by Mia Pride
Placing a hand on his arm, Ealasaid nodded and gave him a sad smile. “I know it well, Jeoffrey. I am not a bad person. I am a lass who loves a man and believed him in danger. I know better now. I will not let you down.”
A weight lifted from his chest. He believed her. He nodded and forced a tight smile in thanks, before being approached by the third rider.
A tall older man stepped beside him and from the peripherals of his eyes, Jeoffrey recognized the ironsmith of Miathi, Hamish. Jeoffrey furrowed his brow, wondering what purpose Hamish could possibly serve for his wife, but then the image of her first arriving to their village flashed in Jeoffrey’s mind. Clarice had been a disheveled and injured, covered in mud and bruises with a torn dress and clutching Wee Jeoff, ready to collapse with exhaustion. It had been Hamish whom she first approached and clung to. It had been Hamish whom held onto her while she sobbed and shook.
“Hamish,” Jeoffrey turned to the older man and put his arm out. Hamish clasped his forearm and shook. The man may be in his middling years, but he had the grip of the strongest warrior in all of Miathi. His right upper arm bulged with muscle and Jeoffrey knew it was from so many years working as an ironsmith.
“Jeoffrey. When our king called for a few people to speak for your wee bonny wife, I jumped at the chance. I will never forget the crazed look in her eyes, the desperation in her voice, or the trembling of her body. She was afraid for her life, and her son’s…your son. I saw the bruises on her cheek and I knew she was fleeing from true danger. Nay doubt about it. I am here to tell this to the Brehon.”
Overwhelming relief caused Jeoffrey to let out a deep breath. With all the people willing to speak on behalf of Clarice, he felt as if they had a very good chance of walking away from this without having to start a war. The Brehon was to arrive on the morrow. The day after, her trial would start. Helplessness took hold. He wanted to see his wife, to hold her and promise her everything would be alright, but he was restricted from seeing her. Mayhap once the sun went down and the village was asleep, he could try to see her. Until then, all he could do was wait, as impossible as that felt.
“Alastar!” Jeoffrey slapped Hamish on the back with a smile and walked toward his best mate with his hand on the hilt of his trusty sword. With a jerk of his head toward the empty field where the other warriors had been training not long ago, he moved toward the center of the flat grass-covered area, knowing that Alastar was behind him.
No words were needed. Alastar knew what it was Jeoffrey sought, what he needed most in this world. Distraction. They would spar with their swords until neither of them could see through the black of night.
Chapter 16
The guard out front had been kind enough to bring her a blanket and a candle. Even with her cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders and the blanket over that, the air inside the small round room was frigid. The cold had a bite that left her unprotected nose feeling frozen and she could see her breath puffing out of her mouth like wisps of smoke in the flickering light of the one dying candle.
She needed to relieve herself but to do so would require her to move and it suddenly felt like more of a task than she was able to achieve. Her joints were stiff and her body shook. Fear and anxiety were her only companions. She knew Jeoffrey was out there somewhere fighting for her, but she could not feel hope. Gregory had wanted her enough to murder and lie, and he would not ever stop. Jeoffrey had promised to fight to save her if she was found guilty, but that did not ease her nerves. The loss of more lives was not what she wanted.
A slight tap on the door shook her out of her thoughts and the kind face of her guard peaked through as he cracked open the door. “Are you alright, lass?”
“C-cold. Too cold,” she murmured. Just then she realized her lips were numb and could barely move.
Stepping in further, he brought with him a large candle and froze when he saw her. “This is not right. You will freeze to death.”
No words could escape her dry throat to respond. It had been almost a full day stuck in this small cold room and her guard had been kind enough to bring her supplies, but it had not been enough. With the babe growing in her womb, she needed more water, food, and warmth. Stepping forward, he kneeled down to her level and placed a bowl of warm stew to her lips. His touch was gentle as he scooped her hair behind her ear so it would not fall into the stew and she sipped slowly, feeling the warmth of the meal slide down her aching throat. The flavor burst in her mouth and a small moan of gratitude escaped her cracked lips.
