by Brit Darby
As she passed the table where Dermot sat, her son reached out and grasped her wrist. “Mother, are you all right?” His voice held concern, but his eyes gleamed with a feverish light. She realized the scene had excited him.
“Of course,” she replied, licking the blood from the corner of her mouth. “I am always delighted to serve my lord husband.” She spoke lightly and loudly for the benefit of the onlookers, who expected her to display a measure of shame or anger. A surprised murmur ran through the assembly, for the lady seemed cool as a queen to the manner born.
Bestowing an arch smile upon the others, Duvessa gathered her shredded skirts and swept regally across the hall. Pausing at the doorway, she glanced back. Her last look was for the man slumped, snoring loudly, upon the high seat.
Forget poisoning by slow degrees. She would find a way to kill him, and soon.
Chapter Thirty-two
ALIANOR CHAFED AT THE slow, steady pace of the donkey. She needed to go faster, and put greater distance between her and the castle she left behind. But the animal kept plodding along, his gait as maddening as his stubborn refusal to cross any streams or creeks. This forced her to keep to main roads or well-traveled paths. She swallowed a frustrated groan. The tickle of her short whip did little to encourage him to go faster.
A fast horse would have been preferable; a quicker means to reach Wolf Haven. But, as the priest the Queen had entrusted to aid her had explained, she would be far less conspicuous dressed as a monk, and Cistercians here did not ride horses. They rode donkeys.
She bit back her curses and allowed the little animal his deliberate jogging gait. She had no choice. Turrean settled into an easy stride and loped along behind them. The grueling pace gave her opportunity to mull over a suitable name for the obstinate beast. Before long, she dubbed him John.
The hours wore on, and Alianor was resigned to the crawling speed of reaching her destination. Though she was certain she would have no more teeth. By then they would be jarred loose from every awkward bounce John dished up to her backside.
It was nearly dark by the time she reached Cill Dara. Camber’s last words at the tournament continued to roll about in her mind — the great lady’s bird watches over it.
As the sun started to sink behind the distant hills, Alianor urged John to go faster. Without light, she would be forced to wait until morning to search. When they finally reached the stone tower, Alianor slid from the donkey and tied him to a tree so he wouldn’t wander off.
She hiked up her white robes and circled the tower’s base several times, searching. The encroaching darkness created a sense of urgency. High above her was the entrance to the tower, but it was too far to reach without a ladder. She was fairly certain Camber couldn’t have hidden it inside.
Concentrating on the outside, Alianor walked the tower’s perimeter, taking more time to look for any clues to where the cross might be hidden. Nothing caught her eye and desperation touched her. The shadows grew long as the sun dipped further down. Turrean remained close at hand, loyally following her every move.
“St. Brigid, please help me,” Alianor called out. She felt a little foolish at first, but repeated the plea as she continued to circle the tower. Once, twice, three times. She heard a falcon’s cry and looked up. It was St. Brigid’s bird, Alianor knew it in her heart. But she could not see it as darkness fell over her. Twilight wrapped the earth in its cloak, leaving her to despair. She sank to the ground, weariness like a lead weight upon her. Turrean sat beside her, but the dog whined and placed her paw upon her arm, looking past her mistress.
Alianor followed Turrean’s gaze and spotted a tree branch leaning against the stone tower. She had passed it numerous times, seeing yet not seeing it, for many twigs and branches littered the ground. She crawled closer and saw it was not naturally formed. Someone had fashioned it from two smaller branches. White linen cloth entwined them to form a cross, its base pushed into the earth where it stood.
She heard the falcon’s cry again and dug into the ground with her bare hands. Turrean seemed happy to help and pawed at the earth with much greater success.
A foot or so down, Alianor touched something in the loose soil. Something hard. Carefully, she pulled the object free and shook the dirt off the rough linen it was wrapped in. When she unfolded the cloth, her breath caught at the sight.
Praise Jesu, it was the cross. Little light remained, but she swore the emerald jewel flashed, and faded to a dark, green-black to match the sky. Alianor remained on her knees, staring at the golden symbol of hope. This time, recognition flooded her. Understanding dawned and she rocked back on her heels, astonished.
