The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "An English lord," he said with absolute certainty.

  "Not if the king thought an Irish overlord, a loyal man, would suffice," Patrick said, and they looked at him. "He had with Dermott." He glanced between the two. "And O'Niell has been in the king's court, gaining his favor, bringing him gifts. If Maguire and you were dead, once again the princess would be the only thing standing in his way to take all of Donegal. The princess and her son."

  Gaelan closed his eyes, the new knowledge crushing through him. "The cart, the scaffolding. 'Tis the boy they tried to kill, and failing that, he went after Siobhàn." Tigheran's half brother would know of the tunnels, he reasoned, and could have used them to put men inside the keep. His gaze jerked to Rhiannon, accusing. What had she done for her love of this traitor? Had she ignored the enemy in the castle, let him get close enough to learn his plans, close enough to murder Meghan?

  He turned to the prisoner. "Where is my wife?"

  "I do not know."

  Gaelan unlocked the cell, throwing the door wide, vengeance twisting his features.

  "Patrick, tell him!"

  Unmoved by the threat, he said, "I have naught left, Rhi. I would not lie."

  Gaelan drew back his arm and drove his fist into his face. Rhiannon screamed as Patrick fell. Gaelan reached for him and Ian latched onto his arm. PenDragon shoved, sending Maguire back against the wall as knights pushed their way into the cell, restraining him.

  Gaelan struggled against the human bonds, glaring down at the traitor. "I swear by all that is holy," he snarled. "I will rip you limb from limb!"

  "We still have to catch O'Niell," Ian said, rubbing his shoulder. "If you kill him, we cannot use him."

  "Release me!" They did, and Gaelan plowed his fingers through his hair, trying to see through the facts for a solution, yet he could only envision Siobhàn, vulnerable to a killer she did not recognize. Ah, love, please be alive.

  "He gathers men to make a final strike," Patrick said, and heads came up, gazes fixed. "He leads this one himself, on Cloch Baintreach."

  Ian cursed.

  Gaelan tipped his head back, his blood hot with impotent rage. "Andrew, bind him and bring him above."

  "The others?"

  "They are your captives and countrymen, Maguire." He straightened, staring at the prisoners impassively. "Do as you feel you must." Gaelan grabbed Rhiannon by the arm, pulling her from the dungeon.

  Ian stared at the men clad in English tunics and thought of the children, the women and clansmen he'd buried, then spoke the fatal words. "Execute them."

  * * *

  The doors and windows of the keep and surrounding buildings were locked and sealed, only the PenDragon army, the Maguire clansmen and the O'Donnels allowed in the outer ward. She was the only woman. Gaelan stood behind her, forcing her to watch.

  "See what your silence has wrought, woman," he said, and she tried not to flinch when Maguire warriors swung the battle-ax, taking vengeance for the crimes on his clan and beheading the prisoners. Her stomach revolted and she turned her face away. Her gaze landed on Patrick. And her heart broke again.

  He stood in the center of the field, his hands bound, his gaze following the bodies as they were carried off the field. Then his focus swung to her. She choked, covering her mouth.

  Without expression, Gaelan walked away, leaving her standing alone, abandoned as she deserved. He barked orders for the keep to be opened again, and for his men to assemble in all haste, yet whilst knights donned armor, Gaelan dismissed it, dressing in padded tunic and mail under the warmth of furs. He jerked on Grayfalk's girth, then swung up onto the saddle.

  Ian caught the bridle, staring up at him. "Am I under lock and key?"

  "I do not trust you."

  "I've given you no reason."

  Gaelan stared out over the field, the preparations for war. "I admit I need your assistance, Maguire—"

  "Language barrier still a wee bit of a problem, is it?"

  "Driscoll remains behind—and aye—"

  "I will give it, PenDragon."

  He met his gaze, a challenge in his eyes. "How much do you offer to heal this land?"

  "My word, my honor."

  Gaelan searched his eyes for the lie and didn't find it. He nodded, then held out his hand. They clasped, fist over wrist in a warrior's bond. "'Twill do—for now."

  With a quirk of his lips, Ian stepped back, then headed to his horse, and Gaelan wheeled Grayfalk toward the gates.

  Rhiannon raced to his side. "What will you do with him?"

