“Take good care with her, Clement.”
As the friar nodded, Maire leaned on him heavily, turning away from Duncan so he wouldn’t see the tears suddenly stinging her eyes. The sea of faces around her no more than a blur as they left the great hall, she was grateful for the rising din of anxious voices that carried after them to mask anything she might say.
“Ah, dear, such troubles, such troubles.”
Maire could only unhappily agree as Clement sighed and shook his head, that she intended to ask him to bring Flanna to Duncan’s rooms to see her provoking as much unflagging resolve as pain. So, too, did the rose petals she still held, but she clutched them all the tighter and climbed the tower steps.
***
“Lord, I swear it was her!”
Ronan stared into his young clansman Shea O’Byrne’s flushed face, tempted almost to shake him to ensure that he remembered well what he’d seen. As it was, Ronan already held him hard against a tree trunk while the rest of his men were gathered close around, Flann O’Faelin looming at his side in the bright moonlight.
“Tell me everything again from the start, by God, man, everything!”
“It was as I said, lord!” Shea blurted out, his breathing still ragged from a breakneck ride to camp. “I’d been to the village to seek any word of the spawn who killed Fiach and was heading back here when they rode out of the east—I ducked into the trees to wait for them to pass. A host of Normans, thirty or better, and more than half as many torches among them so it was easy enough to see. Your sister Maire was at the front, lord, held by a man I can only guess was the baron of Longford—Duncan FitzWilliam’s his name.”
“Duncan FitzWilliam.” Ronan’s expression must have grown so fierce that Shea looked shaken now as he nodded his head.
“Aye, lord, but I learned little else of him. The village was in an uproar, and many had already fled to Longford Castle. I heard the baron holds three prisoners from clan O’Melaghlin in West Meath as well as your sister—”
“By God, he will die.”
His vehement words echoing around them, Ronan released Shea and met Flann O’Faelin’s eyes, the huge Irishman as grim-faced as the rest of his men. His relief that Maire was alive as intense as his fury at what she must have suffered while in Norman hands, Ronan didn’t attempt to speak further—he couldn’t. Instead he strode into the clearing, agonized that he stood no more than a league from her—a damned league!—and still could do nothing.
He didn’t have to see the castle to know that its walls were impregnable, a stinking moat no doubt surrounding battlements lined with sentries ever alert for intruders, a drawbridge as well guarded the only entrance. And subterfuge was too risky, detection of any possible ruse too likely. He could barely stomach now that Maire had finally been found that he must wait even an hour more to help her, but he had little choice.
All he and his clansmen could do now was watch for when she might emerge again with this Duncan FitzWilliam, baron of Longford, and then wait for the right moment, and Ronan would be ready. Just as he had already determined, the attack would be swift and sure and as fatally unexpected as that which had struck Fiach O’Byrne and the others in Wicklow
“Do we ride, Lord?”
Ronan wheeled around, Flann O’Faelin a hulking shape in the moonlight. Ever conscious of his men’s welfare no matter he burned for swift action, he knew that only patience and stealth would win the day.
“Aye. As close to Longford Castle as we can and still have cover. Shea said there were woods enough that would serve.”
“Woods mayhap filled with Normans.”
Ronan gave a grim laugh; Flann knew as well as he that such a likelihood wasn’t anything they hadn’t ably encountered before. But there was only one Norman he wanted now, Duncan FitzWilliam, baron of Longford. The thought of Maire held captive by the murdering bastard was enough to send Ronan striding with a string of furious oaths to his horse.
Chapter 21
“The moat?” Maire stared incredulously at Flanna as the pretty young Irishwoman nodded, still not straying farther into the bedchamber though Maire had invited her to come and sit by the fire. “Truly?”
“Aye, no other way around it. I did as much myself once, when I was fifteen and one of Walter de Lacy’s vassals ruled this place. Better to jump into the moat than be raped by a mob of drunken knights…”
As Flanna fell silent, Maire felt a sick lump in her throat, not only for what Duncan’s former mistress must have suffered at the hands of those who’d come before, but that her plan to escape Longford Castle was quickly fading.
