Lords of Ireland II

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “Here, put these on underneath your gown,” she directed, Caitlin already having climbed from bed. Her cousin obeyed as if sensing her urgency, tucking the long linen garment into the trousers and next throwing on the spare cloak Triona had found her. Meanwhile Triona strapped on her leather belt and sheathed the dagger she had drawn from her cloak pocket.

  “Come on! My bowcase is in the other room.”

  As Caitlin followed close on her heels, shutting the door quietly behind them, Triona felt another stab at the empty space near the hearth where Conn enjoyed sleeping. She imagined her dog was lying under a table in the feasting-hall with his belly swollen from eating too much. At any other time she might have smiled at the thought but now she thrust Conn, too, from her mind as she shouldered her bowcase and moved with Caitlin to the front door.

  “How well do you ride?” She dragged her hood over her hair as Caitlin did the same, her cousin stuffing her telltale blond tresses inside her cloak.

  “Well enough.”

  “Do you need a sidesaddle?”

  Caitlin shook her head and Triona didn’t wait any longer. She thrust open the door, the yard nearly pitch-dark, pounding rain coming down in sheets. Fortunately, there were clansmen rushing about the yard to mask their flight, some running out the stronghold gates on foot while others passed by on horseback.

  “Keep your head down! Say nothing!”

  Triona knew Caitlin was right behind her from the sound of her splashing as they raced through ankle-deep water to the stable. As they ducked inside the meagerly lit interior, Triona saw at once that Ronan’s midnight steed was gone, her heartache so fierce at that moment she almost reconsidered. But she had only to glance at Caitlin to remember Ronan’s cruelty. She immediately bridled the nearest horse and led the animal from its stall.

  Too late did she realize it was Niall’s mount, but there was no time to bridle another horse. As Caitlin hoisted herself onto the powerful gelding’s back and wheeled him around with evident skill, Triona ran to Laeg’s stall.

  At least she would have her own horse with her, she thought as she bridled him and mounted, though that did little to ease her pain. She tensed as a trio of clansmen suddenly entered the stable; she gestured nervously for Caitlin to keep her head ducked and ride out. Triona followed, wincing as she overheard one of the men say, “Begorra, wasn’t that Niall O’Byrne’s horse?”

  She didn’t hear an answer for the earsplitting thunderclap that boomed overhead. The sound startled Laeg into a gallop, which was just as well for Caitlin was already riding well ahead of her toward the first set of gates. To Triona’s relief, she saw that they were unguarded, every clansman no doubt enlisted to help shore up the ramparts.

  Triona didn’t dare take a breath until she and Caitlin had cleared the last gates, the commotion of posts being hammered into the ground and men shouting above the storm quickly receding as they rode into the night. Only when the stronghold was well behind them did Caitlin finally pull up her mount, Triona reining in beside her.

  “We’ll be in Ferns by daybreak if we ride hard,” Triona cried, raising her voice against the howling wind, lightning streaking like bony fingers across the sky.

  She realized at once that Caitlin was overcome with relief, her cousin wiping more than rain from her eyes. Triona’s eyes were stinging, too, but she willed the tears away as she kicked Laeg back into a hard gallop.

  Crying wouldn’t change anything; she’d shed enough useless tears already. It was time to think ahead to vengeance. Nothing else was left to her now.

  A bright rosy dawn had risen over the glen by the time Ronan rode back into the stronghold, the sunlight glistening upon myriad puddles a mocking sight after the desperate efforts of the past hours. But the outermost embankment had been saved, barely.

  If Flann O’Faelin hadn’t gone to check the massive earthen ramparts at the height of the storm, no amount of labor would have prevented them from crumbling altogether. At least now Ronan still had the fortified defenses he needed in case Donal MacMurrough was planning to attack rather than pay ransom for his daughter, a foolhardy plan to be sure but a possibility.

  Muttering a blistering oath at the thought, Ronan left his horse to a servant waiting outside the stable doors and strode across the yard, his shoes squishing in the mud.

