L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (19 page)

On top of that, the pounding of the rain against the castle walls
and the howling wind could mask a multitude of sounds. Connor hoped the
conditions would work to their advantage, however, for no one would be able to
see or hear them, either.

And, he prayed, they had the element of surprise on their side.

They had restored the entrance to the tunnels under the keep to
its former condition—in case MacCarthy tried to send anyone into the castle
that way—but Connor had decided to concentrate his efforts on blanketing the
vast empty area outside the castle walls with his men. According to what Domnal
had overheard, that was where Aidan and Hugh would wait for the wall to come down,
enabling them to enter Gerald’s Keep through the gap.

The area near the gate was Will’s province, while Connor led his
men to the opposite side of the keep, near where the headland jutted out from
the shore. They’d crept out the gate, through the usually dry, now rain-filled
moat surrounding the wall. Will’s party, unfortunately, had to wait there, in
water nearly to their knees and rising. The spot Connor brought his group to
remained
above water level, but they had to contend with the
wind lashing them hard as it whipped around the keep from the open sea, keeping
them plastered against the wall to hold themselves upright.

He also hadn’t realized that the thunder of the storm-tossed
waves crashing against the rocky cliffs below would make it nigh impossible to
hear each other speak.

Impossible, as well, for the reinforcements—waiting inside for a
signal from a lookout in the tower—to hear if they came under attack.

How they’d fight in this, Connor couldn’t imagine. This night’s
work could be a test of all he’d learned the past few years, not so much of his
skill at hand-to-hand combat, but as a leader. Rannulf had warned him—as had
Connor’s mentor, Walter—that all his studying might prove of little use in real
battle.

Connor wouldn’t mind testing his mettle as a leader now, save for
the fact that other’s lives were at stake as well as his own.

Though he’d already found that the mere thought of the threat to
Moira and the babe kindled a nearly overwhelming fire in his blood.

He peered through the murk, looking for a sign, any sign, that
this venture wasn’t a huge mistake.

′Twould be a simple matter for anyone to creep up and be
upon them before they knew they were under attack.

But he saw, heard, felt nothing.

Their nerves stretched taut, Connor and his men huddled along the
curtain wall near the more remote of the two tunnels and waited. Between his
righteous anger that the MacCarthys dared threaten one of his family’s
holdings, and all they’d done to Moira, he yearned to come to blows with them.

Any MacCarthy would suffice, though he hoped for the chance to
have Hugh at the sharp end of his sword. He wouldn’t have minded finding Aidan
O’Neill there, either, except that he’d just as soon not have Moira’s brother’s
blood on his hands—despite all he’d done. But since Dermot MacCarthy lay beyond
harm, his brother would make an adequate substitute, especially given Hugh’s
threats to Moira and her child.

Something—a change in the sound of the howling wind,
perhaps—caught Connor’s attention. His movements slow, silent, he signaled his
men to remain where they were, then straightened and crept back along the wall
toward where they believed the sappers’ tunnel lay hidden.

He flattened himself against the rough stone wall. Despite the
fact that ′twas black as pitch here, he kept his head down in case the
rain had washed the greasy soot from his face. He heard it now, the rhythmic
sound of digging, hushed but distinct from the higher-pitched noise of the
wind.

Holding his sword away from the wall, he stole closer. His breath
caught in his chest and he froze when he heard a faint wheezing coming from
only a few yards away.

′Twas a wonder he noticed it at all over the sudden
thundering of his heart.

Straining to see, he made out a man standing armed and alert near
a shadowy area of the wall.

Connor shifted his sword to his right hand and covered the short
distance to the dark figure in two long, silent strides. He closed his hand
around the guard’s throat and squeezed, lifting him off the ground and thumping
him in the head with his sword hilt when he squirmed and flailed with his arms.

Connor eased his grip and caught the man as he crumpled. Pressing
a hand to the guard’s throat, he found a pulse, faint and erratic. He didn’t
want to chance the guard recovering and alerting anyone, so he tore a strip off
the man’s rough shirt and gagged him with it. Then, using two lengths of rope
from the supply he’d tucked into his belt, Connor quickly bound him hand and
foot. He took one last look around, rolled the body out of the way and inched
closer to the wall.

