The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 15

"Jewellery, please," she told the maids eagerly arranging the red and gold striped train of her best gown. She might eschew fur, but her people produced the finest linens in the world.

"The queen's jewellery?" one maid asked hesitantly.

"It was my mother's," Anya agreed. "Let us impress the High Court with our elegance so they do not think us weak barbarians."

By the time she'd been fastened into torque and bracelets of gold delicately wrought to fit slender throat and limbs, Anya was anxious to meet the knight sent to honour her nephew. Anxious and afraid.

She bent to kiss the infant nursing at the breast of a wet nurse. None would believe her tale of the child's birth even should she relate it, so she had not spoken of what she'd seen. Straightening her mantle, she proceeded down the four flights of stairs to the castle's great hall. Conscious that this would be her first appearance as the O'Brion leader, she held her head high and her shoulders straight, determined to make her ancestors proud.

Surely the whole army had turned out to meet the newcomer! The hall was packed with men milling about, pounding each other on the back, elbowing each other to silence as she entered. Her father and brother would have been right there with them, pounding and shouting.

She swallowed hard as the room silenced. Breeda held the train of her striped gown from the flagstone floor. No rushes rotted under the toes of the O'Brion ladies these days. The silence continued as Anya climbed to the dais where her father, and later, her brother, had sat at the head table. Two ornately carved, high-backed chairs faced the hall, with the enormous hearth at their backs.

Garvan, as her brother's best friend and chief warrior, dropped to one knee and held his blade across his chest, declaring his fealty to the O'Brions, if not necessarily to her. Behind him, all the other men did the same. Except one.

Taller than any other man in the hall, wider of shoulder, an auburn-haired stranger in fur-lined mantle stood in the shadows of the hearth, watching her as if she were some new form of animal, not quite cat or dog. Anya wished she'd worn her hair up so she might look older and more commanding, but she'd been in a hurry to meet this disrespectful oaf?

Instead of wearing his sword belted at his side, she could see he wore his weapon hung over his back like an uncivilized churl, despite all his finery. And his clothing was very grand, indeed, although not as fine as the form that wore it.

Realizing she stared, Anya settled into Maeve's slightly smaller chair and beckoned the newcomer to approach the dais. She spoke three languages. She hoped he spoke at least one of them.

He stepped from the shadows of the hearth into the light of the candlelit iron chandelier and made his bow, not quite so courtly a one as Garvan's, but fair enough. When he straightened, the light fell full on his face, and Anya inhaled with shock.

His jaw was scarred in the same manner as the vision she'd seen last night over the cradle. His stature was as broad and tall as she remembered. What meant this? Was he a ghost? Or a portent?

She had the urge to reach out and touch him, to test his reality, but that would cause others to wonder if she'd lost her mind. Her grip tightened on the gilded chair arms. She wore a short sword in her girdle, and her father's spear leaned against his chair. Her dream world clashed with reality. She was trained to face threats with weapon in hand, but she had seen this man weep for the child.

Deciding she did not act from a position of strength, she waited silently, as taught, learning all she could before showing her hand.

"Your name?" she asked in the language of her father's Irish ancestors.

The handsome stranger hesitated at her question, as if considering how much truth to offer. Then bowing his head with respect, he replied, "Finn mac Connell, my lady."

He spoke the old language and used the old name of mac Connell, son of Connell. Connells were once legendary G.o.ds and kings to whom the O'Brions had sworn fealty. These days, simmering enmity separated their descendants.

"I see," she said coolly, although her thoughts raced ahead of her to dire situations that might require that the King place an enemy in her father's stronghold. Or did the stranger lie? "Did His Majesty send a message with you?"

Again, the hesitation, as if he pondered every word before speaking it. She did not trust a man who could not speak from the heart. And she could not trust a man who had appeared in a vision, like one of the elusive, ever mischievous, Good Neighbours.

"His Majesty wishes to show his friendship for the new King of the O'Brions, and to offer his protection. I am at your service, my lady," he finally replied with bold authority.

In this, she believed him. The vision had watched over the babe with tenderness. For all she knew, the next king of the O'Brions was fae born, since he was most certainly not Maeve's. It did not matter. The child was all that stood between her clan and destruction. He needed all the protection she could summon.

She must see the boy christened immediately.

"Garvan." She turned to the captain of her small army. "Have we a place for the King's man?"

Garvan stepped forwards eagerly. Before he could say aye, the stranger had placed himself between Anya and her knight quicker than she could think.

She wrapped her fingers around the dirk in her belt and regarded his broad back. Did he think her so helpless that she could not stop him? Or did showing her his back mean he trusted her?

