“You!” he grated, clearly incredulous. “You’re the Irish bitch who cut me. Tricked me, too, you little whore! Jumping with your black-haired friend from that window—”
“Aye, too bad it was only your hand I slashed and not your damned throat!” Triona cried, reaching desperately inside her cloak. But the man grabbed her wrist before she could pull out her dagger, a tight smile creasing his face as he yanked the weapon from her belt. Yet he sobered when he held it up, another gasp sounding from the men gathered around her.
“God’s nightgown, William, you’ve a king’s treasure in your hand!” someone breathed behind her. “Diamonds, rubies…” But William ignored the man, holding the dagger only inches from Triona’s face.
“Was this the message you intended for Baron de Roche?” he demanded, staring furiously into her eyes.
“She had this with her, too!” added another knight, the tall man pushing through the crowd with her bowcase.
“You’ve come to Dublin well armed, wench,” William grated when Triona lifted her chin, remaining silent. “Since you’re so clearly unwilling to talk to me, perhaps you might enjoy speaking to the baron instead. It’s only fitting after all. He’s the one you came to murder.”
The knight thrust her ahead of him so roughly that Triona stumbled and fell hard to her knees, but he caught her by the collar and hauled her once more to her feet. “Bring her horse!” he called out as he dragged Triona along with him. “You’ve a fine steed, wench. Fine weapons. I’d wager you’ve got a fine story to tell us as well.”
Triona said nothing, stubbornly holding her tongue though her apprehension was close to overwhelming her. Yet she forced herself to keep her head. It was clear she was being taken to the hall, which was right where she had wanted to be in the first place. God willing if King John were inside, she would denounce Maurice de Roche to the very rafters.
“Hold her here,” William commanded as they approached the huge doors, two guards coming forward to grab her by the arms. “She’s caused enough commotion for one day without disturbing the king’s audience.”
“No, I demand to go with you!” Triona cried, only to be silenced by such a blow across her cheek that she saw brilliant lights flare in front of her eyes. Dazed, she slumped between the two guards, tasting blood. Tears threatened but she refused to give in to them, not even when William returned moments later to wrench her head up by the hair.
“Here she is, Baron. The same bitch who made me look such a fool in Kilkenny.”
Triona opened her eyes, staring into the swarthy face of a man she knew at once recognized her. She wanted to scream, to shriek, to rail at him, but all she could manage was a hoarse whisper. “Murderer.”
Maurice’s cold dark eyes narrowed, then he struck her, his backhanded blow so violent that she was knocked nearly senseless to the ground.
“Fetch me your horse, William.”
“My horse, Baron? But why—”
“Just do as I say!”
Through slitted eyes, Triona saw Maurice turn to face those Normans still standing near, her jeweled dagger clutched tightly in his hand.
“Go back to what you were doing, the rest of you. Nothing more than a jealous Irish chit who’s showing her claws over my new mistress.”
Triona heard male laughter like strange echoes in her ears, the crowd dispersing. Then the harsh voice of her uncle sounded once more as he looked down at her.
“Say a word and you die right here.”
Her wits slowly coming back into focus, Triona nonetheless remained very still as if she were still stunned from the blow. Her condition seemed to satisfy Maurice for he sheathed the dagger in his sword belt and picked her up in his arms while William came forward with his horse.
“Here. Take her while I mount, then lift her up to me.”
Willing herself to remain limp, Triona wanted desperately to make some move against them but she was still so dizzy she didn’t know if she might collapse during the attempt. Better to wait for a few moments longer.
“I’ll be back before sunset, William. Tell the rest of my knights. If anyone else asks for me, say to them just what you heard me tell the others.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Triona kept her eyes closed as Maurice kicked the steed into a gallop, his muttering not so low that she couldn’t hear him.
“I don’t know how you survived the wolves, wench, or how you found out about your parents, but I’ll not have you laying claim to all that I’ve gained. This time I’ll make sure you’re silenced.”