“I brought more water,” he whispered as he handed her a large jug. Her hands fumbled beneath the blanket to break free, but the joints of her fingers were too stiff to grip the jug. “I hate to see you this way, Clarice. Harrold would be furious.”
He picked up the jug and helped her drink. She sputtered and coughed after a moment, her clumsy throat having swallowed wrong. He rubbed her back until she stopped coughing. “My thanks, Àdhamh. I am fortunate tis you guarding me and not one of Gregory’s companions.”
“Tis not fortune, Clarice, tis calculation. I made certain to be the one to guard you. Your husband and I have spoken. He is working tirelessly to gather your witnesses. I am one of them, and I am convincing Maggie to speak as well. Three more have arrived from Miathi.” He held out the stew once more and she slowly took it in her hands, needing its warmth. She would not speak her fears. She did not know who had come to speak for her, but she refused to allow her hopes to be raised. She must expect and plan for the worst. If she were to become Gregory’s slave, she would be much worse off than if she had simply agreed to marry him. Wives had rights. A man was not allowed to abuse a wife nor was he allowed to force himself upon her. A wife was entitled to land. As his slave, she would have no rights and he could misuse her in any way without recourse, even kill her if he chose. It would be her punishment for not being able to pay the fine for the crimes she had not committed.
Not even Jeoffrey would have enough to offer to pay off the fine for two murders and her supposed attack on Gregory. Every life was given an honor-price and every crime was paid for with a fine. She would have to pay the honor-price of both Harrold and Paulene and then pay double if her murders were seen as planned. Then she would have to pay Gregory as the remaining kin of both the victims as compensation. Harrold was the king’s champion. The honor-price for his death alone would be more than Jeoffrey could ever pay…and she would refuse to allow him to.
“I will bring you more blankets. I am sorry to see you suffering so, Clarice. If you need aught, simply bang upon the door and I will come to you.” She only nodded and pretended to eat more of the stew. In truth, her stomach was in knots and eating made her feel sick. For the sake of her babe, she had suffered the pain of several swallows of stew, but any more would make her lose whatever nutrition she had been able to consume. Àdhamh bowed his head respectfully and left the small space. She heard the wooden beam slide across the door on the other side, effectively caging her in. Not that she had the strength to flee.
Her eyelids grew heavy and she put the stew down to wrap herself up once again in her cloak and the blanket. Sleep was a blessed escape from her miserable life and she welcomed it. A sudden knock on the door made her eyes grow wide. They burned with lack of sleep and excessive tears. Before she could respond, the door slowly swung open and she closed her eyes again. Àdhamh had come with more blankets.
“Mo chroí,” the voice said softly and she heard footsteps crunching on the dry hay strewn across the earthen floor. “Mo bhean chéile,” the voice said again. Why was Àdhamh calling her his “love” and his “wife”?
Forcing her eyelids to open, she was faced with nothing but darkness. The one tallow candle she had must have burned out while she slept. The slight beam of moonlight shining through the opening of the door cast a tall figure standing before her into relief. She blinked the sleep away a few times before trying to focus on the man towering above her.
“Clarice,” the man whispered.
&nb
sp; She would know her name on those lips anywhere. The way we whispered her name now was the same way he had always whispered her name reverently while making love to her. “Jeoffrey?”
“Aye.” He sat down beside her and threw two more blankets around her, then wrapped her up in his warm, strong embrace. “Och, my wee precious lass. How I love you.”
His words caused something inside her to crack. A sob escaped her dry throat and more tears began to stream down her face. Jeoffrey lifted her off the ground and placed her in his lap, rocking her gently as if she were a babe, making shushing sounds to soothe her. “All will be well, mo chroí.”
