Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight (18 page)

Baudoin cursed the incompetence of the captain who had run the longboat aground so close to their destination. They saw what they surmised was Ronan’s tower looming in the darkness. It was thanks to the fool’s drunkenness that they had become lost, otherwise they would have made landfall before dark. Praise the saints one of the oarsmen had known enough about navigation to bring them to the right part of Ireland.

Rhoni clung to him as the boat creaked and lurched in the foaming surf. He did not want to alarm her, but it would not be long before the vessel broke apart, tossing them into the black water.

Suddenly his sister tightened her grip and pointed to the water. “Seals! Ronan is here.”

He narrowed his eyes. Sure enough, several dark shapes swam alongside, and in the distance they heard barking.

“She has come to save us, Baudoin,” Rhoni murmured.

“Who?”

“Ronan is the son of a
selkie
.”

Baudoin feared the tumultuous events of the last weeks had sent his sister tumbling into madness. “A what?”

Rhoni smiled at him. “It’s hard to believe,” she shouted over the wind, “but the seals have come to save us.”

Baudoin scoffed. “What are we supposed to do, fling ourselves on their backs?”

Confused shouts from the crew added to the mayhem. One or two had already leapt into the water. The horses had been loosed. One had jumped over the side in its panic and landed heavily. It now lay motionless on the rocks.

“Thank God I did not bring Fortissima,” Rhoni rasped.

Baudoin gripped his sister’s arm, his jaw clenched. “We may have to swim for it, Rhoni. I will help you. I won’t let you drown.”

“Have faith, Baudoin,” Rhoni assured him.

Suddenly, they heard shouts, and a rowboat appeared out of the darkness, bobbing nearby, followed by another. Ronan stood at the prow of the first boat, his legs braced, a length of rope in his hands.

Rhoni saw him first. “Ronan!” she yelled, waving frantically.

He gritted his teeth when he saw her, and raised his hand in salute. He tossed the coiled rope to Baudoin, cupped his free hand around his mouth, and shouted something.

The words were lost on the wind, but once he caught the rope on the third try, Baudoin knew enough to tie it around his sister’s waist. “We have to jump into the water, Rhoni. Hold on to me tightly. Ronan will pull us into his boat. The water looks dangerous, but at least it isn’t storming. We have to avoid the rocks.”

He was amazed and thankful at how calm she was. Testing the knot one last time, he lifted her onto the top rail, climbed up behind, clamped his arms around her and jumped.

The shock of the cold water took Rhoni’s breath away. Baudoin quickly brought them back to the surface, and she said a prayer of thanks that she had worn the split skirt which allowed for movement. He turned her over, one arm around her ribs, the other parting the waves. Her long wet hair covered her face and she spluttered and spat the water out of her mouth. She had always been afraid of water, but strangely felt no fear now. She clung to Baudoin’s arm, feeling his strength, and the reassuring tug of the rope at her waist as Ronan pulled them to the safety of his boat.

“Let me do the kicking, Rhoni,” Baudoin rasped hoarsely in her ear. She relaxed, trusting the man she loved, her brother and the seals to complete her rescue.

Soon they were abreast of the rowboat. Strong hands lifted them aboard. “Steady, steady,” she heard someone shout. Then suddenly she was enfolded in the safety of Ronan’s arms, sitting on his lap wrapped in a blanket. “Rhoni,” he rasped, his fingers combing her wet hair off her face. “Rhoni.”

“Ronan,” she murmured through chattering teeth.

“I will warm you,” he whispered.

Baudoin clutched his blanket around his shoulders and coughed, trying to catch his breath. “
Merci
, Ronan. I feared we were done for.”

Ronan took the hand Baudoin proffered. “What are you doing here?”

Rhoni cuddled into Ronan. “You left without saying goodbye.”

Baudoin shook his head, patting his sodden doublet. “We have a message for Bossuet, from the Earl of Chester. It may have got slightly wet.”

“I brought a message for Bossuet. You have another?”

Baudoin and Ronan stared at each other in confusion. The warmth from Ronan’s body was seeping into Rhoni. She looked up at him, longing to see his beloved face. “The Earl has instructed Bossuet to put himself under your command. They are to help you regain your Tower.”

Ronan looked down at the woman he loved but believed he could never have. Sea water had made her hoarse, but he had never heard anything as sweet to his ears as the words she uttered.

It was a miracle, a means to regain his lands, and perhaps then turn his attention to wooing Rhoni. With a well trained Norman force he would easily oust Lorcan and Fothud. How had she accomplished this? He suspected her father’s hand, but would not question it.