His words chilled her, but Triona told herself to keep calm. She knew they had already passed through the gates, the street noises growing loud and boisterous. She didn’t want to wait until they were too far from the castle; she wasn’t giving up so easily no matter his threats. She waited one more moment, then she grabbed wildly for the reins, jerking up on them with all her might.
“God’s teeth, wench!”
They were both thrown to the ground as the horse reared, Triona landing on top of her uncle. But she no sooner rolled from him and tried to scramble away than Maurice caught her by the foot, the fall apparently having done the powerfully built man little harm. Shrieking, she kicked at him with her other leg as shocked passersby began to stop in the street. But still Maurice pulled her toward him, his hand fumbling at his sword belt.
“Fiend! Murderer!” she cried, using her elbow to smash him in the face. It was enough to throw him off balance, and Triona seized her chance. Within an instant, she’d grabbed her dagger and was on top of him, the razor-sharp blade pressed to Maurice’s throat.
“Make a move and you’re dead, de Roche!” she rasped, her breath coming so hard that she’d never felt such a pain in her lungs. But she gave it little heed, wondering how she was going to get her uncle on his feet so she could march him back to the castle and King John.
Nor did she pay much attention to the thundering of hooves, so intently was she glaring down at her uncle. She saw him look beyond her, his eyes widening, then an Irish sword appeared in front of her, aimed, too, right at de Roche’s throat.
“Aye, woman, you’ve always been one to take care of yourself. I’m beginning to wonder if you need me at all.”
Chapter Forty-One
“Ronan…!”
Triona had no sooner breathed his name in disbelief than he pulled her to her feet and crushed her in his arms, holding her so fiercely that she could feel the pounding of his heart against her breast.
It was only when she heard Maurice’s vehement curses that she looked down, astonished to see her uncle pinned to the ground by a half dozen armed Irishmen. Some she recognized at once as Ronan’s clansmen—Flann O’Faelin and amazingly enough, Fiach O’Byrne—but as for the others she had no clue.
At least not until she glanced beyond Ronan to the coppery-haired chieftain seated atop a huge roan stallion, Caitlin at his side. Behind them, the road was packed with mounted Irishmen as far as she could see. Stunned, Triona looked back to Ronan.
“You rode here with Donal MacMurrough?”
Ronan nodded, pulling her closer. “My men and I came upon them this morning while riding south to find you. They were preparing to head to Wicklow with the ransom when your cousin arrived safely home, so they changed their course to Dublin.” He pressed a fervent kiss to her brow. “The MacMurrough and I shared a common cause this day, woman. You.”
“Then…then you must know everything,” she began, only to have him touch a finger to her lips.
“You’re my Triona O’Toole and always will be. The blood in your veins bears no weight on my love for you.”
Triona felt foolish Lady Emer tears leap to her eyes but she couldn’t help it, staring at Ronan like the besotted maiden she was while he gestured to his men.
“You should have seen how readily they chose to come with me. You’ve won their hearts as well. And Niall…” Ronan shook his head. “I practically had to tie him to his bed to keep him from joining us,
while Maire was beside herself, pleading for me to hurry—” Ronan suddenly stopped, glancing past her to where Donal MacMurrough had dismounted. “We can talk of this later, Triona. There’s someone who wants very much to meet you.”
Triona left the warmth of Ronan’s arms as the MacMurrough chieftain approached her, Donal standing as tall as Ronan. She could swear the man’s eyes were wet, his voice slightly hoarse when he spoke.
“Aye, you look like Eva”—a small smile came to his lips—“except for your wild hair. For that you’ve my mother to blame, though as I recall, your father Richard’s hair bore some red as well.” He sobered then, glancing to where Maurice was scowling at his captors before looking back at Triona. “We’ve some business with King John, though you and Ronan can leave at once for Glenmalure if you’ve a mind to—”
“I haven’t come all this way not to see that spawn pay for his crimes,” Triona broke in, warmed when Ronan reached out to squeeze her hand. “Maurice de Roche not only murdered my true father and caused my mother’s death, but he and his kind struck down the man who reared me as his own daughter.”
“Lies, all of it!” Maurice shouted, only to have a sword pressed to his throat to silence him.
