Conquer the Mist
Page 17
“Sorry, Princess, but I do not know the way. We just passed the spot where we had lunch and Mata spoke with you.”
She raised her hand to her throbbing temple and blearily opened her eyes. “Head for the base of those mountains. Once we get close, Mata’s monks will find us and lead us inside,” she told him, before sleep took her once more.
She awakened to the sound of brothers praying in the communal room beside the small alcove where she lay. A low chanting echoed off the smooth rocks of the cave. Torches in wall sconces lit the damp gloom. Nearby, the abbot stirred a heavenly-smelling concoction over a small brazier, and beside Mata sat Strongheart, both talking in voices too low for her to hear.
She threw off the blanket, thankful the pounding in her head had ceased, and joined the men by the brazier, grateful for the warmth. Her feet trod over stones smoothed by the centuries of monks’ passing footsteps, and her heart ached at the thought of what would become of the monks without her father’s protection. Although it was not cold inside the cave, she doubted she’d ever feel warm again.
With his reddened eyes, Strongheart looked as if he hadn’t slept. If possible, his face was even sootier than last night. A small cut at his forehead had bled and scabbed.
She frowned, observing him more closely. He’d removed his mail, and his shirt was torn in several places. Brownish stains—blood—spattered his breeches.
“You returned to Ferns last night,” she guessed, realizing she must have slept many hours.
Mata handed him a bowl of stew and fresh honey bread with butter. “He just returned.”
After selecting a few choice morsels for the kitten, Strongheart set aside his food and took her hands in his. “They took Ferns.”
Her throat went dry, and she licked her bottom lip. She had no more tears. Her insides went numb. “My father?”
“He escaped with more than half his men. Sorcha and Gaillard are with him,” he told her before she could ask. “We’re to meet them at dawn,” he reminded her.
Finding herself surprisingly steady after she’d heard the worst, she squeezed his hands, then released them to accept a portion of stew and bread. Da would need her. She must eat to keep up her strength.
“MacLugh and O’Rourke’s men are looting Ferns.” He sat beside her and took a spoon to his own food.
“The villages?”
“Burned to the ground.”
She gasped, well aware of the hardships her people would face this winter without proper shelter. Children would go with empty bellies; some would freeze. Many women who had suffered rape would lose their lives to miscarriage before spring.
Mata excused himself and left her alone with Strongheart in the windowless cave. She longed to cry great tears of sorrow, yet could not. She longed to scream, tear out her hair, and pound her fists on the walls, but did not.
Had the Norman been right? Should she have agreed to let him bring back more warriors like himself to hold their land? She didn’t know. The thought that her stubbornness cost the lives of her people and all she held dear ate away at her.
“Why were O’Rourke’s men so vicious?” Strongheart asked. “I have seen looting before,” he shuddered, “but not like this.”
Dara stood and paced the small room. “It’s all my mother’s fault.”
“Your mother? What has she to do with this?”
Dara sighed, realizing how loyal her people remained to her. Not one had gossiped of the shameful story. Somehow now that she’d lost her home, keeping the secrets of the past mattered not. “My mother Murgain was very beautiful with long copper hair and the curves of a love goddess. She was known throughout Eire as a woman with unquenchable passions, a woman rich in cattle. Before my mother lived with my father, she was the wife of one-eyed Tiernan O’Rourke. He did not treat her well. Once Murgain set sight on my father, she wanted him. She coaxed him into her bed and became pregnant with me.”
Strongheart settled his back to the wall, his long legs spread before him, the kitten on his lap. He didn’t comment, but listened with an intensity that made her nervous.
She continued, choosing her words with care. “My father could not stand the thought of O’Rourke beating the lovely Murgain, and he wanted his child, so when Murgain packed up her jewels and herded her cattle over the border, he was full of joy.”
Strongheart’s brow arched. “What did O’Rourke do?”
“He was enraged. His people laughed at him, saying he was not man enough to satisfy my mother’s passions. His fury turned into a vendetta. He raided the border repeatedly. Many lives were lost, including my half-sister’s.”
“Were your parents happy?”
“Aye. For a short time.” She raked her hand through her hair and pushed it out of her eyes, the old hurts less painful than the fresh horrors of the night before. “After I was born, the Ard-ri visited, claiming he wanted peace among the lesser kings. Once he saw my mother’s beauty, the solution to the problem came easily to him. He, the high king, took the lovely Murgain for his wife.”
Strongheart’s voice rose, and the kitten stirred but did not rise. “She was forced to leave her babe?”
Despite her numbed state, the old emotions tasted acrid. “On the contrary, she encouraged the high king to pursue her.” She paused, then continued, fighting but failing to keep the bitterness from her tone. “Murgain did not want me. Unfortunately, before she left, she betrothed me to MacLugh. That mistake and my refusal to marry him is causing more wars.”
“But if she loved Conor, why did Murgain leave your father?”
“I doubt she loved anyone but herself. All her life men doted on her beauty, and she enslaved them with . . . her wiles. The power and riches of the Ard-ri were more important to her than my father or her child.”
“’Tis unbelievable.”
