Conquer the Mist

by Susan Kearney

  “His official position is one of neutrality, but Mata has heard rumors that he lent MacLugh and O’Rourke men to attack Leinster.” Knowing the severity of their situation, Dara forced herself to remain strong and hand him his shield, but she barely contained her tears.

  Never before had she been so thankful the Norman had come to their land to help defend her home. Although the armies of MacLugh and O’Rourke would outnumber the men of Leinster, she prayed the Norman and his squire, fighting on their side, would win the day.

  Struggling to keep her voice calm, she explained their normal precautions. “As we speak, the herders drive the cattle within the stone rings. Villagers are arriving with provisions of food. Those who cannot reach here in time will take cover in the woods and retreat into the marshlands if necessary.”

  Around them, women gathered children by the hearth. Others heated huge caldrons of boiling water to cast down if the enemy attempted to breach the castle walls. Sorcha was laying out herbs and clean linens for bandages while she ordered the kitchen girls to sweep the hall free of rushes so they needn’t worry about fire. Beds were set aside in one corner for the wounded. Outside, the frantic whinny of horses combined with the clucks of geese and the braying of cattle.

  “What of the men-at-arms?” Strongheart placed his helm on his head, suddenly looking more ominous. With his shiny mail, longbow, and sword, he could not have appeared more formidable. Dark, snapping eyes burned with intensity from within the helm, and for a moment she pitied his enemies, the knot in her stomach loosening.

  “My father waits in the high tower where he directs our men. I am to bring you there.”

  “I will find my own way.” His hands grasped her shoulders. “Pack a small bundle of clothes, a warm cloak, and your sleeping furs. Don’t take more than I can tie to my warhorse’s saddle.”

  Her heart sank like a lead ball in water. “I do not understand.” But she did. The Norman thought they might lose. How could she endure losing her home? She couldn’t imagine living anywhere but Castle Ferns. Not even losing her life frightened her as much as going through the years homeless.

  The Norman’s quick and urgent command cut through her panic. “For once, do as I ask.”

  Her father needed the Norman to plan strategy, yet, when Strongheart turned to leave, she grasped his forearm, keeping her voice low so others wouldn’t hear her terror. “Do you think we will lose?”

  She shuddered at what would happen to her if MacLugh or O’Rourke got their hands on her. There were worse things than dying.

  His gaze gentled. “I would not give you false hope. Losing, ’tis a possibility, and we should always be prepared.”

  His head dipped, and he kissed her mouth hard, fierce yet tender, and, without words, she tried to tell him how she felt. She pressed herself against the cold bite of the mail he wore, uncaring of who might see. In just an instant, their kiss heated to a fire that could fuse metal. He clutched her so tightly, her feet rose off the floor, and she had difficulty drawing air into her lungs. And still, she couldn’t get close enough. For a moment she feared they would all die, and she would regret never knowing what it would feel like to have this man love her. She longed to go back to their day at the rock pool, wished things between them could have turned out differently.

  Before she was ready, he set her back on her feet and gave her bottom a swat. “Pack your things, Princess.”

  Through the long hours of the afternoon, Dara remained inside the castle walls with the women, her stomach twisting and turning into a thousand knots. Until his voice went hoarse, Carolan sang songs to entertain the children, leaving their mothers free to cook for the men.

  At the first warning, the villagers had butchered a cow, and now the women took turns at the heavy spit, hoping tomorrow they would be alive to partake in a celebration feast. Occasionally men entered the hall, but the news wasn’t good.

  Advance scouts had spotted the enemy and returned shaking their heads at the overwhelming force they must meet. She’d heard that Strongheart and Gaillard rode in the first line of attack beside her father’s finest men-at-arms. Strongheart planned to circumvent the advancing army and attack their flanks from the cover of the woods, where he and Gaillard would pick off men with their longbows.

  When she was unable to stand the tension another moment, Dara hurried through the bailey and climbed their tallest watchtower. She found her father standing alone, staring out into the night lit by a full moon. She gasped at the sight of hundreds of campfires dotting the distant fields like so many vermin on a flea-ridden hound.

