Chapter 4
SUMMER 1199 – SIX YEARS LATER
“If ye want to keep your bloody hand,” Temair warned, taking careful aim with her bow, “ye’d best drop your purse.”
The red-faced nobleman grimaced in frustration. He probably assumed she’d miss at this distance. But he was wise enough not to wager the precious appendage at the end of his arm on that. He dropped the bag of coins onto the forest floor.
She could have easily made the shot.
Lefthanded.
With her eyes closed.
For six years she’d been practicing with the longbow, trained by Cambeal, the finest archer among the woodkerns. Now the weapon felt like an extension of her arm. And she rarely missed.
In fact, she probably could have pinned his hand to the tree with one arrow and—while he hopped about, screaming in pain—fired a second into his heart.
But she wouldn’t.
Temair didn’t like spilling blood. Fortunately, she rarely had to.
Her uncommon height, combined with her speed and the gray hood and scarf she wore to mask her feminine features, were usually enough to make all but the most foolish of men back down.
“You won’t get away with this,” the man bit out.
Aye, she would. She always did.
She gave him a dismissive wave of her hand. “Off with ye now.”
He suddenly narrowed his eyes at her. “Wait,” he growled in consternation. “Are you a wench? You’re a damned wench, aren’t you?”
She barked out a laugh. “Does it matter?”
He hesitated a moment. Finally, he must have realized that when an arrow was aimed at his heart, it made no difference who stood at the shooting end of the bow.
“You’re the mistress of the devil,” he snarled as he turned to go.
“Ye’re not the first to say so,” she called after him, arching an unimpressed brow.
The men she robbed were ridiculously predictable. She’d heard that insult so often, it rolled off of her like rain off her waxed leather armor.
After he’d scurried away, she opened the brown velvet bag and peered in at the coins. It was a decent cache of silver. There was enough here to see the mac Aida family through the winter. She closed the bag again in satisfaction.
Six years ago, if anyone had told her the daughter of the clann chieftain would grow up to be the leader of a band of outlaws, she would have called them mad.
Now she took pride in her profession.
It wasn’t only because she was good with a bow and the bata. Fast on her feet. Clever at entangling greedy men in their own vices.
It was also because, as Orlaith had foretold from the beginning, from the first day she’d met Temair, it was she who was destined to take Orlaith’s place as leader of the woodkerns and balance the accounts her father had set awry.
Temair never took a farthing for herself. None of the outlaws did. They hunted their own food and bartered for whatever else they required. The silver they stole came from those who had much more than they needed. And the woodkerns gave it to those who had much less than they deserved.
For Temair, it was revenge of sorts. Gratifying revenge.
Her father, no longer in possession of daughters to use for political gain, had resorted to bribing the English nobles with coin seized from the clannfolk.
In return, Temair had resorted to meeting those bribed English nobles in the woods, confiscating their ill-gotten wealth, and giving the coin back to those from whom it had been stolen.
Of course, only the woodkerns knew it was the clann chieftain’s own flesh and blood wreaking havoc with the O’Keeffe accounts.
The ugly rumor in the tuath was that it had been young Temair who had pushed her sister to her death six years ago. The fact that no one in the clann had seen Temair after that night lent credibility to the rumor.
But her father, too proud to admit that a murderer had managed to slip through his fingers, claimed instead that that he’d put Temair in chains and kept her under lock and key in the tower.
Having to take the blame for Aillenn’s death tormented Temair—especially since she felt partly responsible. And part of her longed to prove her father a liar by turning up, free as a bird, on his threshold.
But as silver-haired Orlaith used to remind her, Temair could exact sweeter vengeance upon her father, keeping her distance and taking away his precious coin, than if she lived under his nose again, subject to his control.
She tied the velvet bag onto her belt and shouldered her bow.
Petty thievery would do for now. But her father owed much more than what his coffers would yield.
Now that she was older, she’d worked out what had happened to her sister. Their father may not have beat Aillenn the way he did Temair. But the damage he’d done to the innocent young lass had been far worse. Aillenn’s wounds went far deeper than Temair’s bruises. Her sister had been abused and violated. She’d borne scars that would never heal.
Temair furrowed her brows as she trudged along the narrow deer trail that intersected the main road, heading back toward the hidden cave the woodkerns called home.
It made her sick to think of what her sister must have endured. Of the pain that had driven Aillenn to take her life rather than face the revolting truth of what had been done to her by her own father.
The fact that her sister lay in a grave while Cormac O’Keeffe was still breathing gnawed at Temair’s soul.
She often dreamed of storming out of the forest, marching brazenly up to the tower house, bursting in upon her father, and shooting him straight through his black heart for what he’d done to her sister.
But any time her temper rose—when she’d had a little bit too much ale or when she was waxing melancholy over Aillenn—wise old Orlaith had spoken to her with the stern affection of a mother, telling her that revenge wasn’t worth throwing away her life.
