Wild Angel (19 page)

At first the trail had looked promising, the baron and
his ten knights holding no more than a few miles’ lead. But their pace had
never slackened as Ronan had hoped, de Roche clearly anxious to meet up with
his king.

Now it was almost dark. If the baron stopped for the
night at all, he would no doubt do so in Kilkenny. And that Norman-held town
lay too close to King John and his approaching forces to risk venturing there.
Ronan had his men’s safety to consider; he would take no reckless chances. He
had learned that lesson years ago. God help him, he had learned.

Ronan held up his arm and reined in his mount, the
powerful animal’s increasing exhaustion another factor. As his sixty-odd
clansmen slowed their horses to a halt behind him, he raised his voice so all
could hear.

"We’ve ridden hard, men, but we’ll go no farther
south. Kilkenny may already harbor some of King John’s army. We’ll return to
the River Barrow and make camp for a few hours so the horses may rest, then
ride for Glenmalure."

So far to the rear that she could barely make out Ronan’s
face in the gathering dusk and drizzle, Triona couldn’t believe her ears.

Go no farther? Was he mad? Surely they must be close to
Baron de Roche and his men or they wouldn’t have pursued them for this long.
Yet they were giving up the chase?

She wasn’t giving
up!
Triona fumed, swiftly making her own plans. She might never have
another chance. Yet as everyone wheeled their horses around, she had no choice
but to follow suit. To draw attention to herself at this point would gain her
nothing.

But as night settled even deeper around them, she began
to deliberately slow her mount until once more she was riding at the rear, her
heart thundering as Ronan passed her without a glance. And if Niall had been
keeping watch on her, he was lost now in the surge of clansmen that had become
no more than fuzzy shapes in the gathering darkness.

Finally Triona veered her mount off the road altogether
and into the trees where she waited breathlessly for the thundering sound of
hooves to fade. Only when she was certain that she was alone did she venture
out into the open.

It was growing so dark that she could barely see the
road, but thankfully a bright quarter moon was peeking from behind translucent
clouds that appeared to be lifting. She took a moment to wind her sodden cloak
more tightly around her, doing her best to ignore the chill seeping into her
bones,
then
she dug her heels into the gelding’s
flanks.

"On with you now. To Kilkenny!"

***

Ronan dismounted, grateful that the cursed rain had
finally stopped. But the day had hardly ended as he would have liked.

Now Fineen’s revenge would have to wait for weeks,
maybe even months depending upon how long this King John remained in Eire. No
doubt the loyal Baron de Roche would not stray far from his king’s side, making
it virtually impossible to capture him by surprise.

"More good news for Triona," Ronan groused,
imagining again the ruckus she would raise. First she would call him a coward
for not having pursued the baron into Kilkenny, then accuse him of being unfit
to lead his men if he couldn’t have pushed them harder, and finally, end by
declaring she could have done better herself.

"Ronan!" Niall called.

He spun, frowning at the agitation in his brother’s
voice as Niall rushed toward him. "Where the devil have you been these
long hours? Usually you ride at the front with me—"

"She’s gone, Ronan!"

He tensed, something telling him that this day was not
destined to improve. "Do you mean . . .?"

"
Aye,
and I knew it was
the wrong decision from the first. But she said she deserved to be there if de
Roche was going to hang so I—"

"By God, Niall, have you gone mad? You allowed
Triona to ride with us?"

As Ronan’s incredulous roar echoed around the clearing,
every clansman fell still where he stood. But Niall rushed on as if he’d fully
expected such an outburst.

"I couldn’t believe it when I found her in the
stable. You’d told me that you had locked her door."

"Little good it did," Ronan muttered,
imagining all too well how she had escaped. "So you say that she’s gone?"

"Aye. I kept close watch on her, too, riding well
to the back with her until we stopped a while ago. I thought she was still with
me, but it got so damned dark—"

"The fool woman’s gone to Kilkenny."

Niall didn’t reply
,
his
expression as grim as Ronan’s in the moonlight.

