The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

He stared, breathing hard, then stabbed the sword in the ground. He lifted his gaze and met Ian's across the carnage. Ian staggered, clutching his bleeding shoulder and bowed.

  A cheer rose.

  Gaelan acknowledged it, swiping the back of his hand across his sweaty face.

  A voice called his name, sweet and feminine. He jerked a look at the gate, then strode across the bloody field as Siobhàn ran toward him. The impact of her body drove him back a step as he wrapped her in his embrace. For a long moment they simply stood, locked, letting the sound of their heartbeats envelop them.

  "Oh dear lord, I thought I would see you die!"

  "You doubt my skills," he said with mock insult.

  "Nay, oh nay." She kissed him quick and hard. "But Tigheran's retainer attacked your back…" She pointed and Gaelan saw the pair slumped across each other, a sword impaling the retainer. "Patrick saved your life."

  Gaelan walked to the bodies, pulling O'Rourke's man off, then going down on one knee. He stared at the face of Connal's father, whispering a prayer, then closing his vacant eyes. "Rest peacefully, Irishman. Your son is safe and loved."

  Siobhàn moved up behind him, laying her hand on his shoulder, and he covered it, releasing a deep sigh. "Come, my husband, 'tis time to go home."

  * * *

  Beyond the walls of the solar, the revelry permeated the air with laughter, the clink of tankards raised in toasts, yet in the privacy of stone and stained-glass windows, Rhiannon stood silent, keeping her tears at bay as Gaelan spoke.

  "He died valiantly, sister. He gave his life for mine."

  She nodded, mute, and Gaelan could see her throat working to hold back great, wrenching sobs. "I am truly glad that you prevailed. Though I knew you would." She lifted her gaze, sliding once to Siobhàn standing beside him. "If my lord would permit, I wish to enter the abbey."

  Siobhàn inhaled, her hand clasping Gaelan's, yet she remained silent.

  "You will not change your mind?" Gaelan ventured. "Remain here?"

  She shook her head vigorously. "My heart died with him, my lord. He was not the best man to love, nor the wisest. I tried to convince him to come to you—" She stopped, swallowing hard. There was no point in matching wits over what they should have done. "In death he will pay for his crimes. And in life, I must pay for mine."

  "Nay!" Siobhàn said, rushing to her.

  "Shhh," Rhiannon hushed in a gentle voice, tenderly pushing a stray curl from her forehead, feeling as if each cut and bruise on her beautiful face were struck by her own hand. "I must go. I need to find peace with what I have done, sister." She tipped her head, her lower lips trembling, her eyes glossed with unshed tears. "You were a far better mother than I could ever be, Siobhàn. He's a fine boy"—her voice fractured with her torment—"and under Gaelan's tutelage, he will be a fine man. What you choose to tell him is your decision. I release you of our pact and I relinquish any claim to him."

  Siobhàn looked up at Gaelan, then to her sister. Briefly, they hugged, and Rhiannon turned to Gaelan, awaiting his decision.

  "To the convent, then."

  Rhiannon's shoulders sagged with relief and Gaelan bent, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Her tears fell, his forgiveness in the simple touch. She turned and left them alone.

  Gaelan held his wife, feeling her sorrow, and would have stayed there, except Connal raced in, happily screaming, "Father, come see!"

  * * *

  Gaelan leaned close to his wife, brushing his mouth over her temple as if to soothe away the marks left on her beauty. That she held his child in her body after all she'd suffered was a miracle neither of them could ignore. God shined upon them, he thought as she patted his hand with understanding, smiling down at Connal on his lap. Gaelan ruffled the boy's hair and he beamed up at him, his cheeks stuffed with sweet cake. Gaelan whispered for him to slow down, that this night he could have all he desired.

  Around them the celebration in the hall was in high abandon, Irish and English joined as one. Fiddlers played, jugglers tossed sticks of fire and dancers twirled, a few women trying to teach the English to dance.

  Siobhàn laughed at the knights' attempts, then gasped. "Oh Connal, go get Dermott afore he's trampled." The tiny lamb was trying to move between the dancers.

  Connal scrambled off Gaelan's lap, all knees and poking elbows, and crawled under the table to pop up on the other side and dash after his pet. Jace joined him and the pair raced off through the crowd. To get into mischief, she thought.

  Gaelan nudged her, then nodded. Her gaze shifted and she smiled. Raymond DeClare was frowning at Fionna as she moved past, and for some reason was staring rather intently at her behind.

  "Think he will know where he saw her?"

  "Not unless she chooses."

  Gaelan grinned. "'Twould serve him well to be sniffing after a skirt and not know if it's the right one."

  Siobhàn smiled. "Has Driscoll given his permission?" She nodded to Owen and Driscoll's daughter Margaret, talking privately off to the side, constantly glancing at the sheriff.

  "They want to be married by Christmas."

  She looked at him. "And?"

  "I advised Driscoll to wait afore consenting."

  "For the love of Mary, why?"

  "He went behind his back, Siobhàn. I cannot tolerate such behavior and neither should Driscoll in a son-in-law."

  "Oh, and you are such an authority on marriage," she huffed with a playful shove.

