The Ground She Walks Upon (42 page)

He grabbed her free hand and pulled his own from her grasp. Before she had even opened her eyes, he had clasped her own hands together and was wrapping a thick leather cord around them to keep them that way.

"Don't," she choked, unable to believe what he had done.

"I must," he rasped, unable to meet her wounded gaze.

"I'll die if you leave me. I'll die...." The words were spoken in the barest of whispers, as if her strength, her will to live, were even now being sapped away.

"I
must
go," he said, pulling on his linen small clothes he found in a crude oaken chest by the pallet. He then laced on leather braies and pulled on his purple velvet tunic heavily embroidered in gold with the king's crown and crest. His mail, he left behind. Too cumbersome, no doubt, and he could have the king's smithy make him more, overnight, if necessary, even if it meant calling all the peasants of Clancullen to work on it.

She stared at him, so handsome in the morning light, so royal in his rich clothes. Stumbling from the pallet, unmindful of her nudity, she tried to follow him, but he pulled her back and lashed her clasped hands to a corner of the pallet.

"Don't leave me like this. I'll die...I'll die." She wept into the straw ticking that formed her pallet.

He stared down at her, her loveliness and grief clearly moving him. But, as a king who is forced to sacrifice his own desires for others', he covered her with the wool blanket and whispered, "I'll send someone to free you."

"Would you have another be my company when I have known only you?" she cried softly.

"No. I would stay and be with you. But only if I could... and—I—cannot." His last words were laced with anguish. He looked down upon her weeping figure, then closed his eyes as if willing himself to do what he must.

He left the cottage without looking back, forcing his eyes to be blind to her tears, forcing his ears to grow deaf to her sobs.

He was born a king, and a king he must be.

F
ather Nolan
arrived in the hall of the castle, his two palsied hands not as deft as Greeves's single one when it came to removing his black, rain-spattered cloak.

Greeves bowed to the priest. "It seems you only venture here in fierce weather, Father."

"I find I'm only called in fierce weather." Father Nolan smiled. His teeth were nigh all missing, an occurrence not unusual for countrymen even much younger than himself.

"He's in the library." Greeves watched the priest with troubled blue eyes. He didn't seem to know what to say.

Father Nolan helped him. "You haven't seen such trouble since London, have you, my son?"

Greeves's mouth formed a tight line. He nodded in agreement. "The master... he's not himself anymore. Help him, Father. We don't know what else to do."

The priest's gaze shifted to the ominously closed library doors. "Has he taken to the drink?"

"No." Greeves walked with the priest across the flagstone, the priest's blackthorn tapping an unsteady echo along the hall's granite walls. "He doesn't seem to find interest in anything. He just broods and asks about... her."

They stopped in front of the carved doors. Greeves seemed uncomfortable with leaving the priest alone.

Father Nolan put his hand on the butler's shoulder. He smiled a weary smile. "I've faced greater lions than this one. Just tell me, is there a decanter of sherry in there? I think
I
might like to imbibe, given the circumstances." Upon Greeves's nod, he said, "Leave us be."

Greeves opened the door for the priest. A growl sounded within, but Father Nolan ignored it. Greeves took off in such a hurry, the priest thought he was anxious to seek the sherry himself.

Father Nolan had never seen a man become so dissipated in so short a time. Niall Trevallyan was not as he remembered. The man who sat in an armchair staring inconsolably into the fire had the beginnings of ruin etched into every line on his face. His jaw was scruffy, covered with a rough dark-gold beard and his eyes, when they chanced to turn in the priest's direction, possessed an uncivilized anger. Even his clothes were not as Father Nolan recalled. Instead of the finely tailored frock coats and jackets of thick, sporting corduroy, Trevallyan wore only rumpled trousers that looked in sore need of an iron, and a wrinkled linen shirt long past salvation. The boots on his feet were tarnished with rust-colored mud. He'd been walking his land. No doubt the sorry state of the potato crop had lent him little comfort.

"I've come with bad news, my lord," the priest said uneasily. "I fear 'twill be no balm for your tormented soul."

"What more could go wrong." The words were spoken in a low monotone, more as a statement than as a question. Trevallyan didn't even bother to look up.

The father rested his weary bones in a nearby chair and placed his blackthorn across his lap. "I've heard Ravenna grows thin these past few days. You've been cruel to her. You know she had nothing to do with the fire."