She swam poorly, no matter Triona had tried to teach her as a way to strengthen her legs, and would more probably sink like a stone than make it to the other side even if she could evade the guards on the outer battlements. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, and now to have Flanna studying her suspiciously …
“It was kind of you to agree to come and speak to me,” Maire offered for the second time, imagining what Flanna must be thinking. “And to wish me well with Duncan—truly, so much has changed since last we spoke. I was only curious as to how you’d intended to help me a few days past … it seemed such an impossible thing. I was so fearful then that Adele wanted me for a maid—”
“And now you will become a wife.”
Flanna’s words held no rancor, and Maire was relieved that her gaze held little suspicion now either, though Flanna sounded somewhat amazed as she went on.
“Aye, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen with my own eyes how Lord FitzWilliam looks at you … and how he never looked at me.”
Maire flushed uncomfortably, the lump in her throat only growing. “I-I’m sorry, Flanna—”
“Sorry? Why should you be? I never loved him—I couldn’t. Too many Normans had come before … but I see that’s far different with you. It’s plain you care as well for Duncan, though how you could look at him so and still seem so sad …”
Maire felt her face afire—Flanna had judged her so well—and she quickly sought an excuse to divert her. “I grieve yet … my clansmen.”
“Aye, it’s no matter, and with such a harpy as Lady Adele beneath your roof I’d be unhappy too. You’ve only to ask, you know, and I’d swear Lord FitzWilliam would toss that blond witch into the moat just to please you. Wouldn’t that be a fine sight?”
For the first time in what seemed like ages, Maire actually smiled, and she thought wistfully that in Flanna she might have found a friend. Aye, if things were different, and she wasn’t so desperate to leave this place, so desperate to do anything to protect Duncan. Heartache nearly overwhelming her, she lowered her eyes for the damnable tears that never seemed far away.
“Well, I’d best go downstairs,” came Flanna’s soft voice, not at all bearing the wary stiffness with which she’d first spoken to Maire. “Lord FitzWilliam wouldn’t be pleased to know you’re not resting, and Clement made me swear I wouldn’t stay very long—as did Hagan.”
“Hagan?” Maire met Flanna’s lovely green eyes to find her blushing, a tenderness touching the young Irishwoman’s face.
“The man I agreed to wed. Lord FitzWilliam said I had a choice—I told you that first day I’d not known a Norman more fair-minded—and he assured me Hagan was a good man, a widower for two years now and eager for a bride. I had no words then to thank him, but it seems I’ve much to thank him for now. Nor would I have thought I’d be glad you came to Longford Castle, but I am, my lady—”
“No, no, please, call me Mai—” Maire stopped herself just in time, stricken, then quickly amended, “Rose will do, truly.”
“Aye, very well, Rose.”
Grateful that Flanna hadn’t seemed to think anything amiss, Maire could only imagine she was eager to return to Hagan as Flanna threw a warm smile and then disappeared out the door. That left Maire alone, and she gazed almost numbly around the vast bedchamber, unwilling to believe that there was no route left to her to spare Duncan from coming face-to-face with her broth
er.
What would Triona do? Her brazen sister-in-law would think nothing of evading countless guards and jumping feetfirst into a moat, or even cleverly disguising herself as a villager or servant and secreting herself among those leaving the castle in the morning, but Maire had no way to conceal a cumbersome gait that would give her away at a glance. She would obviously have to wait and hope for some chance that Duncan might take her with him again on a journey, and that she might somehow elude him—saints help her, but what of Ronan?
Her plight becoming all the more impossible in her mind, Maire rubbed temples that had begun to pound. She imagined Duncan might soon be joining her, and her gaze flew to the crushed rose petals she had laid on a table by the hearth.