The scraping sound grew louder the closer he got. He crept away
and sat back against the wall, his sword out and ready, while he pondered what
to do. Should they send men to attack the sappers, or perhaps seal them into
the tunnel and entomb them there? A chill slithered down his spine at the
thought, but ′twould resolve their problem.

Temporarily.

Besides, the sappers were not his quarry—not all of it. He wanted
MacCarthy and as many of his men as he could take or eliminate, as soon as
possible.

Nay, dealing with the sappers alone would do little to further
his goal.

He pushed himself to his feet and proceeded farther along the
curtain wall. He knew in his bones that Domnal had been correct. The sappers couldn’t
have come alone.

Nor had they, he discovered as he rounded the wall and neared the
rough terrain near the cliffs beside the headland where Gerald’s Keep perched.
A low murmur of voices came to him on the shifting wind, voices speaking
Gaelic.

The clouds parted then, allowing a brief, faint glow of moonlight
to gild the land. Connor dropped down at once and lay flat on his stomach on
the soggy ground. Cautiously he raised his head, eyes and ears straining for
any hint of how many men were waiting to attack Gerald’s Keep.

He’d guess near forty sat huddled together, though the clouds hid
the moon again so quickly, he wasn’t able to count them. He did see enough to
tell from their dress and arms that they were Irish. Whether ′twas the
MacCarthys or not, he didn’t know, but who they were didn’t matter.

Certainly they weren’t sitting out in the open during a
torrential downpour to make a civil visit come morning.

Keeping low to the ground, Connor hurried back to his men. The
rain had eased to a heavy drizzle, but the wind continued to pound away. No one
noticed his approach until he was nearly upon them.

“By the Virgin, you gave me a start, milord,” Padrig gasped, his
voice shifting from gruff to a squeak and back again.

His men gathered round and Connor shared what he’d learned. When
he’d finished, he turned to his squire. “Padrig, go back to Will and Sir Ivor,
tell them the situation here and find out if they’ve discovered anything. If
they’ve nothing new to report, tell them to send word to the men guarding the
undercroft to stay vigilant. I want Will to leave five men to guard the wall on
their side and come back here with you. We cannot wait too long to move, lest
the sappers finish their task.” He clapped Padrig on the shoulder. “Hurry,
lad—and be silent.”

He awaited Padrig’s return in a fever of impatience. His men grew
restless and more miserable the longer they stood there motionless. He feared
the cold rain would sap their strength, make them sluggish and unprepared once it
was time to move.

The others soon arrived, Will at their head, Sir Ivor guarding
their flank. Everyone gathered around and waited for Connor’s command.

Will elbowed his way to Connor’s side. “There is naught happening
back there, milord,” he whispered. “Save for a faint bit of thumping down in
the hole. Do you think they’ll collapse that bit of wall for a diversion only?”

“You saw no one else, heard nothing?” Connor murmured.

“Nay, milord. Tis quiet as the tomb, but for the wind howling
like a banshee.”

“Good. We’ll liven things up here, though,” he added, heartbeat
racing in anticipation. “I hope you’re all ready for a fight.”

Connor could feel the men’s excitement as they skirted the wall
and crept toward the area where he’d found the Irish waiting. His troop fanned
out, using the long, thick grass and occasional clumps of gorse for cover.

Despite the stiff wind, the moon remained cloaked and the sky
dark. The wind helped as well, carrying the sounds of the Irish to them, while
sweeping away any noise they themselves made.

Connor and Will reached the boulder Connor had chosen as a
landmark. Shouting the FitzClifford battle cry, they rose, their men behind
them, and ran toward the Irish interlopers.

Moira began the evening by remaining in the great hall after
supper. She’d sent Domnal out to the guardhouse soon after Connor and the
others had left, for his pacing increased her own agitation, until she thought
she’d go mad with worry. He’d seemed glad enough to leave her to her quiet pursuits
and move closer to where the excitement would be.

Her basket of sewing near to hand, she drew a stool toward the
dying fire in the huge hearth, hoping to accomplish something while she waited
for a report from Connor.

But once the tables had been cleared and the trestles dismantled
and stacked against the wall, the servants who had finished the day’s tasks
began to drift back to the hall, dragging out their pallets. Though they didn’t
appear any more ready to settle for the night than she was, she couldn’t bear
to sit before them playing the calm and unaffected lady—a role she knew didn’t
suit her at all.

