Wild Roses

by Miriam Minger

  “If it’s nothing, then I’m deaf and blind,” Niall said so gently when he stopped and faced her that Maire felt fresh tears burn her eyes. “Now you’ll tell me what’s plaguing your heart … though I’ve a sense of what it might be.”

  Suddenly unable to breathe, Maire stared at him, wondering wildly what he might say. “Y-you do?”

  “Aye, and if I could change things for you this very moment, I swear I would. I know my happiness with Caitlin makes you long for your own … and I’m certain it will come, in time. A fine husband, children. Ronan may hold a different view, but only because he doesn’t wish to see you hurt again. Yet you can’t allow what happened last year to make you think it’s impossible. Will you promise me, Maire?”

  So relieved that she’d been spared telling Niall the truth, at least for now, she could only nod, though the ache inside her had grown near to choking her.

  To hear Niall speak of a dream which had once seemed so close to her grasp … only to turn to disaster and, for a time, throw such a terrible wedge between Ronan and Triona that Maire had feared for their love. Triona had never wanted but to help her, spending countless hours with her as she learned to walk again and ride a horse, forever encouraging her, and even finally convincing Ronan that he should consider finding Maire a husband.

  Yet she didn’t have to close her eyes to recall the look upon Colin O’Nolan’s face when the chieftain’s son had come from the Blackstairs Mountains in Carlow to meet her. She could still feel the thunderous beating of her heart when she had so eagerly and hopefully walked across the crowded feasting-hall toward the head table, knowing Colin had been told of her legs and yet still wished to consider her for his bride … only to reach him and feel all hope die.

  Saints help her, how could she ever forget the dismay, even repulsion, on his face as if he wondered whether her lower limbs were made of uneven blocks of wood rather than flesh and blood?

  How could she ever forget mortification and anguish so deep, the pain cut her still?

  How could she ever have dreamed any man would want a wife who dragged one leg behind her and swayed like a hobbled horse when there were other young women both healthy and whole … ?

  Gazing blindly across the sunswept meadow, Maire brushed away tears that fell as much for Niall as herself, yet she allowed herself only a moment’s self-pity. With time the memories would fade, and, after all, she had much for which to be thankful. A family who truly loved her. Ronan and Triona’s little Deirdre, whose sweet smile could brighten any day. And, right now, Niall deserved her only concern.

  “One of Ronan’s prize cattle, did you say?” she somehow managed to tease, grateful when Niall’s endearing, familiar grin cut across his face. Aye, she would hold her unhappy news until they were safely home, where Triona and Ronan both could help sway Niall from doing anything rash. “I feel a wee bit of an appetite myself. Too bad we’ll have to wait hours before a feast could be prepared—”

  “Mayhap not.” Niall looped his arm securely through hers as he drew her back toward the horses. “I thought I might ride ahead and share with our brother that a MacMurrough bride will soon be coming to Glenmalure. That is, if you wouldn’t mind our clansmen escorting you home. I know Fiach is a sober sort, but every once in a while he manages a smile.”

  “He’ll make fine company. I don’t mind at all.” As she was lifted back onto her mount, Maire decided it was a good thing Niall leave them, for her heart began to ache anew that he looked so merry.

  With a last squeeze of her hand, he vaulted onto his horse’s back and wheeled the powerful bay stallion around, calling out to Fiach and the rest of their clansmen to guard her well and see her swiftly home as he galloped headlong across the meadow. In moments, he had disappeared into the thick trees, and only then did Maire let her cheerful facade crumble.

  But not so her clansmen could see her distress, all of them riding a length behind her as they set off at a canter. Keeping her face forward, she let the tears come. The horses’ thundering hooves drowned out her prayer that Niall not think Donal MacMurrough had somehow encouraged Caitlin’s change of heart and swear vengeance.

  That the chieftain had allowed the younger brother of the legendary rebel Ronan “Black” O’Byrne to court his much-beloved daughter had shown the truce was solid between the two clans. Yet peace was forever so fragile—

  “Ah, God!”

