Irish Moon

by Amber Scott

  Ashlon’s patience waned. He did not want to lose it with this kind man, but the chieftain was quashing both his hope and bearings in fast order. The first mention of Jacques’ name had little effect and the full title and explanation seemed to have less. Had Jacques misspoke? Had Ashlon remembered inaccurately?

  “It is unfortunate that both our tragedies will show up in heaven together. I’d say the two will have a large, long laugh of it, too.”

  “My lord. I apologize, but I fail to comprehend your meaning. Might you explain?”

  Niall frowned at him and Ashlon feared he had offended him. It was impossible not to ask though. A glimmer of clarity had come shining through and he needed make certain he’d drawn the correct conclusion.

  “Some sixteen years past,” Niall said. “It was spring as it is now, glorious and green. Imbolc festival was a resounding success, as it is nearly every season in St. Brigit’s honor. And much the same way as you came to us, he did also.”

  “Who, my lord?”

  “De Molay, of course. He brought his head to my advisor Heremon. He needed the priest to decipher his head, you see. I know not more of the meeting except from Heremon’s own mouth, which is buried now, and bending another, better man’s ear. You see, Heremon met a tragic fall this week past and has died.”

  Ashlon bent his head to show respect and hide the race of emotions circling his heart like vultures. He was sorry to have doubted his master, however briefly. His mysterious course depended on unquestioning trust and would likely end with it, as well.

  “Please accept my deepest condolences, my lord. I had not heard and was not aware of the two men’s friendship.” Most of what the king had said suddenly made sense, miraculously. Ashlon regretted the surge of scorn he’d felt for Niall O’Donnell.

  The events that had led him here had significance now. A jolt ran through him. Had his arrival in some way caused Heremon’s demise? Jacques had sent him to Niall to get him to Heremon. Might Pope Clement have discovered his trail?

  He needed more than ever to speak with Breanne O’Donnell.

  Ashlon cleared his throat. “I thank you your majesty, for your time and insight. You have been most kind.”

  “My pleasure, as always. He lies in the Abbot’s churchyard, if you would like to pay homage to his rested soul and honorable life.” Niall gestured to the door. “If he were here, I’d be asking him to calm these blasted nerves of mine. The man always had a tonic or two, you’ll come to know.”

  Ashlon smiled and bowed as he retreated from the room. A brawny, redheaded man with an ugly throat scar barely discernable with the heavy beard, eyeballed him and Ashlon met his stare evenly. “Can you point me in the direction of the priory?”

  The man MacSweeney stabbed a finger through the air and followed with specific directions. His air was not haughty so much as severe and Ashlon pitied the man who faced him in battle.

  Beards appeared to be the fashion of the area. Ashlon counted most men as having one, though none hid friendly smiles that greeted him on his walk to Heremon’s gravesite. He doubted the man’s mound of dirt or headstone would offer insight but felt compelled to pay respects. The man might have died because of Ashlon.

  The sky was hazy, the weather mild and damp, the air clean and fresh in his lungs. Ashlon had meant it when he thanked the chieftain. The welcome these people gave went unsurpassed in all his experience. And Ashlon had many to compare it to. Hospitality to strangers ran cold or hot through his past, never warm, until now. He wasn’t sure he could count the fact as stupidity or confidence but was leaning toward the latter. After all, would a man, beholden to such extent, bite the hand that fed him so well?

  A large painted, carved cross acted as a beacon outside the simple stone priory. Approaching it, Ashlon studied the pictorial carvings. He’d never seen the like. Each rectangular portrayal seemed to tell a story in vivid color. He traced a finger along the base of the mammoth cross as though to make it real, less foreign. More Irish than ourselves, Niall had said and the idea nagged him.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Ashlon turned, pulled his hand back as though caught then felt silly for it upon seeing the man who spoke. “Unique, certainly,” he said to the robust, bald man clearly of the cloth.

  “Sir Ashlon Sinclair, I presume?” His wide grin got wider, his forehead wrinkling upward.

