Putting her embroidery in her lap, she kept her eyes modestly downcast, but not before noting MacLugh’s perusal of her. He hadn’t changed in the two years since she’d last seen him. In contrast to the richness of his clothes, his beard was still unkempt. He was short and thick, and she’d never liked the way his gaze lingered over her breasts and hips, sizing her up like a brood mare. He smiled at her only with his thin lips, his pale blue eyes hard and chill.
MacLugh slapped his hand on his thigh, his movement sloshing the ale from his goblet. “I will have her.”
At the neighboring king’s words, Dara’s hands shook, and she pricked her finger with the needle. Only years of subduing her emotions allowed her to remain seated while she longed to run out the door and hide in the stable.
“Hush,” her father ordered. “Carolan has not finished his song.”
A few of MacLugh’s men reached for their weapons, but the King of Munster gestured to them, and they resettled in their positions. The confrontation had only been delayed, not averted.
From behind her, Strongheart handed Dara a clean white cloth to dab away the drops of blood on her finger. Oddly grateful for his presence, she pressed the cloth to her finger, the pain there insignificant compared with the pain in her heart. Her fate rested with Da, and though he’d made her promises, she wondered if he’d remember them.
At all costs, she must hold her tongue. To do otherwise would reveal Da’s faults and weaknesses to a man that coveted Leinster. While Dara had felt free to speak against the Norman, he was not of their land, did not command an army that lived on their border.
The blind harper ended his song, and the men clapped in appreciation. Before the applause died, Conor rose to his feet, his glass held high. “I would like a prophecy.”
Carolan rested his harp on his knee. “No, please, my lord. Ye will not be liking what I see.”
Although he kept his opinions to family, Dara knew her father did not believe in prophecy. Her heart pounded with sudden hope that he had not forgotten his promise. But what mischief had he hatched?
“Would you deny me your gift?” Conor demanded. Never had he spoken so harshly to Carolan, a man who depended on his lord’s benevolence for his daily bread.
Carolan licked his cracked lips. “This ought be spoken in private, my lord.”
Men avoided each other’s eyes. Dara’s hand went to the shamrock at her neck. The Norman’s brow arched. A few men squirmed in their seats. One rubbed a rabbit’s foot for luck. Several spit in the clean straw at their feet. When the kitchen maid removed the roast from the fire to a platter on the table, no one moved toward the table.
Conor raised his glass to the crowd of deadly silent men. “We are all friends here. Let the prophecy begin.”
The blind man set down his harp, reached for his ale, and took a hearty swallow. Finally he cleared his throat. “She will bring with her destruction and death. She will divide the kingdom and set clan against clan. She will cause the downfall of kings and the deaths of princes.”
Silence followed Carolan’s prediction. Conor staggered back a step, clutched his chest, and sank into his chair.
Strongheart’s gaze went to Dara’s face. She stared into the flames, her shoulders stiff, chin high, gnawing hard on her lower lip lest a hint of her thoughts be revealed on her face. Da had pulled quite a few pranks in his lifetime, but Carolan’s prediction was so incredible she’d almost believed it herself.
“She is mine by right, and I will have her,” MacLugh muttered, casting a dark, uneasy scowl at her.
Begorra! Would the stubborn man not back out gracefully?
She risked a glance at the Norman, who looked as if he longed to come to her side. She shook her head slightly, and he kept his distance, yet stood clearly prepared to draw his sword if needed.
Leinster’s king did not raise his voice, but the deep boom carried through the great house. “Dara, will you have this man?”
“She has no say in this matter,” MacLugh objected before she said a word. “The law—”
“A king makes his own laws,” Conor insisted, “changing them when it suits his purpose.”
“Liar!” MacLugh jumped from his chair, pointing his finger at Conor. “You are a traitorous, cowardly liar.”
Conor ignored the insult and threw his hands wide. “I offer you peace.”
King MacLugh laughed, the sound rough and caustic. “You call this peace? O’Rourke steals our cattle daily, and you’re too old to protect the border.”
