Irish: The Irish Princess Part 4

He looked around at his men and was well pleased the cost was in injury and not lives. Sir Raymond leaned over his mount's neck, trying to catch his breath, waving Gaelan off when he started for him. Sheathing his sword, he dismounted, striding to the nearest body and jerking the oiled rag from the ambusher's face. Disgust raged at the sight of the soft chin and beardless face of a boy. There were no excuses for sending the unseasoned into battle. With a curse foul enough to rot trees, he severed a portion of the tartan wrapping the youth. Staring down at the lad, he stuffed it inside his b.l.o.o.d.y breastplate before turning back to his mount. His intention for clemency to the Irish obliterated, he dug his spurs into Grayfalk's side and rode toward Donegal, prepared to take his due, at any cost.

"Silence," Siobhan shouted over the din, and the talk ceased. She looked around the hall filled with her clansmen, to the faces she'd known for years, to the warriors prepared to die for the wood and stone castle. And they would die. The PenDragon was close enough to see their torches. "The burden of keeping peace will be mine, Driscoll." Clearly the folk held the same opinion as he, that she could not do it, and she wondered if they'd oppose the method were Tigheran here, then knew they would not have dared.

"Siobhan," Rhiannon warned and her sister speared her with a glance. "You cannot sacrifice yourself."

Siobhan's brows rose, her look aghast. "'Tis not my intention. We will not offer resistance and they will have no reason to slaughter us."

"'Tis a dishonor not to fight!"

She rounded on Driscoll. "And 'tis a crime to survive?" She stepped closer to him. "Would you have me bury your wife, your children?" She lashed her hand toward the dark-haired lad bravely smothering his fear beside his older sister. "How will you all stand against English swords and Welsh bowmen? We are Irish, not idiots!"

Her temper high, her expression begged them to understand her motives. Survival, warmth and food would help her people. The PenDragon's reputation preceded him. He pillaged and burned. He slaughtered all who opposed to justify his coin. He was a landless knight with naught but a valiant name to call his own. Siobhan doubted the king of Camelot would claim such a destructive man as an heir.

"Send for the O'Niell," came from several servants and freemen.

"Aye, the English will be no match for his warriors and ours."

"'Tis too late. O'Niell nor the Maguire would arrive in time." She suspected that was the PenDragon's intent, though she'd not call for more souls to perish when she could resolve this without bloodshed. She spun about, striding toward the doors. "Bridgett, you and Rhiannon see to the preparations. This eventide, we feast instead of mourn."

Grumbles of disagreement came from behind her as she swept out the heavy doors and into the yard. She possessed no guilt over her decision. Not a drop of Irish blood was worth the English king's claim, she thought, as several women rushed to her, halting her flight.

"Our thanks, princess, praise be," a woman crooned, hefting her child as she hugged her. "They will not admit, but 'tis for the best."

"I am frightened," Kathleen whispered, her eyes teary. "He wishes to die so easily." Her gaze s.h.i.+fted to Liam, tapping a club into his fist.

"The way of war and men," Siobhan groused, then eyed the group, twisting to catch each woman's gaze. "I trust you will help convince the others to be civil?"

They nodded collectively. "He will take us prisoner, make us his slaves, won't he?"

Siobhan lifted a child, inspecting a cut she'd tended days before. "I do not know, Manna." Satisfied, she met the woman's gaze. "He is a warlord, not a man of the land. I will not lie and tell you he has not come to war on us, for he has. But I will do my best to see none suffer." With a kiss to the babe's brow, she handed him back to his mother.

"And who will protect you, m'lady?"

No one, she thought, yet smiled and smoothed a strand of brown hair from the young woman's cheek. Their concern moved her deeply and Siobhan was further convinced she'd made the right decision.

"I will not need protection, for mercenary or nay, he is a knight, a n.o.bleman. I am still the princess of Donegal and he is on Irish soil." Codswallop. Naught will matter to this warrior, she thought as she moved through the group toward the ladder leading to the parapet. Yet English knights were sworn to protect the weak, and she prayed that the PenDragon, regardless of his foul reputation, possessed a shred of honor.

Or she would find herself laying beneath him this night. Irish law or not.

Moments later a blue-white mist enveloped the stone and wood keep, the vapor s.h.i.+fting across the land, only delaying the inevitable.

Gaelan slowed his mount, the fog heavy, yet in the distance, Donegal loomed. It was ma.s.sive, covering a larger amount of land than he'd expected. Turrets and a tower hovered above the fog, the outer curtain skirting a small mountain. A stone wall topped with wood. Easily besieged, he thought, and easily burned. He rode hard through the mist, and swore this land wept for its people.

On the parapet, Siobhan leaned back against the battlement, unable to stare at the landscape another moment. The guards watched her with covert glances. Culhainn moved to her side, nudging her palm, and her fingertips whispered over his luxurious coat. "You think me a fool too?" she said to the beast, and he tipped his big head back and licked her hand. "Your loyalty astounds, Culhainn, when you will have to share your place with his hounds." The dog whimpered, then suddenly spun about, growling as Rhiannon approached.