  “My name precedes me,” Ashlon said. He waited.

  “My sister, Lady Ula has spoken well of you and as we see few welcome English in these parts, I knew the name to be yours.” He spoke as though he’d solved a clever puzzle.

  “I’ve come to pay respect to the recently departed, Father Connelly. Would you be so kind as to direct me to the site?” Ashlon didn’t miss the glimmer of insult when he returned the play of names. But the man’s smile held and he led Ashlon without further remark.

  “Our door will be open, should you need solace, my son,” the Abbot said.

  Ashlon bowed and waited until the man left before giving his full attention to the headstone. Heremon was buried under a birch tree, still too young to offer shade but would someday. The thick square headstone lacked ornamentation aside from carved dates and Heremon’s full given name.

  He knelt and placed a hand on the dirt. What direction did he follow now? How would he locate the cargo Jacques had entrusted to him and would he endanger any other innocent lives in the process? At what price should he resign himself from Jacques’ command?

  No man could answer him but a single ugly vision came to mind. The full-lipped mouth he’d pressed his lips to as though in a dream, open to scream. Possessive fear shot through his heart and brought him to his feet.

  He left the priory yard for the pension he’d taken temporary residence in, a strategy forming with every purposeful step. She could not hide forever. But, she could prolong his cornering her. Rather than chase the rabbit, he would draw the rabbit to him.

  And he knew just the man to help him lure his prey.

  Chapter Ten

  “Just the man I was looking for,” Quinlan said. He approached Ashlon outside of the pension house at the edge of Tir Conaill, as accurately shown in the map he still carried.

  “Master Blake,” Ashlon said, clasping the proffered hand. “I did not realize you required further time this morn. I would have waited.”

  “I hadn’t, actually. Didn’t intend to speak with you again—that is to say, I only now came, only just—,” Quinlan said and paused to exhale loudly. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve come to strike a bargain, Sir Sinclair. Have you a moment?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “May we walk?” Quinlan glanced about.

  Ashlon joined him in stride, waited for the man to broach whatever topic had him so disconcerted. A bargain. Convenient, to say the least, that Ashlon had the same endeavor.

  “You have met the Lady Breanne, have you not?”

  “Aye.”

  “Her mother, Lady Ula is set to marry Niall O’Donnell.”

  “I see.” What was it he found so difficult to ask?

  “Breanne will become his daughter.” Quinlan paused, then resumed walking. “I have professed my intention for her hand to Niall.”

  “Congratulations. The marriage will bring you in line for the throne.”

  Quinlan’s brow rose. “No. Niall has named his successor and to be clear, I have no desire of such a position.”

  Love then? “I see.”

  “Breanne is to choose her betrothed by Beltane feast. I have discovered I am among several—.”

  “She will choose, you say?”

  “Aye, and there are s—.”

  “And she has no entitlement through her mother wedding the king?” Ashlon heeded Quinlan’s flush at his interruptions. “He has a son?”

  “No. She has title, lands, properties. But you miss my point, Sir Ashlon. Her inheritance, considerable as it is, is not my concern.” He blew out his air. “My competition is.”

  Hi
s interruptions looked to have tried the man well. “What bargain do you propose?” Ashlon hid a smile.

  Quinlan pulled the collar of his tunic. They neared the outer bailey of the O’Donnell keep. “I ask for your help in winning her hand.”

  Ashlon snorted. How could he not? The idea was preposterous. Him school Quinlan in the art of wooing?

  “You are a knight, trained in courtly love, chivalry, the laws that rule society, well, most society. If you help me learn a measure of grace, composure, I will be eternally in your debt and I ask now that you seriously consider my plea.”

  “She is a woman. Treat her as you would any woman you wish to cherish. How I could conceivably aid—.” They stopped.

  “By instructing me in the very specifics of it. On the ritual of it.” Quinlan lowered his voice, but it did little to mask his eagerness. “On the physical nature of courtship.”

  Ashlon’s eyes popped wider. The physical nature? Christ’s bones, was he sincere? Quinlan’s sober nod said as much.

