The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "You have yet to present any that are just and fair."

  Damn me, but he wanted to shake her and clenched his fist against the urge. "Your folk will not bend unless you do, then I cannot have them as vassals nor can they be trusted to follow the lord's orders."

  "I see you are still in a bit of a fix, then." She would not make this easy for him.

  Gaelan fumed, his temper foaming near the edge of boiling. "By God in heaven, woman, you force me when I do not want to hurt you!"

  She tipped her head. "Only last night you said you would not. Are you not to be trusted?"

  Gaelan raked his fingers through his hair and swore foully. Siobhàn inhaled, retreating a step, and he straightened, gazing down at her for a long moment. She winced when he barked a command for his soldiers.

  They surrounded her.

  Driscoll rushed forward, his sword drawn. "Nay, PenDragon!"

  "Lock the princess in the tower."

  Siobhàn's eyes widened. "Nay, I've work to do!"

  "It will go undone then." He flicked a hand and the soldiers grabbed her arms.

  Her people revolted, racing to her, and she shouted in Gaelic. They stilled, their gazes shifting between her and her captor. She looked at him, jerking her arms free.

  "You do it, PenDragon."

  Gaelan didn't touch her, yet nodded ahead. Siobhàn walked and people stepped back to let her pass as she entered the hall. She paused, her gaze scanning them briefly in warning not to take up arms before she moved swiftly to the stairs. She caught Moira's eye, a silent plea to not let Connal see this, then continued on. To the tower. She passed her own room, taking the narrow staircase leading toward the sky. A single door stood open, a place her son often went to play. Inside was a musty pallet tossed in the corner, a stool and chests of Tigheran's garments. Gaelan stepped inside and ordered the guards to remove the trunks. Siobhàn surveyed the room, then moved to stand before him.

  She pried a key from her girdle and held it out to him. "You would not be wantin' me to escape, would you now?"

  Her lips bore an odd smile as Gaelan accepted the key, then stepped closer, unfastening her girdle full of keys and charms and jamming it inside his tunic. "Nay, I would not." He turned to leave.

  "Do not take this out on them, PenDragon. Swear to me."

  He looked back at her, his eyes as cold as the wind skating across her beloved home. "I swear to naught, princess. Until you do."

  Siobhàn turned her back on him and he sighed, closing the door. Beyond it, Gaelan fell back against the wall, mashing his hands over his face. He did not want to do this, God above, he did not. But her compliance was a necessary part of turning the lands over to Henry's liege. He had to have her obedience. She was a proud, honorable woman and only an oath would bind her.

  Yet even as he walked away, Gaelan knew one way to gain control without it—and the price was too high. Even for his king.

  * * *

  They spat at his feet as he passed, crossed themselves if they happened to meet his gaze. Little work was accomplished, the keep in utter chaos. Rhiannon was even less help, hiding off with Connal, he supposed. He couldn't find them. Gaelan recognized that the work progressed because Siobhàn encouraged them with her smiles and warmth and strength.

  She refused him each time he came to ask for her oath, not uttering a word, but simply giving him a blank look. On the second day he thought she would surely break her silence. She was hungry, he knew.

  "Eat," he said to her back when the old man Davis brought her a meal.

  She didn't turn around, staring at the floor.

  "Think of your son then."

  Her gaze jerked to his.

  "Nay. I have not seen him." The alarm on her face was enough to bring him to his knees. "Rhiannon has taken charge of him."

  Her shoulders fell and she moved to the only window, its shutter loose on its leather hinge and sagging pitifully. She sat on the window casement, her hands folded, and stared out the window at the yard below.

  She looked the fairy queen Reese was so fond of describing, he thought. The sun blistered the floor around her skirts like a pool of water, dancing off the silver trim of her kirtle. The cool breeze lifted her hair across her face, shielding her from him in a veil of deep red mist, making the bells tinkle softly. Gaelan arched to go to her, to plead with her to give him what he needed, what he must demand, for the sake of preserving her people's lives. But she wanted naught of him and his kind. She hated everything about him, hated enough to refuse food and refuse to fight her imprisonment. He almost wished she would throw something at him, for her fire was preferable to this unending silence.

