Conquer the Mist

by Susan Kearney

  “And doesn’t know how to get down?”

  Dara called softly. “Here, kitty, kitty.” Then she stood still and listened for an answering cry. Chickens clucked, and in the distance cattle bawled. A horse whinnied. They caught the occasional loud word from the hall but no sound of a cat.

  Strongheart walked toward a weeping willow, his huge silhouette a darker black against the backdrop of the dusky sky. Reaching overhead, he swung himself into the tree.

  Dara ran to the spot where he disappeared, tilted her head back, and searched for him among the swinging branches. She heard a loud meow. “Can you see it?”

  “Yes,” he muttered. “But it’s so far out on the limb I’m not sure the branch will hold my weight.”

  “Try calling her,” Dara suggested.

  From above she heard a strange purring sound coming from Strongheart’s throat.

  Her brows knitted in puzzlement. “What are you—”

  “Hush.”

  The humming sound commenced again, sounding more like a lioness calling her young than a cat. Dara shifted her weight from foot to foot. She rubbed the crick forming in the back of her neck but didn’t take her gaze from the tree.

  The branches groaned, the humming continued, and she almost felt as if she were in a trance. Then after several long minutes the humming ceased. She jumped back as she heard several branches crack.

  “Got her.” Strongheart half fell, half leapt from the tree, landing lightly on his feet as if he were part feline himself.

  She stepped closer to see. “Is she all right?”

  Strongheart had the animal cuddled next to his heart, and, as if in thanks, the kitten licked his chin. He let out a low, hearty chuckle. “I’m not your mama, little one.”

  But the kitten didn’t seem to know that. She circled his hand, curled into a tight little fluff of fur, tucked her head into her body, and purred. The Norman gently scratched her back with his free hand, drawing even deeper purrs from the animal.

  Dara couldn’t help wishing she could take the kitten’s place. The thought of the Norman running his long fingers and strong hands delicately down her back was all too pleasant to contemplate. To banish her thoughts, she petted the soft fur.

  “Oh, you bold thing,” she scolded. “How did you get up that tree?”

  “Perhaps the warhound chased her. Or idle curiosity caused her to explore further than she should have.”

  His voice was so soft when he spoke, even if Dara hadn’t remembered his childhood pet, she would have recognized his affinity for cats. An odd choice for a man. Cats tended to be temperamental, demanding their own way, and men usually required catering to, not the other way around—still, the Norman was no ordinary man.

  She suddenly wanted to replace the cat he’d lost so long ago. “Would you like to keep her?”

  “What are you thinking?” His tone changed, grating harshly, and she was glad for the darkness that hid his face. Standing up to him was easier when she didn’t have to confront his hard, indomitable scowl.

  “I was thinking that most men prefer dogs.”

  His voice rose as if he was suddenly wary. “Why is that, do you suppose?”

  “Because dogs can be trained to do a man’s bidding.”

  “I’ve always been partial to cats. I like their fiery independence, their fey spirit.”

  His voice had become so husky she wondered if he spoke of cats or something else. Was he telling her he liked a woman who followed her own mind? But didn’t that contradict what he’d said to her father about fillies? Or perhaps he really was just speaking of animals. He had her thoughts spinning in such confusion she didn’t know if she was putting meaning he didn’t intend into his statements.

  “So keep her,” she insisted.

  The kitten didn’t stir. Their hands met over the little furball’s back. Their fingers intertwined. His voice turned hard but remained quiet. “I cannot.”

  The mixture of wanting and vulnerability she heard made her press him. “You haven’t kept a cat since . . . you were a boy?”

  “Cats do not belong in the middle of battle. They should be in a warm bed where ’tis safe.”

  Dara yanked her hand back as if scorched, all sympathy for him forgotten. She felt as if he’d thrust a battering ram into her chest, bruising her heart. “What battles are you planning, Norman?”

  “Can you not at least call me by my name?”

  “A Norman is what you are, and that is what I’ll call you,” she spat out, knowing she needed the constant reminder to keep her heart free of him.

  Snatching the kitten from his palm, she ignored the animal’s hiss of protest and marched toward the barn to return the kitten to its mother. Hot tears washed down her cheeks, and angrily Dara brushed them away with the back of her hand.

  Damn her for a fool. She’d known the Norman came to do battle. What else could she expect from a warrior except talk of war, war, and more war?

  STRONGHEART watched her go with regret. In his attempt to win her, he’d made progress. In spite of her distrust, he felt she was beginning to like him. But she demanded much, his Irish princess. By opening himself to her to win her heart, he’d forgotten the most basic of strategies: Let your enemy see only what you want them to see.

  He’d begun his campaign to win her by deciding what she liked and giving that to her, the flowers, the perfumed bath water, the afternoon rides. But by exhibiting tenderness he’d revealed compassion and sympathy, and this he could not allow. A soldier had no time for feelings. The softer emotions could have no room in a warrior’s life, for they would ultimately lead to his death. No matter how appealing he might find living a peaceful fairy-tale existence with Dara, it would never happen—the land here was too lush, the fields too green, for others not to try to take it. Only a strong man could hold Leinster.

