Wild Roses (22 page)

"God's blood, Duncan, I thought you'd never
arrive!"

Maire had started at the shout that filled the
courtyard, Gerard de Barry running to meet them as commotion seemed to erupt
from every corner, more men rushing from the castle, stable hands scrambling
forth to help with exhausted mounts. She was astonished, too, when women and
children began to stream into the courtyard. The clamor of babes crying and
horses snorting and people suddenly all trying to speak at once made her head
spin as Duncan reined in his steed.

"They've come from the village and surrounding
manors," Gerard shouted above the growing din while Maire heard Duncan
swear fiercely. "The news is spreading about the O'Melaghlin—dammit,
Duncan, we should hang the prisoners this very night and show that bastard we
don't bow to threats!"

Maire was surprised that Duncan said nothing more,
instead grimly
dismounting
and pulling her into his
arms. He didn't set her down but carried her across the teeming courtyard and
into the castle while a surge of humanity coursed behind them. Gerard de Barry
came hard on Duncan's heels.

Inside the bedlam was as intense; pockets of alarmed Irish
tenants, men, women, wide-eyed children, and somber-faced knights shepherding
their own families joined the throng and followed Duncan into the great hall.
Maire stiffened when she saw Adele standing by the massive hearth and looking
as regal as a queen, Rufus the Fool and Henry FitzHugh flanking her while her
other knights milled nearby. The woman's eyes grew ice-cold upon spying Maire.
Yet Maire was thankfully distracted when a short, balding fellow came running
and wringing his hands toward Duncan.

"My lord, my lord, what are we to do? Where will
they all sleep? We've provisions enough, the storerooms are full, but if more
come and I know they will—"

"God's teeth, Faustis, enough!"

Duncan's roar served not only to silence his frantic
steward, but the entire great hall. No sounds were left but for restless babes
and the urgent shushing of their mothers. With all eyes turned toward him,
including Rose's, her lovely face pale—as much, he sensed, from exhaustion as
the frantic commotion he had hoped not to encounter—he kept his voice stern.

"All may remain here tonight, but in the morning
you will return to your homes."

"But, lord, we cannot!" cried a ruddy-haired
Irishman who Duncan recognized as one of his more prosperous tenants.
"Aye, we would be mad to—unless you release your prisoners. The
O'Melaghlin has vowed to kill—"

"And I say the O'Melaghlin would be mad to make
good his threat and he knows it well for the battle that would come. By the
blood of God, I will have peace! Word will be carried this very night to West
Meath—an offer of three days more within which the O'Melaghlin may meet me here
to speak terms or my hand will be forced."

"Another three days, Duncan?"

Gerard's voice incredulous, Duncan had known such a
protest would come as he met his knight's eyes.

"It must be. Much has changed since we
spoke—"

"But you swore to me . . . you gave your word that
we'd wait no longer than three days to hang those bastards—"

"So you did, brother, I was there to hear
it!" Adele rushed to Gerard's side in a flurry of emerald samite.
"The prisoners were to hang tomorrow."

His gut clenching as much at the cloying smell of her
perfume as the glance exchanged between the two, Duncan did not miss either,
how intimately Adele placed her hand upon Gerard's arm. It was all Duncan could
do to keep his voice calm.

"I gave my word, Gerard, that is true, but much
has changed as I've said." Duncan's concern was great as he paused to set
Rose upon her feet, her unsteadiness making him keep an arm firmly around her
waist. Then he met Adele's eyes, his words at that moment meant especially for
her. "Rose will be my bride—it has been agreed between me and the
Justiciar John de Gray. I trust
all
will treat her with the honor and respect her place as my future wife
commands."

To Adele's credit, she made no rash reply though her
face had grown pink, while Rufus the Fool ducked behind Henry FitzHugh when
Duncan shot him a dark glance. Yet Gerard's low curse drew his attention, his
knight's stance gone stiff with fury.

"What of Robert, Duncan? Will I have no justice?
God's
breath
, you swore! Does that mean nothing?"