“Seòd Fios.” The words she whispered familiar on her tongue. She could not deny the truth any longer. “The Jewel of Knowledge.”
Memories swarmed her, a sensation like coming home. It felt good, no longer strange and frightening. Her whole life she had been told she was English, the daughter of Lord and Lady Fitz-Thomas. Now, within this precious object, she beheld and understood her long Irish ancestry with clarity. It took her back. All the way back to its creation.
Mixed feelings followed the initial warmth of knowing. She clutched the cross to her breast, and wept. If only she had understood and believed Felicity earlier. Perhaps Liam wouldn’t be in prison, and Camber wouldn’t be dead. She wanted to wail about how unfair it all was. Despite the tears, the pain did not ease in her heart.
Was this her destiny? To find her people and love, only to lose them both?
Weary, she wiped her eyes and rose. She returned to John and untied his lead from the tree. The donkey’s huge brown eyes watched her somberly, as if sensing her sadness. She dragged herself back onto his bony back. She could not let it end like this — Connacht could not lose her Emerald Prince. And she could not lose Liam, not now.
Had it been possible, she would have traveled throughout the night. But she knew the animals needed a respite, and she did too. So she found a place to stop, not far from the stone tower and near a river. While Turrean slipped off to hunt for her own dinner, Alianor tended to the donkey’s needs and discovered John to be a sweet-natured creature. Perhaps she had misnamed him. It hadn’t seemed to tire him, carrying her upon his back so far, though she was probably much lighter than the monks he was used to carrying.
She imagined John staggering under a round monk’s backside, and laughed out loud. The sound echoed eerily in the surrounding darkness, a madwoman’s laughter. But it felt good and eased the grief and fear inside her. Alianor studied the donkey’s soft features, stroked him along his narrow muzzle. John seemed to laugh back, lifting his upper lip to show long, yellowed teeth.
“You poor boy. I’ve been an ungrateful burden, and I’m sorry for cursing you when you faithfully carried me without complaint.”
Yawning, Alianor soon settled beneath a tree, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms about them for warmth. The priest wanted to send an escort with her, but she refused to allow him to take the risk. The Church and King John were already at odds. The monks’ association with Camber was frowned upon, and she would not cause more grief for them.
Now, with darkness upon her, Alianor second-guessed her brave decision, despite her two animal companions. Night noises filtered to her through the thick trees; she wondered if she were alone on the road. Thieves and cutthroats roamed the countryside at night — no one was safe from their attacks. Had the Emerald Prince not captured her on a similar night? Pray she had not come this far, only to fall into the hands of miscreants.
“Nay,” she said to herself, drawing a deep, calming breath, imagining Camber spoke to her in his soothing tones. His corpse was not far away at the Black Abbey and Alianor could feel his spirit near. This comforted her. “’Tis unlikely, Nora,” she murmured, hearing Cam’s voice inside her head. “Put the thoughts from your mind.”
“Besides,” she added aloud, patting Turrean who lay beside her, “You’ll protect me, right?”
The sound of her own
voice filled with determination eased Alianor’s fear. She had survived so much already, surely God would not permit thugs or thieves to set upon her now.
Yet there seemed no reason left anymore, even where Heaven was concerned. God took Camber, her dear, sweet brother. For what purpose? Perhaps God’s need for Cam was greater than her own. Who was she to doubt divine authority? Still, the grief nearly overwhelmed her at times, and made it difficult to keep faith. She wanted to wail her torment, her pain. Surrender to the heartbreak ripping at her insides.
Alianor’s thoughts turned to Liam. She needed him, needed his strength and courage, needed to lean upon him so she could move past this time of sadness. But, he was not there, and and she was alone. She must draw on her inner strength, face each day and whatever it threw in her path. She pulled her cloak tighter about her, curled up in the glade and closed her eyes. Morning would come soon enough.
ALIANOR BOLTED AWAKE AS a hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her screams. She struggled against her unseen assailant, but the large fist was attached to an equally big arm. A man’s dark shadow loomed over her; sheer terror flooded her.
