THE IRISH KNIGHT

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "I have lain witness to it."

  "Really? How fortunate for you. A witch casting spells." He spared a jeering glance at his counselors. "Next you'll tell me of potions and bubbling cauldrons."

  Soft laughter echoed in the stone chamber.

  "Do not underestimate this woman, sire."

  John frowned at the man's tone. 'Twas a warning, filled with rage. "There is something you are not saying."

  The Irishman boldly lifted his gaze, first looking at the other men, then to the prince. He did not question this act of betrayal. For 'twas vengeance, justice. Two lives for two taken. 'Twas owed him this, and he did not care what the prince wanted; all he desired was letters of marque and coin to gather a squad. 'Twould be him, the Irishman thought, who would deliver the final blows.

  "Aye, my liege," the messenger said, pausing to level his gaze at the prince. "The witch is the most powerful. There is none who've come afore her that can match her skill. Even her mother. Now she has PenDragon at her side? Forgive me for saying so, my liege, but he has the king's ear and both have no love for you."

  The spy let that brew in the prince's mind.

  But all the prince said was, "Hum?" then spat another fig stem into his palm and dropped it into a bowl. He rose and moved off the dais, the messenger coming to a crouch and backing away as he walked to the window. That PenDragon had not bothered to show himself at court spoke of the danger the man could be to gaining the throne. He thought himself untouchable because he carried Richard's seal. And with Richard's ally wedding this fabled woman? Bracing his arm on the sash, he looked back. "What powers," his tone spoke his doubt, "does this woman possess?"

  "My liege?"

  "I must know all there is about her," he said impatiently.

  "She can create out of thin air, melt metal, move atween this world and that of the spirits." At the prince's doubtful look, he hastily added, "She can change her shape to that of a cat, a deer, or a dog."

  John's fine brows rose. "'Tis impossible." But the consequences rolled through his mind and magnified.

  The Irishman flinched; although his tone was soft, the bite of it lanced his courage. "I have no reason to lie, sire."

  "Find her, bring her to me." John knew he had to have her under his power before she could do aught for Richard. Or to him. John looked at the man, his gaze traveling up and down his poor garments, the dirt and mud he left on the fine carpets. "By law, she should be executed for even speaking of witchcraft. As should you."

  "But sire—"

  John's gaze narrowed. "Get out afore I change my mind," he said in a low threat.

  The messenger paled, backed away, then quickly left. John looked at his counselors and shrugged. "Keep her, burn her at the stake, I do not care. But Richard will not have her, nor aught that comes with marrying off the woman to PenDragon. But," he said, pausing to be certain they hung on his words, "if she is truly powerful, I want her. Without PenDragon to interfere." He eyed the group, making certain his message was clear without speaking the words. He turned his attention to the scene beyond the window again. "Find someone she loves. That should keep her in line when the time comes."

  Not a man in the chamber dared contradict him.

  He liked that.

  He liked that very much.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  Astride her white mare, Sinead rode atween the tall gates into the center of the bailey. Monroe, her personal guard, strode forward. And saving that scowl all day just for her, she suspected.

  "My lady, how many times must I remind you to warn me when you leave the castle grounds?" Monroe said, reaching for the reins that were not there, then disgusted that he'd forgotten she used none.

  Sinead smiled as she dismounted. He really was making a fuss this time. "A thousand, mayhaps?"

  A frustrated sound rumbled from him, yet he did not give voice to it.

  "I am fine, Monroe." She patted his arm, and her horse Genevieve found her own way to her stall. Together they walked toward the tall doors. "I was only on the shore; surely you knew that."

  Aye, he did know, had seen her mount grazing patiently on the high road, but that was not the point. One he'd stressed with her daily and was surely going to make him an old man soon. "Lady Sinead," he said tiredly, "with you, I never know what to expect."

  She pushed back her hood to look at him. "I am predictable, am I not?"

  He scoffed as only the captain of the guard would dare in her presence.

