by Kris Kennedy
*
“I AM SORRY to have been so underhanded in my methods of inviting you up to visit me, my lady,” said Captain Ludthorpe as Katarina was escorted into his tent. “But it was imperative that I speak with you.”
Still reeling from the capture and Walter’s duplicity, Katarina took the cushioned seat Captain Ludthorpe offered. “Some men send messages,” she told him weakly.
He laughed.
The soldiers had taken her almost all the way to the village to avoid being spotted by the Rardove garrison lining the walls. They were met by a few Irish spies who, it turned out, Walter had enlisted, men who had either no interest in joining a rebellion, or great interest in the coin the soldiers poured into their hands. In any event, the deed was done, and under the disguising cover they provided, Katarina was taken to the army camp.
“The captain merely wishes to speak with you, my lady,” Walter kept assuring her as he hurried along behind. “Hear your petition, and put his to you.”
That, and the gag in her mouth, kept her from calling out. For if this was true, and this captain was indeed intent on negotiation, perhaps she could speak to him.
In any event, she was utterly unable to resist.
Captain Ludthorpe stepped toward a small table. “Yes, well, your clerk indicated it might be difficult to ascertain your true feelings on the matter while inside the castle. He offered to assist me.”
“I can see that. When did he make this offer?”
“Whisky delivery,” Ludthorpe told her with appallingly large smile, and lifted a glass in her direction. “Aodh had it sent out. May I offer you some?”
“No,” she said as he held up the glass. ”But I would very much like a moment alone with my steward. And a pistol.” She had indeed underestimated Walter: his capacity for trickery and subterfuge.
He shook his head. “In truth, my lady, Walter has only your best interests at heart.”
“I very much doubt that. Where is he?”
“We…have him now.” There was something vaguely satisfying about the pause before he said that. Perhaps Ludthorpe did not like Walter much either. “In any event, your clerk felt your head has been turned. And I could not be sure Aodh spoke true, when he said you were fully his.”
She held her tongue as the commander sat opposite her in another of his little camp chairs, cup in hand. For a moment, they regarded each other, then he dropped his elbows to his knees, leaning forward, and stared hard at her.
“It would be a most odd development, my lady, for you to have turned. You’ve always been exceptionally loyal to the Crown. Her Highness was quite taken aback by the news. I counseled that we wait, and speak to you directly, that the news we’d been hearing might not be true.”
“News?”
“From Bermingham, for one.”
“That snake,” she snapped. “He bears only ill news.”
“Yes, well, if that is all the news there is to bear, one is rather at a loss, is one not?” He peered at her, perhaps waiting for her to indicate she was bearing good news.
She folded her arms over her chest. “What do you want me to say, Captain?”
“The truth.”
“Aodh Mac Con is precisely what the queen needs out here on the Irish marches. That is the truth.”
Ludthorpe straightened off his elbows. “Aodh has a way of making people think those sorts of things.”
“You know him?” she said in surprise.
He nodded. “We have fought together.”
“Then you know he is stalwart, a natural leader of men.”
“I know he is in open rebellion.”
“And already forming alliances that have eluded me for years, sir. With both the Irish and the English. And he…”
The commander was shaking his head slowly. “Open. Rebellion.”
She cleared her throat. “I do think he can be persuaded to come to terms…”
He laughed and set down his cup. “I do not know if Aodh told you, I offered sanctuary. To you.”
“Sanctuary?”
“Let us say pardon, then. The queen is willing to be forgiving to you.”
“How forgiving?”
He shrugged. “Your decision here was not so surprising a thing. Your castle was overrun, you were under duress, trapped, perhaps even…forced to do things.” Their eyes met. “Mayhap to send messages with your name affixed to them. Perhaps to ride with the rebels, and broker alliances with other rebels.”
So, they knew of The O’Fail. Curse Walter.
Ludthorpe’s voice became more persuasive. “In such circumstances, the queen would be strongly inclined to be forgiving, lady. I give you my deepest assurances.” He lifted his eyebrows, giving her the chance to simply confirm his guesses, and settle the matter, once and for all.
