A soft knock interrupted her. When she called out for the person to enter, she saw a petite young woman with light brown hair and a plump figure. At the sight of the boy, the woman’s face lit up with joy, and she held out her arms.
‘Sheela!’ he cried out, and raced into her arms, clinging tightly, while the woman murmured softly in Irish, caressing his hair.
A sinking feeling spiralled in Genevieve’s stomach. ‘Are you his mother?’
The woman shook her head. ‘His aunt. My name is Sheela. And you are Lady Genevieve, I understand?’
Genevieve nodded. Sheela had used her title as a courtesy, though it was unnecessary here in Erin.
‘My sister went after her husband and left Declan with one of the tenants,’ Sheela said. ‘He wandered off that morn, and though they searched for him they could not find him.’ She drew Declan into her arms, stroking his hair. ‘When I received a message that he was here, I came at once.’ The boy squirmed, wanting to be let free.
Releasing her nephew, she said, ‘I must thank you for saving him. Isabel told me of how you rescued him from the pond.’
‘I am only glad I found him in time,’ Genevieve replied.
Declan picked up a wooden toy sword and began striking it against the floor, singing a nonsense song to himself. Genevieve managed a smile, but as she watched the young boy she felt a pang of regret. Sheela would take Declan away, and Genevieve would not see him again.
During the past few days, while she’d nursed him to health, she had grown accustomed to waking beside him, his warm body cuddled next to hers. For a time Genevieve had allowed herself to dream that the boy belonged to her.
‘You look a great deal like Fiona MacEgan,’ Sheela remarked. ‘I saw her at a distance last summer, when my husband and I visited family in Leinster.’
Genevieve picked up her needle, trying to act uninterested though her curiosity was piqued. ‘I have been told I look like her,’ she said. ‘But you must have seen someone else. Fiona MacEgan died two years ago.’
Sheela frowned. ‘I was certain it was she.’ Then after a moment she shrugged. ‘But it could be that you are right. I did not see her except from far away.’
When they were about to leave, Genevieve asked if she could hold Declan once more. Taking him into her arms, she smoothed his hair, pressing a kiss to his temple. ‘I am glad you are well, little one.’ Declan squirmed to get back to his aunt, and Genevieve let him go, feeling a tug of regret.
One day, she promised herself. One day she would have a child of her own.
* * *
‘And you believe he lies?’ Sir Hugh asked his commander.
Robert Staunton gave a nod. ‘I do. His loyalty to MacEgan is stronger than we predicted. He will not betray him.’
‘Then kill the woman.’ Marstowe’s eyes glittered with impatience. ‘Send her body to the traitor. And prepare our men for attack.’
Staunton concealed his distaste. ‘My lord, would you not rather wait for the Earl? With his men to join ours we would be better prepared.’
‘No. I’ll not let it appear that our men are incapable of protecting my betrothed.’
It was a suicidal mission, and Staunton knew it. ‘I hear that MacEgan intends to journey to Tara.’
‘You said the man was lying.’
‘That may be true. But King Henry is holding court at Tara. You could bring the matter to his attention. I am certain the Irish could not withstand an attack by the King’s army.’
Marstowe’s expression changed and grew calculating. ‘You are right. The King would never allow an Irish barbarian to threaten one of his subjects. And the Earl would, of course, want me to bring it before our sovereign lord.’ He stared, lost in thought. ‘I was supposed to take Genevieve to Tara for the King to witness our union.’
He smiled. ‘This will work to our advantage. Have our belongings packed. We will go to Tara and ensure that King Henry knows exactly how my bride has been threatened.’
In his mind’s eye he was certain Henry would take his side. And as for Genevieve, he would cleanse all thoughts of the Irishman from her mind until the only man she desired was himself.
* * *
The faint sounds of music came from inside a chamber. Bevan frowned, following the tones into the solarium. The haunting song was one he’d never heard before, and delicate strings filled the room with sorrow. When he stood at the doorway, he saw Genevieve seated at the harp.
