There wasn’t really anything left to say after that, and Christopher genuinely wasn’t sorry to think that William might achieve as much by going to Castle Roche as he and Aine might by riding to Roscommon. As business-like as possible, Christopher sent the stable boy home, and the four of them pooled their few valuables and provisions, splitting all but the money evenly. Christopher and Aine were taking both horses, so William needed enough to buy two more if he came upon them. Plus, William and Huw would be traveling through predominantly English territory, where cash for services was more normal. They’d have to pay for food and shelter. For Aine and Christopher, Irish hospitality was supposed to be like Welsh—sacred once given. Aine assured him that they wouldn’t starve.
Christopher was so worried about his friends, however, that he took Huw aside before they set off in opposite directions. “Sorry about this.”
“It’s okay.” Huw sucked on his upper teeth, his eyes surveying the road back through Kells. Matha’s company was no longer visible, having disappeared through the castle gateway, effectively answering whatever lingering questions Christopher might have had about their allegiance. “I don’t envy your road any more than you envy mine.”
“I’m worried that William is going to lead you into a situation you can’t get out of.”
Huw tipped his head. “He is less reckless than he once was. And he may be right about his aunt. His cousin will be the heir. How old is he?”
“Seventeen, with a sixteen-year-old younger brother.” Christopher knew this only because William had spoken of them several times in the last few weeks.
Huw grunted. “Within Norman society, no matter how talented, a seventeen-year-old won’t be viewed as a leader. If William’s uncle is really dead, his aunt will need William, if not to lead her army, then to be her advocate to the eventual victors.”
Christopher desperately wanted that victor to be David, but things weren’t looking too good for him right now. While Huw went through the pack one more time, Christopher walked back to William, who’d just boosted Aine onto her horse. “You’re a brave man.”
It was both the best and the worst thing he could have said, because it made William swallow hard again. Still, he stuck out his hand to Christopher. “Take care of her.”
“I told you I would.” Christopher shook his friend’s forearm. “If you see David, tell him where we’ve gone.”
William managed a laugh. “That won’t be an easy conversation.”
“If O’Connor doesn’t throw in with us, then the country may really be lost. It’s worth finding out how much that’s worth to him.”
William studied Christopher for a moment. “I’m almost jealous.”
Christopher frowned, realizing how dense he’d been not to see that William was interested in Aine. He shouldn’t have been surprised, given how pretty and smart she was. “You can still come with us.”
William dismissed the idea with a gesture. “I know, but I don’t mean that. You’re already the Hero of Westminster. If the O’Connors bring Connaught marching to David’s defense, you’ll be the Hero of Ireland too.”
Christopher scoffed. “It’s equally likely that I’ll end up dead.”
William raised his eyebrows. “And that’s why you’ll deserve it.” Before Christopher could marshal an adequate response, William put his heels together and bowed. Then he lifted a hand to Aine and set off down the trail.
Huw followed, commenting as he passed Christopher, “Good luck, my lord. We’re all going to need it.”
Christopher couldn’t disagree. Truthfully, he didn’t think any place in Ireland was safe right now for any of them.
Chapter Twenty
Within the Pale
Llywelyn
“Were we right to separate?” Meg asked her husband.
Before setting out in their respective directions, Llywelyn and David had ridden close enough to Trim to see David’s flag still flying from the castle’s towers and Comyn’s men set up around it, out of bowshot of the walls. To know that their men held Trim caused a rush of emotion in Llywelyn as if he’d just sunk into a warm bath. His hands had shaken for a moment—in relief and pride. While they couldn’t get in and their men couldn’t get out, that Trim held made David’s plan all the stronger. No army could maintain a siege when an enemy came behind them, which meant that if David could gather an army, Comyn and whoever allied with him would be forced to break off the siege and come out to meet them.
“Our son knows what he’s doing, and I trust Callum as much as any man.”
“Callum didn’t stop the violence at Trim,” Meg said.