  "Do I not rise each morning to see to the order of this castle? Do I not visit the villages each sen'night? That is predictable."

  Monroe tried to hide his smile. She sounded defensive. "I can foresee only that you go about unprotected, and you give me sleepless nights of worry."

  She paused on the steps as he forced open the heavy doors. "Forgive me, Monroe. I will tell you, then, that I plan to remain inside till the morrow."

  He flashed her a speculative glance, doubting that, too. "If you say so, my lady."

  She laughed softly, nudging him as they walked inside. The warmth of the castle hit her first, then the sights and smells. She inhaled the aroma of roasting meat and watched the bustle of people as she unfastened her cloak. Women with armloads of linens and platters moved quickly; young pages arranged tables for the coming meal; the children raced between servants and vassals. Yet at the sight of her nearly everyone stilled and looked her way.

  And for the first time since she'd become lady of this castle, she saw fear.

  PenDragon, she thought, and his warmonger reputation has brought this. She smothered her anger and smiled at her folk. They went back to work, yet continued to glance her way.

  "There is talk of what will come, my lady," Monroe said so only she would hear.

  "Naught will change, Monroe, I will see to it."

  "But the king's orders—"

  She flashed him a hard look that stopped his words. "Naught will change for these people. This I vow."

  But what will change for her? he wondered, frowning, "I offer my aid anyway I can, my lady."

  Sinead's features softened and she felt her eyes burn. Her knights and Irish warriors were more her friends than her vassals. When her father had given her the right to rule, they had come willingly to her side, each accepting her for what she was, and for that her heart belonged to them all. But she was aware of the consequences.

  "My gratitude to you, Monroe, but understand this could be an unpleasant time. I've no notion of how to fix this without starting a war."

  He nodded and touched her forearm. "I know you, my lady." His lips quirked. "You will find a way."

  His confidence overwhelmed and she could only nod, sweeping the cloak from her shoulders. A young girl rushed forward to take it and Sinead smiled her thanks, then bent to accommodate the girl's small size. "Tell Glassa to ready all the chambers. We have guests coming."

  "More than the earl?" the girl said, glancing at Sinead's parents sitting by the hearth.

  "Aye, lovey, and big ones too."

  The girl's eyes widened before she hurried off.

  "I have readied quarters for PenDragon's vassals," Monroe said, handing over his fur cloak to a page.

  Sinead nodded. "Excellent, but his knights shall bed inside." At his frown she added, "These men have returned from the Crusades and should be welcomed well this night." The matter of Connal and the king's decree had naught to do with treating a person well, and as was due their station. She would never shame her people, her parents, nor herself because she resented Connal's arrival and the meaning of it.

  As Monroe went off to see to the matter, she walked briskly across the hall, calling, "Meaghan, Kerry, Brian!" and clapping her hands. With each strike to her palm, the candles puffed with flame, offering a soft glow to the dusky stone walls.

  The three servants rushed forward, and she gave instructions for the night's feasting and answered a dozen questions, trying to put them at ease and disliking th
e fear in their eyes. As they went to work, she moved to her parents, kissing her father's cheek and hugging her mother before she motioned to a servant to refill their mulled wine.

  "How went your meeting with Connal?"

  Sinead eyed her father, declining the offer of wine for herself. "You should have led the man a merry chase across Ireland, Papa, and back to the sea."

  He smiled that innocent smile she usually loved. "I am too accomplished at map reading. And I taught Connal."

  "Well, mayhaps 'twas all of your teachings that remain, for he was as I expected." As I have dreamed, she added silently, and Connal's face flashed in her mind. Handsome. Goddess above, he was so very handsome. His skin warmed by the sun, his features sharply carved as if honed in granite. She shook her head, clearing the image. "He is demanding, arrogant, and believing he can return when it suits and take this prize without so much as a by your leave."

  "Sinead," Raymond said quietly, "the castle and lands are your dowry. And you are the prize he seeks."

  She scoffed. "He does not seek my hand, Papa. He has been ordered to do so. He would not care if I were a fish monger's daughter."

