Chapter 14
“Shite!” Warin spat.
Laurence bit out a much worse oath.
Ryland ground his teeth. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Lay down your weapons,” Gray said.
“The hell we will!” Ryland raged.
The gentleman outlaw reasoned with him. “Ye’re outnumbered. We could fire a bolt through all your hearts ere ye could lift your blades. Ye know that.”
Aye, he did know that. But Ryland felt he’d completely failed his men today. And the last thing he wanted to do was to make them surrender their arms.
“We mean ye no harm,” Gray assured him.
The treacherous woman’s words were unconvincing, considering there were almost a dozen deadly arrows trained on them.
“Surrender your blades,” she said, “and I’ll explain.”
For a long moment, he only glared at her, venting his fury on her with a piercing, smoldering gaze. How he’d ever imagined she was a desirable, tempting sweetmeat of a woman he didn’t know.
At last, he stared her down. She averted her eyes, as if she recognized hers was a betrayal of the worst kind.
With an angry growl, he commanded his men, “Lay down your blades.”
With palpable fury, they did as they were ordered.
“Your daggers as well,” Gray said, “and any other weapons ye’re carryin’.”
They tossed their remaining weapons to the ground.
“Your men are free to go…” she said.
“My men?”
“But ye’ll be stayin’ with us.”
“What?” Warin exploded.
Laurence barked, “Impossible.”
“We don’t go anywhere without Sir Ryland,” said Osgood.
Godwin agreed. “That’s right. If he’s staying, we’re staying as well.”
They crossed their arms over their chests, stubborn to a man.
“Your loyalty is admirable,” Gray told them. “But if ye want to keep your lord safe, ye must take a message to the clann chieftain.”
“A message?” Ryland asked. “What message?”
Gray’s eyes narrowed to smoky slits. “Tell him he can have the king’s man back for five hundred pounds.”
Everyone gasped. Five hundred pounds was an absurd amount.
“Five hun-…” Warin said, gaping. “What the bloody hell do you…” He shot a quick glance at Ryland, who glowered back at him. “Not that you’re not absolutely worth that much, m’lord, but…”
Warin was right to be astounded. Five hundred pounds could feed his entire household for ten years. What were the woodkerns thinking? There was no way Cormac O’Keeffe could raise that kind of coin.
Osgood tried diplomacy. “’Tis a rather large sum, my lady. Are you sure you won’t reconsider? You know, the Bible says silver is the root of all evil.”
Godwin mumbled, “I’m not sure this lot have read the Bible, Os.”
Ryland skewered Gray with a dark stare. “What happens if O’Keeffe doesn’t have it?”
“He does,” she assured him with a grim sneer. “His coffers are overflowin’ with the fines he’s collected.”
“What makes you so sure he’ll pay?”
“He’s been kissin’ the feet o’ your king for years now,” Gray said, the bitterness in her words at odds with her sweet face. “The last thing he wants is for word to get back that Irish outlaws have abducted the king’s man. He promised his daughter to an English knight. I very much doubt the king will send a second knight if the chieftain can’t keep track o’ the first one.”
Ryland had to admit that made sense. It had never occurred to him that he might be a valuable commodity to the woodkerns. He cursed his shortsightedness. He should have foreseen the outlaws could hold him for ransom.
“What will you do with five hundred pounds?” There were a dozen woodkerns. That was enough silver to keep them all in comfort for the rest of their lives.
“’Tisn’t your concern,” Gray said. Then she turned to her men. “I think we’ve prattled on long enough. Bind their arms, lads. Conall and Niall, ye should leave before it grows dark.”
“I’m not leaving,” Warin insisted.
“Warin.” Ryland shook his head. He knew Warin was troubled about leaving him alone with the outlaws. It was true that Ryland seldom went anywhere without his trusty friend. But if he was going to come out of this situation with any hope of victory, he needed Warin to do something for him on the outside.
As the friar bound his arms behind him, Ryland realized he was powerless here. He’d be sitting like a stabled ox, not knowing whether he was to be bred or slaughtered…
There was only one thing to do.
While his men reluctantly set off with two of the outlaws, he called out to Warin. “If you’re unable to raise the ransom,” he said carefully, “my brother’s jeweled sword might be of value. Bring it on your return.”
Warin’s brow furrowed in puzzlement for a moment, and then recognition lit up his eyes. “Aye, that we will, m’lord.”
And then his valiant knights vanished into the woods.
Temair busied herself with watering the hounds. She couldn’t bear to look at Ryland right now, bound and helpless, with bitter accusation in his eyes.
She deserved every bit of his condemnation. She’d lured him here on the pretense of helping him, all the while intending to foil his plans.
