by Joanne Rock
Lady Sorcha was no mild maid who frightened easily. Eamon had realized, even before he saw her wield a blade that day at the harbor beach, that she would not hesitate to lop off a man’s hand if he touched her against her will.
“But you did not.” Du Bois waited while his men cleared the board for a new game.
No minstrels played here as in Tiernan Con Connacht’s great hall. This place was full of men throwing dice and hounds gnawing bones or—in some corners—fighting one another while the men placed bets on the winner. Eamon could not wait to depart. He thought of Onora’s gentle beauty and sharp wit. She would have never set foot in such a hall as this.
“The lady’s cottage was torched before I could bring them to you. By the time I caught up to Gregory to arrange an exchange, he was killed in a skirmish with Sorcha’s new husband.”
Some of the men around du Bois grew quiet and he sensed a new stillness in the hall.
“My man is dead while the Irish whore goes on to make new conquests?” A tick pulsed beneath du Bois’s right eye.
The sweat flooding Eamon’s brow assured Eamon the only thing scarier than a soulless knight was one who was both soulless and angry. Hoping to end their talk as quickly as possible, he came straight to the point.
“I can bring Sorcha and her son to you now, under the same terms we agreed upon for my silence about your death.” He had hoped for far more coin than he’d received then, but he valued his neck more than gold in the end. Upon further reflection, he did not trust the soundness of du Bois’s mind.
“You did not keep your silence about that though, did you?” Du Bois accepted a new dagger from one of the men beside him. “You have revealed to all of my guests that I am not dead.”
A few of his cronies chortled at this while Eamon struggled to follow the logic.
“I did exactly what you asked—”
At a nod from du Bois, Eamon was surrounded by two knights who outweighed him by ten stone apiece. He did not even have time to reach for his sword. They grabbed him roughly by the arms, jerking him forward as he fought. They dragged him close to their leader while Nelda screamed.
“I have no need of you, witless worm. I already knew my cousin went to Connacht to find the whore. And thanks to you, I now know he has returned and most likely lurks outside my gate.” His dark gaze moved from Eamon to one of the knights who held him. “Take him to the dungeon and consider what piece of him you’d like to send back to my cousin.”
Nelda screamed again and she would have fled except she was trapped by the bodies of several men-at-arms who had lost all interest in their dice game. They crowded her, surrounding her like dogs circling a sheep. Eamon knew what would become of her.
And him.
Oh God, if he could only take back what he’d done.
Somewhere in the hall, another woman cried out, earning more laughter from the men. And then, just as a hulking knight reared back a fist in front of him, Eamon realized the high, womanish cries were his own.
His last thought was a fervent prayer Onora would not suffer for his sins.
Hugh’s hand itched to reach for his sword.
He lay in the back of a peddler’s wagon with two other knights, their backs pressed to rough and rotting floorboards while they balanced piles of wood on their chests. They decided against loading the wagon with food products for fear a cook’s helper might be called to the gate to look through the delivery. But loads of wood they claimed were already paid for by the overlord himself seemed like a sure bet for quick admission into the castle’s walls.
Now, as Hugh took shallow breaths under the weight of small logs and sticks, he wished mightily he could have ridden through the keep’s front gates with a mass of men behind him, brandishing his weapon while astride his biggest warhorse. Unfortunately, success in battle was not necessarily achieved by indulging a man’s pride. Today’s outcome was too important to risk.
Sorcha and her son were too important.
He feared he had spoken harshly to her earlier this morning in his haste to find out what happened to Eamon and his desire to keep her from harm. Thoughts of her were never far from his mind, even with such a crucial strategic task in front of him. He wanted to win the day for her. For their future. By the saints, he wanted to claim her as his wife in front of the world.
Beneath his right shoulder blade, Hugh felt the nearest wheel of the cart slow to a halt. They must have reached the gatekeeper. With any luck, the wheels would move forward again very quickly. The longer they were stopped at the gate, the better the chance they would be discovered.