  Most of his exhausted men were headed to the feasting-hall for a warm meal and cup or two of ale, then back to their homes for much needed rest. But all Ronan wanted to do was see Triona. To climb back into bed with her and hold her tight. That was all the warming he needed.

  As he drew near his dwelling-house, he saw that the door was standing ajar, but he thought nothing of it. The wind had been so fierce last night that many a door and shutter must have been banging upon their hinges.

  “Lord!” called a male voice from behind him.

  Ronan turned, his eyes narrowing as Fiach O’Byrne hastened to catch up with him.

  By God, what could be so damned important that his clansman had been dogging him since Ronan had left his house in the wee hours of the morning? Three times he’d had to wave Fiach away, the man having a gift for approaching him when he least had the time to talk. And now here he was again, just when Ronan could almost feel the warmth of Triona’s body in his arms.

  “Lord, I’ve something I must tell you,” Fiach said, his eyes shifting around them to see if anyone else was near. “I’ve been trying since last night but—”

  “So what is it, man?” Ronan impatiently set out again, Fiach forced to keep pace with him.

  “It’s about your lady.”

  “Triona?”

  “Aye, Lord. I fear to tell you she’s not—”

  “Saints help us, Ronan! She’s gone!” Aud was yelling as she suddenly came running out of his dwelling-house, waving her arms and half stumbling in her haste to reach him.

  Ronan stopped cold.

  “Triona’s gone! My sweeting’s gone!”

  Ronan caught the frantic woman just before she stumbled again, Aud clutching onto his arms.

  “What are you saying, Aud? I left Triona in bed.”

  “She’s not there, she’s not there! I came to talk to her—I’ve been awake all night just thinking about what’s happened and…and I came to urge her to tell you everything—”

  “Tell me what, woman?” Ronan demanded, his eyes cutting from Fiach’s grim face back to Aud, who suddenly burst into hysterical tears.

  “She’s half MacMurrough, Ronan! Aye, and half Norman. But she didn’t even know herself until last night and now she’s gone! Oh God, my sweeting’s gone!”

  Aud collapsed, Ronan barely catching the weeping woman as her knees sank into the mud. Stunned, he picked her up and carried her inside, depositing her into a chair by the hearth. Then he went to his room, his heart thundering in his chest when he saw that the bed was empty. He saw, too, that the key was gone from the bench just as Fiach called to him from the opposite room.

  “Lord, the MacMurrough wench!”

  Ronan spun, his clansman’s expression telling him that Caitlin was gone as well. Yet he went to the room anyway, taking in the empty bed, the chest lid flung open, the clothes scattered upon the floor and Maeve mewling plaintively, the cat left by itself for who knows how many hours.

  It was only then that Ronan recalled another clansman coming up to him not long after Ronan had reached the crumbling embankment to say that he’d seen Niall’s horse being ridden from the stable. But Ronan hadn’t given it a thought. Who cared how his men got to the ramparts as long as they were there swiftly to help? Yet that must have been Triona and Caitlin—Ronan certain that if he went now to the stable he’d find Laeg missing, too.

  “By God, Fiach, was this what you’ve been trying to tell me?” Ronan exploded, Aud’s weeping growing louder. “That Triona is—”

  “Of MacMurrough blood. Aye, Lord, and Norman blood. My men and I heard everything last night through the prisoner’s windows. Your lady was getting dressed for supper,
the MacMurrough wench helping her, when she must have dropped her dagger.”

  “Aye, that cursed thing!” Aud cried, tears coursing down her face as she twisted in the chair to look at Ronan. “I wish I’d done away with it right after Triona found it, but I didn’t see the danger. I didn’t see…”

  As Aud fell into another fit of weeping, Ronan felt he was suddenly living a nightmare as he turned back to Fiach. “Tell me everything you heard. Quickly, man!”

  Fiach did, Ronan listening in grim astonishment as the incredible story unfolded, Aud tearfully embellishing it.

  Triona and Caitlin, cousins? Her mother, Eva MacMurrough, her father, Richard de Roche of Naas? And horribly enough, Triona’s uncle the very man who’d helped send Fineen O’Toole to his grave?

