by Brit Darby
This announcement divided the people and they shouted in chorus; some were pleased while some objected.
Suspicious, Liam considered Lackland’s abrupt change of heart — it was inconsistent with his character and he knew something wasn’t right. When he saw Alianor climb the stairs on the scaffold and walk out to stand beside the King, true fear prickled the hairs at the nape of his neck. Niall followed behind her, but he would not meet Liam’s questioning gaze. His heart sank.
When the crowd calmed again, the King continued, visibly preening as he showed mock benevolence. “Despite Lady de Lacy’s many acts of sedition, we have granted her this opportunity to take the challenge of truth in Caomhánach’s stead. By doing so, the challenge shall also determine her own innocence or guilt for the crimes for which she stands accused.”
“Nay,” Liam shouted, drawing Alianor’s gaze to him. He did not want to believe his ears, but her sober look told him he had not heard wrong. For some reason, she had agreed to this insane test. He knew the King never played fair, and she did as well.
“I shall take the challenge myself.” Liam struggled against the men who held him. “You cannot deny me. ’Tis my right, not hers!”
Liam continued to struggle, despite being chained and overpowered by the guards. His determination to stop her tortured Alianor, and she looked away. She stepped forward, ready to get the trial done and over with, before he hurt himself.
A smug smile twisted King John’s lips when she faced him. She saw the pure cockiness in his gaze, a certainty she would not succeed. Fear pricked her skin all over, like a deluge of ice–hardened rain, trampling her courage with doubt.
Bishop de Grey stepped in front of her and Alianor forced herself to turn away from the King’s confident sneer — his gloating difficult to bear. Without a doubt, she knew he had somehow rigged the trial so she would fail. Instead, she looked directly at de Grey. What she read in his eyes seemed a different story. The honesty and compassion touched her and eased the painful pounding of her heart.
The justiciar turned his back to pour the wine into the two silver goblets — one contained the poison, a sufficient amount to kill. She swallowed her fear and glanced at Liam. Exhausted from his wild struggles, he had stilled, despair frozen on his face.
Alianor smiled at Liam, and mouthed the words, “I love you.”
“Niall,” Liam cried, “stop her.”
Alianor felt relief when William Marshal grabbed Niall’s arm to keep him from reacting to Liam’s desperate outcry and doing something foolish. She looked at Liam one last time. Goodbye, my love, her heart whispered. She knew he heard it.
His head dipped and a ragged sob tore from him. They both knew the King would win this day. Alianor stood prepared to die as de Grey turned and proffered two identical goblets. He placed them both upon a table set on the scaffold.
It seemed the entire world silenced, held its breath. She stared at the two chalices, each filled to the brim with dark red wine. The crowd burst into chaos, everyone shouting which choice she should make.
The unruly onlookers were drawn into the game of chance she played, albeit a deadly one with great consequences. The noise became a furious clamor, and she fought the urge to scream and run. Instead, Alianor pushed the taunting cries from her mind, willing her soul strong, her thoughts calm, and her decision clear.
At last she reached out, her hand shaking with fear. Again, she sought the justiciar’s eyes, searching for the wisdom and any insight there. But no expression, no clue was revealed to her. No glance indicated which cup to choose.
Swallowing hard to ease the sob caught in her throat, she chose. She had a gambler’s luck, and she drew on the fickle cards of fate to save her now. In the end she prayed her luck held, despite the King’s certain treachery.
Without further hesitation or doubt, she picked the silver cup to her right. Her trembling stopped; her fear was gone. She had chosen, now she must face it bravely. Alianor heard Liam’s cry of anguish. Quickly, she downed the drink.
The din stilled. Everyone hushed and she could hear her own ragged breathing, and somewhere in the distance, the cry of a hawk. Alianor waited, afraid to move, afraid to think, afraid to hope. Her life ticked by in the silence. She felt nothing.
After a few eternal minutes, the justiciar nodded. The test proved her innocence. The crowd erupted into a single, joyous cry. “She lives!”