Gerard's anger echoing around them, Duncan didn't
readily answer. Only their long years of friendship made him bear what he would
have considered a personal attack from any other man. Swallowing his own anger,
he kept his voice low.

"You've long encouraged me to take a wife, and now
I've chosen one—all the more reason that I wish for peace. What are three days
more if they prevent needless bloodshed? Look around you, Gerard! Will you tell
these people that your own thirst for vengeance is worth more than their lives,
their children's lives? If we hang the prisoners on the morrow, you know it
would bring war—"

"Or it would bring the O'Melaghlin to his knees,
but do what you will, Duncan. You're the baron of Longford, not I."

Gerard turned and shoved his way through the crowd
before Duncan could utter another word, his worst fears confirmed when Adele
spun around and rushed after his knight. Imagining well what must have transpired
during his absence, he swore vehemently under his breath and glanced at Rose.

She wasn't looking at him but at some distant point in
the great hall, her face grown more ashen as he followed her gaze to where
Flanna stood with the strapping Irish tenant she'd agreed not too unhappily to
wed. Duncan stiffened. God's teeth, what next? His castle overrun, Gerard
bewitched by Adele, and now a former mistress to plague him?

"Flanna will be gone in the morning, Rose, I vow
it," he said to reassure her, drawing her more closely against him.
"You've nothing to—"

"Please, Duncan, I'm so tired. If I could retire .
. ." Heartache filled Maire at the concern suddenly lining his face, her
knees already weak at the unexpected circumstance that had presented itself to
her. Still incredulous that Flanna was among the panicked tenants who'd rushed
for safety to Longford Castle, she somehow made herself continue. "I'll be
fine, truly, and I know the way—"

"That may be, woman, but all those steps?" He
moved to lift her but Maire shook her head and laid a hand upon his chest to
stop him, her face firing that so many people were watching them. Yet one
particular man standing nearby had spurred her resistance, and she hastened to
explain herself while Duncan stared as if surprised at her fingers splayed over
his heart.

"You've so much to do, aye, a messenger to send,
your people to attend to—far too much to see to me now. But . . . but Clement
could help me."

As Duncan glanced beyond her at the friar, Maire held
her breath as much over what he might say as the desperate plan taking shape in
her mind. Her gaze once more flew to Flanna, the young woman lifting her chin
and staring right back at her. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, would Duncan's former
mistress even want to speak—

"Clement, I've need of you."

Maire hoped she didn't appear too relieved at Duncan's
command, though she was trembling as the stout friar hastened forward and
gently took her arm.

"Ah, child, you look so weary. Of course you long
to retire."

She couldn't reply, a great lump forming in her throat
when Duncan released her and stepped back to let them pass, his eyes still full
of concern.

"Take good care with her, Clement."

As the friar nodded, Maire leaned on him heavily,
turning away from Duncan so he wouldn't see the tears suddenly stinging her
eyes. The sea of faces around her no more than a blur as they left the great
hall, she was grateful for the rising din of anxious voices that carried after
them to mask anything she might say.

"Ah, dear, such troubles, such troubles."

Maire could only unhappily agree as Clement sighed and
shook his head, that she intended to ask him to bring Flanna to Duncan's rooms
to see her provoking as much unflagging resolve as pain. So, too, did the rose
petals she still held, but she clutched them all the tighter and climbed the
tower steps.

***

"Lord, I swear it was her!"

Ronan stared into his young clansman Shea O'Byrne's
flushed face, tempted almost to shake him to ensure that he remembered well
what he'd seen. As it was, Ronan already held him hard against a tree trunk
while the rest of his men were gathered close around, Flann O'Faelin looming at
his side in the bright moonlight.

"Tell me everything again from the start, by God,
man, everything!"

"It was as I said, lord!" Shea blurted out,
his breathing still ragged from a breakneck ride to camp. "I'd been to the
village to seek any word of the spawn
who
killed Fiach
and was heading back here when they rode out of the east—I ducked into the
trees to wait for them to pass. A host of Normans, thirty or better, and more
than half as many torches among them so it was easy enough to see. Your sister
Maire was at the front, lord, held by a man I can only guess was the baron of
Longford—Duncan FitzWilliam's his name."

