Lady of Conquest (24 page)

Rodney ducked as she unsheathed her sword, nearly lopping off his ear with the clumsy motion. Wielding the sword over her head, she swung at the branches of a rowan tree. Muffled sobs and muttered curses blended as twigs and brush flew through the air. Rodney crawled backward until he was no longer in the line of destruction. A steady thump drew his attention as her sword found a solid target. She chopped at a huge linden tree, sending bits of bark skyward to catch in her hair.

“Great Gods, Lina. ‘Tis not a battle-ax!”

He waited for the precise moment when the sword would hang in the stubborn wood of the tree and grabbed her around the waist, hurling her to the ground and letting the sword clatter to the foot of the tree. Hardly daring to breathe, he held her until her ragged sobs subsided to silence. He pressed his face to her hair, relishing its softness.

She sat up and he followed, his arm still anchored firmly around her waist. Rubbing her eyes like a spent child, she turned her tearstained face to his coat and cried. Stroking her hair softly, he began to hum a lullaby they both remembered from childhood, a soft lilting tune sung in their mother’s gentle brogue.

“Rodney?”

“Yes?”

“You’re a very bad singer.”

“Thank you, Lina. I love you, too.” He brushed his lips against her temple, feeling the gentle pulse that beat there.

Late that afternoon Rodney sat alone at the top of a small drumlin facing an open meadow drenched in the gold of summer sunset. Below him his sister rode the huge ebony monster she called Silent Thunder. Charging back and forth across the field, she thrust the sword in front of her, screeching a hideous battle cry and sending an imaginary enemy to a gruesome death. Hearing laughter behind him, Rodney turned to see Eoghan Mogh standing with arms crossed.

“She is quite a girl, your sister. Did you make her happy?” he asked Rodney.

Rodney’s own smile faded as he answered, “I did the next best thing.”

“And what is that?”

“I made her angry.”

They watched in silence as Gelina thundered across the field, a bloodthirsty snarl on her delicate features.

Her shrill battle cry floated past them and into the night, sending a chill down Eoghan’s spine.

It was the first of many battle cries they would hear in that long summer. With her hair covered by a cap and her long cloak flying, Gelina led them into the villages at midnight to catch the sleeping watch unaware. On some nights as many as a hundred men would accompany them, traveling from door to door to demand the treasure of that cottage to support the reign of Eoghan Mogh. The victims were offered their lives in exchange. Gelina would stand guard outside the cottages on her huge black mount. Few of the men were even aware that she was a woman.

As they rode north, their gold coffers spilled over with ill-gotten plunder. On more than one night, Gelina, Rodney, and Eoghan would share a toast of ale while the gold coins spilled through Gelina’s fingers to land in a shining heap on the floor. There was no stopping them now.

Gelina was trapped in a hazy dream with no beginning and no end. The cool coins that flowed over her fingertips matched the spreading ice that captured her spirit. Greed took root in her soul, its tendrils smothering the flashes of guilt and nostalgia that threatened to engulf her.

One hot night she sat perched on Silent Thunder awaiting the marauder who lingered inside the white-washed cottage. Sweat trickled down her sides under the heavy cloak and she shifted in the saddle in a vain attempt to stop the tickling sensation. She jerked the reins at the sudden noise behind her.

The horse pranced around to face the soldier who stood with sword in hand. One look at his stature and braids and she knew who had sent him. She groaned, wishing him far away to a country she had never seen. He did not disappear. Seeing no choice, she pulled forth her sword in one fluid motion and brandished it in the air with a fierce growl. He still did not disappear.

“Stand and fight, hooligan!” he cried, his cracking voice revealing him to be little more than a lad.

She leapt off the horse and crouched in a fighter’s stance. The young warrior jabbed his sword at her. He found his attempt a vain one as she parried his attack neatly, stepping aside and nearly knocking the sword from his hand with a deft blow from her weapon. She became dimly aware that the man she awaited had returned and was watching the fight with a smile, a sack of gold in each hand.