She said Temair’s time would come. Her father’s deeds would not go unpunished. For the moment, however, there was more power in anonymity.
Orlaith had been right. And even though the old woman was two years gone now, Temair tried to keep her wisdom close at hand.
Still, it didn’t keep Temair from being impatient for revenge. And it didn’t stop the guilt that haunted her on cold and starless nights.
She should have done more.
She could have done more.
If only she hadn’t agreed to leave the stable that night…
If only she hadn’t thought her sister was exaggerating…
If only she’d convinced Aillenn to run away with her…
Temair might have prevented her sister from taking her own life.
She steeled her jaw against the unrelenting guilt. That guilt would be with her for the rest of her life, she knew. “If only” would follow her forever. Even taking vengeance upon her father couldn’t make it disappear.
She was still deep in thought when Bran and Flann came bounding out of the trees toward her, nearly knocking her down with their enthusiastic greetings.
“Any luck, Gray?” Tall Conall grinned as Temair approached the encampment.
To protect her identity, the woodkerns had given her that nickname, referring to the color of her eyes, which was usually all her victims ever saw of her.
She tossed back her hood and pulled the scarf down from her face, squirming away from the hounds’ excited licks. Then she untied the bag of coin and tossed it to him. “A safe winter for the mac Aidas.”
Fair-haired Niall came up behind Conall. “They’ll be glad to know.”
Temair tussled with her hounds. “How are ye, lads?” she cooed at the dogs. “Did ye miss me?”
She’d learned not to take her hounds with her when she was waylaying strangers. Though the enormous dogs were excellent protectors and expert hunting animals, they tended to frighten her victims away before she had the chance to harvest their riches.
Lady Mor and Friar Brian came into the clearing.
“What’s for supper?” Temair asked.
Lady Mor nodded toward the oak grove as she tied up her lush red hair. “Maelan and Domnall should return soon with somethin’.”
The hunting was good this time of year. With any luck, they’d bring back a brace of rabbits or a deer.
Matronly Sorcha, who had been brewing ale, emerged from the cave, which was almost invisible because of the thick vines hanging over the entrance. An ideal spot for brewing, it also served as a good hideaway. As well as being nearly impossible to find, the interior cavern was large enough to house all twelve members of the woodkern family in comfort.
Of course, at this time of year, they usually slept under or in the trees, taking advantage of the balmy weather and sweet evening air.
Temair liked to curl up with the hounds just outside the mouth of the cave, which was the best vantage point for protecting the camp.
“Has Aife returned yet?” she asked.
Lady Mor and Friar Brian shook their heads.
Plain, quiet, unassuming Aife served as an important connection to the outside world. Armed with a basket of eggs, a bundle of herbs, or a sack of rags, she could steal in and out of the tuath without attracting notice.
It had been Aife all those years ago who’d gently informed Temair about the rumors at the tower house and the story her father had made up to cover her disappearance.
Today, Temair had sent Aife to follow up on a rumor about some change afoot in the tuath. Temair guessed it might have something to do with the fact that Lord John of Ireland had only a few months ago become King John of England. Perhaps her father’s bribing of the English nobles was finally going to pay off in the form of extra land for O’Keeffe.
Temair told herself it didn’t matter. She’d left the tuath six years ago. Even Aillenn had advised her to go and never look back.
But she knew the land and the clann were hers by rights. There was still a part of her that longed for justice—revenge for her sister and redemption for herself.
Eventually Temair would return to O’Keeffe and claim what was hers. She still had a soft spot for the servants who had shown her empathy and the crofters whom her father had impoverished. But the only true friends she’d ever had in her old life were Bran, Flann, and Aillenn. She’d brought the two hounds with her, and her sister she’d left in death’s arms.
Now that the sun was on its way down, the woodkerns began to return to the encampment from their various enterprises.
Young Fergus and merry Cambeal turned up first. Fergus’s eyes lit up as he boasted about how they’d tricked a pair of cocky lads out of their jeweled daggers. Lady Mor snapped up one of the stolen blades to examine it, confirming that she could pry loose the jewels and sell them at the next fair for a tidy profit.
Next, sour-faced Maelan arrived, mumbling that he’d snared a half dozen fat rabbits for supper. Bald-pated Domnall followed, shouldering a young wild goat he’d speared. The band of outlaws would eat well for a few days.
Just before sunset, black-bearded Ronan marched into the clearing and tossed a small wooden trunk onto the ground. It tipped, spilling out its contents of silver coins.
Young Fergus whooped with glee. “’Tis enough for all the Sinna orphans, isn’t it? What happened, Ronan? Tell us!”
Maelan let out an annoyed grumble, then stirred the fire to life. Friar Brian rolled up his cassock sleeves and started to prepare supper, chopping up wild leeks and garlic. Ronan settled his long frame on a log, rubbed his hands together, and began telling his tale with relish.