  The agonized cry had come from behind her, Maire gasping as an arrow zinged past her ear, another O’Byrne suddenly shrieking in pain. Incredulous, she jerked hard on the reins and spun her horse around as another arrow struck a third clansman in the throat, her eyes widening in horror at the blood spurting from the wound. At once Fiach O’Byrne, his bearded face stricken, spurred his mount to her side.

  “Normans, Maire! The devil take them, ride with you! Ride with you after Niall!”

  Chapter 2

  Dear God, Normans? So close to the Wicklow Mountains?

  Almost in a daze, she stared at the host of mounted knights bursting from the opposite trees, their terrifying battle cries chilling her, their mail shirts and brandished swords blinding in the sun.

  “Saints preserve you, woman, ride!”

  Maire cried out as Fiach slapped her gelding’s flank, the startled animal lunging so suddenly into motion that she nearly lost her seat. Desperately she grabbed the horse’s snowy mane and held on, her throat constricting in disbelief as the terrible clamor of sword hitting sword rang over the meadow. She was already into the trees where Niall had disappeared moments ago when she heard more screams, hideous death screams. Her flesh crawled with fear.

  None of her clansmen had ridden after her. At least she thought none, until the heavy pounding of hooves made her hope wildly, giddily, that she wasn’t alone. Swiping the hair from her face, she dared a glance over her shoulder, only to feel her stomach knot in terror.

  Three Normans were bearing down upon her like apparitions of hell covered from head to toe in fearsome metal, their horses great lunging behemoths to her smaller mount. It was then she began to pray desperately that Niall was nowhere near, that he wouldn’t hear her screams and return to harm’s way. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, protect him! Protect her!

  With cramped fingers she clutched the gelding’s coarse mane all the tighter, her cheek pressed to his sweaty neck, her breath tearing at her throat as the animal weaved and raced through the trees at a breakneck pace that rekindled a shred of hope that she might yet escape. As if in a blurred dream the forest flew past her, flashes of deep green melding with mottled sunlight and an occasional brilliant shaft that broke through the dense leaves. She squinted against the sudden brightness, daring once more to lift her head and look behind her …

  It happened so fast, a violent thud and then pain so intense that Maire scarcely realized she was lying sprawled upon the ground, a low-hanging branch wavering and shimmering above her. And again came the piercing sunlight through the leaves, blinding her as she fought to drag air into her lungs, fought to fend off the strange darkness threatening to overwhelm her as the terrible throbbing in her head grew stronger, more fierce. Dazedly she heard horses snorting and blowing, and men’s voices growing near.

  “God’s breath, does she live?”

  “Barely, I’d wager, after that blow. Hit the branch square on, she did, foolish little bitch.”

  “Ah, Henry, you’re only grousing because you’ll have to wait now to spread her legs. A pretty bit, too, for an Irish wench, though too thin for my taste.”

  “Anything would be too thin compared to the big-breasted sows you take to your bed, man! Gather her up and let’s get back to the others. Lady Adele should be well pleased with today’s sport, wouldn’t you say?”

  Coarse male laughter ringing deafeningly in her ears, Maire groaned as she felt herself being lifted, the pain in her head grown so acute she was aware of little else. Nor did she think to fight her captor, her limbs useless and limp, the world become no more than a hazy blur. Within
what seemed an instant, the shadow of trees and leaves was gone, only open sky above her, and more blinding sun.

  “You ran her down! Delightful!” came a feminine voice. A cool palm slipped across the left side of her head, which throbbed and thundered. “A terrible lump, though, big as a chestnut. Did you strike her, FitzHugh?”

  “Ha! A branch felling her was hardly the surrender I had envisioned—”

  “And you’ll leave her be, too, Henry, if she’s to recover. Since Gwyneth died aboard ship, you know I need another maid. This wench will do nicely … an Irish savage to amuse me. Then again, she might amuse my dear brother, too. She’s surely lovely enough. And what better way to show the man I want only the best for him, yes? A humble gift to herald my surprise visit!”