From nods of a few of Leinster’s men, Dara suspected MacLugh’s accusation had a bite of truth to it. That was why her father considered giving the Norman more authority, so Leinster’s defenses could be strengthened. Still, finding an Irishman for the position would have made more sense.
“Can we not settle our differences?” Conor asked, interrupting her thoughts.
MacLugh fingered the hilt of his sword. “Our differences will not be settled except by blood. War between Munster and Leinster or virgin’s blood on my sheets, the choice is yours.”
At MacLugh’s crude threat, Dara let a gasp escape her throat. Not that she was shocked, but the insult could not go unheeded. While she was not frightened, many a woman would be in tears, and she must act the part of a lady.
Strongheart’s hand moved to his sword hilt. It wasn’t his place to interfere. Again she caught his eye and silently signaled him to remain still.
“Come, come,” Conor admonished. “Let us eat. Let us be friends. If not friends, then let us agree not to be enemies.”
MacLugh spat on the floor. His eyes, beady and hungry, stared at Dara with suspicion. “Perhaps the lady is no longer a virgin? Does a babe already grow in her womb?”
Dara held her back so rigid, she feared she’d snap if this conversation did not come to an end. Her fingers itched to draw her dirk and aim it true.
Despite her silent behests, Strongheart stepped forward, placing himself between Dara and MacLugh. “How dare you insult the princess?”
MacLugh took in the Norman’s mail and jewel-encrusted sword and sent a confident sneer at Strongheart. Nevertheless, he kept his hand clear of his weapons. “I say what I please. Dara O’Dwyre is my betrothed. And no one denies me what is mine.”
Dara looked from Strongheart’s calm demeanor and blazing black eyes to the sneer on MacLugh’s thin lips. Every MacLugh and O’Dwyre warrior in the hall had risen to his feet. The air prickled with tension sharp as a blade of ice. It was so still she could hear the piping of an oystercatcher. In the space of a breath, the room could turn into a battleground. But Dara would not have bloodshed in her home.
“I beg your pardon, my lords.” Dara pressed her hand to her brow. “I fear these loud words have my head spinning.”
MacLugh’s lower jaw dropped in momentary surprise as if he’d forgotten her existence. Her father signaled his permission for her to settle the men. Strongheart didn’t move a muscle, but she caught sight of his lips twitching before his face again settled in a harsh mask.
Stepping boldly to MacLugh’s side, Dara lightly placed her hand on his sword arm and spoke softly, as if raising her voice would cause her more pain. “Perhaps, my lord, we should become better acquainted.”
With MacLugh’s frown, his forehead creased. “Why? You have no say in such matters.”
Dara signaled the kitchen girls to bring in the rest of the meal. They placed on the broad table tempting platters of roast venison spiced with meadow garlic, coddle, heavily salted pork, and pottage—made of finely chopped meat with vegetable sprouts and flavored with rowan berries. The succulent aromas rose up to tease the men’s nostrils, and, reminded of their hunger, their tempers cooled.
The cooks had prepared a salad of young dandelions, watercress, and sorrel from their herb garden. As the men’s gazes swept over oyste
rs, mussels from the lough, soups, goose eggs, and apple pudding, they edged toward the table. Under the eyes of so many men, the kitchen maids giggled, tripping lightly back and forth to the kitchen and returning with elderberries crystallized in honey, hot wheat breads, and fine Leinster cheese.
“Come.” Dara tugged on MacLugh’s arm, leading him to the table and indicating the seat to her left. The men seemed happy to forget the arguments for the moment and follow.
Her ploy had worked, and the tension in her shoulders eased. But when she spied a sprig of purple violets by her plate, her heartbeat quickened and her gaze flew to Strongheart.
Since he towered over the others, she easily picked him out of the crowd of warriors as he joined her and MacLugh at the table. Not by a flicker of an eyelash did he betray his action, and yet she held the Norman accountable. What other man would dare to offer flowers to a lady in front of her betrothed?
The men didn’t need urging to dig into the feast. King O’Dwyre took his chair at the head of his table, with Strongheart at his right hand.
