Lord of the Isle (31 page)

K
elly drove his men and their horses hard on the ride south through Tyrone. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Hugh O’Neill. Not that he was worried about being overwhelmed in a battle. O’Neill knew when he was outgunned. Muskets against broadswords was no contest.

If Kelly would just shut up about his brilliant victory, Morgana wouldn’t mind so much. He just kept bragging on and on about how easily he’d done another O’Neill in.

They stopped to rest at, of all places, the Benburg bridge. Ariel was flat-out spent, winded and exhausted. Morgana was thoroughly dismayed.

There at the bridge over the Abhainn Mor, sunset’s fading light rubied and faceted the deep, dark water. Morgana dismounted and led Ariel to the bank. As she drank thirstily, Morgana couldn’t help thinking how much calmer the Blackwater was now. It ran swiftly under the bridge, swirling into the turn, then crashed over the rocky rapids.

That was the trouble with the Blackwater—the minute you thought you could trust it, it turned dangerously sinister. An owl hooted, and a shiver crept over Morgana’s neck. She looked up to the silent sentinel of Owen Maugh, the rock of clan O’Neill. The black castle seated on the top of it had never looked more sinister.

“Stay close to me when it comes time to cross the Abhainn Mor,” Morgana warned Tommy’s harp-playing
brother, Robert, whose only resemblance to Sean was the color of his hair.

“I wish they’d have believed you when you told them I’m not your brother,” Robert grumbled under his breath.

“Ah, well, I do, too.” Morgana knelt down at the water’s edge, cupped her hands and drank to quench her thirst.

“You wouldn’t be plotting another rebellion, now, would you, Morgana?” James Kelly said in a silken voice as he put his knee to the rocks beside Morgana. “Just because we’re in sight of that old castle of Shane O’Neill’s? No one lives there now, you know. And if they did, they wouldn’t lift a hand to help a Fitzgerald.”

“Hardly.” Morgana looked at him, not caring whether her hatred showed in her eyes. He was a disgusting man. No more so now for having stripped Hugh of his dignity and left him and his kerns and all the people at Robert’s croft trussed up like pigs for slaughter.

Only one thing reconciled Morgana to this final defeat-Hugh was alive.

She could go to her fate in Dublin knowing that Hugh O’Neill was spared from all further entanglements with her. He knew better than to come to Dublin. So that much was over.

Come tomorrow, she would probably find herself married to Lord Grey. As disgusting as that thought was, its likelihood was evident. She would do Ireland a favor and kill him. She wouldn’t fight or struggle against the only future available to her. Her brief fling with Hugh O’Neill was over. All hope was lost.

She resigned herself to her destiny, or would do so as soon as she got Robert released. To that end, she turned to Kelly, needing to torment him before surrendering all.

“Now that you mention it, I’m thinking of all the ways a witch has to kill you.” Morgana flicked her wet fingers at Kelly, sprinkling his face with river water. “You won’t cross the Abhainn Mor alive. Shane O’Neill won’t let you.”

He sprang back, stumbling clumsily over his scabbard belt. “Damn you!” he howled.

When he raised his hand to strike her, a black arrow shot through the air between them.

It pinned the cuff of his red coat to the earth.

“To arms!” Kelly shouted as he wrenched his arm free of the earth at their feet. “Mount up, all of you! Get across the bridge! Load your muskets!”

He got his balance and sprang to his feet, grabbing Morgana, pulling her in front of him as he looked desperately around for his attackers. “Where are they?”

“Run, now!” Morgana told Robert. The boy’s eyes were huge with fear. He didn’t need a second warning.

Kelly’s men were all grabbing for their guns. Not one was nimble enough to catch a boy running like a scared rabbit for the forest above the riverbank shrouding Shane’s castle.

Kelly wrenched Morgana’s shoulder hard as he dragged her between the horses for protection. “They’re in the trees! Fire at the damned trees!”

A volley of English gunshots exploded into the wych elms. The great trees guarding the bridge shuddered. A rain of leaves cascaded onto the path to the bridge and into the Abhainn Mor.

