by Brit Darby
Alianor trembled; she knew the King’s threat was real. He would murder Camber with less thought than he gave to quashing a gnat.
She looked at Liam. “I must go,” she whispered, tears blurring the vision of the man she loved with all her heart. Liam grabbed her hand, pushed up his helmet visor and pressed it to his lips.
“Alianor, I cannot let you do this.” His husky voice shook with emotion.
“You must. I cannot go with you, Liam.”
He stepped closer, their bodies touched. He gazed with a plea into her tear-filled eyes. “I will not surrender you to de Lacy. He will destroy your spirit, if not kill you outright.”
“And I cannot let my brother die for my sake.”
Alianor pulled her hand free and started to make her way through the crowd, without looking back. Liam stared after her, angry and hurt. He understood her loyalty to her brother, loved her for it, but he could not let her surrender. He knew it might mean her death. At least if they managed to escape, there was a chance for survival.
Fear for her chilled him to the bone. Hurried, he strapped Goliath to a pillion in the makeshift mews where other falcons rested, and chased after her. Upon reaching Alianor he swept her up into his arms, ignoring her cry of outrage.
“I’ll not let you go,” he said, swinging her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. His determined strides scattered the people who looked on in stunned surprise.
Alianor struggled, pounding his back with her clenched fists. “Let me go. Damme you!”
She wept and raged, sobs choking her when he refused to hear her plea. In the fury of her struggle, her bow and quiver fell to the ground, her cap flew off and her hair tumbled down to drag on the grass.
Liam’s retreat was blocked by a brace of greedy peasants grinning with menace at him. Suddenly, they were surrounded and he knew the ruse was up.
“Nooo,” Alianor screamed, kicking and clawing like a wildcat. “Put me down.”
Even in her topsy-turvy position, she sensed Liam’s tension, and saw the crowd gathering close about them. She changed her tactics and cried out, “You bastard, how dare you turn me in. You’d sell your own mother for a silver penny, you son-of-a-whore.”
“Be quiet, woman,” Liam warned her, though he realized she was attempting to save his neck. He lowered her to the ground, wincing at the anger on her face. He knew it was real, warranted by his attempt to keep her from Camber.
Alianor slapped him hard, completing her improvised scene for the benefit of those watching. He rubbed his burning cheek, thinking she meant a little of it.
“I’ll not go back to de Lacy. You can’t make me.”
Liam was spared a reply as soldiers pushed through the crowd and surrounded them, weapons drawn and ready.
“What’s going on here?” one of the King’s men demanded.
The crowd seemed willing to help Alianor’s cause, though they didn’t know it.
“The black knight found the wayward bride. He’s entitled to the reward.”
A number of fingers pointed at Liam, and he forced a smile to his lips as if pleased by their accolades.
The same soldier who had spoken eyed him curiously. “Are you not the same knight who bested the King earlier this day?”
Liam inclined his head, deciding a tactful silence was better than a boastful one. A cry of admiration went up, and some shouted again the black knight should claim the reward for capturing her.
The soldier motioned for one of his underlings to secure Alianor. Liam watched in helpless silence as two burly men grabbed her on each side. He swallowed a snarl as one of the King’s men seized the opportunity to fondle Alianor, laughing when she spit at him.
“A feisty little thing, ain’t ye, milady?” the guardsman jeered as he shoved her ahead of him. “Methinks Lord de Lacy has his hands full.”
“There are worse things a man could suffer,” Liam warned, his tone flat as he stared at the soldier with the wayward hands. Oblivious to the threat, the fellow grinned like an imbecile.
The older soldier in charge nodded at Liam with respect. “You must come with us and claim your reward, sir.”
Liam had no choice but to move with the throng as it surged back towards the stand to where the King waited. He lowered his helmet’s visor, knowing de Lacy would recognize him otherwise.
Alianor’s upper arms throbbed as the brutal grip of the guards dug into her flesh. She refused to cower and ascended the steps with as much bravado as she could muster. She knew Liam watched her from across the yard, his frustration and fury a silent, yet palpable, maelstrom of emotions swirling around her.