  In silence, she took her da’s hand and stared into the stifling heat of the darkness, knowing this could be the last time she and her father stood together on the land she so loved. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and when she refused to give in to them, the drops tickled down the back of her throat. This was where she was born, where she wanted her children to be born, and this was where she wanted to die.

  As if reading her thoughts, her father turned to her, his voice swelling with grief. “We may lose the fight before the morrow.”

  In the distant fields the cattle circled and brayed, as if sensing strangers in their midst and crying out their sorrow. She ached at the regret and defeat in his tone. “Nay, Da. You will find a way to win.”

  “Mayhap not this time. But you will survive. You must return and reclaim what belongs to us.”

  Uneasy that he had said “you” and not “we,” Dara shook sweaty hair from her eyes. “You sound as if you have already yielded.”

  Conor spoke with patience as if she were still a babe. “Sometimes the hardest part of valor is to retreat with enough forces to fight another day.”

  Dara suddenly recalled the Norman’s orders for her to pack. Had he and her father made plans about which she knew nothing? Or did her father, knowing the people of Leinster would never accept the return of an O’Dwyre as their king if Conor yielded without a fight, intend to sacrifice the Norman? “Why did you send Strongheart out?”

  “I would have gone myself, but I thought I could do more here. He’s the best man we have.” Conor acknowledged the Norman’s superior prowess. “I am praying for a miracle.”

  She sighed at the frustration in his tone. “Surely there is more we can do?”

  Moonlight beamed down onto his sad smile, emphasizing the gray of his hair. “Do not fear, colleen. This old man still has a few tricks down his boots.”

  As if on cue, a brush fire lit the fields near the base of the third ring of stone. Men shouted, and the cattle, always nervous around fire, stampeded away from Ferns toward the armies camping on the hills. Even in the safety of the tower, the ground shook from the thousands of cattle thundering toward the enemy.

  Dara heard and sensed, more than saw, the panic and terror of the armies dotting the fields. Dust rose into the air, tingeing the moonlit scene an eerie red.

  Grasping Da’s arm excitedly, she quivered with hope. “You are clever, Father.”

  “’Tis an ingenious idea—but not one I take credit for. ’Twas the Norman’s plan.”

  “Will it work?” Was it possible for them to win without the loss of lives? Without wives becoming widows and children growing up without fathers? If they could just hold Ferns, then all the doubts the Norman had put her though would be worth his presence here.

  They may have taken their enemies by surprise, but MacLugh and O’Rourke were not stupid men. Already she spotted a brush fire set in the grass to one side of the cattle, a sign of their attempt to turn the stampede. For a moment, it appeared the crazed cattle would race straight ahead, but then, slowly, they altered course away from the camping armies.

  Begorra! As she watched their scheme fail, Dara wrung her hands. “How much damage did we cause?”

  “Not enough.” Strongheart’s voice made her jerk around. He stalked into the tow
er, helm in hand, his face streaked with soot and his eyes glittering hard.

  She was so relieved to see him alive and uninjured, tears came unbidden to her eyes. Glad for the darkness that hid her womanly emotions, she remained silent. While the men talked of battle, she drank in the tall, solid length of Strongheart, the confidence in his tone, the proud tilt of his head.

  Her heart twisted with the sudden bitter knowledge that Strongheart had usurped her position as her father’s advisor. Part of her couldn’t help but fear that the Norman saw Eire’s internal strife as an opportunity to grab land, wealth, and power—possibly even Ireland’s kingship—from the warring clans. Strongheart could use Leinster as the base of his quest to seize great power. Sadly she foresaw burning fields, looted villages, and many deaths.

  She’d lost track of the conversation over battle tactics for a few minutes until her father’s mention of her name drew her thoughts back to the present. “Take my daughter to Mata where she will be safe.”

  “No,” she protested, sick fear making her voice shrill. “I will not leave.”