  Living in peace pretending all would go well was a dream for naive women and children—not a war-hardened knight. He’d had that dream smashed early in life—when his brother had been taken from him.

  After his mother died, there was no softness or warmth in his world. His father’s hard-driving ambition had molded Strongheart into the foremost knight in England.

  And what advantage had that brought? They’d lost Pembroke, then his father had died, and only by Strongheart’s wiles had he hung on to the family’s wealth of gold and silver. Those riches would stand him in good stead. Although Dara did not seem interested in wealth beyond the richness of her land, perhaps the answer was to convince the father—not the daughter.

  Vowing to guard the softer side of his nature, Strongheart entered the hall, his burden heavier than it had been in some time.

  Throughout the evening repast, Dara didn’t look his way once, and when she found the silver necklace he’d earlier arranged to be placed by her trencher, she gave it away to the first passing kitchen maid.

  After the meal, while the men moved outside the hall—for it was still much too warm to remain comfortable inside by the hearth—Dara retired to her room. Gaillard and Sorcha skipped off together, his arm wrapped around her waist, his hand splayed over her backside. Carolan strummed his harp; the men drank goblets of ale. As the sky darkened, one-by-one the others wandered to their beds, leaving Conor and Strongheart alone.

  Strongheart’s gaze turned from the night sky to Leinster’s king. “If I could be sure of marrying Dara, I could assure Leinster’s prosperity for many years,” Strongheart told Conor, hoping the man had come out of the short spell of forgetfulness he’d exhibited during the evening meal.

  Conor walked alongside him, tipped back his head, quaffed the last of his ale, and snorted. “You may be the best warrior in Eire, in Britain, in all the civilized world, but again I say, you are only one man. And one man cannot stop the armies that gather on Leinster’s borders.”


  “There are more men like me,” Strongheart insisted. “Men who would follow my orders.”

  Conor sighed, which led to a coughing fit. Finally he spoke with regal composure. “To bring Norman men to Leinster would cause war.”

  “At least it would be a war you could win.”

  Conor fell silent and gazed across the dark pastures of Leinster. Finally he spoke, coming at Strongheart with a new line of attack. “Dara turned you down, did she?”

  “She will come ’round to my way of thinking. But winning a woman takes time—time that Leinster may not have.”

  Conor shrewdly switched the subject. “What would induce Norman soldiers to fight for Leinster?”

  “The usual mercenary compensation. Gold and silver.”

  Conor spat, his stream of spittle finding its mark, hitting a fly and silencing its persistent buzzing. “Leinster’s riches are in her land and her cattle.”

  Strongheart recognized the king’s words for what they were: an admission that gold and silver were rare in Eire. Even if Conor wished to hire Normans, the king did not have such riches.

  For the first time since his argument with Dara, Strongheart’s hopes rose. Conor needed him, and the need could be worked to his advantage. “Although my family lost our lands, we didn’t lose all our wealth. I will pay the knights. In return I would marry Dara and be named your heir.”

  His optimism increased when Conor didn’t reject his idea out of hand. “Holding this land is no easy task. You’d never live in peace.”

  Strongheart grinned, confident he’d eventually sway the older man. “That would depend on how badly we defeated your enemies, would it not?”

  “Dara will not like your plan. She does not see the necessity of bringing Normans to this land when Leinster’s men stand ready to defend their homes.”

  Strongheart practiced his best diplomacy. “The brave men of Leinster cannot fight the overwhelming odds of your many enemies. I only hope there is still time for me to go to Wales, raise the needed men, and return before an attack.”

  Abruptly Conor stood, signaling the end of the discussion. “I will not be pushed into a decision. I shall think on it.”

  “Do not think too long,” Strongheart urged, to which he received no reply.

  He walked the outer wall alone, thinking how close he was to his dream. His heart thudded with excitement. He would have Dara, and he would have this fine land. Perhaps he should have pushed Conor harder, forcing the king to agree. Despite his elation at the way the conversation had gone, tomorrow Conor might talk to Dara, and she might sway him back the other way.

  Time was Conor’s enemy. Surely word of the king’s infirmity, his forgetful spells, must have spread to his longtime enemies. The villagers might be loyal, but for the price of a flagon of ale, someone could always be induced to gossip.

  After Strongheart completed his circuit, nodding to the guards posted on watch, he entered the hall, hoping Conor wouldn’t forget their conversation by morning. As the Norman lay on his straw-stuffed mattress covered with hide, he tossed and turned, his memories returning to Dara.

  He finally fell asleep amidst the snores and grunts of Leinster’s men, images of Dara racing through his mind.

  Dara lept fearlessly from Fionn, her long red hair curling down her back, a fierce grin on her face. There was a dirk in her hand. Suddenly she threw the dirk at the helpless kitten.

  Strongheart tossed the kitten away to safety, but the blade caught him instead, the dirk piercing his heart. He felt no pain, but watched his body shatter into a thousand bloodless pieces. The pieces swirled and blew away like dust.

  Strongheart awakened from the nightmare, sitting up with a start, heart pounding and sweat dropping from his hair into his eyes.

  By the rood! Never before had a woman haunted his dreams. It was bad enough Dara tormented him by day, must she also haunt him by night?