  Gay laughter piercing her skull, Maire blinked in agony as she was jostled once more, nearly retching when she was flopped onto her stomach over a saddle. But she did vomit when she spied the bloody carnage upon the ground, Fiach O’Byrne’s severed head staring up at her with sightless eyes.

  “God’s nightgown, my lady, now I’ll stink like Irish puke!”

  It was the last thing Maire heard as numbing darkness claimed her, mercifully silencing the uproarious laughter that rang all around.

  ***

  “What do you mean, visitors?” As Duncan dismounted heavily, his gaze grim as he surveyed the unexpected commotion in the torchlit bailey, his balding steward Faustis wrung his hands.

  “Important visitors, my lord! They’re in the great hall—have been for an hour. And they’ve already eaten everything the cooks prepared, a full carcass of salted beef, half a pig, eight legs of mutton, and still they clamor for more!”

  Duncan wasn’t surprised, one dark glance at the horses filling the stable—leaving barely room for those of his own men—telling him the entourage that had descended upon his household was indeed large. Destriers, pack animals, a magnificent dappled gray gelding that any man would consider a prize, though a sidesaddle of finely polished leather was propped upon a nearby stall—

  “Sidesaddle …” Intuition gripping his gut, Duncan looked back at Faustis to find the squat little man counting aloud on his plump fingers and shaking his head.

  “And twelve casks of wine, my lord, twelve in an hour! Heaven help us, we’ll be drained dry at this rate—”

  “Faustis, God’s teeth, enough! Who are my damned visitors?”

  His outburst clearly rattling the man, Duncan almost regretted his harsh tone when sweat broke out upon Faustis’s jutting brow.

  “She said … I-I mean, they said I mustn’t tell you, my lord. It’s a surprise.”

  “A surprise.”

  “Y-yes, my lord.”

  For a moment Duncan couldn’t say another word for the tightness in his jaw, only Gerard coming up beside him and casting him a quizzical look, prodding him once more to speak to Faustis. “So whoever is in the hall eating my food and drinking my wine—”

  “Ten knights, my lord, twenty-six men-at-arms, maidservants, a band of minstrels—”

  “Ah, so my surprise visitors brought their own players. Jugglers? Acrobats?”

  When Faustis gave a weak nod, stammering something about a dwarf court jester, too, Duncan had heard enough. Swearing under his breath, he didn’t wait for Gerard or his other knights but strode across the castle courtyard, his bone weariness forgotten, the marauding Irish rebels he and his men had chased half the length of Meath pushed from his mind as well, at least for now. He swept off his mailed coif, the drunken carnival in the great hall something he was compelled at once to see.

  God’s teeth, were some days fashioned simply to plague him? First word had come that a farming settlement had been attacked, may Walter de Lacy’s men rot in hell. He imagined the tenants who worked those fields—and the poor woman who’d lost her daughter—had exhausted themselves abusing the three Norman corpses he’d left hanging from that tree. Then a rider from his westernmost castle had brought news of Irish rebels stealing cattle, and now surprise visitors …

  Duncan scowled to himself as the revelry grew louder and more boisterous; a stranger to Longford Castle would have no difficulty finding the great hall for the noise. And considering it was so late, dusk long hours ago, no wonder the servants had a haggard look about them, especially the ones bearing more steaming platters of food from the kitchen.

  But what caught his eye were the two Irish serving wenches huddled near the great arched entrance to the hall, one of them clearly much distressed and weeping. Duncan came up so suddenly behind them that both young women gasped and spun around, their faces stunned and pale in the torchlight.

  “Are you ill?” he demanded, cursing the need to speak so loudly for the raucous laughter echoing from the hall when one serving wench, a comely redhead, again burst into tears. Her plump companion hastily threw her arm around the smaller woman’s shoulders, her voice shaky yet indignant.

  “Not ill, lord. The wee thing’s terrified, she is. One of your guests, forgive me for speaking so boldly, has demanded she come to his bed this night! And she’s a new bride, a fine husband—one of your own blacksmiths, lord, waiting for her at home in the village—”

  “Go to your husband, then. Now.”