"Did she have weapons? Her bowcase and hunting
knife are locked away, but she might have stolen—"

"It’s possible, Ronan. She was wearing a heavy
cloak that could easily have hidden—"

"All the damned weapons she needed." Ronan’s
insides were churning as he went to his stallion and vaulted onto the animal’s
back. "As my Tanist, you’re in charge, Niall."

"But, Ronan, you can’t go there alone! The town is
surely overrun with Normans and you’ve a price on your head. At least take some
men with you!"

"And risk their lives as well?" Ronan
gathered the reins and swung his horse sharply around. "At first light
lead the men back to Glenmalure. Don’t wait for me. King John’s forces might
have come to fight their own kind, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t enjoy
whetting their swords upon a band of Wicklow rebels."

As Niall swore in frustration, Ronan plunged his
stallion back onto the road, daring to hope he might catch up with Triona
before she reached Kilkenny. Even if he didn’t catch her, maybe once she saw
that the odds were so slim of her finding Maurice de Roche in a town filled
with Normans, she’d realize the insane folly of her plan and turn back.

Now Ronan swore.

Triona O’Toole, admit she’d taken on more than she
could manage?

The sheer absurdity of that idea made him ride all the
harder.

***

Triona was amazed at how easily she gained entrance
into the walled town of Kilkenny.

Even at this late hour, the road was crowded with
wagons and carts bearing all manner of foodstuffs she imagined would be needed
to feed King John’s army. Incredibly enough, she had only to dismount and lead
her horse through the gates, the distracted guards paying her no more heed than
they were to the squawking chickens and squealing pigs.

Taking care to note the direction she took so she would
be able to find her way out again, Triona was also careful to keep her hood
pulled down over her hair. If she appeared a youth, she’d be much less
noticeable. The last thing she wanted was to attract any undue attention.

She’d never seen so many Normans before and for that
matter, she’d never visited one of their towns.

She decided quickly that she didn’t like the place, the
noisy streets narrow and overcrowded with pedestrians, animals and all manner
of creaking transport, the houses cramped-looking and ugly, the air rank with
foul smells and ringing with the babble of voices. And the inhabitants were so
rude.

No one seemed to give a mind to their neighbor, which
in her situation was a very good thing. But she’d never experienced such
jostling and shoving. And, of course, the men were all so much taller than she
it was difficult to see where she was going without having to keep an eye open
for any sign of Maurice de Roche’s coat of arms.

Aye, that bloodred three-headed dragon was emblazoned
forever upon her mind. She,
Murchertach
and some
twenty O’Toole clansmen had come upon the horrid sight all at once . . . her
father lying brutally wounded upon the ground as six Norman knights rode into
the trees, their painted shields glistening in the sun.

One of the Normans had glanced back at them, the
dark-haired man riding at their lead. He had been too far away for Triona to
see his face, but she had heard him laughing, a cruel sound,
a
cold sound. Even now the memory made her flesh crawl. Aye, she would never
forget that day.

"Stand aside! Make way for the king’s men!"

Triona was barely able to pull her horse clear before
three mailed knights rode past on their spirited steeds, all of them laughing
raucously to see people scrambling to move out of their way. But they didn’t go
far, dismounting in front of some sort of public house, servants rushing out to
lead their horses to the stable next door. A brightly painted sign hung out
over the street showing a brimming cup of ale and a platter of steaming food,
while ill-kempt women loitered near the doors.

"You look to be men who could use some feminine
company," taunted one, a big-boned Irishwoman with dark tangled hair.
Bending forward so they might better view her ample breasts, she added with a
seductive smile, "See anything that pleases you?"

To the woman’s delight, one of the knights grabbed her
round the waist and half-carried her into the public house.

His companions each likewise chose a willing female
before entering, the men’s coarse laughter ringing out as they soundly swatted
the women’s bottoms to make them hurry.

"What are you gaping at, boy?"

