The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "I know, lad." His hand hovered near his tiny shoulder, uncertain and half afraid he'd hurt the child, then settled gently on Connal's back. That the boy did not move away was a comfort. "If we let every cruel thing a person says wound us, we will spend our lives fighting."

  "You do."

  "I did for pay, aye, and I did not fight for myself. That way I fought with skill and not rage."

  "What is rage?"

  "What you felt when Auggie spoke ill of your mother."

  "Oh." He drew a shuddering breath, sniffled juicily, then sighed. "You do not like me, do you?"

  Gaelan's brows rose. "I have little reason not to like you." Connal dug in the earth near his foot, aware that his streaks of mischief should have garnered a spanking at least. "I am sorry for hitting you with me sling."

  "Forgiven." A pause, and then, "You are an excellent shot." Connal sighed, too heavily for one so young. "Do you … like my mama?"

  Gaelan's throat tightened. "I would not have wed her if I did not, Connal."

  "You touch her too much."

  "I like her. People who like each other touch." Connal lifted his gaze. "But you locked her in the tower!"

  'Twas only one of Gaelan's regret. "That was before I liked her."

  "Oh."

  Gaelan's lips quirked. "Did you ever want something so bad you would do aught to have it?"

  "Aye. You. Gone."

  Ahh, he was so much like his mother, he thought with a smile. "I won't leave, ever. I suggest you discard this quest of mischief and sour moods." He eyed him. "It troubles your mother, and I have only so much leather left to repair Grayfalk's girth."

  Connal flinched, obviously thinking he'd gotten away with that one. "She does not care about me; she has you now."

  Sympathy and sudden understanding sparked in Gaelan. "You know that is untrue, Connal, and she spoke to me of her worry." Connal colored with shame. "I am not here to steal her from you. I want only to share her." He leaned down to whisper, "She will always be your mother first."

  Connal looked at him and smiled, sighing with relief, and Gaelan felt something kick him in the chest then. So changeable was the mind of a child, he thought, nudging him. "I am not even English, you know."

  Connal cocked his head, inspecting him as if it would show in marks.

  "I'm Cornish."

  "'Tis almost as good as bein' Irish."

  Gaelan smiled and Connal returned it. An uncomfortable silence stretched before Gaelan spoke. "You and I … we—ah." He swallowed, uncertain if he should approach the subject. "We have a common thread in our lives." Connal eyed him, looking wary and distrustful. "I did not know my father, either."

  "Sir Raymond said you were knighted in his household."

  Raymond needed to keep his own counsel, he thought. "Aye, but not when I was young like you."

  "Was he pleased? Did he like you? Did he teach you things a man must know?"

  Gaelan heard the eagerness in his voice, the same he'd had when he'd arrived at his father's house, the need for approval, to meet a standard, and to mayhaps find his place and have the chance to succeed. "Aye, he was, pleased, I think." Gaelan shrugged. "He did not pat me on the head or aught like that. I remember, though, when I mounted the quintain and managed to keep my seat, he smiled"—his gaze slid to Connal's—"once."

  Connal made a pitying sound. "My mother smiles even when I drinks me milk." He drew in the dirt and Gaelan peered, seeing the shape of a horse. "Your father, he let you have a horse?"

  "I was older than you and could already ride, lad."

  The boy sighed, his shoulders sagging, and Gaelan realized how sequestered his life was, and though he envied the love that surrounded the child when he needed it most, Connal was feeling left out, mayhaps even cast aside to a new marriage.

  "Would you like to tour the barracks when I inspect this night?"

  Connal's head jerked up, his smile blinding, then falling. "Mama will not allow it."

  "I do not need her permission, Connal." Not that she would speak to him now, regardless.

  "Then aye, I would."

  "Good. Off with you for now," he said. "You may make another slingshot today, if you wish."

  Connal blinked in surprise, then stood, brushing off his rump.

  "As punches go, lad," Gaelan said, and Connal cast him a wary glance, "you've the makings of a fine warrior."

  Grinning, his little chest puffed out, he swaggered out the door.

  "Connal."

  The boy turned.

  "Cause your mother heartache again, son, and I will discipline you … severely."

