Emerald Prince

by Brit Darby

  Liam heard her last cry. Frantic, he searched the ebony waves stretching out forever before his tired, burning eyes. “Alianor!”

  He dove below the waves, ignoring the warning cramps in his muscles, swimming deeper and deeper, arms spread out before him in a blind search. Alianor, his mind cried out to her, I’m here — m’leannàn, answer me.

  Liam prayed like he never had before. A cold, stiff, flailing little hand brushed against his. With every ounce of strength he had, he pivoted and gripped Alianor around the waist, and swam back towards the surface, as the last of the air burned from his lungs and saltwater scorched his throat.

  The surface taunted him with its promise of relief. It beckoned him with its clean, crisp oxygen. He kicked desperately, fighting the urge to surrender and sink down into the silky depths of the sea. He was a fighter, and nothing would take Alianor from him — nothing.

  Finally, he broke the surface.

  With great ragged gasps of relief, Liam gulped in the rejuvenating air. He struggled back to the shore with his limp, beloved burden. Stumbling from the surf, he lowered Alianor upon the sandy shore. “Don’t you dare die, Alianor. Don’t you dare die!”

  He rolled her over and pushed the water from her lungs.

  Niall staggered over them, dripping, his face drawn and pale. He sank to his knees beside them. “Breathe, damme it, colleen!” His hoarse plea was torn away by the howling wind.

  Seconds stretched into eternity. At last Alianor choked, coughed and her lungs surrendered the remaining sea water in them. She gasped like a newborn babe and drew in life-giving air.

  Her weak, confused cry ripped through Liam’s pounding heart and he nearly wept with relief. He pulled her into his arms and rocked her, soothing her fear as she clung to him. Wiping a strand of seaweed from her cheek, he held her shaking figure against his own. “Hush, little one, you’re safe.”

  Gradually she calmed and lay exhausted in his embrace. Liam stroked her silvery wet head, damp and sleek as a seal’s. Cradling her head to his chest, he whispered. “Alianor, leannàn, sweetheart, are you all right?”

  She nodded, and to his surprise the first thing she said was a colorful Gaelic oath. Niall croaked a laugh and Liam’s eyes widened. “Where did you hear that word?” he demanded with a raspy cough.

  “I’ve heard you bellow it more than once at your men.” She looked up at him and asked in a trembling voice, “What took you so blasted long, William?” When Liam heard that name and her teasing tone, he knew she’d be all right.

  Alianor turned next on the still-sniggering Niall. “And where the bloody hell were you when I was drowning, my friend?”

  Niall went silent, his look sheepish.

  This time it was Liam who chuckled. Alianor’s arched eyebrow questioned him. “He can’t swim, Alianor. Not a bloody stroke.”

  “You told me every Irishman is born to the water.”

  Liam shrugged. They couldn’t still the mirth that erupted and all three collapsed on the sand, laughing uncontrollably, too weary and relieved to care one whit about the rain pounding on their heads. At last they caught their breath and headed for the safety of the woods, the sea denied its fresh souls hurling a tantrum of waves after them.

  CAMBER WAS STRICKEN WITH frustration, upset. He couldn’t believe he was too late. It took him much longer than expected to track down Caomhánach, even with his church connections. People were reluctant to talk, protective of the Irish rebel and quick to defend his reputation, despite his choice to live outside the law.

  When Camber finally found a monk who knew Caomhánach personally, and they met at an abbey, he learned how deep local devotion ran to the one they called the Emerald Prince. He might have admired Caomhánach, but for one thing. The fact his sister was gone, taken away the same morning he rowed out to meet with the man from Caomhánach’s camp. Poor Nora had been handed over to Lord de Lacy for ransom. What price a human life?

  A chill swept over Camber, causing the hair on the back of his neck to rise in alarm at the thought of Quintin de Lacy. How he had prayed her second husband might be a good man, a husband Nora would have chosen for herself. Someone Camber could respect, a godly man who would be kind to her.

  Her headstrong nature needed guidance, and a man she could cling to in times of trouble. Aye, she was a remarkably strong woman, but Camber had also seen her softer side — her vulnerability.