The swords crossed again and again, the clang of cold metal echoing in the heat of the night. She met each thrust with an equally clever parry. Taking her sword in both hands, she caught the soldier off guard by leaping sideways and whirling in a circle, catching his wrist with the blunt side of her sword. His weapon sailed through the air as he knelt and grasped his wrist with a cry of pain. She turned to mount her horse.

“Watch it!” It was only the hissed words of the man with the gold that sent her spinning around with sword outstretched.

The soldier impaled himself on the sharp point of her sword, the dagger in his hand clattering to the cobblestones. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. She watched him slide to the ground in numb horror.

“Nice job, mate.” The admiring words of the man who had warned her accompanied a hearty slap on the back, which drove the air from her lungs.

As he moved to the next cottage, she knelt beside the dead man. Her fingers reached for the familiar leather belt without feeling.

Closing her eyes, she said softly, “Not another MacRuairc.”

She sat on the dirt floor of the hut, arms wrapped around her knees. Dawn had not yet arrived, and the night was still fraught with darkness. Since they had taken to sleeping during the day and raiding at night, she found sleep elusive with her nerves still on the tenterhooks of darkness.

Eoghan Mogh ducked through the tiny door bearing an earthenware flask. “Rodney went to fetch some veal. I am ravenous.”

He settled his burden on the table, surprised by her silence. “What is it, Gelina?”

“I killed a soldier of the Fianna tonight.” She stared up at him, eyes wide and filled with the demons of doubt.

Before Eoghan could reply, Rodney stormed through the door, whooping. “I heard about it, Lina. ‘Tis magnificent! Martin saw the whole thing. He’s been telling the men what a warrior the little guy is. Let’s have a toast, shall we?”

He dropped three mugs on the table with a horrible clatter and poured the ale, spilling a generous amount over the rims. Practically dancing, he spun around, a mug in each hand. They stared at him mutely.

“What is it? You look like grieving clansmen of the bloke,” Rodney said, baffled.

“Gelina is a little disconcerted,” Eoghan explained, taking the overflowing mugs from his hands.

“Oh.” Rodney’s face fell like a small boy’s, then quickly recovered its grin as he knelt in front of Gelina and took both of her hands in his. “Lina, you should be proud. The world can only be bettered by the loss of one of his men. You did what you had to do.”

“Did I?” she asked coldly, jerking her hands away.

“It was inevitable, Gelina,” Eoghan said. He truly liked the girl, and it grieved him to see her distraught. “As soon as the men from Castile arrive, Tara itself will be placed under siege.”

“What men?”

Rodney grinned. “Eoghan has a dark-haired Castilian beauty tucked in the wildlands—his wife, Beara. Her father, Heber Mor, who just happens to be the king of Castile, has promised us five thousand warriors to arrive within the month.” He clapped Eoghan heartily on the back, congratulating him for his cleverness.

“It hardly seems right to involve foreigners, does it?” Gelina asked, her brow furrowed.

“Right?” Rodney’s grin faded. “Was it right for Conn to have our parents butchered? Was it right for his men to string our jester from the rafters? Was it right for him to tell you I was dead?”

Gelina closed her eyes. They flew open as Rodney grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Was any of that right, Lina?”

Eoghan reached out a hand to restrain him but stopped when Gelina’s voice rang out.

“Stop! Take your hands off of me. I will not let you bully me. If you try, you’re no better than him!” She scrambled out the door and into the night.

Rodney started after her only to find Eoghan’s hand tight on his shoulder. “Leave her be. Give her time.”

Gelina paced outside, eyes dry and burning, too angry to spill tears. A huge bonfire blazed in the center of the clearing. Eoghan’s men gathered around it. Gelina’s nose twitched. Lacking both the neatness and intelligence of the Fianna, even the cleanest of them seemed to permeate the air with the sour odor of unwashed flesh. Matted hair hung over their shoulders. None of them noticed Gelina as she paced a few feet away from the fire.

