by Brit Darby
Alianor watched, horror-stricken, as Seth fell to his knees. Three, four soldiers descended upon him, swords flashing by the light of their torches. Paddy and Rob had already succumbed; she could no longer see them. Seth finally toppled into the mud, felled like a great oak, his large body slamming into the wet earth. Fog drifted in, obscuring further sight, its mist swirling like a cloak over the scene.
Alianor continued to stare though there was nothing more to see. Dear, gentle Seth was lost to her. So were two other loyal friends, brigands by trade but heroes at heart. The thought wrenched in her gut until the pain was unbearable. She looked at Willie again; the tears running down his face broke her heart anew.
“Why, Willie?”
Willie wiped at his tears and sniffed. “F-f-for Eire’s glory. S-Seth said it were up t’ us t’ keep you s-safe. He’s a dependin’ on us, an’ w-we’ll no’ d-disappoint him.”
Alianor saw the pure faith shining in his eyes, and was ashamed of her anger earlier. “No,” she whispered. “You’ve not disappointed Seth, Willie. You’ve not let him down.”
When they were far enough from danger, Brady untied Alianor. They spent the rest of the night in silence. The small party went on unnoticed in the dark and the storm ran its course by morning. The rain calmed to a gentle patter, and dwindled away.
As the sun climbed into the sky, its warmth banished the persistent chill from Alianor’s bones. Finally, she allowed herself to think about Seth and what he had done for her.
The pain remained fresh, unyielding, and she struggled to understand her friend’s decision. Seth had said he wanted to end his life doing something good, and she wept again for his beleaguered existence. She found it sad the big-hearted man had known naught but pain and despair. How could she come to terms with Seth’s ultimate sacrifice? He barely knew her, yet, he and two others had given her the greatest gift she could ever expect — their own lives.
Willie and Brady remained quiet, resolve clear upon their faces. Alianor had no doubt they would see her safely to Wolf Haven. Exhaustion and the gentler stride John kept coaxed Alianor into a numb, yet calmer frame of mind. A place she so desperately needed to be.
Chapter Thirty-five
ALIANOR PRAYED SHE WOULD remember the way to Wolf Haven. She remained uncertain she had until, in the far distance, she saw the abbey’s walls rising where mist still clung to the damp earth. She urged John into a trot. Tears blurred the wonderful sight — her relief was so great she thought she might sob outright.
The hills rolled before her, fresh and emerald-green. Everything was much the same as before, but this time, it felt like coming home. She saw everything through new eyes. There was no fear, no distrust of the people who came out to meet her. No longer a strange place, and she was no longer a stranger. How was it, she marveled, in the short span of time these drastic changes occurred?
She was still the same person, yet changed in so many ways. At this moment, and from now on, she was Ailinn. She touched the cross at her throat, and looked at the people and land with a heart bursting with love. This was her Ireland, a place of mist and legend, where long-forgotten memories sprang forth to touch her mind and soul.
For so long, her true heritage was lost to her though, subtly, the feeling of not belonging in England always niggled at her. Now, Alianor understood those feelings. Surely destiny brought her here. Yet, how could one woman, who didn’t know she was Irish for so long, act as inspiration to a country torn by strife and war?
In her heart she knew how, but she was afraid — afraid of failure. If she failed, Liam died. Not only would Connacht lose her Emerald Prince, but she would lose the love of her life.
WOLF HAVEN. LIAM LONGED for his home deep in the forest, embraced by moody skies and sweet, fragrant rain-washed hills. For days, he had not glimpsed the outside world from deep within the bowels of his prison cell. A perpetual darkness ensconced him, but they could not stop him from placing his mind where the beauty of his heart’s home existed. Lush green hills, wild overgrown forests, savage seas and untamed coastline — he saw it all, so vivid and alive in his memories. To die wasn’t the tragedy — to die without seeing Alianor and Wolf Haven again broke his heart.
Though condemned to die an ignoble death, Liam felt little emotion. Whoever challenged King John in thought or deed, met this fate and he would soon hang as an example of what happened to those who opposed English rule. His impending death was hardly unique and seemed insignificant — his sweet, beautiful Alianor was free.
