Wild Angel

by Miriam Minger

  "Sweeting!"

  Triona heard the anguish in Aud’s voice but she didn’t allow herself to look back as she climbed out the window. Pulling the hood of her cloak back over her hair, her only thought now was that somehow she had to find a horse and join Ronan’s men before they rode out the gates.

  She ran to the stable. She gave thanks again for the relentlessly pounding rain that leant her anonymity as she hurried across the yard. That and the fact that the stronghold resounded with commotion, thunder booming overhead, clansmen shouting to each other, horses whinnying, wives and children calling their farewells from doorways.

  The stable, too, was in a furor as servants and clansmen rushed to and fro; she barely had entered the dim interior when Ronan rode right past her on his snorting black mount. But if she had escaped his notice, she almost was unmasked when she slipped on the morass of mud and horse dung that the dirt floor had become. A clansman reached out to grab her just before she went facedown into the stinking muck.

  "My—my thanks," she said as gruffly as she could manage, keeping her head lowered. But her voice must not have been gruff enough. Strong fingers lifted her chin.

  "Triona?"

  She gulped, looking straight into Niall’s eyes.

  "Good God, what are you doing here?"

  "Please, Niall, you must help me!" she said in a desperate whisper, risking everything on the hope that he would understand. "I must ride with you . . . after de Roche! If he’s to hang, I deserve to be there!"

  "But, Triona, it’s too dangerous. And if Ronan discovers—"

  "He won’t! Not if you don’t tell him. Now we haven’t any more time! I need a horse." Seeing him still undecided, she added, "You told me if there was anything you could do to help me, I had only to ask! Well, damn you, I’m asking! Are you a liar, then, just like your brother?"

  Niall pulled her over so sharply next to a nearby stall that she gasped in surprise.

  "Ronan is no liar, Triona. He’s a good man. An honorable man who goes now to avenge your father. Remember that! Now take that horse over there. His owner is abed with fever."

  She gulped, nodding, then caught Niall’s sleeve as he began to walk away. She wanted to say that she needed her bowcase but the frown on his face—so like Ronan’s—made her hold her tongue. Obviously he was not convinced that he’d made the right decision. She would have to content herself with the dagger; luckily, her aim was as good with knives as with arrows.

  "Thank you, Niall," she murmured.

  His frown only grew deeper. "Save your thanks, Triona. We’ve a long journey ahead of us and if Ronan spies you . . ." Niall didn’t finish, shaking his dark head as he went to an opposite stall.

  Triona shrugged off his chilling words and quickly bridled her mount. The animal, a reddish brown gelding with a star on its forehead, looked to be strong and healthy, but certainly not anywhere as magnificent as Laeg. She cast a longing glance at her stallion. His ears swiveled with interest at all the commotion, his low nickering telling her that he sensed she was near.

  "Are you coming?"

  She started, glancing up as Niall rode past her. She didn’t want to be the last one from the stable, so she pulled herself onto the gelding’s back and followed after Niall, grateful when several other clansmen rode out with her at the same time.

  She saw to her relief as she rode toward the gates that she needn’t have worried Ronan might notice her. He and most of his men were already galloping from the stronghold, leaving her, Niall and a dozen others to bring up the rear.

  Except she didn’t wait for Niall. Fearing he might still change his mind, she kicked her mount into a canter and bolted through the gates.

  Chapter 16

  RONAN SQUINTED AGAINST the cold drizzle slashing at his face, his thoughts once more consumed by Triona despite his determination to keep his mind upon the Norman quarry he and his men had been pursuing half the breadth of Leinster.

  So she hadn’t slept well last night. Well, neither had he, damn her.

  By God, he should never have kissed her! Then he wouldn’t have been tormented with burning memories he would sooner forget . . . how incredibly soft her lips had been, how sweet she had tasted, how good she had smelled . . . and how damned close he had come to losing all command of himself when she began to kiss him back—

  "Leave it!" he muttered, forcing his thoughts instead to the curses she would hurl at him when he returned with the news that Baron Maurice de Roche had eluded him. Cursing himself, Ronan could no longer deny that to continue this chase would be sheer folly.

