Her Irish Warrior, page 3
part #1 of MacEgan Brothers Series
Bevan seized the opportunity and wrapped his chains around the man’s throat. He tasted blood, but ignored the fiery pain in his shoulder. A clear sense of focus sharpened the anger rising within.
When the Norman knight had struck Genevieve, it had been as though he were seeing a vision of his wife. Past and present had blurred, and the images of a battlefield had filled his mind. He saw his wife, Fiona, crying out for help while the Normans chased her on horseback. He had fought against the hordes of enemy soldiers, trying with all his strength to reach her.
His failure had haunted him ever since.
Though it was Genevieve who had fallen beneath Sir Hugh’s fists, it was his wife he was seeing as he tightened the metal chain around the man’s throat, strangling him. The chains strained and the knight’s face grew slack, his body slipping into unconsciousness.
Motion caught his eye, and soldiers began descending the ladder, swords drawn. He was forced to release Hugh, though he wished he’d had time to twist the life from him. Any man who struck a woman was not worth the dust beneath his feet. He risked a glance at Genevieve, and saw her cradling her ribs. She was alive, but it unnerved him, having a woman try to rescue him.
A blade arced towards him, and Bevan caught the blow with his chains. Years of training made it easy to defend himself, and he waited for an opportunity to disarm his opponent.
Strangely, the soldiers were unsteady on their feet, behaving as though they had drunk too much ale. One of the men aimed for Ewan, and Bevan twisted to take the blade’s impact upon his chains. He breathed easier when the men left his brother alone.
Ewan dropped to the ground, using his feet to trip one of the guards. Bevan evaded more slashes while fighting to remain on his feet. Energy surged through him when one stumbled, and Bevan seized the sword. Seconds later, the man lay dead upon the ground.
The second guard stumbled forward, his expression vacant. A dagger lay embedded in his back. Behind him stood Genevieve, her face ghostly pale. Bevan had seen that expression before. The first time she’d killed a man, he’d wager. And she looked as though she expected God to strike her down for the sin.
Bevan no longer cared about his soul. He’d lived through everlasting damnation during the past two years. He seized the third guard, wrapping his chains tightly around the man’s throat and aiming the sword at his belly. ‘Unlock our manacles.’
The guard glanced towards the ladder. Bevan’s patience disappeared. ‘You will be dead before they get here unless you unlock these.’
The man fumbled for the heavy iron ring of keys at his waist, and unlocked the chains.
‘Now my brother.’
When the last chain fell free, the guard tried to bolt towards the ladder. Bevan swung his sword towards the man’s head, striking him with the hilt. The guard crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
‘You didn’t kill him,’ Genevieve murmured.
‘I keep my word.’To his brother he said, ‘Get our weapons and free the men. Tell them to alert the others and return to Laochre.’
Ewan scurried to the far end of the storage chamber to do his bidding.
Bevan helped Genevieve stand, though she was still guarding her ribs. ‘You’re hurt.’
‘Not as badly as you,’ she managed. ‘Let me tend your wounds. Your shoulder is bleeding badly.’
‘There is no time.’ His injury was not a mortal wound, though the pain staggered him.
‘You have to leave. They’ll kill you.’
He knew it, just as surely as he knew that he had to take her with him. It was the only way to keep her safe. ‘Are you coming with us?’
Genevieve’s eyes glimmered with tears, and she stared at the fallen body of Hugh. ‘He’s still alive?’
Bevan shrugged. ‘For now.’
‘I can’t stay here. Not any more.’
Ewan returned, carrying a bow and arrows, as well as two swords. The blade was easily more than half the boy’s height, but Ewan clutched it with fervour. ‘The men have left. Through the souterrain passage, as you ordered.’
‘Good.’ Bevan sheathed his sword and held out his hand to Genevieve. ‘Go or stay. It is your choice, a chara.’
With a fearful look back at the man who had beaten her, she put her hand in his. ‘I’ll go.’