They swirled past Morgana as she dug in her pocket for Sir Almoy’s bag. She knew exactly what to do with the dust now, bless Almoy.

Kelly was shouting more orders. “Fire again!”

He shoved his horse and Ariel toward the bridge, determined to cross into Armagh. His soldiers put their knees to the ground, forming a flank on the open ground. Heads turned right and left, but they could find no exposed target to fire upon.

Hugh O’Neill carefully assessed the open ground between his promontory overlooking the river and the bridge. He had Kelly outnumbered, though not outclassed in weaponry. He had only two thoughts in mind—keep Morgana alive and stop the English soldiers’ retreat.

He turned to Loghran and Macmurrough. “Can you keep them pinned down at the bridge with just arrows?”

“I don’t see why not. None of them are wearing armor,” Macmurrough said. He sighted his bow again, and sent a missile flying off the cliff into the pack of redcoats below.

“I don’t see why we are bothering. Let the woman go. She’s not fit to be your wife,” Loghran announced.

That did it for Hugh. He threw down his sword, his shield, and his helmet, too, screaming, “For the love of God, Loghran O’Toole, if you say one more thing about the woman I love, I’m going to strangle you with my bare hands!”

Loghran, who never got excited about any of Hugh’s dire announcements or threats, blinked his eyes and stepped back two paces from the young man’s fists. “You never said you were in love with Morgana of Kildare, Hugh O’Neill.”

“Of course I love her, ya damned miserable cold fish-eyed Viking sod! I love her with all my heart and soul! Why do you think I drove us all to the breaking point to get here to this stupid bridge? Just so I could butt my head with James Kelly again? No! I love her, you hear? I love her. I love her. I love her!”

Hugh’s voice rose in volume with each declaration.

“Well, that changes everything.” Loghran bent down and picked up Hugh’s sword. As he put it back in Hugh’s hand, he said to Macmurrough, “Go on then, fire at will, lads, what are you waiting for? Pick the bastards off. Hugh’s going down the cliff to rescue his lady, aren’t you, lad?”

Now it was Hugh’s time to lose his wits. He snatched his sword from Loghran’s hand and stomped to the edge of the parapet, where Kermit and Shamus Fitz had thrown a rope over the edge of the cliff.

“Milord.” Shamus chuckled to clear his throat. “Wouldn’t it be easier with two hands?”

“Auagh!” Hugh shouted his frustration to the universe. “Every Irishman’s a bloody comic! Just hold the rope!”

He jabbed his sword back in his scabbard and took the rope in hand. Letting himself over the edge of the cliff, he made his way down to the base.

Kelly saw two of his men go down, arrows protruding from their chests, and panicked. He shoved Morgana ahead of him onto the bridge, drew his pistol and pointed the muzzle at her throat.

“O’Neill!” he screamed. “I’ll blow her head off if you fire one more arrow. Fall back, men!”

The rain of arrows ceased. Terrified, Morgana looked everywhere, trying to find Hugh. She spied him at the same time the musketeers did. Hugh was exposed on the side of the cliff, speeding down a rope to the running river that cut into the base of the bluff.

“Kill him!” Kelly screamed. “Fire now, ya bastards!”

His command must have been heard at the top of the bluff. Two arrows shot through the chests of two redcoats. They fell forward in the mud, their guns discharging into the earth. The remaining two fired point-blank at Hugh. The reports of the muskets deafened Morgana to her own scream as Hugh tumbled head over heels into the river, out of Morgana’s sight forever.

Kelly jabbed his pistol into her throat, grunting, “Move. He’s done for. I won’t let my reward go now. Move!”

“Just how much am I worth to you, Kelly?” Morgana asked in a cold, calm voice. All her fear was gone now. None of it remained, if Hugh O’Neill was lost for good. “How much is Grey paying you to bring me to Dublin?”

“Never you mind about that! It’s enough! Enough to keep me comfortable all my days.”

“As much as Sussex paid you six years ago for Shane? That was going to make you a wealthy man. How much was it? A hundred pounds?”