  At first the trail had looked promising, the baron and his ten knights holding no more than a few miles’ lead. But their pace had never slackened as Ronan had hoped, de Roche clearly anxious to meet up with his king.

  Now it was almost dark. If the baron stopped for the night at all, he would no doubt do so in Kilkenny. And that Norman-held town lay too close to King John and his approaching forces to risk venturing there. Ronan had his men’s safety to consider; he would take no reckless chances. He had learned that lesson years ago. God help him, he had learned.

  Ronan held up his arm and reined in his mount, the powerful animal’s increasing exhaustion another factor. As his sixty-odd clansmen slowed their horses to a halt behind him, he raised his voice so all could hear.

  "We’ve ridden hard, men, but we’ll go no farther south. Kilkenny may already harbor some of King John’s army. We’ll return to the River Barrow and make camp for a few hours so the horses may rest, then ride for Glenmalure."

  So far to the rear that she could barely make out Ronan’s face in the gathering dusk and drizzle, Triona couldn’t believe her ears.

  Go no farther? Was he mad? Surely they must be close to Baron de Roche and his men or they wouldn’t have pursued them for this long. Yet they were giving up the chase?

  She wasn’t giving up! Triona fumed, swiftly making her own plans. She might never have another chance. Yet as everyone wheeled their horses around, she had no choice but to follow suit. To draw attention to herself at this point would gain her nothing.

  But as night settled even deeper around them, she began to deliberately slow her mount until once more she was riding at the rear, her heart thundering as Ronan passed her without a glance. And if Niall had been keeping watch on her, he was lost now in the surge of clansmen that had become no more than fuzzy shapes in the gathering darkness.

  Finally Triona veered her mount off the road altogether and into the trees where she waited breathlessly for the thundering sound of hooves to fade. Only when she was certain that she was alone did she venture out into the open.

  It was growing so dark that she could barely see the road, but thankfully a bright quarter moon was peeking from behind translucent clouds that appeared to be lifting. She took a moment to wind her sodden cloak more tightly around her, doing her best to ignore the chill seeping into her bones, then she dug her heels into the gelding’s flanks.

  "On with you now. To Kilkenny!"

  ***

  Ronan dismounted, grateful that the cursed rain had finally stopped. But the day had hardly ended as he would have liked.

  Now Fineen’s revenge would have to wait for weeks, maybe even months depending upon how long this King John remained in Eire. No doubt the loyal Baron de Roche would not stray far from his king’s side, making it virtually impossible to capture him by surprise.

  "More good news for Triona," Ronan groused, imagining again the ruckus she would raise. First she would call him a coward for not having pursued the baron into Kilkenny, then accuse him of being unfit to lead his men if he couldn’t have pushed them harder, and finally, end by declaring she could have done better herself.

  "Ronan!" Niall called.

  He spun, frowning at the agitation in his brother’s voice as Niall rushed toward him. "Where the devil have you been these long hours? Usually you ride at the front with me—"

  "She’s gone, Ronan!"

  He tensed, something
telling him that this day was not destined to improve. "Do you mean . . .?"

  "Aye, and I knew it was the wrong decision from the first. But she said she deserved to be there if de Roche was going to hang so I—"

  "By God, Niall, have you gone mad? You allowed Triona to ride with us?"

  As Ronan’s incredulous roar echoed around the clearing, every clansman fell still where he stood. But Niall rushed on as if he’d fully expected such an outburst.

  "I couldn’t believe it when I found her in the stable. You’d told me that you had locked her door."

  "Little good it did," Ronan muttered, imagining all too well how she had escaped. "So you say that she’s gone?"

  "Aye. I kept close watch on her, too, riding well to the back with her until we stopped a while ago. I thought she was still with me, but it got so damned dark—"

  "The fool woman’s gone to Kilkenny."