She leaned down as the captain had done, elbows on her thighs, and lowered her voice as he had done. “I am under no duress, Captain, and Aodh Mac Con is England’s last, best chance out here beyond the Pale.”
He snapped back in his chair and his gaze traveled down her gown. “I saw you on the walls.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. You, one of the most loyal nobles of the realm, in open rebellion with an Irishman. At Aodh’s urging.”
She sat forward. “Then I offer that as my proof, Captain: Aodh is precisely what the Crown needs. As you point out, he has fomented a rebellion that stretches across the entire northern portion of Ireland in a fortnight. From whence do such powers come?”
“The devil?” suggested the commander drily.
“From within.” She tapped her chest. “If a single man turned, so be it, such things can be dismissed as little more than self-interest, or foolishness, a man too easily overawed, some such.”
“And if one woman does…?”
She pressed on. “But that is not the case. Aodh has persuaded all manner of men to turn to his cause. Both the small and the powerful, English and Irish.”
“Yes, the English concern me greatly.”
“As well they should. It is a testament to the need for a change, do you not think, that even the English are willing to join this rebellion? He has roused them, but only because they wished to be roused. Matters cannot go on as they are. Aodh has indeed fomented open rebellion. He can just as easily dispel it. I tell you, sir, these men did not join a revolution. They joined him. If Aodh is here, in command, and loyal to the Crown, they too will be loyal.”
“I do not think it is so simple a matter, my lady.”
“But it can be. If you wish it to be, sir, you could avoid much bloodshed here. You could carry my entreaty, present it to the queen, explain the matter.”
He drank slowly, watching her, and a faint hope rose in her chest. “I was not sent to avoid bloodshed, my lady.”
Coldness stabbed through the bubble of hope that had started rising. “No, indeed,” she agreed. “For if you were, you would not have burned my lands.”
“I would not have had to burn your lands if you had not rebelled against your queen.”
“They did not rebel.” She pointed out the tent at the rest of Ireland. “You have made new enemies here, Commander, which I am fairly certain is also something you were not sent here to do.”
She forced her breath to calm, for it had accelerated as the certainty grew that Ludthorpe was not here to listen at all but to command. Certainly his eyes had narrowed at her scathing assessment of his tactics and her veiled warning.
“It is your actions that have brought them to this state, lady. Nevertheless, remedies exist for one who has been so loyal for so many years. If you were willing to show sense, we could find a compromise.”
“And how would I show sense?”
“I have instructions that you may stay in residence, should you prove yourself to me, and re-pledge any…honor that may have been lost to the rebel.” Innuendo curled his words into something dark.
“Prove myself how?”
“Turn over the Irishman. The queen wish
es only for Aodh Mac Con.”
“Only him, is it? And then?”
“Then, you will be…left here.”
“I meant what then for Aodh Mac Con?”
His battle-gnarled hands lifted the glass. “Do not concern yourself with rebels, my lady. I am here to manage them.”
“You cannot manage this one, sir. In any event, I am already intimately concerned. I have wed him. Did Walter not mention that?”
A ripple of impatience tightened his square jaw. “He did not.”
“Do you not wonder what else he may not have told you?”
“Wedding the outlaw was reckless indeed, lady.”
“Yes, yes, I am well aware of that,” she said impatiently. “A lifetime on the Irish marches has seen that deed done.”
“You were reckless long before the marches, Katarina,” drawled a voice from the shadows.
She turned sharply. Bertrand of Bridge stepped into the light.
Even years later, the sight of him was powerful. Throat-tightening, hand-clenching powerful. As he came closer, she suddenly recalled the way he’d smelled that night all those years ago, of sour ale and garlic, exhaled wetly across her face.
She forced herself to remain sitting and said calmly, “Slicing your face open with a blade was not reckless, my Lord Bridge. It was self-protection.”
The commander looked between them, his eyebrows high in surprise. Then he surveyed the faint ladderlike row of stitched scars that bumped down Bertrand’s left cheek. “You know each other,” he intuited.