“But he planned for it, and it’s because of him that we all got out alive.” Llywelyn brought his horse closer to Meg’s. Their guide, a monk named Robert, rode just ahead of them. The rain had let up, and now that sunset was near, a patch of blue sky was starting to form in the west where Llywelyn hadn’t seen blue sky since they’d arrived in Ireland.
“What if we’re wrong about the people’s support? What if—”
“We’re not wrong.” Llywelyn gave Meg a wry look. “You are worrying needlessly … but even if it isn’t needless, we can’t do anything about it. We have enough on our trencher without borrowing trouble, as you so often say.”
Meg looked down and shook her head. “I can’t seem to help it. I have this—” she put her fist near her stomach and rubbed, “—ache that I can’t get rid of.”
Llywelyn’s voice gentled. “I know, cariad. This is hard, but we are still in one piece ourselves, and we can’t allow the deaths of all those men at Trim to go unanswered.”
“I’m glad you didn’t say unavenged.”
Now it was Llywelyn’s turn to shake his head. “This cannot be about revenge. Governing never can.”
“Our son knows it too.” Meg lifted her head and gazed into the distance. The land was green and rolling, all the way to the sea, though they weren’t going that far.
“Maud de Geneville is now a widow,” Llywelyn said, “and who better than we to speak with her about what has happened.”
“Will she believe us? Will she support David? She was as loyal to Edward once upon a time as Geoffrey.”
“While she was born in Dublin, she’s lived much of her life in England and the March. She and I are of an age and have the same understandings about the world and how it works.” He paused. “And she has resources to draw upon—resources that can help us. It is to Skryne that Geoffrey sent the bulk of Trim’s garrison. That’s several dozen men right there.”
Maud de Geneville, formerly Maud de Lacy, was a descendant of many of the great families of England and the March. She had chosen to wait out the conference at Richard de Feypo’s castle of Skryne, a stone’s throw to the east of the Hill of Tara. While David had worried that Feypo might have led off his rebellion by making Maud a prisoner rather than a guest, there was a good possibility that he wouldn’t have wanted to give the game away too soon. With the carnage at Trim occurring only that morning, and Feypo himself dead on the floor with a bullet in his head, a rider might not yet have been sent to Skryne.
And if one had … well, Meg and Llywelyn were hardly a threat. Making sure that the people of Ireland—English, Danish, and Irish—were on David’s side was of paramount importance. But such were the resources of Maud de Geneville—not to mention Richard’s wife, Anais, the ruler of Skryne now that he was dead—that it was worth finding out if even one castle was still loyal.
Meg still had her hand pressed to her belly. Llywelyn hated that she’d been caught up in this. He had known from that first night at Criccieth when she’d attacked him with a poorly wielded knife that he wanted to spend the rest of his life protecting her. When she’d disappeared just before David’s birth, his life had all but unraveled, and it hadn’t been put right again until David and Anna, and then she, returned. What was a rebellion in Ireland compared to that?
“Geoffrey was one of the greatest landowners in Ireland,” Llywelyn said. �
�I have no idea if his people loved him, but they won’t want their lands to fall to someone like Comyn or—worse by their standards—an Irishman. They will fight for David if they know he’s asking. The key is to ask. At this point, it doesn’t matter why they fight—only that they do.”
The road they were on was one of the king’s roads, built shortly after the initial Norman conquest. As prescribed by law for such roads, it was wide enough for two carts to pass and drained outward, so even with the rain, the puddles were minimal. The open fields around the castle ahead of them ensured that anyone watching would know that three riders were coming towards them. The castle itself had been improved upon since Adam de Feypo had built it. No longer situated on a motte, which had been left as it was, the keep had been rebuilt in stone on level ground and was surrounded by a high stone wall.
“This is making me nervous,” Meg said. “We’re walking into a trap.”
“It can’t be a trap for us if nobody knows we’re coming.” Then Llywelyn put out a hand to her, in case she felt he’d spoken abruptly. “I have a good feeling about this.”