“More, damn it! And it was seven years ago. You’re worth five times what Shane O’Neill was. Shut up and move!”

“I’ll pay you ten times the amount.” Morgana lifted the sack of powders from her pocket. “I’ll give you the Kildare
diamond now, and tell you where the rest of my family’s jewels can be found.”

She dangled the small sack before his piggish, greedy eyes. She braced herself on the warped boards of the bridge, knowing she would have one chance. Only one.

Kelly’s eyes narrowed. He went so far as to extend his hand. “Let me see the jewel.”

Morgana held the sack away from his reach. “First, take your gun away from my face. You can’t fire it at this range and not blow your own head off. It’s no good to you.”

“Let me see the diamond!” he yelled, beyond reason entirely.

“Hold out your hand,” Morgana instructed silkily. She moved the sack between them, inverting its contents into Kelly’s grasping palm. The instant the powder began to pour, she blew it into his eyes.

He screamed, blinded, and swung his gun around. Morgana ducked under the weapon’s barrel. He pulled the trigger, and the flash exploded in his face. His remaining men turned around to find their captain’s red coat and hair on fire.

Kelly staggered backward, beating at the flames eating up his wool and linen, scorching his mustache and his vainly pomaded silver hair. He collapsed on his back, writhing in agony, screaming and belching flames of fire out his mouth.

The two redcoats left rushed at Kelly to put the fire out. Morgana ran across the bridge. She tripped on warped boards and went crashing face down on the wooden planks.

“She’s killed Captain Kelly!” The soldiers backed away from the burning body of their commander. Both looked at Morgana with hatred in their eyes as she stumbled back to her feet.

She could never outrun them. She staggered upright gripping the stone wall of the bridge. Her only way to avoid being recaptured was the river. Morgana scrambled onto the railing, gathering her skirts and cloak about her.

This time, when she looked into the depths of the Abhainn Mor, she didn’t fear drowning. The river had taken
her Hugh. She wanted to spend eternity with him. She opened her eyes and her arms wide, embracing death, as she leaped off the bridge into the swirling depths. She called out one word as she fell: “Hugh!”

“Sweet Jesus, what’s that noise?” the youngest soldier cried as he came to a crashing stop at the bridge wall, too late to catch the woman before she jumped. His head jerked from side to side, and he dropped his gun to the bridge floor. Both his hands were needed to cover his ears against the deafening, swelling scream rising out the river’s gorge.

On the top of the bluff, seven kerns heard the same scream. To a man, they knew what that sound was—the cry of the banshee Maoveen, whose wail for untold centuries had heralded the death of the O’Neill.

“No!” Loghran O’Toole grabbed the rope dangling over the cliff. He was gone from sight before anyone could stop him.

Maoveen’s scream whipped through the gorge of the Abhainn Mor, gathered force and power from the earth, wind and water, and roared over Tyrone, up to the deserted heights of Owen Maugh, the ancient stone of the O’Neills. She was heard from Armagh to Omagh, from Tullaghoge to Trigall.

At Dungannon, every burning candle was snuffed all at once, blown out by the terrifying force of Maoveen’s all-consuming breath.

T
he Abhainn Mor was not unkind. Morgana went into it with her eyes open, expecting a cold, numbing shock. There was no time to feel the cold as she sank into the depths of the wild flow and was caught by swiftly running undercurrents. Water weeds caressed her cheeks and tugged upon her hands.

Air billowed in her gown and cloak, trapping thousands of bubbles that gently floated past her eyes in a mysterious dance to the choppy, glassy surface. Before she lost her breath, her face broke through. The cool touch of the night wind stroked her face and brought the sad lament of Maoveen to her ears.

Morgana spun around, lifting her head and shoulders above the water, in a frantic attempt to locate the source of the song. To one side of the ravine, cliff walls rushed past her. To the other, the virgin forest waved its boughs in a silent salute of farewell.