  Gaelan's face was an unforgiving mask as he stared down at her. "I would sever his hide from his body, but we need him to end this."

  "He forfeits the lives of his family, they all do"—she gestured to the bloodstain in the dirt without looking—"to help you."

  Gaelan refused to be baited by her tears. Had she spoken up, this would have been solved faster. Had Patrick come to him, he could have stopped this feud before so many were slaughtered like livestock. He leaned down and said, "I have no more mercy."

  She staggered in horror.

  The young O'Donnel stepped forward. "My lord. O'Niell keeps the families in Coleraine." Gaelan's brows shot up. "'Tis why there is so little to share, I'm thinkin'. There are too many new families without men to hunt and protect."

  Gaelan nodded, then called for his soldiers. "Markus. Assemble three squads, take two wagons of provisions to Coleraine with young O'Donnel here, and bring back any who wish to live in Donegal."

  "Or south," Ian said, his mount sidestepping.

  Gaelan eyed him for a moment, then called for Driscoll. "You are in command." Driscoll frowned, clearly wanting to join the search, yet did not gainsay the order. "I want a guard on her every second." He pointed to Rhiannon, then met her gaze. "Your sister will have no say in your fate, Rhiannon, understand this. Tend to DeClare and my son."

  Driscoll grasped her arm, ushering her toward the keep. Gaelan ordered the weapons and mounts restored to Maguire's men, the prisoner under Ian's supervision. Ian crossed to Patrick. Before he reached him, Rhiannon tore from Driscoll's grasp, her body slamming against Patrick's, arms clutching him, her sobs muffled against his chest.

  "Shhh, love, shhh," he murmured against her hair. "Do not cry for me."

  "I cannot bear it."

  "You will, you must. We were never meant to be, not in this life. Our treachery has done this and we must suffer the price."

  His voice was resigned and she hated it, hated that she could not have the man she loved, that he'd abandoned her only to return and destroy them again. She tilted her head back to meet his gaze.

  "Give me my dignity in this and keep your own." His voice fractured, softened. "Do not let my last sight of you be in tears." He bent and kissed her, a ferocious soul-stripping match that stirred all who looked on. Then he stepped back and allowed himself to be hoisted into the saddle and bound to it. Ian took the leads, riding after PenDragon.

  Patrick looked back over his shoulder only once. Rhiannon stood alone and proud, honoring him with her stiff spine, her unshed tears. They passed through the gates and she remained perfectly still until they closed behind him.

  Then she sank to her knees and wept for the forever her lies had cost her.

  * * *

  Chapter 33

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  The sea raged, the crush hammering at her stone prison. Rain splattered, and she flinched with each drop, the icy water sizzling against her body. The air was colder, the breeze swifter, brushing her hair back from her face as she lifted her head. She glanced about, suddenly aware she was not alone.

  Across from her perch, a yawning hole stood where a door had once been. The storm cast shadows darker than night, silhouetting the figure framed in the crooked stone entrance.

  She cursed him behind the gag.

  He chuckled, thinly sinister and brittle with suppressed anger. And madness.

  "I wish I could kill you now."

  Her eyes spoke for her. Do it then.


  "Not yet."

  Suddenly he leapt the empty space between them, stones falling over the crumbling edge of the floor, and Siobhàn pressed against the wall till it bit into her back. He squatted and pulled the gag from her mouth.

  She spat, working feeling into her jaw. "Who are you?" She could not see his face.

  But he snickered as if she was a fool.

  She felt the shielding warmth of his body as he moved closer, then the coldness of a blade against her unprotected cheek. "So pretty," he whispered and with a quick flick, pricked her skin.

  She turned her face away, but he caught it, forcing her to meet a gaze she could not see. "Why do you do this? I know naught of you."

  "I know. 'Tis the sweetest victory, my lady." He's English, she thought. "You will die and never know by whose hand."

  "Then what victory is that?"

  "Only mine." He dragged the blade against her jaw, down the slender column of her throat, and Siobhàn told herself if he wanted her dead, he would have done it before now. Was he a coward? Or just taunting her?

  "Her face peeled away from her skull like the rind of an apple," he whispered close to her ear, and cold wracked her. "She stared into my eyes as I took her nose, her lips."

  Siobhàn's stomach recoiled at the image.

