L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep
Read L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep Online
Authors: Sharon Schulze
Lady
of the Keep
L’eau
Clair Chronicles – Book 5
Sharon
Schulze
To Patrick and Chrissy, my two most wonderful creations.
Contents
Ireland, 1215
Moira FitzGerald released her hold on her husband’s callused hand
and let it rest, flaccid and pale, against the heavy woolen coverlet. She
lowered her palm and cupped it round the bulk of her belly, then, ignoring
Father Thomas’s offer of help, struggled up off her knees and stood. Forcing
herself to look upon what remained of her lord and husband, she bent and kissed
his grizzled cheek. “Forgive me, milord,” she murmured, too low for the priest
to hear.
Straightening, she crossed herself. “May God speed you on your
way and give you
ease.
”
The babe chose that moment to kick hard beneath her ribs, the
vigorous sign of life in this chamber of death piercing her heart with sorrow.
And may God have mercy on us both,
she
thought, placing a soothing hand over her fatherless child.
The child stirred once more. Despite her burden, Moira stood tall
and willed her face into an emotionless mask as she stared at the remains of
the once-vital man she’d wed.
Life and death … all her sins come to fruition.
Her hands cupped her belly yet again. Never more, she vowed,
would she permit another to pay the price of her misdeeds.
′Twas nothing like FitzClifford.
Connor FitzClifford stood atop the headland and stared down upon
the fortress of Gerald’s Keep. Nestled among the rolling hills, its massive
bulk rose dark and brooding from the soft green Irish countryside, the tall
tower a dagger thrust deep into the heart of the land.
Abandoned huts dotted the hillside below him, the simple stone
and turf structures melting back into the earth that had spawned them. In time,
they’d disappear with barely a trace.
′Twas ever the Norman way, he thought, scrambling over the
rocky slope to his restless mount. Conquer, wreak vengeance, then sap the
lifeblood of the people until they were gone from sight, if not from memory.
Just as his Irish mother had been crushed within his Norman
father’s keeping.
He turned from the scene below him, looked back to the churning
sea and allowed its simple power to wash away the curious thoughts. His hand
clenched hard about the well-worn hilt of his sword. His world lay outside the
turbulent landscape of his mind, he reminded himself. Thinking had done nothing
to ease his plight or that of those he loved, nor had it changed one whit the
hellish reality of life at FitzClifford.
Deeds, not thoughts, had changed his world, brought light into
the darkness of his existence, shown him another way to live.
That they’d been the deeds of another, and not his own, was a
shame he would carry with him to the grave.
But he’d learned from past mistakes, and had no plans to repeat
them. Never again could anyone call Connor FitzClifford weakling or coward.
Though fool he undoubtedly was, to permit the past to taint the
present.
He shook off the lingering disquiet and strode back to his men.
They’d paused along the winding road to rest the horses before completing the
last, rugged stretch of the journey.
They stirred to motion when he drew near, packing away food and
drink and preparing to leave.
“Here, milord,” said Will. The former man-at-arms—now a knight
newly made—had come from l’Eau Clair, the keep belonging to Connor’s
sister by marriage. He smiled and held out a squat pottery flask. “I’ve a new
drink for you to try. This Irish brew is as fine—” he waved the bottle beneath
his nose and rolled his eyes “—nay, ′tis better than anything we’ve got
at home. ′Tis sure to burn the travel weariness from your bones.”
Connor took the jug, raised it to his lips and let the smooth
fire of
usquebaugh
warm its way to his belly. He
grinned as Will’s roguish look gave way to surprise. The young Norman had
doubtless expected the potent drink to knock him on his
arse
.
“Burn the flesh from your bones, more like,” he said, sampling the brew again
before returning the flask to Will. “′Tis a rare treat. I thank you.”
Will tucked the flask away in his saddlebag. “Thought I had you
fooled again, milord.” He shook his head and laughed. “I’ll have to try harder
next time,” he added, climbing into the saddle.
