Claiming Her (Renegades & Outlaws)

by Kris Kennedy

  Bran’s recitation stuttered to a halt.

  Bent over the bucket, water dripping off his face and chest, Aodh looked up.

  A small figure stood in the doorway, grimy hands clasped in front of an even grimier tunic.

  For a moment, he stared, uncomprehending. Then a shot of satisfaction went through him. Katarina’s little page.

  Bran glanced at Aodh as the penitent scraped his toe across the floor. Voice rough as if it hadn’t been used in awhile, he muttered, “I’m to turn myself in, my lord. And…be nice.”

  Aodh straightened. “Upon whose orders?”

  The urchin lifted his head, a derisive twist to his mouth. “My lady’s, o’course, milordsir. There ain’t no one else’s orders I’d listen to.”

  “Right,” he agreed slowly, then reached for a towel. “What is your name, boy?”

  “Dickon.”

  “Richard, is it?”

  “Dickon, sir.”

  “Very well, Dickon.” Aodh began toweling off his head, then threw the towel aside and gave his head a shake. “Where have you been for the past several days?”

  “About,” came the vague, defiant mutter.

  “Mm. You’ve run my men a merry chase. That is difficult to do.”

  A faint smile touched the boy’s downturned face. “They’re awful big,” came the reply.

  “Indeed they are. I’ve reprimanded them on the matter several times.”

  The boy’s gaze lifted, but not his head.

  “Still, ’tis quite a feat, what you did. Commendable.”

  The boy paused. “Sir Walter’d beat me for it, milordsir.”

  “Well, fortunate for you, we do not adhere to Walter’s dictates.”

  The boy’s eyes came up at that, but Aodh had dragged a tunic over his head and was unavailable for scrutiny, so he turned his regard to Bran, half a decade his senior and clearly the next rung on the ladder in Aodh’s world. He took Bran’s measure for a moment, then turned back to Aodh.

  “What do you adhere to, milordsir?” he asked impertinently.

  “Horses.” Aodh reached for his sword belt. “I can think of several ways a man like yourself can be useful, Dickon.” The boy’s head lifted as if pulled by a thread. “Know you much of horses?”

  “Horses, milordsir? I’m not allowed near the horses.”

  “Are you not?”

  He hesitated. “I race about too much,” he admitted in a low voice.

  Spirit shone in Dickon’s eyes, as did defiance and intelligence. He could be trouble, but once won, he could be invaluable. Aodh crouched down. “Come here, lad.”

  The boy tossed Bran an enigmatic look, then, dragging his feet, he came. He arrived in front of Aodh, head still hung low.

  “Look at me.”

  He did.

  “We must have out on one matter.”

  Guilt flashed across the boy’s face. “Sir?”

  “Did you bring your lady a sword?”

  His head dropped so far, his chin rested on his chest. He said nothing. Aodh waited a moment, then said quietly and firmly, “You cannot do anything of that sort, ever.”

  The boy shook his downturned head. “No, sir.”

  “Neither bring things, nor take them away, nor put a nail in a post, without my leave. Aye?”

  He nodded his chin into his chest. “Aye, sir.”

  “Very good, then. I’ll need your pledge of loyalty. You know your lady’s garrison is locked up?”

  Suspicion clouded the boy’s gaze and made his eyelids rise to half-mast. “Aye.”

  “And you know why.”

  “Aye.” He hesitated, then added in a low voice, “I know you could do the same to me.”

  “Then it was brave of you to come. But I do not lock up boys.”

  This drew a swift, almost bitter grimace. “Thought I was a man,” he muttered.

  “In matters of loyalty and honor, we shall proceed with you as a man. In matters of prison, you are a child. D’accord?”

  He studied the lord suspiciously. What the hell did dahcour mean? “Aye, sir.”

  “Heed me now, Dickon, for I shall expect the same of you.”

  “The same, sir?”

  “The garrison is loyal to her. I expect the same from you. If you are here, now, you are pledging to me. As my man.”