  Nora’s emotions ran deep. Quicksilver flashes of temper and merry laughter might surface in the same hour. Camber knew her overwhelming grief when Walter died, and wished he had been more of an anchor, someone to calm and comfort her during the dark hours of her despair. He should have stayed with her after the funeral — perhaps if he had, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.

  Now, it was obvious de Lacy was not a man he would have chosen for his sister. He’d heard far more than he wanted to know about the man King John had chosen for Nora. If she ended up married to de Lacy, he would never forgive himself. His own selfish need for seclusion and complete devotion to God caused him to fail as a brother and protector.

  He had heard more than unsavory rumors about de Lacy in his investigation of the man; he also spoke with the priest who had performed last rites over Juliana de Lacy. Father Kilkenny said he had been the first to examine Lady de Lacy’s body. Already suspicious of her death, the furtive exchange of glances amongst the Fountainhall servants told him there was dissention in the household and confirmed his fear of wrongdoing.

  Lady de Lacy’s bones were broken in five places, the priest told Camber. Some of the injuries could have come from her alleged tumble down the stairs, certainly, but not the most glaring one. Deep purple fingerprints on her flesh lent the first clue. Her neck had been snapped. She was dead before she hit the stone floor.

  The poor woman had been hurled down Fountainhall’s steep stairs to make it appear an accident. That someone, or so the priest believed and the servants’ nervous demeanors seemed to confirm, was Quintin de Lacy.

  Despite his virtual certainty a crime had been committed Father Kilkenny said nothing by way of accusation until he spoke with his superior. The church’s chain of command was sacrosanct, and by rights the leader of the local priory, Cloghan, was responsible for pursuing any legal recourse. Surprised when the prior did not evidence concern, but indeed even waved aside the evidence, Kilkenny did something unprecedented and appealed to the bishop.

  This time, the harsh reality of mixed justice came home to roost. Bishop Scartaglin was not at all evasive. Simply put, de Lacy was a generous benefactor of the church. His lavish donations assured easy winters, built a new sacristy and, as Kilkenny now understood, guaranteed silence. The matter of Juliana de Lacy, along with the woman herself, was laid to rest with all due pomp and circumstance — and silence.

  Tears burned Camber’s eyes, tears of hopelessness and fear for his sister. Nora had always watched over him. Since the day their parents died she had taken care of him. She protected him still from the King’s wrath, risking her own life to assure he might pursue his heart’s desire in peace. Always, she looked after him however she could. He owed her no less but his efforts came too late.

  Camber fell to his knees in the Irish priory where he had taken refuge and clasped his cross in his hands. “Father in Heaven, look after Nora. Please bring her back to me, safe and unharmed.”

  NIALL BROKE THE OPPRESSIVE silence as the trio rode through the forest, exhausted but alive. “Tell us, colleen, how did you learn to shoot a crossbow? ’Tis right amazing,” he added, “a woman wielding a weapon. And with accuracy.”

  “Yes,” Alianor admitted, and yawned wide. Conversation was welcome at the late hour and served to keep her awake. She was about to drift off to sleep again. It was too comfortable, jogging along at a rocking canter on Biorra, cozily ensconced in Liam’s arms. Niall rode de Lacy’s gray — he would find good use for the man’s fine steed.

  Alianor said, “After our parents’ deaths, King Richard made my brother C
amber and me wards of the Crown at Walter’s request.”

  “What was the Lionhearted like, colleen?” Niall asked. “I’ve heard many gallant tales about him.”

  “I do not remember much of King Richard, Niall. He was in France more than England. I met him only twice, once when he came to Windsor, and another time when I was in Normandy with the court. But while he was at Windsor the King assigned Cam to serve as Walter’s page and begin training for the position of squire when he came of age.” She paused and chuckled. “Oh, I was mighty upset I couldn’t be a page, too.

  “So, I watched and learned. In secret at first, until Walter caught me lurking and practicing swordplay with some skill. I believe he knew it would do no good to forbid my interest, so he started to train me alongside my brother.