  Instead of fear, Connal nodded, then dashed out of sight. A smile ghosted across Gaelan's lips as he leaned his head back against the stone wall. If only your mother was so easily won, he thought, then stood. He came around the edge of the dairy and found Siobhàn stepping out of the building. She looked up, her eyes suspiciously bright, a pail of milk in her hand.

  "My thanks, Gaelan," she whispered, her lower lip trembling.

  He took a step closer and she retreated. Gaelan stiffened. "I will teach him to ride, Siobhàn. 'Tis time he had duties and not so much time to cause trouble."

  "He is a child."

  His gaze thinned. "He is a prince, the stepson of a lord, and will take Donegal in his care one day." His words bit with finality.

  Her throat worked. He could see it, and the rift between them seemed to stretch to unbearable length. Finally Gaelan strode off, wondering how a woman with so much compassion for her folk could not find a smattering for him.

  * * *

  Siobhàn frowned into Connal's chamber. Her child slept soundly, yet Rhiannon, was nowhere about, her bed mussed. Her gaze shifted to the wall of pegs. Her cloak was gone. Cursing under her breath and quitting the room, she started for the stairs to search the hall, but something told her Rhiannon was not in the keep, and taking time to search would give her naught. Siobhàn turned into her chamber, grabbing her fur cloak and donning it before striding to the west wall, sliding the trunk to the right. With both hands flat on the wall, she pushed. It gave, mortar and rock grinding as it swept back to reveal the steep tunnel. She ducked, then stilled, glancing back in indecision. Gaelan would be here in less than an hour and she wanted to talk with him, apologize for the harsh things she'd said, but Rhiannon's behavior warranted her immediate attention.

  She advanced into the tunnel, using her shoulder to shove the wall back into place. He would see the chest had been moved and discover the tunnel, she thought, and cursed herself for not telling him sooner. 'Twas how she left the keep whilst his men were in the hall that first night, she remembered with a smile. And how she got back inside after discovering Gaelan in the stables. 'Twas Tigheran's wisest triumph in constructing this castle, except that both of the two tunnel exits should have ended outside the walls, not one in a stand of trees beyond the castle and the other at the dovecote. She emerged quietly from behind the cistern, scanning the area. A figure moved at the postern of the inner ward, and Siobhàn stood, walking briskly across the yard. Most were still in the hall eating and only a gaggle of geese peppered the grounds. At the wall, she paused, looking down at the soldier asleep, a mug in his hand. She bent, talking the mug to her nose and sniffing. Oh, Rhiannon, she thought. Drugging the troops!

  Laying the cup beside the young man, Siobhàn retraced her steps, taking the tunnel into the bowels of the earth. Pushing the hatch open, she blew dirt and grass from her face, ruffled it out of her hair and searched the area. Her eyes widened at the sight of her sister riding off to the north. On Siobhàn's horse.

  She did not consider the repercussions and ran to the closest camp of English soldiers, slipping quietly into the horse pen. She whispered to the animals in a low voice, patting and soothing until she found one small enough for her to mount without notice. She led the animal out, away from the campfires and into the twilight of the hillside, then swung astride, riding slowly. She prayed Rhiannon had a good explanation for this,
for when Gaelan found out, she would be punished. And in his present mood, it would be severe.

  * * *

  Gaelan could not find her anywhere.

  He'd told her to wait for him in their chamber, and a horrible feeling slipped over his skin when he found it empty. He'd seen her enter, so where was she? Immediately he checked Connal's room, then strode belowstairs and out of the keep. After searching the herb house and every space between without success, he headed to the outer ward and found Raymond and his vassals gathered, preparing to head out on the next patrol. The men grew quiet as Gaelan approached and Raymond parted from them.

  "Have you seen Siobhàn?"

  Raymond sighed, looking at his feet for an instant before meeting his gaze. "Sir Owen saw a woman near the south end near Maguire lands."

  Gaelan frowned, then gestured to Sir Owen to come forward. "You did not detain the female, question her? God, man, brigands do not always wear braies."

  "My lord…" Owen hesitated. "'Twas the princess."

  Gaelan's scowl turned menacing.

  "At least it looked like her."

