Conquer the Mist

by Susan Kearney

  Donal laughed, and then the laughter turned into a hacking cough. “Ah, the passions of youth. What I would give to be young again.”

  Dara spotted a pitcher and poured the old man a goblet of ale. She held it to his lips until he swallowed.

  “Your hands are like ice, child. Help yourself to a blanket and take off those wet clothes.”

  “If men are looking for us here,” Strongheart asked, “are we putting you in danger?”

  “O’Rourke’s men crossed the border yesterday,” Donal said. “They may return but probably not until after the rain stops.” While Dara and Strongheart shared a silent glance, the old man stirred the stew, ladled it onto a trencher, and handed them each a piece of thick wheat bread laden with butter. “Eat. As for the danger, at my age I have not much to lose.”

  “Donal, are you ill?” Dara took his gnarled hand, knowing her father would not wish his old friend to suffer. But in truth, where once she could have sent a servant to help, after losing Ferns, she could do little for him.

  “’Tis just the ague, acting up in the rain.”

  That explained his need for the oversized fire. As she retreated to a dark corner, removed her wet clothes, and wrapped a blanket about her, Strongheart added more wood to the fire before eating his meal. “I will cut more logs before we leave.”

  “No need. My grandson looks after me,” Donal told them, his voice softening with affection. “He’s hoping I will give him Morallach, Great Fury.” He gestured to a gleaming sword with pride. “My father’s father fought the Vikings with it.”

  Dara scooped the delicious stew onto her bread and washed it down with ale, noticing while Strongheart had cleared his side of the trencher, Donal hadn’t eaten much. She gave the Norman half of her huge portion, knowing his belly would not yet be full.

  She feared his prodigious appetitive was easier to appease than his need for Irish clothing. Not many of their men were of his size.

  “We hoped to find clothes to disguise us,” Dara mentioned. “A lad’s clothes for me. Anything that will make the Norman look like one of us.”

  Donal’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you headed, girl? I hear your da crossed the Irish Sea and fled to Britain.”

  When she would have answered, Strongheart elbowed her to be quiet. “For your own safety, sir, ’twould be best if you knew naught of our plans.”

  Donal sighed, combed his fingers through his beard, then jerked his thumb toward clothes tossed into a corner. “Och! ’Tis a sad time when the only way a man can help his friends is by his silence. My grandson’s clothes and a hat to cover her hair will serve Dara well. But as for you, I have to think on it.”

  Dara tried on the tunic and cap, pleased the loose garment did much to hide her curves. She yanked on the cap and shoved her hair inside. “Will this do?”

  “You are much too pretty for a boy.” Strongheart cupped her chin, his fingers gentle. “Remind me to spread some mud across your face.”

  She stuck out her tongue at him. His eyes glittered, and if they’d been alone, he would have kissed her. Instead, he swatted her backside.

  A moment later, Donal snapped his fingers and pointed. “Look in the bottom of that chest. When my grandfather defeated a Viking warrior, he kept the man’s tunic.”

  Putting aside their playfulness, she and Strongheart lifted the lid of the chest and dug past blankets and tunics. Despite the musty-smelling contents, she searched and sneezed her way to the bottom. Strongheart held the lid while she pulled out a neatly folded black woolen tunic. “Is this it?”

  “Aye,” Donal said. “There’s an amber brooch to hold the shoulder pieces together.”

  Unfolding the garment, Dara held it to Strongheart’s shoulders. “’Twill do.”

  “Only if you sew up the rent in the back,” Donal murmured. “My da said grandfather could not take pride in the Viking’s death, but he knew not why. I always suspected the man was taken from behind.”

  Dara flipped the tunic over. Long-faded bloodstains had stiffened the material. A straight gash rent the wool from neck to waist, but it would take no time for her to repair the damage. Retrieving needle and thread from her pack, she set to mending, pleased to have such a soothing, ordinary task to perform.

  While Donal asked no more questions, it didn’t take an educated monk to figure out they intended to meet with her father in Britain. As she sewed, her father’s old friend filled them in on the border patrols and the latest conditions in Dublin.