As precious as the land he loved, Alianor was as irreplaceable. Visions of her carried him away from his torturous existence. He imagined lying with her, their bodies covered in a fine sheen of sweat from their lovemaking. He pictured Alianor as she had been at Wolf Haven, her English upbringing in stark contradiction to her desires. She loved him unabashedly, fiercely and passionately, giving herself in all honesty, never holding back her intimate nature.
Liam responded to his conjuring and he smiled. What magick did Alianor possess she could arouse him in a dungeon dream? He continued to visualize her beauty before him, her ivory skin aglow from the heat sizzling within her. She was an angel, nay, a she-devil with an angel’s face and form. In the end, it mattered not. She was simply Alianor.
ALIANOR WALKED INTO CAMP, worn to the bone. Had it only been weeks since she had last been here? It seemed like an eternity.
“Dear God,” Niall muttered, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of her. He opened his arms, and she ran to him.
Alianor swore she wouldn’t cry. She had spent far too much time weeping of late. But, despite her self-imposed promise, she couldn’t keep the tears back.
“Alianor.” Niall’s arms closed about her in a tight hug. He released her, took a step back and looked at her. Tears glistened in his eyes, too. He took in her mannish attire, but made no comment. But when Turrean trotted up beside her, worry creased his face, and the relief in his eyes vanished.
“Liam is not with you?”
“No,” Ailianor looked away from his stricken look, unable to bear the guilt.
“We’ve heard rumors …” Niall’s voice broke and he could not finish.
“He’s in serious trouble, Niall. The King has taken him prisoner at Fountainhall, and I’ve come for help. We must free him. He will die if we do not.”
Niall patted her on the shoulder and looked thoughtful. “Of course, colleen. We’ll not leave him to die by Lackland’s hand.”
“It’s because of me Liam is in prison.”
“Nay. The lad’s there because he made the decision to leave the safety of Wolf Haven ’gainst his wise old uncle’s advice. What matters is what we do ’bout it.”
The others gathered around, most welcoming Alianor in their own way. Only Rosaleen hung back, her stare no friendlier nor less challenging than before.
Felicity spoke when everyone grew silent. “Fate guides Liam, as it brought you t’ us, milady. You must realize you are both merely pawns in a game Mother Destiny plays out for us all.”
Alianor nodded, somehow understanding what Felicity meant. “Did you know what would happen all along?”
“Nay,” Felicity said. “I only know you love Liam with all your heart and it is this love that will save Connacht. You’re the one we’ve all waited for.”
“How can you be so certain? I do not know if I have the strength to do what is expected of me.” Alianor was still afraid to trust in a legend … in herself.
Felicity smiled; her knowing look so calm, so filled with faith. Alianor glanced around at all the hopeful faces of Wolf Haven’s people, counting Willie and Brady now among them. She remembered her dear friends who willingly died because they believed in her; Seth’s face floated across her jumbled mind. Still, she revolted against their conviction.
“I cannot be what you want me to be!”
Her passionate outburst elicited silence. Alianor wanted to weep, to run away — to hide from the truth. She struggled with her inner self, th
e discovery of who she was, and what she was being asked to do.
Alianor felt the cross beneath her coarse shirt, reminding her of its presence with a weight beyond mere gold. She touched it, the image clear in her mind as her fingers traced its intricate knotwork. Closing her eyes, her pounding heart slowed and the magick of the stone filled her with its power. Her trembling stilled, and her legs grew strong, no longer quaking with tiredness and fear.
Pulling the chain from her neck, Alianor raised the cross high so all could see it clearly. She waited for the gasps of awe to fade before she spoke. “It’s time, at long last, for Connacht to unite to save her Emerald Prince.”
No longer could Alianor deny Felicity’s fateful words. She looked at the others and knew she could not bear to watch the glimmer of hope in their eyes dwindle like glowing ashes in the grate of a fire. She would stand strong for them; no more doubts blocked her way.
“Ireland’s lost daughter has come home, and Seòd Fios will help light my way.”
