He didn’t finish, hanging his head and falling wretchedly silent while Ronan swore under his breath and went back to the fire. Triona muttered an oath, too, something she rarely did since she’d become a mother.
She might want Deirdre to ride and shoot a bow as well as any man one day, but she also wished for her young daughter a gentler temperament than her own, if only to spare Ronan two headstrong women in his home. Aye, and right now she felt like grabbing her bowcase and owlfletched arrows and setting out herself in search of the Normans who’d slain her clansmen and taken Maire, the damnable spawn!
It should have been a happy day. Ronan had called a feast to celebrate Niall’s news about Caitlin MacMurrough soon becoming his bride. The stronghold had been alive with merriment and preparations until Maire’s snow-white gelding had appeared riderless at the outer gates …
Triona forced away the vivid memory of Ronan’s stricken face, of Niall’s, both men as shaken in that moment as she’d ever seen them. Then the terrible commotion as every able O’Byrne ran for his weapons and his horse, only a reluctant handful remaining behind to guard the stronghold while Ronan led his clansmen in a thundering din across the glen.
Sighing heavily as she recalled the long hours spent not knowing, waiting, praying, every fiber of her being wishing she had ridden out with them, too, Triona did not want to think at all of the eight horribly mutilated bodies borne back to Glenmalure. Her heart-stopping relief that Maire’s was not among them had been short-lived, Ronan’s grim news that her gentle, courageous sister-in-law must have been abducted by Normans a moment she would not forget.
“I say we ride to Ferns, now, this very night.”
Pulled from her roiling thoughts, Triona glanced at Niall, holding her breath as Ronan turned from the fire.
“Donal MacMurrough should know what has happened,” Niall continued, his words coming faster. “He would help us—aye, he’s an ally to the Normans, a trusted vassal of King John. He could send word among them that Maire is not to be harmed—”
“And have our enemies know her connection to a hated rebel that could put her life in added danger?” Ronan broke in harshly. “Think, Niall, by God, think! That you’ll wed the MacMurrough’s daughter does not lessen the price upon our heads. And you, as my Tanist and the chieftain of the Glenmalure O’Byrnes if any ill should come to me bear a weight of Norman gold nearly as great as mine! If you believe the murdering spawn who’ve overrun our isle would not use such knowledge against us, dammit, man, then you’re far more besotted—”
“Ronan, enough, please!”
Sensing Niall’s renewed anger at the ominous clenching of his fists, Triona moved at once between the two men, determined that this tragedy would not forge a breach deeper than it had already become. She looked at Ronan, impassioned pleading in her voice.
“Let us think, husband, just as you said. Railing at Niall will not bring Maire back to us, aye, and don’t forget he might have been murdered as well if he hadn’t left that meadow. Then you would have lost both a brother and a sister. Now, what of my plan? Is it sound?”
He didn’t readily answer, but his slow nod told her that her words had struck home. And Niall seemed to have relaxed some as well, his blue-gray eyes riveted upon his elder brother.
“The tracks were heading south to north, Ronan, at least for the three miles we followed them before it grew too dark.”
“Aye, which would mean Dublin.”
At the somber silence that fell, Triona knew her husband was thinking of the Norman-held city and its bay filled with foreign ships traveling to and from Eire. And if Maire’s captors were bound for England …
“No, Ronan, that’s only one course they might have taken,” Triona interjected, unable not to when she saw his expression hardening again. “How large a force did you say must have formed the attack?”
“Thirty men from the tracks, mayhap more. Fiach and the others could never have fought off so many.”
“Aye, and it makes no sense that such a large force would have come so close to our mountains … unless they were new to our country and hadn’t heard of the O’Byrnes or O’Tooles. So let’s think no more of Dublin or ships but farther north. Surely that’s where Maire’s captors must have been bound.”
Touched by the warmth in Ronan’s eyes at her fervent words of reassurance, Triona stepped from between him and Niall, hoping that the two would talk now and not shout at each other. She was much heartened when Niall’s grim yet level voice once more broke the silence.
“That could mean Kildare, Meath, even Ulster.”
“Aye, but we’ll find her. By God, when we do, I vow those Normans will die.”