  Eyes nearly closed, his hand combing his beard, Donal settled back in his chair. “I suppose you can hide the hilt of his fancy sword, and the clothes may fool O’Rourke’s men—until the Norman speaks. What will you do about his accent?”

  Dara finished her sewing, knotted the thread, and bit the end free. “I will do the talking.”

  “No, Princess.”

  She wagged her finger in his face. “You must stop calling me that.”

  “’Twill seem odd if a big man remains silent while the younger boy talks,” Donal said.

  “Not if I explain pirates cut out his tongue.”

  “But I have a tongue,” Strongheart protested.

  How could she forget his tongue? As her thoughts turned to what they’d shared earlier on the hillside, she reddened, unlikely to forget just where his tongue had been and how she’d writhed in pleasure. To think of such a thing at a time like this made her snap out her words. “If you keep your mouth closed, no one need know I lie.”

  As if Strongheart had read her thoughts, he winked at her, and she flushed from her cheeks to her toes. “I—I will say I saved his life, and he is now my faithful servant,” she improvised, turning to Strongheart and hoping he would see the sound reason in her argument. “That way you can protect me, and no one will think anything of it.”

  Donal started coughing. “Aye, but pirates?”

  “I have heard they ply the sea between here and Rome,” she told him.

  Strongheart shook his head. “No one will believe you.”

  “I do not care whether they believe me or not,” she raised her voice in exasperation. “What does it matter—as long as they don’t guess the truth? As long as they stay out of our way, we shall make good our escape.”

  Strongheart raked his hand through his hair. “Letting you do the talking could get us into trouble.”

  “You will have to trust me, Norman.” She tossed the finished tunic at him. “Try that on. And unless you can learn to speak our tongue without sounding like a barbarian or have a better idea, do not mock mine.”

  “Ah, she always was a feisty little devil. I do believe she gets her passion from her mother.”

  Both men shared a long look and chuckled. Dara glared and they ignored her. Finally Strongheart contained his mirth and shrugged into the tunic. Although it was a bit tight across the chest and a little short in length, just shy of his knees, a pair of brogues could solve that problem. She adjusted the amber brooch at his shoulder and stepped back to admire her handiwork.

  Just at that instant, three men barged into the hut, the pinging of the rain having masked their approach. Strongheart reached for his sword. Dara moved in front of him and knocked it down, hoping they wouldn’t notice the gems on his sword hilt glinting in the fire’s light.

  “Come in and shut the door before my bones freeze,” Donal complained in a much weaker voice than before.

  “We heard you had visitors,” said the largest of the three intruders.

  Although her hands itched for her dirk and her heart raced, Dara fought to keep her face serene. There could be no mistaking O’Rourke’s right-hand man Ewen, with his cheek scarred from a long-ago border raid against her da. Although she knew of him by reputation, the man had never seen her, and she hoped to talk her way out of a fight. Who knew how many men waited outside? If only s
he could outwit them and prevent the Norman from using his warrior skills. Beside her, she felt him tensing for a fight.

  The wily Donal coughed twice. “My sister’s grandson Pol and his friend have come to visit.”

  Thankful for Donal’s reminder to play the part of a boy, she hoped Strongheart had also picked up the message. His overprotectiveness could get them all killed.

  “Friend?” Ewen, clearly suspicious, leaned so close, his sour breath left a bad taste in her mouth. “Can he not speak for himself?”

  She dared not move away and expose Strongheart’s sword. “He lost his tongue to pirates,” Dara said, her lie sounding ridiculous to her own ears.

  “Why, he’s a giant. Ain’t he a wee bit large to be playing with the likes of you?” Ewen’s beady eyes turned on Dara, the Norman’s size apparently more suspicious to him than her wild story.

  “You leave him alone,” she demanded. “He went simple after he lost his tongue. He’s harmless unless anyone tries to hurt me. Ma nursed him back to health and thankful he is.”

  “Where did you come from?” Ewen muttered, losing interest in the simple giant who kept his eyes downcast and shuffled close to Dara.

