"We could rally the same for you, O'Rourke."
Only Connal's gaze shifted. "Nay." There is hope as well as anger in this man, Connal thought, then shut out the feelings to concentrate.
"I've a dozen clan leaders ready to take arms against the English. But we are scattered and unruled. You could change that."
"'Tis sedition to speak of it."
"Give me a reason then, and it best be a good one," Rory said, scowling.
"England rules, and I am a knight of Richard." Connal gestured to his tabard bearing the king's banner and slung across a chest. "My duty is to him."
"But not Ireland."
"Christ on the cross, you sound like Sinead." He rubbed his face. "Does anyone not see that I come to ensure peace? And 'twould be treason to seize his vassals for war."
"The cause is just—"
"The cause is empty!" he snapped, then remembered to whom he was speaking and why he'd come in the first place. "We have lost much. Would you have us lose it all, and lives?"
"Lives lost are the price for peace."
"You do not seek peace, O'Connor," he said gruffly. "You seek to drag out what is inevitable. But if you align yourself with Richard, you keep your castles and lands, you rule as you have been. Tradition remains. The Irish way remains. And life in Ireland moves peaceably."
"England gives and takes and likes to take more. But they give to England what is not theirs." Rory gestured to the south, to Dublin.
"I am here to see that we keep what we still have, in the stead of Richard, for if John is put to power, Rory, you know we will lose all. All of it!"
Connal stood, raking his fingers through his hair and gripping the back of his neck.
"Like the Holy Lands," came from the Irish king.
"The people of Jerusalem fought and died as we did. They at least understood the compassion of victory and defeat."
"But you served to crush a race and religion."
Connal spun around. "Aye, I did as I was ordered. I had sworn my oath and never thought to demand conditions to it. 'Twas my bond and all I had. I killed for the king, aye. I killed Irishmen for DeCourcy when he fought you! But I will not do it again!"
"Not even for the chance to rule it as the Tuatha De Dannon meant for you to rule?"
Connal did not speak for several moments. "I was not meant for more than I am," he said with a strange calm. "And why should old legend predict my life? Mayhaps this is the motion of my life; I choose for it to remain in this path." His voice dropped an octave. "I am honor bound to stay this journey."
Rory scowled, disgusted.
He would not understand, and Connal considered telling him the truth, yet when his gaze shot briefly to Sinead, he knew he could not. 'Twas his own burden, a private humiliation to be the son of a murderous traitor, and he dared not lose what he'd gained. For more than himself would suffer. Without Richard's trust in his capabilities, without his loyalty left unquestioned, they would all lose. And his dream of a piece of Ireland of his own would be lost.
Rory stared at him for a long moment before he said, "It would not matter to the men belowstairs, Connal. For all eyes, you are the prince of Ireland."
"I am a knight of Richard!" He slammed his fist down onto the table, his anger returning threefold. "And I will warn you now, Rory, you are accepted as king of this tuath because Richard allows it, for it benefits all, not just Ireland. He knows you are a better ally than enemy. His liegemen have tasted it in battle; I have witnessed it. But if John is in power he will take it all and press Ireland under his thumb till we squeal for mercy. Do you want that for us?"
"Nay! Yet you want me to pledge my faith to Richard?"
"King Richard asks that of you."
Rory's look was bitter. "And what do I do for abandoning my people?"
Connal shoved the rolled document across the table.
"Read the dammed proclamation," he said, exhausted, worried, afraid for Sinead. "He is more than fair, he is generous. He only wishes the oath that if he must fight his brother, you will join his ranks."
Frowning, Rory tipped the paper toward the fire to catch the light and read.
Yet Connal kept his gaze on Sinead. Then suddenly he rushed near, his hand on her chest, and when he knew she breathed, he knelt beside the framing.
His gaze moved over her face, the bandage covering her breast and shoulder. Tenderly, he swept her hair off her damp brow, his thumb brushing over her skin.
Where are you, little witch? Where have you gone?
A fever warmed her body, yet she was still as loch waters.
He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the bedding, his hand sweeping down her arm to grasp her hand.
Her fingers were lifeless in his.
He squeezed them gently. "Come back, Sinead. I beg you."
"I will sign your oath, PenDragon."
Connal twisted to meet Rory's gaze, then straightened. The Irish king held the document. He dipped the quill and scribbled.
"I am old, Connal, and I'd held a last hope for us."
"Peace is much surer than hope, my lord. And we are and always will be Ireland."
Connal's throat tightened, something crushing his heart as from a candle Rory spilled wax onto the parchment near his signature, then with his ring impressed his seal.
Connal could not speak words that would soothe for they would be false, and the impact of his duty and the cost of it to others hit him again. "My lord."
Rory nodded, let out a long breath, then said, "Now, young PenDragon, would you like to speak with the man who did this to your lady?"
Connal blinked.
"Your men dragged him here after you arrived with your burden. I felt it best"—he gestured to Sinead—"to keep him alive. He bleeds yet he lives still."
"Not for long," Connal growled, striding to the door.