Triona swung around, meeting the light blue eyes of a
Norman knight across the street
who
was leaning upon
his shield. A glistening black shield with a scarlet three-headed dragon at its
heart. Seeing it, she nearly choked.

"N-nothing," she somehow managed, hastily
leading her horse away.

"Good idea, boy. Better run home with you. And don’t
tell your mother what you’ve been drooling over or she’ll cuff your ears!"

As his loud chuckling followed her down the street,
Triona felt her blood begin to boil.

Aye, she’d like to cut off
his
ears! Surely that knight had to be one of de Roche’s men. He
must have been left to stand guard in the street while the baron caroused
indoors.

Triona quickly turned into a side alley where she
tethered her horse to a post. She had no idea if the gelding would still be
there when she returned, but she’d have to take that chance. She imagined
leaving him at the stable would require payment, and she had no coin.

"I’ll not be gone long," she promised, the
gelding nickering to her as she hurried back out onto the crowded street.

She was immediately pleased to see that the knight was
no longer alone; two brightly dressed women were vying for his attention.
Hoping that they would divert him, at least until she could get inside the
public house, Triona hurried toward the doors, her heart beginning to race.

At last she would have her revenge! She had sworn that
the Normans responsible for her father’s death would feel the sting of her
arrows, but the jeweled dagger would do just as nicely. She would just have to
get as close to the baron as possible so her aim would be sure . . .

"Hold there, boy! Where do you think you’re going?"
Triona gasped as the blue-eyed knight shoved his way through the women and came
barreling toward her, but luckily he was a big man and slow on his feet. She
ducked inside the doors.

Immediately she felt as if she’d been blinded, the
noisy room so crowded and poorly lit that she stumbled headlong into another
knight, the man cursing vehemently as he spun to take a swing at her. She
dodged him, too, only to feel someone grab her cloak.

"God’s blood, you’re a slippery little fish! Get
your Irish arse out of here, boy!"

Feeling
herself
being tugged
backward by the same knight who’d rushed inside after her, Triona panicked and
snatched the dagger from her belt. The next thing she heard was a sharp intake
of breath,
then
the man bellowed out a curse.

"He’s cut my hand, the bugger!"

Suddenly the room resounded with jeers and laughter,
one man’s rising above the rest. Triona felt her blood run cold as she spun,
her gaze falling upon a dark-haired knight seated at a distant table, a plump
female on his lap.

"God’s teeth, William! If you can’t best an Irish
stripling, what good are you to King John? Ten shillings to the man who catches
the little bastard! He’ll know not to raise a weapon to his betters once he’s hanging
dead from the rafters."

"No . . ." Triona breathed in horror as a
half dozen Normans suddenly lunged for her at the same moment someone wrenched
her violently backward. As the men fell into each other, crashing to a heap on
the floor, she was propelled bodily toward some nearby stairs.

"Go! Now!"

Triona dazedly obeyed the hissed command, scrambling up
the wooden steps as she was pushed from behind. She was pushed and shoved down
a dark corridor until they came to an open doorway.

"In there!"

Blindly she ducked into the pitch-dark room only to
have it suddenly flooded with torchlight from the street below as the shutters
were kicked open. Stunned, she gaped at Ronan, but had no more focused on the
Norman mailshirt he wore when he wrenched off her cloak and threw it under the
bed. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders and ripped downward, tearing away her
shirt until it hung in tatters from her waist. "How . . . how dare—"

"Say nothing if you want to live!" He shoved
her down upon the stained mattress, taking only a moment to wrest a smelly
blanket over them before he covered her with his body. "By God, Triona,
say nothing!"

She couldn’t have spoken even if she had wanted to, his
mouth crushing hers in a kiss that stopped her breath. He didn’t stop kissing
her even when heavy footsteps came storming down the hallway, doors opening and
then slamming one by one while women’s startled screams and male cursing filled
the air.

Ronan didn’t stop even when their door was kicked open
though she started in surprise beneath him, much in part because he’d begun to
grind his hips against hers.