As she bent down to put the basin of water before them, even Bran and Flann eyed her with suspicion. They sniffed at the water, as if they feared their traitorous mistress might have put hemlock in it.
“What?” she hissed at them. “Ye too?”
Maelan and Domnall collected up the weapons and took them inside the cave. She supposed they’d give them back to the knights when they returned with the ransom. After all, the woodkerns only took what poor folk could use. Farmers and cowherds had no use for swords.
Friar Brian, with his usual overabundance of courtesy, apologized to Ryland for the inconvenience of his bonds and assured him his ordeal would be over shortly.
Meanwhile, Sorcha, Lady Mor, and Aife secretly explained the plan to the remaining woodkerns.
Temair sighed. She regretted having to use the unwitting English knight as a pawn in the game of draughts with her father.
He didn’t seem like a bad person.
He’d been kind to her hounds.
He’d shown true concern for his missing bride.
He’d even offered to pay the woodkerns for their help.
It wasn’t his fault his stupid king had sent him to wed an imposter heiress.
But in war, there were no rules. Temair had to reclaim her legacy by any means possible.
Anyway, his part in this would be over in a few days, she thought as she patted the slurping dogs’ heads. Once the knights returned, he’d be free to go.
She imagined he’d return to England. Like most Englishmen, he probably thought Eire was savage and unruly. Especially now.
As for his marriage, no doubt the king would arrange another suitable alliance for Ryland. His assets wouldn’t go to waste. Indeed, prospective brides probably vied fiercely for such a prize as Sir Ryland de Ware.
A man in his prime.
Strong.
Handsome.
Clever.
Her gaze slipped over to where he sat on a stump. He was frowning at the ground between his knees, lost in thought.
She had to admit, he really was a fine specimen of a man. If circumstances had been different…if he weren’t English…and if he weren’t betrothed to her by command of the king, but rather by virtue of affection…
As if she’d spoken aloud, he suddenly glanced up at her.
Rattled, she looked away.
It was going to be a long couple of days—waiting for the ransom while dodging Ryland’s damning stares, battling her sense of guilt, and trying to forget that she’d once let him kiss her.
“Gray,” Domnall called out.
She looked up.
“He’s your hostage,” Domnall said. “What do ye want to do with him?”
The breath caught in her throat, especially when Ryland and the rest of the woodkerns leveled sharp questioning glares at her.
What did Domnall mean? What was there to do with him? He was a hostage, that was all. Shouldn’t he just…sit…and wait?
At her silence, Domnall prodded. “He won’t be worth a farthin’ if he runs off into the woods.”
Young Fergus offered, “Do ye want me to tie him to a tree?”
“Ye could chain him with the dogs,” Ronan said.
“Or shackle his ankles so he can’t walk,” Domnall suggested.
Temair creased her brows in indecision. Was that really necessary? Surely he wouldn’t leave the safety of the camp for the danger of an unfamiliar forest.
“Or,” Ryland chimed in with dark humor, “I could just give you my solemn oath that I won’t leave.”
Domnall scoffed at that.
But noble Cambeal asked, “On your honor as a knight?”
“Aye.”
That was enough for Cambeal.
Domnall thought otherwise. “Ye’d trust an Englishman?”
“A noble knight?” Cambeal asked, drawing himself up to his full height. “Absolutely.”
Lady Mor agreed. “There’s nothin’ more sacred than a knight’s vow.”
Cambeal asked, “Is this agreeable to ye, Gray?”
Temair felt her face growing hot. Did no one sense the awkward paradox of that? Ryland had trusted her, and she’d promptly betrayed his trust. Why would he feel any compunction whatsoever to keep a promise made to her?
At her delay, Ryland spoke, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “I could give you a blood oath if you prefer.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she decided. “Oath or no, if ye run off into the woods, my hounds will track ye down.”
He gave a mock shudder, which infuriated her. He wasn’t afraid of her dogs. The rogue had tamed the disloyal beasts with little more than salted pork and a few scratches.
Then he sobered. “I vow on my honor as a knight,” he said solemnly, “I won’t leave the camp without your consent.”
She should have doubted him. But she didn’t. Even without Cambeal’s confirmation, she got the sense that Sir Ryland was a man of his word.
So she acknowledged his promise with a nod. “Fine. I hope I don’t live to regret it. Ye can untie him, Cambeal.” Then, eager to get past the awkward situation, she called out, “What’s for supper tonight, Friar?”
Brian hoisted up two rabbits someone had snared. “Rabbit pottage.”
“And I’ve made oat bread,” Sorcha announced.
There would have been blackberries as well, but in her hurry, Temair had left the basket behind.
Ronan waggled his bushy black brows and pulled out a wineskin. “A bit o’ refreshment from a passin’ jurist. He insisted we have it.”