“Be still,” he commanded, his voice hushed, yet firm.
She stilled.
“If you yell, I’ll be forced t’ gag you.”
Nodding her head so he knew she understood, she waited until he released his grip on her. She rubbed her mouth, for his steel-like fingers had bruised her lips.
She started to speak, but Turrean’s low growl froze the words on her lips. It also froze the man who rose and stood over her.
“I mean you no harm,” he muttered, taking a slow step back from her.
Alianor scrambled to her feet, clutching her cloak to her throat. “What do you want?” What a silly question, Nora, she thought. He’s going to kill you, and for what? Most likely to steal an obstinate donkey named for the King.
Beside her mistress, Turrean remained poised to strike, her teeth bared, her growling ominous.
“Please call off your dog. I’d no’ like t’ hurt your animal, especially for protectin’ its master.”
Alianor didn’t want the dog hurt, either. “Sit, Turrean.” She waited for the wolfhound to obey, and repeated to the man, “I asked what you want.”
“We’ve need of a priest,” he mumbled.
Alianor sensed there was something wrong. She also heard it in his voice. Studying her assailant by moonlight, she tried to make out his features. She wasn’t able to see much of him, except for the oversized battle ax he had picked up when he stood. He held it in his huge hands — hands that could easily crush a man’s skull. He moved, and with a sinking heart, she saw the broad spanse of the man wielding the weapon. His arms were the size of most men’s legs, his chest bulging with muscles that almost burst from his tunic. She gulped down fear.
“A-a priest?” she stammered, having forgotten her current garb. She sensed he stared back, yet the semi-darkness made her uncertain of it. For a minute, silence reigned. Alianor grew more uneasy as each second passed.
“You’re no’ a monk,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“What?” Alianor’s panic prompted her to argue. She needed him to believe she was a monk. If he didn’t, what might he do? She tried to speak as gruffly as she could. “Just because I’m young …”
The burly man’s feet shuffled in the grass, as if he was embarrassed. “I’ve some notion wot a woman feels like. The robes canno’ hide that fact.”
Alianor was thankful for the night as the heat of her blush rushed up her neck, scalding her cheeks. Now what?
“So I’m not a monk. What do you want from me?”
It was a dangerous question: it might put thoughts into his head. Yet Alianor needed to know where she stood with this stranger who had accosted her in her sleep.
He hesitated. “My friend is dyin’.”
Alianor thought she heard his voice crack with emotion. “I am sorry.”
“Could you,” he seemed uncertain, pausing before posing the question to her, “could you give him the sacraments anyway? He’d no’ know the difference.”
“As you pointed out, I am not a monk. I cannot do what you ask.”
“In his condition he’d no’ know you’re a woman, and I’ll no’ tell him. Please milady, can you no’ give him some small comfort a’fore he dies?”
Moonlight flooded his face, and Alianor saw the sincere expression on the big man’s face. He obviously cared about his friend. So much he asked her to console a dying man. His humble loyalty made Alianor trust him. “Yes,” she conceded. “I’ll help.”
He seemed surprised by her agreement. “You’re no’ afraid? Impersonatin’ a holy man is ’gainst the law.”
Alianor almost laughed. Impersonating a monk could not make her situation any worse. “Already trying to talk me out of it, are you? No, I’m not afraid now. Though in truth, you almost frightened me to death at first, Mister …?”
“I beg your pardon, milady,” he mumbled, and she sensed his blush this time. “And me name’s Seth. Just Seth.”
Seth scuffed his boot against the ground, reminding Alianor of a little boy caught pinching tarts; a stark contrast to the brute of a man he must be. “No harm done, Seth,” she said, unable to stop a smile from touching her lips. “But you’d best not call me milady again.”
Alianor picked up her meager belongings, stuffed them into the saddlebags and flung them over the donkey tied a few feet away. She started to mount when the bear of a man gently lifted her onto John’s bony back, his muscular frame making the task easy, as if she were a bag of goose down feathers and not a grown woman. Turrean pushed her way in between them, forcing him to step back again.