"Good beastie," Rhiannon said, rewarding him with a slice of meat, and the animal settled in a plop at his mistress's feet to feast. "Keep him with you," she said. "None will pa.s.s close enough to do harm."

Before Siobhan could a.s.sure her sister that she would be careful, Culhainn leapt to his feet, lunging at the wall and barking. She jerked around as the rumble of hooves shook the earth.

"Jager me," she whispered. Her heart pounded, her tranquil calm evaporating at the vision unfolding in the mist. Torches, spitting red fire and protected from the wind with black meta hoods, lit the twilight, glowing like phantom eyes from a skull. Silver flashes of armor sparkled with each trod, the jingle of spurs and weapons, the crash and creak of carts peppered the air. G.o.d save us, she did not think so many would be mounted.

A man raised his arm and the army halted, the banners snapping in the breeze; a rearing black dragon clawed its deep blue background, his head looking over its back, the bend sinister of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d slas.h.i.+ng meanly across the grand hazard. Held higher above it and in the forefront was the king's banner proclaiming this mercenary the English monarch's voice ... and iron hand. Her gaze scanned the invaders, searching for the familiar, for the giant in the ranks, when a single mounted knight nudged his horse forward, the huge black destrier prancing elegantly.

The PenDragon.

Each story that spread across Ireland came to her, unfolding into reality as he tossed a fur mantle over his right shoulder. Blood stained the silver and black armor in a hideous drip. She glanced at her sister and recognized her horror.

"We are done for, Siobhan. He has killed already this day and has the taste for more."

"By my soul, he will not find it here," she hissed, fingering the dagger at her waist.

PenDragon tipped his head, and though Siobhan remained a few feet back, aware he could not see from his position unless she fairly leaned over the mortar wall, she swore he met her gaze. A chill curled up her spine.

"Donegal keep," he called into the stillness. "I am Gaelan PenDragon, servant of his majesty King Henry. Do you yield?"

"Unmask, sir knight, so I might see my foe." Frowning, Gaelan's hand stilled on its way to unfasten his helm, the voice bearing an odd tinge familiar to his ears.

"A woman, Gaelan?" Sir Raymond said from just behind him.

"I cannot believe 'tis the princess, but who knows with the Irish and their strange ways." He yanked, pulling the helm off and tucking it beneath his arm at his side.

Siobhan instantly lurched back from the wall. Rhiannon gripped her arm. "'Tis he?" she fairly shrieked.

"Aye. He cannot know I am here, not yet. We must get him inside afore we meet."

Her sister smirked. "You have already met. And right thoroughly, I imagine."

Siobhan jerked from her grasp, irritation flaring in her eyes.

"Mind your tongue, Rhiannon. If he knows 'tis me, we will have no power to bargain. None. I stuck him with my blade, I escaped his capture." And I let him kiss me as if I were naught but a bush woman bedding her way across the county.

Rhiannon frowned. "What plan you then?"

"Make him wait, offer comforts he has not known."

"Ahh, weaken him."

"Yours is the face that weakens men." She looked at the army prepared to destroy her home, her life, her kinfolk. "Open the gates," she said to the tower guards, then motioned to Rhiannon. "Bid him welcome."

Her eyes widened. "I cannot."

She gave her a push. "'Tis no time to be mush-hearted, Rhi. He will certainly not be."

Siobhan fled down the battlements, running into the keep, grabbing Driscoll and delivering her plan. With Culhainn at her heels, she headed above stairs and slipped into her son's room. He flew into her arms, his tiny hands lost in her hair. The bells chimed, soothing her, and for long moments she held him, then helped him undress for bed.

"Will he kill us all, Mama?"

"Oh nay, my poppet, nay," she cooed, kneeling beside his bed and tucking in the coverlet. "I would not let him hurt you, I swear." Oh, she would die for this innocent child, she thought. So willingly.

Pressing her lips to his forehead, she stood, then went to her chambers. She dropped to her knees, lighting a candle, sprinkling herbs around her. Culhainn watched her from the far side of the chamber. Softly she chanted words as ancient as the stones beneath her home, calling on her ancestors to give her strength to endure his wrath.

Gaelan unsheathed his sword as the gates opened, men and women spilling out like rats, calling greetings and gesturing them inside. He rode forward, suddenly surrounded by at least fifty people.

He frowned at Raymond.

DeClare shrugged. "Irish hospitality."

He was not stupid enough to fall into a trap and barked a command, motioning them back, and only a few scattered. "Does a soul in our ranks speak the tongue?"

"I speak yours."

Gaelan looked down as a tall, thick-chested man neared, his torso wrapped in the dark green and blue tartan, his legs covered in furs. His hair was overlong, his features, hidden in a heavy beard.

"I am Driscoll, her highness's personal guard." He tipped a bow.