With solemn dignity she crossed the dais and faced the King and his hooded stare. Ignoring him, she knelt beside Camber.
“Dearest Cam, I am so sorry,” she whispered.
His sky-blue eyes met hers, solace and serenity reflected in them. “Don’t be, Nora. We must not question the will of the Almighty.”
“Why didn’t you flee when you heard I’d been captured?”
He smiled. “You might as well ask me to cut off my right arm.”
“How touching,” King John sneered, interrupting their gentle discourse.
Alianor tossed him an angry glance. “You’ve won, Your Majesty,” she said. “Pray execute swift punishment, lest your people begin to suspect you are cruel-natured.”
He glared down at her, the sarcasm in her voice unmistakable. “Never fear, you shall receive your dues.” He cast a triumphant look over them both. “It seems you underestimated us, much to your detriment, my dear.”
Alianor did not respond to his crowing. Her gaze returned to the crowd, searching for Liam, knowing they could never be together. Her heart broke anew.
For the remainder of her days, she would remember all they shared — every precious touch and smile, and aye, even arguments, sealed with passion’s promise. She realized with a pang of pure angst, how much she loved her outlaw prince. She swallowed hard to ease the constriction in her throat.
“Do no’ forget the reward,” someone shouted, and quickly a chant for the black knight was taken up by the others.
The King laughed, pleased he controlled the situation and would gain favor with the crowd for his generosity. He faced the crowd, raising his hands to still the riotous noise.
“He who returned Lady de Lacy, step forward and gather your laurels and our thanks.”
Liam bowed at the King’s invitation. Watching him from the corner of her eye, Alianor sensed his tension, and the bitterness behind the gesture. She prayed he would not do anything foolish, for she could not be saved. It was over, the game was up and she had lost.
Chapter Twenty-nine
LIAM WATCHED ALIANOR CONFRONTING the King, and silently applauded her courage. While she spoke with Lackland and the onlookers were distracted, Liam backtracked to the bow and quiver Alianor had dropped during their tussle. He slung the bow over his shoulder and pulled the last arrow from its quiver, sliding it through his belt as he rejoined the gathering.
He saw Alianor turn to Camber, her face pale with fear as she grasped his tied hands in hers. Liam didn’t need to hear her words to know how much she loved her brother. Enough to offer up her life for his.
It was for naught, Liam thought. Lackland would not let Camber go, any more than he would release Alianor.
“Good knight, come claim your reward for capturing our wayward little bride,” the King called out to him.
“Aye, Sire.” Liam kept his voice low and hoarse, to disguise it. He stepped forward and the crowd parted for him to approach the dais. As the last man gave way, a shocked gasp rippled through the throng. The black knight stood, legs braced, and bow taut with an arrow pointed at King John’s heart.
“Let the woman and the monk go. Or you’ll not know another second in this life.”
At Liam’s words the King stilled, his look of triumph frozen like a macabre grin. Alianor’s face reflected her terror and disbelief Liam took such a risk.
&
nbsp; “Caomhánach,” de Lacy exclaimed, scrambling up from his seat. Until now he watched from the sidelines as Lackland played his little games with Alianor. He drew Liam’s attention for the briefest second and, taking advantage of the distraction, King John bent down and seized Alianor, and jerked her up in front of him, shielding himself from the threat.
Guards rushed Liam. Before they reached him, Liam loosed the arrow, watching with grim satisfaction as it struck the guard standing next to Camber.
Camber leaned over and grabbed the dead man’s sword with his bound hands. Wielding it awkwardly, he tried to get to his feet to defend his sister. “Let her go,” he ordered. Alianor saw another guard nearby draw his sword and charge to protect the King, and she knew Cam had no chance against a skilled fighter.
“No,” she screamed, and struggled frantically to free herself from Lackland’s iron grip. She watched in horror as the guard’s sword disappeared into Camber’s belly. Her brother stumbled backwards, a look of shock and pain twisting his face.