He was so grateful, he had no words of thanks. He brushed his lips across hers. She responded by snaking her arms around his neck and licking him, sending shivers of desire through his body. He kissed her deeply, savouring the salty tang of her skin. “Still wearing outrageous outfits, I see, Lady Rhoni.”

As the rowboats pulled into shore laden with survivors, Baudoin jumped into the shallows to help moor the craft. Bossuet leapt from the other boat. He accosted Baudoin. “I am Emyle Bossuet, Commander of the Norman forces here. You and your travelling companion have had a narrow escape. What brings you to these shores?”

Baudoin secured the knot before replying. “I am Baudoin de Montbryce, son of the Earl of Ellesmere.”

Bossuet bowed. “
Milord
, forgive my impertinence. I did not recognize—”

Baudoin turned to help Ronan as he lifted Rhoni from the boat. “You could not have known who we were, Bossuet, drenched to the skin as we are. This young lady is my sister, Rhoni de Montbryce. We come bearing a message from the Earl of Chester.”

Bossuet frowned as he bowed to Rhoni. “
Milady
. I have already received the Earl’s message. Lord Ronan brought it.”

Baudoin handed Rhoni back to Ronan. “These are new orders. You are to remain here and place yourself at the disposal of Lord Ronan.”

For a split second Bossuet’s gaze met Ronan’s. It was fully dark now, but he was sure a hint of a smile flitted across the Norman’s face.

Rhoni insisted she was not injured, but Ronan refused to allow her to walk. He carried her to a chamber, issuing orders for a bath to be prepared. It felt good to be in his arms, so she did not protest overmuch. He kicked the door shut behind him and set her down on her feet.

She clutched the blanket more tightly, missing the warmth of his body. “Are you angry with me?”

Ronan raked a hand through his hair. “Rhoni, I want to take you over my knee and smack you like a naughty child for your foolhardiness.”

She arched her brows and smiled.

He took hold of the edges of the blanket and drew her to him. “But I am so happy to see you, I want to fall on my knees and thank God you have come. I have missed you. You are in my blood.”

Rhoni longed to press her body against him, but she was still soaking wet. She pouted. “I’m cold. I need to get out of these wet things.”

Ronan took a deep breath. “You are a temptress, Rhoni de Montbryce, but I have sent for a maidservant to assist you. You’ll feel better once you’ve bathed. Then you can descend to the Hall and explain how you come to be here and how your father persuaded the Earl of Chester to hand his mercenaries over to me.”

Rhoni discarded the now wet blanket. Water pooled at her feet. She tucked her wet hair off her face. “I am a wreck. In truth, I do not know how my father manipulated the Earl. He guessed, I think, that Chester had ordered his men home, and somehow persuaded d’Avranches to put Bossuet under your command. What has happened to the MacFintains?”

Ronan clenched his jaw. “They are gone for now, but lurk in the woods nearby. It will be an easy matter to wreak my vengeance with Bossuet’s help. I cannot thank your family enough.”

A tap at the door signalled the maidservant’s arrival. Ronan allowed her entry and took his leave. “Moyra will take care of you. She was my wife’s maid, one of the few to escape the MacFintains’ bloody rampage.”

“Aye,” Moyra acknowledged, bustling in with linens and gowns. “My husband Cleum didn’t survive the siege, but at least our little lad, Diarmid, was spared. He’s the spitting image of his
da
, and praise be to God we have not come to the notice of those two scavengers. There’s one or two of their mangy clansmen have thought to take advantage, like Mortag MacRuff, but a sharp heel of the shoe on his foot soon put him in his place.”

Hot water arrived. Moyra gave the two burly lads permission to enter then chivvied them to be done quickly filling the wooden tub.

She hustled them out, stripped Rhoni of her wet clothing, tossing it aside, and helped her into the hot water.

She chattered on as Rhoni let the heat of the water penetrate her body, thankful for the warmth of this peasant woman who had kept her buoyant nature in spite of the ills visited upon her.

Moyra left the Norman woman sleeping peacefully, wishing she felt as sure about the lack of danger surrounding her as she had claimed.

Like the rest of the people of Túr MacLachlainn, she had been overjoyed at the return of Lord Ronan. Life under the rule of the MacFintains had been hell. But she feared neither the brothers nor their cronies would surrender willingly.

Mortag MacRuff was still a concern. He had lusted after her for years and she suspected it was he who had killed Cleum in the battle for the Tower. He had not taken kindly to her rebuff of his advances.

