Wild Roses

by Miriam Minger

  In truth she was no stranger to being carried; before she’d regained the use of her legs either one of her brothers or a clansman had taken her wherever she needed to go about the stronghold, or helped her to stand or sit. Yet that had been so commonplace, while with Duncan … Warmed in spite of herself by his protectiveness, she decided that was all the more reason to step slightly away.

  “Truly, Lord FitzWilliam, I can stand well enough—oh!”

  A cat’s pained yowl filled the room, Maire almost toppling backward as the startled feline jumped onto a table. Suddenly Maire found herself once more enveloped in Duncan’s strong arms, and oddly enough he was chuckling, which caught her as much by surprise as the cat, whose switching tail she had just stepped upon. Duncan had been so grim only moments ago, and now to hear him laughing, a low, rich sound that seemed to rumble from his chest and even more strangely, make her want to smile, too …

  “I thought that might happen. Clement loves cats as much as mixing his potions. He has eleven of them, usually underfoot. Look over there.”

  As Duncan eased his hold so she could turn around although he kept his hands at her waist, Maire saw that indeed, a sleek pair of half-grown kittens swatted at a frayed twist of rope beneath one table while more cats were dozing throughout the room, some curled on the floor, others atop casks and barrels. Even the snow-white beauty that she’d unknowingly affronted had settled into a fluffy ball of fur behind a huge mortar and pestle. Maire thought how much the feline reminded her of Triona’s beloved Maeve, named after the legendary warrior-queen of Eire.

  “Do you like cats?”

  She started, meeting Duncan’s eyes yet unable to fathom his expression, the lighting was so dim. It seemed so curious for such a formidable-looking man to be asking her such an ordinary thing, but she supposed his mind wasn’t always filled with fighting and rebel clans and all the responsibilities his rank must entail. Yet she didn’t have a chance to answer as a stout fellow with a shaven crown, wearing a somber gray monk’s robe, hustled into the room, his voice humbly apologetic as he lit a second lamp.

  “Forgive me, Baron, but the Greek text I was reading begged for me to finish the page—ah, now!” Clement twisted around his girth to study Maire. “Is this the young woman who last night so worried our Faustis?”

  “Her name is Rose. I know little else about her.” Duncan’s voice had grown as grim as before as the friar drew closer to Maire. “She remembers little else, in fact. The injury to her head—”

  “Oh, yes, those can be very bad. Very bad,” Clement seemed to say more to himself, his broad, kindly face full of concern as he gently shooed a yellow cat from a stool and gestured for Maire to come and sit.

  She did, very conscious of Duncan dropping his hands from around her waist, her skin still feeling warm where he’d held her. Yet she made herself focus upon the friar; he seemed to note well her awkward gait as she moved to oblige him, but she felt only compassion emanating from the man. Nonetheless it did little to soothe her sudden nervousness.

  Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, would he guess her ruse? Her face grew flushed as she sat, and Clement’s hand went at once gingerly to examine the bump on the left side of her head. Maire didn’t have to feign her grimace or her sharp intake of breath.

  “Ah, forgive me; of course it is still tender, terribly so.” Patting her cheek as a father would do a child, Clement gave a sigh and then stepped back, still studying her thoughtfully while Maire’s disquiet only grew.

  “So what is your judgment?” Duncan said finally to break the stillness, his voice low and impatient. “Have you some potion that might help her?”

  “Time will heal her best, Baron, but yes, I believe I’ve something to ease the soreness …”

  As Clement turned to a nearby table and began searching rather noisily among vessels and bowls, Maire’s gaze went to Duncan. She wasn’t surprised he studied her, too. He did not appear angry at the friar’s conclusion, but the hard set of his jaw told her that he wasn’t altogether pleased.

  “How much time, Clement? A few days? A week or more? By the blood of God, if her clan doesn’t know soon that she is safe—”

  “Such an injury has no rhyme or reason, Baron; I cannot say how long it may be. The shock of the attack upon her clansmen too, may be more at the heart of her malady. She must be treated most gently while she is among us—ah, here it is.”