“Thank you,” she said, having lost all fear of Seth. Her instincts told her she could trust him, and she decided not to question the odd circumstances of their meeting. “This is Turrean.”
Seth offered a meaty hand to Turrean to sniff. When the dog seemed satisfied he was no longer a threat, he patted Turrean on her large head. A smile split his face and, again, Alianor was moved by his gentle nature, a contradiction to his massive frame.
Taking the donkey’s reins into his ham-fisted hand, Seth led them out of the trees. Once out on the road, his stride quickened. It surprised Alianor he was afoot, but he moved at a pace poor John could hardly keep up with.
Within a half-hour, they entered a camp in the wood, a fire welcoming them with its light. Five scraggly men watched them approach. When John stopped, Alianor slid off the donkey by herself. It would not do to have Seth help her down when she was supposedly a man. Drawing the cowl of her robe close about her face, she moved to stand beside him. His bear-like strength was her only protection.
Her gaze moved from one man to another, and each studied her back, their eyes cautious. She wondered if these were the thieves she had dreaded meeting on the road and could not still the tremor snaking up her spine. Alianor saw the man in need of sacraments, lying beside the fire on a tattered blanket. He groaned and clutched his belly. The amount of blood soaking his tunic made it obvious his wound was fatal, had not his pale, drawn face already told her death was close at hand.
She knelt beside him, and placed her hand upon his. The warm stickiness of blood nearly made her pull away, but she willed herself calm. Remembering the words her brother had spoken many times was easy; keeping the tremor from her voice more difficult. She lowered her voice, and the huskiness served well in camouflaging the fact she spoke in alto rather than bass tones.
The man’s eyes fluttered open and peace filled them as he heard and understood the sacraments given. When she finished, he nodded, closed his eyes and died.
Everyone had gathered close, too close, and the firelight revealed the dangerous situation to Alianor. These men were thieves, perhaps mercenaries, even murderers; depraved men who preyed upon innocent travelers. Hardened eyes did not move from her when she stood. One pair in particular focused on her, and Alianor feared the faint definition beneath her r
obes had betrayed her.
Suddenly, the man to her left let out a howl and grabbed her robe by the neck, pulling her close to him. Foul breath assaulted her along with his words.
“God’s codpiece,” he bellowed, his eyes scrunching up in his dirty face as he jerked the hood back from her head. “I thought your hands were a might dainty for a monk’s, dearie.” He sniggered to his companions. “Look lads, a wench gave ol’ Danny his last rites.”
Seth stepped in and shoved the laughing man aside, his face twisted into an angry mask. His size, his manner, his meanness, brooked no argument from any of the men. Sensing the danger Turrean, too, moved to protect her mistress, touching Alianor’s knees as she crowded close.
“Does no’ matter much who mumbled the words over poor Danny, Bow. You saw the peace it gave him in his last minute of life. On pain of death, I’ll send every damme one of you t’ hell if’n you harm a hair on her head.”
Bow licked his lips as he studied Alianor with an intensity that made her uncomfortable. “I’ll not harm her, Seth. Want a wee taste o’ her, is all. Looks mighty fine t’ me, even in them holy rags.”
Seth scowled. “Get your filthy mind out of the gutter, Bow. If you’re so desperate for a fuck, there’s a donkey you can have.”
Alianor winced at Seth’s crude words, but Bow’s low snarl caused her breath to catch in her throat. Fear rushed over her again as she considered her options. What if they rose up against him? Despite his size, Seth couldn’t possibly fight them all. She would be at their mercy, or rather, lack of it.
“One o’ these days, you’ll be needing sacraments yourself, Seth,” Bow growled. He obviously resented Seth’s authority. Alianor sensed only the bigger man’s brute strength kept Bow at bay.
“Aye. ’Til then, I’ll say what you can and canno’ do. Understood?”
Seth’s gaze moved from one to the other, until each man nodded. Satisfied, he motioned for Alianor to sit by the fire. She sat, not wishing to annoy Seth, her sole protector.