Everyone gathered around the fire to hear the story. Temair settled down on a mossy spot between her hounds.
“The particular villain I met today claimed he was a priest,” Ronan said. “He said he’d been wanderin’ the woods and lost his way, and would I be so good as to show him the way out?” He shrugged. “Naturally, god-fearin’, helpful man that I am…”
Young Fergus snickered at that. Everyone knew that Ronan was as mischievous as a marten.
Ronan gave him a chiding scowl. “God-fearin’ and helpful man that I am,” he asserted, “I started describin’ the windin’ curves o’ the woodland path.” He made a grand gesture to demonstrate. “But a curious thing happened when, in the midst o’ my instructions, my wayward arm happened to catch his hood and dislodge it.” He raised his brows dramatically. “‘Ah, good father,’ said I, ‘ye must have been wanderin’ a very long time.’ ‘Why?’ said he. Said I, ‘Because it seems your priest’s tonsure has all grown in.’”
“Ha!’ young Fergus exclaimed.
Temair grinned.
The friar clucked his tongue.
“He turned as red as your hair, Lady Mor,” Ronan continued, giving her a wink. “But he still insisted the trunk o’ silver I found in his satchel was alms for the poor.”
“What did ye do then?” young Fergus asked eagerly.
Ronan gave him a smug smile. “I told him I’d be sure the silver got where ’twas headed then.”
Young Fergus burst out in giggles, which made the rest of the company join in. Even grouchy Maelan managed a chuckle.
As the others recounted their adventures for the day and the fire began to merrily crackle and burn, Temair’s gaze circled the ring of woodkerns with fondness. They were her friends now, the best companions a lass could hope for. She trusted them with her life. And now that they’d taught her how to defend herself with bow, dagger, bata, and fists, they could trust her with theirs.
Lawless and free, the woodkerns recognized no chieftain, though, by old Orlaith’s decree, they looked to Temair for leadership. And their tuath was the entire forest.
Their needs were few.
Their talents were many.
And they lived by an unwritten code of honor.
Lady Mor, Niall, and Cambeal had all come from noble houses. Long ago, Conall, Ronan, and Aife had been merchants. Friar Brian had been deposed by an English priest. In another life, Maelan and Domnall had been soldiers. The old alewife Sorcha had lost her entire family to sickness. And young Fergus had been a beggar.
But none of that mattered. Now they were brothers and sisters of the woodkern clann. What bonded them was their simple mission—to make the world as fair and just as possible by whatever means they had at their disposal.
Temair scratched the hounds beneath their collars. She thought she’d never been luckier than the day she’d stumbled onto the woodkerns’ encampment, the day they’d taken her in as their own. She smiled, remembering that it was actually Bran and Flann who had led her here in the first place, likely drawn by the smell of whatever the woodkerns had been cooking over their evening fire.
In the midst of her warm recollections and the woodkerns’ merriment, old Sorcha abruptly rose, sobering as she looked toward the road. Temair followed her gaze.
Aife had returned. Her face was grave and pale. For one terrible moment, Temair was reminded of her sister. Her heart spasmed at the horrifying possibility that Cormac O’Keeffe had ravaged Aife the way he had Aillenn.
But she knew she was being ridiculous. Aife might appear mild-mannered. But she would have cut Cormac’s fingers off before she’d let him touch her.
“What is it, Aife?” Temair asked.
The woodkerns silenced.
Aife sent one brief, revealing glance toward Temair before she spoke to the group. “I fear ’tis unwelcome tidin’s.”
Temair blurted out her dark wish. “Is he dead?”
Aife creased her brow. “Who?”
“My father,” Temair said.
The friar flashed Temair a glare of reprimand, wordlessly reminding her it was sinful to wish for a person’s death.
Aife shook her head.
Temair was ashamed to admit she felt a pang of disappointment.
Sorcha asked, “What are the bad tidin’s then?”
Aife glanced briefly again at Temair. “The O’Keeffe has agreed to ally with the English.”
The woodkerns looked to Temair for a response.
“’Tis no surprise,” Temair told them with a shrug. “Where do ye think he’s been spendin’ all the coin he collects from the clann? He’s been courtin’ Lackland’s favor for years. And now that Lackland’s king…”
“There’s more,” Aife ventured, setting down her basket of eggs. “A…a man has been sent to form the alliance.”
“A man,” Temair said. “What man?”
Aife’s brows creased. “His name is Ryland de Ware. He’s King John’s man. He’s on his way from England even now, and he’s come for a bride. He’s been sent to wed…the O’Keeffe heiress.”
No one said a word.
But Temair snorted at that. “The stupid fool. Did no one tell him Aillenn’s been dead for six years?”
She smirked. The Englishman was going to be very disappointed, having traveled all that way, showing up at the tower house to discover his bride was lying cold in her grave. She shook her head.
When Temair looked up, no one else was smiling.