Fury possessed Alianor. Like a wild thing, she clawed at the King’s face with her hands. He released her with an oath and she fell to her knees beside Camber, tears streaming down her face. “No,” she cried again, feeling as if the blade had rent her soul in two.
Liam heard Alianor’s scream and feared she had been hurt. He saw her collapse beside Camber, and her sobbing, grief-stricken wails broke his heart. He thought the monk stirred and murmured something to her, and Alianor leaned close as if to hear his words.
She cried out, her keening despair so full of torment it made the hair on his neck rise. Liam knew Camber was dead. His own throat tightened with emotion. He ached to rush over and hold Alianor, help her in her time of grief. But a dozen men circled him; he couldn’t help his lady this day.
With a contemptuous glance at his weeping wife, de Lacy turned and left the stands. He came down into the crowd and approached Liam, his swagger telling his rival he sensed victory within his grasp. While two of his men restrained Liam, de Lacy reached out and yanked the helmet from his head, revealing him to the King and all who watched.
“Your Majesty,” de Lacy announced, “may I present Liam Caomhánach, the Irish outlaw who has mocked your rule for years. The same villain who kidnapped my bride-to-be and held her for ransom.”
Upon the dais, King John’s brows rose, his eyes grew round with surprise. “How unexpected. We thought you had dispatched the fellow.”
“It would appear Irishmen, like plagues, return again and again to heckle us, Sire.”
The King laughed and stepped over Camber as if he were no more than a mere obstacle in his path. His robes trailed over Camber’s face, and Alianor made an angry noise, but did not move from her anguished vigil over her brother.
“What a day this has been,” the King said with a headshake as he descended into the stands. “Wouldn’t you agree, de Lacy?”
De Lacy nodded, and turned his attention back to Liam. He stared at his hated rival, a calculating gleam in his eyes. “It seems I must finish what the sea failed to do, Caomhánach.”
Liam wanted nothing more than the chance to humiliate de Lacy before his own ilk. “This is between you and me, de Lacy. Call your dogs off and face me like a man.”
De Lacy smiled coldly. “I should never have trusted someone else to see you dead; I should have seen the job done right the first time. I shall remedy the error.”
At de Lacy’s order, Liam was released and his sword returned. As he waited for his own sword to be brought to him, he called up to Alianor, “Will you kiss my blade for luck, my dear?”
His mocking words caused Alianor to bury her face against Camber’s chest, deep sobs wracking her slender frame. A fury shook Liam, the likes of which he had not felt since he faced his own evil half-brother. In his book a man who would taunt a grieving woman did not deserve to live, and de Lacy had definitely earned his passage to hell.
“Mock someone who can defend themselves,” he growled at de Lacy, taking a solid stance with his blade braced in both hands. The crowd drew back, allowing sufficient room for the two men to fight.
Like wolves drawn by the scent of blood, the throng howled as they circled the pair keen on the violent kill. Bets were made, the clamor of odds ringing out over the excited buzz of the spectators. This was better than a joust — this was to the death.
De Lacy lunged at Liam first, the flat of his blade meeting his opponent’s. Metal met metal with a human-like scream. The blades slid and grappled together. The two men leapt back and assessed one another. Liam parried with force and skill and de Lacy reeled backwards, surprised. A flicker of uncertainty shadowed his eyes, as he took new measure of the man.
Brute force had always served de Lacy in battle, but here speed and skill were effective counters. Fortunately, de Lacy thought, Liam was weighted down by his partial armor. He decided to make a quick, hard assault. If he wore his opponent down from the outset, how much more swift and delicious the kill would be. With a furious roar, he charged. Liam avoided the strike by inches, feinting and coming up under his guard.
The two men came together, like stags locked in battle. Again and again their blades met and held. Each countered the other with various strengths and skills. Metal shrieked and with each deflection swords clanged — each blow echoing over and over above the din of the anxious crowd.
Together — apart — they circled and clashed — growled with the fury of men possessed. Sweat and dirt streaked their faces, blinded them with its salty sting. Neither gave quarter. They fought on.