“But true. The high king’s pleasure with her did not last long. The Ard-ri caught her cavorting with a stableboy and banished her to a monastery to repent her sins.”
Despite his exhaustion, his brow arched. “She is still alive?”
Dara tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. “I do not know, and I do not care. Mata occasionally passes on messages, supposedly from her, but whether ’tis a trick by the Ard-ri to keep my da’s hopes alive, I cannot say. Do you have any idea of the suffering that woman has caused and is still causing? Because of her long-ago deeds, half a lifetime later there is war across Eire. O’Rourke cannot forgive my father for stealing his wife. My father cannot forget O’Rourke’s savagery. Nor can he forgive Murgain’s betrayal. And the Ard-ri, instead of settling the perpetual dispute, is encouraging my father’s enemies. The Ard-ri still blames Conor for spoiling Murgain so she would not look upon him with favor.”
Strongheart’s weary face expressed sympathy, but his eyes still had a puzzled slant. “Why did you seek to hide the story from me?”
She lifted her chin, knowing all she had left was her pride. “Murgain is a source of shame, and we do not parade shame before strangers.”
“Her acts do not reflect on you.”
She shrugged. “Some people think they do. Others would see me pay for her mistakes. And lastly, I do not like to remember I come from her loins.”
She’d told him enough and hoped he’d never guess the rest. Since she’d only hinted at Murgain’s vast appetites, it was unlikely he would connect the past to her fears. Besides, she suspected the coming days would be hard ones and would give none of them time to dwell on the past. They would have to focus all their efforts on surviving the present.
After leaving the kitten with Mata, they rode to Dobar’s Stone in silence. Strongheart’s gaze darted around in search of a trap, but Dara thought that unlikely. The monks knew these woods and assured her the enemy had remained in Ferns, drinking fine Leinster ale and celebrating thei
r fortune.
When they reached her father’s encampment, guards, exhausted resignation on their faces, allowed her to pass through their perimeter. Downcast at their loss, the men-at-arms huddled wearily in small groups around tiny campfires. The smoke, wisps of harsh black in the breezeless air, hugged the ground and made her throat raw.
Many warriors had injuries, and those that could helped men less fortunate. Others cleaned and sharpened their weapons, sewed torn clothing, or dozed. Every one of them worried about loved ones at home, and yet they remained with her father, loyal and determined to retake their homeland.
Gaillard greeted Strongheart with a stern nod. But it wasn’t until she spied her father that the true enormity of the disaster sank home.
Chapter Twelve
CONOR’S SUNKEN eyes peered from his haggard face. Soot deepened the creases on his forehead, and the day-old stubble on his cheeks and jaws only heightened his burning intensity. His unkempt gray hair had been singed, but as Dara neared, she saw the injury had not reached his scalp. With relief, she spied just one cut on his upper arm, a minor one in need of cleaning but not deep enough to require sewing.
Leaping off Fionn, she raced to give her father a hug, but for the first time in her memory, he did not return her embrace. She wound her arms around his chest and hugged him anyway, but at his continued rejection, her throat tightened, and a few tears brimmed over her lids and onto her cheeks.
He set her back from him, and she barely had time to surreptitiously wipe away her stray tears before he spoke gruffly. “Do not make this harder for me, colleen.”
Strongheart approached the clearing, but she kept her gaze on her father. “What are you saying?”
Her father avoided her gaze. “The Norman and I have matters to discuss, lass.”
Her heart suddenly thumped like a battering ram. “Then perhaps we should—”
“You will remain here.”
She couldn’t let them shut her out of their plans. Without her there, the Norman might talk her father into escalating the war. Her neck prickled, and goose bumps broke out on her back. “No, Da. I have a right to hear—”
The King of Leinster placed his gnarled hands on his hips. “You have only the rights I give you.”
He waved to Seumas, and the giant man-at-arms led her away and toward a campfire and breakfast. Furious that her father now preferred to discuss their limited options with the Norman, and hurt that he no longer considered her advice worthwhile, she huddled by the fire, unable to choke down a morsel of food.
The Norman and her father, heads bent together and deep in discussion, strolled some distance from the ragtag army. Weary of watching them for clues to their conversation, Dara drew her knees to her chest, crossed her arms, and rested her forehead on her arms.
To retake Leinster her father had two choices: either wait until MacLugh and O’Rourke’s army returned to their homes, or seek an ally to lend Leinster’s men additional support. Either way she expected the campaign to be an extended one. She would not go home for some time.
A hand on her shoulder caused her to raise her head. She looked up to see Sorcha’s warm brown eyes and a weary smile of greeting. “As long as we have our lives, all is not lost.”
Dara embraced the older woman, this time receiving a hug in return. “Och, Sorcha. ’Tis good to see you. Was it very bad?”
Sorcha patted her hand, and they both took seats by the fire. Dara sipped wormwood tea, but the soothing warmth did not dispel her chills. The sun rose above a blood-red horizon, and a wolf howled, flushing a flock of blackbirds from the heather.
Sorcha drained her tea and set the cup by her side. “It could have been worse. We lost Ferns quickly with our men outnumbered twenty to one. The Norman set smoke fires to cover our retreat. Without Strongheart, many more of our people would have died.”
