The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  He sagged into the bedding, licking his dry lips. "Who are you?"

  "Fionna."

  "The cat or the squirrel?"

  "Sometimes." Amusement pricked her voice.

  He squinted into the dark. "Siobhàn? Please tell me she is unharmed."

  The faint shadow of a hand swept to the right and Raymond inched up to see over the foot of the bed. Seeing her asleep and curled on her side near the fire, he sank into the furs, for a moment, thoughtful, then flung the covers back.

  "You haven't the strength for that."

  He arched a brow. "Is that worry I hear, lass?"

  "I could give a fig if you died, English, but she does, and for that I will see you healed."

  Her venom made his lips curl in self-reproach. He could not expect all to accept them as the dairy maids had. "My thanks, then." A pause and then, "Come into the light."

  "I am content here."

  "Stubborn female."

  "Bloodthirsty Englishman."

  His brows shot up and he watched as her figure shifted in the shadows, a hand appearing in the dark, offering a cup.

  "Drink."

  He accepted without question, draining the bitter liquid and making a sour face before handing it back. "Well, at least I know you cannot cook."

  She laughed, a soft burst of color in his mind.

  "My sword."

  "Beside you." Raymond saw the blade, the tip in the dirt floor, the hilt within his reach. It made him smile. He looked to the shadows. "Why do you not show yourself?"

  "I want no memory of me in your English mind."

  "Too late. I saw you naked."

  She gasped and he could feel her outrage, as if the room suddenly heated. He could not resist baiting her. "'Twas a delicious sight, lass. You've the sweetest behind I've—"

  "Hush, rogue," she snapped. "Your charm will not work on me."

  He tisked softly, the sound slurred, and in the far corner of the cottage beyond the light Fionna smiled, counting the minutes till the draught pulled him back to sleep. 'Twas unnerving enough with the man here, let alone awake and trying to seduce her.

  Satisfied his slumber was deep and harmless, she left the sleeping pair to gather fresh herbs and wood.

  Sensing he was finally alone with Siobhàn, Raymond slid his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. His head spun dizzily and he waited for it to pass, then reached for his clothes, mended, washed and folded on a nearby chair. He was glad he still wore his braies, for dressing was painful and difficult, pulling on his boots a test of willpower against the stabbing pain. Suitably clothed, he stood slowly, using his sword like a cane and moving to Siobhàn. Kneeling, he nudged her gently and she stirred, her lashes sweeping up. When she opened her mouth to speak, he hushed her.

  "Dress warmly and quickly. We must leave."

  She scrambled upright, scooting back a bit. "I promised Gaelan to remain."

  "I know, my lady, but I must speak with my lord and I cannot leave you here unprotected."

  Siobhàn gazed up at him, frowning. "You are not well enough to ride, sir knight."

  Raymond knew that. Bloody hell, kneeling beside her took most of his strength. "Come. Now." He stood, his eyesight blurry, and he blinked to clear it.

  "I must tell Fionna—"

  "Nay!" he hissed through clenched teeth, his face crimped in pain.

  Siobhàn climbed to her feet. "I trust her."

  "I do not. Please, do not argue, my lady. Or I will use force." Gaelan would never forgive him if he left her behind, yet his lord needed to know what he'd discovered.

  She grabbed her cloak, sweeping it over her shoulders. "You could not force a fly. And Fionna was right. You are stupid to attempt this."

  He only smiled. "Then have pity and help me."

  Her lips curved and she grabbed a small knife from the table, slipping it into the pouch tied at her waist. "You are half drugged, Raymond. And 'tis I who will likely end up defending you."

  "I feel better already." He grinned, realizing some things had not changed a'tall.

  "We return to Donegal?" The anticipation of seeing Connal brightened her face.

  "Aye. You will be safe there."

  "Gaelan said I was safer here."

  "Nay, lass, you are not." He inclined his head to his wound, the deep gash bespeaking the threat.

  He was right, of course, for there was no reason to wound the Norman, and she feared whoever attempted his murder was trying to get closer to her. "Come along then." She lent her shoulder for support.

  Using his sword as a cane, he gazed down at her, her soft body tucked to his side as they walked unsteadily to his horse. "You above all did not warrant such cruelty. I seek only to bring you safely home."

