Forbidden Realm

by Diana Cosby

  This afternoon, confident by now Lord Sionn, Lathir, Craigshyre, and any remaining knights in company would be close, if not have reached Wynshire Castle, he’d planned to slip deep into the forest, then head back. Except Feradach had split his troops and sent a significant portion of his force ahead, who’d doubled back and sealed off his avenue of escape.

  Like a harbinger of death, the afternoon sun illuminated the enemy lining the cliff above. The formation shifted, and a tall, stocky figure stepped into view.

  His sword smeared with the enemy’s blood trembled in Rónán’s hand. Years may have passed, but never would he forget Feradach O’Dowd.

  Memories of his childhood, of the brutality endured surged through him. Somewhere over the years, the miscreant had slithered his way into becoming a knight, then a master-at-arms for Lord Ardgar. A blemish upon the brave men who rightfully earned the honor.

  Outrage flushed the warrior’s face as he glared at his men. “’Tis naught but one man. Where are the others!”

  He hadn’t recognized him? Rónán scoffed. Why would he? When he’d fled many years ago, he was a lad. “Go to Hades!” he shouted up.

  An evil glint flickered in Feradach’s eyes. “You will regret daring to abduct Lord Sionn!”

  “Abduct?” he yelled. As if he should be surprised the scoundrel would dare lie. “You mean rescue the man from your attack on the Aodh!”

  The formidable warrior’s face darkened. “Who are you that you dare speak to me so?”

  He angled his jaw. “Rónán O’Connor.”

  Confusion, then surprise widened his eyes, then a satisfied grimace curved his mouth. “I see that you havena learned your place since you ran away like a coward many years ago. A lesson I will ensure you receive now.” Face smug, he turned to his men. “Everyone, stay back; he is mine!” He began to climb down the steps.

  Rónán was tempted to engage the warrior, like the others, before they reached the flat stone. But the child who had suffered beneath the cur’s hand, who had lived in fear, the lad who’d almost tasted death beneath his brutality, demanded vengeance.

  Blade readied, he stepped back, waited until the formidable knight reached the flat rock where he stood.

  Weapon drawn, Sir Feradach turned, his lip curling into a sneer. “You think you are man enough to take me, lad?”

  “Lad?” Rónán circled him; the knight shadowed his moves. “You have never been a man, but a tyrant who intimidates the weak for your own twisted pleasure.”

  Red infused his face, and the veins in his face popped out. He charged.

  Metal scraped as their blades locked. Icy, snow-filled wind slapped Rónán’s face, but he focused on the man he despised with his every breath. “I think,” he said with deadly calm, “’twill be you meeting his maker.” He pushed.

  Surprise widened Sir Feradach’s eyes as he stumbled back. The warrior steadied himself, then attacked.

  The cacophony of angry steel screamed over and again, the roar of the sea and howl of wind an ominous setting.

  His enemy swung.

  The razor-sharp blade slid across Rónán’s arm, caving a fresh gash atop one received two days before. At the next blow, he ducked. Though he may never have Lathir, if naught else, the bastard wouldn’t win.

  With his body trembling from exhaustion, aware he had but one chance, and hoping to draw Feradach closer, Rónán sagged, as if barely able to stand, a stance too close to the truth.

  Twisted glee on his face, his nemesis raised his sword to deliver the fatal blow.

  “Charge!” a deep, vaguely familiar voice boomed.

  “We are under attack!” one of the guards shouted from the ledge above.

  Feradach’s eyes flared with outrage. “’Twas a trap!” He lunged, swung.

  Rónán ducked and rolled, shoving to his feet directly behind his foe.

  As Feradach’s blade cut air, he lurched back, lost his balance, and tumbled toward the edge. The knight’s fingers caught a jagged stone as he slid over the side. Feet dangling above the slam of waves far below, his breaths blasting out in frantic gasps, through the snow-smeared gusts, he met Rónán’s gaze. “Help me.”

  “Aye, I will give you what you will deserve.” Sword in hand, Rónán started up the cliff to where the clash of blades screamed from above.

  “You canna leave me to die!” he strangled out.