She was propelled downstream on a billowing cushion of air trapped by cloth in a warm current. When she leaned her head back into the water and looked up, the black wall of the ravine was topped by a canopy of twinkling stars.

Morgana waited for that choking sensation of panic that had always terrified her when she neared water. It wasn’t there. She wasn’t going to die. The water refused to take her, refused the sacrifice of her life to go with Hugh.

“No!” Morgana screamed, flaying out both arms and legs in a desperate attempt to rid herself of whatever buoyancy it was that kept her on the surface and cheated her of an honorable death.

A swifter current turned her round the bend. Morgana lifted her head, hearing the rush and tumble of the rapids as she tumbled toward them. Now, she saw what was coming, the devastation that would end her life, the battering of her helpless limbs against the rocks that turned the Blackwater into fearsome, foaming white water.

Funny, but she wasn’t afraid.

No. Not afraid. She spread her arms across the waves in a welcoming embrace. This would end all of the uncertainties of her life, send her plummeting into a far, far better place. How she wanted to tell Hugh this last truth. She no longer feared drowning or feared the havoc water could wreack because she no longer feared death.

This great river had taken Hugh from her. By its same dark nature it would bring them together for eternity. Morgana lifted her hand in a salute to the wailing spirit of Maoveen, hoping the banshee would add a small prayer for her soul to her funeral hymn.

“I’m not afraid of the water, Hugh.”

“I can see that.”

Morgana jerked in the weightless embrace of the current, turning to the sound of her lover’s voice, seeking his spirit, his soul, knowing he would be there at the final moment to help her into the vail.

But she was surrounded by the dark, by the blanketing fall of night over the turbulent, pulsing river.

“Hugh! Hugh!” Morgana called out his name. “Where are you?”

“Here.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and called to her from the topmost ledge of the rapids. “Don’t be afraid, Morgana, my love. I’ll catch you.”

Hugh! She saw him! Standing braced against a rock in the middle of the rapids. “Hugh!”

Morgana began to flail at the water, in a panic to reach him and not be swept past him by the tugging stream.

“Don’t fight it! Float. Stretch out your arms.” His words came to her when her head went under. She screamed, and a mouthful of water choked her. His name bubbled to the surface as she screamed for him underwater.

The panic and the fear burbled up, strangling her, closing its tight fist across her throat. She made the connection that he was alive. The English hadn’t killed him. James Kelly hadn’t won. The Abhainn Mor hadn’t swallowed Hugh.

“Hugh!” Morgana screamed his name when her face broke water again. “Hugh!”

He dived off the rock, swimming to her. His strong, powerful arms cut through the quickening current. The Abhainn Mor pushed harder on Morgana’s clothes, turning her. She spun round and round in the eddying flood as it gathered speed and tumbled toward the rocks. She coughed twice, expelling water from her lungs.

“Hugh!”

“I’m here, my darling.” Hugh lifted his face and called to her. That cost him his advantage against the current. Morgana sped past, driven by skirts that had trapped air and acted like a sail. She neared the rapids and screamed. “Hugh!”

“Morgana, reach for me!” Desperately, he lunged after her, driving his arms in powerful strokes going with the current. She spun faster, caught in the tow, turning before his eyes, closer and closer to the rockbound waterfall. He refused to let her go. He could not lose her, now that he knew how much he loved her.

“Hugh!”

“Morgana, I love you! Reach for me!”

Her arms lifted from the surface in a farewell. “I love you, Hugh.”

His fingers caught a bubble of cloth and clamped down. Immediately Hugh dropped his body, using his trunk and
legs like a rudder against the current. He hauled her to him by the cloth, yard by yard, inch by inch.

Then his hands were at her waist, lifting her above the water. Her back was to him. “Hugh! Don’t! We’ll both drown.”

“Not tonight, my love,” he promised. “I’ve got you. Don’t strangle me or choke me. I have no intention of meeting my death in such an ignoble manner. Are you calm?”

Morgana stared at the oncoming rocks. Her hair slid across her back. “The rapids!”

