Outpost in Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  By the time she’d left Christopher, the evacuation was in full swing. The first boat had already left the dock, and a second one was filling with Hugh’s people. She’d waited for the third boat, which amounted to waiting until the first boat returned, a matter of an hour or so. With the wind and the rain, the journey wasn’t an easy one, but Hugh’s boats weren’t typical river boats. This one resembled nothing more nor less than a Danish longboat, and his prescience in acquiring such a vessel implied that he deserved to be one of the most powerful men in Ireland.

  “Sorry, lass.” The old man next to her had twisted in his seat to look towards shore and in so doing jostled her in the ribs with his elbow. “Almost there.”

  The wind had picked up, and the rain was now blowing horizontally across the lake from west to east. The force of it would aid the longboat’s journey back to the castle, but they were fighting the weather the whole way to the O’Connor outpost on the opposite shore. Still, a quarter of an hour later, they docked at the square, three-story watchtower that guarded this side of the lake for Hugh.

  Aine got out of the boat to find one of Felimid’s cousins, Rory, standing before her. “Himself wants to see you.”

  Aine blinked, surprised to hear it since she hadn’t realized that Hugh had left the castle already. Of course, Felimid and Christopher had stayed behind. Deciding he must have ridden around the lake with his guard, which made sense since that was the only way to get horses out of the castle, she handed off the child to its father and went with Rory up the watchtower’s staircase to a door ten feet above the ground. When he pulled it open, the wind almost took it right out of his hand. She hustled into the tower so he could pull the door closed behind them, and ended up in a dimly lit anteroom, far wider than it was deep, where boots, clothes, weapons, and who-knew-what-all were stored.

  “Whoo.” Rory pushed back his hood. “This way.” He led her through the only other door into a much larger room that took up the rest of the floor of the tower. It was empty of people, though a fire burned brightly in the hearth on the far wall, venting up a chimney that seemed to be drawing well enough to send most of the smoke out of the room.

  She walked to the fire and put her hands out to it. She was incredibly cold, and the wet cloak wasn’t helping, so she unhooked it and hung it on the rack before the fire.

  “Thank you for coming.” Hugh appeared out of the corner stairwell.

  “Thank you for the fire.” She curtseyed.

  Hugh went to a table and poured wine from a carafe into two cups, giving one to her and keeping the second for himself. She took a sip, and the warmth seeped through her as if she’d just sunk into a hot bath.

  “So. Gilla O’Reilly’s daughter. I never thought I’d see the day one of the O’Reillys came to me for help.”

  Aine swallowed her sip. “It is true that my father isn’t one to ask for anything.”

  “And yet you came to me. Why?”

  “We—” She coughed. “We told you why.”

  “Ah yes. Because I am the last king standing.” He regarded her over the rim of his cup.

  She shifted uncomfortably. “We came to you because you rule Connaught. You’re a king in your own right, and David needs you on his side to overcome the forces that face him. If I am being honest, we had few choices.”

  “You could have ridden to Dublin. You could have gone with your friend William to Castle Roche. But you didn’t. So again I ask, why me?”

  Aine had never felt so much on the spot. Up until now, she’d kept house for her father, waiting for the time when her father decided on an appropriate marriage. She hadn’t questioned that fate, not ever, but having set out into the world this last day, she wasn’t going back to Cloughoughter. The world was a much bigger place than she’d imagined, and she could see possibilities for herself that she’d never seen before. “We came here because my father sees in David a future that requires all of us to make different choices.”

  Hugh set down his cup. “David wants the High Kingship.”

  “I don’t think he does, actually.”

  Hugh scoffed. “He has claimed it.”

  “Only because it is the only way to get everyone to stop fighting each other and work together.”

  Hugh canted his head as he looked at her. “Why do you think what you say is true? Have you ever met him?”

  “No.” Aine felt her jaw firming. “But I know Christopher and his friends, and that’s what they say.”

  “Christopher of Westminster. The Hero of Westminster.” Hugh turned back to the table and poured another cup of wine.

  In that moment, she realized she’d lost his attention because he thought she was in love with Christopher. Curiosity had turned into dismissiveness. She took a step forward, wanting his attention back. “You misunderstand.”

  “Do I?” Hugh drank the wine he’d poured in one go rather than sipping it as he’d been. He was finding courage in a carafe. It wasn’t what she’d expected to see.

  “Five years ago, I heard you speak at the meeting of the clans. You were on fire with the desire to take back Connaught from the Saxons, but when you finally achieved your goal, you didn’t slaughter Roscommon’s garrison. You didn’t allow your men to give in to revenge and retribution.” She gestured to the tapestries on the walls. “Your castle is decorated in the English style.”

  Hugh growled. “To remind me of those years of exile; to ensure that I never forget what’s at stake.”

  Aine risked one more step closer. “Like my father, among all the kings of Ireland, you have the wisdom to understand David’s vision. I think you want to be standing at his side when he wins. Which he’s going to do, with or without you.”

  Hugh looked up at that. “Is he.” It was less a question than a deadpan response.