Bertrand stepped forward. “Come, my lady, I have made a case for you to the commander.” Ludthorpe’s eyebrows went higher yet. “I assure you, they will be merciful to you.”
She laughed. “As they were to the peasants en route to here?” He seemed startled by the mention of peasants. “As they will be to Aodh?”
“Aodh? You call the Irish rebel Aodh? Oh, you have gone to the devil out here on the marches, lady. In England, we call him traitor and dead man. He has gainsaid the queen, fomented rebellion, stolen a castle, and countermanded orders. That is your ‘Aodh.’”
She folded her hands over her belly. “I see you have heard of him.”’
The commander smiled. Bertrand fabricated a stiff smile and stretched it across his thin mouth, so level it did not even bend the thin, trimmed moustaches that topped his upper lip. “His Irish wit has infected you too, I see.”
“I believe it comes down in the rain, my lord. Perhaps if you spent some time here, it would infect you too. Yet you have never spent any time here, and nevertheless think you can rule it well.”
He stared in amazement, glanced at the commander, then back at Katarina. “You…you cannot expect the Irish to rule Ireland, can you?” He laughed in astonishment. “Why, even a woman is better than one of them.”
She cast a derisive glance over Bertrand. “The marches would gnash you in their teeth before a week was out, Bridge.”
A flush of anger and embarrassment showed on Bertrand’s face. “I am a nobleman, lady, born to lead.”
She waved her hand dismissively, and from the corner of her eye, she saw the commander smile. “Aodh Mac Con is twice the leader you shall ever be, Bertrand.” Now the flush of red was bright, like a stain. “Know you how many English souls have cleaved to him out here, amid peril and uncertainty?”
“Fools.”
“They do it for love.”
He took a step toward her. “Is that why you do it, cunt?” He pulled her up out of the chair. “Share your charms with a dirty Irishman and not me?” She jerked on her arm, but he shook her so hard, her teeth rattled. On the other side of the table, the commander got to his feet.
“That’s enough, Bridge,” he said coldly.
“No, it is not. These marches need an iron grip, and your rebellious spirit is proof of it, Katarina. You grab hold,” he shook her arm, “and you squeeze.” He tightened his fingers into a painful circlet of anger. “And you never let up. That is how you rule a lawless land and a barbarous people. The Irish understand nothing less, and apparently, neither do you.”
He backhanded her across the cheek.
“Stand down, Bridge,” ordered the commander.
She reeled away from the blow, but Bertrand yanked her back. “No self-restraint”—he slapped her—“no honor”—another backhand strike—“no discipline.”
The commander came up from behind, hauled him off and spun him as he released, so Bertrand ended up on the far side of the tent.
Katarina, cheeks burning, lifted her chin. “I quite agree, my Lord Bridge. Men who have power but no self-control are unfit to rule.”
Bertrand turned between her and the commander, who was staring at him with flat eyes, then gripped his hands together, rubbing the knuckles that had struck her as he paced the tent. “Well, what of it? A moment’s loss of control…you cannot think she did not earn that. With so much at stake… She”—he pointed and started back around the desk toward her—“must be taught a lesson. A woman’s place, and an Irishman’s place—”
She spit at him. Her spit was mixed with blood, and it sprayed across his face.
He lunged for her, but the commander gently pulled her out of the way and put a hand out, stopping Bertrand. He looked down at her. “My lady, we are wasting time. Open the gates for us, and you will be spared.”
Blood pooled hotly in the corner of her mouth from her split lip, then trickled down her chin. Shaking, her breath coming fast and shallow, she realized now there was no hope. None at all. Nothing but open defiance. She had become her father.
“No, my lord, I will not. Even if I wished it, I have not that power. Aodh commands the castle now, and he will not open the gates for anything.”
The commander eyed her. “I doubt that,” he said, and turned for the tent flap.
A knife blade of fear slicked through Katarina’s belly. “What do you mean?”
“Bind her and bring her to the front, Bridge.” Ludthorpe ducked out of the tent.