Releasing her breath, Alianor set the empty goblet back down. Tears pricked at her eyes, and her heart was filled with relief so profound she feared she might break down. She lived. Now Liam would, too.
Not everyone cheered. The King’s stood rigid, his face reflecting outrage, his hands trembling from pent-up fury. He blinked repeatedly as if unable to believe his eyes, refusing to accept the verdict. “You witch,” he hissed at her. “How can it be?”
“Why, you look shocked, Your Majesty. Was your expectation so sure I would fail?” Alianor let victory spur on her words.
His answer came with a low, wrathful growl. “We will see you die yet, woman. Burned at the stake for the witch you are.”
“Careful, lest you reveal your true nature to all these people.” Alianor waved her hand, indicating the jubilant crowd, already celebrating the freedom of their Emerald Prince. “Do you expect anyone will hail a king as duplicitous and deceitful as you?”
“You will never leave this place alive.”
Alianor knew the King meant it by the cold rage glittering in the depths of his eyes. Pure hate twisted his face. She felt trapped. Despite her triumph in the Test of Truth, he intended breaking his word, again. Anger mingled with this new dread, coursing through her like a potent elixir.
The crowd turned restless when no action was taken to release Liam. Despite their angry shouts, the King ignored them and stepped closer to Alianor, hands raised as if prepared to end her life with his bare hands.
A robed figure stepped up from the crowd onto the scaffolding, the guards distracted by the unruly throng. In their desperate attempts to maintain control, they did not notice as the monk moved closer to the King.
“Halt, Lackland. Lady de Lacy is coming with me.” Other than his soft-spoken words, nothing about the humbly-clad monk attracted undue attention.
The King spun on his heel to berate the stranger who dared to interfere. Recognition did not dawn until the figure pushed back his tattered cowl and revealed his identity. The King hesitated, his hand poised to strike Alianor.
“You see, I must insist my wife be allowed to leave. It is imperative she live long enough so I may have the satisfaction of killing her myself.”
Belated recognition brought shock to everyone. Alianor looked at Liam, who remained bound and guarded. An even greater dread tore at her insides, twisting her stomach into a knot.
Before the King could react, Quintin de Lacy grabbed him. The dagger held to Lackland’s throat stilled the King’s struggles, as well as any who could aid him. The blade drew blood, and the King’s eyes widened in fright.
The crowd quieted again, all eyes fixed on the new drama unfolding before them. Guards inched forward, but de Lacy shook his head, grinning, pricking the dagger against the King’s jugular to make his point.
“Don’t come any closer,” he warned, his eyes glinting with a strange madness. Alianor shuddered. Would she ever escape this nightmare? Frantically, she wondered how de Lacy escaped O’Connor’s hold but, it mattered not, the fact remained he was here.
Her visible distress made de Lacy chuckle, low and hoarse. “Did you think I’d not come for you, wife?”
Alianor found her throat too dry to speak and avoided his demented gaze.
At dagger point, de Lacy forced the King to bend over the table. His other hand clamped over King John’s neck and forced his face within an inch of the remaining goblet of wine. The two men struggled, but de Lacy’s frenetic strength was too much for the King. The older man gasped and panted, his eyes bugged with terror as he stared at the poisoned goblet.
“Perhaps you’d like to sample the wine, my liege? The same wine you intended to poison my precious property with?”
The King whimpered and de Lacy laughed. “I said drink,” he shouted, the dagger’s tip piercing flesh to make his point clear. “Let’s see you toast the happy couple here! You see, Sire,” he leaned close, speaking intimately into the King’s ear, “’tis my wedding night. Wouldn’t you agree it’s long overdue?”
He released his grip on the King’s neck enough to let the man rise. A drop of blood dripped from the knife’s blade and dispersed into the red wine. The King took hold of the goblet, his hand shaking so hard some liquid spilled onto the table.
Alianor stepped forward, her voice a soft plea. “Quintin.” She called her husband’s name but he seemed not to hear her. “Quintin, listen to me.”