  Aine looked down at the ground. What she had to say next was so risky that she couldn’t look at Hugh when she spoke. “You’re wondering now if, after you take back your castle tomorrow, it wouldn’t be smarter to stay in Connaught and not march to David’s aid as you promised Christopher you would.”

  Hugh was silent a moment, and then he snorted. “It’s a thought.”

  “Maybe it would be wise to hold Christopher hostage and trade him for a place in David’s new Ireland? Or, if Cusack’s faction wins, hand him over to Clare to do with as he wishes?”

  “You think so little of me, do you, girl?”

  Aine’s head came up. “Quite the opposite. You said that you didn’t go to David’s conference because you thought it was misguided, but perhaps that isn’t it at all. Maybe you weren’t meant to go, so you could be here now.”

  “You think my doubt is God’s hand at work?” Hugh said. “That it was God’s will for those men to die at Trim?”

  Aine shook her head vehemently. “Those men died because other men were greedy.”

  The door to the tower opened behind her, and Rory appeared in the doorway. “My lord.” He bowed. “The last of the boats has reached shore.”

  “And Clare?”

  “He has moved his army forward, though his men remain out of bowshot of the walls. We got out just in time.”

  “God’s will, you say?” Hugh’s eyes were still on Aine. “Thank you, Rory.”

  Rory left.

  Then, still watching Aine, Hugh said, “They say David is the return of Arthur. Do you believe it?”

  “Yes!” Aine’s chin came up defiantly.

  Hugh scoffed. “It’s a bard’s tale, meant to entertain a hall on a long winter’s night.” But then he turned away to look towards the fire, and when he spoke next, it seemed as if his words were not for Aine as much as for himself. “And yet, David lives, and every man who has gone against him has found himself defeated, disgraced, or dead.”

  “My lord?” Aine couldn’t bear the uncertainty a moment longer. “What will you do?”

  Hugh’s hand clenched into a fist. “What I must.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Drogheda Castle


  William

  “Do not be ashamed to be afraid. I am.”

  William had been looking out the high thin window at the activity—or lack thereof, now that midnight had come and gone—in the bailey of the castle, and he swung around to stare at Gilla. He didn’t even have the spit in his mouth to say what?

  If Gilla hadn’t spoken in English, he might have thought the Irish chief’s words weren’t meant to be overheard, but in that case he would have spoken in Gaelic, which William’s ear had long since stopped trying to decipher. The words of that language were a hopeless mess of vowels and sounds that shouldn’t exist, even to a Marcher lord with a head for languages, and one who’d been accused many times by his English friends of entirely making up the pronunciations of Welsh.

  Gilla went on, apparently not needing an answer. “You are young enough still that I see it in your eyes. The fear. We all have it. With time, most of us grow more accomplished at hiding it.”

  Gilla was right that fear had been slowly twisting its knife into William’s gut while they’d been waiting for Matha to return and release them. He’d confessed once to his father how afraid of failure he sometimes was. He was more afraid of failing than of dying. His father had given him a typically stout answer, clapping him on the shoulder and telling him that if a man wasn’t afraid, then he wasn’t alive. He’d told William that everybody was afraid.

  William hadn’t believed him. He didn’t believe Gilla. “My father is never afraid.”

  Gilla guffawed. “What do you think he is, then—angry?”

  William’s eyes flicked to Huw, who was deliberately not looking at either of them, having removed his whetstone from his pocket and busied himself with sharpening one of his tiny knives. Huw had been inordinately pleased when the patting down he’d received had failed to discover either tool.

  William brought his attention back to Gilla. “Yes, he’s angry.”

  Gilla nodded. “Then he is afraid. Most men hide it with rage.”

  “Not King David.” For some reason, William wanted to argue with Gilla.

  “Is that so?” Gilla canted his head. “He isn’t angry, or he isn’t afraid?”

  As David himself had confessed to being afraid at times, William was struggling to maintain his thesis that he was the only one who felt this way. He hadn’t believed David, but David wasn’t angry either. Gilla was certainly right, however, that all was not well with William. While treachery had surrounded William (and his father) his whole life, even the intrigue surrounding the fight over the English throne and finding out that his intended bride would rather be a nun than marry him hadn’t set William back on his heels quite as much as today.

  Huw swept his blade across the whetstone again. “You can be courageous and afraid at the same time. You were David’s squire. How could you not have learned this?”

  William grimaced, and when he didn’t have an answer, Huw added, “You’ve fought in battles. Back at Windsor when you were a boy, you charged into the fray and almost got yourself killed. How did you manage that?”

  “It was an act,” William said. “Bravado.”

  Gilla put up one finger. “Precisely.”

  “Fake it ‘til you make it,” Huw said. And then when both William and Gilla looked at him, he shrugged. “So says Queen Meg.”

  “I have never heard that phrase before, but if I understand it, it is a good one.” Gilla turned back to William. “I tell you this now because I am a father of a son of whom I am very proud, and because I was once such a son. We are all afraid. What we cannot do, however, is let our fear drive our actions or our decisions.”

  David would have said the same thing. He probably had, if William had been listening. Still, he argued. “We are about to take back this castle because all Ireland will fall and we will die if we don’t. Fear is driving our actions.”