“What are you doing?” She took an instinctive step after him, but Bertrand loomed, and she stopped.
Ludthorpe glanced back through the tent flap. “I’m going to stand you up on the cannon and offer Aodh Mac Con a choice: he surrenders, or you die.”
Chapter Forty
AODH STOOD on the southern wall, chewing a piece of bread and talking with Ré as they surveyed the army below, when a small group broke free from the main camp and came forward.
“Does a new dawn bring any further clarity to your stubbornness, Aodh?” Ludthorpe’s voice carried thinly through the speaking trumpet up to the battlement wall.
Aodh shook his head and turned to Ré. “Reckless. We are being reckless. Why do they keep calling it stubborn?”
Ré lifted an armored shoulder and let it drop. “Translations.”
Aodh cupped his hands around his mouth and called down, “I remain as clear as ever. Rardove or death.” He paused, then shouted again, “Your westward cannon is sinking.” He pointed.
“Perhaps I can add an additional option to consider.” There was a shifting of the men who flanked the commander, then a lithe figure with blowing skirts was pushed to the front and thrust up to stand on the cannon beside the commander.
Aodh jerked as if punched, and in an instant, his heart fell and fell and fell into the coldest, deepest pit he’d ever known.
“Jesus God,” someone muttered.
“My lady!” someone else gasped. Rippled exclamations of horror and outrage moved down the walls, a wave of curses and shrieks.
Aodh stared down at the sight of Katarina, her hands bound behind her back, her chin up, her small, pale face pointed right at him.
He gripped the stony walls tighter and tighter, until hard bits of rubble broke off in his hands. They bit into his skin like fangs. Blood dripped down his hands, but he didn’t notice. His head pounded.
“We have your stubborn lady, Aodh,” the commander called.
“Reckless
,” Cormac muttered.
“I will see she has a traitor’s death, Aodh, unless you surrender yourself.”
Sickness soured his belly, and he dropped his head as the images held at bay for so many years were finally, finally unleashed on him.
His father, bleeding on the battlefield, clutching Aodh’s shoulder with a mangled hand, making him vow to get Rardove back by whatever means necessary. His father, dragged away by his heels through the mud, black earth mixing with red blood. His father, hanged and taken down while still alive, tied up and cut open, disemboweled, his traitorous parts flung to the far corners of the kingdom.
Katarina, facing the same.
Slowly, his hand fisted tight around the rubble, he started to go down to his knees.
He heard someone curse and there was a jerk on his arm, then Ré was there, holding him, pushing him up against the high crenel with a forearm, his hip against Aodh’s, holding him up. “Aodh. Aodh!”
He shook his head, clearing it.
He jerked free, then wiped his hand over his mouth and swung back to Katarina. Her gown flowed around her. The small figure of Ludthorpe moved, then lifted something to her face. The trumpet. She was to say something to him. No doubt a call to surrender.
“Do not!”’ Thin and tiny, her voice came up. One of the soldiers holding her gave her a hair a shake. Aodh almost lunged over the forty-foot wall. “You promised,” she called again through the trumpet, wrenching free from the constraining arm. “You promised me.”
He whirled back around and stared into the horrified faces of his men. Ré, Cormac, Bran, all staring at him in stupefied silence.
Aodh stared back at them for a heartbeat. Here then was the true danger of Katarina. She could do what armies and mercenaries and kings and queens had not been able to: she could make him give up Rardove.
He turned and hurried down the rampart wall, making for the stairs. “Open the gate.”
Ré cursed and hurried after. “Wait, Aodh, speak to me.”
“Walk with me.” Aodh leapt down the last two steps and hit the bailey ground in a puff of dirt. Ré jumped down after.
As they passed through the bailey, people turned and stared, as the news began moving through the castle. They walked past staring eyes and dropped jaws, the inhabitants and allies of the lord of Rardove struck dumb by this disastrous turn of events. There were more people within the walls of Rardove at this moment than had ever been there in its history, yet silence reigned as he and Ré strode through its center.