  "But you are not." Her father's voice snapped with anger at the situation and not at her, she knew.

  Fionna moved forward, touching them both. "Connal and his retinue will arrive soon; mayhaps we should talk in private?"

  Sinead did not look to see who might be eavesdropping and nodded, leading the way to the solar tucked under the staircase. She did not want her folk to bear the troubles she had. 'Twas her duty to see that their lives were simpler. Richer.

  Once inside she moved to the far corner, where a bench was fashioned in an alcove of the wall. Tall narrow windows of colored glass flanked her and let in a glorious blue-tinted sunlight that was quickly fading to dusk. Bracing her shoulder against the wall, she pulled her legs to the side, her skirts draping over her feet. Her father moved to the hearth, sitting in the padded chair across from her mother.

  Their heads together, they whispered among themselves, yet she paid their conversation no mind. If they had something to say to her, they would. It had always been that way. She could blame them for her outspokenness, she thought as she ran her finger down the frosted glass, staring out into the side yard. A mound of snow covered the summer garden, and she was eager for the warmth of Beltane to shower the land green again. Yet for all her powers, she could no more bring summer to her doors than she could keep the king from destroying her life.

  Sighing, she tipped her head down, fingering the silver chain wrapping her wrist and worn smooth with age. She thought of the day her mother bound her from wielding magic. For years she'd been unable to cast a single spell, make a flower bloom. She'd first felt trapped and betrayed, then had grown accustomed to it, learning the truth of pure magic and the power she would one day wield. 'Twas a grand gift, she thought. Her mother had been so very right in denying her the power. She'd been young and impulsive, and as the years passed since then, Sinead was ever grateful for her mother's wisdom. And now Sinead was wiser, cautious. Yet she continued to wear the chain to remind her to take care with her magic.

  Aye, misjudgments and heartache bred wisdom of their own, she thought, and yet, when the power was returned to her, the force of it nearly tore her in half. And brought back the seeing dreams, the nightly visions that had not tormented her for years. The power, she thought, still pulled her apart. Pulled her away from being ordinary, pushing away those who did not accept or understand the truth of it. And brought her suitors who could not love her honestly, for she was a witch of the craft.

  Her throat tightened and Sinead swallowed, sending useless self-pity to the winds. She'd little need of it, and told herself she did not care that those men had wanted her for her power, for themselves.

  But 'twas a lie.

  For in the back of her heart, in the old spot where she'd held Connal so dearly as a child, where her dreams were harbored and never examined, she did want more. Desperately. And she was glad she was still bound from working magic on him. Not that she would ever be so careless with her gift again, she thought. But once, in anger, she'd turned her power on Connal, onto a boy she'd insisted was her heart mate.

  'Twas naught but a childish infatuation, that. In her eyes then, he was Ireland's hero, a prince, and only fours summers old, she'd viewed her tiny world as an adventure, filled with mere "things" to bend to her will. She'd made her mother miserable, Colleen frantic, and had turned Connal into a goat.

  Well. Half a goat.

  And with it, she'd broken the first rule of the craft: Do as thou will, in it harm none.

  Shame swept her, and she lowered her legs, staring at naught. It mattered little that she'd been innocent and unskilled. The transformation was incomplete, and excruciatingly painful.

  He'd never truly forgiven her. Nor did he trust her. From that day, he'd done his best to push her away, avoiding her to the point of being cruel. 'Twas not until she was in her eighth or ninth year that she had turned her back on her heart. And given up on finding any peace.

  She looked down at the bracelet. Connal would never know she was bound from weaving magic on him still. That was one thing her mother had refused to remove whilst he'd trained in GleannTaise. After he'd left, she'd forgotten about it. And about him. He'd broken her heart a dozen times, and although she could break the binding spell, she would not. 'Twould be betraying her parents. And that she would never do.

  "Sinead, you are not listening."

  "Aye, Papa," she said, then looked up and smiled. "I am not. There is little need for discussion."