Lightly her hands moved over the strings, as though she didn’t want anyone to hear her playing. Her eyes remained closed as she lost herself in the music. He hadn’t known that she knew how to play.
He cleared his throat and she jolted, her hands moving back from the strings as though they were on fire.
‘I am sorry. I didn’t—I shouldn’t have—’
‘You needn’t apologise. You play very well. Did your mother teach you?’
‘No. When I was fostered in Wales I learned. One of my foster-sisters was from Ireland. She brought her harp from home and taught me.’
Colour heightened in her face, and he saw then that she had been crying. She rose and faced him. ‘What is it you want?’ Her eyes were red and swollen, and he wondered what had made her weep.
‘I am leaving now.’He searched for the right words, wondering if she was angry with him for the way he had touched her the night before. He should apologise for it, for his actions had gone further than he’d intended. ‘I wanted to see that you are well before I go.’
‘I am fine.’ She cleared her throat and regarded him with a cool expression. ‘Though I do not understand why you have forbidden me to see my father.’
‘He will come for you after we have settled the matter of my lands.’
‘I understand that those lands were yours,’ she said. ‘But my father is not the enemy. You were not there to defend Rionallís. My father protected your people when Strongbow attacked last spring, else your enemies would have destroyed the fortress.’ Her posture straightened. ‘He saved their lives.’
At the mention of Strongbow, Bevan felt his temper flare. Strongbow’s forces had landed at Hook Head, destroying raths and murdering hundreds of Irishmen only two years ago. It was during that battle he’d lost both Fiona and his eldest brother, Liam. Patrick had barely managed to defend Laochre.
And then, last spring, the invaders had attacked Rionallís.
‘Your people do not belong here,’he said, ‘and I’ll not surrender to your father what is mine. Nor will I be forced into a marriage not of my choosing.’
Genevieve’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘And do you think I choose to wed a man who does not want me? I know how much you despise my people, but I’ll not let blood be spilled for the sake of my pride.’
Gritting his teeth, he finished, ‘I am leaving. After I return we need not see one another again.’
She paled, and he noticed her trembling hands. A hollow feeling invaded his skin, but the words of apology would not come forth. Genevieve was right. He had not been there for his people. His grief had consumed him and he’d left his kinsmen to the mercy of the Normans.
Genevieve held her composure and inclined her head. ‘As you say.’
Without another word, she turned and strode away from him.
Her anger increased with each step, until she realised she had gone outside without her mantle. The bitter winds whipped her hair into her eyes, and she shivered.
‘Here,’a voice called out. She caught the brat just as Ewan threw it.
‘You are wrong about my brother,’ he said.
‘Were you listening?’
He gave a sheepish grin and nodded. ‘Of course.’
Genevieve sighed and wrapped the blue woollen brat about her, shielding her head. She supposed it was foolish to chastise the boy. ‘What am I wrong about?’
‘Bevan does want you. And if you weren’t a Norman I know he would take you as his bride.’
The beliefs of a boy hardly older than four and ten did
little to reassure her. Genevieve continued her walk towards the inner bailey, Ewan following at her heels. ‘Well, it is fortunate for him that I am Norman. And he is so thick-witted he cannot see past it.’
‘He came to say goodbye to you,’ Ewan pointed out. ‘Come to the gate with me. We can watch as the soldiers ride past.’
‘I have no wish to see him again.’
‘If we climb up to the gatehouse we can throw snow upon him as he passes,’ Ewan suggested.
In spite of her anger, Genevieve laughed. ‘No.’
They stood in the courtyard, and as she watched the men riding past her good humour faded.
Bevan caught sight of her and drew his horse to a stop. Flakes of snow drifted across his dark mane of hair. He stared, his gaze fastened upon her. Her heart beat rapidly as he leaned down to her.
‘Tá brón orm.’
His gloved hand touched hers, pressing against her palm. The intensity of his gaze almost undid her.
Genevieve blinked back tears and nodded in response. ‘I am sorry, too.’ She swallowed hard, and in a wistful moment she imagined his lips upon hers. Her body remembered full well his touch, the way his hands had moved over her bare skin.
