing an oath, Liam yanked it from his pocket and cinched it back in place over her eyes, though not so gently this time. Ignoring her startled inhalation, he set his heels to Biorra and they were off again.

  They rode a few miles in silence, until Alianor spoke with a burst of mounting frustration.

  “I am of no true value to you, Caomhánach. Why do you insist on pursuing this course? ’Twill come to naught, and you and your men will die for your troubles.”

  Liam tensed; his emotions near boiling over. Her touch was like a brand upon his flesh, a fire bolting through him so fiercely he feared he might succumb to its driving need. Only anger could save him.

  “You are right in one aspect, milady. Who you are is unimportant to me, yet what you represent is of the utmost significance. Do not think otherwise.”

  She withdrew her dainty hand from where it clutched his arm, as if he had bitten it. A downward glance revealed a frown beneath the blindfold. Liam almost believed her upset to be genuine. He reminded himself Lady Coventry was a canny creature, raised at court and well-trained in the gentle arts of persuasion. He held this conviction in mind until she spoke again, this time softer.

  “Forgive me. I shall not trouble you further.”

  His anger fled and in its place came a disconcerting shame for his outburst. God’s nightshirt, he swore to himself. She was not only good, she was a master of the game. His captive made him feel guilty with her silence!

  More disgusted with himself than her, he whistled to Biorra and the horse plunged into a full gallop. Alianor grabbed his arm again for support, and he felt a flash of triumph when she was forced to depend on him. The feeling was short-lived. The skies above them darkened and rumbled, and the first splash of rain fell upon his cheek like a teardrop.

  Liam set his jaw. He had a feeling Eire herself was laughing at him, laughing so hard she cried.

  ALIANOR FELT THE SOGGY blindfold slip further down her head. The man behind her didn’t seem to notice or care. Liam remained silent as the once-gentle rain lashed at them viciously, aided by the cold wind. He had no choice but to let Biorra slow his break-neck pace, the mud and muck too hazardous. So the horse carried his miserable burden with agonizing, plodding slowness.

  Uncertain what had transpired between her and Caomhánach, she thought back on their conversation. Or was it confrontation? One moment he was gentle and considerate, the next angry and hard. How could she reason with this moody man?

  What you are is of the utmost significance. The words rang in Alianor’s mind. What am I? English? That alone seemed enough to provoke any native Irishman’s hatred, but was it enough to risk the hangman’s noose for kidnapping? No, she thought not. Was it her connection to King John, mayhap?

  She knew the King had more enemies than he could count. Many bore contempt for the Crown as a result of his cruel actions. Not only was he a bigot where the Irish were concerned, but he was at constant odds with the Church.

  But what had any of it to do with her? Or why would it make any difference to this Irishman?

  There was her intended, Lord de Lacy. Liam bore a great disdain for the man, which she saw in the curl of his upper lip whenever he spoke the man’s name. Surely he knew she was no willing party to de Lacy’s schemes. He had noticed the black gown and wedding ring she still wore. Neither painted a portrait of romantic devotion.

  She swore under her breath. Why couldn’t she think? She had never felt so helpless before — even when confronted with the King’s lust, she had not backed down. Now, it was not the rheumy, piggy eyes of the King disarming her, but the emerald-green ones of a cutpurse. Liam Caomhánach. Even the music of his name teased at her lips; she pushed this thought aside with renewed determination.

  Exhaustion, cold, fear; a myriad of reasons explained her wavering confidence and passing fancies. Miserable, Alianor hoped a break from the saddle and the rain might help restore her strength. As if willing it, Biorra stopped and Liam ordered the men to dismount.

  When Liam lifted her down from the saddle, the sodden blindfold gave way and slipped down to her neck. She tensed expecting an angry reaction, but Liam sighed and pointed towards a large cave opening where some of his men gathered to wait out the rain.

  Liam and the remaining men tended the horses, and Alianor slogged up the hillside to the cave in her heavy, soaked skirts. On the way she reflected upon Liam’s prophetic words: You’ll just get dirty again.