  “No wonder Seamus thought he’d seen a ghost,” Ronan said almost to himself, recalling the dead cook’s stricken face. Seamus must have served at that very wedding—must have heard as well how Eva MacMurrough died, gored to death by a wild boar. Then, when he saw Triona in his kitchen, no doubt looking much like her mother and with what he believed to be blood upon her gown…

  “The MacMurrough wench finished by saying that your lady should lay claim to her inheritance, Lord,” Fiach added, breaking into Ronan’s thoughts. “Mayhap that’s why she fled with the hostage—”

  “Are you mad?” Aud shrieked as she vaulted from the chair to face them, swiping the tears from her cheeks. “If you believe that of my sweeting, Ronan O’Byrne, then I hope you never hold her in your arms again! She feared losing you—aye, she told me so just before you came to fetch her for supper and no wonder, after she saw how you mistreated Caitlin. If she left for any reason, it was because she thought you might hate her once you knew the truth!”

  Ronan suddenly felt sickened, thinking back last night to how pale Triona had been when they left the hall though she had smiled and teased the entire evening as if nothing were wrong.

  And her bout of tears when they’d finally been alone.

  She must have been about to tell him the truth after he’d said he loved her, but something had stopped her. By God, he hadn’t made it any easier for her by venting one last time how he couldn’t wait until Caitlin was gone from Glenmalure!

  Cursing the blind hatred that had made Triona flee from him, Ronan strode from the room, but not before grabbing Aud by the hand and commanding that Fiach follow him.

  “Where are we going?” Aud demanded though she didn’t resist, her shorter legs working hard to keep up with him.

  “To the hall. My men must hear of Triona’s true parentage and that no matter her blood, I intend to take her as my bride.”

  “Ah, Ronan, I knew you wouldn’t abandon her!” Aud cried, her eyes growing wet with fresh tears.

  “But what if they object, Lord?” Fiach threw in, Ronan glancing at the man over his shoulder.

  “Then the O’Byrnes must seek a new chieftain. I won’t live my life without her.”

  “Aye, you must find her, Ronan, as quickly as you can!” Aud broke in, her fingers digging into his arm. “She’s in danger, I feel it! If she’s taken refuge with Caitlin in Ferns, aye, all will be well. But if my poor sweeting’s decided upon some other course…”

  Aud didn’t have to say the name Maurice de Roche for Ronan to understand. His gut in knots, he began to run toward the hall, Aud and Fiach close behind him.

  Chapter Forty

  Triona squinted in the early afternoon sun as she approached Dublin’s towering walls. She hoped the same ploy that had gotten her into Kilkenny weeks ago would work now. As soon as she’d come upon the main road she had dismounted, walking Laeg the rest of the way among the crush of pedestrians and heavily loaded carts going to and from the city.

  It was just as well for Laeg’s sake. He needed a rest after the long hours of riding, but at least they hadn’t had to come all the way from Ferns. The sun had barely begun peeking over the horizon when she’d left Caitlin just north of Gorey to ride to her father’s stronghold by herself.

  That hadn’t been pleasant, Caitlin insisting at once that she accompany her when Triona admitted she was riding north to Dublin. She had been forced to yell, telling Caitlin there wasn’t a damned thing she could do to help her as Triona wheeled Laeg around. Even now the memory of the hurt in her cousin’s eyes made her wince, but she’d been thinking of Caitlin’s safety after all. If anything happened to her, she didn’t want to be worrying about Caitlin, too.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Triona chided herself, smoothing her cloak a bit to better conceal the bowcase clutched under her arm.

  Not when justice was on her side. All she had to do was find Maurice de Roche and see that the bastard confessed his crimes to King John, the deadly point of an arrow the perfect incentive for him to do so. Hopefully he would receive the punishment he so richly deserved, while she…

  Triona sighed. She had no idea what she was going to do then. The future without Ronan looked so bleak that she didn’t want to think about it, and, with her fast approaching the city gates, right now she didn’t have time to.

  After she made sure that her hood was pulled securely over her hair, Triona veered Laeg closer to a creaking wooden cart full of ripe-smelling goat cheese and asked the wiry driver in a gruff voice, “Bound for the market?”