Chills struck Triona at the look Ronan exchanged with Niall, the man she loved so completely appearing more a harbinger of vengeance with his midnight hair and ominous expression than ever she’d seen him. Niall, too, looked as forbidding, not as dark as Ronan but as strikingly handsome. At once the two fell into an intense discussion of how many men would be sent where to ask questions about Maire of Irish tenants working Norman land—who might have seen her, who might have noticed a stunning young woman with hair as black as night, eyes of softest gray, and the fine-boned features of an angel.
Indeed, Deirdre favored her aunt more than Triona; the only trait she shared with her wee daughter was her unruly curls. Aye, that, and a nature that bordered on stubborn no matter Triona’s hopes to spare Ronan, though Deirdre could melt any heart with her smile. Longing suddenly to hold her one-year-old babe in her arms, to forget if only for a short while the horror of that day, Triona turned to leave, but Ronan reached out and drew her to him.
“Hug Deirdre for me.”
Staring into his eyes, Triona wasn’t surprised that he’d guessed her destination, their child a constant joy to them. And losing their unborn son only four months ago had heightened Ronan’s attachment, making Triona often wonder if he would prove as overprotective of their beloved daughter as he had always been of Maire.
Aye, probably, Triona thought with loving resignation as Ronan pulled her into his arms, his lips hard and warm as he kissed her. But she could tell by the concern etching his face when he drew away that he was once more thinking of Maire, his powerful body tense as if he were already riding across northern Eire in search of her. Needing to say something to comfort him, her words came in barely a whisper.
“Ronan, Maire is as brave and stouthearted as any woman I’ve known. If she could teach herself to walk again—”
“Aye, but you helped her, Triona. You were with her nearly every step of the way. God protect her, who is with my sister now?”
A hard lump in her throat, Triona couldn’t answer. She turned away before Ronan could see the tears burning her eyes.
A useless thing, crying. But right now it made her feel somewhat better as she fled from the feasting-hall. Ronan and Niall resumed talking, expressions of their determination that none but the O’Byrnes of Glenmalure know Maire was missing, for the safety of all, the last words she heard.
Chapter 6
It wasn’t the bright sunlight pouring into the room that awakened Maire, but the smell of food.
Bleary-eyed, she stared in confusion at the young serving maid placing a pewter tray on a table pulled near the bed …
Bed! Recognition flooding her, Maire’s gaze darted from the vermilion canopy overhead to the servant, more a girl truly, all freckles and gawky limbs, who studied her for a moment with open curiosity before turning to leave.
“No, wait!” Raising herself on her elbows, Maire glanced nervously at the closed door leading to the adjoining room, the girl’s wide blue eyes following hers. “The lord of this place—”
“Longford Castle, miss.”
A castle. Taking in the somber granite walls as if seeing them for the first time, Maire had heard of such massive dwellings from Ronan, and her spirits sank. Impenetrable. Accursed fortresses. So they had been described. Ronan grimly called them, too, the devil’s o
wn blight upon Irish land. How, then, would she ever escape—
“You asked after Lord FitzWilliam, miss?”
Almost forgetting that she wasn’t alone, Maire was not surprised that the serving girl was as Irish as the usurped soil upon which Longford Castle stood. She imagined most of the servants were native-born. Slaves? Freemen? Her mind overrun with a thousand questions, she nodded. “Aye, the lord. Does he sleep still?”
“At midday?” As if Maire had asked whether the moon was made of ewe’s cheese, the serving girl looked at her oddly. “Lord FitzWilliam’s about his business, aye, and well I should be back to mine in the kitchen. Enjoy your meal, miss.”
Before Maire could utter a word the serving girl was halfway to the door, only glancing back once to say something about hot water soon to be brought for a bath before she disappeared into the outer room. It was then that Maire noticed a large wooden tub with a stool at its center set before the hearth, which blazed with a freshly stoked fire, amazement filling her at the amenities being provided for her.
She was a captive, wasn’t she? Yet all the startling things that Duncan FitzWilliam had said last night suddenly came flooding back to her, about wanting to help her, about returning her to her family and home— Oh, God, Ronan.
