Forbidden Realm

by Diana Cosby

  Her father followed her gaze. “The Bruce speaks highly of him.”

  Lathir sighed, understanding his intent. A year after Domhnall’s death, he’d advised her ’twas time to seek another man to wed. Her heart still hurting, she’d refused, doubting she’d ever recover from the heartbreak. Nor had he given up pressing her on the issue, a frequent discussion that left her weary. The knight’s lack of title mattered little to her father. He judged men by their caliber, not the title they bore. For a king’s favorite, nobility could be granted with but a wave of the hand.

  Lathir met her father’s gaze, blinked. “Of whom?”

  His lips thinned. “Sir Rónán O’Connor.”

  “Which,” she said as she started up the gangway, “I would expect of the knight as King Robert chose the warrior to oversee the transfer of arms.”

  “Lathir—”

  “Father, my marital status, or lack thereof, isna one I wish to discuss, more so,” she said, keeping her voice low, “as we prepare to sail.”

  A deep frown settled upon his mouth. “’Tis time for you to marry.”

  “I dinna need a man to accept responsibility for the realm of Tír Sèitheach when the time comes.”

  “You are as stubborn as your mother,” he blustered.

  She arched an amused brow. “Mother said I acquired my obstinacy from you.”

  “Aye, she did,” he said, his face softening. “I miss her and want you happy.”

  An ache built in her chest, and she lay her hand upon his arm. “I know, Da.”

  He covered her hand with his, winked. “What do you say we set sail and return home?”

  She smiled. “I would like that very much.”

  * * * *

  “The fog is thicker than mud,” Rónán said as he stood at the bow of the Aodh, scanning the thick, dense gray that had moved in several hours after they departed. The soft slap of waves against the thin layer of ice upon the hull played in eerie harmony to the ghostly cries of distant gulls.

  “Aye,” Lord Sionn agreed at his side, sounding equally displeased. “Nor with the wind having decreased to a light breeze in the last few hours have we traveled far.”

  “’Tis clearing overhead,” Lathir said from her father’s other side. “Mayhap the fog will break soon.”

  Rónán rolled his shoulders and wished that unease didn’t trail up his spine as it was wont to do in times of danger.

  He allowed his gaze to skim over her plaited gold hair, adorned with a weave of silver, accenting the silver torque around her neck clasping an emerald at the base of her throat, before meeting her gaze. “Fog formed over the sea is not something that tends to fade beneath the sun’s rays. I expect we may be in the thick of it for a while.”

  She gazed at him and opened her mouth as if to answer, then looked away, leaving him to wonder what he’d done anew to offend her.

  A distant creak, the faint rattle of a chain, and the muted tangle of voices echoed in the gloomy setting.

  On alert, Rónán scanned the dense swath toward the sound. “Someone is out there.” He glanced toward the earl and said under his breath, “Did you leave ships farther from port for protection?”

  “Nay,” the earl replied, his jaw tight. “We saw several English ships en route, but they were at a distance, and we were still in Irish waters.”

  “King Robert warned me that the English are determined to sever any attempt for the Irish to support his cause.”

  “Aye, but they will fail,” the noble replied.

  A soft splash sounded, this time closer. The outline of a ship sailed into view, men running to the rail, their swords drawn.

  Lathir gasped. “Their standard is English.”

  “God’s truth,” Rónán hissed, “prepare for an attack!”

  Chapter Two

  Engulfed within the dense fog, wood groaned and splintered as the English cog slammed into the side of the Aodh.

  Feet braced against the shudders rumbling through the ship, Rónán damned the lack of wind, which would have allowed them to evade the attack. He faced the crew as they lined up against the rail, weapons drawn. “Dinna allow the bastards to lash their ship to ours.”

  Even as he said it, the enemy swung onto the deck of the Aodh, thick lines of rope in hand.

  Lord Sionn lunged forward and drove his sword into an attacker’s chest.

  The man stumbled back; the noble shoved him over the side, then whirled to face the next aggressor.