Trevallyan said nothing.

"So, why, my son," Father Nolan asked gently, "why do you keep her still in that dungeon?"

Trevallyan ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of agony. "If I release her, I'll lose her. She'd already run from me the night of the ball."

"But you treat her like a prisoner. Three days you've kept her down in that dungeon. Surely you know—"

"Yes, yes, damn you!" Niall's gaze pinned the priest. "Sean O'Malley told me as much. She had nothing to do with the fire. I know that. I've always known that."

"Then why do you keep her?"

"Because I want her, and I'll have her." His voice was a harsh whisper. "And because I love her."

"If you love her, release her."

"Are you daft, man?" Trevallyan rose and leaned his forearms on the marble mantel. "Weren't you the one to tell me of the
geis?
Whether it was foolishness or not, 'tis come true. I gave her everything I could think of and she threw it all back at me in the cruelest manner possible. I've lost. My life, this county, is in ruins because I could not win her love. But I'll still have her. She's mine, and I won't let her go."

"Is that why you mourn in this library—because you mourn your life and County Lir?"

Father Nolan would be forever haunted by the look in Trevallyan's eyes.

Niall turned away from the priest, and with words full of despair, he said, "I went to see her after O'Malley's confession." He paused. The words seemed difficult. "She slapped my face, and she wept, and she told me of the hatred she held for me within her heart. I should have let her go then. I knew the battle was hopeless. But I found I could not.
I could not.
I love her and I need her. And I'd rather she take a knife and plunge it in my sorry heart than watch her run from me and be gone forever."

"My son, my son," the father murmured, his own heart wrenching for Trevallyan's tortured soul.

"I cannot free her. Don't ask it of me." Niall went to the window. Father Nolan cringed as Trevallyan pushed aside the lace curtain and gazed upon the yellow, dying fields that seemed only there to mock him.

"My lord," the priest began gently, "the
geis
could not be fulfilled. It's over. We must now accept that. You and your money, they can help this impoverished county, but nothing will summon Ravenna's love if she cannot do it herself. Let her go, my son. You've gone too far with this. Making her a prisoner will only harden her heart further toward you."

"Don't ask it," Niall bit out.

"I must ask it. Grania is ill and not long for this world. If Ravenna despises you now, my son, think about her hatred when she finds you refused to let her be by her grandmother's side while she lay dying."

Niall could take no more, not of the fields that seemed to scorn him, nor of the girl whose hatred cut right into his soul. He took one long, last look at the land, then, without warning, he slammed his fist into the windowpane, as if trying desperately to erase what he saw there.

"Don't ask it, Father. She's all I have left," he growled, ignoring his hand that was now etched with bloody lacerations from the broken pane.

"I would not ask it if it were not imperative. Grania is near death and she calls for Ravenna. You must let her go, my lord. You must, even though 'twill break your heart and shatter your spirit. The
geis
has won. The war is lost. Let her go."

Trevallyan stood staring mutely at the fields that he could not vanquish. He crossed his arms over his chest, grinding his own red blood in a smear over his heart. Slowly, his eyes lowered and his shoulders seemed weighted with unimaginable despair. The priest had never seen such abject hopelessness in all his ninety years.

"She will no longer eat, Father. They take her food and she sends it back untouched." The words were filled with agony.

Father Nolan hated what he had to say. "My son," he began, "don't you see the absurdity of this? If the only way
to keep your love near you is to hold her prisoner in your dungeon, then indeed all
is
lost. You must surrender her, Niall, you must."

"I don't want her thin and unhappy." Trevallyan ran the hand through his hair once more, hardly noticing the blood. "I only wanted her love."

" 'Twill work to save your soul if you release her."

"No," Niall answered, his eyes glistening with hard, unshed tears. "Nothing will save my soul now. Nothing."

"Cleanse yourself, Niall. Go down to your dungeon and confess your sins to your prisoner. Tell her of your pride and your greed." The priest's voice lowered to a reverent whisper. "Tell her of your need Jo be ruled by your mind, only to see yourself toppled by your heart...."

Trevallyan dropped his head into his bloodied hands.

If he wept, Father Nolan could not tell.

"Grania awaits her granddaughter, my lord." The priest stood, his face a picture of anguish. "I'll tell her Ravenna will come shortly."

Greeves entered with the sherry. The priest nodded for him to escort him out, but before Father Nolan left, he turned back to Trevallyan, respectfully averting his gaze from the despairing figure.