Her heart pounding, Maire sank back upon the pillow to stare blindly at the bright red canopy.
The Norman had said, too, he wanted to hang her brother. He knew of the notorious rebel chieftain Black O’Byrne. Had Ronan and her clansmen raided upon his land, then? Stolen his cattle? Burned his fields? It must be so, given the harshness she’d heard in Duncan’s voice. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, if he should discover that she was Ronan O’Byrne’s own sister …
Her stomach growling noisily jarred Maire from her stricken thoughts, the hollow ache more painful than the tender bump on her head. Feeling almost a traitor for wanting to partake of food provided to her by a Norman, she nonetheless drew the tray toward her, deciding it was better she eat.
If she was to escape from this unholy place, she would need her strength and wits about her. She had no idea if Longford Castle lay in Leinster or farther north in Ulster, yet it must be Leinster, surely. According to what she’d heard last night, it had taken less than a day’s ride from the Wicklow meadow where her clansmen had been slaughtered for Duncan’s sister Adele and her entourage to have arrived here the same evening. God help her, just thinking of that woman’s laughter …
Sickened by horrible memories, Maire had to force herself to bite into a slab of white wheaten bread topped with a thin slice of roasted mutton; it was all she could do to swallow as she made herself think only of the dilemma at hand. Yet tasting food for the first time since leaving the MacMurrough stronghold in Ferns, well-prepared food at that, her hunger soon overcame her, and she made short work of the bread and a delicious apple tart studded with sugared almonds and raisins, which she washed down with a cup of watered wine.
She hadn’t savored a like confection since Ronan’s hapless cook, Seamus, who had long toiled as a slave in Norman kitchens before being rescued during a raid, died so suddenly two years ago, God rest him. Poor Triona! The cook’s demise hadn’t been her fault, but Ronan had blamed her nonetheless …
Maire dropped the last morsel of tart forgotten upon the tray, her anxiety mounting as she thought again of her family. And Niall, dear God, what of him? Adele had told Duncan of attacking eight Irishmen, so Niall had surely made it safely home to Glenmalure. Yet he still knew nothing of Caitlin. What if he should ride to Ferns thinking to see his MacMurrough bride-to-be only to discover she had married another?
Beset with panic, Maire shoved away the tray so suddenly that it tumbled from the bed and clattered to the floor, the last of the wine splattering the blankets. But she gave no heed, her only thought that she must find a way out of Longford Castle for Niall’s sake, for Ronan’s, and as soon as she could. Yet she’d scarcely flung aside the covers when an outraged screech rent the air, Maire’s startled gaze flying to the door.
“Aye, you black-haired witch, out of Lord FitzWilliam’s bed! Out or I’ll—”
The comely young Irishwoman with flushed cheeks and blazing green eyes didn’t finish but ran to the bed, her dark brown mane flying behind her. Maire could but gasp and scoot to the other side of the mattress even as Flanna screamed and flung a pillow to the floor; Maire had no doubt her attacker was the woman Duncan had mistaken her for.
“Out of that bed, didn’t you hear me? That’s my place, mine and Duncan’s—”
“And you can have it, truly!” Clutching to her breasts the blanket that she had slept wrapped in all night, Maire half fell from the bed and spun around awkwardly to face Flanna. “I want nothing to do with your lord—had nothing to do with him. It was his sister Adele who brought me here—”
“Half sister, aye, and a witch, too!” Grabbing another pillow, Flanna threw it to the floor and stomped upon it, goose feathers swirling around the hem of her bright yellow gown as tears jumped to her eyes. “Forced me to sleep in the servingwomen’s quarters, she did, when I should have been here. Instead you a-and Duncan—”
“No, no, Lord FitzWilliam slept in the other room, I swear it, and he didn’t touch me!” Wincing inwardly at her lie, Maire nonetheless decided it was for the best when the young woman, who appeared very close to her own age of twenty-one years, sank onto the bed and began to weep noisily. Stricken that she could have caused such heartache, no matter it was a misunderstanding, Maire moved cautiously toward her. “Truly, Flanna, please don’t cry—”
“And why shouldn’t I cry?” the woman interrupted with an indignant wail, not appearing surprised at all that Maire knew her name. “I’ve never eaten so well, or had such fine clothes to wear, or slept on such a bed and now it’s over!”