  "Siobhàn, lass."

  She shifted again, a move so subtle he might not have noticed. But he noticed everything about this woman. She'd paled, her skin a little less rosy. Guilt swam through him. He'd done this before, he'd forced submission from a dozen traitorous earls, Italian counts, even a moolah, but naught affected him more than he wasting of this princess. Gaelan took a step inside and, without looking, she sensed it and stiffened.

  His anger flared. "Eat, princess. Or I will force you."

  She turned her head. "When you leave, I will eat."

  "Good."

  As he backed out of the room, he heard, "When you leave Ireland, savage."

  He hesitated, then shut the door and locked her in.

  * * *

  Siobhàn watched from the tower as PenDragon rode through the gates, his destrier's powerful legs prancing majestically. Her gaze followed him as he tossed the reins to Reese and stormed across the yard. The lad darted out of his path, lest he anger the man further. PenDragon yanked off his gauntlets and dunked his head in the rain barrel, snapping it back, then shaking like a dog. His hands braced on the barrel's rim, he tipped his head back, and the yards separating hem from ground to tower and across the ward, closed.

  Her heart did a strange twist in her breast. He looked exhausted, dark smudges under his eyes making them look like the caverns of a soulless man. His gaze thinned in a speculating way she'd come to know and he arched a dark brow, asking the question he'd put to her daily. She shook her head. He flung himself away and strode to the armorer. Though she could not hear his words, the thunder of them sent people scattering.

  For the past three days he'd done this, riding out and returning hours later in no better mood than before. And each time he was alone. She knew he'd not found a village girl to bed, or his disposition would hopefully be a sight less ferocious, and she wondered what he did out there without a single man-at-arms or knight in his company.

  Not a soul passed through the gates who was not inspected, nor was anyone allowed to leave. She might be in the tower, but her people were prisoners as well and Siobhàn was terrified she'd push him too far. With one incident, he could slaughter them all. It was best to keep silent then, for everything she did, apparently, angered him. And here was only absolution in death.

  In the darkness of the tower, she wondered if 'twas her pride forcing her against him or her heart. She did not think she could bring the man to his knees with a fasting or silence, yet he had to understand that he could not treat her or her people as if their wants did not matter. She rubbed her arms, the wood provided long ago burned to naught but white ash. She missed her son, wanted to hold him, but the Englishman denied her even a glimpse of her precious little prince. 'Twas worse than being denied food. She gained strength form Connal, from his unconditional love. And she needed it now. For her feelings for the knight were crowding the needs of her people.

  * * *

  "Nay. Do not bother to translate," Gaelan said tiredly, his hand up, his gaze flicking to the baker holding a stack of bread loaves and delivering a vicious glare that would normally grant him a thrashing, then to Siobhàn's man Driscoll. "The Maguire."

  Driscoll clasped his hand behind his back and nodded.

  'Twas the talk and he only now had heard it enough to understand the meaning. Pòsaim, marriage, grà love. I
f another soul mentioned the Maguire and his undying love for Siobhàn, he thought he would explode. It grated down his spine worse than the thought of her up in the tower without food and her family. Her silence was driving him mad, shoving him between anger and bitter regret. And he wondered—over and over until he could barely speak without growling—if she loved this chieftain.

  Gaelan waved off Driscoll, who'd taken it upon himself lately to follow Gaelan about, especially when he visited Siobhàn.

  Raymond strode to him. "When will you release her?"

  "Never." A lie, he knew.

  "She will die."

  "She will bend."

  "Sweet Jesu, Gaelan, can you not see by now how determined she is? She is protecting thousands of women and children. What do you expect from her?"

  Gaelan stared, his gaze hot with impotent anger. "I expect her to see she cannot win and concede defeat. I expect her to value her own life as well as the others here. I expect her to obey and not present herself as a royal Irish pain in my arse!"

  "Gaelan, listen—"

  "Nay! If she wishes to die on mere principle of defiance to me because she loathes what has brought me wealth and respect, then so be it!"