  It couldn't be. It was growing dark, he reasoned, and what would she be doing outside the keep? The risk was insurmountable. "All the more reason to detain her or follow, Sir Owen." His gaze jerked to Raymond. "We ride, now."

  "My lord," Owen called.

  He paused, turning, his gaze bouncing between Owen and Raymond and not liking the pity he saw there.

  "She was not alone."

  Gaelan's features yanked taut.

  "I swear she was speaking to a man, and he wore a plaid like the ambushers who attacked us on our way here."

  Gaelan's eyes narrowed before he turned toward the stables, bellowing for Reese.

  The ambushers wore the Maguire's plaid.

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  « ^ »

  Darkness fell sharply, clouds blocking the rise of the spring moon.

  Wind ripped hard and quick over the land, snapping with cold and a coming storm.

  Siobhàn huddled in her cloak as she rode, skirting the edge of the forest. Ducking beneath the low branches of Blackthorn trees, she hoped it was the spot where she'd seen Rhiannon disappear. She directed the animal carefully around the gnarled woods, and like the soft call of spirits guiding her, voices drifted, a low hum on the air. She dismounted, lifting her skirts high and wishing she'd worn braies. But there was no time.

  Jager me, when Gaelan hears of this Rhi will be sent away for certain, Siobhàn thought, her delicate slippers sinking into the mire. Nor did she want to think what he would believe of his wife. She stilled, the voices growing stronger, and squinted in the dark. Siobhàn spied Rhiannon, her figure cloaked and hooded. She spoke with an unfamiliar man and an instant later, when he tried to touch her and Rhiannon thrust away, her hood slipped back. Wrapped in furs, the man stepped cautiously close, as if calming a wild animal. Siobhàn could not hear the conversation, yet recognized her sister's characteristics. She was furious with this man.

  When the conversation grew more heated and he caught her by the arms, giving her an angry shake, Siobhàn decided 'twas time to make herself known. She advanced, but Rhiannon was not a weak woman, shoving the man aside and fleeing into the trees.

  The man called to her but did not follow.

  Siobhàn walked forward, and as he turned, she pushed back her hood.

  "Princess." His voice held surprise and a touch of awe.

  Suddenly the forest was alive, warriors dropping from the trees, emerging from the darkness. Cloaked in furs and coarse tartan fabrics, their faces painted for ancient ritual, she did not recognize a single man—but she knew who they were.

  Fianna Eirinn.

  The Fenians.

  "You trespass," she said to the leader.

  He folded his arms over his chest. "No part of Ireland is beyond us."

  "When you murder my folk, Donegal is forbidden!"

  The leader's features tightened and he looked away, briefly, a portrait of quick agony. Yet when he returned his gaze to Siobhàn, a dark hatred settled in his eyes. "We raid the land for food, princess. Whilst you spread yourself beneath the enemy and betray your people!"

  Siobhàn inhaled a sharp breath. "You raid for food and slaughter innocents. And you break tribal law, insulting me, Irishman," she snapped, the past day's turmoil falling on her shoulders like a hammer, sending her forward.

  The outlaws raised their weapons, javelins and arrows aimed at her heart.

  "Do not test me this day, sons of Erin," she hissed, glancing at each man and bringing her point home with a glare meant to maim. "Your vows to protect the tuath and its folk is false. People are dying, and the only ones skilled enough to slaughter are you."

  "What of your husband's army?"

  Her gaze jerked to the leader, tall, russet haired and brawny. "He would not kill his own people. Nay!" She slashed the air, her body growing hot with rage. "He would not! You are either the cause or part of the strife, Fenian." She gestured to the mismatch of tartans, then noticed more about them. Although Siobhàn had never seen a Fenian, they looked bleak—defeated.

  The leader clenched his fists, his body tightly coiled. "You cannot stop what is to come, princess."

  "Neither can you! You cannot defy the will of King Henry. I have tried!" Her body and soul responded to her outrage, heat simmering over her skin. A blue-white vapor rose around her, smoking the trees. The leader slowly unfolded his arms, watching, wary. "Mark another village, Fenian, and I swear on the blood of my ancestors…" She drew a deep breath and spat, "I will beg my husband to destroy you!"