Alianor knelt on the dais, Camber’s head cradled in her lap. She felt nothing. No fear. No sadness. Liam fought for his life and de Lacy’s sole intention was to take it; all this she understood, still, little emotion surfaced through her numbness. She was no more than another spectator, a helpless onlooker in the crowd.
Her gaze followed the melee as the men grappled in front of her. Sweat soaked the front of Liam’s tunic, and his muscles strained as he worked his sword. His sluggish movements showed his weapon grew heavier. De Lacy weakened as well, his own strikes wild and undisciplined. Both men panted hard, their breathing reduced to ragged gasps with each counter-attack of their opponent.
Liam drew first blood, the tip of his sword snagging de Lacy’s left arm after a furious riposte. De Lacy withdrew, swearing, but anger gave him strength to leap into the fray again, and his own sword retaliated, leaving a bloody slice across Liam’s kneecap.
His balance compromised, Liam staggered, and with a roar of triumph de Lacy swung again. The rushed blow was intended to cleave Liam’s head from his shoulders, but at the same second Liam’s knee gave way and he sagged to the ground. De Lacy’s blade whistled overhead, catching only air.
The momentum of the hard swing threw de Lacy off-balance, and with a grunt Liam dove for the man’s ankles. Down they went, hard, rolling on the ground. Liam scrambled atop de Lacy and executed a hold, securing his lighter weight in position by pinning his rival’s shoulders. To do so, he had to drop his own sword, and incapacitate the other man to avoid being gutted.
De Lacy heaved and bucked, and Liam quelled the movement with a head butt. His rival shouted from the cracking pain. A fierce uppercut to de Lacy’s ribcage bought Liam the time he needed to wrest the weapon from his opponent and send it skidding across the ground to rest beside his own.
“Now,” Liam half gasped, half growled, “let’s finish this.”
His life as an outlaw allowed for plenty of hand to hand physical combat, and his skill shone through as he methodically pummeled de Lacy. It seemed the fight had turned in Liam’s favor, but Alianor noticed de Lacy’s hand grappling inside his opposite sleeve.
Her breathing stopped and she opened her mouth to scream a warning. Too late. The little dagger de Lacy wore strapped to his arm slid free, a final defensive measure. It seemed an ineffective weapon, too tiny for real use, but striking the right spot could inflict fatal damage. Alianor stared in horror as de Lacy
buried it like a pig-sticker into Liam’s left thigh.
Liam gasped and de Lacy grinned with savage triumph as he tossed Liam off him. He scrambled to his feet, close to victory, and his stance reflected his confidence. The crowd roared in fevered delight and his ego demanded he savor the success with a flourish, and a brutal kick to Liam’s ribs.
The onlookers erupted with blood lust, screaming for satisfaction. Someone must die to sate their hunger; they cared not who, so long as it was a magnificent and gory death. Pushing and clambering atop each other for a better view, they surrounded the two men, urging them on, goading them to settle this grudge.
Liam moaned, rolled away and yanked the dagger from his leg with a grunt. Pain seared him like a fire from a forge, yet he mustered the last of his strength to strike a final blow.
He stumbled onto his feet and came up under the man’s guard to drive the blade deep between the Norman’s ribs. For good measure, he finished with fist against face, bone splitting skin, blood splattering him as de Lacy’s nose crumpled beneath the blow.
De Lacy’s scream echoed in the tournament yard, and a ragged cheer arose from onlookers who had bet on his slightly smaller, but quicker foe. With de Lacy crippled with pain, Liam took his chance and moved to finish him off. Suddenly hands grabbed him, dragging him away.
A disapproving hiss rippled through the crowd. The King had stopped the fight. He made no move when Liam was the underdog, but when de Lacy fell, he interfered to save his life. Alianor looked on, not surprised by the King’s lack of fair play. She remembered a particular chess game with bitterness.
Liam was restrained, no match for four of the King’s soldiers with their full reserves of strength. He glared at Lackland, blood running down his thigh. “Why?” he rasped, wheezing with the effort of forcing out the word.
The King stared at him. “Why should we sacrifice a loyal subject like de Lacy to an Irish outlaw?”