After several attempts, her voice broke through and gave him pause. A face twisted with agony looked over and peered at her in confusion. Alianor almost didn’t recognize de Lacy and at first he didn’t seem to recognize her. He was gaunt and ghostly-pale, the sunken sockets of his eyes burning like two black holes amidst snow. Those eyes mirrored something disturbing. A drug-induced look of despair and madness touched her. She shivered as he muttered under his breath.
“I will take what is mine.” He whispered the words and Alianor had to strain to hear. Let him kill the King, a voice whispered in her head. Why interfere? Let him swing for the crime, while you and Liam go free. You will be rid of both villains then.
Alianor noticed the King’s justiciar. Bishop de Grey’s face had gone white as de Lacy stood poised to force the struggling monarch to drink the poisoned wine. Something in his eyes alarmed her. She sensed his terror spawned from self-preservation, not sympathy for the King.
As she touched the cross at her throat, another whisper in her head told her — neither cup contained poison. She knew de Grey’s deception would be exposed if the wine were forced upon the King — Lackland would not die. Her knees weakened and she understood the consequences if de Grey’s actions were revealed. Liam would die if the challenge was declared invalid.
De Lacy’s gaze now focused on her with recognition. “He deserves to die,” he snarled at her. “You want it as much as I do, woman.”
“Yes,” she agreed, and the King stared at her in horror, “but not here, not now. Another time, husband. You know waiting will make it worse, make him suffer. It will make our revenge all the sweeter.”
De Lacy scowled. “He can’t have you. You’re my wife and I’ve come for you.”
“I will go with you, Quintin. But you must release the King.”
Alianor heard Liam’s yell of protest. She knew it appeared she was as touched in the head as de Lacy. How could she be willing to go anywhere with this fiend? Yet she knew she must. Liam must live, for Eire’s sake.
“Come, Quintin.” She beckoned the madman, gazing into his fever-bright eyes. “You have me at long last. Let us go home.”
LIAM FELT THE SHACKLES fall from his wrists. The grip still holding him was one in his mind — Alianor’s last action held him prisoner. He wanted to yell out in disbelief and fury as he watched her leave with de Lacy. He ached to tear her from evil’s grasp. By the time he was freed, the crowd had swallowed them up and it was too late. The couple vanished.
The King’s livid tantrum drifted over to Liam, sending him into renewed rage. In several long strides he reached Lackland, his hands reaching out with every intention of strangling the man himself. Alianor’s reason for saving Lackland’s sorry arse was unfathomable.
“You deserve to die, you son-of-a-bitch,” Liam shouted, but too many hands kept him at bay. “Why?” he ground out between clenched teeth. “Why didn’t she let de Lacy send you to your grave?”
Bishop de Grey tried to calm Liam, murmuring in his ear as the guards dragged him away from the King. King John brushed at his wrinkled and soiled velvet robe, attempting to regain his composure and gather his wits. As de Gray tried to pacify Liam, William Marshal spoke to Lackland to ease the tension and appease his bruised ego.
Liam looked out over the frenzied crowd, the sheer numbers and melee of confusion so great he knew he would never be able to find them. The bishop urged Liam to take his luck, grab it and run. When de Grey’s advice seeped through the red haze of fury in his mind, the counsel made sense.
At his other elbow, Niall echoed de Grey’s suggestion as he struggled to keep Turrean at bay. Her teeth barred in a vicious snarl, she stood ready to fight anyone who approached. Liam calmed himself, knowing he wasted precious energy and time here when he should be following Alianor and de Lacy.
He made no further move towards the King, but regarded England’s monarch with a level gaze. “I trust you will abide by the outcome of the challenge, Lackland. There are too many witnesses. You can’t kill them all.”
The King’s eyes flashed with renewed anger at his insolence, but heeding the advice given by Marshal, he nodded.
John thought he knew why Alianor kept de Lacy from pouring the poison down his throat; she wanted the privilege of killing him herself in retaliation for his attempted rape. He cleared his throat in an effort to ease the uncomfortable constriction and fidgeted with the lace about his neck. He believed the witch would do as she promised, given the chance.