  Dickon’s face paled a bit. He was used to being cuffed on the back of the head when he was attended to at all, except by her ladyship, who, almost worse, or at least more infuriatingly, treated him like a child. Which he was not. He was ten, almost eleven. Nigh on to being a man.

  “I have your pledge, then?” The Irishman thrust out his hand, just as if he was nigh onto being a man.

  Dickon reached out slowly, and the hard callused hand curled around his and shook so hard, it rattled his teeth. He would not forget it.

  “Aye, sir,” he affirmed, his teeth clicking.

  Aodh met Bran’s gaze over the boy’s head. Bran rolled his eyes. Aodh smiled faintly, then straightened and started for the door. “Good, then, Dickon, we are joined. Come, there’s something I want to show you in the stables.”

  The boy was already trotting at his heels. “What, sir?”

  “Horses.”

  *

  FROM THE TOWER WINDOW, Katarina watched Aodh walk to the stables, Dickon at his side, and her heart broke a little. Dickon appeared to be chattering happily, and Aodh rested a hand on his shoulder and bent his head to listen. Dickon’s face tilted up, then he pointed, and Aodh smiled.

  She was so far away, it ought not to have had the impact it did, like a blow to the belly.

  Perhaps it wasn’t even a smile. At this distance, it was impossible to tell for certain. But she had seen Aodh smile often enough, knew its effect on her, and saw the same now in Dickon; his step became more buoyant, the sway of his shoulders looser.

  Water, wine, Aodh.

  She swallowed and looked away, not wanting to see how happy Dickon looked, walking beside Aodh.

  Not wanting to face how much she wanted to be the one walking at his side.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  AODH CROUCHED IN the stables the next afternoon, on his heels in front of his favorite horse, running his cupped hands down the gelding’s fetlock, murmuring.

  St. George had stumbled on the ride back from town yesterday, and had been stabled since, his leg wrapped in linens and cooling ointments. The fiery charger was not happy about it.

  About Aodh’s feet were several sacks and pouches, retrieved out of chests temporarily stored in the stables until better housing was found for them. They contained the lesser items: less needed, less valuable, less likely to rot in moisture.

  But they also resembled the sack George’s horse bread was stored in, and even now, the gelding was snuffling around Aodh’s boots, trying to nose his way inside one.

  “Not for you.” He gently nudged the horse’s muzzle out of the way. George snorted and tossed his head. “I know, you did nothing wrong, and here you are being punished.”

  Placated, George blew out a breath and nuzzled down Aodh’s back, to the waistband of his hose, which he proceeded to nibble on lightly.

  “I have never once stored a treat down there,” Aodh murmured, feeling slowly around the knee. No swelling.

  “Aodh.”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw Ré standing in the doorway. Bright, slanting afternoon sunlight lit the bailey.

  He got to his feet, immediately alert. “What is it?”

  “You have a visitor. Bermingham.”

  “The baron? Is here?”

  Ré nodded. “It appears he decided not to wait for you to respond to his written message.”

  Aodh scooped up the pouches at his feet and came out of the stall, tossing all the satchels but one back into the chests stacked by the wall. “Katy does not think it wise to ally with him.”

  “Does she not?” Ré’s voice was taut.

  “Think what you will, Ré, she knows these people and these
lands.”

  “I think she is trouble.”

  “Only if we do not win her.”

  “Bermingham has a hundred men at his command.”

  Aodh pursed his lips, then gave George a final pat. “Well, then, let us see what he has to say.”

  “I know what he has to say,” Ré said as they turned for the door.

  “What?”

  “He wants his wife back.”

  Aodh stopped short. “Wife?” He thought a moment. “Do we have his wife?”

  Ré nodded grimly. “Turns out we do. Cormac’s girl. The one we thought too fine to be a maidservant? She is too fine. She’s a baroness. And Katarina has been hiding her. For two years.”

  *

  KATARINA LEANED over the map Aodh had brought up, tracing the outlines of Bohemia in the sunlight pouring through the high window, thinking of how little she knew of Marco Polo’s travels, and how she must ask Aodh what he knew, when a key sounded in the lock.