  It was a good thing Ewen and his men couldn’t see the fire she knew blazed in Strongheart’s eyes. She needed the men to move on before she or the Norman made a fatal mistake.

  Quickly she made up another story. “From the North. We fled the fever in the city.”

  As if on cue, Donal coughed. The men backed away, eyes suddenly wide. Unaware Donal’s cough was due to age, they feared the malady that often led to fevers, then death. Taking advantage of their ignorance, Dara stepped forward and coughed, too. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth. “We are not sick. Would you care to share our meal?”

  The men practically fell over one another backing out the door. She slammed it behind them with a satisfied grin, dusting her hands as if she’d rid the place of vermin.

  Strongheart grabbed their packs. “We must leave before someone informs them Donal does not have a grandson named Pol.”

  Donal grinned. “But I do. Stay a dry night under my roof and leave at dawn. You will be just as safe here as fleeing through the hills in the dark.”

  “He is right,” Dara agreed, eager to spend the night by the fire and out of the rain. “Besides, in our disguises as an Irish lad and his simple mate, we cannot do anything to create doubt. Traveling before the rains stop would be suspicious.”

  Strongheart, eyes gleaming with light reflected from the fire, dropped the packs and advanced on her. “So I am simple now, am I?”

  She stepped back, her mouth going dry at his hungry expression. “I did not want them to realize how dangerous you are.”

  His hand snaked out so fast to seize her, she gasped. Before she could think to struggle, he’d drawn her against his chest. Her cap tumbled to the floor, spilling her hair down her back. Ignoring Donal’s chuckle, the Norman’s hand wound into her hair, tipped her head up, and he kissed her with a pent-up passion that left her breathless. All thoughts of the lies she’d told flew from her mind. There was only Strongheart’s warm heart beating against hers, his lips sending new quivers surging through her, and the intoxicating musk of his essence overwhelming her.

  Although the Norman couldn’t love her the way she knew he wanted with Donal across the room, he held her close through the night. Never had she felt so cherished.

  After they bade Donal farewell, and through the next weeks of their journey to Wales, the Norman allowed her to take charge during the days, but at night, as he took her to his bed and his powerful arms curved around her, he left no doubt who was truly in command.

  Long after leaving Fionn and the destrier to Donal’s care, they reached the shores of Wales. Dara looked at the foreboding mountains and endless succession of shale slopes and ached for the rounded green hills of home. Although they travelled upon horseback, she kept sliding in the English saddle and missed Fionn’s broad, familiar back.

  As they passed through towns, tall, dark-haired, and longheaded villagers looked at them with suspicion, their strong, ridged brows frowning in swarthy scowls, and she longed for the open warmth of Irish hospitality. Although it was no colder than Leinster, the only time Dara felt warm was at night when the Norman held her in his arms.

  Her heart grew heavier with every mile of boulder clay they trod. Although she tried to be brave, she missed her land, her people, her home. The rough bands of old rock from numerous headlands appeared like gnarled fingers reaching around her throat to choke the breath from her. The dark, harsh countryside held a mysterious aura that left her with chills of dark foreboding she couldn’t put aside no matter how hard she tried.

  They broke through a windswept forest and reached Cardiff Castle, a stone edifice with distinctive round towers, in the dwindling light of a dusk rain. Her father’s men camped around the hill, and Seumas told her she’d find her father inside with Warren DeLacy, Strongheart’s friend.

  The round keep, four stories high with very thick walls, had its entrance on the second story. To reach it, they entered a forebuilding which led to a drawbridge. In the castle courtyard grooms mucked out the stables and fed the horses. A smith worked at his forge on horseshoes, nails, and wagon fittings. Domestic servants emptied chamber pots. Laundresses soaked sheets, tablecloths, and towels in a wooden trough that smelled of wood ashes and caustic soda.

