Chapter 5
“I’m only repeating what I’ve heard, m’lord,” Sir Warin claimed as the five knights rode along the sun-speckled, tree-lined road.
Sir Ryland de Ware wasn’t fooled for an instant. Warin’s words might sound innocent. But his eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Enough, Warin.” He glowered at his right-hand man. “I know very well that Irish wenches do not have tails.”
Sir Osgood chimed in behind them. “Are you certain, my lord? I’ve heard those claims as well.”
“Oh, aye,” Sir Godwin added solemnly. “Tails…and flippers, some of them.”
Osgood couldn’t contain his laughter. He burst out with it, earning him a cuff from his brother Godwin for ruining the jest.
“Are you knaves quite finished?” Ryland grumbled.
It was easy for them to taunt him about the matter. None of them had been betrothed by the king to a woman they’d never met.
Of course, he was well aware, as the firstborn son of an old and noble family, he had no choice when it came to marriage. Men like him were instruments to be used for power and influence. Brides were carefully selected to create political alliances. In Ryland’s case, that political alliance included leaving his beloved England and laying claim to a castle in a strange and savage country. Nay, not a castle—a tower house. In Eire, their strongholds were made of plastered timber, not impenetrable stone.
He supposed he should be grateful. It was an honor, after all. The king had chosen Ryland as the knight he most trusted to claim and tame the wild folk of Ireland.
But he didn’t feel grateful. He felt trapped.
He sighed as his men snickered around him. His bride-to-be might not have a tail, but she probably had the sickly pale skin and fiery red hair so many Irish lasses seemed to possess. Worse, she might have the fiery temper to go with it.
But what no one dared utter, what Warin was trying desperately to distract him from, was a more unsettling claim about his Irish betrothed.
“What about the other matter?” Sir Laurence finally murmured. “That she’s a murderer?”
The other men turned on him.
“God’s eyes, Laurence!” Warin spat. “Why did you have to bring that up?”
Laurence scowled. He preferred to have things out in the open, to face his enemies head-on. He’d been brooding over the match ever since Ryland had announced it.
“Pah!” Godwin scoffed. “There’s no proof of the claim.”
“The lady was a child,” his brother Osgood added. “’Twas an accident, certainly.”
Ryland frowned. He wasn’t so sure. Since coming ashore and getting his first taste of Irish wenches—a foul-mouthed innkeeper, a sharp-tongued brewster, and a bitter harpy selling fish—he was convinced the whole lot of them were capable of murder.
But Warin, for all his jesting, had a sensible head on his shoulders.
“Look, m’lords, if it were true,” he reasoned, “wouldn’t they have hanged her for the crime? Instead, they’ve promised her to the most glorious, noble, and upstanding knight in all of England.”
The others groaned.
“Come, come, gentlemen!” Warin exclaimed with an impish glint in his eye. “Do you not agree?”
Godwin gave Warin a cuff on the shoulder. “Slathering it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”
“Sir Ryland is the most glorious, noble, and upstanding knight in all of England,” Warin protested with a wink. “And he’ll fight any man who says he isn’t.”
The men laughed at that.
“And Warin will no doubt be wagering his purse on the outcome,” Osgood added.
Ryland shook his head, but he had to give Warin a grudging smile. Warin might be full of folly, but no man could ask for a more loyal companion.
Indeed, Ryland was grateful for all of his knights. When they’d learned he was being banished to Ireland, all three dozen of them had fought for the dubious privilege of accompanying him on his initial visit. Ultimately, he’d chosen these four.
They were stouthearted men and fierce warriors. It was good to know he wasn’t heading into the unknown alone. Whether he’d be greeted by the O’Keeffe clann as friend or foe, Ryland was well equipped for either an alliance or a battle.
At least the Irish countryside was welcoming. The day was sunny, and the oaks and elms made a leafy canopy overhead. Moss and ferns softened the forest floor, though the loam was already so yielding that their horses’ hooves on the sod were nearly silent.
Now and then a stream wandered toward the road and then diverged into the wood, like a silvery snake slithering into the shadows. Sparrow and wrens, robins and dunnocks chirped from the trees, and an occasional lizard wriggled through the stems of bluebells.
As they continued to ride lazily along in idle conversation, Ryland began to feel a tingling along the back of his neck. A vague sense that they were not alone. But when he glanced into the wood, he saw only flitting finches and blackbirds.
Still, his hand was never far from the hilt of his sword.
Laurence must have sensed it too. He cast a wary gaze along the edges of the path, as if he expected a wolf to spring out at them.
According to the foul-mouthed lass at the inn, the forest was “full o’ feckin’ faerie folk—the sort to lure a man deep into the wood to steal his bloody soul.”
Ryland had naturally dismissed her claims. He was a man of reason. He didn’t believe in faerie folk.
But as they rode past round rocks completely covered in plush moss, strange rings of tiny red mushrooms, glistening threads of water that seemed to weep from the earth, and branches overhead so dense they formed tunnels, it was easy to imagine the forest was populated by otherworldly creatures.