Meg laughed, finally, the joyful sound ringing around him. “So often what we have is a bad feeling about this, so I will take you at your word.” She straightened her shoulders. “We can brazen it out together, come what may.”
“That’s my girl.” Llywelyn reached for her hand and squeezed. “We always do.”
Meg was right that the long road up to the castle exposed them uncomfortably to the battlement, but they arrived at the gate unmolested, and immediately a helmeted head poked out between two merlons. “Who goes there?”
“I am Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, the King of Wales. I would ask to speak to the lady within, Maud de Geneville.”
The guard, who was hardly more than a boy to Llywelyn’s eyes, gasped once and then disappeared. Feet thundered on wooden steps behind the wall. Then the great double doors swung open to admit them.
But Llywelyn and Meg neither dismounted nor entered. For a moment, they looked at the guard, and he looked back at them. He was standing at the far end of the barbican and had taken off his helmet to reveal a sweaty blond head, his brows furrowed in confusion. He took a hesitant step forward. “My lord?”
“Llywelyn! What are you doing here?” Maud de Geneville’s voice rang out from the bailey of the castle. At sixty years old, she still cut a striking figure, with a straight back and iron gray hair wound into a bun on the top of her head and adorned with cloth and lace in the latest style from London. Lifting up her skirts, she strode forward like a man, never mind her esteemed pedigree or that she’d been a baroness for forty years as Geoffrey’s wife. She didn’t stand on ceremony. Neither did she suffer fools, and she seemed to think the guard was one for not admitting Llywelyn and Meg. “Let them in!”
Llywelyn shot Meg a grin and urged his horse beneath the gatehouse. The barbican had two portcullises, and, despite his smile, when neither dropped to cage them within the barbican, he heaved a sigh of relief. With Maud coming out to greet them so heartily, he’d assumed she thought all was well, but he was glad to be certain.
He dismounted on flagstones that had been swept clean of mud since the last rainstorm ended. The bailey was huge—far larger than the size of the keep might normally have demanded—but it had to be large to enclose the modern keep plus the abandoned motte and bailey castle that had preceded it.
It took a number of long strides, but Maud reached them a few moments after Llywelyn set Meg on her feet, and then she surprised Meg with an embrace. Meg, being Meg, hugged her back.
Then Maud turned to Llywelyn, and instantly her initial bright demeanor and enthusiasm were extinguished. “What is wrong? I have felt a storm coming all day, but nobody could tell me anything, and we’ve had no news. You wouldn’t be here if all was well.”
Meg squeezed Maud’s hand, and Llywelyn bent his head and spoke under his breath. “Things are very bad, Maud. That’s why we have come. How loyal are these men?”
“They’re my men.” Maud was momentarily affronted. “Richard took the whole of his garrison off yesterday without saying why or where he was going. I didn’t like it, and it was unbecoming behavior in a vassal, but I could do nothing about it. All he left me of his men were dunces like Robert.” She gestured to the blond guard, who’d put on his helmet again and returned to his post. “Fortunately, I have my own men whom Geoffrey sent with me from Trim.”
“That’s actually the best news we’ve heard all day,” Meg said. “How many men do you have?”
“Thirty garrison, and another twenty who aren’t soldiers.” She sniffed. “As you may recall, Lord Callum replaced Trim’s servants and workers with your men.”
“Can they hold Skryne?” Llywelyn said.
Again the affronted look. “Of course. But against whom?”
Meg was looking around at the walls. “You seem somewhat lightly guarded to me.”
Maud waved a hand dismissively. “They’re there. You just can’t see them.”
Llywelyn chose to take her at her word, though if he and Meg stayed, he would inspect the defenses personally. He gestured with his head towards the keep. “Can we confer alone?”
For the first time, Maud seemed to hesitate. “Of course. Follow me.”
She led the way into the keep, across the hall, which was as spotless as the bailey, and up the twisting stairs to the next floor, where her private apartments lay. These must normally have belonged to Richard de Feypo.