"Duncan FitzWilliam." Ronan's expression must
have grown so fierce that Shea looked shaken now as he nodded his head.

"Aye, lord, but I learned little else of him. The
village was in an uproar, and many had already fled to Longford Castle. I heard
the baron holds three prisoners from clan O'Melaghlin in West Meath as well as
your sister—"

"By God, he will die."

His vehement words echoing around them, Ronan released
Shea and met Flann O'Faelin's eyes, the huge Irishman as grim-faced as the rest
of his men. His relief that Maire was alive as intense as his fury at what she
must have suffered while in Norman hands, Ronan didn't attempt to speak
further—he couldn't. Instead he strode into the clearing, agonized that he
stood no more than a league from her—a damned league!—and still could do
nothing.

He didn't have to see the castle to know that its walls
were impregnable, a stinking moat no doubt surrounding battlements lined with
sentries ever alert for intruders,
a
drawbridge as
well guarded the only entrance. And subterfuge was too risky, detection of any
possible ruse too likely. He could barely stomach now that Maire had finally
been found that he must wait even an hour more to help her, but he had little
choice.

All he and his clansmen could do now was watch for when
she might emerge again with this Duncan FitzWilliam, baron of Longford, and
then wait for the right moment, and Ronan would be ready. Just as he had
already determined, the attack would be swift and sure and as fatally
unexpected as that which had struck Fiach O'Byrne and the others in Wicklow

"Do we ride, Lord?"

Ronan wheeled around, Flann O'Faelin a hulking
shape
in the moonlight. Ever conscious of his men's welfare
no matter he burned for swift action, he knew that only patience and stealth
would win the day.

"Aye. As close to Longford Castle as we can and
still have cover. Shea said there were woods enough that would serve."

"Woods mayhap filled with Normans."

Ronan gave a grim laugh; Flann knew as well as he that
such
a likelihood
wasn't anything they hadn't ably
encountered before. But there was only one Norman he wanted now, Duncan
FitzWilliam, baron of Longford. The thought of Maire held captive by the
murdering bastard was enough to send Ronan striding with a string of furious
oaths to his horse.

Chapter 21

"The moat?" Maire stared incredulously at
Flanna as the pretty young Irishwoman nodded, still not straying farther into
the bedchamber though Maire had invited her to come and sit by the fire.
"Truly?"

"Aye, no other way around it. I did as much myself
once, when I was fifteen and one of Walter de Lacy's vassals ruled this place.
Better to jump into the moat than be raped by a mob of drunken knights . .
."

As Flanna fell silent, Maire felt a sick lump in her
throat, not only for what Duncan's former mistress must have suffered at the
hands of those who'd come before, but that her plan to escape Longford Castle
was quickly fading.

She swam poorly, no matter Triona had tried to teach
her as a way to strengthen her legs, and would more probably sink like a stone
than make it to the other side even if she could evade the guards on the outer
battlements. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, and now to have Flanna studying her
suspiciously . . .

"It was kind of you to agree to come and speak to
me," Maire offered for the second time, imagining what Flanna must be
thinking. "And to wish me well with Duncan—truly, so much has changed
since last we spoke. I was only curious as to how you'd intended to help me a
few days past . . . it seemed such an impossible thing. I was so fearful then
that Adele wanted me for a maid—"

"And now you will become a wife."

Flanna's words held no rancor, and Maire was relieved
that her
gaze held little suspicion
now either, though
Flanna sounded somewhat amazed as she went on.

"Aye, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen
with my own eyes how Lord FitzWilliam looks at you . . . and how he never
looked at me."

Maire flushed uncomfortably, the lump in her throat
only growing. "I-I'm sorry, Flanna—"

"Sorry? Why should you be? I never loved him—I
couldn't. Too many Normans had come before . . . but I see that's far different
with you. It's plain you care as well for Duncan, though how you could look at
him so and still seem so sad . . ."

Maire felt her face afire—Flanna had judged her so
well—and she quickly sought an excuse to divert her. "I grieve yet . . .
my clansmen."