God grant her peace. She must have fought like a tigress to have felled such a beast. Her ashen cheeks were still wet with tears; her slim white arms, marred by cuts and deep slashes, were wound protectively around the wailing child. But Jesu, Mary and Joseph, what had she been doing in these woods? A fine Norman lady with the countenance of an angel straying unguarded into the Wicklow Mountains. It was unheard of.
Shaking his head, Fineen pried the howling babe from the woman’s arms. A girl child with the strong lungs of a banshee, she was a pretty wee thing, her chubby face framed by bright coppery gold curls. He guessed that she was no more than six months old. And such fat tears from one so little! Hoping to soothe her, Fineen settled her into the crook of his arm.
“Sshh, sweeting…sshh,” he crooned, his gruff voice lowered to a comforting whisper. To his amazement the baby abruptly fell silent, a small frown puckering her downy brows as she gazed up at him. Her eyes, fringed by long dark lashes, were not the typical blue of babes, but rather a green as brilliant as the fragrant moss beneath his feet.
“Aye, you don’t know me, sweeting, but you’ve nothing to fear from—”
A low feral growl nearby made Fineen stiffen, the hair rising on the back of his neck. He looked up to see a lean-ribbed black wolf skulking among the trees.
Accursed demon dogs. It never took them long to track down the scent of fresh blood.
Fineen rose swiftly to his feet. Freeing the babe from her blood-soaked swaddling blanket, he flung the stained cloth at the animal. He was not surprised when a half dozen wolves emerged from the gathering mist and leapt upon the blanket, the snarling beasts ripping it to shreds.
“A whole pack of you, I see,” muttered Fineen as he settled the naked babe inside his leather jerkin. Startled by the commotion, she was crying again but he had no time to calm her now. He grabbed his bow and expertly set an owl-fletched arrow to the string.
Normally he would consign any dead Norman’s soul to burn in eternal hell’s fire, but this wretched lady had stirred his pity. After he dealt with the wolves he would give the woman a Christian burial, and then decide what was to be done with the child.
Fineen took careful aim at the lead wolf whose gleaming gold eyes were fixed first upon him, then upon the woman’s body.
“Aye, come on, you damned hellhound. Come on… What the devil?”
Fineen spun as the wolves faded like wraiths into the trees, the sudden pounding of hooves growing louder. He didn’t wait to discover if the advancing riders were friend or foe. Sliding the bow and arrow into the leather case slung over his shoulder, he lunged behind a nearby tree and thrust a knuckle into the babe’s mouth.
“Not a peep, sweeting,” he whispered, grateful when the babe quieted and began to suckle contentedly.
“This way, my lord! The crying came from just beyond the rise!”
Startled, Fineen paid no heed to the prickly bark digging into his back and thighs as he pressed closer to the tree, nor to the sweat trickling down his spine.
By God, Normans. Yet it was strange that they had ventured so far from the safety of the plains. Usually the land-stealing, murdering spawn of Satan knew these mountains were the domain of the O’Byrnes and the O’Tooles. Too bad he had ordered his clansmen to track their quarry in the woods nearer the stockade so he could enjoy the solace of hunting alone. If they’d been hunting together, they could have bagged some fine prey indeed.
“There, my lord! Beneath that tree!”
Fineen skimmed his hand over the jeweled dagger he had pulled from the boar’s throat to the smooth wooden hilt of his hunting knife. But the riders galloped past him, four, maybe five in all. Scarcely daring to breathe, he listened as the Normans drew to a sudden halt and dismounted no more than ten feet away.
“I fear the lady is dead, Baron. And her babe is gone.”
“God’s teeth, I thought my brother’s whelp too young to crawl! Find her!”
Fineen tensed as the baron’s minions went crashing through the undergrowth.
“Wolves have been here, my lord! Our horses must have frightened them away. There are tracks and look, shreds of cloth.”
“The babe’s swaddling blanket. Splendid. A plump little heiress should make the beasts a fine supper. And they’ve saved me the trouble of dispatching the dratted chit myself.”
“Bastard,” Fineen breathed fiercely, hugging his tiny charge closer to his chest. The Norman monster spoke so callously of murdering a child. The man’s own niece from the sound of it!