Connor took his stallion’s reins from Padrig, his newly acquired
squire, and mounted up, wondering all the while what bit of mischief Will might
think of next. For the entire journey from the Marches, the Norman seemed to
have made it his purpose in life to jolt Connor’s hard-won air of composure
with his japes and tricks.
Of course, Will had no notion that that composure was naught but
a sham, an invisible cloak Connor drew about himself to conceal the weak,
cowering fool he’d been.
Will was doomed to failure, however, for Connor had no intention
of allowing that coward free rein ever again.
His men formed up into two columns behind him. “Gerald’s Keep
sits over the next rise. We’ll have a hot meal and dry beds tonight,” he told
them, nudging his horse into motion and preceding them down the road.
′Twas nearly dusk by the time they guided their mounts up
the narrow, rocky track to Gerald’s Keep. The road had dwindled to little more
than a path scarce wide enough for a man to lead his horse, and the terrain
grew more rugged the closer they drew to the castle.
Connor knew that once he stood within the walls of the place,
he’d admire the ingenuity of the man who’d built atop this rocky crag, even as
he cursed him for it now. But the journey had been long and hard, and he was
eager to be done with it.
He shook his head. He’d once envied his brother Rannulf the
freedom to travel from one end of the country to the other. Considering ′twas
Rannulf who’d sent him here—while remaining at home with his wife and child—it
seemed his twin still had the better bargain.
Connor halted at the edge of the spike-strewn dry moat, his men
and their horses restless behind him. The raised drawbridge made an
impenetrable barrier—a good sign, he thought, except for the fact that they
stood on the wrong side of it. He could see no one atop the walls, nor were
there any torches lit against the encroaching darkness. Yet he could hear
people within.
Had they so few men they couldn’t mount guards? “Open up, in
Rannulf
FitzClifford’s
name,” he shouted.
After an interminable wait, light glowed through the shutters
covering the tower windows, then appeared atop the battlements. “Who’s there?”
cried a voice too high in pitch to be that of a man grown.
Connor handed the reins to his squire and stepped closer to the
edge of the moat. “I am Connor FitzClifford, sent by my brother Rannulf to
bring you aid.”
“Indeed? And have you proof of who you are?” ′Twas a woman
speaking, no mistake. Mayhap the situation was worse than they’d thought, else
why not send a man to answer his summons?
“I’ve a letter from my brother. Will you lower the drawbridge so
I might give it to your master?”
“Not likely,” the woman said, her tone harsh. “Do you think we’re
fools?”
“Nay. But how do you propose I hand over the letter, mistress?
Shall I shoot it over the walls impaled on an arrow?”
“You needn’t mock me. And a letter means little—it could be
forged.” Though she said the French words slowly, her accent bespoke nobility.
One of the women who attended Lord Brien’s lady, perhaps? Whoever she was, she
sounded as though her patience was stretched to the limit.
So was his. In truth, his attention had been focused more on
reaching the place; he’d scarce given a thought to how they’d gain entrance
once they arrived. “Madam, I know of no other way to prove—” Someone jostled
him, then stood beside him on the embankment. Connor glanced over and saw Will.
“Do they know Lord Rannulf?” Will asked. “If they do, they only
need to look at you to know you for his brother.”
“True.” He felt a fool himself, not to have thought of that
solution. “Madam, surely there is someone within who knows my brother?”
Though he could not see the woman clearly, he could tell that
she’d turned away to speak with another shadowy person behind her. She nodded,
then mounted the torch she held in a bracket on the outer wall of the tower. “I
have met Lord Rannulf myself. Is the resemblance between you so great?”
“Aye, madam,” he said with a laugh. “To see me is to see my
brother’s face.” More or less, he added silently, the thought deadening his
mirth nigh before it had begun.
“You alone may enter the bailey, sir,” she said, “that I may
judge for myself whether you’re the man you claim to be.”