They escaped through the narrow passageway, the scent of wet soil and clay surrounding them. Bevan led them to a secondary tunnel that opened out into the forest. The night had grown cold, its chilled air biting their faces as the harsh wind swept by.
Genevieve clutched her side, her face tight with suffering, but she made no complaint.
A kind of madness had overcome him, to bring a woman along. It was his weakness that he could not stand to see a woman beaten. He suspected that Sir Hugh was someone close to Genevieve—a relative, or her betrothed.
Bevan knew he had to find shelter for the three of them. The journey back to his brother’s fortress would take days, and there had been no time to retrieve the horses. The voice of doubt sank its teeth into his confidence. He didn’t know if they would make it.
And he had seen no sign of his men. It bothered him, for he knew not if they had escaped detection. In the blackness of the forest, he paused to look back at Rionallís. Fiery torches blazed in the darkness amid the glinting of chain-mail armour. They needed more distance, and he increased their pace.
The slickness beneath his tunic reminded him that he would have to stanch the bleeding. The pain had become a vicious reality, but he had no choice except to move onward. If they stopped now, they were dead.
His brother was keeping up, but Genevieve had started to fall behind. She leaned up against a tree, her arm wrapped around her ribs. ‘Grant me a moment,’ she pleaded, catching her breath.
‘We can’t. They’re following us.’ He studied her, assessing her injuries. Lowering his voice, he asked, ‘Would you rather stay here? Return to them?’
‘No.’ Rebellion blazed in her eyes, and she straightened her shoulders. ‘I’ll never go back to him.’ She steadied herself, then began walking once more.
‘Who is he? Your husband?’
‘My betrothed.’ She increased her pace until they cleared the forest. ‘But no longer. Not if I am free of him.’
They traversed the open field, instinct guiding him upon the right path. Shrouded in darkness, he used the dim glow of light coming from the church. With each step he felt his strength ebbing.
Genevieve must have sensed it, for she stopped him. ‘You need to bind your wounds.’
‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘She’s right, Bevan.’ Ewan gripped his hand. ‘You would not make it much further.’
He didn’t like admitting a weakness, particularly when both of them depended upon him for their survival. Yet he would be no good to them were he to stumble and fall. His gaze fixed upon the lights in the distance. At last he said, ‘I know a place where we can stay. But if there is any sign of Sir Hugh’s men, we must leave.’
When they reached the outskirts of the tenants’ lands, Genevieve motioned towards a beehive-shaped cottage. Bevan shook his head. ‘I’ll not endanger my people.’
There was only one possibility for shelter. He pointed to a round stone tower in the distance that rested beside the church. ‘Stay behind me.’
As they approached they saw that the church was small, but the tower would provide the greatest protection for the night. Bevan spied a candle lit in the window and raised his fist to the door. A tall, thin priest answered his knock. He recognised Father Ó Brian, a quiet man, who had been known to wield a sword in his younger days. He respected the priest, and the man’s strength of faith.
‘We seek a place to stay,’ Bevan said.
The priest glanced at the three of them, his attention caught by the bloodstained tunic. ‘Bevan MacEgan.’ He rubbed the brown beard on his chin and opened the door wider for them to enter. ‘It has been a long time. Almost a year and a half it’s been since you were at Rionallís.’ The priest gestured for them to enter. ‘I am glad to see you. We have prayed for your return since the invaders came.’
Bevan caught the silent censure. But, after Fiona’s death, the emptiness of Rionallís had made it unbearable to stay. For that first year he’d travelled from one tribe to another, hiring his sword. Then, last spring, his people had endured attack and conquest.
He clasped the priest’s arm. ‘We will return again. I swear it.’ His younger brother Ewan’s face flushed with embarrassment. The boy blamed himself for the failed invasion.
‘Good.’ Father Ó Brian gestured towards the small chapel. ‘What can I do to assist you?’
‘We need shelter for the night, and food. Horses on the morrow, if that is possible.’
The priest nodded. ‘I believe the round tower would be best.’ He led them back outside, behind the church. The stone tower stood high against the shadows of the landscape, narrow in diameter. The priest brought a ladder for them to ascend to the entrance, leading the way. Once inside, he closed the door and lowered a rope ladder to the next level.