  The young woman didn’t hesitate, murmuring a hoarse thanks as she fled past Duncan and disappeared down the steps to the kitchen. The other wench picked up an empty wine jug and made to leave too, but not before casting Duncan a weary yet grateful smile. Yet he scarcely noticed it, his jaw clenched tight as he entered the hall.

  “Duncan!”

  The beautiful blond woman hastening from the high table in a flutter of sapphire silk made his gut knot all the harder, his suspicion proving correct. As the carousing continued around him unabated, minstrels playing their lutes feverishly, servants scurrying to keep cups and trenchers full while drunken knights grabbed and pawed at any hapless female and kicked at the hunting dogs fighting for scraps, Duncan found himself enveloped in a perfumed embrace of jasmine and musk.

  “Oh, Duncan, how delightful! I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever arrive!”

  She immediately stepped back smiling to sweep her gaze over him from head to toe, which allowed Duncan to assess his half sister as well. Older than him by eight years, Adele de Londres nonetheless carried her thirty-six winters well, bearing the face and form of a woman a decade younger. She was lovely. There was no denying it. Perhaps one of the fairest women in Britain. But what the devil was she doing in Ireland?

  “You haven’t changed at all in two years, Duncan. Still as handsome as ever, no—more so! But I suppose power does that to a man, yes?”

  Tensing at the sudden brittle glint in her blue eyes, Duncan gave a slight nod. “I’ve done well, thanks to King John—”

  “Well? One of the largest estates in Meath, three castles, countless manors? Why, you put the rest of the family to shame, dear brother. Who would have ever thought—ah, but I always knew you were destined for great things, glorious things! And when I heard just how well you were doing, I decided to come and see for myself.” Adele waved her hand with a flourish at the sumptuously appointed great hall, her smile brilliant. “Truly, my lord, I haven’t been disappointed.”

  Duncan didn’t reply, her words grating upon him as much as her unexpected presence, bitter memories rushing to the fore.

  Who would have ever thought … Yes, he could well imagine the profound delight his three half brothers found in the prosperity he had finally attained after long, loyal years of service to King John. He could almost hear them toasting him now, no doubt wishing him an early grave like the one that had claimed his Scots mother—

  “Oh, Duncan, must you scowl so? I see that, too, hasn’t changed. And I won’t stand for it, not tonight, not after I’ve traveled all this way to see you. Come and sit with me and tell me everything!”

  Again the cloying smell of Adele’s perfume assailed him as she playfully looped her arm through his and urged him toward the high table
. But they hadn’t gone far before she slowed her pace, glancing with unabashed interest over her shoulder.

  “One of your knights, brother?”

  Following her gaze, Duncan felt his ill humor mounting as Gerard de Barry entered the hall with several other men, his longtime comrade in arms surveying the pandemonium with a mix of incredulity and dry amusement.

  “Yes, and a friend as well. I take it the men” —Duncan looked with derision upon the drunken sots carousing at the high table— “who accompany you serve your husband?”

  “Alas, yes, they did, but I bear heavy news, Duncan. My dear lord husband took ill and died during the winter. I’m a widow these past five months.”

  And looking none the worse for her mourning, Duncan thought darkly, if his stunning half sister had grieved at all.

  Her marriage to Reginald de Londres had been no love match, but she had rushed headlong into wedding the aging baron for the comforts his wealth could bring her and doubtless the sexual freedom his failing eyesight could afford her. It had been rumored long before Duncan had come to Ireland that she had not once slept with the old fool, substituting her maidservants instead while she enjoyed the attentions of many lovers. But if she thought the man who was as close to him as a brother …

  “No condolences, Duncan?”

  Adele wasn’t looking at him but at Gerard, her airy comment clearly no more than an afterthought and not worthy of an answer as she stared boldly at the handsome, russet-haired knight.

  “Gerard de Barry has spoken for a maid, Adele. She comes from Sussex to marry him in two months’ time.”

  “Really? How wonderful for him.”