  “Is it really? I am afraid of that outcome, but that is not why I fight,” Gilla said patiently. “Nor is it why you do.”

  William felt his chin jutting out, and he fought the impulse. They were lecturing him, and he hated being lectured, but he knew that they were trying to help him too. Unfortunately, he wasn’t understanding what they were getting at. So, everyone was afraid. So what? They didn’t show it, and they certainly didn’t have the knife-twisting uncertainty and watery bowels that afflicted William. He threw up his hands, feeling stupid, but knowing he needed to be told the answer.

  With a sigh Huw stopped his sharpening and looked at William. “You’re doing it not because you fear what is behind you. You act because you have hope for something bett—”

  A footfall outside the door stopped Huw in mid-sentence, and a heartbeat later he was on his feet, his knife in his hand and a finger to his lips. He moved to one side of the doorway and signaled that William should take up a post on the other. Gilla faced the door, legs braced for whoever might come through it, but then Matha’s face appeared behind the iron bars of the window, and he put his key into the lock. The door swung wide on greased hinges.

  Gilla accepted the sword Matha handed him and followed him from the room towards the stairwell. “I don’t understand. Why is there no fighting?”

  “Many of our enemies should be insensible with poppy juice by now, but we couldn’t dose your guards in case their captain noticed and sounded the alarm too soon,” Matha said. “Cusack’s and Butler’s men are more alert than I counted on them being, so I decided to wait to attack until you were free. Three more fighting men might be the difference between success and failure.”

  William gripped the unfamiliar sword Matha had brought him. The weighting of it was a little off, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Somewhere in this castle was his own sword, given to him by his father, and he wanted it back. His father would kill him if—

  He swallowed down the thought, reviewing what Huw and Gilla had told him. Fear of disappointing his father had driven William for his entire life. He remembered standing in the nave of the church at Valle Crucis Abbey, being given over to David to protect. At the time it had felt as if his father had abandoned him and that he was relieved to no longer be burdened by the responsibility of a son like William.

  When they’d found his father in a cell at Painscastle, William had hoped that, at long last, he would have done something to make his father proud. Instead, his father had only expected more, forcing him to agree to the marriage to Princess Joan and put in his claim for the throne of England. His relief when Joan had chosen the Church over him had been immeasurable, overcoming his fear of his father’s disappointment.

  And still his father pushed and pushed, and nothing William ever did was good enough. How could Gilla think that William’s father was actually afraid?

  Worse, what if Gilla was right and fear drove his father too? Did that make his father weak like William?

  Leaving Gilla, William, and Huw behind a curve of the stairwell, Matha was the first one into the guardroom. He made a joke in French, something about what happens when you put an Irishman, a Welshman, and a Saxon in a cell together, and the guards laughed. It was the cue for the three of them to descend the stairs the rest of the way.

  Matha had already plunged his knife into the chest of the nearest guard, and he could apparently move so quickly and well that he had the second guard on the ground with the same knife to his throat before the first one was even dead.

  “You seem to have this well in hand, son.” Gilla spoke affably, but he bent to look into the face of the guard on the ground, who was still alive.

  “We were told you would betray us, and here you are,” the guard said.

  Matha glowered. “What are you going on about?”

  The guard puckered his mouth to spit, but then as Matha increased the pressure of the blade on his throat, seemed to think better of it. “Lord Cusack warned us that the Irish would never stay true to our cause.”

  Matha’s face reddened, but Gilla’s expression turned thoughtful. “When were you going to turn on my son’s me
n?”

  “I don’t know the exact moment. We were just to be prepared when our captain gave the word.”

  Gilla straightened, though he still looked down at the guard. “As that will not happen now, you can die here, or you can aid us. Your choice.”

  The guard sneered. “Aid you? Why should I believe anything you say? I could help you, and you’ll turn around and murder me in my sleep.”

  “If you do not want to aid us—” Gilla glanced at Huw and William and then looked back to the man. “Would you serve David?”

  “He’s dead!”

  “He is not.”

  “Lord Cusack—”

  “Lies.”

  William had a moment of fear that they were the ones telling lies, but instead of swallowing the fear down like he always had, he allowed it to take him over for a moment. His whole being filled with that sweating, shaking fear that was something to be feared in and of itself. Had his father ever felt this way?

  Then Huw’s hand came down on his shoulder and, as if on command, William took in a deep breath and let it out. By some miracle, the fear began to drain away with his breath, just like David had said it would, years ago. William was so amazed, he felt lightheaded—and like laughing.

  He didn’t though, just shook himself and muttered to Huw under his breath. “Thanks.”

  “We’re going to win, William. David’s alive, and we’re going to take back this castle. And then Ireland.”

  William had never seen Huw so determined, and he took heart from that too.

  “What’s your decision?” Gilla was still speaking to the downed guard. To William it felt like an hour had passed, though it had been only heartbeats.

  “I’d like to live.”

  Gilla jerked his head at his son, who removed the knife and took a step back. Gilla reached down to the guard, who, after a moment’s hesitation, clasped his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.