“Wrap the lady in your cloak and hand her up,” came the baron’s next command, his voice harsh. “It grows dark and this forest is cursed by rebels and thieves. We’ve already tested our luck by riding this far.”
Fineen started as the babe suddenly tugged upon his beard, her berry red lips pursed and pulling hard at his knuckle. He smiled at her, but he sobered when the riders once more moved past him, the baron’s voice a low growl.
“Pity about Eva, especially after I went through such pains to make her a widow. She could have been my bride instead of a corpse. Foolish bitch.”
Sickened, Fineen was tempted to hurl his hunting knife and silence the man forever. That one was a Norman doubly worth slaying! But the babe yanking upon his beard stilled him. He would only endanger her life, and she’d already faced enough threats for one so small and helpless.
Poor wee orphan. Now she had only Fineen O’Toole, chieftain of the Imaal O’Tooles, to protect her.
He didn’t step from behind the tree until the mailed Norman troupe was almost out of sight, the baron at the lead with the lifeless woman slung over his saddle. In the fading summer light, Fineen spied a coat of arms emblazoned upon the baron’s shield.
Blood red on black, a fearsome three-headed dragon with wings outspread. He did not recognize the emblem but in time would learn this baron’s name.
“Aye, you fiendish whoreson, your evil deeds must have won you much,” Fineen spat as the Normans disappeared from view. “But you’ll not have this little one here. I’ll see to that.”
He walked back to the place where the woman had fallen, the spongy emerald moss stained a dark reddish brown with her blood. Solemnly, he made the sign of the cross above it.
“Rest your soul, Eva. Norman or no, you needn’t worry about your daughter. From this day, I adopt her as my own. She’ll be safe with me. On my life, I swear it!”
He glanced down to find the babe had fallen asleep, one tiny pink fist tucked up beneath her chubby chin, the innocent sweetness of her expression tugging at his heart. He’d always wanted his son, Conor, to have a little sister.
Fineen suddenly frowned, remembering the two boys he’d left behind with his men.
If he didn’t meet up with them soon, that hotheaded Ronan O’Byrne would convince Conor that they should set out to look for him. And right now, that was the last thing Fineen wanted.
At twelve his impetuous godson possessed a lust for vengeance that matched any ten Irishmen. Fineen could no longer count the times Ronan had sworn mightily to do his part to drive the French-tongued invaders from their green isle. Begorra, if Ronan knew that Normans had strayed into their mountains…
“He’d chase them down and challenge them all,” Fineen said aloud with a fond grunt. Aye, he loved the boy. Admired his fierce courage, too, an amazing trait in one so young. But Fineen didn’t like his penchant for recklessness.
“Godfather!”
Muttering an oath, Fineen hoped the Normans hadn’t heard the boyish cry that echoed through the darkening woods. Bracing his arm beneath the sleeping babe, he didn’t wait for Ronan to reach him but set off at a fast lope, meeting his black-haired godson halfway up the rise.
“Where’s Conor?” he demanded between hard breaths as Ronan drew his snorting mount to a halt, a powerful red gelding that the strong-limbed boy handled with ease.
“Coming, Godfather. We decided to race to find you…” Ronan’s voice trailed off, his startled gaze moving to the
plump bundle in Fineen’s arms, at the small white arms now flailing the air. But before he could say a word, Fineen hastily concocted a story to silence him.
“The babe’s parents are dead. Wolves. I found the poor thing tucked in the hollow of a tree, crying her lungs out. Take her now—while I climb up behind you.”
His gray eyes widening, Ronan appeared at such a loss to have a squirming bare-bottomed babe thrust into his arms that Fineen almost laughed.
His bold godson undone by a wee bit of a girl? That was worthy of some teasing tonight at supper.
“But…but what if—”
“Begorra, lad, it would do you no harm save to your pride,” Fineen broke in, settling himself behind Ronan. “Hand me the child and let’s be off.”
Ronan seemed more than relieved to surrender his burden, especially when the babe’s tightly curled fist caught him squarely on the jaw as he handed her over his shoulder to Fineen.