  "She was alive then," he hissed. "Alive." He tisked, a sound lacking in sympathy or remorse. "'Twas you I wanted. Only you."

  "Why?"

  "'Tis my right!"

  "Who are you?"

  "Your king."

  Shadows moved.

  Stones crunched.

  Lightning cracked in rapid succession, glowing the sky a blistering white and gleaming off the silver blade in his hand.

  She inhaled, wrenching back as the tip neared her throat. A swipe, and she felt the sting rip across her skin.

  He leapt the crevasse, his figure a winged beast in the dark. "Know that whilst you sit here in your lavish castle, bleeding your precious regal blood, the bastard will breathe his last."

  Her breath shrank in her lungs. Oh dear God!

  His knowing laugh slithered between the raindrops. Ugly. Poisonous. "Suffer, lady of Donegal. For all you cherish will be dead by morn."

  Siobhàn cursed him, aware she was alone again.

  My family dies this night, she thought, tugging wildly at her bonds.

  Blood dripped faster down her throat, a warm rivulet splattered by the rain.

  * * *

  Thunder shook the land, threatening to tear it apart. But it was the beat of hooves that brought the villagers out and to the edge of the street as the PenDragon rode into the tiny hamlet.

  He skidded to a halt as Fionna raced forward. "Where is she?" he demanded, and when her expression fell, Gaelan lost the last vestiges of hope. He bowed his head, raking his hand over his face and releasing a long, shuddering breath. "Oh God."

  Ian observed him, the agony in his features he thought no one saw, the way his hand shook slightly as he brought it to the pommel. The way his fingers tightened, and the wood beneath the leather cracked.

  Fionna stared up at PenDragon and hated to add another burden to the pile weighing his broad shoulders. "Forgive me, PenDragon."

  Gaelan frowned, sliding from the saddle. She was terrified. "I will not take this out on you, woman. My God —"

  "Then why do you bring him?" She inclined her head to the Maguire.

  Gaelan sent a speculating glance his way. "Not as well loved as you think, eh, Irish?"

  Ian left his saddle with a jolt. "She holds a grudge." Fionna advanced on Ian like a hawk to a mouse, and the man stood his ground, his expression masked. "Because of my deed for you, I was banished, Maguire. I have lost my home, my family. Only for this one sennight in years have I known my cousin again." Tears glossed her eyes and Gaelan stepped protectively closer. "And when she is found, they will all turn their backs on me again!" With two hands, she shoved his chest and whirled away.

  Gaelan ordered Ian to stay put and followed Fionna, catching her arm and forcing her around. The proud Irish Wiccan stared at her bare feet.

  "Forgive my behavior, PenDragon. 'Twas foolish to waste energy on that man. I should simply turn him into a toad and cage him."

  Gaelan gazed down at her bowed head, thinking her much like her cousin and wondering what crime she'd committed to get herself banished.

  She sniffled, composed, and lifted her gaze. "I found the hole in the earth."

  "Show me."

  Returning to the mounts, Gaelan swung up onto the saddle, hoisting her before him.

  He leaned close to whisper, "He lives, lass."

  Her posture withered with relief and Gaelan wondered how long she'd have waited to ask.

  "Stupid English fool. I warned him not to go." Gaelan heard the affection in her voice. "DeClare is stubborn to his duty."

  "DeClare?" She twisted to meet his gaze, clearly shocked. "Pembroke's—?"

  "Nephew, aye," he finished. "He's rather proud of the association. I am surprised he did not mention it."

  "He was not in the mood for talking."

  Gaelan's lips flattened into a thin line. "He does not recall you any more than a dream, I fear."

  "Good. He does not believe my kind exist."

  "Neither did I, but then, he will survive a killing wound only because of your help."

  She twisted to meet his gaze. "'Twas magic that saved him, PenDragon, not me."

  "Then for both, I am in your debt."

  She looked skeptical.

  "You have my word; ask, and if I can provide, I will."

  Her gaze sketched him again, as if testing the truth in her mind before she faced forward, silent as they rode into the forest, the trees thick with bramble and low, dying branches. She called him to halt, then she slipped to the ground, going down on her knees and feeling the earth. Gaelan followed.

  "'Twas here, I swear!"