  Strongheart’s eyes glittered in the moonlight. “Where lies safety?”

  Her father waved in the general direction of the hills, apparently still unwilling to give the Norman their secrets until absolutely necessary. “To the monks. Take her to Mata. She will guide you to their secret cave in the woods.”

  Dara glanced back at the fields, and the bones in her knees went weak. “We cannot go anywhere. Look.”

  The invading armies’ torches converged, the light of so many beacons clearly showing the inevitable advance on Ferns.

  “Take her and go, Norman,” the King of Leinster ordered. “If we cannot hold, I will meet you at Do-bar’s Stone at dawn.”

  Dara knew better than to argue. The men would fight better without the distraction of worrying over her safety. Still, running from her home in the middle of the night and abandoning her people struck her as wrong, cowardly. It would be better to stay and die. Yet even if they lost, many of her people would survive, and they must have a leader. They would need her. Strongheart gave her time only for a quick hug with Conor before he dragged her out of the tower. She grabbed her pack, and Strongheart plucked it from her numb fingers.

  A wolfhound howled in the distance, and she, too, wished to howl at the moon, at the imminent loss of her home, at the thought that war could again take from her those she loved. To try to forget the acrid taste of defeat, she concentrated on racing to the stable in record time.

  Once inside, she automatically hurried to Fionn, but even his nose thrusting into her hand in welcome did not lighten her heavy heart. In the time she fitted Fionn with a bridle, Strongheart had saddled his warhorse, tied Dara’s pack to the saddle atop his, and mounted. He waited for her, and she swiftly followed suit.

  “Stay close to me,” he commanded in a tone she dared not disobey. “Do not halt for anything or anyone.”

  “But—”

  “If I stop to fight, you ride on. Understood?”

  As they rode out of the stable she nodded, her throat tight, tears burning her lids. Would she ever again see her father? Or Sorcha? Would she ever again live at Castle Ferns? This was her home, her people, and without them she felt as adrift as a rudderless ship.

  “Understood?” he asked again.

  She realized he hadn’t seen her nod in the dark. “Yes.” She urged Fionn into a gallop to keep up with him.

  In an attempt to distract herself from her gloomy thoughts, she lifted her head, seeking what lay ahead. But the grim sight was worse than her most frightening nightmare. Torchlights held by hundreds, maybe thousands of men blocked their path to the west and north. Although Mata was hidden in the woods to the north, they were forced to ride south to avoid the advance and would have to hope they could circle north once again.

  Rising out of the darkness, men without torches blocked their path, their silhouettes menacing, their weapons ready for battle. Strongheart slew two men with his sword before their foe realized an enemy rode among them. Dara slid her hand to her waist to rest on one of three dirks hidden there. She wouldn’t use the weapons unless necessary. Once thrown, the possibility of retrieving them was unlikely.

  It seemed as if they’d ridden for hours, but when she looked over her shoulder at Castle Ferns, she saw they were still inside the third ring of stone. If they didn’t clear this area soon, MacLugh and O’Rourke would have them trapped. She’d be a married woman by morning. Or dead.

  The thought of being forced to marry a man who even now sought to kill her father brought bile spewing up the back of her throat. She’d rather perish with Leinster’s men-at-arms, but Strongheart wasn’t giving her that option.

  The Norman had defeated several soldiers, but more men would soon arrive. She’d just urged Fionn to an even faster pace when, in the bright moonlight about one hundred feet ahead, she spied a kitten huddled in the middle of the field.

  Without thought, she slowed, and Strongheart’s warhorse pounded beside her. “We cannot stop,” he shouted.

  Behind her, metal clanged on metal, men cursed, and she shivered at a hideous death scream. Shutting out the abhorrent noise, she slowed Fionn some more. It would take just a moment to jump down, scoop the kitten to safety, and be on their way. She slowed to a trot.

  As if sensing her refusal to obey his command, Strongheart urged his horse ahead and straight toward the kitten at a full gallop. Did he think to trample the animal in the dust?