His apology was genuine, and it eased the resentment she held within her. He joined his men, and Genevieve ignored the curious stares of the people around her. Though some would never call his scarred face handsome, it had become dear to her.
She was afraid the King’s decision would alter their lives irrevocably. For when Bevan returned he would become either her enemy or her husband.
* * *
The High King Rory Ó Connor’s fortress of Tara loomed over the vast lands of Éireann. His wooden structure dominated the landscape, with several mottes surrounded by palisades. Each of the five ancient roads converged at this place.
As their horses drew near, Bevan heard cries for mercy from the dugout mound used for hostages. Though a fair High King, Rory Ó Connor was not fond of the Normans. Bevan wondered how Rory would respond to the issue of his land. The Norman King Henry was visiting him, accepting allegiance from the Irish kings and chieftains.
On the far side, he spied the large Lia Fáil stone. At the sight of the grey standing stone he wondered if the stories were true. It was said that the stone would cry out when the true High King was present. Bevan rode past the Lia Fáil, hiding his disappointment when the legendary stone remained silent. Instead, he focused on his task. If all went well he could put the matter of Rionallís to rest once and for all.
Yet he resented the fact that Patrick had involved the Norman King. The dispute could easily have been resolved in the Brehon courts. A foreign king had no right to interfere with land that belonged to him.
The men busied themselves with eating and drinking, enjoying the attentions of serving wenches. Bevan awaited his opportunity to speak with the High King, the food tasting dry in his mouth.
Rory Ó Connor was speaking with Ailfred, the chief poet. As his advisor, Ailfred enjoyed a position of honour, but the man cared little for ceremony. He wore frayed robes, and his grey beard hung well below his chest.
Seated beside the High King was King Henry, laughing and jesting with his men. He appeared confident and relaxed, but there was no mistaking the shrewd politics of the Norman King. Bevan knew that Henry wanted nothing more than to add Éireann to his kingdom. Rory Ó Connor was also aware of it, from his strained expression.
In time, Bevan was summoned to speak before them. Ó Connor sat upon the dais, his hand cradled over a goblet of mead. He handed Bevan another goblet, inviting him to sit beside him.
‘I know why you are here,’ the High King began without prelude. ‘And I have agreed to grant Henry the authority to pass judgement upon this matter, since it concerns his subjects.’
Bevan drank the mead, keeping his face impassive. He didn’t know why the High King had bowed to the foreigner, but no doubt it was a political agreement. He didn’t like it at all.
The smile on Henry’s face was guarded, as if the man were judging him.
‘We understand that you once dwelled upon the lands called Rionallís,’ Henry began. ‘What we do not understand is why you left it unguarded and free for the taking.’
Bevan met the King’s gaze evenly. ‘Those reasons are my own. But Strongbow did not earn the right to take the land from us and grant it to the Gaillabh.’
‘And so you thought to take it back?’ Henry remarked. ‘Your men attacked the lands belonging to Thomas de Renalt, the Earl of Longford, but did not succeed in retaking them. And then you tried to murder their daughter’s betrothed, Sir Hugh Marstowe.’
Bevan’s grip tightened upon the goblet. ‘I defended myself against his sword, tá.’
‘You wounded him and took his bride. But, thanks be, he has recovered from his injuries and is here now, to claim the rights to Rionallís and to his betrothed.’
Bevan turned and saw the face of his enemy as Marstowe entered the chamber. Clothed in fine silk and gold, Marstowe sent him a triumphant smile.
Bevan’s hand went automatically to his sword, but it was not there, as the King would not allow weapons in his presence. His fists curled, fury rising. Knowing that Hugh had struck Genevieve, hurt her, made him long to sheathe his blade in the knight’s heart.
‘Kidnapping is a punishable crime,’ Henry said.
‘I am not subject to your laws,’ Bevan responded.
The Norman King’s face darkened with anger. Rory Ó Connor intervened. ‘But you are subject to the laws of your king and to the laws of our land.’ With a nod towards Henry, Ó Connor continued. ‘We will find a solution to satisfy both parties.’