“I don’t think she likes me, Godfather.”
“Nonsense, boy. She’ll like you well enough. Just give her a chance.”
Ronan’s eyes grew all the rounder. “You’re going to keep her, then?”
“Aye, I’m going to keep her! Did you think I’d be throwing her back to the wolves? Now ride with you, Ronan O’Byrne. Save your hundred questions for when we’re out of these woods.”
Gently cradling the babe once more inside his jerkin, Fineen was glad when Ronan obeyed and kicked the eager gelding into a gallop. He was gladder still when he saw Conor appear at the top of the rise, his handsome, good-natured son unperturbed that Ronan had beat him. They were as close as brothers.
“Conor, look what your father’s found!” cried Ronan, throwing a secretive grin behind him at Fineen. “Tucked in the hollow of a tree, no less!”
Although deciding he couldn’t have invented a better story, Fineen knew he’d have to tell his wife of twenty years the truth. There was no use in attempting to keep anything from Alice; she could read him as if he were the clearest mountain stream. But all would be well.
Alice had a good heart. She would understand the need to protect the child, no one other than herself ever to know that the babe was Norman. Besides, like him, she had always wanted a daughter, having been barren since Conor’s birth.
“Aye, Eva, your wee one will be safe with us,” Fineen whispered fiercely to himself as Conor drew his sweaty horse alongside them. His son’s blue eyes grew as round as Ronan’s had earlier as Ronan grinned and gestured to the babe nestled in Fineen’s arms.
After all, he had sworn.
Chapter One
Ireland, 1210
“Ah, you must make haste, make haste! He has little time left!”
Barely inside the stockade gates, Ronan O’Byrne dismounted heavily, obliging the wizened, stoop-shouldered healer who had rushed forward to greet him. His countenance grim, he had only to nod to his men for them to understand they should wait for him there. Then he strode with the healer toward the hall, the stockade yard eerily silent around them. O’Toole clansmen stood in somber knots while the women went about their work silently. Wide-eyed children, forbidden to play, forbidden to make a peep, clustered into doorways to watch curiously as Ronan passed by.
“’Tis Black O’Byrne, the rebel! Chieftain of the Glenmalure O’Byrnes!” he overheard one disobedient young boy exclaim to a taller youth who answered with awe in his voice.
“Aye, would that I was old enough to join his daring band.”
“Oh aye, me, too!” proclaimed the younger one just before both boys were silenced by a sharp cuff to the ear from their stern-faced mother.
“Have some respect, lads! The O’Toole is dying.”
The woman’s words cutting through him as cleanly as an ice-cold knife, Ronan missed nothing as he and the healer crossed the yard.
It was strange how everything appeared much the same. Even though Ronan had not entered this stockade for twelve years the memories were still fresh; the pain always with him. Twelve long years ago Fineen O’Toole had banished him forever from the glen of Imaal, cursing Ronan for Conor’s death.
It had been a freakish accident, yet Fineen’s terrible grief had left him blind to reason. Over the years, Ronan had made several attempts at reconciliation only to be rebuffed. Even when Fineen lost his beloved wife, Alice, five years past, Ronan’s message of sympathy had been refused. Now his stubborn godfather had summoned Ronan to his deathbed and he had come, unsure of what to expect.
“It is bad, Ronan, very bad,” the withered little man warned him as they entered the tomblike hall. He followed the healer into the sleeping chamber on the left; someone gently closed the door behind them.
The stuffy candlelit room reeked sickeningly of death, making his eyes water. Fineen’s wounds had putrefied and now nothing could save him, not even the cowled priest, stout as a barrel, who intoned prayers in the corner. Clenching his jaw so hard that it hurt, Ronan moved to the bed and looked down upon the man whom he had loved as a second father.
The robust Fineen O’Toole he had known was gone, his full russet beard now scraggly against sunken cheeks as yellowed as parchment, his once powerful physique wasted.
“Lord, he is here,” announced the healer in a hushed, respectful voice. He gestured for Ronan to draw closer. “Your godson, Black O’Byrne, is here.”
With apparent effort, the dying chieftain turned his head. Ronan ignored the stool offered to him by one of the veiled women in the room. Instead, he knelt on one knee beside the bed.