“I know. Brace your body against mine. Lie back on me. I did this a thousand times as a boy, ran the rapids like a trout. Come on, Morgana. Are you ready?”

He yanked her back against him at the last moment, and thrust out his feet ahead of him. They both went under. Hugh clamped his arms around her chest, holding on to her with all his might.

They went into the white water, crashing over rocks, plunging into pools, twisting, turning, swept by the savage, untamed flow of the Abhainn Mor as it coursed down through the rapids that dropped a hundred feet from beginning to end.

Hugh never let go. Not even when stones bashed his head and body and water choked and strangled him. Not even when he knew it was his life for hers. He couldn’t let her go. Not now that he’d found her.

Then, all at once, they were airborne, turning head over heels into the pool at the bottom of the waterfall. Hugh expelled the water in his lungs and took a quick breath, knowing what was coming.

They plunged into the pool feet first, welded together by the force of his arms and sank like stones to the bottom. He bent his legs and kicked hard as he could.

He still had hold of her when the current cast them onto the sandy verge, spitting them out of all danger. His heart thrummed a wildly exhilarated cadence. Morgana shivered in his embrace, her arms and legs quaking. Her fingers
padded at his forearms like cat feet, claws seeking purchase. She choked on the water in her lungs.

Hugh coughed and raised his head, spat out a mouthful of water, then said, “Want to do it again, my love?”

She choked and coughed then, bent double to expel the water filling her lungs. Hugh managed to sit up and ignore the pains in his back. He cleared his chest, and winced at the pain that caused.

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his hair from his eyes. “Maybe it was easier to do when I was a boy and fitted on Loghran’s shield.”

“What?” Morgana gasped. She turned around in his arms, all blustering woman’s fury. Small fists formed against his chest but had little strength left to inflict any damage.

Hugh managed a laugh and covered her hands with his own, holding her against his chest. “No? Bad idea, right?”

“Oh, Hugh…” Morgana straddled his legs to throw her arms around his shoulders and kiss him. He beat her to it, tightening his hands on her back, bringing her head down to his for a powerful kiss at the joy of being alive. “I thought I’d lost you for good.”

“And I you, my sweet. But as you can see the old gods have no use for our sacrifice, and have cast us back on the shores of life. We’ll have a long walk home to Dungannon.”

“I’m too exhausted to walk anywhere.” Morgana slid her arms around his neck, hugging him, putting a hundred thankful kisses on his face, from brow to chin.

“I’m too sore,” Hugh replied. “We’ll have to wait here for Loghran to find us. He’ll be along shortly, I vow.”

Morgana laid her cheek against his and looked to the glen edging the river. It was filled with blooming hawthorn trees. The grass beneath them was so thick with fallen blossoms, it looked like a bed. “Look at all the mayflowers,” she said.

Hugh waggled his brows at her in invitation. “A ripe place for soon-to-be-weds to sleep, my lady. A potent and fertile bower. Come.”

He got to his feet, lifting her from the river. She was still trembling and weak, but Hugh’s strength was coming back. The bumps and scrapes from the rocks no longer mattered. He slipped his arm around her waist and led her onto the grassy verge.

“First,” he said briskly, “I will dispose of these wet clothes of yours, and hang them to dry. Then, my love, I will warm you in the best way possible.”

“It’s a warm night.” Morgana stood still for the removal of her cloak. Hugh unhooked his belt and tossed it and his scabbard to the side. Morgana’s fingers were at his chest then, no longer passive, for she was as anxious to relieve him of his clothes as he was to remove hers.

“Shall I make you a fire?” he asked when he pulled her body flush against his. The air had pebbled her skin. Hugh gathered her hair off her shoulders, twisting it into a single coil.

“Later.” Morgana pressed flush against him, running her hands across his naked torso, warming him the same way he warmed her.

“Ah, Morgan le Fay, you are truly the greatest gift God has ever given me.”

Morgana knew exactly when to give in, and how. So she did and was thoroughly rewarded in the giving.

Hugh woke himself up sneezing. Morgana laughed at the shower of hawthorn blooms he sent flying airborne from his face.