  She nodded, helping him into the saddle, and when he made to pull her up before him, she shook her head. "I can walk. The ride will be harmful enough without me banging against your wound."

  A lady, his lord's woman, walking whilst a knight rode was unthinkable. "Behind me," he ordered, handing her a length of rope. "Lash my ankles to the stirrups, and one hand to the saddle."

  "Do not be absurd!"

  "My lady," he sighed wearily, "I know my own strengths, and the potion is working well. You alone could not keep me in the saddle should I want to fall on my face."

  She did not see the humor in this. "Does that not tell you to wait a sennight, at least?"

  His information was vital, and Raymond did not want to think of the lives that could be lost in that time. "I cannot."

  Making a disgusted face, she did as bade, securing his ankles and one wrist, then using a stump to climb up behind him. He laid the sword across his lap, ready to fight to protect her, and it touched her that so many cared for her safety. Carefully they rode, Siobhàn glancing back at the little hamlet and hoping Fionna did not worry, hoping she understood she was in his valiant care.

  For miles, they clung to the woods, fitting through the thick trees like a thread to a needle. Siobhàn was exhausted with her effort to remain awake and keep him upright and decided Fionna was correct. English courage was wasted in the wrong places and DeClare would be better off if he remained in the Wiccan's care and healed. But his insistence could not be ignored.

  He was willing to die to speak with Gaelan.

  She tugged on the reins, guiding the horse beneath a tree and resting there. She dozed off and on, startled by an eerie feeling spilling over her skin. Frowning at the nocturnal noises, she strained to see in the dark, yet could see little in the shadows. Creatures moved; a squirrel skipped up a tree, startling her. Raymond, his head lolling forward, his shoulders hunched, swayed, his fists wrapped in the animal's mane. They will have to cut him free, she thought. Huddling inside her cloak, Siobhàn closed her eyes, yawning. Her stomach grumbled for food, a constant racket of late.

  Wind speared between the clusters of trees, a sudden biting shriek.

  Raymond stirred. The horse sidestepped.

  A rope dropped from the tree above and before Siobhàn could alert him, the noose snapped around her neck and yanked her from the saddle.

  The horse bolted, stealing her support.

  Siobhàn dangled, choking, clawing at the rope, and the last thing she saw was steed and rider vanishing into the darkness.

  * * *

  Chapter 31

  « ^ »

  Fionna stepped into her cottage, yet knew before she did that they were gone. She moaned in despair, dropping the kindling to the floor and bracing her hands on the table. Her eyes tightly shut, she tried to sense Siobhàn, or the knight, but naught came to her. At least he has his mammoth sword, she noticed, yet doubted he could wield it if necessary, nor survive the journey to Donegal. Straightening, she stepped out into the night and called for Paddy. The older man appeared, knuckling his eyes, scowling at the late hour.

  "Siobhàn and the knight are gone, and if we do not discover their path, then PenDragon will slaughter us all for our neglect."

  "PenDragon?" Padd
y blinked, stunned.

  "Did not know you kept such noble company, eh? Siobhàn is our princess." His eyes grew even wider. "You really must travel more, Paddy," she said with disgust and headed off to her stone circle. She'd no time to waste. By morning, the English would descend.

  * * *

  Gaelan paced with impatience, his mind sifting through details and his heart begging him to return to Siobhàn. As before, he sensed that something was not right. Gaelan called for Reese to ready his mount.

  "Nall O'Donnel is dead, my lord," Driscoll said just as the hall doors opened. "His son and clansmen come to collect his sister's body."

  Flanked by two men wrapped in threadbare tartans, a slim young fellow walked forward, his gaze on the floor. Gaelan frowned at the poorly clothed lad and motioned Sir Andrew close, ordering a purse of gold offered for his aunt's life, though Gaelan thought Meghan had given more than her life for Siobhàn. She'd given him back his own in her ultimate sacrifice. It was obvious by the young son and the pair with him that O'Donnel's defeat had a higher price than his chieftainship. It cost them their dignity.

  He gestured for Driscoll and the Irishman leaned close. "How has this starvation and poverty struck them harder than most?"

  Driscoll shrugged. "They are under O'Niell's rule."