“Good haul we got tonight. Don’t ye think so, Martin?” A large man wearing a jerkin emblazoned with a skull and crossbones spoke.

“Best yet. I got an even better haul when I stumbled on a sweet little milkmaid in one of the cottages.”

Gelina recognized the man who spoke as the one she had been waiting for when challenged by the soldier. She spat on the ground in disgust.

The men laughed as another one said, “Ye always were the lucky one, Martin. Must be those pretty teeth that the ladies like.”

Martin grinned, revealing two huge gaps where his front teeth should have been. “She liked me tongue more than me teeth. I just offered to leave her a couple of coins, and she was more than happy to show her gratitude in a number of ways.” He leered, eliciting guffaws and envious congratulations.

Still outside the circle of light cast by the fire, Gelina pulled off her cap and threw it on the ground.

“Bastards,” she breathed, unaware that her sudden movement had revoked the protection of the darkness.

“Well, what have we here?” The men’s eyes were drawn to her, and she nervously ran a hand through her hair before resting it on her sword hilt. The burly man who spoke pointed. “No wonder that fellow is always closeted with Ó Monaghan and Mogh. That’s no fellow.”

Two of the men rose, lustful eyes locked on her. “She wouldn’t be a bad-looking little piece if she had more hair.” They laughed, their grins hungry and unpleasant.

“She looks good enough for me.”

Gelina held her breath as one of the men started toward her. Pulling her sword, she hefted it defiantly in the air. “Take another step and meet your maker, blackguard.”

The man chuckled and looked back at the others in disbelief. Several of them shrugged.

The man they called Martin spoke, his voice halting the man where he stood. “She means it.” All eyes turned to him. “She’s the one I told ye about. She slew the soldier of the Fianna.”

“Ye must be jesting. This”—he struggled for words, gesturing toward Gelina—“little girl slew one of Conn’s fighting men?”

“That’s what I said.” Martin stared into the fire, a muscle twitching in his cheek.

The man studied Martin’s face for a moment, then turned his gaze to Gelina, who stood locked in position, feet spread wide in a battle stance, eyes narrowed in warning. The sharp blade of her sword gleamed in the firelight.

Eoghan’s commanding voice sneered at them from the doorway of the hut. “I will not have my men fighting amongst themselves. Or my women, either. If you do, how can you expect to unite and help me capture Erin itself?”

“And the first one of you who threatens my sister again is going to find his head severed from his shoulders before he draws another breath.” Rodney’s furious form sailed into their midst, sword drawn.

“I can take care of myself, Rodney.” Gelina replaced her sword in its scabbard with dignity and moved toward Eoghan.

Eoghan studied her, his laughing, speculative look striking a familiar chord she could not place. He put his hand on her shoulder, turning her around to face the men. His voice rang out in the night.

“Gelina Ó Monaghan is one of us. She will be treated with the same respect and more than you give to one another. She is courageous and dedicated to driving the tyrant Conn from Erin.”

Gelina met his dark blue eyes, hesitating only a second before pulling her sword and calling out, “Death to the tyrant!”

The men exchanged wary glances and then pulled their swords one by one. Even Rodney joined in, forgetting his anger as the sweet, pure hatred of Conn rushed through his veins. Their cries rose into the night sky and echoed through the drumlins. “Death to Conn!”

The Castilians joined them a week later. The five thousand warriors Heber Mor had promised shrank to only two thousand before their ships reached the rocky coast of Erin. Eoghan welcomed them without rebuke, and they moved north, conquering whole villages in the darkness of night. As Eoghan predicted, the number of soldiers Conn sent to halt them doubled and then tripled in the next month.

Eoghan set up sprawling camps. The dark-eyed, foreign-speaking Castilians mingled with the men of Erin, causing utter confusion. There were women among them now—camp followers who sought both gold and prestige as their numbers grew. Gelina spent days closeted with Rodney and Eoghan, mapping their plans on unwieldy sheets of parchment. She transcribed their plans in her neat, narrow writing, revealing an uncanny head for strategy.