  ’Twould be fitting penance. On a muttered curse, Rónán spun on his heel. Aye, ’twould be proper as well to let him rot in the dungeon for the harm he’d served so many. He strode over. As he reached down, the warrior’s fingers slipped.

  Eyes wild with fear, Feradach’s scream entwined with the lash of wind as he plummeted past sheer rock. As if a hand from Hades, a large swell rose up, engulfed him as he reached the sea. Water exploded on the side of the cliff; then the enormous wave receded in a violent snarl of white.

  Within the angry churn, naught remained but the blueish-green surge of the next incoming swell.

  ’Twould seem God had made his own decision on the cur’s fate. Rónán looked toward where the men were fighting, unsure who had arrived to help him, but thankful braced his leg against the pain, and started to climb.

  As he crested the rocky incline, Rónán stilled. His Templar brothers and Bran, along with warriors he didn’t recognize, drove the enemy back. After a quick prayer thanking God for the miracle, he jumped into the fray.

  A short while later, with Lord Ardgar’s men defeated, Rónán stared at his friend, Stephan MacQuistan, Earl of Dunsmore. Throat raw with emotion, he shook his head. “I canna believe you are here.” He scanned his fellow Templar knights—Sir Thomas MacKelloch, Earl of Kincaid, Sir Aiden MacConnell, Earl of Lennox, Sir Cailin MacHugh, Earl of Dalkirk, and other brave, loyal men he’d fought with over the years. “How?”

  “A while back, a pirate—Bran, as he asked to be called—sailed to King Robert with news of the attack upon the Aodh and Lord Sionn’s capture.” Stephan paused. “The Bruce ordered that I take two crews and free the nobleman.”

  “Since then, I, as others, helped Lord Sionn escape,” Rónán said, his mind whirling as he tried to take everything in.

  “Aye.” Stephan wiped his sword clean, “Which we discovered was your intent as we came across the same pirate en route to inform King Robert.”

  Men parted as Bran swaggered forward, a salty grin on his face. “After a brief misunderstanding—”

  “We thought we were under attack,” Stephan said dryly.

  The pirate chuckled. “Once I ordered the flag lowered, I explained that Lord Sionn had been freed.”

  “I thought it prudent,” Stephan said, “more so with the Lord Ardgar’s interference in the Bruce’s seizing of Scotland, to seize Murchadh Castle. Bran insisted on joining us.”

  Mirth twinkled in the pirate’s eyes. “Canna miss a good fight.”

  Rónán stared in disbelief. “You captured the earl’s stronghold?”

  “Aye,” Thomas said, stepping forward. “Believing there to be no threat about after his knights rode off to attack you, the lackwit left the portcullis open.” He glanced around, frowned. “I had assumed you were traveling with a large force.”

  “I was.” Rónán nodded, his head still reeling as he fought to take it all in. “’Tis a long story.”

  “One,” Cailin said as he moved next to Thomas, “you can tell us after we get you to the castle and tend to your wounds.”

  “Aye,” Stephan said. “Now we must finish taking care of matters here.” He scanned others within his force who were rounding up Lord Ardgar’s men. “Those who refuse to swear fealty to King Robert will be imprisoned.”

  Rónán grunted. “A kind fate when all they offered those seized was death.”

  Stephan nodded. “Indeed.”

  * * * *

  The scent of roast venison
, onions, herbs, and bread filled the great hall as Rónán lifted his goblet and drank deep. With his wounds tended to, though exhausted, he felt better. However anxious to depart to see Lathir, to let her know he was alive, ’twas imperative to ensure Murchadh Castle was secure, with a trusted guard in place before the Templars sailed away. As they would soon set sail, neither did it make sense to send a runner. Nor with Lathir’s focus turning to Kieran, was it wise to allow his mind to linger on her.

  Rónán took in his Templar friends, stunned by the turn of events. The strategic stronghold that days before had belonged to his enemy was now King Robert’s. No doubt a fortress his sovereign would leave to his brother, Edward, who held aspirations of becoming king of Ireland.

  After another sip, Rónán set aside his goblet, recalling his friends’ shock as he’d explained how they’d snuck through the secret tunnel and rescued Lord Sionn.