DESPITE HER WEARINESS, ALIANOR was unable to sleep well that night. Memories and plans alike churned through her head like a raging river. Finally she got up, dressed and went to Liam’s room to read.
Curled up on the big bed with a single sconce lit on the wall above, she tried to occupy her mind by focusing on the colorful prose of La Chanson de Roland. In the darkest hour before dawn, she heard a strange sound echoing throughout the night outside. It reminded her of the eerie keening she heard during her journey on her first night in Ireland, which Niall later told her was the bean-sidhe.
The lamenting wail, faint yet distinct, prompted Alianor to set down the book and slip down from the bed. Though she tried to convince herself it was the wind whistling through the stones, when she stepped outside the abbey, she felt no wind and the noise was more pronounced. The hair rose on her neck. She touched the cross at her throat, willing it lend her courage.
The sound seemed to come from one of the huts near the abbey. She walked quietly towards it, her path lit only by a few flickering sconces. The keening was not constant, but the intermittent silence was almost more frightening. Swallowing hard, Alianor neared what seemed to be the source. To her surprise, she saw light filtering into the night beneath the closed door of a cottage.
She recognized the soft sobs as female, but surely the bean-sidhe did not carry a lantern. Alianor’s shaking hand found and tried the latch. It gave way and the door swung open, startling her and the occupant within.
From where she knelt beside an empty pallet, a woman scrambled to her feet. Alianor did not recognize the face with the blotched skin and swollen eyes at first, but the snarled mass of curly dark hair she did.
“Rosaleen.” Alianor saw she was crying — nay, sobbing — and by lantern’s light, even the scowl she returned looked pitiful. “What are you doing here?”
“G-go away.”
Rosaleen bent an arm across her face as if to shield herself from the sight of her visitor.
Alianor glanced around the desolately empty one-room cottage to the woman, remembering. “This was Torin’s place.”
At the sound of his name, a choked wail escape Rosaleen’s lips. Some unknown force compelled Alianor to step into the hut. Despite the fact this woman hated her, and she bore no lost love for Rosaleen, either, she found herself driven to offer some kind of reassurance.
She touched Rosaleen’s arm and a flood of intense emotion rolled over her, causing her to gasp and step back. Images flashed in her head: Torin laughing with Rosaleen, the two lovers embracing, Torin fighting Liam, Rosaleen weeping over Torin’s body — and then Rosaleen herself lying pale, still, unmoving. With a rush of insight, she glanced at the pallet and saw the bundle of herbs arranged there: henbane, nightshade, the frothy blossoms of cowbane. The last vision had not happened yet, but the intention was there. And she saw something else …
“No, Rosaleen, you must not consider this desperate act.”
Startled, Rosaleen stared at Alianor and bit her lip as if debating whether or not she should be angry.
“Your grief has overruled your wisdom,” Alianor said. “Agony has clouded your insight.”
“Shut up,” Rosaleen cried. “What do you know about pain?” She clapped her hands over her swollen eyes, weeping bitterly.
“I know it will destroy you if you let it. But not just you, Rosaleen, you would destroy Torin’s last gift to you …”
Rosaleen’s hands dropped like lead to her sides. She gazed into Alianor’s eyes while her own streamed with tears; her mouth opened, but no words emerged.
“Aye, you carry Torin’s bairn beneath your heart,” Alianor said gently.
With a whimper, Rosaleen clutched her midriff and her legs trembled so much Alianor rushed to support her. She lowered the woman onto the pallet, tossing the deadly plants aside.
“You have a reason to live, as you have part of Torin forever with you now.”
At Alianor’s words, Rosaleen slumped against her, too shocked and dazed to even cry. Alianor did not know how she knew it herself, but when she had touched Rosaleen’s arm, her mind flooded with images ranging from death to new life.
And now, she sensed a seed of something else growing in Rosaleen — joy.
“I-I have not b-bled since Beltane,” she whispered wonderingly. “Can it be true?”
Alianor smiled as she waited for full realization to sink into the stunned woman. “Aye, a babe-in-arms by Imbolc next. What will you name him?”
She didn’t have to ask, of course; she knew just as Rosaleen did, there was only one name for the blond bairn who would bring his mother delight beyond words for many years to come.