  They entered the drafty and gloomy hall of the inner bailey. Dara hid her distress at finding herself dependent on strangers for food and even the roof above her head. Surveying the dirty hall, with its spiral staircase leading to the basement and upper floors and battlements, she doubted DeLacy had a wife, for cobwebs, thick as birds’ nests, occupied several niches. The floors, though strewn with rushes, lacked herbs such as lavender or hyssop to sweetly scent the air. Indeed, she had to raise the sleeve of her tunic and breathe through it to avoid the fetid odors of rotten food soiling the floor. Wax candles impaled on vertical spikes supported by wall brackets lit the murky room. The trails of spiraling stale smoke left a musty taste in her mouth. The central hearth was bordered by stone, and at the high table and dais she found Warren DeLacy, a tall, square-faced man, with her father.

  Conor gestured wide with his arms. “I will not wait until spring to retake my home. We must act quickly.”

  “Da!” Dara raced from Strongheart’s side to her father and threw her arms around his chest. “Are you well?”

  The King of Leinster wrapped his daughter in an embrace. “As well as a man without a home can expect. But we will soon remedy that.” He steered her away from the man down a narrow, drafty hallway. “Now that Strongheart has brought you safely to me, we can begin a campaign to retake our home.”

  As soon as she knew the others couldn’t hear her words, she stopped and faced him. “Did you promise the Norman I would marry him?”

  Her father gave her a sheepish grin. “We need his support, and I could not help but notice the way he looks at you. The man knows how to take care of a woman.”

  Her father cupped her chin and smoothed the hair back from her face. Her cheeks heated, and she remembered how Strongheart had cared for her, slowly taking off her clothes, her linen tunic between his teeth. Begorra, how she wanted him beside her for the rest of her days. “Will our people accept a Norman laird?”

  “Our people are loyal,” her father assured her. “Besides, once you are wed, there is not much even the Ard-ri can do.”

  But without the Ard-ri’s approval, there could not be peace. A prickle of fear crawled down her spine. “There will be war. ’Twould be better if the high king legitimized our marriage.”

  “There has already been war, and we lost our lands,” Conor reminded her, as if she were a forgetful child. “Resign yourself. We must fight to regain what is ours.”

  Dara shivered.
“With O’Rourke and MacLugh united against us, we do not have enough men to defeat our enemies.”

  “You let me worry about the battle plans. You warm yourself before you catch a chill.” He opened a door and led her into a small room that had not been aired.

  Refusing to be put to bed, Dara protested. “What of your new ally DeLacy? What does he want in return for his help?”

  Strongheart entered the dark room, and the space seemed to shrink with his size. “You leave DeLacy to me. My friend will jump at the opportunity once I explain the way of things.”

  Anger and fear twisted around her heart and squeezed. “What are you saying? Surely DeLacy will not return to Leinster with us?”

  “He can raise an army of trained knights,” Strongheart told her gently.

  Her voice rose to almost a shriek. “Norman knights?”

  Conor frowned. “You did not tell her?”

  “Tell me what?” she demanded, her fist raising to her mouth at their betrayal. The Normans would bring war. Her half-sister’s screams echoed in her mind. Visions of Sorcha’s bloody thighs after the rape sent her senses reeling.

  “We need men to retake Leinster,” Strongheart told her, his eyes not quite meeting hers.

  “Strongheart can pay the Normans with gold,” her father added.

  Blood drained from her face. “Are you daft? Every king in Eire will raise an army to fight us.”

  Strongheart’s fist slapped his open palm. “But we will win. Do you not want to go home to Ferns? How many times have you told me you wished to raise our children there?”

  “But we will never have peace,” she whispered, sheer black fright sweeping through her. They planned madness. All of Eire would fight over Leinster. Her knees buckled, and she sank onto the straw mattress in misery.

  Damn him! He’d lied to her. Strongheart and her father had made this arrangement behind her back.

  Knowing how she would fight this scheme, the Norman had made love to her, never once telling her his plan. If he thought to use her heart, to wait until she fell in love with him before telling her the truth, he would find out he’d misjudged her. As she looked at him, standing before her, his handsome face carved into a mask of concern, his dark eyes pleading with her to understand, she felt as if her heart were being ripped into pieces and devoured by vultures. Dropping her face into her hands, she shook with rage. “Get out. Both of you leave me.”