  Gaelan's brows rose. "Pride keeps them from coming to him?"

  "Likely anger, sir, O'Rourke took their land, and O'Niell being his half brother…" He let that hang, and Gaelan walked toward the visitors, about to greet them when Sir Owen entered the hall, removing his gauntlets as he strode toward his lord.

  "Maguire and several retainers are on the ride. And the O'Niell's turned back to the river."

  Men assembled behind him, the O'Donnels watching the Irish and English follow, and Gaelan had taken no more than two dozen steps beyond the keep when his enemy's name filled the air.

  "Maguires! Maguires!"

  Gaelan ran to the gates, his sword slapping his thigh. He skidded to a halt, swinging up the scaffolding to the parapet and staring down at the encroaching band. His camped soldier rushed forward, then stopped to await his signal, and around him bowmen lined the wall and outer curtain, torches flaring to light. He strode to the edge of the battlement and raised his arm, archers sighting as the army rode down the hill. Less than a dozen riders trotted onto the freshly milled drawbridge.

  "No further, chieftain, for you have chosen the wrong day for mercy."

  Ian craned his neck, meeting his gaze. "Even for one of your own?" Ian motioned and a man led a horse forward.

  Gaelan swore. The sight of Raymond slumped over his horse's neck drove a bolt of fear down to his boot heels and he instantly ordered arms down as he left the parapet, helping the wide doors open. Ranked by his knights, he rushed to Raymond's side. Lashed to the saddle like a fresh kill, Raymond was unconscious, his shoulder bleeding profusely. Gaelan's gaze shot to Maguire's, the accusation clear.

  Ian's lips twisted in a sneer. "We found him wandering. Alone."

  Untying him, Gaelan dragged the big man down, handing him over to able hands waiting to carry him into the castle. Knights and soldiers kept the Irishmen back and Gaelan rounded on Maguire. His gaze swept the army, recognizing the recent battle in splattered blood and overworked animals, and he thought only of the village and Siobhàn. Tightly capped rage nearly exploded through him. "Raiding on my people will cost you your lands, chieftain!"

  Ian's gaze narrowed with bitterness, for he knew PenDragon could do exactly as he predicted and mayhaps had, little by little. "Here is your raider, English." With his booted foot, he shoved the culprit forward. The man tripped, banging into the steed. The glint of armor flickered in the night.

  Gaelan latched onto him by the gorget, scowling at the English armor before meeting Ian's gaze. "Metal is forged with only a hammer and fire." Gaelan released him, two soldiers on guard.

  Maguire yanked his remaining prisoners forward, and the men stumbled to the ground, the sound hollow on the wood planks.

  Gaelan stepped closer, grabbing one man by the molded helm and tipping his head back, trying to see beneath the dirt and blood. "Driscoll," he barked, and the high sheriff rushed forward, sword drawn. "Know you him?"

  Driscoll eyed the man for an instant. "Nay, my lord." At "my lord," Maguire scoffed, delivering a nasty glare at his countryman, and Driscoll returned the stare, looking at Ian as if he were a fool.

  Ian shifted his mount closer. "Why do you taunt and maim, PenDragon, when you could easily kill us all?"

  "If that were true, you'd have been dead a sennight ago." Gaelan eyed the prisoners. "These are not my men." He released his hold on the one.

  "How would you know? You have legions."

  "I know the faces of my men," Gaelan said with deadly finality. Names oftimes escaped him, but the look of fear in the men he'd fought beside for years did not. "They are your prisoners. Do as you will, chieftain."

  Ian's features stretched tight. Was he ruthless enough to give his men up so easily?

  "However," Gaelan added, "it has been my experience that they will not talk."

  He's taken others, Ian thought. "Mayhaps you are not asking the right questions."

  "You misunderstand. They do not speak a'tall." Maguire frowned, looking at the guilty. 'Twas true, the men had not uttered a word.

  "Mayhaps"—Gaelan's tone was thoughtful and Ian's gaze flashed to his—"because if they did, 'twould mark them."

  The accent. "You think they are Irish?"

  Gaelan folded his arms over his chest. "Either way, we would know."

  A page rushed forward, calling for him, skipping to a halt and staring dumbly at the Irish warriors illuminated by the torchlight. Gaelan nudged the lad and bent to his whispers.