Young Fergus chortled at that, and the tense atmosphere in the camp began to dissolve.
Meanwhile, Sorcha laid out a cloth on the ground where the spoils of the day could be deposited.
There wasn’t much.
Aife had nipped a few cloak pins from a jeweler. She’d exchanged one of them for information from the maidservant.
Cambeal had lifted a heavy silver pendant from the same jurist who’d donated the wine.
Young Fergus and Lady Mor dropped handfuls of coins they’d taken from a trio of passing nobles.
The woodkerns then went about their work as usual. Domnall gathered wood for the fire. Aife skinned the rabbits. Young Fergus took out a whetstone and sharpened blades. Old Sorcha, who knew how to read and write, recorded the take for the day. Friar Brian would distribute the gifts to needy families on the Sabbath.
Temair had watered the hounds, and they’d fed well already. There was nothing for her to do.
Sir Ryland was idle as well. He sat, staring morosely at the fire ring.
Even though holding him hostage had been her plan, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. His king had used him to make an alliance, forcing him to move to a foreign country, to wed a woman he’d never met. Now Temair was using him to pay for an army to get her tuath back.
None of it was his fault. He’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He crossed his arms over his chest. His shoulders rose and fell as he let out a heavy sigh.
Domnall tossed a log onto the fire and grunted, “Were ye in the Crusades then, fightin’ under Richard?”
“Aye,” Ryland said. “I fought in the Battle of Arsuf.”
Domnall’s heavy brows went up. Then he nodded. “Was it as savage as they say?”
“’Twas a waste of good warriors,” Ryland replied, surprising Temair with his insight. “Religious wars always are.”
Their conversation caught the attention of Maelan, the other old soldier. “I fought at Acre. And ye’re right. What a bloody massacre ’twas. And for what? Because one man didn’t like what the other was thinkin’.” He shook his head.
Cambeal approached with a frown. “Ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant. They make a wasteland and call it peace.”
All four nodded sagely, staring into the flames that Fergus had stirred to life, sharing the sad brotherhood of warfare.
Temair watched them, half amazed and half irritated. The same way he’d tamed her hounds, Ryland was befriending the seasoned warriors of the woodkerns. There was something about him that drew both men and beasts to him.
That might be a problem.
“What about ye?” Ryland asked Cambeal. “Ye’re from a noble family, aye?”
“Aye.”
“Then why are ye…” He glanced around the clearing.
Cambeal smiled. “Livin’ in the woods with a band of outlaws?”
Ryland shrugged. “Aye.”
“I was cursed with a whole host o’ brothers,” Cambeal explained, “and I’m the youngest.”
Ronan quipped, “His father has an heir and four spares.”
“The eldest got our father’s land,” Cambeal said. “One fought for the High King and was rewarded with a holdin’. The other two made political marriages. All that was left for me was the church.”
From behind the great black cauldron he was filling with leeks and barley, Brian said, “Ye’d have made a good monk.”
“I’m afraid not,” Cambeal replied. “I’d rather wear a cuirass than a cassock. Besides, the church hasn’t been so good to ye, Friar.”
“The church, perhaps not,” Brian agreed, “but the Lord has been good to me.”
Ryland turned to the friar. “How did a man of the church come to live among thieves?”
Friar Brian scolded the knight with the point of his knife. “We prefer ‘outlaws’ or ‘woodkerns.’ We’re not strictly thieves.”
“I see,” Ryland said, obviously not seeing at all.
Temair explained. “We don’t keep what we take.”
Ronan raised the wineskin. “Well, except for this. This we’re keepin’.”
Ryland furrowed his brows. “If ye don’t keep it, what do ye do with it?”
“We distribute it to those in need,” she said.
“Aye. See that?” Brian said, gesturing with his knife to the goods piled on the cloth. “Sorcha will divide it up and decide who needs it most. Then on the Sabbath, I’ll make my rounds, handin’ it out to the crofters.”
Ryland chuckled at that. “You must have the wealthiest crofters in all Ireland.”
Nobody laughed with him.
Brian said, “Half o’ them are starvin’.”
“Starving? But they’re crofters. They can grow their own food.”
“So ye would think, wouldn’t ye?” Temair said, biting back the rage that always burned in her when she thought about it. “But the chieftain doesn’t see it that way. He takes most o’ their crops. The bastard would rather feast with fine English lords than—”
“Gray!” Sorcha chided, “’Tis the man’s father-to-be ye’re speakin’ of.”
Temair froze. She’d forgotten. She’d also forgotten that Sir Ryland was probably one of the fine English lords her father had fed.
Ryland was scowling now. She’d hoped to make him understand that the woodkerns did what they did for good reason. Instead, it appeared she’d only made him angry.