  “Even then, Cam’s calling was for God, rather than knighthood. Walter said my brother hadn’t a drop of warrior’s blood in his veins, and he would not force him to deny his obvious calling. When Richard the Lionheart learned of Cam’s true vocation, he sent him to St. David’s in Wales. Gerald the Welshman was Archdeacon of Brecon, and when he did not gain the bishopric he went to Paris and took Cam with him for further education abroad.”

  A smile touched Alianor, her memories warming her in the chill of night. “Meanwhile, I spent as much time as I could with Walter. He continued to teach me, as he would a young man under his tutelage. What Cam had not inherited by way of skill or desire, I had. I couldn’t learn enough, nor absorb it fast enough.”

  She sighed, remembering the recklessness of youth. How long ago it all seemed. “One time I went so far as to dress like a boy so I could fight in a squire’s tournament.”

  “God’s toenail, colleen,” Niall was shocked. “You could have been hurt, even killed.”

  Alianor laughed. “’Twas the boys who were hurt, not I. I have a wicked parry.” Her smile vanished. “That tournament is the only time I can remember Walter being angry with me. Like you, Niall, he feared I might be hurt by my foolish actions. He made me promise to never do anything like that again before he continued my training. I owe him more than he will ever know.”

  Emotion thickened her voice. Yes, she missed Walter. Terribly. He filled the role of the father she had lost, a mentor she loved, and a friend she cherished. He might still be alive if not for Lackland.

  To keep tears at bay, her thoughts digressed to the King and her hatred for him. Lackland was a cruel and manipulative man, not above murder to achieve his twisted ends. Walter’s death was proof of his malevolent nature.

  Sometimes she wondered how she had survived as long as she had at court. Much credit went to Walter, she knew. His marriage lent her the protection she needed, and his reputation and high position assured her own. Not to mention the benefits of the training he had given her. More than once, the quick whip of a dagger had saved her, as it had with de Lacy.

  “What about your brother, Alianor?” Liam asked. “What will the King do to him when he learns of this latest turn of events?”

  The question startled her. Liam had remained silent. She had wondered if he was even paying attention, but now knew he’d digested every word spoken. She shook her head. “I don’t know what I can do to protect Cam. De Lacy will certainly tell the King what happened. King John will consider my actions treasonous at best. Cam is certain to suffer for it.”

  His arms tightened around her in comfort, and she leaned back against him with a little sigh. “I’m sorry, Alianor,” he murmured against her ear, “for everything.”

  Alianor understood there was more behind the simple apology, more than concern for her brother’s immediate danger. Did he regret taking her against her will? Perhaps even their reckless love affair? Did he fear the resulting vengeance de Lacy and the King would seek upon them all? Most likely, he regretted all these things, but the most painful conclusion she came to, was mayhap he regretted loving her.

  She closed her eyes, and felt the tears burning behind her eyelids. “I’m sorry, too,” she whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  IT TOOK THE BETTER part of a day to reach Wolf Haven. This time Alianor was not blindfolded. There was no need. After what they had endured together, Liam and Niall knew she would not betray them. She gazed curiously around during their sojourn through the woods. It was a green and peaceful place, a place as precious to her as the legend it protected — the legend of the Emerald Prince.

  Alianor glanced over her shoulder at Liam, noted the grim set of his jaw and longed to smooth the tension from the corners of his mouth. He seemed preoccupied, most likely thinking about what de Lacy planned as reprisal for her actions and their escape. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when, and she sensed it weighed on his shoulders.

  As the horses cantered into the village clearing later that afternoon, Alianor could hardly believe what her weary eyes beheld. “Camber,” she cried in surprise. Her brother was there, having dismounted minutes before. Seeing him gesturing to the rebels ringed around him, she knew he was trying to explain what he was doing there.

  Hearing her call his name, Camber whirled around. His face split into a broad smile when he saw her, but his eyes clouded with tears. Without a word, he opened his arms wide, his simple gesture showing his nature.

  Liam released Alianor, and she slid off the horse and ran to her brother. Her cry of joy was smothered in his coarse wool robes. Camber hugged her close, tears of emotion overwhelming them both.

  Alianor stepped back and touched his cheek, wiping away the tears she found there. “Oh, Cam, you cannot know how happy I am to see you. But what on earth are you doing here?”