Once inside, Meg gestured to a chair near the fire, which was burning brightly in its hearth. “Please, sit, Maud.”
Maud’s hands clenched into fists, and she didn’t take Meg’s suggestion. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Llywelyn took in a harsh breath. “There has been an insurrection. A portion of the delegates to the conference turned on the rest. I survived thanks to the quick thinking of Earl Callum. Dozens are dead.” He bent his head. “Including your husband.”
“Who is responsible?” Maud’s voice was completely level, and she wasn’t showing any emotion other than in her hands, which were now clenched so tightly they’d gone white. “Is one of them Richard?”
“Yes,” Meg said. “Why would you think so?”
“He sent Anais and the children to visit her family in France.” She shrugged. “I chose not to view it as a snub.”
“Callum killed him,” Llywelyn said.
“Good!” She began to pace as Llywelyn related who was involved and who was dead.
When he finished, Maud turned away, her fist to her lips, and gazed at the fire. Llywelyn and Meg let the silence lengthen, and when Maud still did not speak, Llywelyn said, “We have a plan—David has a plan—and he would like your help implementing it.”
Maud held the silence through another count of five, and then she turned back to face them. Tears lay on her cheeks, but they fell silently, and she wiped at them with the backs of her hands. “Whatever I can do.”
“If your men are truly loyal, then David asks that you prepare them for war. This castle must be held, and with such a large bailey, we can house any additional recruits when they arrive. He has asked that every man able to wield a weapon join the fight.”
Maud bobbed her head in curt agreement. “Of course. I will speak to my men at once.” And without further ado, she opened the door to her apartments and descended to the great hall. By the time Meg and Llywelyn followed, she had announced that she wanted everyone to gather, servants and soldiers alike. Some of them were, as Maud had said, Richard de Feypo’s people, and Llywelyn found his eyes moving from face to face, looking for the one or two who already knew the news and thus couldn’t be trusted.
It took a quarter of an hour for the meeting to begin, and all the while Maud stood unmoving in front of the dais, watching the people come in, greet her, and then take their places at the tables. Even if they entered speaking to one another, the moment they laid eyes on her, they fell silent, and it was a grave group of a hundred or more that g
azed up at her, holding their breath and waiting for her to speak.
By now they knew that something was very wrong, and Maud didn’t make them wait any longer to hear it. “I have gathered you here today to speak to you of war. David, King of England, Lord of Ireland, and your liege lord, has called us to battle.”
A whisper swept through the hall and was immediately silenced by a raised hand from Maud.
“A treasonous alliance was formed among a number of lords all across Ireland, from Dublin to Connaught. These turned on the rest of the justiciars at Trim and killed them. Both Geoffrey, my husband, and Richard, your lord, are dead.”
Meg’s eyes found the floor, and Llywelyn held his clasped hands before his mouth. Maud had just implied that Richard had not been one of the traitors. Llywelyn’s impulse was to expose the lie, but he did not. The truth could wait. Maud was right that what David needed were people prepared to fight, not ones suffering from conflicting loyalties.
Maud had just put into words the cold truth: civil war had come to Ireland.
Chapter Twenty-one
Navan
William
Almost immediately after parting from Christopher and Aine, William began to regret not so much the decision itself, but that he hadn’t done more to persuade Aine to come to Castle Roche. She had no business wandering the countryside with only Christopher to protect her. In the last day, Christopher had proved himself capable, but ever since James had left, things had gone awry. Nothing about the next few hours made him feel any better about it either.
Admittedly, at first they’d made good time on foot, following the same track the stable boy had led them along, but going the other way and eventually reaching the road on the far side of Kells by which they’d come in. William and Huw had hiked along well all the way to Navan, a good eight miles, which had taken them over two hours.
Now, however, he was looking at yet another inn and finding himself missing Christopher’s perspective. At Kells, they’d marched right in and demanded service. He was tempted to do the same here, but it wasn’t morning anymore, and it was hours now since Trim had fallen.
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