  The man cast her a sideways glance then looked back to the road. “Aye. What’s it to you, lad?”

  Keeping her voice low, Triona shrugged. “I just wondered if it was near Dublin Castle, is all. I’ve never been to the city before. Don’t know my way around.”

  The driver glanced at her again, this time looking her up and down before he focused once more in front of him. “The castle’s not hard to find. You just look for all the stinking Normans.” He gave a grunt. “Follow alongside me if you want…but you’d best grab that blanket from the cart and throw it over your horse. It might keep the guards from asking you where you got so fine a steed.”

  “T-thank you,” Triona murmured, hastily doing what he said.

  “And another thing—miss.”

  Triona gasped, meeting the man’s sharp eyes.

  “I’d suggest you say as little as you can if you don’t want anyone else to guess there’s a wench under that cloak.”

  She gulped, lowering her head as they came to the massive gates. Her relief was intense when no one stopped them, the cheese-seller giving her a quick wink when she dared to look up again.

  As they wound their way along streets wider than Kilkenny’s but just as crowded, Triona had no choice but to stick close to the cart, so many people bustling here and there it was an amazing thing to see. Most astounding were the number of Norman soldiers, but she shouldn’t have been surprised considering it was rumored seven hundred ships had been needed to carry King John’s army across the water to Éire.

  “Dublin Castle, lad. Straight ahead.”

  Grateful that the cheese-seller was playing along with her ruse especially with so many Normans around, she gave him a small smile only to have him frown at her.

  “None of that now,” he muttered, nodding her along. “You’ll give yourself away for sure.”

  With that, he clucked to his horse, the cart rumbling onto another street before Triona could even thank him. Left alone, strangers passing by her on every side, she gave in to a moment’s hesitation. But all she had to do was remember Fineen, aye, and the cruel fate of her true parents as well, and she found the courage she needed.

  Somehow she had to get inside the castle walls, for surely if King John was holding court, Maurice de Roche couldn’t be far from his side. Her heart hammering at her sudden idea, she pulled the blanket from Laeg’s back and mounted, carefully clutching her bowcase under her arm as she kicked her horse into a trot and rode toward the guarded gates. She knew she was drawing attention to herself, but better to be brazen and look convincing for the mission she would soon profess.

  There were others waiting to gain entrance, mailed knights on
horseback and still more people approaching on foot, but Triona slowed Laeg to a walk and pushed right through to the front.

  “A message for Baron de Roche,” she said gruffly to the nearest guard, a harried-looking man who swept her with a glance and then waved her on. Her breath stilled, she didn’t tarry, but she’d no sooner urged Laeg through the arched gateway when a strangely familiar voice sounded behind her.

  “For the baron, you say? I was just going to meet him myself, boy. I’ll take the message for you.”

  It was the “boy” that struck her like a jolt. Triona dug her heels into Laeg’s sides and spurred him across the huge yard toward the building she hoped wildly was the hall.

  “God’s blood, didn’t you hear me?”

  Aye, she’d heard him, Triona’s heartbeat slamming so loudly in her ears that it nearly drowned out the sound of Laeg’s hooves hitting the earth.

  “Stop that rider! Stop him at once!”

  She gasped as guards suddenly came running at her from all directions. She shot a glance behind her to find several mounted knights riding hard on her heels, one of them the man who was shouting. With no hope now of reaching the hall, she tugged up on the reins and veered Laeg sharply around, crying out in dismay as she lost her hold on her bowcase, the leather sheath tumbling to the ground.

  She had wanted to make a dash for the gates but already she was too late. Within an instant, she was surrounded by Normans. Hands reached out to snatch the reins away from her while someone grabbed her cloak from behind and yanked her violently off Laeg’s back. She hit the ground so hard that she could only lie there on her side, stunned. But not for long.

  “Get up!” that same familiar voice commanded, Triona hauled to her feet so abruptly that her head spun. As her hood was pulled back, her hair tumbled free. A gasp went up from her captors, Triona jerked around to face the blue-eyed de Roche knight who she’d last seen in Kilkenny.