It tore at her to do so, but she went and scooped them up and threw them into the fire, not wanting Duncan to see them. He might only be reminded of what she’d said at the church ruins, a blunder she still couldn’t believe she’d committed. And now what she’d nearly said to Flanna…
“Begorra, Maire O’Byrne, you’ll find yourself in a dungeon yet if you don’t take care,” she whispered to herself, watching as the blood red petals curled and blackened and crumbled into ash. Yet would Duncan truly do that to her? Given what she’d seen burning so fervently in his eyes, might he be able to see beyond his hatred for her clan? For Ronan Black O’Byrne?
Maire turned from the hearth with a sigh, not even wanting to hope. She even pushed away thoughts of Duncan’s unexpected leniency with his prisoners, and the offer of three days more within which to talk peace with the O’Melaghlin—a change of heart that had truly astonished her.
He was a man like none she’d ever known, Norman and yet born of a Scotswoman who must have done much to foster within him a sense of fairness and honor that had missed the rest of his family altogether. Maire still could not believe what he’d suffered at the hands of his half brothers, the treachery, the cruelty … and his mother shut away in a tower after her husband had died. Maire no more believed the poor woman had been mad than that she hadn’t been truly wed to Duncan’s father—the embroidered screen attested to that.
Maire suddenly questioned how Duncan could have come by the thing. Wouldn’t his half brothers have wanted to destroy such an exquisite testimony of love and gentleness? Determined to ask him, she felt almost a relief to have something else to think about if only for a little while.
She was struck by a desire to see the screen again, and wondered if Duncan would mind that she visited the adjoining room she’d sensed at once was a private refuge. She knew that she couldn’t rest, her exhaustion all but fled in her anxiousness to talk to Flanna.
Maire took up a guttering lamp and was already halfway down the passageway before her decision was fully made, a warmth enveloping her as she drew closer to the opposite door. Reminded of the first time she’d gone to this room—could it be only two days past?—and how nervous she’d felt, she wasn’t surprised at her reaction.
Before she’d fully opened the door, she could sense Duncan’s formidable presence just as surely as if he’d been there, and she felt too, her heart begin to thunder. Begorra, the man didn’t even have to be near and she was lost!
She ventured a step inside, drawing in her breath at the screen propped and shrouded against the wall. Clearly he couldn’t bear to look at the beautiful needlework for the brutal injury done his mother—
“God’s blood, what do we have here?”
Maire gasped as the door was slammed shut behind her, and she spun around so awkwardly that she nearly toppled into the oaken table, the lamp crashing to the floor. In the next instant it was righted by a rough-looking man, wearing a dull shirt of mail beneath his cloak, who straightened and swept her with a glance that froze her blood.
“Lord FitzWilliam’s latest mistress, perhaps? I’ve heard no news that he’s taken a wife.”
Maire couldn’t speak, her gaze falling to the hunting knife the Norman held, the blade flashing in the lamplight. He followed her eyes, a low chuckling that held no humor breaking the ominous silence as he lifted the weapon to her breast.
“Lay yourself back on the table, wench, and make not a sound, do you hear? I’ve been a bit bored waiting for the good baron to retire for the night, and it’s a fortunate thing you’ve come along to amuse me.”
“Y-you’re waiting to see Duncan?” Maire heard herself say almost stupidly through the terror gripping her. A slow smile spread across the man’s shadowed face.
“See him? Kill him, you mean. Ah, but don’t let that distress you—we’ve other things to think of, you and I.”
The knife tip slipping beneath the curve of her breast, Maire heard a faint snagging of pink silk and she sucked in her breath, which only seemed to amuse him. He laughed softly, his own breathing coming faster, but he sobered when she took a step backward, her movement clearly angering him.
“Lie down, damn you, now!”
She started, trembling from head to foot as she glanced behind her at the table still spread with maps. “I … I can’t. It’s covered—”
A roar of impatience burst from the man and he lunged to sweep rolls of parchment and books to the floor, the knife gone from her breast. With a cry, Maire shoved against him with all her strength and knocked him off-balance. The man crashed into the table while she groped wildly to throw open the door. She’d never known such a surge of fear when she heard him curse behind her, Maire no more having stumbled into the dark passageway when she felt a hand clamp onto her shoulder.