Her nerves were stretched taut, her stomach knotted, making her
wish she’d skipped eating altogether tonight. Despite her best efforts to
distract her thoughts, memories assailed her—frightening memories—and a wave of
uncertainty that had her fidgeting and starting each time the door to the hall
creaked open.

What would they do if Connor were taken? What if he were killed?
She’d never concerned herself on her husband’s behalf when he’d gone off to
fight. However, not a moment had passed since Connor rose from the table and
led his men out to ready themselves for the night’s work that she hadn’t
worried—for his own safety and that of their men.

For the well-being of her people and her child, as well. What
would happen to them if the MacCarthys took control of Gerald’s Keep again?
Would Hugh try to force her into another devil’s bargain as his brother had?
What did she have left to bargain
with
,
except her child?

The more she mulled over the situation, the shakier she became,
until she felt ill.

Too ill to sit up here on the dais, where her people could watch
her worry and fret. ′Twas her duty to maintain a brave front, show her
confidence in their overlord, in their men …

But such dissembling was beyond her ability—now, at least. All
she could do was shake and fight back tears, she thought with disgust.

Since the beginning of her pregnancy her emotions had grown
volatile and uncertain. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d cried before
that. These last months, however, it seemed she couldn’t make it through an
entire day without dissolving into tears. She found it mortifying and
completely out of her control.

Connor must believe her a spineless ninny. Nigh every
conversation she’d had with him had ended with her showing him yet another
facet of her weakness.

That he’d asked her to marry him had been a shock; that he hadn’t
rescinded his offer after continued exposure to her, nothing short of a
miracle.

She simply could not make herself accept his offer.

Aye, it might resolve a number of her more pressing problems, but
she couldn’t permit him to put himself into such jeopardy for her sake.

She poked her finger with the needle yet again and dropped the
piece of soft white linen into her lap lest she stain it with her blood. “By
the Virgin,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I can ruin even the simplest
task!”

Unwilling to sit and stew over her shortcomings any longer, she
wrapped a scrap of linen around her finger to keep from bleeding over
everything, put her sewing into the basket and headed for the stairs and her
chamber.

Halfway across the room, she realized she’d feel no better by
hiding there. Indeed, she’d be better served to stay in the hall, where she might
hear some news of how the confrontation—if there was any—progressed.

Moira looked around the hall to make certain Brigit wasn’t there
to stop her. Fortunately, the old woman was nowhere to be seen. Her basket of
sewing clutched to her stomach, Moira slipped out the door.

Sword swinging, Connor raced up to the first Irish warrior he met
and dove into the fight. In no time at all the exhilaration of battle drove
everything from his mind but the sheer joy of action.

′Twas a challenge to take on an armed foe when he could
barely see. By focusing all his senses, he could feel his opponent, guess how
he’d strike next.

The clash of steel and the cries of men battling for their lives
surrounded him, lent him strength. A final slash and stab, and his opponent
crumpled to the ground. Connor moved forward in search of another.

The clouds parted, sending bright moonlight spilling over them.
After the sheer darkness, the light was blinding till his eyes adjusted to it.

His men appeared to be holding their own, he noticed before an
Irishman wielding a battle-ax charged at him. Connor had not faced such a
weapon before. Nor had he ever faced the almost unholy zeal glowing in his
opponent’s eyes.

Each time their weapons clashed together, the man gave a shout of
laughter mixed with what sounded to be Gaelic curses, and redoubled his efforts
to slice Connor’s head from his body.

Though this was not Connor’s first battle, it was without a doubt
the hardest he’d ever had to work to protect himself. He’d fought Normans and
Welshmen, but the Irish seemed to best them all for sheer blood lust.

The ax blade slid down the right sleeve of his hauberk, slicing
through the mail with surprising ease. The shock of white-hot pain shooting
through his arm inspired him to finish this now, and he drew his dagger and
held it clutched in his right hand, swinging his sword with his left.

Darting in and out with both blades, Connor danced around the
Irishman, whose movements seemed somewhat limited by the way he wielded his
weapon. He couldn’t move in as close as Connor could if he wanted room to swing
the ax, and Connor took advantage of that to harry him with the deadly dagger.

Suddenly the man tossed aside the ax, reached down and drew a
long, thin knife from inside his boot. “If ′tis steel you want, Norman,
then take a taste of this,” he snarled in rough French.