  She ducked into the cave, wringing water from her braid. When she arrived, Niall led her to a rock where she could sit. She saw he already had Goliath’s cage in a dry corner of the cave. Poor Goliath, he looked as wet and battered as she was.

  “Here, colleen. You must be hungry.” Niall handed her a hunk of dry bread and cheese. “We’ll be off again soon, so make short work of it.”

  Alianor took the offering with a nod of gratitude. “Thank you. I hope there is enough to go around.”

  Niall heard the sincerity in her voice, and found himself admiring Lady Alianor again. Not only was she beautiful, but she had a kind heart. He found it remarkable she worried about the welfare of a motley lot of outlaws when she did not know her own fate. “Aye, our good Hilda saw us stocked up for the rest of the journey.”

  “What is this place?” Alianor asked, nibbling at a wedge of cheese while looking around. The light was dim and only a few feet away the cave plunged into an abyss of darkness.

  “The old ones call it Dearc Fearna, the Cave of the Alders.” Niall’s voice echoed in the cavern around them. “’Tis said a terrible monster reigned here, Luchtigern, the Lord of the Mice.”

  “Now only one monster calls it home,” Alianor said with a nod in Liam’s direction.

  Niall laughed. “In a mood, is he?”

  “I suppose you could call it so, though I might use less polite words.” Alianor perched upon a large boulder near the mouth of the cave, arranging her skirts as if she attended a courtly picnic in the wood.

  Between bites of bread and cheese she asked, “Is Caomhánach like your Lord of the Mice, good sir? Perhaps I should beg your protection against the fearsome temper of a man like he.”

  Aye, she’s a sense of humor, and one as blunt as the edge of a Sassenach sword, Niall thought. He liked her better by the minute.

  “Liam has reasons for what he does, milady. Don’t judge him without knowing the whole story.”

  “Please call me Alianor. Formalities seem rather silly in view of my circumstances.” She finished the last of the humble meal and offered him a delicate hand. Niall nodded as he lifted it to his lips. The gallant gesture seemed natural when confronted by a woman like Alianor. He was beginning to understand why Liam was drawn towards and yet disturbed by the beautiful widow.

  “I’m Niall. Your faithful servant whilst you are with us — Alianor.”

  “At the moment, Niall,” Alianor confessed, shaking crumbs from her skirts, “I’m more in need of a friend.”

  “Aye,” he nodded. “’Twould be an honor if you consider me one.” He pressed a finger to his lips and winked.
“Hist, ’twill be our little secret though. Don’t tell Liam, else he’ll have me hide for it.”

  HANDS CLASPED BEHIND HIS back, King John stared out the window of his royal apartments. A few weeks ago, from this exact spot, he watched a fair young woman ride her white palfrey and bade her tercel hunt.

  Christ’s wounds! His eyes narrowed as he gazed at the empty yard, devoid of its former decoration. Damme the little cocktease. Damme de Lacy, too. The idiot lost his rarefied prize before he even sampled it. Trust a Normandy-bred simpleton to allow his own bride to slip through his fingers. Now he didn’t even have the satisfaction of knowing Alianor suffered at the hands of a man renowned for his cruelty. Perhaps humbled enough to wish in her hour of shame she had not been so quick to refuse her King.

  Both courts knew of de Lacy’s predilection for bizarre sexual acts, and it amused John to imagine Alianor’s disgust and horror. If he could not have her, he did not mind tossing her to a man so reviled. There was no danger she would fall in love with de Lacy. Even whores were repulsed by the one they called Le Anguille, the Eel, for his cold-blooded nature.

  “Your Majesty? Forgive the interruption.”

  The voice of William Marshal shattered his brooding reverie.

  Turning to face the tall, gray-haired knight, John frowned. He was daunted by Marshal’s height and envied him the mellow charm he had with the ladies. The man was a virtual relic, but the ravages of time had not bent his mind as they had his body.