  After a comment to one of their fellow Templars, Stephan took a long drink of his wine, glanced over. “I pray the Earl of Torridan’s son survived.”

  “As I. His marriage to Lord Sionn’s daughter will end the strife between the two realms, both of whom support our king.” A fact, regardless of the pain of letting her go, Rónán must remember. Their realms’ stability in this time of strife, more so united to stand behind King Robert, was vital.

  The entry to the keep scraped open. Snow swept inside the great hall as a reed-thin woman with scraggly brown hair pushed the door shut.

  A guard strode over.

  She shook her head at the guard, then pointed toward the dais. “I must see the Earl of Dunsmore!”

  Stephan frowned at Rónán. “Do you know the lass?”

  “Nay.” Rónán wiped his hands with a cloth. “With your having passed word that all within are to come forward with claims against the Earl of Ardgar, I can only wonder what we will learn now.”

  Frown darkening, Stephan nodded. “Since we took control of the castle, the atrocities I have learned of pile atop the other. Once charges are brought before Lords Sionn and Torridan, Lord Ardgar will see naught but a noose.” He motioned to the guard. “Bring the lass forward.”

  Those seated on the trencher tables shot her a curious glance as she made her way forward.

  Her face pale, hollowed with lack of food, the bedraggled woman halted before the dais, bowed. “Lord Dunsmore.”

  The noble nodded. “What brings you here, lass?”

  Nervous eyes lifted to his. “I–I was abducted by Lord Ardgar’s men years ago, my lord. I wish to be freed so that I can return to my family.”

  “A request I will honor,” Stephan said.

  “I thank you, my lord.”

  “Your name?” Stephan asked.

  “Máire Ó Conaill.”

  Rónán’s hand setting aside the cloth stilled. It couldn’t be. His fingers tightened on the woven fabric. “Your husband’s name?”

  “Tighearnán.”

  God’s truth! “Your daughter’s name is Órlaith,” Rónán said, “is it not?”

  Disbelief flickered on her face, then hope. “You know them?”

  Emotion tightened in Rónán’s throat. “Aye, lass. Your husband saved my life.”

  A smile trembled on her lips. “Tighearnán was always a good man and helped those in need.”

  Mind reeling, Rónán glanced to the hearth, where Bran was talking with one of his men. “Bran.”

  The pirate glanced over.

  He waved him over. As he neared, Rónán stood. “I—”

  Bran’s eyes flickered on the lass, widened. “Máire?” Disbelief, then joy swept his face as he strode forward and swept her into an embrace. “G–God in heaven, lass, we thought you were dead.” Eyes misty, he held her at arm’s length. “I canna wait until Tighearnán and Órlaith see you!”

  Tears running down her cheeks, she sniffed. “As I. I miss them desperately.”

  Tenderness swelled within Rónán. “We depart at dawn for Wynshire Castle, lass, where your husband and daughter now reside. You will sail with us.”

  With a shaky nod, she wiped the tears streaming down her face. “I thank you, but…” The joy on her face collapsed in mortification.

  “Lass, there is much to discuss, things we will address en route,” Rónán said, softening his voice. No doubt she’d suffered abuse beneath Feradach and his men’s hands and worried her husband would look at her with shame.

  Having spent time with her husband, knowing the depth of his love for his wife, and being a man of honor, Rónán understood that Tighearnán would never regard his wife with anything but affection. “Go now; we depart at first light.”

  She hesitated, then a weak smile touched her mouth. “I thank you.” After hugging Bran one last time, the woman hurried away, disappearing in a swirl of snow as she stepped into the bailey.

  The hewn door thudded shut. Rónán shook his head. “Incredible.”

  “’Tis bloody amazing. I canna wait until Tighearnán and Órlaith see Máire.” Bran stepped back. “I need to finish ensuring the ship’s supplies have been refilled before we sail in the morning.” With a light step, he departed.

  Stephan shook his head. “Never have I seen the like. And I am thankful we arrived in time to save you.”

  Somber, Rónán met his gaze. “Which I will never forget.”

  “I believe there was a time or two in our past”—Stephan refilled his goblet, then glanced over—“when you saved my life. ’Tis the way of the Templar to be there for our Brothers.”