  “I must say, Quinlan, that I am surprised. Have the ladies not flocked to you your entire life?”

  “Nay! I do not mean to say, that is, I have not lacked for companionship since my fifteenth year. With offers long running. But the sensibilities of a high born lady are, Breanne is, different.” Quinlan held his thumb to his forefinger. “What I ask is a polish of my roughly hewn stone so that I may seduce her mind and her heart.“

  “And in exchange….” Ashlon flexed his jaw.

  “Name your price.”

  “Allow me time to consider?”

  “Of course,” Quinlan said.

  They entered the main hall.

  “Will you again join our table this eve?” Quinlan asked, making Ashlon realize the dinner hour approached.

  “Yes, thank you.” How had the day stolen away from him?

  “Have you considered joining the galloglass guard, Sir Ashlon?” Quinlan separated from their stride. “Should you petition to join our clan, we would benefit from your knight’s training.”

  He left Ashlon to ponder the notion. Join the clan? Was that possible? At present, he had a bargain to consider and a bath to see to. He’d learned that arriving unwashed to the king’s table, or any man’s, was an insult.

  Though he had not found a moment alone to speak to Breanne, he might have thought of a faster means to her.

  Walking to the main doors, Ashlon came up short when the Grianan door creaked open. He saw her nose before her face, but knew it instantly. With few around, perchance he could ask her now for a private, secret meeting.

  “My lady,” Ashlon said low and discreetly.

  * * * *

  Unmindful of the ladies rapt in conversation, Breanne peeked out of the Grianan door. She saw him nowhere and sighed in relief. To think she’d actually heard and recognized the daft man’s voice outside the door. And a good thing or she’d have run straight into him on her way—

  “My lady.”

  The door shut like a shout announcing her exposure. Breanne straightened and faced him, ready to act on her first instinct and be damned of the stares she might earn. But just as she felt to run, Ashlon stepped forward like a barricade.

  Breanne fought the urge to step back from him and forced a smile on her face. Her eyes fell to his mouth. Her chest warmed, her body remembering what his kiss had done to her.

  “Aye, my lord?” Thankfully, her voice did not squeak.

  She looked back to his eyes, aware of every other person in the hall. And even more aware of him. Within a moment, so many details filled her senses. He was taller this close, and broader and the image of his naked chest clouded her mind. If she tried, she might be able to smell his spicy….

  “You have no need to fear me,” he said quietly, drawing her attention back with a jolt.

  “I do not fear you,” she said, a bit too loud, confused as to why he would think so.

  Ashlon glanced around. Breanne followed suit, though not as surreptitiously, to be sure. She could not account for her sudden nerves. But it was no wonder he thought her afraid. She was nigh trembling.

  “What I mean to say is you need not fear I will expose our previous acquaintance. Also, you have my gratitude.” His gaze returned to hers; something indefinable shone in them.

  Unbidden, the memory of his lips on hers struck her.

  Breanne lowered her gaze.

  “That said, you no longer need avoid me, as well.”

  “I have not avoided you,” she said, ready to explain fully her time spent within the Grianan, but footsteps approached from behind. So she curtsied deeply and readied to make for the stairs at his back.

  At Ashlon’s first glance at whomever approached, she hurriedly bid him farewell. He didn’t object or follow and Breanne did not run, leastwise not until she’d passed the corridor wall.

  She closed her bedchamber door and sighed against it.

  “Who are you running from?” Finn asked from his perch in the narrow window.

  “I have not run from anyone,” she said, swallowing. “Not that you would know either way.”

  “Care you mean. Not that I would care.”

  “Then why do you ask?” She sat on her bed and began to undress. Her bath waited.

  “You’re right, Breanne. Why ask when one already knows the answer? To force an admission, I suppose.”

  “Somebody is feeling the nasty effects of over-imbibing.” Her gown fell to the floor.

  “As I thought. Avoiding the subject. Redirecting the conversation. You’re quite transparent.”