  "And you will kill her for an oath that when sworn would be meaningless." He stepped closer, his voice low and private. "You have the bloody castle. You can make them do your bidding. Yet you punish only her? You must earn her oath."

  "I do not need to earn it. It is mine by right!"

  "Not if you want it from her! You must find another way or kill her!"

  God. He could not. Gaelan shoved past. "You are my second in command, DeClare, not my advisor. Hold your tongue!"

  Raymond grabbed his shoulder, forcing him around, and Gaelan fumed with scarcely suppressed rage. "Fight someone who has a chance of besting you, PenDragon. Not a woman with only her pride left to bargain with."

  * * *

  Siobhàn stirred from one of several naps to the clash of steel to steel. Scrambling to her feet, she pried open the shutter. Her breath filled her lungs and she watched him wield the sword, slashing over and over, driving Sir Raymond back and being repaid in kind. In a human ring in the outer bailey, they were surrounded by his troops, and when she expected them to shout encouragement, there was only the deadly silence of concentration. The clang and clash made her wince, and her heart pounded, never having witnessed so honest a battle. This was not training. This was rage. And they wore no armor, no mail, yet only PenDragon was bare-chested.

  He fought, his muscles gleaming with sweat, his exposed skin revealing a body honed in war, in the letting of blood for his bounty. It sickened her, this mad profession, but her breath still snagged in her chest when he came close to being hacked to pieces.

  Sir Raymond, nearly as tall as his opponent, struck blow after blow, but PenDragon was fast and accurate, catching the blade and thrusting him back. Then with a growl of pure anger, Raymond brought his sword down in a smooth arch. PenDragon blocked it with the shield. The wood and metal fractured, the tip of Sir Raymond's sword slicing down the Englishman's side. They stilled and Raymond said something to Gaelan, jammed his swordpoint into the dirt, and threw down his shield before walking away.

  Siobhàn saw blood running down PenDragon's side and staining his braies. She rushed to the door, pounding, and when none responded, she tried the latch, shaking it mercilessly. The ancient hinge gave and she blinked as the door swung open, hen ran down the staircase at full speed, passing her guard, who was watching the fight out the arrow loop, and raced outside. Her people cried out in surprise but still she ran, her head dizzy from lack of nourishment, yet she gathered her skirts to her knees and pushed past soldiers and into the ring.

  The area cleared for her and he looked up, scowling. His gaze snapped to the tower, then to her.

  She took a step.

  "Stay back!" he roared, his hand up, his rage at a dangerous level.

  "Do you seek to kill your friend?" She glanced at Raymond, winded and angrily pacing off near the cluster of horses, then back to Gaelan. "When 'tis me you wish to hurt?"

  Gaelan's gaze shifted, his stare leveling her from beneath a lock of brown hair. He looked tormented, a beast struggling with his private demons.

  "You cannot wield a sword, or I would." It would be the only way he would win, he thought.

  Siobhàn walked toward him, desperate to keep her feet steady when her head felt as if it were about to topple off her neck with dizziness. His chest rising and falling with exhaustion, he held his sword limply before him. Her gaze dropped to it, then rose to his face. She stepped closer, and his eyes widened as she carefully pinched the sharp blade and pressed the tip to the hollow of her throat.

  The voices around them went silent. He tried to lift the sword, but she wrapped her fingers around the blade.

  "'Tis what you want, is it not?"

  "Damn you, princess." A single move, Gaelan thought, and he'd slice her fingers off. "Let go."

  "Drive it home, PenDragon."

  "Nay," he said, as if she were mad.

  She leaned, and a drop of blood wept on the blade.

  His gaze shot between her eyes and the razor-edged sword. He swallowed thickly. "Siobhàn, lass, please." Gaelan's throat worked. "Step back and release the blade. You will lose your fingers."

  "Will you be satisfied then? Will my blood, my hand, a limb satisfy you so you will not hurt those who care for your life?"

  "You know that is not what I wish."

  His wish she could not grant. "Have my folk revolted against you? Have they not bent to your presence? Have you been denied aught that comes from Donegal?"