  As the second son of a middling baron, Marshal had by necessity gone into royal service. Over the years, he gained knighthood, renown and respect throughout the kingdom. He was shrewd enough to marry Strongbow’s heir, Isabel de Clare, and so inherited all of Strongbow’s lands in England, Wales and Ireland. He was also a friend of the late Coventry. This made Marshal one of the biggest burrs under the King’s saddle, joining the Pope, Philip Augustus, de Lacy and Lady Coventry.

  Only four years ago, Marshal had offered to fight an ordeal by battle to prove his allegiance to John. While none dared take up the challenge, the dramatic act had not gone unnoticed and many still spoke of this aged knight with awe.

  Their admiration annoyed John. He knew a different side of Marshal, the soldier rather than the statesman. Marshal had been a hard taskmaster, given the chore of educating a young Prince John as he had tutored Henry II, John’s father. But John did not possess his sire’s natural physical abilities, and he felt picked and put upon whenever Marshal corrected him.

  John still chafed under Marshal’s counsel. He had never trusted the knight since the loss of Normandy, suspecting this cunning old man must be keeping secret correspondence with Philip Augustus. Some time ago, Marshal’s attempts to bring about peace between the two countries had angered John, and in a fit of rage he had confiscated all of Marshal’s possessions, including his castles, and held two of his eldest sons hostage until he made reparation.

  Peace between these men was a long time coming. Marshal retired to Ireland for a spell, avoiding his wrath, but the two clashed there as well. Marshal had the better and more faithful knights, and to John’s fury a truce was necessary in the end so the two might coexist. Otherwise, they might fight on forever, while those Irish savages chuckled with glee.

  No, John realized he could not slay Marshal outright; the old goat was too admired and adored throughout the kingdom. He had returned to court now to ease the negotiations with the Pope, and swung the baronage behind the King in yet one more display of loyalty. It seemed Marshal was more beloved by the day, and he more despised.

  He regarded the knight coolly. Marshal was still armor-clad, having returned from the field. His helmet was clutched beneath one arm, his silvery hair damp with sweat. He bowed with respect, but there was nothing servile in his manner. Yet another trait that irritated John.

  “If you deem it necessary, Marshal, we are certain the interruption is warranted,” he replied, though he could not keep a tinge of sarcasm from his tone.

  Marshal let the jibe pass, as he had so many others. Instead he smiled, worsening John’s mood.

  “Another missive has been received from His Holiness, Your Grace. He asks you reconsider your position on France, and offers to review the matter of the Interdict.” Marshal’s expression stayed neutral, but clearly he was, as ever, on the side of peace.

  John scowled. “Review meaning we are asked to return Church properties and pay compensation.”

  “I do not doubt it, Sire.”

  “We needed the Church treasury to put down the Welsh revolt,” John muttered. He knew he sounded petulant and hated how his old tutor still made him feel like a child.

  “By God’s grace Wales is settled, Sire, and order is restored,” Marshal said. No rebuke was obvious, but John sensed it and seethed.

  “How fares our Irish campaign?” he demanded.

  “Same as ever, Your Majesty. De Braose maintains his defiant posture.”

  “It will not do.” John stroked his chin. “Prepare the army to set sail. We shall make our position clear in person.”

  “Sire?” Marshal looked surprised. “You would go to Ireland?”

  “And why not? That isle of bogs and barbarians is part of our kingdom.”

  Marshal was silent at the challenge. He did not grasp the logic behind the abrupt decision to go to Ireland, and John sensed his suspicion.

  “We shall avail ourselves of Lord de Lacy’s hospitality whilst there,” John added. “Send word ahead to Fountainhall to expect our retinue.”

  This made Marshal frown. Since the King never evidenced any desire to pay a social call to de Lacy before, they both knew there was only one reason to explain his newfound interest in Ireland. A reason named Alianor Coventry.