  “’Tis.” The depth of friendship within the Brotherhood, something for which Rónán was forever thankful. He motioned for the lad to remove his trencher. “Once we reach Wynshire Castle, we are to bring the arms Lord Sionn was to retrieve to King Robert.”

  Stephan waited until the servant had removed his food and stepped away. “Which our sovereign explained. I will see you at first light, when we depart.” He stood, headed toward the turret.

  Rónán pushed to his feet, ready to see Lathir, damning that in the end he’d leave her wed to another.

  * * * *

  The lazy crackle of the hearth entwined with the healer’s humming as Lathir settled beside Aíbinn in her hut. Over the years, she’d enjoyed her visits, appreciated the time the elder had taken to explain herbs and the use of them. She smiled as she recognized the dried sage, rosemary, and other plants hanging in neat rows from pegs in the ceiling.

  “That should take care of the herbs I will be needing for the next week.” Aíbinn held out a sack of ground powder. “Place a couple of pinches in Lord Craigshyre’s drink.”

  “Aye.” Lathir hesitated. “Should he not have opened his eyes by now?”

  Eyes dark with regret held hers. “There is nay telling how long ’twill be before he completely awakens. Be thankful he is alert enough that we have been able to coax him to drink wine and broth. They are signs that his body is healing.”

  Sage words Lord Torridan, along with the healer, Imag, had said. Lathir took a slow, steadying breath. But how could she be calm when each day that had passed since their return, Kieran lay there unmoving?

  Despite her worry over him, she was thankful naught but a touch of swelling and bruises from her father’s imprisonment remained, that her father was recovering quickly, and he now walked without a stick.

  “I thank you for changing your betrothed’s bandages,” the healer tsked. “I would be doing it myself, but for the smithy’s wife having gone into labor and with this her first child, I need to be there if naught else, to calm her.” Aíbinn winked. “One day I hope to be tending to you.”

  Her and Kieran’s child. She wanted to be pleased, knew when the babe came, she would love their son or daughter, but a part of her was saddened it wouldn’t be Rónán’s.

  Heart heavy, Lathir stood. “Where is Lord Torridan’s healer? I would think Ima
g would want to tend to her lord’s son.”

  “She is out gathering more herbs and told me that she would be gone for a good part of the day.” A spark popped in the hearth, faded into the whirl of smoke up the chimney as Aíbinn handed her another sack. “’Tis for your father. He willna admit to still being in pain, but I can see it in his eyes.”

  “And you think I can convince him to take anything more? That I talked him into taking anything at all was a miracle.”

  The elder chuckled. “You have a better chance than I.”

  “Mayhap.” En route to the stronghold, sadness swept Lathir as she glanced over the land, searching for any sign of Rónán. Waves rippled on the water. Naught but several ducks flew into view.

  “Lathir.”

  At Lord Torridan’s voice as she entered the bailey, she looked toward the stable.

  The noble said something to the knight at his side, then headed toward her. Fatigue and sadness filled his grayish-green eyes, his worry at his son’s condition taking its toll.

  He arched a brow at the herbs in her hand. “For your father?”

  She held up the secured pouch. “Only one. The others are for Kieran.”

  A frown lined his brow. “Where is Imag? When I saw her at dawn, she said she would change my son’s dressings this afternoon.”

  “Your healer realized she needed more herbs and is out picking them.”

  “Aíbinn?”

  “My healer is tending the smithy’s wife, who is in labor.” Lathir smiled, wanting to ease his worry. “As Kieran’s betrothed, I will see to the task.”

  “I will accompany you.”

  “I thank you.” Lathir remained silent as they headed toward the keep.

  Golden candlelight entwined with the flicker of flames from the hearth cast Kieran’s chamber in a warm glow as they stepped inside.

  Grief squeezed her chest as she walked to her betrothed, tucked beneath the quilt. Though she had helped to aid many a knight, she hesitated as she reached for the cover. Irritated at her foolishness, she placed a bowl of water on a nearby table. ’Twas naught intimate about tending to a wound.

  After she’d drawn the covering back to expose his outer thigh, she carefully began to unwrap the bandage.