  “Move, kitty, move.” She urged Fionn faster, calling for Strongheart to swerve.

  But then the Norman did something totally unexpected—even for a Norman. In the space of a heartbeat, he flung one leg out of the stirrup and over the saddle, slinging his entire body onto one side of his destrier. She held her breath, expecting the saddle to slip as he hung with all his weight to one side.

  The kitten froze in terror, and she could only hope it remained still. Riding at full speed, Strongheart meant to scoop the animal to safety. Just then a silhouette emerged out of the moonlit hell of night to confront them. Her heart slammed against her chest.

  With his eyes on the kitten, Strongheart could not see his attacker from behind his warhorse. Even if she warned him of the danger, he couldn’t fight from his precarious position.

  Dara’s hand clasped her dirk. Her eyes narrowed in concentration. It was up to her.

  She had never tried such a difficult throw while galloping on horseback. Her foe sprinted toward them on foot, spear hefted, a target over fifty paces away. She’d have only one chance to save Strongheart’s life.

  “Steady, Fionn.” Holding her breath, she timed her throw to when Fionn’s gait was smoothest.

  Flicking her wrist, she hurled her dirk a little ahead of her target, estimating her speed, his momentum, and the need to hit his throat to silence him before he summoned help. The man staggered, dropped his spear, and collapsed to the ground.

  Dara’s gaze flew to Strongheart, who’d miraculously managed to snatch the kitten from the ground without falling off his warhorse. His mount galloped by without shying at the body on the ground, and the Norman slowly regained his seat in the saddle.

  Before she passed on, she had one horrible glimpse of hands clutching a weapon embedded deep in the throat and bulging eyes soon to glaze in death. Once again, she was sick at the necessity of taking a life. Knowing that stopping could cost them both their lives, she battled the need to empty her stomach.

  They rode on and on through the night, slowing only to rest the horses. At the first stop, he thanked her for saving his life, but she was in too much shock to acknowledge his gratitude. Dara directed Strongheart through gorse and heather across the rounded uplands, skirting the mountains and hugging the coast. She avoided the thick woods and thickets that would slow their progress. The ride was not a long one, and yet tens
ion made each minute stretch to an eternity.

  It appeared they’d escaped, sneaking through the net cast by the armies surrounding Ferns. Sickened as she imagined the loss of lives and devastation of property, she wearily wondered if she could ever again go home. Their enemies’ occupation of Ferns turned her stomach, and, despite the heat, she shivered.

  “Are you cold?” Strongheart asked after they had stopped so the horses could drink at a mountain stream.

  “I never thought it possible to sweat on the outside and yet feel so cold within that my teeth chatter.”

  Concern deepened his tone. “You had a terrible fright. How much farther?”

  She tried to answer, but her shaking prevented a response. Wrapping her arms around her midriff, she rocked back and forth, trying to work the stiffness out of her cramped muscles.

  Strongheart nudged his warhorse next to Fionn, took the reins from her numbed fingers, and wrapped them around his saddle. In one swift movement, he grasped her waist and lifted her off Fionn and crosswise onto his lap.

  “What are you doing?” she sputtered, finally forcing words past her shivering lips.

  He handed her a flask. “Drink this.”

  She choked down the fiery liquor, and fire flared in her throat. From one of the packs, he removed a cloak and wrapped it over her shoulders.

  Leaning her cheek against his chest and closing her eyes, she allowed him to take care of her. He felt so good, so solid, and she drew on his strength. If she had to be on the run, away from home, she couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather be with than the Norman. His arms represented a haven of safety in her world suddenly gone mad with war.

  Tomorrow she would take stock of her situation and make plans for her future. But tonight, she gave in to the sharp pain stampeding through her head like a herd of cattle. She yearned to collapse into the luxury of sleep.

  The Norman kept his horse to a walk. The animal might not have Fionn’s speed, but it had the doggedness of a plow horse. Her eyes closed, she knew not how long, before the Norman shook her awake.