“It may not be, Jeoffrey,” she croaked. “You must accept that I may become his. And if that is so, you must honor the Brehon’s ruling. I cannot allow you to cause a war. You know I cannot stomach violence.” His eyes grew wide as if a sudden thought of importance had crossed his mind at her words, but he placed a finger on her lips to silence her.
“It will not come to that,” he promised.
“It might,” she insisted.
He went silent and continued to rock her. Clearly, he was unwilling to accept the inevitable. And she was suddenly unwilling to break his spirits the way hers had broken hours ago. So they lay in the dark silence and allowed the night to carry them into sleep together.
The sound of the bar sliding off the back of the door caused Clarice to awaken with a gasp. Strong arms gripped her tightly and she realized she was now lying next to Jeoffrey in the itchy straw.
A bright stream of light flooded the space and Àdhamh stepped inside. “Jeoffrey, the Brehon is here. And the King is looking for you. He cannot know I allowed you in here at all.”
“Aye, aye,” Jeoffrey groaned as he sat up and helped Clarice up as well. “My thanks for aiding us, Àdhamh.”
Jeoffrey looked over at Clarice and pulled a long strand of hay out of her hair and kissed her cheek. “I must go, love. Stay strong. All will be well.”
He stood up stiffly and rubbed his backside. Clarice dragged her eyes down every inch of him, memorizing every detail. Last night may have been the last night she would ever spend in his strong, loving arms.
“I love you, Jeoffrey.” She needed to say it. She knew that he knew, but it seemed important to tell him before he left.
“Do not act as if this is good-bye, Clarice. I am going to have this trial moved up to today. I will not allow you to sleep another night in this place.”
Panic flooded Clarice and she suddenly felt herself quiver with fear. Aye, she wanted out of the blasted cold room, but what if she had to spend tonight in Gregory’s house as his slave? She was not ready to face such a fate.
“But…I am not ready. Nobody is ready!” she squeaked with panic and wrung her hands together beneath the blankets.
“Everyone is ready, Clarice. This needs to happen, today. I love you, too.”
And with those words, Jeoffrey walked out of the room and the door shut behind him. She was engulfed in the darkness once more.
***
Convincing the Brehon to hold the trial that same day was no hard feat. The man was more than anxious to be done with the trial and move on to another tuath in need of his knowledge of the law. Brehons had to study for almost twenty years to learn their craft and memorize the many laws of the land, and the better he was, the higher his demand became. It seemed this Brehon was sought out all over the land. Jeoffrey only hoped that meant he would be reasonable and see through Gregory’s lies.
Once the Brehon was informed that she was with child, he scolded the king for locking her away and demanded she was relocated to a warmer home, fed properly, and cared for by the village healer until they could organize all the witnesses for the trial later that evening. As relieved and grateful as Jeoffrey was, he truly hoped the healer was more hospitable to his wife than she had been to him the day before.
Jeoffrey had carried Clarice’s shivering weak body across the village to the healer’s small circular home with cracking white lime-washed walls and minor holes in the thatched roof. Still, it was several steps up from the dank small room she had been held in before. The village stood in silence as they watched him solemnly carry his wife, her tired head lolling against his arm and her lank hair shrouding most of her face. Looks of pity and shame covered most of the faces as they took in her dirty clothing and the hay still tangled in her locks. He wished he had taken the time to clean her up before carrying her, but truly, he was only concerned about getting her to a cleaner, warmer environment.
When the healer opened the door for him, he scowled, expecting her to spew more venom at him or attempt to undermine the ruling of the Brehon. But she was a wise enough woman to know that a Brehon was above even the king in command, for he was the law of the land, the keeper of justice, and everyone must heed his words as long as they are just and right. The healer had silently stepped aside and signaled him to lay her on a small rickety wooden bed frame with a hay-stuffed mattress upon it. He carefully placed his wife on the bed and pushed her hair away from her face, whispering words of love and comfort in her ear.