"My place is to serve the boy," Finn declared firmly. "I will guard him with my life, but I will not guard him from the bottom of a mountain of stones. My place is beside him."

Garvan's hand went to his sword hilt. Finn merely crossed his ma.s.sive arms and stood like the mountain of stones he scorned. There would be violence if Anya did not interfere. Did she side with her brother's friend or a stranger?

Garvan's men had not been able to protect her father or her brother. What chance did an infant have in their care? She had no reason not trust the vision who had wept over an infant. Yet.

"Pax," Anya said softly, rising from her chair. "We have a funeral and a christening for which to prepare. If the High King sees fit to send his man here, let the mac Connell take his place on the landing. For now, the babe stays with his wet nurse in the women's quarters, with me."

Calling for the priest, she swept past the roomful of towering soldiers, aware that the largest of them all followed her to the stairwell.

The haughty wench hadn't even introduced herself, Finn recalled in amus.e.m.e.nt, watching the O'Brion princess carry his son down a chapel aisle to the waiting priest. He'd learned her name, of course, but name and t.i.tle were unimportant in comparison to the woman who wore them. Before he left, he needed to know she could defend and care for the boy.

Anya O'Brion's temerity alone ought to terrify half the men in the land. She'd stood at the head of a hall full of armed soldiers and commanded respect like a warrior queen, instead of a pet.i.te princess. Standing to one side of the altar so he might observe all who entered, Finn hid his grin. Even the G.o.ddess Brigid must approve of a woman who could slay grown men with her flashing eyes.

In his time, he'd left worship to the women. That men now commanded the sacred waters and prayed to male G.o.ds did not bother him. What bothered him was the tension he sensed in the chapel as Princess Anya kneeled before the priest, holding his son. They doubted her ability to lead them or protect their king against what enemy?

Was this the price the Old Ones commanded for providing his son the home he deserved knowing the boy must fight for his place? The Others did not speak plainly but left the consequences of Finn's actions on his shoulders. He supposed they would smite him dead if he did not obey, but as far as Finn was concerned, he was already dead. He'd died with Niamh.

He glanced at the colourful gla.s.s in the chapel windows and wished it gone so he could see outside. How could a man protect his kin if he could not see all the land around him?

Hearing the thunder of hooves, he stepped from the shadows of the altar to stand directly behind the Princess, his sword and his knife crossed over his chest in warning.

The audience gasped at his warlike action, but in the next instant, others heard what he had. The men pushed for the exit, heading for the ramparts, Finn hoped.

"I christen thee Ardal Patrick Connor O'Brion, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost," the priest intoned, blithely ignoring the departing soldiers.

Finn did not recognize the name Patrick, but Ardal was a fine old name, and Connor was fitting for the son of a king. Conn was the origin of his own name. The Princess had chosen well. Now that the naming was done . . .

Finn grabbed the lady's arm and hauled her from the floor. "Upstairs, now," he ordered.

Holding the babe, she could not reach for her knife, although he saw murder in her glare. She had eyes the colour of emeralds and hair of the finest flax. And a glower that would pierce stone walls. "Release me," she whispered harshly.

"After I'm seeing you up the stairs, where no man can go without dying on my blade." With determination, he rushed her down the aisle.

Rather than submit to the indignity of struggling with him, she hurried ahead as if fleeing the chapel were her idea. She shielded the boy with her heavy mantle as she walked, so Finn approved.

"They fly the Connolly flag," a guard called from his post in the tower.

The slender woman under Finn's hand jerked to a halt, forcing Finn to stumble rather than fall over her.

"I will not run from the Beast," she announced. "Breeda, take Patrick to our chamber." She placed the protesting bundle of flailing limbs into the hands of her gnarled old maid.

Finn scowled, unprepared for the two to separate. Did he follow his son or stay with the woman? Narrowing his eyes, he watched as the servant carried his son to safety, while the foolish Princess swung to meet some foe called the Beast.

"Are you run mad, woman?" he muttered. "Let the men do battle. Your place is with the boy."

Her look of scorn would have melted iron. "Your place is with the King. Mine is to slaughter the man who has taken my family. I may start with that part of him that makes him male." She drew a deadly dirk from her girdle and hid it between the folds of her mantle and tunic.

Finn winced as he caught her meaning. "And wouldn't it help to be seeing what the man wants before emasculating him?" he asked dryly.

"I know what he wants, and he cannot have it. Emasculating is exactly what he deserves," she said with satisfaction.