  “Me?” he whispered, his voice cracking from emotion. “But I heard … they told me you were …” Unable to find the words, he merely hugged her again. He cast a glance heavenward and murmured, “Thank you, Lord.”

  “I’m afraid even He needed a little help this time,” Liam said as he dismounted from Biorra. Alianor noticed his weariness, showing in the lines on his face, the shadows beneath his eyes. “De Lacy had no intention of keeping to his end of the bargain. Nor letting us leave alive.”

  Camber kept his arm around Alianor’s waist as he and Liam studied one another with wary regard. She was surprised by the protective gleam in her brother’s bright blue eyes. Cam looked angry, something she rarely saw, even growing up. He was always calm, reasonable, forgiving.

  “Cam,” she said, placing a hand upon his sleeve. He looked at her with a troubled frown, and she gave him an encouraging smile. “I want you to meet Liam Caomhánach.”

  Her brother’s manner remained serious as his gaze returned to Liam. “So you are the one who kidnapped my sister,” he said. “A villain mistakenly called a prince.”

  “And you must be the brother,” Liam retorted, “the one Alianor mistakenly described as mild-natured.”

  Alianor flinched at the mutual hostility between them. She knew Liam was exhausted, seething over Torin’s betrayal, and stressed from losing the ransom. Now, he must worry how he would provide for his people this winter.

  Likewise, Camber had traveled long and hard to reach her. She knew he must be unhappy about her situation that forced him to leave his quiet cloister. Cam could not hide the evidence of his distress and many sleepless nights, revealed on every inch of his dear face. She hugged him again, whispering an entreaty. “Please trust me. Liam is not the enemy.”

  “You defend this knave?” Camber’s voice reflected confusion and annoyance. “What is going on here, Nora?”

  “Cam,” she pleaded, “please try to understand —”

  “Understand? This Irish cur took you by force!” Camber’s voice shook, as did his hands. He balled them into fists to still them.

  Alianor took one of those clenched fists into her own two hands. “It’s a long story, my dearest brother. I beg you, trust me and be content.”

  “He tried to ransom you like chattel.”

  “Listen to your sister, Camber — I am not your enemy,” Liam said, his
manner calm, his voice hard. “Lackland and de Lacy are. You would do well to remember it.”

  Camber took a step towards Liam, but Alianor stepped between the two men. “Stop it! Both of you.”

  They ignored her plea. “I’ve come to take my sister home, Caomhánach.” Camber placed his arm protectively around Alianor’s shoulders. His voice sounded confident for a man of the cloth squaring off with a notorious Irish outlaw. “You’ve no objections, I’m sure.”

  Certain Liam would protest; Alianor prepared for words and even fists to fly. But when Liam spoke, he said just the opposite. “Alianor is free to go wherever she wishes. I’ll not interfere if she wants to leave Wolf Haven.”

  She could not deny the pain Liam’s cavalier response provoked. He shrugged, like a man who cared less what happened to her. Was everything they had shared and suffered together, all they were and could possibly be, naught but a foolish dream? His singularly uncaring manner seemed to undermine any hope she had for them. Or was her exhausted mind creating this heartache and confusion?

  Sensing her distress, Camber’s hand tightened about her shoulder. “Aye, you have interfered more than enough already with Nora’s life.”

  Liam returned the monk’s glare. “I’d advise you not to rush back to England with Alianor in tow. Not only will there be many questions, but the King will simply put her back on the next ship. I’m not sure where it’s safe for you two to ride out the storm of royal wrath. De Lacy is also dangerous. I might have suggested the Church as refuge, but from what I hear, de Lacy has the local bishops snug in his pocket.”

  A dark shadow passed over Camber’s face. “Aye, I fear even Holy Mother Church cannot help us. But the rancor of either of these powerful men would not be incurred if not for your reprehensible actions, Caomhánach.”

  Liam’s eyebrow arched. “I’m not totally to blame for putting Alianor in danger. From what I understand, she was trying to save your holy arse.”

  A low growl of anger exploded from Camber. Before Alianor could stop him, he lunged at Liam, a flurry of white robes as he swung a fist. “Y-you Irish blackguard! You’ve no right to point the blame at others after what you’ve done.”