“King John will determine your guilt or innocence,” Donal MacMurrough muttered, his eyes narrowed with fury. He turned to Triona. “I’d prefer if you and Caitlin ride near the back where it’s safe.”
“Near the back?” Triona blurted, bristling. “I’ll ride at the front, Uncle, with the man I plan to marry when all this is done!”
“Aye, you’re a stubborn one, just like your mother,” Donal observed dryly though his gaze softened as he glanced at Caitlin. “I fear it’s rubbed off on my daughter as well. She refused to stay home, insisting she ride to Dublin, too.”
Triona shot a smile at Caitlin, a warm look passing between them that clearly meant no apologies were needed. But in the next moment, Ronan was leading her to his horse; he mounted and held out his hand to her. Yet first Triona went up to Maurice, who’d been hauled to his feet, his guards keeping him well subdued. As she rested her dagger point against his belly, he glared at her with impotent rage.
“I wish you had moved so I could stick my mother’s knife in your throat,” she said icily. “But no matter. If your King John is just, you’ll soon be rotting in hell.”
Maurice couldn’t answer, a sword blade resting beneath his Adam’s apple. Satisfied for the moment, Triona sheathed her weapon and returned to Ronan.
“Begorra, woman, if glances could kill we’d have just won our vengeance,” he murmured, hoisting her up in front of him. He clasped her close as their huge entourage set out down the street, Maurice de Roche being driven on foot toward the castle gates followed by three hundred grim-faced Irishmen.
It must have been an astonishing sight because the guards fell back without any protest, recognizing Donal MacMurrough at their lead. Word of their approach reached the hall well before their arrival, King John and his courtiers awaiting them outside the massive stone building.
Triona was amazed by the Norman king’s small stature, most of his mailed knights towering above him. Surely he stood no more than half a head above herself, with dark hair worn long to the neck, his rather ordinary face sporting a moustache and trim beard. But if he appeared unassuming, he more than made up for it with his thunderous countenance. King John looked furious.
“You herd one of my most loyal barons before me like a sheep, Donal MacMurrough?”
“For good reason, my lord. There are serious crimes to be stated against him—”
“Aye, he’s a murderer!” Triona shouted, sliding from Ronan’s horse to stand beside her uncle. “He slew his own brother Richard de Roche of Naas to lay claim to his land and title.”
“And who are you, young woman?” the king demanded.
“Triona O’Toole, daughter of Richard and his wife, Eva MacMurrough.”
“And who is that?” the king added when Ronan dismounted as well to stand at Triona’s side.
“Black O’Byrne, the devil!” a portly knight interjected, pushing forward from the throng. “He and his foul band of rebels robbed me blind last year…holding me at sword point in my own tub! I’d never forget that face.”
“So they’ve done to me!” another knight shouted. “While we were north these past weeks fighting at your side, my lord king. Harrying south Leinster they’ve been, the thieving bastards, when there were few at home to defend against it!”
At that, a great rumbling went up from the crowd, several Normans pulling their swords. But King John waved for silence, his expression all the darker as he addressed Donal MacMurrough.
“One of the most powerful chieftains in Leinster riding side-by-side with rebels? The very man whom I’ve always trusted and counted upon to keep the allegiance of his people firmly with the Crown?”
“My allegiance has not been swayed, my lord. But Ronan O’Byrne and I share a like cause—to protect the only child of my sister, Eva. And it was that man”—he pointed at Maurice—“who hounded my poor sister to her death twenty years past and who would have murdered her child had he found her! He might have done so today, too, if Triona hadn’t known how to wield a knife!”
“Lies!” Maurice countered heatedly, but King John waved him, too, into silence.
“Your elder brother, Richard, was long a friend to me ere I knew you,” he said grimly to the outraged baron. “I will hear a full accounting of this matter from Donal MacMurrough.”
As the chieftain obliged him, Triona felt Ronan squeeze her fingers reassuringly. Mayhap they could hope that justice would be served this day.