  She looked up. Aodh pushed the door wide. Tiny and rose-petal light, the vibration of a stringed instrument drifted in.

  Aodh did not come into the room, just leaned his shoulder against the frame of the door and looked at her.

  Uneasiness crept down her spine. “What is it?”

  “‘Iron’ Piers Bermingham has come for a visit.”

  She gasped.

  “What do you think he wants?”

  “Susanna.”

  She flew to him. Curse the man, Bermingham, coming here, now. No doubt back from whatever campaign he and his awful, criminal brothers had launched on the borders of whatever unfortunate town or enemy had drawn their attention, or whatever unfortunate tavern was closest. He’d been gone for six months, and practically leaking beer and incomprehensible—and uninterested in his wife—for the twelvemonth prior to that.

  But dear, sweet, vulnerable Susanna was, in the end, worth something to him. And now he had come for her.

  “No, Aodh,” she pleaded, her face flushed. “You cannot send her back.”

  “Why not?”

  “He is cruel and brutal. She will not last a week.”

  “She is his.”

  She touched his tunic, felt the power of his chest beneath. “Aodh, please, you do not know Baron Athelrye.”

  “I know him some.”

  “Then you know what sort of man he is.”

  “She is his.” The repetition was ominous.

  “No. Aodh, no.” She tightened her fingers on his tunic. “She divorced him, under Brehon law. She was wed to him for a year, then divorced him. Per the law.”

  His gaze fell to her hand on his tunic, then tracked back up. “That is not English law. Nor Catholic. He claims those rights.”

  “Aodh.” Her voice was so low, even she could hardly hear it.

  Laughter from soldiers on the battlement walls drifted in the window, a cheerful backdrop to their deadly serious conversation. “He would make Rardove a good ally. She would be a good peace offering.”

  “Aodh, please, you cannot. He is changeable… unpredictable. Violent.”

  “Then you chose a bad man to make an enemy of.”

  Her face hardened. “It was no choice.”

  For a moment, she knew her cause was lost, that Susanna would be sent back to the monster, and—

  “Give me a reason.”

  She breathed in a gasp of hope. “What would you have of me?”

  He watched her a moment more, then rolled his shoulder off the door frame and strode off without a word.

  She stood at the window for an hour, hoping for some sign, some sound of horses or sight of riders, perhaps gunfire, if Aodh was sending Bermingham off and the man did not wish to go.

  But why would Aodh risk such a thing, not only for her, but for a woman whom he did not know, a woman Katarina had visited and found bleeding and broken one afternoon two years back? She’d brought Susanna home with her, set her up in the household as a maidservant, to disguise the fact that she’d helped a noblewoman escape from her noble, awful husband.

  Not even Walter had known who she was; he assumed she was another wandering waif Katarina had latched on to, like Dickon, like the itinerant priests who had visited Rardove and begun all this madness of “treason,” to the half-dozen other waifs and misfits who’d found a home at Rardove.

  But eventually, even Bermingham’s drink-sodden brain had put it together, and he’d demanded Susanna’s return. Twice. But each time, he grew distracted by drink or whoring or whatever else the man did, and had let it go.

  The arrangement suited Susanna perfectly well. Her father might have been the Crown’s man in the north of Ireland, meting out justice and collecting its proceeds, but her mother had been sweet and entirely unsuited for a life of greatness. Neither was Susanna. She was more than happy to serve Katarina, to have a friend. To not be beaten daily, or whatever her accursed, violent husband saw fit to do to her when he returned home from the bawdy houses or raids.

  But none of this should matter to a marcher lord, because in the end, Bermingham had a large fortune as a result of those raids, and many men to ride with him when he was in the mood for mischief. Many men to bring to a fight against the Queen of England, whom he’d always served with the thinnest thread of loyalty.

  So now, Aodh had a choice. A simple one, if he sought an ally. Return to Bermingham what was rightfully his.

  She paced and paced, biting her nails to stubs.

  Late afternoon sunlight was pouring through the window by the time he returned.

  Again, the twist of a lock. Again the low squeal of iron hinges slowly rusting, turning, then the door swung open.

