Devil's Angel (37 page)

“And why did you consider it? Because of the raid on the village? A raid conducted by Ronan, knowing you would go after him. And it was happenstance that herself was nearby, and attacked you?”

Conor had heard enough. “You go too far, Magda. I’ll not have you disparaging my wife. Others have been judged and sentenced for less than you have said this day.”

Her face paled. “Conor—”

“I will not have it said that I threw my brother’s widow from her wedded home,” he cut in. “Yet Erika is mistress here now, and she will stay. I will stop in Roscommon on my way to Taig, and will notify your kin of your impending arrival.”

She looked as if she were about to speak then changed her mind. At last she nodded. “I will do as the
tigerna
wishes.”

Conor sighed. He should have done this long ago, before it reached this level of difficulty. “I know this has not been an easy burden for you to bear, Magda. And I thank you for doing it. I am sure you are more than ready to return to the friends and family you left in Roscommon.”

“You are right, of course,” she said, her eyes lowered. “I do miss my home. It will be good indeed to get back to it.”

He stared at her lowered face, wishing he had the proper words to say, and still feeling the need to apologize to her. Instead he said, “I wish you good day” and quit the chamber in search of his wife, hoping to leave the guilt behind.

Even before he accepted the missive, Conor knew it boded ill.

His last instructions to Ardan were to inform him of anything untoward. He had not been able to explain what made him uneasy, only that something had. He knew Magda was less than accepting of his decision to send her home, and his guilt increased his concern for her.

The missive did not concern Magda, however. It concerned his wife.

Abbott Brochadh’s precise lettering stared back at him.

This was found half-burned in your chamber. Forgive me, my lord, but Ardan bids me urge you to return home at once.

With shaking hands he read the second, cruder note, charred about the edges.

…not easy for you. You have done well, my love. Soon the time for action will come and the Devil of Dunlough will die. Then we will be together again.

Blood pounded in his ears. This could not be truth. Erika would not betray him. She had no reason to betray him.

Neither had Aislingh.

The thought chilled him, and opened the floodgates to more. Erika withdrawing from him, spending less time in the dun, even before she’d lost their child. Why? Was she going to the village, learning herb-lore and visiting Dun Lief and Glentane as she said? Or was there another reason?

No. Erika loved him. He heard the words from her own lips; she had proven it in a myriad of ways.

Yet he had also heard her say that she had not been the wife he wanted. Did she not ask him for forgiveness for all that she had done? Was that not a confession, an admission of guilt he didn’t want to see?

She had been so eager to kill him at the first. Then all she wanted was to escape, to reclaim her freedom. How sudden it seemed that she’d resigned herself to their duel, to her fate. Had she lost a-purpose, because she’d been ordered to wait, to kill him at an opportune time?

Then why hadn’t she? Why was he still alive? Sure, it would have been difficult to explain his death by stabbing or strangulation. Poison would be a much bet—

He froze. Erika was studying herb-lore with Aine. Poison would be a part of that study.

Blessed Virgin! A sick feeling settled in the core of his heart as he crushed the missive in his hands. Was Erika out to betray him, to end his days when he was unsuspecting? Had her words of love been false, part of a plan to ensure his downfall?

There was only one way to be certain. He had to return to Dunlough.

As quick and polite as he could, he made his goodbyes to the royal court. He rode for Dunlough, pushing the horses as much as he dared. A day’s ride away, he came across the body of the messenger, lying in a gully beside the rutted path that served as a road to the dun.

“Is that the messenger that gave you the letter?” Padraig asked.

Conor rolled the body over. “It is.”

His belly had been ripped open, either by an axe or a sweeping sword. It was a painful way to die.

“What’s that he’s holding?”

Prying open the stiff hand, Conor retrieved a blood-soaked neck-chain. No, not metal, but silver cord, from which hung a silver cross and a gilded hammer.

Denial slammed into him, pounding between his ears. It corroded to an insidious doubt. He had given Erika back the chain, the last time he’d returned from battle. It was always on her person or his, never where someone could steal it.

Soon the time for action will come…

I have not been the wife you wanted…

The charms bit into his palm as he crushed them in his fist. Somehow, Erika must have known the news the messenger carried, had ridden to intercept him. Had killed him when she realized she was too late.

“Ah, no.” Padraig’s voice held a note of hushed horror. “Our
bhean aingeal
would not—this cannot be Lady Erika’s doing. It cannot be.”

Every movement slow, as if his muscles were bound, Conor remounted. Stillness settled in him. A fool was he to think that fate had been kind to him at last, that the gods would forgive him and give him happiness. It wasn’t meant to be, if it had ever been.

“Bring the body. I want to reach Dunlough by nightfall.”

Erika smiled to herself as she let Tempest pick his way through a patch of clover. Gwynna and Olan, the healer and the warrior, now proud parents of twin boys. It made her heart light to see their love displayed for all to see. Gwynna, bless her soul, had been more concerned for Erika than herself.

True it had been difficult. Not as difficult as helping Thala deliver her child, but bittersweet nonetheless.

Things were different now. Happiness was hers at last. Conor knew how much she loved him, how she wanted to stay. And she believed that he loved her in return. He had not said the words, true, but he would. Especially if what she suspected was true.

The sun was near setting by the time she and her guards returned to Dunlough. Fingal and Crutchin were by the gate, yet neither returned her greeting. ’Twas then that she noticed the absolute stillness of the dun. Where was everyone?

As soon as she dismounted, she was surrounded by a phalanx of soldiers. “A
bhean usuail
, the mac Ferghal bids you join him in the great hall.”