  Warriors scowled, weapons faltered, expressions clouded with awe and sudden fear as the mist curled, enveloping her like blue flame, protecting her. Approaching hoofbeats trembled the earth, black clouds overhead colliding.

  The beasts of thunder roared.

  The leader's gaze locked with hers. "You I do not fear. A reckoning is coming, princess." His tone cracked with threat and knowledge. "Beware."

  Siobhàn's eyes narrowed. "Be warned," she returned. "Naught will save you from his wrath, Fenian."

  The splinter of branches drew her around as PenDragon emerged from the forest like the devil from a darkened womb, a silver giant against murderous black. Siobhàn's features slackened as he fired a bolt into the forest. She whipped around, but the Fenians were gone, their retreat cloaked in the mist.

  Controlling his eager mount, Gaelan waved sharply, and dozens of soldiers and knights belted into the forest, giving chase. He rode to Siobhàn, stopping, staring down at her as he lashed the crossbow to the saddle, a mix of rage and relief bleeding through him. White vapor permeated the edges of her fur cloak, whispering from beneath her garments. The sight made her all the more elusive, untouchable.

  "Did you meet him?"

  Him. Ian. Fury lit through her at the accusation. "After what we have shared, you think me ready to run to another man to give you pain? You disgust me, PenDragon." She turned away, heading back toward her mount in the forest, but Gaelan did not give her the chance, riding closer, flinging from the saddle. She turned and he grabbed her by the arms, driving her back against a tree.

  "Why were you here?" he roared in a tortured voice.

  "I followed someone from Donegal and beg you let me confront them myself first."

  "Who betrayed us, Siobhàn?" His tone warned, his fury barely suppressed.

  She looked down, unable to reveal her sister's part before she spoke to Rhiannon herself.

  "I see."

  Her head jerked up. "Nay, you are blinded by jealousy."

  "Like the Maguire?"

  "Ian had reason to be jealous. You do not."

  "Why? Tell me why I should not seek the man and sever him limb from limb?"

  "He is not part of this." Gaelan scoffed and she jerked on his hold, demanding he listen. "I would never betray you. I am your wife, yours alone." His brooding gaze scraped over her features and Siobhàn saw his doubt
, his wretched thoughts. "Even my disappointment over your falsehood this morn—" She touched the side of his face and his hard gaze softened a fraction. "I would never do aught to hurt you, to destroy us."

  "You drug guards and leave in secret, refuse a name, risk your life … how can I believe you?" came in an anguished whisper.

  Her brows rose. "For I say 'tis so."

  "What you have said thus far does not warrant such a trust." Hurt bloomed deeper in her green eyes and she shoved him back. "You demand from me what you do not offer! I ask for a few hours, not a lifetime."

  "You help him out of pity. He will not thank you for that." Spinning on his heel, he swung up onto Grayfalk.

  "Gaelan."

  "God," he said, gripping saddle leather, rain drenching his back, "oftimes I prefer you call me aught but my name. It hurts to hear it."

  She stood near the horse, her hand on his thigh. "Only your suspicions hurt you, husband. I love Ian like a brother, an old memory. You have naught to question in that and those men"—he tipped his head back, meeting her gaze—"they were the Fenian warriors, and I did not recognize even one of them."

  Gaelan digested this for a moment, staring at her beautiful upturned face, smooth and rain splattered. For the ride here, he'd imagined the worst, imagined finding her body mangled or without life or not at all. Battling with the demons riding his spine, he could say no more than, "Get on your horse."

  Sighing defeatedly, she turned away, led the horse from hiding and obeyed. When she was mounted, he rode close, taking the reins and lashing them to his saddle.

  "You are forbidden to leave the castle."

  Her lips tightened. "That will not change what rots atween us, Gaelan."

  "Mayhaps 'twill keep you alive a little longer, then." He looked at the forest, the mist cloaking the ground, and knew somehow, she created it. "My loyalty is with you and Donegal, Siobhàn." He turned his head to look at her, his expression wounded and angry. "If you cannot give me your trust, then I…" He swallowed. "I will lock you in our chamber to keep you safe, I swear it."