“I thank you.” He bowed, though he doubted she could see him in
the deepening gloom. Her nodded response proved his assumption wrong, however,
and made him glad he’d made the effort.
Her movements awkward, she turned away and left the wall without
another word.
“Padrig, bring the letter from my pack,” he ordered while he
waited for the drawbridge to come down. He took the rolled parchment from the
lanky lad and handed over his helm. “I won’t need this.”
“You’ll be careful, milord?” his squire asked, though he appeared
more intent upon polishing the dust of travel from the helm with the tail of
his tabard.
“Aye.” Connor had yet to grow accustomed to having someone
concerned for his well-being, but that seemed to be one of his squire’s many
obligations. “Though I doubt there’s anyone within who’s ready to risk their
overlord’s wrath by harming his brother,” he added wryly.
Will gave a mirthless laugh. “You’d be surprised what some are
capable of, milord.” Eyes squinting in the dusky shadows, he peered at the
keep. “Wouldn’t hurt to have a care,” he added, checking his sword in its
sheath. “We’ll be ready to come fetch you, should the need arise.”
Nodding his thanks, Connor fought back a grin at Will’s eagerness
for battle. While he himself enjoyed a good fight as well as the next man, he’d
just as soon not engage in one tonight.
Nor did he believe he’d have to.
The squeal of metal upon metal heralded the drawbridge’s
ponderous descent, and they backed out of the way. As soon as the platform hit
the embankment, Connor gave Padrig an encouraging slap on the back and headed
into the
torchlit
maw of Gerald’s Keep.
Moira took her time as she made her way down the steep stairs of
the gatehouse and entered the bailey to await
FitzClifford’s
arrival. The uneven cobblestones felt slick beneath the soles of her boots, and
her balance of late had become uncertain. Despite the circumstances of her
child’s creation, she’d do everything within her power to ensure the babe’s
well-being.
She reached beneath the enveloping folds of her mantle and
smoothed her gown over the mound of her belly. The child grew apace, and now,
with scarce six weeks left before her time, Moira couldn’t help wondering
whether ′twas possible for her body—and her patience—to stretch any
further. Her back ached, her ankles swelled and she’d a shrew’s temper most
days.
Ah, Moira, you’ll never
again be vain about your looks after this,
she thought with a quiet laugh.
A meager guard—a large portion of their able-bodied men—gathered
near the gate as the drawbridge creaked downward. They stood ready to protect
the keep should the party outside try to make its way within, ready to seize
the man she’d spoken with if he proved a threat.
She prayed neither event occurred, for she had grave doubts about
how well many of them could fight. ′Twas evidence of how desperately they
needed the help she’d requested from Lord Brien’s overlord.
Light footsteps echoed down the stairwell behind her. “I still
say you shouldn’t be here, milady,” Sir Ivor, one of her husband’s few
remaining knights, said. He halted beside her, his thin face looking more stern
than usual in the uncertain light. “What if ′tis another MacCarthy trick?
They’re capable of anything to gain what they want, as you know better than
most, milady.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze, to remain as placid as a
milch
cow beneath the censure he didn’t bother to disguise.
He alone of Lord Brien’s men held her accountable for all that had happened
since the MacCarthys decided to make Gerald’s
Keep
their own. Though there were times his blame of her matched her own, she had no
intention of making him aware of that fact. Her guilt was hard enough to face
in the endless, lonely nights since her husband’s injury and death. She’d not
drag it out into the harsh light of public scrutiny. “The MacCarthys don’t know
we sent to Lord Rannulf for help.” Nodding toward their men, she murmured,
“Look at them—they’d give their lives to save us all, but there are so few of
them left. We’ve been lucky till now, but how long can they prevail if the
MacCarthys return?” She shook her head. “We must let FitzClifford in. Tis a
risk we must take. We’ve no chance of withstanding another attack otherwise.”