  Niall didn’t reply, his expression as grim as Ronan’s in the moonlight.

  "Did she have weapons? Her bowcase and hunting knife are locked away, but she might have stolen—"

  "It’s possible, Ronan. She was wearing a heavy cloak that could easily have hidden—"

  "All the damned weapons she needed." Ronan’s insides were churning as he went to his stallion and vaulted onto the animal’s back. "As my Tanist, you’re in charge, Niall."

  "But, Ronan, you can’t go there alone! The town is surely overrun with Normans and you’ve a price on your head. At least take some men with you!"

  "And risk their lives as well?" Ronan gathered the reins and swung his horse sharply around. "At first light lead the men back to Glenmalure. Don’t wait for me. King John’s forces might have come to fight their own kind, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t enjoy whetting their swords upon a band of Wicklow rebels."

  As Niall swore in frustration, Ronan plunged his stallion back onto the road, daring to hope he might catch up with Triona before she reached Kilkenny. Even if he didn’t catch her, maybe once she saw that the odds were so slim of her finding Maurice de Roche in a town filled with Normans, she’d realize the insane folly of her plan and turn back.

  Now Ronan swore.

  Triona O’Toole, admit she’d taken on more than she could manage?

  The sheer absurdity of that idea made him ride all the harder.

  ***

  Triona was amazed at how easily she gained entrance into the walled town of Kilkenny.

  Even at this late hour, the road was crowded with wagons and carts bearing all manner of foodstuffs she imagined would be needed to feed King John’s army. Incredibly enough, she had only to dismount and lead her horse through the gates, the distracted guards paying her no more heed than they were to the squawking chickens and squealing pigs.

  Taking care to note the direction she took so she would be able to find her way out again, Triona was also careful to keep her hood pulled down over her hair. If she appeared a youth, she’d be much less noticeable. The last thing she wanted was to attract any undue attention.

  She’d never seen so many Normans before and for that matter, she’d never visited one of their towns.

  She decided quickly that she didn’t like the place, the noisy streets narrow and overcrowded with pedestrians, animals and all manner of creaking transport, the houses cramped-looking and ugly, the air rank with foul smells and ringing with the babble of voices. And the inhabitants were so rude.

  No one seemed to give a mind to their neighbor, which in her situation was a very good thing. But she’d never experienced such jostling and shoving. And, of course, the men were all so much taller than she it was difficult to see where she was going without having to keep an eye open for any sign of Maurice de Roche’s coat of arms.

  Aye, that bloodred three-headed dragon was emblazoned forever upon her mind. She, Murchertach and some twenty O’Toole clansmen had come upon the horrid sight all at once . . . her father lying brutally wounded upon the ground as six Norman knights rode into the trees, their painted shields glistening in the sun.

  One of the Normans had glanced back at them, the dark-haired man riding at their lead. He had been too far away for Triona to see his face, but she had heard him laughing, a cruel sound, a cold sound. Even now the memory made her flesh crawl. Aye, she would never forget that day.

  "Stand aside! Make way for the king’s men!"

  Triona was barely able to pull her horse clear before three mailed knights rode past on their spirited steeds, all of them laughing raucously to see people scrambling to move out of their way. But they didn’t go far, dismounting in front of some sort of public house, servants rushing out to lead their horses to the stable next door. A brightly painted sign hung out over the street showing a brimming cup of ale and a platter of steaming food, while ill-kempt women loitered near the doors.

  "You look to be men who could use some feminine company," taunted one, a big-boned Irishwoman with dark tangled hair. Bending forward so they might better view her ample breasts, she added with a seductive smile, "See anything that pleases you?"

  To the woman’s delight, one of the knights grabbed her round the waist and half-carried her into the public house.

  His companions each likewise chose a willing female before entering, the men’s coarse laughter ringing out as they soundly swatted the women’s bottoms to make them hurry.

  "What are you gaping at, boy?"