“So, lady,” MacLugh asked between bites of roast, “how did it come to pass that the King of Leinster goes back on his word?”
She kept her voice modestly meek. “Da is honoring my wishes.”
Grease dribbled down his chin, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “Why should a maid’s wishes be binding?”
Having led him down this path of conversation like a sheep for slaughter, she delivered the death blow with a gentle smile. “Truly. Our betrothal was an arrangement between our mothers. ’Tis not binding.”
MacLugh sputtered. “Your da needs me guarding his border, girl. You had best reconsider.”
More likely MacLugh was helping O’Rourke steal their cattle, but she kept her tongue between her teeth until the urge to mutter unladylike words passed. “I admit ’tis hard to make such important decisions,” she lied.
Across the table, Strongheart choked on his wine.
“Perhaps you could sway the colleen?” Conor suggested.
MacLugh pounded his fist on the table, sloshing ale onto the fine linen. “I have not the time nor the patience for such—”
Strongheart lifted his goblet. “Courtly love. What maiden would not be swayed by small kindnesses? Flowers. Small gifts. A poem.”
Aye, Strongheart well knew the skills to court a woman. His kisses were as masterful as his skill with a bow or a sword. No matter how attractive she found him, she wouldn’t let his tactics sway her.
MacLugh stabbed a rasher of bacon with his knife. “Norman, if you know of such things, what do you suggest?”
Strongheart didn’t take a moment to consider. “Perhaps the lady would like a handkerchief, a fillet for her hair, a wreath of gold or silver, a girdle, a tassel, a ring. Any little gift which is pleasing to look at or which calls a lover to mind may win a lady’s favor.”
MacLugh belched, pushed away from the table, and rubbed his stomach. “Well, girl, what gift would sway your mind?”
Stalling, she replied, “I’ll have to give it some thought.” Did King MacLugh think her simple? He would not buy the Princess of Leinster as wife for the price of a trinket.
And what of Strongheart? Did he seek to give the Irish lessons in courtly love? Did he think a few flowers would win her undying gratitude and the richest county in Eire? She didn’t trust the twinkle in his dark eyes or the way his lip twitched as if he were trying hard to keep his amusement inside.
Strongheart shook a finger at MacLugh. “You cannot ask a woman how she likes to be surprised.”
MacLugh’s hand clutched the handle of his dagger, but Strongheart paid his unspoken threat no mind. “Use your head. A woman needs tenderness, understanding, flowers, in her life.”
Conor nodded. Some of the single men guffawed, but several married warriors smiled in agreement.
“If ye know so much about women, why are ye not yet wed?” MacLugh asked with a crafty sneer.
“It takes a special woman to tie a man’s heart to the land.”
It was more likely the other way around. It would take a special land, like Leinster, to tie Strongheart to a woman. Again Dara kept her tongue while she sought to keep peace in her home.
She tossed Morcolle a bone and with a nod, directed the kitchen maids to clear the meal, hoping the men’s hearty appetites had mellowed their warlike mood. Before the men could begin their argument anew, she directed the kitchen maids to refill the goblets with hearty Leinster ale. “Carolan, tell us a story.”
Carefully, the blind man straightened his legs before the blazing hearth, his joints cracking. He set his ale by his feet, and the men’s conversation hushed in anticipation of a good tale.
MacLugh belched and stood. “I have no time for children’s stories.” He grabbed Dara’s arm in a move too quick to avoid. “’Tis time for the lady and I to become acquainted.”
MacLugh had cunningly used her own words against her, and were she to object, it would appear unseemly. His grip tightened on her arm, and despite the bruises she’d wear later, Dara, weary of the fighting and constant bloodshed, did not object for fear the men would draw their weapons.
“Carolan, please continue,” Dara said, acceding to MacLugh’s demand.
Accompanied only by Morcolle, they walked through the room. MacLugh did not release her arm until he drew her outside.