  He wrapped his arm around her and growled, "I was wise enough to marry you, was I not?"

  Her smile was radiant. "Aye."

  "Did I not give my permission for Andrew and Bridgett to wed?"

  Siobhàn glanced at the couple kissing in a darkened corner. "Aye."

  "Is not Ian pleased with his lands and holding, his new vassals?"

  She leaned closer and whispered, "Have I thanked you for being so generous?"

  "Aye, but you may again, later." He wiggled his brows and she blushed. "So now, my love," he said, with a touch beneath her chin and a kiss to her lips, "are there any more chieftains prepared to defy the king to save you from my wretched soul?"

  Siobhàn brushed a lock of sable brown hair from his forehead. "And if there was?" she said with a challenging spark.

  He grinned. "Then I am glad I have a bigger army."

  "We have a big army."

  His brow shot up. "We?"

  She tried to frown, but it just would not stay put. "Do not start with me, husband."

  He nipped the finger in his face. "Oh-ho my Irish princess—" He pulled her from her chair and onto his lap. "There are plenty of things I wish to start with you."

  "What might they be?"

  "Loving the defiance out of you."

  "'Twill take a century," Ian muttered as he passed behind them.

  Laughing, Gaelan stared into the eyes of the woman who'd breathed life into his decaying soul and said with an Irish lilt, "Jager me, that soon? 'Twas an eternity, I was hopin' for."

  She cupped his head, drawing him to her mouth to whisper, "Ahh my love, we will make you an Irishman yet." She kissed him, deeply, lovingly, her heart soaring for the courageous man he'd become, for the life they would build and the love she knew would last beyond the stone keeps and proud castles … and for the wild magic of Erin growing in his heart.

  * * *

  Epilogue

  « ^

  London, twelve years past.

  Gaelan flinched when the king struck Connal across the face. It was part of the ritual, the prayer and fasting, the pledge and the presentation in purest white. Irish linen, of course, but the slap delivered was the symbol of the pain he would suffer to uphold the king's laws.

  Connal was now a knight of the realm.

  Pride swelled in Gaelan and his gaze slid discreetly to Siobhàn. He nudged her, and she looked up, unshed tears glassing her eyes.

  "Barbaric," she muttered, and he knew she wished Rhiannon could see this, but the woman had not left the convent in years.
>
  Gaelan grinned, bending to kiss the top of her head.

  "If you can pull yourself away from your wife, PenDragon…" the king said, and Gaelan faced his sovereign.

  Henry Plantagenant eyed him, pleased the man had grown accustomed to the life of a lord. He'd wanted this man in his court, for his armies, his skill, and had done everything in his power to bring the lady princess and PenDragon together. A well-made match, he thought smugly. But then his sources a dozen years ago had told him Siobhàn O'Rourke was a woman destined to be a legend. What better than to bring two legends together? He glanced at the young man Connal, his looks sending half the ladies into a swoon, his size as great as PenDragon's, though he knew they were not related in blood. He was a fine addition to his legions, he thought, watching him secure his spurs.

  Henry inclined his head and Gaelan gestured to Connal's squire. The slender lad led a horse from the stables as Gaelan stepped off the dais. He took the reins, gave the mount a pat, then handed them to Connal.

  "May he serve you well, my so—Connal."

  "'Tis all right, my lord. I feel more English than Irish right now." Connal tried to remain solemn, but the pride in his father's face made him grin.

  Gaelan glanced about, at the people gathered, to his wife, her belly round with their fourth child and the line of girls stretched out beside her. Where was Aslyn? he wondered, the little troublemaker.

  "PenDragon!" the king bellowed, and they turned. Henry gestured regally and a man stepped forward, kneeling before his king. Henry waved impatiently and Connal rushed forward. "My gift to you." The attendant presented Connal with the sword.

  Connal tried not to gape at the massive thing, wondering if he'd embarrass himself if he couldn't lift it off the pillow.

  "It looks like DeClare's, my liege."

  "A duplicate."

  Connal's gaze jerked up as he handled the balance of the sword. Exceptionally long, the top third was serrated, yet where DeClare's hilt had been studded with gems, Connal's bore the Celtic marks of his heritage.

  "I am humbled."

  "Good. A knight should be humble."

  Connal slid a glance at Gaelan and smirked. Henry chuckled with understanding, and Gaelan eyed them both, a warning in his eyes when his gaze landed on Connal.

  "I can still thrash your hide, puppy," he muttered under his breath, then called for the remaining gifts, his armor and shield, the symbol of his house emblazoned on the shield. The hooded squire stumbled and Gaelan darted forward to catch the lad, bringing him upright.

  The scent of spice filled his nostrils.

  "Aslyn!" he hissed, his eyes flaring with quick anger.

  Henry peered. "Isn't that your oldest girl, PenDragon?"

  Gaelan shoved the girl behind him. "Aye, your majesty."

  "Bring her here."

  Gaelan groaned, pulling his daughter forward and praying the king could not understand the string of Gaelic curses spilling from her lips.

  Connal stood nearby, the swordpoint in the ground, his hands folded over the top as she passed him. "You've done it now, piglet," he murmured, and she shot him a murderous glance.