  Sensing Marshal’s disapproval, John sought to distract him. “Sir William,” he said, “what think you of this jewel?” He reached into a velvet satchel dangling from the ornate girdle over his wool supertunic. He presented a large diamond for the knight’s inspection. “Will it please my Isa, d’you think?”

  Marshal’s steel-colored eyebrows lowered at the deliberate change of topic. Yet he glanced at the gem and remarked, “Truly a prize to win any lady’s heart, Your Grace.”

  John smiled. “We obtained it from a merchant Jew passing through on his way to the Holy Land. We know you oft dealt with those sorts.” He named the sum he had paid, and demanded, “D’you find it a fair bargain?”

  Something flickered in Marshal’s eyes, anger mayhap, for the old man abhorred prejudice. He looked weary as he replied, “I am certain the merchant obtained the lesser end of the deal, Your Majesty.”

  This mollified John. He reckoned himself a shrewd negotiator. “Aye, Marshal. Those who boast of haggling skills soon find themselves cornered in negotiations with us.”

  The double entendre was not wasted on William Marshal. Only King John dared equate the Pope with a Jewish merchant. He quelled a sigh, realizing it was useless to approach the King today. He must wait until the man dubbed ‘Softsword’ by his people was more receptive to reason. Glancing at the King’s smug demeanor, he conceded defeat.

  William kept an ear close to the ground. He knew of Lackland’s latest obsession with Lady Coventry and he could not fault her disgust. The King was a paunchy man of average height with flaring nostrils and thick lips set in either a sulky pout or cruel sneer.

  King John had inherited the tempestuous nature of his father and a demoniac energy. He raced around his kingdom like a man possessed, while also finding time to indulge his obsessive interests in gambling, and women. Simply put, and saddest of all in William’s eyes, the King of England could not be trusted.

  Any man who wasted a quarter of his annual revenue on defense, who plundered the Church treasuries and sold holy relics to finance reckless campaigns, and who could not tear his gaze from a woman’s bosom to save his life, was doomed to be an ineffectual leader and an even deadlier foe.

  William worried about England, but more so Lady Coventry. He h
ad served the crown with Walter Coventry, and adored and respected the widow of his late friend. He realized the depth of the King’s obsession — any man who waved aside an angry Pope and his own excommunication to brood upon a woman who was not even his own wife, was tottering upon the edge of sanity. He feared the worst was yet to come.

  Chapter Seven

  “WAKE UP, MILADY.”

  Alianor heard Liam’s voice and felt the blindfold removed from her eyes. Despite her weariness, she obeyed. She started a bit, having forgotten through the blessed aid of slumber her true plight. Liam’s arms were wrapped about her, both of them still damp from the earlier rain.

  She took a deep breath and willed herself to turn her head and look back at him. His intense green eyes studied her, and she forgot the pain, the cold, the bone-deep exhaustion. It was too easy to forget what had happened or whose arms held her. She only saw an emerald sea she wanted to lose herself in.

  “Where …?” she mumbled, jolted further awake with the realization Biorra no longer moved.

  “We’ve reached our destination.”

  Alianor blinked back vestiges of weariness, but her focus remained on Liam. Without thinking, she reached up and touched his cheek shadowed with stubble. The blunt hairs tickled the sensitive ends of her fingertips, a surprisingly erotic sensation. His jaw tensed and she quickly withdrew her hand.

  Shame scorched Alianor. Whatever had possessed her to touch him so intimately? As if they were — lovers.

  Embarrassed, she tried to pull away but her long braid was trapped between them. She wasn’t going anywhere. From the corner of her eye she saw a faint smile touch Liam’s lips. Despite the futility of her actions, Alianor again tried to free herself from his disturbing embrace.

  Her actions and thoughts distressed her, but she could not deny she found the Irish outlaw attractive. She mustn’t entertain untoward thoughts, much less of the brute who had captured her. How could she dishonor Walter so? As if to emphasize the depth of her turmoil, her fierce struggle nearly knocked them both from the horse.