  Paces away, Lathir slew a warrior trying to tie a line onto their cog.

  Rónán slashed an attacker, turned toward the next.

  Amidst the clash of blades, several warriors managed to secure the English ship alongside the Aodh.

  The vessels scraped as a swell rolled beneath. Rónán kept his balance while he defended against another invader.

  “Attack!” the English ship’s captain boomed.

  Enemy forces poured onto their deck. Shouts, the roar of men, and screams of pain filled the air.

  Rónán cursed the sheer number of fighters boarding their vessel, more so the number continuing to surge from the English ship’s hold. God’s truth, ’twas far from a simple cog designed to keep watch of the coast, but as his sovereign had warned, a warship assigned to halt Lord Sionn from aiding the Bruce.

  He glanced at Lathir.

  Determination narrowing her eyes, she wielded her blade against an opponent. Their weapons scraped free. As her foe raised his sword, she drove her sgian dubh into his heart. On a gasp, he crumbled. Appreciation filled Rónán as she secured her dagger, spun to meet the next aggressor.

  “Fire at the bow!” one of their crew yelled.

  “Another fire at the stern,” Lord Sionn roared as he slashed his sword across his enemy’s neck, then swung at the next invader.

  After disposing of the next attacker, Rónán caught a blur of flames climbing up the wooden mast and engulfing the sail. A cool gust hurled across the deck, fanning the flames of the fires spreading across the deck. God’s truth, the bastards were casting torches onto the Aodh!

  The tang of the sea melded with blood as another swell rolled beneath the Aodh. Rónán glanced around. Though the English had suffered significant losses, the Irish noble’s men lay scattered across the deck, but a handful alive.

  “Father!” Lathir shouted.

  At the panic in her voice, Rónán turned. Two Englishmen were dragging Lord Sionn toward their ship. Rónán drove his blade into his attacker, then jerked his weapon free. He kicked away the next charging warrior, and hacked through the melee toward the noble.

  Lord Sionn’s gaze met Rónán’s as a third guard pulled his struggling form onto the enemy ship’s deck. “Protect Lathir!” he roared.

  The crush of enemy men blocked Rónán’s view of the noble. Blast it, there were too many Englishmen between him and the earl. He glanced toward Lathir. Her teeth were clenched, and both fear and determination glittered in her eyes as she backed away from the four Englishmen trying to surround her.

  Terror surging through Rónán, he lunged toward her, slaying two of the guards by the time he’d reached her. “Place your back against mine.”

  She coughed in the smoke. “My father!”

  “We will rescue him.” How they would do that was another matter. That the enemy hadn’t killed the noble outright offered a thread of hope that they intended to hold him for ransom. Nor at the moment was that their greatest concern.

  “Seize the earl’s daughter,” an Englishman yelled.

  As the man reached for her, another swell rolled beneath the cog. The Aodh listed. Stumbling back, the assailant caught the rail.

  Smoke billowing around them, Rónán grabbed the side of a partially burned small boat secured near the bow. He caught Lathir’s hand, tugged her against him as she started to slide past him. “Ho
ld on to me!”

  “’Tis sinking; return to the ship and sever ties!” the captain yelled. “We set sail for Ireland!”

  A warrior still gripping the rail called back, “What of the earl’s daughter?”

  “We have the earl,” their leader replied, “she isna important. Hurry!”

  The remaining warriors hurried to their ship. Once the last man climbed aboard, one of them severed the lines.

  * * * *

  Choking on the stench, Lathir clung to Rónán as thick flakes of the charred sail tumbling within soot-laden smoke engulfed her. She tugged her cape over her mouth, tried to make out her father on the enemy ship through the billowing rolls of foul murk.

  With the next swell, the Aodh lurched upright.

  Rónán hauled her back. “Look out!”

  A strip of the flaming sail swirled past, landed a hand’s length away, slid in a fiery trail down the angled deck.

  Tears clogged her throat as the ship disappeared into the fog. “They are leaving!”

  His grip on her tightened as she instinctively fought his hold. “They are, and we canna stop them now. ’Tis imperative you be calm.”