‘What is this place?’ Genevieve asked.
‘We use it for storage,’ Father Ó Brian replied. ‘But we can also detect our enemies from a distance. It has been here for hundreds of years. Some say the priests used to hide religious treasures in these towers.’
Using a torch for light, he led them up several levels, but did not take them to the top. High above them was the bell used to sound the hours. Six windows surrounded the topmost level. Bevan intended to use them to sight their enemies.
‘There is no fire, but you should be warm enough on this level. There is a pallet, should you wish to sleep.’ Father Ó Brian gestured towards Bevan’s wound. ‘I’ll bring a basin of water to tend your injury—’
‘I’ll tend it,’ Genevieve interrupted. ‘Have you a needle and thread? Some of his wounds are deep.’
The priest inclined his head, and left his torch inside an iron sconce before he departed. After he had gone, Genevieve stared up at the interior of the round tower, past each level to the top.
Wind howled against the stones, a shrieking sound that made Bevan think of evil spirits. Though he was not a superstitious man, he crossed himself. He did not deceive himself by believing they were safe this night.
It took a while until the priest returned, but Father Ó Brian brought bread and mead, along with water and clean strips of linen. He handed Genevieve a small cloth packet containing the needle and thread. Then he left them alone. Ewan lifted the first ladder away, sealing the main entrance, then busied himself with the food.
With Genevieve’s help, Bevan removed his tunic, gingerly avoiding his wounded shoulder as much as possible. She cleansed the wound, her eyes never meeting his. Though she performed the duty with calm efficiency, he sensed a greater discomfort. She was afraid of him, even after everything that had happened.
Her own cheek had swollen up, a bruise beginning to form. Caked blood marred her temple, tangling the dark hair. He was glad he’d taken her from Rionallís. And yet he did not know what to do with her now.
‘Do you have other family here?’
She shook her head, threading the needle. ‘My father was supposed to come. He grew ill and could not journey with me to Rionallís. Instead he sent Sir Peter and his wife as my guardians.’ She held the edges of his shoulder wound together, and Bevan tensed. ‘I was supposed to marry Sir Hugh upon our arrival.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ He gritted his teeth through the pain of her stitching. He felt foolish that such a small needle should cause dizziness, while he had endured the stabbing wound without flinching.
‘The King wanted to witness the marriage.’ A wry expression tilted at her mouth. ‘I suspect Hugh wanted the King there. He overestimated his importance to King Henry. I was glad for the delay.’ She tied off the thread and Bevan expelled a sigh of relief.
‘Your guardians…they were supposed to look after you?’ He gazed pointedly at her bruise, then down to her ribs. The torn kirtle reminded him of Sir Hugh, and the brutal beating he’d witnessed.
Genevieve reddened. ‘Yes. Sir Peter believed I was disobedient, and that Hugh was right to punish me.’
Her hands moved to the cut upon his face, and Bevan steadied himself for the needle once more. ‘What of Sir Peter’s wife?’
‘She hardly ever spoke to me,’ Genevieve admitted. ‘She complained about Ireland and wanted to return to England. Most of the time she stayed in the solarium, weeping.’ She frowned in distaste.
Her needle moved swiftly, stitching the wound closed. Thanks be, she had finished. He breathed easier now that it was done.
She bound the wound tightly with linen strips. With a cloth, she sponged at the slash on his cheek. She finished treating his wounds and poured him a cup of mead.
Bevan drank the fermented beverage and pointed towards the bruise on her cheek. ‘Where do you want me to take you on the morrow?’
‘Away from Hugh. It matters not where.’ She rose and crossed the room, to sit upon the pallet.
Bevan reminded himself that he should not concern himself with Genevieve’s problems. She was the daughter of an enemy, nothing more. He had repaid his debt to her, and the sooner their ways parted the better. Yet her presence disconcerted him.