When her cold hand touched the back of his neck, he closed his eyes to choke back the tears. He had been focusing so much more on his anger and need for revenge against Gregory than his hurt and pain over her condition. Mayhap it was selfish, but he found himself much more capable of functioning while pushing away the sadness and focusing on the task at hand. Her sad blue eyes had dark circles beneath them and he allowed his tears to finally flow, dripping over his nose and landing on her cheek. “I will not let you down, love.”
The healer came over to him then and placed a gnarled old hand on his shoulder. When he looked up, he was struck by her remorseful features. She sent him a sad nod and shooed him out the door. “Go now, lad. She needs her rest before the trial. I will care for her.”
He nodded and swallowed hard, taking one more look at his wee wife as her eyelids fluttered closed and he shut the door behind him. The healer had seemed much gentler than just the day before. Mayhap she was much kinder to those needing treatment than a man relentlessly banging on her door and demanding she speak. He must learn to be more rational when angered, but by all the gods, he was being destroyed by angst with every moment closer to her trial.
He had to keep moving. The image of Clarice curled up on the bed, the feel of her cold body in his arms…it all haunted him, but he needed to use those thoughts as fuel to keep pushing. He had done all he could do. Several people had promised to speak on her behalf. Gregory had stayed out of his view since they arrived and Jeoffrey saw this behavior for what it was: cowardice. The man knew Jeoffrey would slay him if given the chance. Aye, he would not touch the bastard before Clarice’s trial. That would be foolhardy and only look suspicious, as if they had something to hide. He would let the man live, for now. But Jeoffrey couldn’t help but wonder who Gregory had convinced to speak for him against Clarice. Were her enemies lurking in the shadows now? Spreading false rumors and hateful words into willing ears?
Idleness was not in his nature, and he certainly would not stand by now and do nothing. Her trial may only be a few hours away, but he would use his time to speak with his men, make sure they were prepared for the worst. Because, despite Clarice’s vehement pleading that he not start a war, he would never allow her to become Gregory’s slave.
Suddenly, he remembered once again the plan he had conjured up the night before and felt a bolt of excitement. Clarice’s reminder that she hated violence had planted a seed in his mind. He had a worthy task to focus on, but it would require the help of a few men. With a goal in mind, he confidently strode toward the training field, knowing very well he would find his men there, preparing for the worst. No matter what anyone else believed, he would get Clarice back to safety, even if it meant his demise.
Chapter 17
Standing at the front of the gathering hall, Clarice wrung her hands together until the dry skin began to crack and bleed. Never in her entire life had she be
en more frightened. If she had not already relieved herself before being summoned to her trial, she would likely embarrass herself and piss all down her legs.
The healer, Liosa, was an old companion of hers. They had worked together on occasion to birth babes and Clarice had helped whenever Liosa required a second pair of hands. She had treated her well for the few hours Clarice had to remain in her home, giving her blankets, warm broth, and a balm for her cracked, dry lips. They still burned terribly and threatened to crack open again with the slightest movement. She had only been in that awful room for a day, but the chill had sucked all the moisture out of her skin and caused her to ache deep in her bones. She had feared for her unborn child more than herself. She prayed that the Brehon would be a reasonable man. His act of kindness gave her hope.
The entire tuath had come out to witness the trial, but the jeering and cruel words she had experienced upon her arrival had dramatically declined. A few scornful faces glowered at her from the crowd, but she scanned the room, looking for the eyes of the only person who mattered. She felt his deep brown eyes caressing her and looked to her right, seeing her husband in the front of the crowd. He smiled at her and nodded, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes and she knew he was not confident this would end well.
Before she could scan the room further for any familiar, kind faces, the Brehon shouted above the din of whispering voices echoing around the room. “Silence!” The entire room went silent and all eyes locked on the man standing beside the seated king, wearing a blue tunic down to his knees and blue and red plaid trousers. A thick cloak of red was tied around his neck and he had long brown hair laced with strands of gray. Beyond any other detail, it was his piercing green eyes that caught Clarice’s attention. The man stood a hand-span shorter than Jeoffrey, but the respect he commanded was irrefutable.