  Knowing he wouldn’t fall back asleep easily, Strongheart strolled to the river and took a swim. He returned to the castle with a sense of peace, but the moment he lay down and closed his eyes, Dara’s accusing emerald stare prowled in the depths of his mind.

  Again he fell asleep.

  SHE CAME TO him like a mermaid out of spindrift, her smile taunting, her body wrapped in gold-spun gossamer, a perfect jewel in the rock pool. She wore a gold tiara that shone so brightly it hurt his eyes. Her laughter tinkled as merrily as the gently cascading water.

  “You can have me,” she taunted, beckoning him with delicate gestures, hips undulating in unmistakable invitation.

  “What of your betrothed?”

  She snapped her fingers. “He did not please me, and I turned him into a Kerry slug.”

  “I will please you, Princess.”

  She threw back her head and laughed, the long delicate tendons in her neck vibrating with amusement. “First you must catch me, Norman.”

  Diving into the pool, she swam toward the waterfall. He only took the time to remove shirt and boots before plunging into the warm water. Holding his breath, he swam deeper. With his lungs about to burst, he surfaced to find her waiting for him under the falls. Her tiara had disappeared, and she stood beneath the raining waters. Her flawless skin was dotted with sparkling droplets, her eyes brighter than emeralds. A golden tunic clung to every lush curve.

  Once again she beckoned, summoning him with a siren song so sweet he’d go mad if he didn’t touch her glorious, glistening skin. Splashing through the shallows, he thought he’d explode with the tightness in his chest. He had to touch, steal a kiss.

  He could feel the tightness gathering in his breeches, the material pulling unbearably taut. His heart caught, but he knew better than to give in to these tender emotions. The impulse was insane. Lust had caught him, and he reached out to her, half expecting her to vanish in a wisp of fairy dust.

  “Do you want me?” she whispered.

  He shot his most seductive smile. “What mortal man would not?”

  “Do not hold back,” she murmured.

  He smiled at her eagerness. “Greedy wench.”

  Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her from the waters to a bed of fragrant grasses covered with the finest silk cloth and strewn with rose petals. He stood gazing down at her water-kissed skin, at her high cheekbones flushed with desire, and thought he’d never seen a sight so fetching.

  “I want you, Norman.”

  “You shall have me,” he promised with a wicked grin, “but not yet.”

  She writhed beneath him. “When? When shall I have you?”

  “When I’ve licked you dry, Princess.” He chuckled then, loving the feel of her squirming bare flesh against him.

  She pounded his shoulder. “Beast. I must have you forever. You must give me your heart.”

  His jaw dropped in surprise that she was unaware of his feelings. “My heart is already yours, Princess. I gave it to you long ago.”

  Dara disappeared as if she were one of the little people. He stood searching for her in the glade, and the trickling water seemed to deride him. One moment she’d been beneath him, soft and fragile to his touch, but now he was alone.

  No, not alone.

  His twin brother, still in the cloudlike body of a thirteen-year-old boy but with the face of an angel, floated in the air above him. “What have you done?”

  Guilt stabbed Strongheart, and he fought against sinking to his knees. “I’ve fallen in love.”

  His brother folded his arms across his thin chest, his sad, familiar face achingly dear. “How could you give your heart to a woman?”

  “I had no choice. Do you not wish for me to be happy?”

  Huge puppy-dog eyes sent waves of sympathy. “To love is to open your heart and permit weakness to seep in.”

  “’Tis not fair. I want her.”
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br />   “Brother, I speak the truth. You can have her without giving your heart.”

  “She will not like this.”

  The vision of his brother rose overhead, his halo burning bright. In contrast, his deep-set eyes appeared bleak and lifeless. “Do not give her a choice.”

  “But ’tis not what I want,” he protested.

  “Do you not wish to see your sons grow to manhood? Or do you wish to become like me? Dead?”

  Sorrow filled Strongheart. “Bring her back to me, please. I will do as you say.”

  His brother nodded. “Your decision is a wise one. She’s calling you. Can you not hear her?”

  The breeze whistled in the trees, and his brother left him. Once again Strongheart was alone in the glade. Closing his eyes, he summoned his princess. He heard her calling, her voice crying with the wind.

  “Strongheart. Strongheart.”

  “STRONGHEART, wake up.” Dara shook his shoulder roughly. “Wake up.”

  He grabbed her and yanked her down on his pallet, his arms iron bands of muscle she couldn’t escape. She struggled frantically. “This is no time for games. Mata has brought word of an attack.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “ATTACK?” AS DARA stood in the main hall and watched the sleep clear from Strongheart’s eyes, he reached for his sword and stood, throwing off his blanket and rising to his feet in one graceful motion.

  More frightened than she’d ever been in her life, she twisted her hands in her tunic, determined that he wouldn’t see the trembling evidence of her fear. She spoke quickly, past the tightness in her throat. “Mata sent word that Borrack MacLugh and Tiernan O’Rourke have formed an alliance.” Strongheart reached for his armor, and she forced her fingers to help him don his mail for battle. “Their armies are gathered on the western border.”

  “The Ard-ri?”