  Gaelan pushed his daughter before the king and was thanking God when she dipped a proper curtsey. He glanced at Siobhàn. She shrugged, a half smile curving her beautiful mouth. The king left his chair and stopped before her.

  "Arise, child."

  She popped straight up, defiance hinting there, and Gaelan tensed. Please keep your wild tongue in your mouth, he prayed.

  Henry pushed the hood back. "You are lovely."

  "So everyone keeps telling me."

  Henry's brows rose and he glanced at her father. Gaelan looked ready to beat the child, he thought. "You do not like being beautiful."

  "Not when everyone treats me as if I've no brain behind this face, your majesty."

  "And what would you use this brain for?"

  "Aught more than stitching samplers, my liege."

  Henry grinned, tugging on the long red braid. "Mayhaps we can find something better for you to do." Her eyes lit up like green fire. "When you have grown up a bit." She wanted to rebel, he could see, yet knew her place. Henry admired her for it. The girl was utterly fearless. Like her father.

  Henry looked up and smiled. "I pity you, PenDragon."

  "'Tis well placed, my liege," he said, grabbing Aslyn by the arm and directing her toward her mother.

  "Let us celebrate!" As the king and his entourage headed into the castle, Gaelan turned to Aslyn. And found her missing.

  He looked at Connal.

  "Who knows?" he said, sheathing his sword. "'Tis your fault."

  "Mine! You instigate it with allowing her to page for you. Her defiance is her own difficulty."

  "She doesn't see it as defiance. She is being Aslyn." Connal moved closer, lowering his voice. "If you'd not allowed her to make you so weak, my lord, she would be stitching samplers and liking it."

  "Hah. No daughter of Siobhàn's would be so complacent."

  "No daughter of yours, either. And just think, you have three more to contend with. Mayhaps four, Father."

  Gaelan stopped in his tracks, turning to Connal. He had not called him that since he'd come of age. And though he was not his blood sire, Gaelan could not love the young man any more than if he was his own.

  "Go to your friends, and show them your prizes. Tomorrow you earn the right to be called knight."

  Connal frowned. "A tourney?"

  Gaelan nodded. And Connal smiled hugely, handsome in his excitement. "If Siobhàn doesn't interfere," he muttered, watching as Connal led his new stallion toward the group of young men.

  * * *

  Halfway through the feasting, Siobhàn quietly left the hall and headed to her chamber. Gaelan frowned, glancing at Fionna, and she nodded. The goblet slipped from his hand and crashed to the floor. He started for the staircase and the king caught his arm.

  "You can do naught but wait."

  Gaelan did wait, refusing wine and too often staring at the staircase.

  "Did you do this when we were being born, Father?"

  Gaelan looked at his daughter, smiling. "Aye."

  "And with me, Father?"

  "Aye."

  "And me?"

  "Aye!" The girls didn't flinch at his bellow, staring sweetly up at him, and Gaelan sighed, apologized, excusing himself from the king's side, and moved toward the wide hearth. He sat on a bench, firmly padded and luxurious, and the girls scrambled up into his lap. They burrowed around his big body like bunnies in a hollow, and Henry envied the lord of Donegal.

  How he wished he could have known his sons like that, able to touch and kiss them freely, he thought. He settled to a chair, waving off the offer of wine as he listened to the girls question him. He didn't tell them of each birth, but a story of a lonely, savage man seeking peace and finding it in the green isle of Erin. The girls were rapt with awe, and though Henry knew they'd heard the story before, he was well pleased with the telling. He glanced at Connal, the youth gone still in his revelry with the other young lads knighted this day.

  His expression was tender and loving toward Gaelan, and Henry understood the young man's private plea to be named PenDragon. To honor the man who'd raised him.

  A tiny cry filtered from above and Gaelan gently placed his daughters aside and, ignoring all, raced toward the stairs. Gaelan pushed the door open, finding Fionna stowing soiled sheets. She nodded slightly and left the room as Gaelan crossed to the bed. Siobhàn lay still, their child at her breast, and Gaelan lowered himself to the bed gently.

  Her lashes swept up and she smiled, patting the space beside her. He shifted, gathering the pair in his arms.

  She tipped her face up. "We have a son, my love."

  Gaelan's breath caught.

  "Now you will have to work at being a father."

  Gaelan tried to look affronted and failed.

  "Your daughters think you are a God."

  "And you do not."

  "Th
ey are innocent. I am not."

  "Praise be," he muttered, kissing her deeply. "Poor boy, with all those sisters babying him…"

  "I'm sure with the blood of the dragon in his veins, he will do his own share of roaring and bellowing—"

  "I do not bellow."

  "Hah."

  Smiling, Gaelan sighed and held his wife and son in his arms, feeling small and inconsequential in a world brimming with power and battle. He was at peace, had been for years now, and was eager to return home. Ireland, he thought, was a part of one's soul, calling you back when you were away, and if you lived long enough, you understood there was no other place in the world where magic and love abounded.

  No other place, he thought, looking down at his wife and son. Except in the arms of his Irish princess.

  * * * * *