She feared for Diarmid and fretted about him whenever they were apart. Though he was strong for a lad of ten years, he would be no match for a grown man. It was a relief Bossuet had posted guards around the village. She hurried home now to her cottage, stopping dead in her tracks at the sight of Mortag lurking in the shadows near the door.

Where was the Norman guard? She tried to keep the fear out of her voice. “What are you doing here, Mortag? Best be away back to Lorcan’s side. Lord Ronan won’t be too pleased to find you here.”

Mortag staggered into the moonlit path, swaying as a belch escaped his lips. His red hair was wild, his beard unkempt, his tunic stained. In the darkness she could not tell for certain if the stain was blood, but her heart lurched, knowing the Norman was dead. Mortag had never been a handsome man. Now he looked like a drunken demon.

She glanced to the neighbour’s cottage, dismayed to see Mortag’s cousin, Fergal, lurking in the shadows between the two dwellings. Dread filled her. Had they killed Diarmid? Was it his blood on Mortag’s filthy clothing? She straightened her spine, pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders. “What have you done with my son, you drunken brute?”

Mortag belched again, squinting at her. “He is safe, and will remain so, if you come with me quietly now.”

His whiskey laden breath almost felled her. She lifted the hem of her skirts and opened her mouth to scream for help, but Mortag clamped a beefy hand over her face. “Can’t have that, Moyra.”

She struggled to free herself from his grip, but Fergal lumbered over and grasped her legs. She kicked and flailed, but Mortag’s filthy hand covering her nose and mouth robbed her of breath.

The last thing she remembered was being hoisted over a broad shoulder.

Lorcan slapped the wench across the face again. She tried to evade the blow, but Fothud held her fast. “Tell me what happened.”

Fothud spat. “She knows naught.”

Lorcan shoved his brother. “Aye, she does. She was there when they brought the people in from the wreck. Weren’t you, pretty Moyra? That’s why my faithful Mortag brought you to me.”

“Aye,” Moyra replied in a whisper.

“Who are they? Tell me or your whelp will bear the next beating.”

Moyra gasped, narrowing her swollen eyes to peer at her son tied to a nearby tree. “Normans.”

Lorcan glanced up sharply at Fothud. “From where? England?”

“Aye.”

“Their names?”

“Lord Baudoin and Lady Rhoni.”

Lorcan shoved her to the ground. “You lie. A woman would not make the dangerous crossing from England.”

Moyra sobbed. “I tell thee true. She is Lord Ronan’s woman, the daughter of an Earl.”

Lorcan strode away, dragging Fothud by the arm. Moyra crawled to comfort her child. “We must seize the Norman woman. Ronan will come after her and we will recapture him. He obviously plans to wed her to bring himself strong allies. It must be nipped in the bud. Bind Moyra to her son.”

Fothud pulled his arm free. “But if this woman is the Earl of Chester’s daughter—”

Lorcan shoved Fothud. “He has no daughter, fool. This woman must be the daughter of some other Earl.”

Fothud shook his head. “This is getting too dangerous. We surely don’t want two Anglo-Norman Earls as our enemies?”

“Bah! We must take back the Tower. We don’t need the Normans. England is far away. What can they do if we control the tower and the land around it?”

“But our clansmen—”

Lorcan slapped the side of Fothud’s head.

“But we have other estates that we—”

Another slap. Fothud glowered at his glaring brother, but said nothing more.

Ronan, Bossuet, Rhoni, Baudoin and Conall were closeted in the Map Room discussing plans to capture Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain.

Suddenly, the door burst open and a Norman mercenary strode in, carrying Moyra. “I found this woman at the gates,
mon capitaine
,” he explained.

The men leapt to their feet.

“Críost, Moyra.
Who has beaten you?” Ronan asked.

The Norman set her on her feet. She closed her eyes, and sobbed out a name. “Lorcan MacFintain. He has Diarmid.”

Her knees gave way, but Ronan caught her. “Where?”

Moyra clung to his arm. “In the Little Wood. He sent me to lure Lady Rhoni away. He promised to spare Diarmid if I did as I was told. But his word is good for naught.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “My son is probably already dead.”

Bossuet gritted his teeth. “I posted men to watch over the cottages.”

Moyra sobbed against Ronan’s chest. “Mortag and Fergal killed the sentries.”

Ronan’s fury intensified. Once more he had left innocent people vulnerable. He took a deep breath and explained what Moyra had told him of Lorcan’s plot. Rhoni gasped and pulled the Irishwoman to her. “Tell her she is a brave woman. I will take care of her wounds.”