It was far more likely, however, that there were more worldly creatures in the wood. He’d been warned that the forests of Ireland were rife with outlaws.
That he believed. Outlaws were the bane of every forest.
He wasn’t much worried about thieves. They were five strong, fully armed knights on horseback. They were more than a match for any miscreants roaming the woods.
But the queer sensation wasn’t going away. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he and his knights were being watched. And if anything made him restless, it was a threat he couldn’t see.
Without turning his head, he let his gaze slide to the side. For an instant, he thought he saw an odd flicker of movement through the trees. But on second glance, he saw it was only a red squirrel hopping from branch to branch.
The path began to narrow so that the knights had to ride in a single line behind Ryland. If there were outlaws in the woods, this was the kind of spot they’d most likely use to intercept their victims. His men must have thought so as well, for they grew quiet and watchful.
But though he still felt eyes following him, no thief with a dagger slipped from behind the tree trunks. No archer leaped out into the road ahead to take aim at his heart.
Once the path widened again, they all breathed easier. They reached a place where, to one side of the road, the ground sloped gradually down, opening into a sunlit glade where a deep stream rushed past. Here they could rest a while and water their horses.
He motioned his men to follow and eased his horse off the road and down the shallow embankment.
The clearing was drenched with light and dotted with daisies, hardly the kind of spot where an outlaw could hide. So they dismounted, stretching their legs.
While the others began unpacking food from their satchels—scones, sheep’s milk cheese, salted pork, and ale they’d brought from the inn, Warin led the horses to the water.
Ryland needed to stretch his legs and relieve himself, so he set off downstream. As he trudged farther and farther along the wet bank, the burbling stream took a turn. He followed it around the bend, where the water deepened and the current smoothed into a swift, rippling sheet.
Trout probably swam in the green depths, far below the reach of the sunlight dancing atop the waves. Ryland half wished he had a fishing pole. He’d much prefer to spend the afternoon dabbling a line in the stream than face his new and possibly murderous bride.
Sighing, he continued on.
Farther along, on the opposite side of the stream, he spotted a patch of brambles. Blackberries. And they appeared to be juicy and ripe. His mouth watered at the sight.
The stream was too wide to leap across and too deep to ford.
But just beyond the berry patch was a giant fallen pine log that created a makeshift bridge between the two banks.
Clambering over the mossy rocks, he climbed atop the log. It felt sturdy enough to support him, and it looked well-used. The branches had long since broken off, and the bark had worn away on the top in places, exposing the blond wood beneath. It was manageably wide along its entire twenty-foot length, where it found anchor on the opposite bank. If he took his time, he could make a safe crossing.
Foot over foot, he made his way above the lazy current, faltering only once when his heel slipped on a slick spot on the log. Finally, he traversed the last few inches and landed on the far bank. Deciding to take care of necessities first, he relieved himself on a willow sapling, then washed his hands and face in the cold stream.
Gathering the blackberries was quick work. The plump purple fruit grew thick on the vines. When he was done, his fingers and the bottom of his dark green surcoat, which he’d used to collect the berries, were stained with juice, and he’d pricked his knuckles a few times on the thorns. But the couple of berries he popped into his mouth burst with sweetness, proving his efforts were not in vain. He’d take the rest of the blackberries back to his men.
He was a quarter of the way back across the log when he heard a movement from the other side. He froze. It was probably just a deer. But by the sound, it was advancing rather quickly. He hoped the beast would look up before it charged onto the log.
Temair hadn’t made a successful score in three days. Ever since that night the woodkerns had explained that it was she and not her sister whom her father had sold to the English, she’d been unable to concentrate on anything else.
Why would her father do such a thing? Bloody hell, he couldn’t even be sure she was alive. To be honest, she liked it that way. At least for the moment.
Now, barreling home through the forest after yet another fruitless day of thieving, she couldn’t help but be exasperated about the whole situation.
Cormac O’Keeffe claimed to have locked Temair away in a cell at the tower. But they both knew that wasn’t true. So how he planned to make his daughter magically appear on her wedding day, she couldn’t imagine. After all, he had no idea where she really was or what had become of her.
She batted aside a blackthorn branch and frowned down at the leaf-littered path.
What did the clann chieftain intend? How would he keep his promise?
Would he send clannsmen to hunt her down?
Or did he mean to pass someone else off as his daughter and heir?
It was the last possibility that had kept her awake at night, staring at the stars and grinding her teeth in frustration.
As much as she thought she’d divorced herself from the clann, the blood of the O’Keeffe ran thick in her veins. A part of her was tied to the tuath, to the tower house, to the good people who might not have been her friends, but who were definitely her family.
In her heart of hearts, she longed to see justice prevail, to see her sister avenged, and to reclaim what she’d lost. But she refused to be forced to marry the man of her father’s choice to do it.
And she definitely didn’t want an imposter to usurp her legacy.
She scurried along the trail, edging past holly and hawthorn bushes, eager to learn what news Aife had brought back from the castle today.
So distracted was she by her thoughts that she was halfway across the log bridge when she realized it was already occupied.