  Maire’s eyes widened as Clement drew a plum-colored vial from the clutter on the table, the friar clucking his tongue with satisfaction.

  “I’ve some wine to mix with this powder if you’ll both give me a moment—”

  “I’ll get it.”

  Duncan was gone before Maire could blink, several cats meowing loudly and skittering out of the way of his boots as he disappeared into the other room with a vehement curse. Clement sighed again, looking at Maire with some resignation.

  “He is a hard man, Rose, bred from a hard life. But you’ve no reason to fear that you won’t be treated well here. I’ve known no others as honorable as Lord FitzWilliam, nor a man who longs more to tame this unruly land and live in peace. That Lady Adele’s knights struck down your clansmen has sorely troubled him—he’s never slain anyone for less than just cause. Only yesterday he hanged three of his own kind for defiling an Irish girl. Poor child. She died in her mother’s arms—”

  “The wine, Clement. Mix your potion and let’s be done. I’ve a long ride ahead of me.”

  Maire shifted nervously upon the stool, unsettled as much that her heart had begun to pound when Duncan strode back into the room as by what the friar had revealed to her. A Norman hanging his own kind … for an Irish girl? She had never heard of such a thing, would scarcely have believed it if anyone else than a friar had told her.

  “So you will be journeying far, Baron?” Clement’s voice broke into her thoughts, Maire watching with some apprehension as he poured a good dose of stark, white powder into a goblet and then a slow stream of red wine, swirling the two together. “Out of Meath?”

  “South of Dublin to the place where the attack occurred—if I must, I’ll drag some of Adele’s worthless band out of bed to lead the way. I want to see if the slain are still there” —Duncan glanced with somber apology at Maire— “or if anyone might have come to look for them. I hope not wolves …”

  He didn’t say more but Maire’s heart was thundering so fiercely, her mind racing, that she doubted she would have heard him. Even knowing now that Longford Castle lay in Meath and not farther north, as she had feared, did little to ease her.

  Duncan planned to visit the meadow? What if Ronan and his men were there? Niall? Aye, there would be a terrible battle, surely. And if her brothers weren’t at that wretched place, and the bodies of her clansmen were gone, would Duncan find tracks that might point him deep into the Wicklow Mountains? Saints help her, he would know then that her clan was no more loyal to King John than Adele had thought her a fit bride—

  “Here, child. Drink it down, now, all of it.”

  Maire’s hand was shaking as she accepted the goblet and did as she was bidden, paying as little heed to the strangely sweet taste as that Clement was watching her with silent approval. He didn’t speak until she had drained the goblet and he took it from her quickly, as if seeing that she trembled.

  “You’ve nothing to fear, Rose. When you wake, your head will plague you less, I vow it.”

  “Wake?” Realization as to what she’d just done hitting her like a blow, she glanced incredulously at Duncan and then back to the friar. “You … you gave me a sleeping draught?”

  “Rest is the second-best cure, and after everything you’ve suffered, I can think of no better. Here.” Clement scooped up a kitten winding itself around his sandaled feet and laid the purring creature in Maire’s lap. “Ease yourself, child. All will be well.” Then to Duncan he added while Maire watched numbly, a peculiar sensation of drowsiness overtaking her, “It won’t be long, Baron. A moment or two, no more.”

  A
moment or two? Her eyelids growing heavy, Maire unconsciously stroked the silky kitten with sluggish fingers, her chin beginning to sink like a weight to her chest though her mind still raced in desperation.

  Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, what of Flanna? What of their plans for her to leave Longford Castle that very night? What of Ronan and Niall … and … ?

  Maire would have burst into tears, but she had no strength left to cry, no strength even to speak as her head slumped farther and the kitten was taken from her lap. Then she felt herself being lifted, Duncan’s voice grown oddly distant as the room spun around her and began to grow black…

  “How long will she sleep?”

  ” ‘Til midday tomorrow at least. It was as strong an opiate as a healing one, Baron. And you must treat her very gently when she wakes, just as I said, to help ease the mists from her mind. I fear it may still take some time but— ah, me, such a pity that one so young and lovely should witness such senseless horror. May God grant her heart peace.”