  The hot water was delicious on her aching muscles and she closed her eyes while the knots in her shoulders untied. Finn’s baiting was time and energy wasted. Naught could penetrate the haze of bliss this bath was giving her. Who knew spinning could be so wearing? She’d happily never pedal another strand of wool to life so long as she lived.

  “Avoiding and redirecting will only delay your problems. And in the meantime, you’ll create far more of them.”

  She wasn’t listening. She wouldn’t. He was looking to fight, but if she didn’t respond, would he not give up? The heat was leaving the water. Two more minutes, then she’d wash and dress. It wasn’t a lot to ask.

  “Truly, Breanne, what would Heremon think?”

  Her eyes flew open. She ground her teeth. “If you continue your games with me, Finn, I swear I will not only never practice a rite on your behalf again, but I may lay another curse upon you.”

  “Aha, she speaks.”

  Water sloshed over the tub’s edge as Breanne sat upright. “Aye, she speaks. And may you hear my words. I warn you, Finn, play with me no more.” She scrubbed her elbows.

  “Fine. I will not. I will ask you, though, because I must. I have seen the stranger. I know he is among us. I need to know what you are doing about it.”

  “What am I doing about it? There is naught to be done. He has no consequence outside of being in Heremon’s care at the time of his demise.”

  “Then why does he stay?”

  “How should I know? He is no longer my concern.” She stepped from the bath. “My concerns lie in choosing a husband, lifting your curse.” Helping Rose. Avoiding that man. “Heremon’s death has been decided as accidental. We must move on.”

  “I’ll move on when he is gone from here. Or when I am.”

  “That is your choice. But do not force your choice on me.” She whipped four thick strands into a fishtail braid. “We need to attract goodness, purity, forgiveness or we’ll never return you to where you belong.”

  “Don’t forget basic skill and a good dose of talent.”

  “Why, you vile beast, I ought to toss you out on your ear, the ungrateful way you treat—.”

  “Breanne?” It was Rose. “Are you all right?”

  Adjusting her dress, Breanne opened the door. “I’m sorry, I lost track of time soaking. Can you fasten this broach for me, Rose?”

  “Talking to yourself is one thing, Bree. But yelling at yours
elf is another.”

  “I wasn’t yelling at myself,” Breanne said. “I was yelling at Finn.”

  “Ah, well, then. Nothing mad about yelling at an animal, is there?” Rose fixed the pin through the fabric.

  Breanne glowered at Finn, daring him to speak up now, in front of Rose, but knew full well he wouldn’t risk it. Perhaps she should take to sharing her chambers and garner further silence. He’d choke to death on his mean, unlived words.

  “There.” Rose smiled and brushed Breanne’s shoulders. “I don’t know how to bring up our earlier conversation smoothly, but I need to finish it with you.”

  “Not here,” Breanne blurted. “On the way, if you please, Rose. I hate being late and not having seating to choose from.” Safely down the corridor she said, “I know you haven’t said it and I don’t want you to have to. I wouldn’t feel right, though, if I didn’t try to dissuade you, and at least ask you try a tonic first.”

  Rose sighed and took her hand as they reached the hall. “Aye, Breanne. I’ll try one. But, if I make my choice, I--.”

  Breanne put her hand up. “Say no more. I’ll ready one and we’ll go on from there.”

  Ignoring the center of most diners’ attention proved harder every day. Three uneventful days later, he still drew eyes wherever he walked and not just Breanne’s. Rose practically gawked at Ashlon Sinclair whenever present, making Breanne’s disassociation of him all the more difficult.

  “He’s a man without a home, Bree.” She clucked her tongue. “If Ryan doesn’t return soon, I may entertain thoughts of making one for him.”

  “Rose, do you hear yourself? I thought you loved your husband.” Her reprimand fell on deaf ears and Breanne’s decision to keep her distance from the man was all the more reinforced.

  “Ach, now, Bree, looking at a man with open eyes does not mean my love is less for Ryan. And my current peeve with him and his prick have cleared my vision a bit. Don’t be such a prude.”