  I am denied the greatest prize, he thought in the recesses of his brain, his gaze on the blade and his focus to keep it steady. "Why do you test me like this, Siobhàn?" There was hint of pleading in his voice.

  "I want only what we deserve, PenDragon. Respect for our home, our ways, our heritage in our surrender—before you bring more English."

  His gaze searched her beautiful pale features. He'd never seen such courage in a woman before, so willing to accept punishment for an entire settlement. Had she done this to prove none would do aught to anger him with her life at risk? "You have gained it this day, Siobhàn O'Rourke. I will do what I can, for I can no more wound you than I can have…"

  Her hand flicked open and she crumbled to the ground. Gaelan threw down his sword, catching her before her head cracked on the ground. Swiftly he lifted her in his arms and strode toward the keep, his gaze never leaving her pale drawn face. He willed her to waken as citizens followed, rushing to do his bidding as he called for water, bread, and broth. He carried her to her chamber, kicking open the door and laying her on the bed. Culhainn growled, snapping at his legs, but Gaelan ignored the beast and sat on the edge of the bed, pouring a cup of water and tipping it to her lips. She stirred, sipping, then sagged into the coverlets.

  "You are an amazingly stubborn woman, Siobhàn." And brave and intelligent, and she made him feel insignificant, made him feel a tremendous need when he did not want to feel. Made him hurt when he thought he no longer had the capacity. He warred between wanting her so desperately his arms fairly throbbed to hold her close and hating her for showing him how ruthless he'd become when faced with such unyielding determination.

  Her lashes swept up and his chest constricted at the turmoil in her eyes. Her voice broke as she whispered in a gravelly voice, "I am prepared to discuss terms, Sir PenDragon."

  Gaelan sighed, dropping his head forward.

  And in doing so, he didn't see the tear slide down her temple and melt into the pillow.

  Nor her silently mouthed words—begging the forgiveness of her ancestors.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  Bathed and freshly dressed, Siobhàn's stomach was full, her energy restored. Though she was not the least bit tired, having napped far too often in the tower for God to approve, she could not resist holding Connal in her
arms and singing him into a needed rest. She was thankful he had not witnessed the scene in the ward, and laying abed with him, his little arms about her neck, his warm body pressed to her side, she was reluctant to leave. For the inevitable awaited her downstairs.

  From her spot in the large chair near the window, Rhiannon cleared her throat. Siobhàn met her gaze, then followed the direction of her nod. He stood in the door frame, filling it with his height and width, and she was struck at once by how handsome and commanding he was. A shame, she thought, kissing her son and shifting out from under his hold. Connal sank into the bed with a deep sigh. Dermott wiggled into her warm spot and Connal slung an arm around the lamb. She smiled gently, touching her son's red-brown hair, then drew a breath before facing PenDragon.

  "I am ready."

  He dragged his gaze from her child to her, blinking as if in a stupor, then nodded sharply, stepping out and waiting for her to walk ahead of him. The instant she appeared belowstairs her friends rushed her, whispering what a brave woman she was, how proud they were of her, and what an awful beast PenDragon was to her.

  She held comment on the last and they scattered like frightened mice when he appeared behind her. Ignoring the bitter amusement dancing across his features, Siobhàn walked to the solar, Tigheran's rooms, and thought it fitting that the end of her old life begin here, for in this same room her marriage contracts were signed, and in this room, he had announced his intention to go to Dublin to swear oath to the king. She knew it was not for the sovereign's greater power, but what the allegiance would gain Tigheran, that the king would grant him armies to crush her uncle Dermott MacMurrough—as if her marriage of peace meant naught. He, like PenDragon, preferred making war to his home. And wars like they made had taken her parents, her brother, her chance for happiness.

  She swiped at the dust on the desk, reminding herself to clean the room, wash away what was left of her husband before the new lord attended. Suddenly, she sank into a chair in the corner, as if just realizing that yet another stranger would ride up to the gates and install himself in her home. She swallowed the thick knot in her throat. PenDragon might not cart them all off to who knows where, but this new lord could. She looked up at him, where he stood near the window, his arms folded over his chest, gazing through the precious glass Tigheran had paid a ransom's worth of silver to have shipped from France.