Outside the blackness of the wood cart covered with a stretch of tattered hide, Hugh heard their man-at-arms, Peter. The man had been chosen to drive the cart because he had none of the polish of a knight. There was a coarseness about him, from his accent to his unevenly shaven jaw, that marked him for a simple villager. Even his size helped disguise his battle prowess. He was not huge, but wiry with a steely strength easily hidden under a dirty robe and hunched shoulders.
“Let me see yer load,” hollered the gatekeeper from up above the cart. The sentry in charge had a post atop the castle walls near the gate, though guards on the ground did his bidding and checked the incoming visitors.
There was a pause after the request, while Hugh’s heart pounded so viciously hard he feared the force of it would raise and lower the wood piled over him and give them all away. Then a scraping noise above him suggested the cover being pulled away. No shafts of sunlight leaked through, however, since the knights had laid leather coverings over their bodies beneath the wood, as well. The disguise was thorough, but rendered them all the more helpless in an ambush since they would not see until too late if they were found out.
Hugh listened for the breathing of the knights beside him who had sworn him their allegiance. They were separated by small timber pieces, but still rested close enough to hear. All was silent.
If only they could pass the walls, they would be able to join with three other knights loyal to Hugh who had entered the city that morn after sharing wine with him around the fire last night. Those men inside would spread the word to Hugh’s men. But they needed Hugh to send a signal to them, to rouse their warrior hearts for battle, else they would not risk battle with du Bois. By all accounts, his cousin had only grown crueler.
“Wave them through!” the guard from high above shouted, sending a cooling surge of relief over Hugh’s fevered body.
They were in. The battle would begin soon.
But the cart wheels were hardly under way again when they slowed to a stop once more.
“Halt!” another voice called out.
A man.
And a familiar one at that.
“I wish to inspect this load myself.” The sneering, arrogant tone belonged to someone Hugh hated to call family. Someone who could end all his hopes for a future with Sorcha right here.
Outside the cart, a heavy horse approached them, bringing a rider close. Hugh knew he did not have long to plan.
Edward du Bois was about to expose him.
Back at the camp, Sorcha had been awake since before dawn.
She could not rest after Hugh left, hating that he was frustrated with her when they needed to work together today. She did not know how she’d come to understand that, but she did.
Perhaps it was because they could have anticipated Eamon as a weak envoy if they had discussed it earlier. She had reservations about the man-at-arms and so did Hugh. But because they had not shared them—they might both pay a hefty price for their inability to work together.
So she was taking down their tents at first light, trying not to pass along her anxious, skittery mood to Onora and Conn. Her sister and son sat on a blanket near a brook that fed Edenrock while Sorcha rolled the tents against the man-at-arms’ protests. She could not sit idly by. And whether Hugh won or lost, she would not be lingering outside Edenrock’s walls tonight.
“By the Blessed Virgin.” Onora’s oath was an expression of soft w
onder and Sorcha turned to see what had surprised her.
Onora’s gaze was fixed on the wall at the top of the deep ravine where Sorcha and Hugh had ridden the day before. From here, they could see a bit of the village inside the walls. It was not activity within the town that claimed her sister’s attention, however.
It was the man climbing over the wall.
Even in the half light of the earliest part of the day, Sorcha recognized the dark houpeland and the sandy curls. But as he slid down the wall, stumbling and falling into the ravine, she realized something was drastically amiss with her former groom. His body moved awkwardly, head slumped to one side, his hair matted to one temple. He limped forward and collapsed.
“Eamon!” Onora was already on her feet, running toward him through the low undergrowth of the forest.
Sorcha scooped up Conn and followed, her pace slower as her son bounced on one hip. She told herself to be safe and, by the saints, she did think to watch the walls for signs of someone following him.