  Yes, it was a pity, Duncan thought grimly, Clement’s remedy not being entirely what he had expected. Nor could he argue its merits as the deed was done, the woman already appearing fast asleep, her head lolling against his shoulder, her slender arms dangling limply.

  Yet he had so much to do, messengers to be sent, the castle and his men to be made ready for any potentiality—preparations he had already been hard at since dawn—and then a journey that might keep him away until tomorrow night, if not longer, as he planned, also, to meet Gerard in West Meath, that perhaps it was best she slept away the hours. At least he would know her to be safe in his chambers.

  “I trust that you’ll check on her often in my absence,” he said to Clement, who nodded solemnly. “I fear it was her father among those killed yesterday. The remembering of the slaughter may be as much of a shock—” Duncan didn’t finish, his jaw grown so tight at the thought of Adele’s blood sport that he did not trust himself to speak further. Holding his unconscious charge close to his chest, he went to the door, Clement’s sober voice following after him.

  “May God’s peace go with you as well, Baron. It is a trying time and I will pray for us all. Irish rebels, Walter de Lacy’s men attacking your tenants, and now this poor innocent brought to your house…”

  Duncan heard no more, the door swinging shut behind him. He wasn’t surprised to see that several knights stood waiting for him, no doubt for orders, as well as Faustis, the squat steward wringing his plump hands and looking as worried as usual. Yet Duncan ignored them all and kept walking, his only thought to see the woman safely tucked in bed. There would be time enough when that task was done for other matters—

  “My lord, please, a moment!”

  “Not now, Faustis.” Scowling, Duncan heard the steward scurrying after him, which only made him walk faster through the still empty great hall. “We’ll talk later.”

  “B-but Lady Adele has ordered me to have food prepared, my lord, food enough for several days, as she plans to ride with her knights after Sir Gerard in search of Irish rebels. Yet you told me I must do nothing else until the storerooms are stocked to the rafters with provisions in case of a siege—my lord? My lord, what am I to do?”

  “Do as I ordered, man! I will tend to Lady Adele,” Duncan said without stopping, his tone so furious that a pair of serving girls spun from sweeping the floors to stare at him wide-eyed. He strode from the great hall and took the tower steps to his private chambers three at a time, no matter his burden, thunderous thoughts roiling in his mind.

  Damn Adele to hell’s fire! Did she think Ireland had been fashioned purely for her amusement? Follow Gerard to West Meath to make a worse mess of things? That blasted woman and her retainers had already brought enough trouble upon his house, and they would cause no more!

  Duncan kicked in the door, but he stopped short as a shocked gasp filled the outer room, Flanna springing up from the bench where she must have been waiting for him. Her gaze flew from his face to the woman he carried and back again. Duncan swore to himself as his Irish mistress burst into noisy tears and stamped her foot.

  “Lying witch, the devil take her! She told me you hadn’t touched her but … but now you hold her in your arms like a lover! You’ve found another for your bed, haven’t you? You’re going to send me away!”

  Flanna’s petulant wail grating upon him as never before, Duncan decided in that moment as he strode past her that yes, he was going to send her away—God’s teeth, that very day! First Faustis with his news and now his mistress lying in wait for him to screech and clamor. Must a man endure a trial by fire to accomplish a simple task?

  Relieved to see that Flanna hadn’t followed him crying into the main chamber, her exaggerated sobs in fact receding, as she must have run down the stairs, Duncan laid his unconscious burden upon the bed and tucked her beneath the covers. She didn’t stir an eyelash as he took care to brush tangled midnight hair from her face, her fine-boned features as innocently peaceful in sleep as a child’s.

  Rose.

  His turbulent thoughts amazingly ebbing just in looking at her, Duncan allowed his gaze to drift to her lips, so red, so gently curved. Had she ever been kissed? Something told him she had not, her every anxious response to his nearness as much a sign she was unused to men as Normans. But she wasn’t anxious now …

  Duncan barely realized he had leaned over her before he felt the silken softness of her mouth against his own, her breath no more than a gentle stirring that strangely moved him. He did not recall so sweet a sensation since Gisele …

  His gut knotting painfully, Duncan straightened.