Moyra allowed Rhoni to lead her away. Suddenly, she stopped. “Wait! I must tell you their plan.”

Ronan drew her to a chair. “Moyra, I swear to do everything I can to rescue Diarmid. Tell us.”

Moyra fisted her hands in her lap. “Lorcan sent Fothud to procure a rowboat and wait at the mouth of
Uisce Cluana
. I was to bring the lady to him and persuade her to get into the boat. He would row her out into the ocean and toss her overboard. Lorcan planned to lie in wait with his men for you to come to her rescue, Lord Ronan.”

Baudoin scoffed. “Are these men complete idiots? How was she supposed to lure Rhoni away from the tower? My sister and Lord Ronan have hardly spent a minute apart since our arrival.”

Rhoni blushed, and Ronan bristled, but then saw the glint in Baudoin’s eye.

Moyra shook her head. “He told me that was up to me. He was sure I would think of something. Mortag was to help me.”

Baudoin threw up his arms in disbelief. “They don’t know Rhoni if they think she would sit biddably in a rowboat to be taken to her death.”

Bossuet shrugged. “That is the problem with these brothers. But what they lack in wits they make up for in sheer malevolence. It makes them unpredictable and dangerous.”

Ronan came to his feet. He would wait no longer to rid his land of the MacFintains. “Rhoni, please take Moyra to the healer. She knows the way. Bossuet, muster your men in two groups. You take one to apprehend Fothud at the mouth of the Cluana. I will lead the rest against Lorcan.”

Fothud leaned against the rowboat, longing for a swig of whiskey. He had bitten his nails down to the quick. The seawater lapping at his feet was ruining his best boots.

“Why is Lorcan sending me out to sea to get rid of the Norman woman?” he mumbled aloud. “What is he up to? Does he plan to keep the Tower for himself?”

A twig snapped nearby. Fothud stood up straight, peering at the dunes. “Moyra?”

Sand swirled, the long reedy leaves of sea oats rustled.

Only the wind.

Fothud checked that the oars were secure in the tholes.

Sand swirled in the dunes again. He heard a strange sound. He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. Was it the wind sowing through the dune grass? Or sand shifting?

The certainty that he was no longer alone on the beach crept up his spine. His bowels clenched as he scurried into the rowboat. Moyra was not coming, but someone was in the dunes. He made ready to escape up the Cluana.

Suddenly a lone seal appeared at the top of a dune, watching him. He cursed his brother for leaving him alone in this godforsaken place. He pulled on the oars, never taking his eyes off the dune. Four more seals joined the first one. “
Críost
!” he murmured, pulling harder. He rowed frantically, his eyes locked on the sea creatures, but when he blinked they were in the water alongside his boat.

He looked over his shoulder to make sure he was headed up the Cluana. A panicked cry emerged from his throat when he saw more seals ahead—and he was headed out to sea! How had that happened?

“Lorcan,” he whimpered. “Help me.”

The safest course was to return to the beach, but when he looked back, riders were galloping onto the sands. Relief swept over him, until he saw it was the cursed Normans!

Emyle Bossuet called his men to a halt. They watched Fothud struggle with the oars of his boat, seemingly in a panic. What ailed the man?

One of Bossuet’s men pointed to silvery shapes streaking through the water near the boat. “
Là. Phoques!”

Bossuet had seen seals in the area on occasion, but never in such numbers. What were they doing? Were they pursuing the rowboat?

Fothud struggled to stand. He had lost one oar, and was fending off the sea creatures with the other. Several seals rammed the boat repeatedly. It tipped alarmingly. Fothud lost his balance.

His shriek of fear echoed off the water as the boat capsized, catapulting him into the midst of the seals. They tossed him from one to the other like a plaything. Suddenly he was dragged beneath the waves. He broke the surface a moment or two later, only to be dragged down again into the roiling foam.

The seals disappeared quickly, leaving behind an eerie silence as the Normans gaped at the grey emptiness of the sea.

Lorcan poked his head up from the ditch where he and his men lay in wait. Was that Fothud yelling? Why had the fool not moored the boat where it was visible? How was he supposed to know when his worthless brother had the woman safely out of the way? Fothud had probably misunderstood the directions. “The idiot never listens,” he mumbled.

He sank back into the ditch, his back to the beach, frustrated he had seen nothing. Not to worry. There would be no mistaking Ronan’s approach when he came thundering to the rescue.