"I see a place at heaven's gate for you, my lord," he whispered. "Keep that in mind when you talk to her."

Lantern light filtered down the stone staircase, rousing Ravenna from a light sleep. She'd been dreaming of devils and love and treachery. It was a relief to open her eyes.

A dark figure came into view, walking into the circle of light. She tried to hide the catch of tears in her voice but couldn't. It was Trevallyan.

"Does it amuse you to stare at me through these bars like I'm a captive lioness?" She turned away from him, not bothering to hide her disgust.

Then she heard the rusty scrape of the key in the lock.

Slowly, almost painfully, the key was turned and the
screeching metal door opened wide. She thought he would enter, but he only stood aside in the shadows, mutely waiting for her to depart.

Her surprise was almost palpable. She had almost lost hope of ever going free because she knew better than most Trevallyan's iron will.

"You're letting me go free?" she gasped, not quite believing it. Though foolish of her to question her fortune— she should flee and never look back-—she was perplexed by his surrender.

"You're not guilty of any crime. You know O'Malley cleared your name. I've no reason to hold you." His words were nothing but a rasp.

Scrambling in the near darkness, she hastily gathered the pages of her novel, all the while giving him a wild-eyed stare. She knew she must hurry; she didn't know when his mercurial mood might swing in the other direction and she would find the barred door slammed closed once again.

Cautiously, she stepped outside the cell and edged against the slimy wall, almost as if she were afraid of him. After all he'd put her through, she knew it would be stupid to trust him. He was a madman. It was only prudent to proceed with caution.

He didn't make any motion to stop her. He stood silently, not moving, only watching, his eyes filled with shadow and anguish.

She turned to run up the dungeon's slippery stairway. There was nothing he could have said to make her pause. Nothing except the words he uttered.

"Go to Grania. She's ill."

Dread gripped her insides, and she whipped around to look at him. It couldn't be true what he had said, but somehow she knew it was. Grania was dying, and even now it might be too late.

Her world shattered. Her hatred for Trevallyan solidified. He had not only held her prisoner but now he had taken precious time away from Grania. Time she could never regain. Choking on a sob, she glared at him, revealing all her loathing for him in one baleful glance.

"Go. Do not tarry here."

Silently, she began to weep. The past three days had been more than she could bear. Now Grania was dying. Everything she loved had been taken from her. Even her last days with her grandmother.

"I will never forgive you for this, do you hear? Never." She wiped the tears that streamed down her cheeks. She dared defy him now because she knew he would not stop her. Even he wouldn't be so cruel as to keep her from Grania's deathbed. "I'll hate you until it's my turn to die!" she spat, almost enjoying her cruelty for the release it gave her.

"Hate me," he answered quietly, his emotion-ravaged face in half-shadow. "Perhaps 'tis deserved."

She paused. His response was unexpected. Valiantly, she tried to rein in her tears and make sense of him, but her tears fell like rain, out of reach of her will.

"Ravenna, in the years to come, when you pass by the ruins of this castle, know the master sits inside, thinking of you, consumed by you." He swallowed and stepped into the circle of lantern light. From the staircase, she could see the hopelessness in his eyes. "Tell Grania before she dies, that it's over. The
geis
has won. There will be no union between peer and commoner in Lir to keep the peace. Instead, the Trevallyans have been destroyed."

She stared down at him, hardly believing her ears.

"And tell her I've paid well and good for the lands the Trevallyans took from the Gael."

She didn't know what to say. His voice was still defiant and strong, but his words spoke of defeat.

"And tell her..."—his voice lowered to a whisper— "tell her I've made my peace with you. I've lied to you and manipulated you, but no more." His words grew harsh as if he were forcing them out. "Finn Byrne was your father, Ravenna. I kept the fact from you because I couldn't bear to give you such power. But I give it to you now. You need only tell Lord Cinaeth who your mother was. He'll know then, without a doubt, you're Finn Byrne's daughter."

The hot tears in her eyes turned to ice. Fury lodged like a cold ball in her chest. She couldn't believe what he'd just said. He'd kept the most important thing in her life a secret only so that she would be that much more under his influence. If she hadn't been overwhelmed by Grania's impending death, she might have run down the steps and pummeled him.

"I loathe you." She regretted the word for
loathe
wasn't strong enough for the emotion she suddenly felt.