“Ronan?”
“Aye, Godfather.” Again Ronan had to swallow against the choking tightness in his throat. If Fineen’s body had changed, his piercing gaze had not. His blue eyes, so very much like Conor’s, still burned brightly.
“I knew you would come.” The familiar gruff voice, half whisper, half rasp, struggled on. “I was wrong…about Conor…blaming you. Forgive me.”
Stunned, Ronan could not speak. He had waited a long time to hear those words. As Fineen offered his bony hand, Ronan took it, astounded by the fierceness of his godfather’s grip.
“My adopted daughter…Triona,” Fineen continued brokenly, his breathing labored, his pale cracked lips barely moving. “She will have no one when…when I am gone. Swear to me, Ronan. Swear you will protect her.”
Triona. The copper-haired babe Fineen had found crying in the woods, her parents killed by wolves. The babe who’d grown into a sweet little girl who adored her older brother, and mayhap Ronan as well. She’d always seemed delighted with the small trinkets he brought her whenever he came to Imaal although other than that, he’d scarcely had time to pay her much heed.
She couldn’t have been more than eight winters when last he had visited Imaal. At that time he had come from his home glen to fetch Conor to join him and his clansmen on a raid. Except Conor did not return alive.
Sighing heavily, Ronan thrust the painful images of that day from his mind.
“Your daughter has no husband to look after her?” he asked, realizing Triona would be twenty by now and long past the age when she should have wed.
Ronan was surprised by Fineen’s response, a dry cough that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.
“No…not married.”
Must be ugly as a hound, Ronan thought, although he recalled the girl as being pretty enough. Perhaps the pox had scarred her face. Or perhaps she was overly pious.
His musing was interrupted as Fineen’s cough became a long hacking spell that left the chieftain visibly weaker. As if he sensed that the end was drawing near, Fineen once more met Ronan’s eyes.
“You must swear, Ronan. You were like a son to me…family. Swear you will take my daughter into your care!”
Puzzled by the urgency of Fineen’s request, Ronan nonetheless nodded. In truth, he wanted no such obligation, his raids upon the hated Normans and the pressing cares of his clan already consuming him. But he could not refuse a dying man.
“Say it, Ronan!”
“Aye
, I swear. She has my protection.”
His words were greeted by a rattling sigh as Fineen closed his eyes, his head lolling upon the stained pillow. Ronan heard one of the veiled women burst into tears. Triona? he wondered.
“It cannot be long now,” said the healer, running his palm across the chieftain’s sallow forehead.
At this pronouncement more women joined in the weeping, and the priest began to pray louder when Fineen still did not open his eyes. As if he were praying in unison the chieftain began to mumble, but Ronan could not understand what he was saying until he leaned closer.
“Must not…must not know the truth about Triona… Must not know…”
Glancing at the healer, who shrugged and shook his head, Ronan whispered in Fineen’s ear, “What do you mean, Godfather? I don’t understand.…”
Ronan’s query was answered by a low gurgling sound, Fineen’s shriveled hand once more gripping his as tightly as a claw. Then it abruptly went limp.
For a long moment, Ronan stared at Fineen’s face, oblivious to the wild keening crescendoing behind him. But at last he sighed and rose to his feet.
Except for the glowing candles at the head of the bed, the room was dark, the grief stricken women swathed in shadows. He wondered again which one might be Triona. As a dutiful daughter, he imagined she had kept a close vigil in this room, but was too modest to come forward. That pleased him. Such maidenly virtues would make his task as her guardian all the easier.
Ronan looked up at the sudden commotion beyond the door.
“What do you mean my father summoned that bastard Black O’Byrne to his bedside? Get out of my way! I will enter, I tell you!”
At the sound of a scuffle outside the chamber, the women’s wailing became shocked gasps. Ronan frowned as the door burst open, five strapping clansmen spilling into the room. At their center, he saw a flash of copper hair and two slender arms thrashing wildly.
“I said let me pass! Murchertach O’Toole, you may be my father’s Tanist but you’ve no right to hold me back like this! I want to see my father!”
Lords of Ireland II Page 115