“There’s more, isn’t there?” Dara sensed her friend was holding back. “What are you not telling me?”
Sorcha licked her lips. “Gaillard thought mayhap I should not speak of it. But ’tis better to be forewarned. Borrack MacLugh shouted threats. Many heard his vow.”
Dara looked up. Strongheart and her father approached, their expressions grim. “Tell me, Sorcha. Tell me quick.”
“MacLugh vowed to make you his wife.”
Dara sucked back her gasp, and Morcolle licked her face, but she barely felt the wetness of his tongue.
“MacLugh searched every corner of the castle for you,” Sorcha whispered, her gaze darting from side to side. “Once he realized you’d escaped, he chopped the furniture to bits in a rage so terrible, his face mottled with fury. He will not give up while he still draws breath.”
Dara dropped her face into her hands and bit back a sob. Was she destined to repeat her mother’s mistakes? Cause misery wherever she went? If she married MacLugh, could they all go home? The thought terrified her. She didn’t want him, but she had to face the fact that refusing him had cost many lives. It was her fault children would grow up without fathers. Her fault women had been raped. Her fault Leinster lay in enemy hands.
“No one blames you.” Sorcha patted her shoulder. “We knew the necessity of your leaving.”
Sorcha knew her so well. Although her escape protected her people’s interest, Dara detested playing the part of a coward. Flinging her hair out of her eyes, she lifted her chin. “I could marry another to thwart MacLugh.”
“And he could make you a widow.”
Knowing Sorcha was right, Dara swallowed the lump in her throat. “Marriage to me is his only legal hold to the land.”
When one of her father’s men rode at a gallop into camp, drawing his horse to a blowing halt and throwing clouds of dust into the air, their conversation ended. The man leapt from his horse, shouted Conor’s name, and when men pointed, he sprinted toward her father.
By now Conor and the Norman had joined Dara and Sorcha by the fire. All of them plainly heard the man’s message. “MacLugh comes with his army to force Dara to wed.”
The Norman and her father exchanged a long glance. Then her father questioned his informant. “How far away is the advance party?”
“Ten minutes, maybe less.”
Strongheart vaulted into his saddle. “Come, Dara. ’Tis time to ride.”
She looked from one hard face to another in confusion, wishing she could have overheard their discussion. Somehow she knew vital matters had been decided, matters that affected her and her people. Her father was sending her away from all she held dear, sending her away with a stranger, a Norman. “I am not going with him.”
Conor pulled her to her horse and practically tossed her onto Fionn’s back. “Do as the Norman says. Most likely, MacLugh will believe you are with the main army. ’Twill be safer if you ride off alone.” He struck Fionn’s flank with his palm. “Ride.”
Behind them, her father called the men to arms, and her blood raced at his fiery tone of old. She might not agree with their plans, but the Norman had taken the decision from her hands, and she would not soon forgive him his arrogance.
Who was he to decide her future? And with her father’s vacillating memory, Strongheart could speak nonsense, and Conor might agree. But in front of Leinster’s men, she dared not argue. Even a wrong decision was better than her father losing the confidence of his warriors.
Although she understood her father’s reasons for sending her away, pain stabbed her. She’d lost her home and might never see her people again.
Dejected, she settled onto Fionn’s back, and the Norman set the fleet pace. She had to admit it, if she had to be protected by a man, she was glad it was the Norman who would defend her to his utmost, and his best was more than any man in Eire. And yet, as they climbed into the hills, she looked back over her shoulder with her heart in her throat. Her father must not sacrifice himself for her.
Strongheart headed for the cover of the forests in the hills of Leinster, and they left the gorse and bracken behind. Now as Fionn picked his way through the oaks and firs, she concentrated on ducking the low-hanging branches.
While the mountains had a rocky base, on the lower elevations coniferous trees clung to the thin layer of soil. Under the shade of the giant trees, it was dark, and although the day promised to be almost as warm as the previous ones, Dara couldn’t shake the ominous chill wrapping around her bones like a blanket of ice. Would she ever be warm again?
Her fingers barely held on to the reins, but Fionn followed the warhorse of his own accord. After twenty minutes of hard, uphill riding, Strongheart halted by a bed of bog rosemary, his hand going to the jeweled hilt of his sword.
“Listen,” he whispered.
A fly buzzed, and Fionn’s tail swished. In the distance, an animal moved through the brush, its hasty flight marked by the snap of twigs. A raven took flight.
Then an unnatural silence descended.
Strongheart drew his sword. She hefted her dirk, mouth dry and chest tight. No one had followed them, but it was possible MacLugh had anticipated their flight and circled in front to cut off escape. She felt vulnerable in the clearing. But Strongheart must have stopped there to give himself maneuvering room if he needed to fight.
Before she had time to gasp, three men, MacLugh in the middle, rode out of the cover of the trees toward them as if they’d been waiting for her and the Norman. Her blood raced and she fought to remain calm. In the density of the wood, fleeing would be impossible. Standing ground and fighting was the only prudent course. Edging nearer to Strongheart, she took care not to crowd his horse. Fionn, unaccustomed to battle, shied nervously.