"Bring her to me."

"She is ... indisposed, sir."

Gaelan smirked to himself. Indisposed. Likely cowering under her bed.

"She bids you enter and rest yourselves. There is food for your knights. Come, come." Driscoll turned away, expecting him to follow, and Gaelan nudged his mount forward, giving orders for the brigades to secure the exits. He did not want her highness fleeing into the night. And since he knew naught of the royal family, he could not demand a hostage sent out, when it could be a commoner they cared little about. He needed the princess in his power to succeed. He brought ten knights and their squires inside with him. The gates remained open, several of his archers lining the way and as he entered the inner ward, Gaelan scowled at the meager fortress, ill-placed buildings, the wood and mortar he could penetrate with a battering ram.

"What think you of this, Gaelan?" Raymond asked.

"Me thinks we are being served up for a pagan sacrifice." He dismounted, handing his leads to Reese and ordering Sir Niles and the other knights to remain there and report his suspicions. Gaelan and Raymond mounted the steps, Sir Owen, Mark and Andrew directly behind them.

"At least they have not dropped dead at the sight of you."

Gaelan arched a brow in his direction, smirking, then strode into the hall, people scattering like rabbits. The conversation fell like breaking gla.s.s. He'd grown accustomed to such a response and was loathe to admit how much it rankled him lately. He approached her man Driscoll, taking note of several other warriors with battle-axes and spears flanking a large pair of chairs.

"Bring your princess to me at once."

Driscoll folded his arms over his chest, widening his stance. "You would ignore her hospitality?"

"She would ignore the king's man?"

"This is Ireland, sir, not England. And here the princess rules."

"Not anymore."

The guard unfolded his arms, pulling at his short sword in open threat.

"Driscoll!"

Gaelan's gaze snapped to the staircase, a shapely figure stepping from the hollow where it curved into the wall and disappeared to lead above. She met his gaze, her own a.s.sessing and judging in one glance as she came to him, her pale blue gown regal, her carriage straight. Her hair was golden red, unbound, uncovered, and flowing to her full hips.

"Your princess is lovely, Gaelan." Raymond kept his voice low and his guard high.

Gaelan glanced at him, his lip curling. "She is Henry's to do with as he will, DeClare. Ask for her. He might give her to you."

Raymond scowled. "I take no woman who does not come of her own will."

"Ahh, a conscience. And who was accusing me of having none only days ago?"

Tartan-clad warriors surrounding her, she stopped yards from him, her gaze sweeping his b.l.o.o.d.y armor before meeting his gaze.

"You are the princess of Donegal?"

"Nay, I am Rhiannon in-Murrough. Her sister."

Gaelan was surprised she spoke English. "Her highness does not greet me herself?" Did she not care for the welfare of her people?

"She abides her own will, my lord," she said cryptically, her gaze slipping to Driscoll before coming back to him. She waved to the tables, to the seats above the salt. "Come, dine, my lords." She clapped and servants moved, offering food and wine.

Fuming quietly, Gaelan debated with demanding the princess appear against brawling with women and so few soldiers. d.a.m.n the insolence of the haughty b.i.t.c.h, he thought, then reluctantly took his seat as lively music filled the air. Brightly clad dancers spun to the center of the stone floor and he glanced at Raymond, who was thoroughly intrigued and devouring food as if he'd not eaten this day, but Gaelan had no time for such frivolity. He wanted this matter done. That they did not resist told him they were prepared to acquiesce, but the welcome was false at best. He glanced down the table at the knights enjoying themselves, and it amazed him that men who were so ready for battle an hour ago, were enjoying the delights of Donegal's harvest and charming its women.

He stood and drained his goblet of surprisingly good ale, waving off the servant and setting down the cup. The noise lessened and he scanned the crowd. "Continue," he said, then swung his gaze to Raymond. "If you can pull yourself away from the la.s.s, DeClare, remind the men to repay Donegal's courtesy in kind."

Raymond yanked a girl onto his lap, grinning at her. "If you insist."

"Do not be so taken, friend. Have you not noticed there are few men here?"

Raymond scowled sourly at his superior. "I have. As I have noticed her highness has still not given you an audience."

Gaelan looked at the sister, a frown marring his brow as she moved toward him.

"Is there aught I can do for you, sir knight?"

There was something odd about the woman, he thought, and when she touched his arm, her eyes seemed to s.h.i.+ft like a ripple of water.

"Summon me when your princess," he said with disgust, "can find the ... mettle to face me."

Rhiannon inhaled at the blatant insult, obviously wanting to say something, yet thinking better of it.

"Or," he said with a glance at the Irish warriors, "I come for her myself." Gaelan brushed past, his armor clanking in the stillness as he strode out the doors.

Rhiannon looked at the dark-haired knight, her expression perplexed.

"I suggest you do what e're is necessary to get your sister down here. Do not make him search, la.s.s; you will not like the result of his temper."