Now ′twas Connor who was hampered by the larger weapon, but
he didn’t want to be rid of his sword. He pivoted away and slid the blade into
its sheath, springing at his opponent with his dagger as soon as he turned back
to face him.

Over the uneven ground they moved, the grass slick beneath their
feet, the drizzling rain dropping a kiss of blessed coolness upon Connor’s
sweat-streaked face.

He’d reason to be glad he wore a short mail hauberk, for anything
more would have hampered his movements, and he needed every advantage if he
were to beat this foe. The man fought without fear, clearly taking pleasure in
every touch of their blades, his bearded face split by a gap-toothed grin.

Connor’s arm began to throb, spurring him on to bring this
meeting to an end. He was vaguely aware that the sounds of battle had died
away, save for the cries of the injured. But he didn’t dare shift his gaze from
his opponent for a moment, for death would surely follow hot on the heels of
such foolish distraction.

“Hugh!” someone called out.

Connor’s opponent shifted his gaze for only an instant, but ′twas
all the time Connor needed to slash with his dagger across the man’s chest and
upper arm. The Irishman staggered back, but did not fall. Shock lit his eyes as
Connor raised his weapon to stab at him again.

The night went dark once more, so suddenly Connor could not see.
He thrust where he thought the man stood, but his blade met nothing but air.

The thud of running feet told him their opponents were bolting.

“Damnation!” Connor muttered, waiting for his eyes to adjust to
the darkness. The silence surrounding him convinced him the Irish had left the
field. “Will, are you yet among the living?” he shouted.

“Aye, milord, so far as I can tell.” Will’s distinctive laugh
sounded from nearby. “And yourself? Still got all your parts, I trust,” he
said, his voice coming closer.

“The important ones, at any rate,” Connor told him. Steel hissed
right beside him as a blade slid into its scabbard, and he glanced over at
Will, surprised to see a frown on the other man’s face.

Just then the clouds parted, revealing most of their men on their
feet and relatively unharmed. The rest lay scattered over the ground—some
moving, attempting to rise, while others would clearly never move again.

Connor glared at the moon, glowing fat and bright above them now
that the enemy had fled. “Much good you did us,” he muttered. He turned to
offer a hand to a man who’d pulled himself to his knees, supporting him until
one of the foot soldiers came to lead him toward the keep. “Just as I thought
we’d prevail—”

“Didn’t we win, milord?” Will asked. He looked out over the
field, squinting at the Irish bodies scattered among their own. “Seems we’re
still here, and most of us still breathing.” He crossed himself. “More of us
than not.”

“But did we accomplish anything by this?” Connor asked, indicating
the field with a sweep of his hand.

Will turned to peer back at Gerald’s Keep. “The wall’s still
standing,” he said. “And look there, milord.” He pointed toward the tower near
the tunnel where Connor had attacked the guard. A group of men carrying lanterns
and swords escorted four strangers onto the wall walk. “Lord Connor, I do
believe we’ve caught ourselves some live Irishmen,” he said with a satisfied
grin.

Sir Ivor approached them then, nudging along a battered and
bloodied Irishman with the tip of his sword. “We’ve caught more than that,
milord,” he said, the smile on his face changing his entire appearance. He gave
the man a poke, his smile widening as his scowling captive cursed him. “This is
Kieran, Hugh MacCarthy’s kinsman.”

The bailey stood empty when Moira left the hall and paused
beneath the small overhang. She’d forgotten about the rain, but she could
scarce ignore it now. It poured over the roof and spilled down in front of her,
a shimmering cascade in the torchlight. As she’d done as a child, she cupped
her hand and filled it, bring the water to her lips.

The water tasted sweet. Usually she’d view it as a treat from
God, but not tonight …

Not when it might increase the danger to Connor and the others.

She didn’t want to go back inside, not even for a cloak, so she
rooted in her sewing basket until she found a man’s shirt, one of Lord Brien’s
she planned to cut down into clothing for the babe. Draping it over her head
and shoulders like a hood, she tucked the basket under her arm and crept down
the stairs.

′Twas eerie to see the bailey completely empty. Between the
men Connor had taken outside the walls with him and those he’d left behind,
stationed at intervals along the length of the battlements and in the towers,
almost all the men save the servants were gone. In this weather, she’d not
expect anyone else to be roaming about, but it did give her a turn.