Her hair was dark, like his wife Fiona’s. Her eyes were a deep blue, the colour of the sea. She was tall, the top of her head reaching to his chin. Though she turned away from him, he saw the way she cradled her ribs. Tonight had not been the first time Sir Hugh had harmed her. What he could not understand was why anyone would allow it to happen.
Bevan brought the basin over and sat beside her. The faint scent of lavender emanated from her skin. Without thinking, he washed away the blood upon her temple.
What was he doing? Guilty thoughts invaded his mind with the intimate act, for it was the first time he’d touched a woman in a very long time. He held the cloth out to Genevieve, and she took it from him in silence. ‘He hurt you.’ It was not a question.
Genevieve soaked the cloth once more, wringing it out. Her hands brushed over her ribcage. ‘I don’t think he broke any bones, but, aye, it hurts.’
He regretted not killing Sir Hugh when he’d had the opportunity.
They ate the meagre meal provided by Father Ó Brian while outside the wind howled. Bevan climbed up the rope ladder to the level surrounded by windows. Wind blasted through the openings, but he peered into the darkness to see if the enemy approached. A flurry of white swirled into the room.
‘Do you see anything?’ Ewan called up.
‘Snow.’ He climbed down several levels, favouring his good shoulder. The change in weather lightened his worry, though he saw the confusion in Ewan’s eyes. ‘It will hide our tracks, should they try to pursue us. For tonight, so long as the snow continues, we are safe.’
An answering smile tipped at Genevieve’s lips. The softness of her expression drew his attention, and Bevan took a step forward. She held his gaze for a moment before looking away.
What was it about her that bewitched him so? Her Norman kinsmen had slaughtered his people and stolen his home. The blood running through her veins was the same as his enemy’s. And yet she remained an innocent, caught up in a battle that should not involve her.
‘Sleep now,’ he said, moving away from her. ‘I’ll keep watch for tonight.’
Genevieve curled up on the straw pallet, huddling to keep warm. Ewan slept against a sack of grain on the opposite side of the tower.
The night stretched in long moments, making Genevieve uneasy about leaving Rionallís. Hugh would come after her, hunting her until he possessed her once more. He would not stop until she returned to him. In many ways she wished she could become invisible—a serf who would attract no man’s attention.
She remembered Bevan’s eyes upon her, and the way he had tended her wound. Once she might have encouraged his attentions. She might have welcomed the feelings he could awaken within her as his hand warmed hers.
Now she knew better. Those days were over, and she no longer trusted her own judgement. She would let no man court her affections again, though Papa might arrange a different marriage. Her heart grew heavy as she closed her eyes, wishing she knew what the morning would bring.
In the darkness, Bevan watched Genevieve sleeping. She slept on her stomach, her palms atop the pallet, her breathing steady and even. Dark hair fell across her shoulders. He reached out and touched a strand of her hair. It curled around his finger, soft as a silken ribbon, before he released it.
Why had she helped them? Her desperation to escape Sir Hugh was genuine, and he knew her act of bravery had saved their lives. In return, he had sworn to protect her. And yet the promise meant bringing an enemy among his family.
Ewan had accepted their escape as a lucky twist of fate, but then, he was a boy. He did not stop to consider the repercussions of Genevieve’s actions. Although she had fled willingly, Bevan knew Sir Hugh would come after them, seeking their deaths. He welcomed the prospect of killing him, but he could not allow Genevieve to stay with them. Her presence would endanger those he loved.
A soft sound broke his attention. Genevieve was awake. She sat up and brought her knees to her chest, keeping her gaze upon him. The wind battered the stone tower, moaning in the winter’s darkness.
‘I cannot sleep.’
He made no move, no sound, but stared at her. Genevieve’s long hair flowed across her shoulders like a pool of water, haloed against the dying torchlight. The intense blue of her eyes regarded him in the stillness.
‘I never thanked you for saving me,’ she said. ‘There are no words to express how grateful I am.’
‘As soon as we reach my brother’s fortress I’ll arrange to send you away to a safe place,’ he said gruffly.