* * *
Chapter 12
« ^ »
Connal left Nahjar by her side and headed with Rory down into the bowels of the castle. 'Twas dark, the air undulating with the odor of must and age and death. A fit place for the bastard, he thought, seepage coating his boots as he moved down the corridor. Torches sputtered as he passed.
"Now, Connal," Galeron said when he saw his face. "The shot was not meant for her."
"'Twas meant for me. When all was done, and men were dead or fleeing, this man remained hidden to shoot only at me." He stopped before a small cell and waited impatiently for one of Rory's retainers to open the lock. "I want to know by whose orders." He did not look at Galeron and knew where the coiling rage seething inside him came from.
Sinead was innocent. She'd redirected the arrow to save him. It should be him abovestairs wasting away, not her.
As soon as the door swung open, Connal pushed inside, prepared to rip the man's limbs from his torso one at a time. The prisoner was slumped in the corner and, upon further inspection, dead as a log.
Connal cursed and kicked the arrow-riddled body before quitting the cell.
"He was alive a moment ago."
Connal frowned at the guard. "Was anyone in this cell aside you? Who has the key?" he demanded.
"What are you saying, Connal?" Galeron asked. "His wounds are not that severe, naught near vital organs. Bleed to death, aye, but death? I have lived for days with worse."
"There are other prisoners," Rory said, and a sadistic light shone in Connal's green eyes.
Rory backstepped.
"Show me."
A retainer motioned, then got out of the way. Connal wrenched open the door, grabbed the first man he found by the throat, and slammed him against the wall.
"I have known the torture of the Turks and remember its instruction well."
The man stared through wide eyes yet could not form a word of speech. Connal demanded a brazier of coals and a knife.
The prisoner whimpered, his gaze shooting to the others in the cell, then to Galeron and Branor, standing behind Connal. Neither knight spoke.
Y
et the king did. "You cannot do this."
"I can. I will. An innocent dies above us, Rory, and this man knows why they attacked the king's brigade. Who sent you!"
"I don' know."
Connal released him, then turned to the brazier and shoved the blade into the coals. "Who sent you?"
He picked up the knife and walked to the man, ripping his tunic from neck to waist. He asked again and again, then lashed the hot knife across his chest. The man howled, gasping for a fresh breath.
"Connal…"
"Get thee gone if you've no stomach for it, Branor." He shoved the blade into the fire and then asked his question again. Each time the man refused, and the hot knife sliced through his skin and cauterized the wound instantly. The odor of seared flesh filled the cell and Connal remembered the Turks, cuffing him, working their way up to his face. He lifted the glowing blade.
"'Twas a man, from the north!" the prisoner stuttered.
Connal did not respond. Sinead was dying and he'd be damned if he'd let the loss be a waste. He ordered the others removed from the cell, and when they were alone, he said, "Describe him."
The description, slender and dark-haired, offered naught, only that the man was not in amongst the attackers. Connal's scowl deepened. There had been no papers on these men, none on the bodies. Branor had chased down at least three, including this one, and brought them back. Perhaps none could read, he considered, but that mattered little. "Why would you follow these orders? Why attack a contingent of King Richard?"
"We did not know it was…"
Connal did not believe that. "Why?"
"For you!"
"I know that, you fool." He lifted the blade.
"I … I…" The man sighed heavily, his lungs working against the pain. Connal cared less, bitter anger racing through his blood. "To stop you, PenDragon. To stop you from sealing a bond with the witch." The man licked his lips and Connal ladled water from a bucket and offered it to him. "They warned not to hurt her."
"They?"
"Englishmen. Two, gentry, educated."
Connal's features sharpened. Prince John's men? Connal demanded a detailed description, and unfortunately, naught of their description sounded familiar. Except the scar on one man's throat
Scowling, Connal searched his memory as he tossed the blade into the brazier and called for Branor.
"God forgive me," the prisoner said, his breathing labored for the pain crisscrossing his chest.
Just as Branor stepped into the cell, an Irishman came rushing into the narrow corridor, splashing water as he did. "Lord PenDragon—the tattooed man says come, come now!"
Without a backwards glance Connal left the cell, muttering, "If they do not confess, you have the king's right to kill them all."
Branor paled and looked at Galeron, then the Irish king standing in the corridor.
"He is the power of King Richard in this land. Pray they talk." He looked at the prisoner. "His woman lies near death, man. He will show no mercy."
* * *
She was in a place with no pain, no sound.
Sinead walked slowly toward the hedge, the doorway in the center like a great wooden hawk. Beneath her feet the ground was warm and loamy with moss, and a gently spinning mist curled at her calves.
I am not of this earth, she thought, and as she moved, the mist cleared, giving her a brief glimpse of her surroundings. Faery sisters and elfin lads peered from the lush shrubbery and trees. A warm yellow glow showered down upon her, the waning mist suddenly sparkling with a phosphorous light.
It shimmered through her and she tipped her face toward the sky and felt its energy seep into her body, sing through her skin. And she knew she'd been in this place a long time.
She glanced the way she'd come, the way she'd thought she'd come, and pulled on her memory that faded by the moment. She was needed, she thought. And yet took a step closer to the gate.
Sinead, come back. I beg you.