It was then that the chief poet Ailfred spoke up. ‘The penalty for abduction must be made. You may pay the cumals to Sir Hugh Marstowe, her betrothed.’
‘She came willingly,’ Bevan argued. ‘And she suffered beatings from Sir Hugh. He must pay restitution for his crimes against her.’
‘If she came of her own free will, then you must pay to her family her body price and her honour price,’ Ailfred said.
Bevan sensed where the conversation was heading. ‘I want my property returned to me,’ Bevan said, barely keeping his temper in check. ‘The Lady Genevieve has asked to return to her parents. She awaits them at my brother’s fortress.’
Ó Connor directed his gaze to Henry, and the King’s expression tightened. ‘It seems that our Irish warrior refuses to compromise,’ Henry remarked. ‘Since he is unwilling to pay the penalties, we should simply remove the Lady Genevieve from his custody. And we would not advise returning Rionallís to him, since he has already shown himself incapable of defending it.’
Bevan took a sip of the wine, his hand gripping the goblet so hard the metal bent. Hugh sent Bevan a slow, knowing smile. Bevan returned it with a hardened gaze.
The fermented beverage did naught to appease his anger. A knot coiled in his stomach at the thought of Marstowe possessing his home. Worse was the prospect of Genevieve falling beneath Marstowe’s fists. If he did nothing to prevent it, he would be responsible for any harm that befell her.
The invisible noose of duty tightened about his throat. He had no choice but to offer for her.
‘What if Lady Genevieve wed me instead?’ Bevan asked softly.
‘If she were to become your bride, then Rionallís would be returned to you,’ Ailfred admitted. ‘This could be a fitting solution. Though you would still owe a fine to her family, and to Marstowe.’
‘Her father would never permit such an alliance,’ the Norman King argued.
If it meant recapturing Rionallís and keeping Genevieve out of Marstowe’s grasp, Bevan would do it, despite his misgivings.
‘Bring Lady Genevieve to Tara,’ Bevan suggested. ‘And let her choose between Marstowe and myself. Whomsoever she chooses shall have Rionallís.’
The High King turned to King Henry. ‘Would this be a suitable compromise?’
Henry shook his head. ‘The Earl of L
ongford has the right to choose a husband for his daughter. But we have no objection to either suitor, so long as the Earl grants his consent.’ With a nod towards Bevan, he added, ‘If her father agrees, she may choose her husband. But MacEgan must pay restitution for his actions. His fines must be heavy for attacking the fortress and kidnapping the Earl’s daughter.’
Sir Hugh looked displeased, but to Bevan’s surprise he voiced no objection. ‘She may choose.’
Bevan was immediately suspicious. Surely Marstowe knew Genevieve would never choose him? His quick agreement made Bevan grow cautious.
Everything about the man made Bevan tense. His richly-embroidered clothes, the golden hair, and the way he sent a mocking smile towards the women of Henry’s court—it made Bevan all the more determined to keep Genevieve away from him.
‘MacEgan,’ Sir Hugh said, by way of greeting, ‘I shall look forward to emptying your coffers.’
Bevan’s eyes burned with fury as he met Marstowe’s gaze. ‘And I look forward to the day my sword will end your life.’
Hugh folded his arms across his chest. Beneath his breath, he murmured, ‘Do you really believe I will allow you to take her from me?’
Bevan stepped forward, using his height to look down upon Hugh.
Anger flashed across the knight’s face, but Hugh centred his attention upon the King, bowing. ‘I propose another alternative, Your Majesty. I would challenge this Irishman to face my sword.’
‘And I would accept that challenge,’ Bevan replied, watching the man as though he were a deadly serpent.
‘Stand down, Sir Hugh,’ King Henry said. ‘The matter is yet to be settled.’ The King sent a nod towards a group of soldiers, and two stepped forward to prevent the fight. Bevan did not struggle against the guards, but he kept his attention fixed upon Marstowe.
‘We have already passed judgement, Sir Hugh,’ the King said. ‘You will respect it, as a loyal subject of the crown.’
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 65