“Conor’s returned?” Her heart skipped at the news as she handed her sword to a waiting sentry. It had been nearly a month since she had seen him off to Clonmacnoise, and she ached to be with him once again.

She hurried into the hall, only to stop short. Conor sat in his usual place at the head of the hall, opposite the entry. Standing before him were Brochadh, Magda, Padraig and Ardan. None of them smiled in greeting. She had never seen such an expression of ferocity on her husband’s face.

“What is it?” she asked, striding forward. “What has happened?”

For answer, Conor gestured to Ardan. The commander stepped forward, uncovering the bundle on the floor between her and her husband. A gasp filled the hall as the face of a man, grayed by death, was revealed.

“Do you recognize this man?” Conor asked.

She had not heard that tone from him since he’d questioned her in the earthen cell. “I do not. Was he set upon by thieves?”

Instead of answering her he asked another question. “Did you engage in battle two days past?”

Erika looked at the priest, who looked saddened and disappointed. Why? Why did this seem an interrogation?

“We were set upon by thieves or raiders, a small band,” she answered. “That is why I wondered if this man was their victim as well.”

Murmurs rifled through the throng. Erika swung her eyes through the gathering before turning back to Conor. Something was amiss. “What happens here?”

Brochadh stepped forward. “Erika ni Conchobhair, princess of Dunlough, a charge has been brought against you.”

“Charge? What charge?”

“Adultery, and murder to conceal said adultery.”

Shock slammed into her, followed by utter disbelief. “This is beyond reason. Who brings such a charge against me?”

Her eyes swung to Magda, and fury gathered in her veins. “You. You have done this! I will rip your black heart from your deceitful body, you dishonest wi—”

Two guards halted her forward progress, relieving her of the dagger she didn’t realize she’d drawn. Her accuser peered at her from the relative safety of Conor’s side. “You see how quick she is to accuse me, I who have done nothing untoward?”

“Enough.” Conor’s voice, harsh and biting, silenced the hall. His eyes flicked over her like stones. “It is not from Magda that these charges come. There was a witness to the battle.”

He turned to Fionn. “There are claims that someone cried, ‘It’s the Angel! Protect the prize!’ Did you hear this?”

Fionn shifted beside her, uneasy. “My lady?”

Erika’s voice was equally soft. “In all things, we must tell the truth.”

“Aye, my lord, we heard the words. I thought it passing strange, then thought of nothing save protecting the lady.”

Conor turned back to Erika. “Where is your cross and hammer?”

Her hands went about her bare neck. “You have them, do you not? I assumed you took them when last we parted.”

“I did not take it.” He loosed his fist, and the charms dangled into view. “I did find them—beneath the body of this messenger.”

Voices rose in alarmed whispers about her. She took a step back, eyes fixed to her husband’s stern visage. “Y-you believe me capable of
murder
?”

She could scarce force the words out, as if saying them lent legitimacy to these proceedings. She was amazed at how calm she sounded. Her true self shrieked with outraged denial, screamed in disbelief at the hard expression her husband wore, wailed at the agony his condemning questions lanced through her.

“Conor.” Her voice broke on his name and she had to stop, to fight down the bile that rose in her throat, the combination of fear and disbelief and pain that he could believe this, that he could believe Magda’s lies. “I have visited Glentane. I have visited Dun Lief. I have protected our people.
I have done that which you have given me to do
.”

“Then how do you explain this?”

He held a charred parchment towards her. She took a step forward, only to be restrained again.

Burgeoning anger hardened her voice. “I do not know what that is, as I have never seen it before.”

“It is a letter, found half-burned in our chamber.” He read it aloud. Each word slammed within her as she realized their portent.

“You think these—these lies were for me? You think I seek to betray you?”

“It is beyond the seeking now, Angel.”

“You believe this? How could you believe this?” She brought her fisted hands to her heart. “By my life, I swear that I have not betrayed you.”

“Be ware of what you swear, Lady Death. You may need to fulfill that vow.”

Erika blanched against the vehemence of his voice. “Conor, please. If I could have a word in private—”

“What you have to say to me, you may say to my people.” The Devil’s face was stern and implacable, shorn from rock. “For ’tis true, you have dishonored their trust as well.”

Stung, she raised her eyes to his, willing her husband to hear her, to believe her. “I have dishonored no one,” she said, forcing her voice to firmness. “Everything I have ever claimed as mine has been taken from me. All that remains is my honor, and you would take even that?”

“You have given it away!” he roared. “You gave it willing to the Cur of Ulster!”

His words slammed into her battered heart like spears launched by an expert hand, causing her to stagger. Conor looked on, impassive. So implacable, so unreachable. So beloved.

Glancing about the hall, Erika realized that none of these people would come to her defense; none would dare risk the wrath of the Devil of Dunlough. It wasn’t what she’d done. It was what she hadn’t done.

She had been so quick to escape Magda’s presence in the dun that she’d left the Irishwoman ample opportunity to turn the people against her. Flesh and blood she could fight, but words, thoughts, hatred—she was powerless.

Ardan and Múireann wore matching stricken looks, and everyone else seemed horrified and frightened. Only Magda’s face glowed with malicious triumph.

Conor’s expression wounded most of all. Gone were the lights of tender feelings in his eyes, as if they had never been. “You believe me capable of such treachery?” she choked out.

“You tried to kill him more than once!” Magda’s strident voice shook the rafters. “And you killed his babeif it ever was truly Conor’s. Was it at the behest of your lover that you did these things—the lover whose child you carry even now?”