But no man as broken, dirty and bloodstained as this one could pose a threat to her son. Especially not when she carried a dagger at her side for protection. If there was any chance Eamon knew something that could help Hugh, she would seek it out.
By the time she reached his side, Onora was already leaning over his huddled form. With another wary glance at the town’s walls, Sorcha urged them both under the cover of a thick bush nearby so they would not be seen so easily. Guards passed this way now and then, and although they were unthreatened by beggars in the wood, they could be looking for someone who had made such an unconventional exit from their city.
“What happened to you?” Sorcha asked, raising her voice above Onora’s soothing words as she scraped Eamon’s bloodstained hair away from a wound on his forehead.
Her sister cried out when swiping away the hair only encouraged the gash to bleed more. His nose was bent to one side. His eyes were both blackened and his lip had been split in two places. Sorcha turned Conn’s head in toward her shoulder so he would not see the frightening mess of Eamon’s ruined visage.
“It is my fault,” he croaked through his swollen lips. “They know you’re here because of me.”
Onora’s eyes met Sorcha’s over his head.
“Are you certain they are aware of us?” Onora asked, tearing off a chunk of her sleeve and dipping it in the cold, clear water of the nearby brook before wiping it across Eamon’s forehead with infinite tenderness.
Sorcha wondered if there had been more between the two of them than she had first realized. She had not sensed that her sister returned Eamon’s feelings for her, but had she been so distracted by her own trials that she’d missed it?
“I told them.” Eamon opened his eyes. “And I knew Edward was not dead. He paid me well to—”
He broke off, his chest rising and falling with an effort.
Sorcha reeled at the level of betrayal. And from another person she’d trusted—at least to a degree. Even her father had been fooled.
She prayed her sister had not been deceived to the extent she herself had been by the first man she fancied. Although how could she ever blame Onora if she had been taken in by someone who showed her tenderness?
“Eamon …” Sorcha leaned closer, panic rising thick in her chest at the idea of Hugh and his knights riding into a trap. He had never returned to tell her of his plans. How would she warn him? “You did the right thing—the brave thing—returning to us.”
At least Sorcha prayed it was a brave thing and that he had not led du Bois’s knights to them on purpose. But judging by the condition of Eamon’s beaten face, she guessed he had left at great risk to himself.
“I am sorry.” Eamon breathed the words softly, his cut lips scarcely moving. “I only wanted to warn Hugh so he could protect you.” His eyes opened briefly, flickering over to Onora. “Both.”
Accepting that it might already be too late, Sorcha did not need to weigh the risks of disobeying her husband. She was no longer the headstrong girl who followed her heart’s command with no thought to how it might hurt others. She was a headstrong woman who thought carefully about her actions and then found the best way to follow what her heart commanded. And she loved Hugh too much to allow him to walk into an ambush.
This was a man worthy of every risk.
That was why she could not promise Hugh that she would remain in the forest today. Her son would never be safe until Edward du Bois was defeated. That gave her only one choice, even if it tore Hugh away from her forever.
She must warn him.
“You will be too late,” Onora warned her, picking her thoughts out of Sorcha’s mind with the uncanny ability the best of sisters possessed.
Tears stung Sorcha’s eyes as frustration and fear both told her that Onora might be right. And then inspiration struck.
“But not too late to intercept a king.” Standing, she handed Onora her knife. “You must protect my son at all costs and I swear to you, I will intervene with Father to find you the best, most honorable husband in all of England.”
Onora shook her head. “You do not—”
“Will you care for him?” She needed the fastest horse she could find. Along with a miracle.
“Of course.” Onora gripped the knife with the ease of a woman who did not need to flaunt her skill. “You already saved me from the most hellish marriage I can envision. I owe you everything.”
Sorcha kissed her son, embraced her sister and sprinted through the wood to the freshest courser among Hugh’s mounts. She was not a banished princess any longer. And nothing would stop her from taking on the king.
Hugh had not required a horse.