Chapter Thirty-six
LIGHTNING CRACKLED OVER THE O’Connor keep, though no clouds marred the rust-colored horizon. Glancing out the leaded windows, Duvessa yanked the heavy curtains closed. In the canopied bed behind her, a man spoke querulously.
“Leave them,” O’Connor said. “I want to see my hills and the lough.”
His weak voice quivered with strain. Duvessa took delight in ignoring his request. Instead she turned and resumed her position before the cold hearth, where she embroidered on a black stag tapestry by the dim light of three candles.
“Did you hear me, woman?” Her husband’s fist struck the mattress, frail as a child’s. She sewed another stitch and looked up, content to see his red-rimmed eyes sunken in his face and his frame shriveled from its former size.
O’Connor was dying. The physical evidence pleased her, as did the knowledge she was secure in her role as sole Queen of Connacht. Mor no longer posed any threat; that annoyingly devout woman had conveniently retired to a nunnery to live out her days. All that remained was getting rid of Aedh and Felim now, and of course Liam. She had received a message from de Lacy, and despite his exile from Fountainhall, he promised arms and support against the King, who was bound to challenge her rule in the wake of her husband’s death.
King John did not believe any woman competent when it came to ruling a shire, much less an entire kingdom, and word of the O’Connor’s illness had already reached him. Lackland’s emissaries already paced, waiting for opportunity to pounce, and declare O’Connor’s possessions forfeit to the Crown.
Duvessa might appeal on behalf of her son, Dermot, but her notion of ruling Connacht as an invisible guardian no longer pleased her. She had decided she had every right to rule open and proud as the glorious Queen Maeve had done. Had not the Queen faced her enemies, with no spare thought for their outrage? She would do the same, and no anemic English King would stop her. Nor would the once-hale man glaring at her from the bed across the room.
“I heard you,” she said at last, the needle in her hand flashing by candlelight. “You needn’t shout.”
“I want to see the lough,” he repeated doggedly.
Exasperated, Duvessa threw the tapestry aside. “Why, so you can dream an old man’s foolish dreams about young love?” A sneer curled her lip and she laughed outright at him. “
No doubt you imagine running down to the water’s edge to meet your precious Caireen.”
“No doubt I do,” he said, a hint of the gruff O’Connor lacing his voice. The surge of strength made her eyebrow arch. Aye, he was an old dog dying by slow degrees, but Duvessa knew a wounded cur still might snap at one’s ankles in passing. She must not underestimate his determination to drag out his passage to the underworld.
Annoyed, she succumbed to an evil urge. “There is news, milord.” She kept her voice cheery and casual, watching him from beneath lowered lashes.
“Eh? What news, woman? Is Lackland planning a dance, does he wish the infamous King of Connacht to attend?” O’Connor shout of laughter filled the room, but he subsided into a fit of coughing. Duvessa waited for him to quiet.
She found the tincture effective, after all. A small pinch in his mead or ale each day, and all his symptoms appeared to be those of a natural wasting disease. Though he ate and drank, somehow no nourishment fed him, and he weakened a bit each day. Nobody suspected a thing; even Dermot’s eyes teared whenever he visited his father. Whilst she watched her son snivel like a babe in swaddling, Duvessa wondered how it was possible she and the great O’Connor had spawned an ineffective weakling.
Dermot had inherited her cruel streak, and O’Connor’s temper, but little intelligence. His fits were those of a mad child, and getting progressively worse. She feared Dermot was unfit for ruling Connacht. If so, there was naught to be done; she must step into the high seat. Should King John be displeased with her rule, she would bring Connachtmen to bear arms in her defense.
The King and O’Connor had made truce; her husband had met the justiciar at Athlone before he sickened and promised Connacht would pay tribute. Yet Duvessa had no qualms in dissolving the agreement if the King proved irascible to her plans. She did not intend to be a pawn to any man, be he King or husband. Or both.
She looked at O’Connor with no emotion save bitter satisfaction at his impending death. “Not a dance, milord husband, a public hanging of a common thief. I vow ’twill prove entertaining in the end.”