“No! Saints help me, no!”
She heard a pained outcry, dazedly realizing she’d dug her fingernails into his flesh even as she lurched away from him, suddenly free from his hold. Tears bit her eyes. Desperately she willed her legs to move, knowing he was just behind her, his breathing harsh, his curses filling the air.
“Rose—God’s teeth, woman, what … ?”
She saw Duncan appear at the opposite doorway the same moment the man caught her, his arm going around her neck to half strangle her, Maire’s knees finally giving out. She went down, but her attacker jerked her to her feet in front of him, the cold knife blade pressed against her throat.
“Stand back, FitzWilliam, damn you, stand back!”
Through eyes glazed with tears Maire heard Duncan swear and saw him pull the sword from his belt, but she knew as surely that he could not help her. Her captor’s breath warm and sour at her neck, she was virtually carried into the bedchamber, her legs refusing to support her. She’d never seen Duncan so pale, no, not even at the bog.
“I said back away, man, or I’ll cut her throat, don’t try me!”
“He said—he said he was waiting to kill you, Duncan!” she blurted out hoarsely to warn him, the man’s arm growing all the tighter around her neck.
“Yes, so I was, but that will have to wait for another time, won’t it, FitzWilliam?”
The Norman moving her with him to the door, Maire felt as if she were choking, while Duncan risked a step toward them.
“Let her go, man, and I swear you’ll have safe passage from the castle—”
“Do you think me a fool, FitzWilliam? If you hang your own kind as easily as you did my comrades the other day, what makes you think I would ever trust your word? Stand away!”
With that, Maire was hauled through the bedchamber door, grown so dizzy from the vise grip around her throat she scarcely realized they were halfway down the tower steps until she heard Duncan’s roar.
“Give her over, man, and I’ll fight you now if it’s revenge you seek. The woman played no part—”
“She does now—out of my way, all of you!”
Her captor’s vehement demand sending people who’d gathered wide-eyed at the bottom of the steps scattering to give them room, several knights drawing their weapons, Maire fought for breath as once more Duncan’s voice thundered behind them.
“Do as he says, stand away, damn you!”
Maire had no strength left to struggle even if she’d dar
ed to; she felt herself more fully dragged along by her captor than before as they moved through a doorway and out into the courtyard still ablaze with torches. The noise and commotion only grew, shouts filling the night. A demand at her ear for a horse to be brought sounded as if it had come from a far distance, she felt so starved for air.
She couldn’t see Duncan, all hope failing her a moment later when she was half-thrown onto a nervous mount, her captor vaulting into the saddle behind her and once more pulling her up in front of him like a shield.
“We will face each other again, FitzWilliam, that I swear!” came the man’s fierce shout as the horse was spurred for-ward. Maire feared that the drawbridge would not be lowered in time before they crashed into it. The knife still pressed to her throat, she knew if she left the castle with her captor she was lost.
They passed through the outer gatehouse, Duncan’s voice commanding his startled guards to fall back, while Maire waited until she heard the horse’s hooves striking wood, the drawbridge beneath them. Only then did she grab desperately at the reins. Their mount was already so spooked by the furor that it took little to make him rear and spin.
She gasped, the Norman cursing violently as he tried to regain control, the animal coming so close to the edge of the drawbridge as to plunge them all into the moat.
“Damn you, woman, damn you!”
Maire saw the flash of the knife, his arm unlifted and she closed her eyes, her cry of terror cut short when she felt the Norman suddenly jerk against her. A low gurgling came at her neck, while Duncan lunged toward the horse and caught the bridle even as her captor tipped to one side and fell facedown onto the drawbridge.
“By the blood of God …”
She stared just as was Duncan at the owl-fletched arrow sticking from the Norman’s back. In the next instant she lifted her gaze to the nearest trees a hundred yards away. She knew of only one man who could shoot an arrow from such a distance and so fiercely find its mark. A man who even now might be aiming right for Duncan …
Wild Roses Page 17