Staring in confusion, Maire ventured no closer when Flanna pounded her clenched fists into the mattress and hiccuped through her tears.
“The d-devil take it, I knew this day would come, aye, t-they all warned me.”
“They?”
“The servants, damned gossipy lot! Said five mistresses had gone before me since Lord FitzWilliam came to Longford Castle, all married out to his tenants when he grew tired of them. And now that will happen to me because he’s found another for his bed. You!”
Flanna appearing more resigned than truly angry even though she had shouted, Maire didn’t know what to say. Yet she ventured the first thing that sprang to mind. “I thought … I thought you were weeping because you love Lord Fitz—”
“Me? Love a Norman?” Looking at Maire as if she were mad, Flanna gave a snort and swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “I’ve been bedded by the bastards since I was fourteen, aye, and I’ll not say Lord FitzWilliam hasn’t been the best among them. But I’d rather they take themselves straightaway from Eire and never return! Murdered my parents they did, the spawn who last ruled this place, but what’s a girl alone to do? I had to eat, and none of my clansmen would look at me since I’d lain with Normans …”
Flanna fell silent, her somber, faraway expression hinting at hardship Maire could not begin to imagine. She had always been so protected at Glenmalure, knowing of the devastation and suffering brought to Eire by the Normans, but never feeling its brutal sting firsthand … at least until yesterday. Despair overwhelming her, she sank onto the bed next to Flanna, shaking her head.
“Saints help me, how will I ever leave this place?”
“You want to leave?” Studying Maire almost as incredulously, Flanna truly seemed surprised. “But they only brought you here last night—”
“Not by my will.” Maire didn’t dare say more about what had happened for Ronan’s sake, but took heart at the sudden glimmer in Flanna’s eyes. “I told you I want nothing to do with your lord. If you would help me leave Longford Castle, all would be as before, truly. And you’re far too pretty for Lord FitzWilliam to send you away; aye, I’m certain you’ve nothing to fear.”
Such a snort of disbel
ief greeted Maire’s words that she was startled, Flanna once more appearing bleakly resigned.
“Mayhap if I had the face of an angel I’d not worry, but even one as lovely as you is no match for a ghost.” Crossing herself, Flanna rose abruptly from the bed. “If you wish to leave, you’ve only to ask Duncan. He’s a harsh man when vexed, no doubt of it, but fairer than any Norman I’ve known.”
“No, no, it’s not Lord FitzWilliam but Lady Adele who might not be pleased to see me go,” Maire said hastily, not knowing how else to explain herself. “She wants me for a maidservant—please, Flanna, will you help me? If I could leave tonight when it’s dark, none would be the wiser.”
Maire held her breath, but she felt another burst of hope when Flanna jutted her chin, her green eyes flaring.
“Damned Norman witch. A maidservant, did you say?”
When Maire nodded, that seemed to decide the matter as Flanna gave a sharp nod, too.
“Aye, I’ll help you, and it’ll be a fine pleasure to thwart that harpy after what she did to me last night. Yet it will be late—”
Flanna didn’t say more at the sudden commotion at the door, the same serving girl hastening inside the room bearing a blue silk gown and matching cloak and slippers that Maire recognized at once as hers, followed by four other female servants toting steaming buckets of water. Yet the girl stopped cold when she saw Flanna, her eyes widening as she glanced at Maire and back again.
“You silly freckled goose, what are you staring at?” Flanna demanded, fisting her hands at her waist. “I’m still Lord FitzWilliam’s mistress no matter how things may look, and you can tell as much to the rest of that nosy lot in the kitchen—no, no, better yet, I’ll tell them myself!”
Maire watched speechless as Flanna flew from the bedchamber as suddenly as she had come; her heart sank that she had no idea how the young woman planned to help her leave the castle. Yet given Flanna’s defiant pronouncement, Maire doubted Duncan’s mistress would fail her. All she had to do now was remain calm and wait for dark. Flanna had said it would be late—
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