  Aodh stood in its opening. Backlit by the warm glow of oil lamps in the landing, he was a dark silhouette.

  Beside him stood Susanna.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  SUSANNA GAVE A CRY of happiness and rushed forward, wrapping Katarina in a warm, tearful embrace.

  Katarina hugged her back, her eyes filling with tears, so that she had to bend her head to hide them.

  “Bermingham came, my lady, as we knew he would, one day,” Susanna said as they hugged each other. “He came, and his lordship sent him away.”

  “Did he?” She trusted nothing else to leave her lips, or she might weep.

  “That he did. And Cormac. Oh, Cormac was quite wonderful.” The warmth in Susanna’s voice brought Katarina’s head up.

  “Cormac, the drinker?” she said, surprised.

  “Oh, no more than you, my lady,” Susanna assured her happily, her cheeks flushed, her round face aglow in a smile. “He is quite fine.”

  Katarina smiled. “Sooth?”

  Susanna squeezed her hand again. “Very true.” Then, tightening her squeeze, she whispered fiercely, “Thank you.”

  “I did nothing. Do not thank me.”

  Susanna leaned closer. “I have already thanked your master, and I shall again, and again, and again, until the day I die.”

  Neither of them looked at the object of their conversation, who sat sprawled back in the chair, watching them with steel-blue eyes under dark brows, like some pagan king overseeing his subjects at revel.

  Susanna squeezed Katarina’s hand again. “It is good to see you, and to see you looking so well.”

  She smiled in surprise. “Do I look well?”

  “Very well, my lady,” Susanna said firmly, then, adding in a mischievous whisper, “One would almost think being locked up in a tower suits you.”

  She left soon after, and when the door shut, Katarina tipped her face up to the ceiling and blew out a breath. Then she brought it down, and turned to him.

  “Thank you.” There was nothing else to say, but the words were horridly inadequate.

  He bent his head in a nod.

  “What happened?” she asked. “How did he take it? Bermingham?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No. It does not. So, now, Aodh, what would you have of me?”

  “The same thing I have eve
r wanted. It has not changed.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She came a step closer. “You have wanted a number of things from me. You want me to marry you, and to commit treason, and to swive you.”

  A smile broke the dark intent of his face. “I swive you, lass.”

  She waved her hand. “I am certain I could swive you too. However it is meant to work.”

  The smile faded. “I can show you.”

  She took another step toward him. “I suppose you gave up a great deal, to keep Susanna here with us.”

  “I gave up nothing. That man is a calamity.”

  “You gave up something. For me.”

  “Did it make you happy?”

  “Deeply.”

  “So come, and make me happy.” He held up his hand. “I have something for you.”

  She drew up in front of him.

  “Give me your hand.”

  He reclined in the chair, but everything about him spoke of vitality and movement. Even the dark inked lines on his neck and arms seemed to move in the sunlight with each subtle shift of his body.

  Slowly, she unbent her elbow and held out her hand. He dropped something into it, and folded her fingers around it.

  She opened them and stared down at the strange gift. It was a fat three dimensional glass object, crystal clear.

  “What is this?”

  “A prism.”

  The stone was heavy in her hand. “And what is that?”

  “I will show you.” He got to his feet and moved across the room. He shuttered the window, plunging the room into darkness, then arranged coverings until only a single beam of sunlight rayed into the chamber.

  She watched, bemused. “What are you doing?”

  “Patience, lass.”

  He dug around in one of the chests and extracted a piece of parchment and held it vertically behind the prism, at a slight angle. Holding the stone up into the light, he let the single ray of sun through it. It emerged on the paper as a prism of color, a rainbow projected onto the parchment.

  “Oh,” she said, enchanted.

  He made a gesture, beckoning her, and she reached out with her thumb and index finger and very carefully took it from him. “Hold it there,” he ordered. He backed up with the parchment, and took another, curving glass stone, cut slightly different, and lowered it down, passing it, too, through the beam of sunlight. The rainbow stayed projected on the parchment. Then he slowly pulled the parchment back further.