A light rain had begun to fall, shrouding the pastures in shades of gray. Despite the people about, Dara had never felt so alone. It was market day, and, after coming to the castle to trade, villagers, huddled under blankets to keep dry, drove a stream of carts and wagons back home. Cattle ambled through the crowd, ignoring the screaming children who chased them with sticks. Dogs herded fat sheep, scattering chickens, and the air was heavy with the mingled odors of animal dung and sweat.
King MacLugh had the power to take her away from her people and the only home she’d ever known. If such a move meant her people would finally live in peace, she’d sacrifice her happiness. But such a powerful alliance with MacLugh would bring the might of O’Rourke and the Ard-ri upon the land.
“An alliance between us would bring war,” she said to MacLugh with gentle conviction.
“Bah. ’Tis no concern for a woman.”
Her hands twisted in her tunic. “And why not? At best we wait home alone while our fathers, brothers, and sons go to war. At worst we lose those we love.” She stopped under the protection of an archway, sheltering them from the rain.
“Do not try to beguile me with your lying tongue. I’m not fool enough to believe you will not wed me for fear of losing me.”
“Think, MacLugh. The Ard-ri will never let Munster and Leinster unite and threaten his power.”
“Together we could defeat him,” he boasted.
“And at what cost?” Dara squashed her darkest memory, the death of her half-sister, that rankled within her like a festering sore. Although she hadn’t suffered from the nightmares in over a year, she hadn’t forgotten her loss or the screams of an innocent child.
To avoid the destruction and death that hinged on her decision would require the luck of the little people. If she refused to marry MacLugh, he could raid their borders and cause untold problems. Her acceptance of their alliance would surely bring down the wrath of the other Irish kings. And the glint of suspicion and lust in his eyes didn’t leave her much reason for hope. Like all men, MacLugh saw marriage to her as a way to obtain power and increase his wealth. If she accepted him, there would be war—as there would be if she refused.
Chapter Five
STRONGHEART left his place by the hearth and stepped out of the hall into the drizzle, searching for Dara. His gaze took in the villagers’ departure and the guards he’d placed in strategic positions throughout the motte and towers.
Spying the brown warhoun
d against a far wall, he advanced toward the rain-sheltered archway. Walking softly in the wet grass but remaining out of sight, he edged close enough to hear Dara’s and MacLugh’s words.
“To gain all of Eire,” MacLugh said, “war is a cost I am more than willing to pay. Your fears are foolish. Why can you not be more like your mother?”
Dara gasped.
MacLugh’s voice turned wily. “Would you not like to be high queen?”
Strongheart heard a loud slap, like the sound of a hand striking flesh. Having no idea why Dara felt such insult, he still yearned to protect her. He inched forward to peer around the corner, but when MacLugh merely laughed, Strongheart kept his presence secret.
Dara’s face burned red with fury, and she twisted her hands as if in pain. “I am nothing like her.”
“So true. For you will not have a choice.” MacLugh’s hand snaked out to seize Dara, but she stepped into the rain and yanked her dirk from a sheath at her side.
Strongheart restrained his immediate reaction to defend her. Well aware of her ability with a blade, he forced himself to remain hidden, prepared to leap to her defense if she required help. Although he’d much rather take on the man for her, he already knew Dara well enough to guess she wouldn’t appreciate his interference, so he forced himself to wait.
If MacLugh had one whit of sense, he wouldn’t dare attack his intended bride. And for the moment the King of Munster was ignoring her weapon, either having no knowledge of her skill or slyly waiting to see if she’d let down her guard.
So far, she’d made the right move, stepping beyond MacLugh’s reach where the warrior couldn’t immediately overpower her. For now, Strongheart allowed her to fight her own battle. But letting her face the danger had his heart pounding. Just in case, he silently readied his sword, wondering all the while what MacLugh thought of the timorous maid she’d appeared to be during dinner turning into a dangerous woman, threatening him with a blade.
“Put that down before you harm yourself,” MacLugh ordered, obviously more annoyed than fearful she would do actual damage. The man was a fool. Strongheart had no doubt that if she so wished, she could carve out his heart and hand it to him before he died. But then, she had innumerable weapons at her disposal, and one of them was her sharp tongue.
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