  Fionna regarded her daughter with sympathy. "I beg to differ, my lamb, 'tis your future we speak of."

  "'Tis the king's notion of a future, not mine." Fionna rose and went to Sinead, pulling her toward the fire. With the flick of her hand, Fionna sent the flames to roaring as Sinead settled in the padded chair vacated by her father. The pair stared down at her and when she wanted to stand, her father held her in place. She looked at them both. "I will not lose all I have struggled for now. Not to Connal." Not for a marriage decreed by a king and not for love. Sinead had little time to consider all the options and she felt a trap closing in around her. Her first instinct was to fight it as best she could. "The king wishes to use me to bind our house with Lord Gaelan's and Connal wishes only to do his duty to his king and be done with it."

  Over her head, the parents exchanged a smile. "I will not be a duty, a chore to any man. And he has made it clear marriage is a … task. A bothersome one at that. If 'twere possible, I would marry some old sot ready for the grave rather than spend a life convincing Connal PenDragon that I will not use magic on him."

  "Then I shall tell him the truth," Fionna decided and moved to the door.

  "Nay!" Sinead stood sharply and her mother frowned, folding her arms and waiting for more. "I would have him speak his true feelings, and not because he believes he is safeguarded."

  "Mayhaps he would relax more if he knew," her father said softly from behind her, his gaze straying to his wife. He arched a brow at Fionna, the look generating a little hope for the worried sire.

  "Connal would not believe it. He chose to reject my gift and with that rejected me. Though the man has little to be proud of himself."

  Raymond eyed his daughter, then looked to his wife. Fionna sent a silent message to him: This treads deeper than we think, husband. DeClare nodded slightly, moving to the large carved desk and lifting the crease-marked parchment. "I can fight the king on this," he said.

  Sinead rushed to her father. "And what will that gain you, Papa, beyond the king's wrath?"

  "My daughter's happiness."

  Sinead smiled tenderly, tipping her head and gazing deep into his warm gray eyes. "Oh, Papa"—she stroked his cheek—"I am who I am, what I am. That will never change. But if I do not obey the king's wishes, will he not simply send another to wed me?"

  "Possibly," Raymond said, "but that would not gain him the union
he needs. And even a marriage atween Connal's sister and your brother would not grant him the allegiance he desires, for neither are the first born."

  Sinead took a step back. "Richard might want an alliance of our families, Papa, but the only reason he bothers with me is for the great armies you, Lord Gaelan, and Connal possess. Legions of vassals to fight and die for his stupid causes." Disgust laced her voice. "I know there are few who've believed in his Crusade." She shook a finger at her father. "You and Gaelan to start."

  He caught her hand, clasping her fist to his chest. His heart picked up pace when he thought of the trouble her outspokenness could cause. "Do not speak of that, Sinead. There are allies to the king so strong they would easily kill you for uttering the words."

  Her smile was infinitely patient. "And there are just as many who would kill me because I am a witch. 'Tis no new danger."

  "Sinead, be sensible."

  "I am, Mama," she said, turning to look at Fionna. "You have taught me well, as did Cathal, and Father has seen that I have not been sheltered."

  "As if I could stop you," he said on a short laugh.

  She hurriedly pecked a kiss to his cheek.

  "Your father and I want the best match for you, Sinead."

  "'Tis not possible."

  Fionna's expression fell into sadness and it pierced Sinead's heart.

  "Do not worry over me so. I cannot wed Connal for, like the others, he has reasons of his own for wanting the marriage and 'tis naught to do with matters of the heart." Sinead moved away from them, not seeing her father's face crush with guilt as she wrapped her hands in her velvet sleeves to stand near the fire. The blaze jumped and rose and she shushed the flames to a calm flicker.

  "He has changed so. He is hard and cold, and I can feel the distance our past has lain atween us." He resented her, for being the one chosen for him, for being a witch, and for every little pain they'd inflicted on each other years past. And she could not begin to consider that he was more English than Irish and that he'd abandoned his people, their ways. That, she thought, hurt her the most.