  Triona swung around, meeting the light blue eyes of a Norman knight across the street who was leaning upon his shield. A glistening black shield with a scarlet three-headed dragon at its heart. Seeing it, she nearly choked.

  "N-nothing," she somehow managed, hastily leading her horse away.

  "Good idea, boy. Better run home with you. And don’t tell your mother what you’ve been drooling over or she’ll cuff your ears!"

  As his loud chuckling followed her down the street, Triona felt her blood begin to boil.

  Aye, she’d like to cut off his ears! Surely that knight had to be one of de Roche’s men. He must have been left to stand guard in the street while the baron caroused indoors.

  Triona quickly turned into a side alley where she tethered her horse to a post. She had no idea if the gelding would still be there when she returned, but she’d have to take that chance. She imagined leaving him at the stable would require payment, and she had no coin.

  "I’ll not be gone long," she promised, the gelding nickering to her as she hurried back out onto the crowded street.

  She was immediately pleased to see that the knight was no longer alone; two brightly dressed women were vying for his attention. Hoping that they would divert him, at least until she could get inside the public house, Triona hurried toward the doors, her heart beginning to race.

  At last she would have her revenge! She had sworn that the Normans responsible for her father’s death would feel the sting of her arrows, but the jeweled dagger would do just as nicely. She would just have to get as close to the baron as possible so her aim would be sure . . .

  "Hold there, boy! Where do you think you’re going?" Triona gasped as the blue-eyed knight shoved his way through the women and came barreling toward her, but luckily he was a big man and slow on his feet. She ducked inside the doors.

  Immediately she felt as if she’d been blinded, the noisy room so crowded and poorly lit that she stumbled headlong into another knight, the man cursing vehemently as he spun to take a swing at her. She dodged him, too, only to feel someone grab her cloak.

  "God’s blood, you’re a slippery little fish! Get your Irish arse out of here, boy!"

  Feeling herself being tugged backward by the same knight who’d rushed inside after her, Triona panicked and snatched the dagger from her belt. The next thing she heard was a sharp intake of breath, then the man bellowed out a curse.

  "He’s cut my hand, the bugger!"

  Suddenly the room resounded with jeers and laughter, one man’s rising above the rest. Triona felt her blood run cold as she spun, her gaze falling upon a dar
k-haired knight seated at a distant table, a plump female on his lap.

  "God’s teeth, William! If you can’t best an Irish stripling, what good are you to King John? Ten shillings to the man who catches the little bastard! He’ll know not to raise a weapon to his betters once he’s hanging dead from the rafters."

  "No . . ." Triona breathed in horror as a half dozen Normans suddenly lunged for her at the same moment someone wrenched her violently backward. As the men fell into each other, crashing to a heap on the floor, she was propelled bodily toward some nearby stairs.

  "Go! Now!"

  Triona dazedly obeyed the hissed command, scrambling up the wooden steps as she was pushed from behind. She was pushed and shoved down a dark corridor until they came to an open doorway.

  "In there!"

  Blindly she ducked into the pitch-dark room only to have it suddenly flooded with torchlight from the street below as the shutters were kicked open. Stunned, she gaped at Ronan, but had no more focused on the Norman mailshirt he wore when he wrenched off her cloak and threw it under the bed. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders and ripped downward, tearing away her shirt until it hung in tatters from her waist. "How . . . how dare—"

  "Say nothing if you want to live!" He shoved her down upon the stained mattress, taking only a moment to wrest a smelly blanket over them before he covered her with his body. "By God, Triona, say nothing!"

  She couldn’t have spoken even if she had wanted to, his mouth crushing hers in a kiss that stopped her breath. He didn’t stop kissing her even when heavy footsteps came storming down the hallway, doors opening and then slamming one by one while women’s startled screams and male cursing filled the air.

  Ronan didn’t stop even when their door was kicked open though she started in surprise beneath him, much in part because he’d begun to grind his hips against hers.