“Get you gone from our sight, Irishman,” he said, his voice hoarse from the madman’s grip on his windpipe. “Or we shall change our mind and see you torn apart, bit by bit, and thrown to the royal curs. Emerald Prince or not.” His lip curled. It galled him to give this Irish peasant his freedom, but it seemed he had no choice.
“As you command, Your Majesty.”
With a mocking bow, Liam descended from the dais and was swallowed up in the cheering crowd.
Chapter Forty
ALIANOR WATCHED DE LACY rummaging around the ruins. They occupied the only recognizable chamber left at Killydrum, some portion of the great hall. Soldiers had razed the small castle by order of the King not long ago. Some of the rubble still smoked. Most of the walls were gone, and what was left of the roof tilted precariously over them, barely keeping the rain at bay.
De Lacy finally found what he sought and slumped into the single unbroken chair, bracing a table overflowing with rubbish. In one long drink, he drained a bottle of wine he’d found in the ruins.
His brooding, glazed eyes tracked Alianor wherever she went. He smelled of sickness and death. His shirt was dirty and torn, but the blood seeping through it looked fresh.
“I should change your bandage, Quintin. You’re bleeding again.”
He snorted with derision. “Hasn’t stopped since the Irishman stuck me.”
She said nothing.
“Did you think I’d let that bastard have you?” He jumped up and hurled the empty bottle over her head, where it shattered on the crumbled stones, raining glass down on Alianor. “You want him for a husband, don’t you?”
“Yes. I love him.”
Maybe she shouldn’t be honest. Perhaps she should be cautious, offer soothing lies to calm the irrational anger of Le Anguille. But she was tired of playing games, even to save herself. She hadn’t even flinched when he hurled the bottle at her. Alianor had reached the end of her stamina, and wanted only peace. Whether it came from his death, or her own.
“Well, he can’t have you,” he said, triumphantly and petulantly. “You’re mine.”
Alianor remained silent.
Staring at her, de Lacy whispered, “I’ve thought of nothing else but you, Alianor. Even as I lay with that whore Duvessa, I could not put you from my mind.”
Alianor ignored his muttering and gathered whatever she could find from the rubble to treat his wound. She found some dry clothing and tore a linen shirt into strips to bind it. The entire time he continued to watch her, her every move under a madman’s intense scrutiny.
Ready, she moved to stand next to de Lacy. He reached up and touched her hair, seemingly mesmerized as his dirty fingers trailed
through it. When he bent his head to sniff it, Alianor gritted her teeth to keep from screaming and pulling away.
Instead, she concentrated on the task at hand and pulled the remaining shreds of his bloodsoaked shirt from him. He was unkempt and thin. The strength he showed during his rages hid his deteriorated condition.
He moaned from pain and when she started to toss the foul rag away, he grabbed her wrist. De Lacy plucked something from its folds — a hidden scrap he held reverently, like a precious treasure. He bunched it in his hand, muttering, and released her to continue her ministrations.
Alianor unwound the bandage from his middle. The stench that assaulted her senses was so powerful she turned away to quell the retching. When she turned back, the sight of the festering wound was so putrid she feared she would be sick anyway.
She placed her hand over her mouth and, with great effort, forced the bile to retreat from her throat. Steadying herself, she cleaned the infected wound as best she could with a mixture of spirits and water. De Lacy flinched, but he was too far gone in his cups to scream as he would have had he been sober.
When she cleared out the last of the pus, he hissed through his clenched teeth, but said nothing about the discomfort she caused with her ministrations. Instead he continued to rub a lock of hair he captured between his fingers.
“God, you are beautiful. So bloody beautiful, like an angel,” he rambled on until a cough interrupted him, followed by a searing pain that made him gasp for air.
Even as pale as he was, the remaining color drained from his face, leaving it a ghastly shade of milky gray. He desperately pointed to a vial across the table and Alianor handed it to him, watching his hands shake so hard she thought he might drop it. He yanked the cork and swallowed the whole contents. When he was able, he grabbed another bottle of wine from the rubble at his feet.
“Do you remember this?” he asked, holding something to his lips. When he coughed again, he left a bloom of blood on the fabric scrap.