“What?” Hugh sat bolt upright, startled out of his hazy, pleasant dreams of making love in the spring grass. A chestful of flowers cascaded to his legs.

“You look like Puck.” Morgana giggled.

Hugh looked down at himself and laughed. They were both covered by blossoms. They continued to shower out of the trees like a white rain as the morning breeze stirred and shifted limbs that were heavy with green leaves.

“It’s going to be summer soon.” Morgana sat up on her knees. She was already dressed in her fitted kirtle. Hugh saw
that it was still damp enough to expose her rosy breasts through the cloth.

“Let it turn summer, let it turn fall. Let’s stay here in this perfect spot, just as we are.”

“Oh, I wish we could, my lord,” Morgana handed him his sark which was as damp as her kirtle. “But I don’t think we’re going to be alone much longer. I hear beaters combing the rushes. They’re looking for us.”

Hugh hammered his hand against his head, as if to dislodge water from his ears. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Well, you should,” Morgana scolded him. She pointed up the river. Now that the moon had risen, much could be seen. The sharp curve of the Abhainn Mor where it turned away from Benburg. A thin gray mist rose halfway up Owen Maugh and formed a ring around Shane’s castle, on the crest. The mist caught the light of the torches and reflected it back down to the water. Searchers had reached the rocks of the rapids and the twenty-foot drop of the waterfall into the huge pool opposite their bower.

Sure as Morgana had said, Hugh’s kerns made their way down opposite sides of the river. They were on horseback, to cover more ground, but the purpose of the long staves in their hands, beating at the rushes, was evident. They were searching for bodies.

It wouldn’t be long before they came within hailing range. Hugh jerked his sark over his head, twisted it down his torso, then stood to don his trews, and sat to pull up still-wet stockings and boots.

“How long have you been awake?” he asked.

“Long enough to cover you in mayflowers.” Morgana laughed.

“Get dressed.” Hugh tossed her surcoat to her. The heavier cloth was much wetter than her kirtle. Morgana frowned as she stood and pulled the cold garment onto her shoulders.

“Euch…” She grimaced. She ran her fingers through her hair, then tossed it behind her shoulders. “I suppose now is
the time to tell you the worst. James Kelly is most likely dead.”

“What?” Hugh blinked. He looked up at her from fastening his cross garters. His brow lowered.

“His pistol exploded in his face.” Morgana explained. “It happened on the bridge, just before I jumped into the water. I’m sorry you won’t be able to bring him to justice before your clan, but I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

Hugh stood. He crossed to her and pulled her into his arms. They stood looking at each other for a long, long time. “I don’t think he matters to me anymore. I don’t need to prove myself to anyone, or to avenge Shane’s murder, to become the O’Neill. I thought I did, but none of that matters anymore. You are all that’s important. We’re going to get married as soon as we return to Dungannon. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Morgana reached up on tiptoe to kiss him.

Hugh’s lips lingered on hers for a long time. Each savored the newness of love in full bloom, and the complete trust and peace that came with it. Morgana had no doubts that the queen would grant Hugh’s requests, each and every one of them, down through the years.

And he had no doubts that she would stand by him through thick and thin, through battles and peace, and even the return of the earl of Kildare to Ireland. Hugh laughed.

“What are you thinking?” Morgana pushed him back a pace, scowling prettily at his grin.

Hugh chuckled some more before saying what was on his mind. “I was just thinking to myself, let Fitzgerald declare himself king of Erin. Then you and I can retire in the quiet obscurity of the hills of Tyrone and live out our lives making babies and living in peace forever.”

“That has a very nice sound to it,” Morgana agreed. “Father may have an absolute fit, but I second the thought.”

“Excellent.” Hugh set her back and bent down to gather the rest of their belongings, his belt and empty scabbard, Morgana’s dripping cloak and his tartan. He gallantly offered Morgana his arm. “Shall we go and give Loghran
O’Toole the scare of his life? You know they think we are dead. I’ve got a better idea. Let’s head to the road and circumvent them.”