But as if sensing that the tide was turning against him just by the king’s ominous expression alone, Maurice barely waited for Donal MacMurrough to finish before roaring, “A judicial trial of combat will prove my innocence!” He fixed his dark burning eyes upon Triona, demanding, “Choose a champion, wench, for it is your right as my first accuser.”
Everything was happening so fast that Triona had no sooner looked to Donal for counsel when Ronan’s voice rang out. “I will fight him.”
“No!” she cried, grabbing his arm. But Ronan shook his head.
“I promised you vengeance, Triona—”
“So let it begin,” King John suddenly announced, his eyes shifting to the silk-clad officials at his side who nodded solemnly. “I see no better solution for this prickly matter of word against word.”
“No, there has to be another way!” Triona lashed out at him even as Donal threw her a cautioning look. “You’re only allowing this because you hope that Ronan will fall, not your loyal baron!”
“God will defend the right,” King John said cryptically, waving for the battle to begin. And he’d barely done so before Maurice flew at Ronan, drawing his sword so violently from its sheath that the metal sang.
Courtiers, knights and Irishmen alike scattered out of the way, Donal wrenching Triona to his side. She watched in horror as Ronan dodged the first blow, his sword still lodged in his belt. But he managed to pull out the weapon before the second blow came, the heavy Norman sword hitting his much lighter Irish sword with an ominous ring.
“It’s not a fair fight,” Triona breathed, her eyes wide as Ronan barely ducked in time to save his skull. “Ronan’s weapon is no match—”
“Have faith in the man you will wed, Triona O’Toole,” Donal chastened her, his voice low. “The O’Byrne has at least ten years on de Roche. The baron will tire—”
Triona’s gasp cut him off, her stomach flipping as Ronan continued to dodge and parry blow after vicious blow, Maurice’s enraged roars rending the air.
“You call this a fight, Black O’Byrne? You sidestep like a frightened ferret looking for its hole!”
“If anyone should crawl into a hole, it’s you, de Roche,” came Ronan’s taunting reply. “Like the evil serpent you are!”
Cursing at the insult, Maurice intensified his attack. Triona watched with mounting
alarm as Ronan was driven back farther and farther until he came up hard against one of the castle’s defensive walls.
Above him, Norman guards jeered and spat from their high walkway, Ronan ducking and twisting away just as Maurice struck the wall where his head had been an instant before. But the worst came when Ronan was forced to retreat through the doorway leading into a great round tower, Maurice disappearing after him.
“No, this must stop!” Triona shouted, but Donal held on to her tightly, whispering into her ear.
“Think, Triona! The O’Byrne knows what he’s about! What better way to exhaust a foe laden with chain mail than to wage an upward battle around a staircase?”
She couldn’t reply, her throat so tight as she waited to catch a glimpse of Ronan at the top of the tower that she could hardly breathe. She could hear the muffled ringing of swords, at least that being a hopeful sign that Ronan hadn’t fallen. But she nearly choked when he finally appeared on the walkway, a bright red slash across his left arm.
And still Maurice attacked on the offensive, though he was showing signs of tiring just as Donal had said. His labored breathing and broken curses could be heard over the hushed yard, all necks craned as the battle raged atop the walkway.
It was then Triona spied two de Roche knights slipping into an opposite tower, the bastards obviously fearing for their lord’s life. Yet she had no sooner grabbed Donal’s arm to tell him when another man appeared at the top of the tower, Triona’s eyes flaring when she recognized William. Crouching in the doorway, he looked down at King John as if for a signal. Then he rose swiftly, aiming a spear right at Ronan’s back.
“Oh God, no!” Horrified, Triona wrenched herself free of Donal’s grip. “Ronan, behind you! Look out behind you!”
Chapter Forty-Two
He must have heard her for in the next instant, Ronan lunged into a gap between the battlements as the spear hurtled past him to strike Maurice. The baron’s high-pitched death scream sent chills plummeting down Triona’s spine. Clutching wildly at the shaft protruding from his chest, Maurice pitched from the walkway to the ground below, his body landing with a sickening thud.
Lords of Ireland II Page 148