  He straightened. "Choose three of your vassals and come with me, Maguire. Leave your weapons at the gate. Markus, take the prisoners to the dungeon," he ordered, turning into the keep.

  "And if I choose not to?"

  Gaelan looked back over his shoulder. "I will kill you where you stand, Irish. Until DeClare speaks, you are now my prisoner." With a wave of his hand, the Irishmen were surrounded, their weapons stripped. Sir Andrew waited beside Ian's mount, a courtesy to his rank.

  Calmly, Ian tugged off his gauntlets. "It appears we've been invited for supper."

  * * *

  Gaelan ran, his heart pounding furiously, and he found Raymond lying on the bed in the privacy of the solar. Rhiannon was already shouting orders for her supplies and cutting Raymond's clothes from his torso.

  She stilled at the stitches in his garments, then frowned at the ones in his chest.

  "He's been treated," she said, and Gaelan scowled. He doubted the Maguire would do such a thing. Which left Fionna or Siobhàn the task, and he wondered why they'd allowed him to leave in such a state. He hovered, and Rhiannon bumped into him twice.

  "Go, you can do naught," she said, elbowing him back. "Not for a few hours."

  He refused to move. "He knows what's happened!"

  She rounded on him. "Do you not think I know that?" It was then he saw her tears. He'd no sympathy for them.

  "Then touch him. Discover it. Your sister's life is at stake!"

  "I've tried! He gives me naught in this weakened state and…" Her gaze shifted to Driscoll, framed in the entrance.

  Gaelan turned, guilt crimping his face.

  "The princess lives?"

  "Aye."

  Driscoll's features bore a multitude of anger and hurt. "Damn thee, PenDragon."

  Gaelan crossed to him, grasping the man's shoulders when he was wont to leave or rail. "Be angry if you wish, but she was near dead." His voice lowered. "And safer in the village."

  Driscoll's expression bespoke his understanding, the peril to her life. "Aye, my lord. But if none knew she lived, then what of DeClare?"

  "He was guarding her and his presence here speaks of discovery. We must keep it that way." Driscoll nodded, trusting his judgment, and Gaelan looked to Rhian
non. "The instant he stirs, I must speak with him." He moved past with Driscoll, stopping short when he found Connal framed in the doorway, his stricken face tipped to Gaelan. Gaelan reached and the boy backed away.

  "You lied!"

  Gaelan grabbed the child, lifting him when he tried to tear free, held him when he squirmed, hushed him when he sobbed, then ducked into the privacy of the buttery. "Shh, shhh," he hushed. "You always knew, didn't you? But I could not tell a soul, my lad, and you must swear to not speak of it. The person who killed Meghan wanted to kill your mother, and until we catch him, she is in grave danger." He prayed to God she was not involved in this, for if a trained knight was wounded so severely, what defense would Siobhàn have?

  His insides twisted at the thought.

  Then, like a good prince of Erin, the child nodded and swore his silence.

  Gaelan pressed a kiss to his forehead, patted his back, then set him to his feet, stepping back into the solar and staring at Raymond on the bed, his breathing shallow, his body so still. It frightened him, that he might lose his dearest friend, that with him he would take the knowledge of Siobhàn's safety. He hoped Fionna had intervened and kept her hidden. He barked orders for a patrol to assemble, sending them to protect the village.

  "Nay, Owen," he said when the knight made to join them. "You remain here."

  Owen's features tightened at the command, but Gaelan did not care. His absences and his prejudice for the Irish was only meanly tempered of late, and until this mystery was no longer, Gaelan trusted only a select few. He twisted around as Maguire and his chosen men were led inside.

  Gaelan caught Bridgett's attention, nodding, and the woman seated them, quickly serving food and wine. The haggard O'Donnels stood back, proud and no doubt hungry. Gaelan waved and the servants ushered them to a table, quickly laying trenchers before them so they could not refuse his hospitality. He leaned his head back against the wall, his son tucked close to his side. Unconsciously his fingers sang through the boy's hair and at the tug on his tunic, he looked down into sad green eyes.

  "We are surrounded by the enemy, aye?"

  Gaelan scoffed a short laugh. "Aye, my lad."