  Dammit, this woman was not Gisele! He left the bed without a backward glance, so overwhelmed by bleak memories that he didn’t see the flutter of fingers or hear a tiny sigh, no more than a whisper, as he stormed from the room.

  Chapter 9

  Maire knew she was going to be sick the moment she opened her eyes. The sunlit room appearing to float and shimmer around her, she dug her fingers into the mattress, hoping desperately that the nauseating sensation would subside. She even closed her eyes, praying, but that only made her feel worse. She threw aside the covers, and, her hand pressed to her mouth, she rose shakily from the bed and looked for a chamber pot but spied none. Then she remembered as if from a fog that the serving girl had said a latrine …

  “Jesu, help me.” Her gait twice as ungainly, Maire somehow half stumbled on legs she scarcely felt to the door across the room and pushed it open, panic filling her when she saw only a short dark passageway. But a faint bit of light to the left caught her eye and she rushed forward, nearly falling, and threw herself against another door, barely making it inside the narrow latrine fitted with a tiny, slitted window before she began to retch violently.

  She had never felt so ill. Nor could she say how much time had passed when she finally staggered back into the passageway, the darkness a momentary balm to her stinging eyes. She cried out at the brightness which greeted her when she reentered the bedchamber, so blinded for an instant that she didn’t see she wasn’t alone until Clement came up beside her, the somber-faced friar taking her arm at once to support her.

  “Let me help you, child. I was hoping to be here when you awoke—I knew it would be soon. The opiate has made you ill, but the feeling will pass soon, I vow it.”

  Maire could only nod as he assisted her to the bed, her mouth dry as wool, her legs even more uncertain than before. With a moan of relief she sank onto the mattress and she was immediately tucked back under the covers, Clement shaking his tonsured head with concern.

  “Forgive me, Rose, forgive me. Clearly I made the potion too strong. Yet your head feels better, does it not?”

  Maire gave a weak laugh at the friar’s words. Aye, strange as it seemed, she felt no pain as she lifted trembling fingers to the bump on her head; in fact, the swelling had receded. And her thoughts seemed so much clearer of a sudden, making her realize that if she truly had no remembrance of past events, drinking Clement’s p
otent brew might indeed, have aided her-

  Maire froze, recalling like a jolt what Duncan had said to the friar about returning to the place where her clansmen had been slaughtered just before she’d been given the potion. Her gaze jumped to Clement’s. “How … how long have I slept?”

  “A full day, child, and a good while longer. The sun sinks already—it will be dusk soon. You stirred an hour past, which made me guess then that it wouldn’t be long ‘til you awoke. You spoke too, so I knew—”

  “I spoke?” Stricken at the thought of what she might have revealed, Maire felt a now familiar growing sense of panic though she forced herself to remain calm as Clement nodded.

  “Names, mostly. Caitlin, Niall . . . and I believe, Fiach. Your family?”

  Maire didn’t readily answer, never having lied to a cleric, in truth, never lying at all before she’d come to Longford Castle. Yet she made herself, knowing she didn’t dare trust the man no matter how kind. “I don’t know … everything is still so confused. Did I say more that might help me to remember?”

  “Only Lord FitzWilliam’s name. I fear the rest was too low to understand—ah, child, don’t trouble yourself. It will come back to you, in time. Now you must rest while I fetch some broth from the kitchen.”

  She must have paled at the mention of food because Clement patted her hand, his light brown eyes full of understanding.

  “I know, to eat after what you’ve just suffered. But you must take nourishment, even if it’s only a little. And the cooks have already prepared a savory beef broth especially for you. Lord FitzWilliam will not be pleased if you’ve wasted to nothing while he’s been away.”

  “You expect his return soon, then?” Maire asked, as Clement turned his girth from the bed, her heart beginning to race as she thought again of what Duncan might have found at the meadow. The friar gave a somber shrug.