  Gaelan knelt, touching her shoulder. "I know it is, lass. Be patient."

  "How can you be when she is gone, English?"

  "I have no other choice."

  Under a flash of lightning, Fionna saw it. He was in agony, tormented with the unknown. Fear clawed at his will and she admired him for his restraint, for the heart so strong he would keep his composure when he was wont to rage.

  "Here, PenDragon." Ian pulled the ring, the rope, then heaved. "'Tis empty."

  Gaelan spun away and paced, grinding a rut in the earth. No one spoke, no one moved. The rain came, quick and drenching, and still none uttered a word; Even as his boots splashed. Even as lightning severed the blackened sky. Then he stilled, and in a burst of paralyzed rage he threw his head back and roared like the dragon he was named.

  "Feel better?"

  He tipped his head to glare at Maguire, then past him to the prisoner. "Where would he take her?"

  "His castle, mayhaps. Or a farm near the edge of his lands." His look said he didn't think she was alive and Gaelan ignored it. He had to.

  "The Fenians are in the middle of this."

  "They have not been in Donegal for years," Fionna defended. "I would know." He jerked a look at her and she backstepped at the savagery borne there. "My brother is one of the clan."

  "He's forbidden to speak to you," Ian reminded.

  "Shut thy mouth, chieftain," she gritted. "Or you will be croaking instead of sitting there smug in the saddle." Only then did she look at him, her haunting blue eyes filled with bitterness and stabbing through Ian with a force that left a trail.

  He opened his mouth to speak when Gaelan pointed at him. "Not a word or I gag you." He turned to Patrick, pulling him from the saddle and slamming him against the horse. "Tell me something that will appease me, traitor, for your life hangs on a slim thread."

  Patrick stared, rain pelting his face. "I can show you a dozen caverns, but they will be empty as well. He awaits me in five days. He gathers at the end of the Finn river, in armor." His gaze shifted past to meet the Maguires. "Then onto Cloch Baintreac
h."

  "Nay," Fionna gasped, her gaze tripping to Ian's. Her family was there.

  "Then we know where he will be in five days," Gaelan said, as if he did not notice the horror on her lovely face. He stepped back, pulling on his leather gauntlet as he moved to his mount. "Andrew, remain here with your men and comb the forest for a trail. Fallon," he said to the Irishman. "Count our best and pair them to scrap over every inch of this land to the shore. Disguise your trappings." He gestured to the clothing that marked them soldiers. "Trade them, mix them, I do not care, but I do not want to frighten the people O'Niell has already harmed. We do this peacefully."

  The Irishman nodded, and Ian watched the man assemble his squads with the efficiency he'd seen in PenDragon's ranks. But it was the fairness and trust bestowed that stunned him more.

  "Sir Pierce, take yours to the river's end and remain out of sight. We watch only. O'Niell is mine," he said with crisp command, and Pierce nodded. "Maguire—" Ian's head came around, his jaw bearing an undignified slack. "I suggest you send word to your holdings to prepare, should this not be a lie." Gaelan's look said he would cut Patrick slice by slice if it was. "But for God's sake, be certain they are discreet. This may be our only chance."

  "Where will you be?"

  "Searching."

  "Alone?"

  Gaelan held his hand out for Fionna and she climbed to the saddle.

  "Not quite," Fionna said with a cryptic look at Ian. His features went tight with understanding, and if she did not know better, she would swear he was afraid for PenDragon.

  Gaelan didn't notice the exchange as he wheeled the beast about and tossed, "Keep that bastard alive"—he gestured to Patrick—"until we need him," before riding into the dark.

  * * *

  "She is not dead."

  "Sweet Jesu, I pray not."

  Fionna tilted her head to look at him. "In your heart, Gaelan, you know."

  His features worked into misery. "I want to believe." He halted before her cottage and she slid from the mount, her back to him for a moment before she turned to face him.

  The storm whipped at her long hair, dragging it across her throat.

  Rain pearled on her upturned face.

  "Trust what you hear and see this day, PenDragon." She laid her hand over his. "'Tis the magic of ancients. Of your family." She pressed something into his hand, closing his fist around it. "Your love for her will not fail you." She turned into the cottage and Gaelan opened his hand, staring at the small smooth stone, the color of his wife's eyes.