  “Calm?” Riotous emotion burning in her chest, Lathir took in the horror of the bloody bodies strewn about the deck, men she’d trained with, had grown up with. Not a single one lived. She wanted to cry, but anger won out. Grief had no place now. “My warriors are dead, the Aodh is ablaze, and the small boat, our only hope of escape, is destroyed. Once the ship goes down, we will die!”

  As if mocking her, the cog groaned, then gave a violent shudder. The deck dropped a foot and buckled, exposing the hull, the fire creeping up large portions of the damaged wood.

  A burst of wind hurled past. Yellow-red flames clawed skyward on a growing roar, consuming wood with merciless disregard as fire swept across the deck.

  Heat built around them.

  Lathir coughed into her cloak.

  “Help me shove the small boat overboard,” Rónán yelled. “Mayhap we can keep it afloat until we reach land.”

  Charred planks clung to the small craft, and flames spurted from the side. Regardless of her doubts of the vessel’s seaworthiness, she gripped the side, shoved, prayed.

  Another gust buffeted her. Then, as if the heavens were granting an unspoken wish, a cold droplet pelted her face, then another.

  Relief welled in her throat as beads of rain and ice pinged off the deck. Beneath the torrent, bursts of whitish-gray smoke spewed in the twist of black with an angry hiss. “’Tis raining!”

  Covered in soot and blood, with ferocity a stamp on his features, Rónán stood on the deck gazing skyward. At this moment, to her, he seemed invincible.

  The next swell rolled beneath them; surrendering wood groaned as the cog was shoved up.

  Charred decking broke free, plummeting into the smoke-filled hull in an awkward twist.

  “Saint’s breath,” Lathir gasped, stumbling against him. “The ship is breaking up!”

  Rónán caught her as another shudder wracked the cog. “Hold on!”

  Timber cracked.

  The sodden planks beneath them collapsed.

  A scream erupted from deep in her throat as they fell, the smoke billowing around them a macabre backdrop to the blur of flames and the stench of charred wood.

  Pain raked her as she slammed against the knight, and then the vessel’s hull.

  Another loud crack sounded overhead.

  Heart racing, she looked up.

  An ember-laden chunk of the upper mast broke free, spiraled toward them.

  Rónán shoved her aside, then dove to join her.

  Embers spewed in a reckless cloud as timber slammed in a fiery heap paces away.

  Gulping a deep breath, she stared at the blazing hull where they’d lain moments before.

  He pushed to his feet, pulled her with him. “Let us go.”

  “Where?” She fought another a wave of panic. “We are sinking!”

  Face streaked with smoke, sweat, and blood, he cupped her chin, his gaze intense. “The ship isna going down, or at least not any time soon.” He released her. “Look around. The storm is quenching the fire.”

  Pushing soaked locks from her face, Lathir scanned their surroundings and saw he was right. Smoke billowed skyward, but ice pellets and rain were clearly having a smothering effect.

  She swallowed once. Twice. Inhaled to regain control. By slow degrees, relief shriveled beneath an agonizing reality. “T–they have my father,” she choked out, “while we are adrift on a half-burned cog. One—” On an unsteady breath, she took in the charred planks along the hull, then paused on where the fire had burned through the upper deck. “—one that could break apart with the next swell.”

  Expression grim, Rónán nodded. “Aye, but we are alive.”

  Her throat clogged with shame at her outburst, by the truth of his statement. “You are right.”

  “Lathir, ’tis okay to be frightened.”

  She fisted her hands, nails digging into her palms at the compassion in his voice, the understanding. “I am a warrior, not a weak-kneed fool.”

  “You have earned naught but respect in my eyes. Come. Let us determine the cog’s seaworthiness, make repairs where we can, and then decide how to proceed.”

  His practical tone soothed her. “You think the English willna return?”

  Icy rain slapped the knight’s face as he glanced at the dark churning clouds, then his solemn gaze shifted to her. “With your crew dead, the Aodh on fire as the English departed, and a storm moving in, nay doubt they believe that by now we have perished.”