Her brow knitted softly and she turned. But she heard no more and faced the gate again. Her hand lifted toward the latch and she was suddenly surrounded by slim willowy figures, their garments gossamer and ruffling in the breeze she could not feel.
Who are you? she thought and never spoke. She was not afraid, and when she turned to the figure, the yellow light dimmed.
And she saw the face.
Cathal, her grandfather. And beside him a woman who looked much like herself.
Egrain.
The choice is yours, little one. Pass with us and know a life held in time till the next comes for you.
Sinead again felt the pull, felt a hand clasping hers, but when she looked down, there was nothing.
Come back, Sinead.
Connal.
She looked at her grandparents, and beyond them stood uncles and cousins and aunts she'd never met, never knew. Yet in one sudden crush she felt their love. The touch on her hand grew stronger. Words whispered through her mind.
I need you, lass. Do not leave me alone, for I have learned … that without you, I am isolated.
Sinead smiled at her family, looked up as faery sisters and brothers shot around her in a specter of light and color. Then she moved away, turning toward the voice, toward Connal.
Then she ran.
* * *
Connal clutched his skull and wondered how he could tell her father he'd failed. She was dying before his eyes. He could feel her slipping away, and for the first time in over a decade he wished he possessed the power of magic. Quinn had done all he could, stopping the poison, but Connal felt as if he needed to will her back to him. The wound was no longer angry and festering. The fever had left her last eve, yet still she did not stir. For another day she had lain still as glass and pale as light.
Then he heard her breath rattle and his head jerked up, his hands falling as her chest rose and she turned her head slightly. He shifted to the side of the bed, grasping her hand, touching her forehead and cheeks, and calling her name.
A sweet, poignant joy swept through him when her eyes fluttered open.
His throat was tight and he choked on the knot lodged there. "Welcome back, Princess."
Eyes the shade of summer grass and glossy with emotion gazed back at her, and what she never suspected lay in his expression, in the lines of his face. Sweeping her hair back and holding it, he leaned down close.
"You scared the life from me, woman."
The fierceness of his words touched the embers long ago buried. "Forgive me," came in no more than a rasp. He offered her a goblet of water, holding it to her lips. She sipped, her gaze sweeping up to greet his before she settled back. There was a current between them that had not been there before, a soft snap of energy, like distant lightning.
And he recognized it, smiled wanly, and Sinead felt her heart shoot around her chest.
"You almost left me."
Me, she thought. "'Twas tempting."
He paled. "God, do not say that, even in jest." The past days of torment slaughtered him, hourly cut him to ribbons he had to gather on his own. He did not like it much and cared not for it to happen again.
She shrugged, then winced. "Death is not so easy to resist."
"But you did."
"Because I heard you."
His features tightened.
"'Tis true then, what you said?" Her gaze skipped over his face.
His guard went up. She could see it in his eyes. "What did you hear?"
Her heart sank like a stone in a dark pool. "If you do not recall then 'twas naught to matter, is it now?" She lowered her gaze to her folded bands on her lap.
"Sinead, look at me."
She did, and Connal knew he could not so easily dismiss the feelings tearing through him. Not this time. "I am alone without you."
"Nay," she said, sitting up carefully, her face close to his, one hand clutching the sheet to her chest. She grabbed his arm for balance when her world tilted for a moment. "You were alone because of that closed heart beating in your chest."
He shook his head. "I am because I choose to be, for to let another so close … hurts too many."
She pushed his hair off his brow. "Oh, Connal," she said softly, and he shattered inside at hearing his name from her lips. "'Tis punishment you do not deserve."
His brow knitted, memories intruding. "'Tis truth, look at the destruction I have caused you."
She smiled. "I did that. But I am here and your words brought me home."
He touched her cheek, sinking his fingers into her hair and tilting her face upward. His gaze scored each feature into his memory. He thought of the desolation he'd felt, the rage he could not express enough, and the guilt that battered him down. And the eruption came without barriers, without thought.
"God above, I wanted to die for you."
Sinead blinked and capped feelings opened, spread. "I used magic so you would not die."
"But to sacrifice yourself—"
"Shh," she said, cupping his cheek. "'Twas an accident. I should have been wiser." She relished in the touching and he drank her in like a bird takes in nectar. He feels it, she thought and cautioned her heart. "We are both a wee bit wiser now, aye?"
Connal felt himself falling again into her blues eyes, again into the lure of her enchantment, into the place where he'd felt only want and need and hunger. "Aye," he said against her mouth, and her fingers dug into his arm. The flutter of anticipation blossomed through her, hard and pressing inside her, fighting its way out.
"Connal," she moaned.
And then he was devouring her. Like a shattered dam the flood of desire came in a thick eating kiss. Untamed hunger clawed to the surface, torturing him with its strength, crawling around him, through him like a beast unearthed, and quickly willowing around her. He could feel the match of hearts, the pulse of her blood.
The hearth fire crackled loudly. A soft wind stirred around them, sifting through her hair. Over his skin. He pressed deeper into her mouth, and like a wild thing scavenging for more, he hunted the prey, pushing her slowly back into the bed.
THE IRISH KNIGHT Page 15