He broke out of the woodpile like a monster arising from the grave, his sword drawn and his battle cry on his lips. Mayhem reigned all around as women and children scattered and the gate guards shouted orders to raise the drawbridge.
An impossible feat with their overlord standing in the middle of it.
Hugh stared at his enemy from his perch on the wood cart as Peter fought to control the nag who pulled it. From his higher position, Hugh leaped on his hell-hated cousin, knocking Edward to the ground.
“For the lord de Montaigne!” one of the knights shouted nearby, extending the rallying cry through the courtyard and onto the guards at the castle walls.
It was part of the plan as they’d discussed, but Hugh hadn’t counted on how it would fill him with pride. Strength. Vengeance.
After days and months not knowing his identity, hearing his true name resonate through the crowd and vibrate off the stone was like an elixir from the gods of old.
Du Bois’s sword skills were diminished by the lack of support all around him. He fought like the damned, his blade flying with a fierceness Hugh had never encountered in any opponent.
“Your wife was my whore,” he shouted as one of his blows connected with Hugh’s knee.
Only his staunch will to defend Sorcha could have kept him upright after such a hit. He swayed but did not fall.
Around him, he became aware of the crowd quieting. They did not dare think Hugh would be defeated, did they?
Never taking his eyes off his opponent, Hugh raised his sword.
“My wife is avenged.” The blow he wielded hit du Bois in the temple, landing in the very spot that had felled Hugh three moons ago. Edward du Bois crumpled to his knees on the drawbridge.
Hugh’s victory was clear.
The crowds did not cheer, a fact which surprised him after the support they’d given him so recently. Instead, they all peered out of the gates to the road beyond. Straightening, he turned to follow their gaze.
And spied King Henry’s procession riding up to the gate, banners flying while the sovereign broke away from his men to lead the way. Their arrival was not nearly as much of a surprise as was Sorcha’s position at the king’s side.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hugh’s gut roiled with the knowledge that he had cut down one of the nation’s most powerful
knights in front of their shared overlord. By God, he could be taken in chains for trial for this. For that matter, he had killed the father of Sorcha’s son—a man she’d once loved. He knew it had to be done to keep her safe, but would she look at him with different eyes for having been the one to deliver that devastating blow?
He watched his wife leap from her courser before the animal had come to a full stop. She ran to him, her feet flying almost as fast as the horse’s had been.
He did not know if she ran from the king or if she had interceded on Hugh’s behalf somehow, but he noticed she did not look to the ruler for permission as she flung herself into Hugh’s arms.
All the rest of Edenrock’s villagers—Hugh’s people now, he reminded himself—fell to their knees before their monarch.
At thirty-six years, Henry II was a vital ruler in his prime. With his groomed beard and brisk manner, he possessed a noble bearing that had naught to do with his crown and owed much to his self-assurance and quick mind. As he reined in his armored mount, he peered around the assembled company with assessing gray eyes that missed nothing. Least of all the dead man at Hugh’s feet.
Hugh offered as much of a bow as he could manage with Sorcha wrapped tightly about him. He nudged her slightly away from Edward’s body, wishing to protect her from the hardship of seeing him up close.
“Do not be angry with me,” she whispered in his ear, her words urgent. “I learned Eamon betrayed you so I intercepted the king on his way to the wedding.”
She released him, her sweetly scented arms falling away from his neck before she offered a deep curtsy to the king.
Her respects to the monarch were late in coming, but to Hugh’s surprise, the quick-tempered sovereign merely appeared amused. The King of England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine and Count of Angevin had been thoroughly charmed by an Irish princess.
“I have come for a wedding,” the king announced, his voice projecting for all the silent villagers to hear as he motioned to two of his men to clear away Edward’s body.
Even the handful of knights who had been loyal to du Bois did not dare to speak. Two of them had been lost to the swords of Hugh’s fellow knights and those who remained standing seemed content to hold their peace.