  She nodded at his reasoning as the icy mix slid down her face. “Aye, an assumption we must use to our advantage.”

  The howl of wind roared overhead. Waves slammed against the cog, and with each crash, the half-charred vessel groaned beneath the assault.

  Soaked, Lathir glanced toward the small boat they’d clung to for a short while. Burned and in pieces, any chance to use it to escape was lost.

  Still, she refused to give up hope. Against the odds they’d survived.

  Rónán made his way to a pile of upturned buckets, grabbed two. “Help me put out the remaining fires.”

  Pushing past the fatigue from the battle, she went to work.

  By the time they’d extinguished the last of the flames, the storm had moved out, leaving behind a somber peace. A fitting mood as they’d said a quick prayer for the bodies of her warriors as they’d given them to the sea.

  Exhausted, Lathir wiped the icy rivulets from her face. “A barrel of fresh water remains near the bow, and the cooking pot is still hanging mid hull.”

  Face marred with soot, fatigue, and blood, Rónán tugged a blackened tarp free from the ties that had managed to survive. He stared at the various crates. “We have ale, salted beef, oatcakes, and bread.”

  “And a bag of flour here, and—” She pointed to a thin line with a forged hook that’d been stashed with the provisions. “We can catch fish.”

  He nodded. “And have more than enough to survive until we can reach shore.”

  “However long that takes. Between the fog and the storm, we dinna know where we are, or where the English have taken my father.”

  “Once ashore, it willna take long to discover our location. As for your father, I heard the captain shout that they were heading for Ireland.”

  Hope flared even as she pointed out, “Ireland is vast. They could have taken him anywhere.”

  He lifted the container of ale, placed it near the crates of food. “The English control several southeastern ports. It makes sense they would take Lord Sionn to one of those locations.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Eager to be on their way, she helped him move the salvageable food stores together, then secured them as best they could beneath the tar
p.

  Rónán’s strategic deductions, the way he’d fought during battle with incredible precision, and against every catastrophe kept calm and maintained his focus, reminded Lathir of the galloglass, Celtic fighters whose mere name set fear into their invaders’ hearts.

  Mayhap he was of the ferocious ilk? Regardless, ’twas clear why King Robert had selected this brave knight for this critical mission. As much as she hated to be dependent on anyone, especially a man, if anyone could help her find her father, ’twas him.

  She pushed to her feet, wiped her brow. “With the challenges we face, once we reach shore, ’tis best if we travel to my home, Wynshire Castle. There I can raise a force to find and free my father.”

  “As much as ’twould be best to sail to your home, I dinna trust the Aodh to survive another storm. When the opportunity arises, we must run the ship aground.”

  She nodded, pressing a hand to her stomach. It was inevitable, she told herself, that for their safety, her family’s cog would have to be sacrificed.

  He stood from a crouch, stretched. “Many years have passed since I sailed these waters. Are you familiar with the Irish currents?”

  “Very.”

  His expression held none of the skepticism she equated with men who doubted her abilities. Instead, he seemed to accept them.

  “To the best of my calculations,” he said, “before the attack, we had rounded the tip of Scotland and were heading west. The question is how far we traveled after.”

  She grimaced. “Indeed, until we are again underway, between the local current and the tides, we will be pushed north or northeastward.”

  “Let us mend the sail as best as possible and secure them to the remnants of the mast.” Wood snapped as he started toward the partially charred ladder, began to climb. “As we worked on deck earlier, I noticed the rudder is unscathed.”

  “Thank God.” With a sense of renewed hope, she followed him up the ice- and rain-slicked ladder to the top deck and began gathering pieces of rope to make repairs.

  Hours later, streaks of orange and red filled the clearing western sky. Wiping her brow, she glanced at the makeshift sail they’d rigged on the remnants of the burned mast. It wasn’t pretty, but it should hold, as should the patches they’d made to the side of the ship using sodden rags wrapped around shards of wood, or whatever could be scrounged to stay the influx of water.