Finn could not resist a challenge like that. He'd have to stay with the mad Princess to see how this game was played. Planting himself in front of the tapestry concealing the stairs, sword in hand, he watched over the Princess Anya as she a.s.sumed her chair on the dais.

Three.

Well trained, the castle knights formed a phalanx around Anya as the visitors hailed the sentry on the wall.

"Order them to allow Connolly and one of his men in, no more," she commanded. The moat hadn't been completed, so there was no way to prevent riders reaching the walls. But horses couldn't fit through the narrow aperture through which the sentries allowed visitors.

The men who strode in wore mail and helmets and strutted like peac.o.c.ks. They were big men, without question, but Anya had known them all her life. They had small minds and only two thoughts in them her, and the lands she now guarded for her nephew.

"You have come all this way to express your condolences?" she asked dryly. "Would you not have done better to bring your mother and sister so we might console together?"

Dubh Connolly removed his helmet to uncover thick black curls interspersed with grey. "I regret the pa.s.sing of Queen Maeve," he said gruffly. "How fares the child?"

"Very well," Anya said sweetly, blessing the saints and the Others and all responsible for the child upstairs. She did not glance behind her at the giant guarding her hall, but for now, her blessing encompa.s.sed him as well. "Patrick shall be a fine, strong king someday."

"But not this day," Dubh stated bluntly. "And not for many years to come. Your father meant us to wed so that his lands and people would have a strong hand to guide them. I have come to claim my bride."

Anya fingered the dirk in her skirts and imagined all the ways she could use it. But her choices were no longer her own. She had her father's people to consider. For now, she must deny personal satisfaction. "It is grateful I am to so fine a man for his offer, but my father is dead. He is dead at the hand of your men, as is my brother. I do not think their wishes would be the same today as they may have been in the past."

"It was fair battle, Anya," Dubh declared. "We disagreed over boundaries. There would be no such disagreement between us. Marriage will bind our lands in one, and your nephew will be guarded well."

"My nephew will be guarded better if he is nowhere near a man who kills me and mine!" Unable to hold her temper at his cra.s.s a.s.sumption that she was as stupid as he, Anya stood and grabbed her father's great spear from its post.

Dubh did not look deterred. "You have no choice. You cannot lead your men to war against me."

He was right. Every man in here knew he was right. They knew her as a dreamy child who spoke of Other Worlds and cried at bloodshed. She knew that did not make her weak, but that was hard to prove to men who only respected war.

Her hand tightened on the spear, desiring nothing so much in this world as to use it. And start a fight she couldn't win.

The men around her dropped their hands to their sword hilts, and tension mounted.

"I can," a deep voice declared not loudly but with enough menace to turn every head.

In surprise, Anya loosened her grip on the spear as the High King's man stepped forward, towering even over Dubh and his captain. Finn wore no mail, but he held with ease a sword broader than any in here. A weapon like that was meant to decapitate in one fell stroke.

He had said he was here to guard Patrick. Anya was fairly certain the High King would not approve of war between his chieftains as a means of protection. What price must she pay for his loyalty to her and not Conn?

Dubh Connolly clutched the sword hilt at his hip and studied her champion. "What man is this?" he asked suspiciously. "He is none of your father's."

"The High King sent him," she said proudly. "He is a mac Connell. You might be thinking twice if you believe I must bow to your wishes." The spear was heavy. Anya knew how to wield words better than weapons, but she understood the art of drama. She held the spear straight, with the point in the air, not threatening but warning.

"Conn said none of this to me." A stubborn man, Dubh didn't take the hint. "The High King desires our lands to be united. I think you have taken a viper into your nest."

She would have been as suspicious as Dubh had she not seen the vision of the man with the tearstain on his rugged jaw. She prayed she was not victim of wishful thinking and let Finn speak for himself.

"No man bearing our forefathers' name would threaten a woman," Finn said in that deep baritone which commanded without bl.u.s.ter. "No man who calls himself a man would need to. There are far better ways of persuading women, and ashamed I am that a man of my name would not know them."

May the saints preserve them, but he'd just thrown the gauntlet in the face of the clan chieftain as if he were High King himself! As thrilled as her woman's heart might be at Finn's bold declaration, Anya knew if she did not control this scene now, her men would be bowing to Finn.

"Garvan, I think you may escort Dubh to the door. He will no doubt be wishing to ask his women how they would like to be treated. I bid you good day, sir, and thank your family for their concern for our queen. The priest will hold prayers for her soul on the morrow."

She did not offer to break bread with Dubh or his men. She would have to poison them if she did so. Anya watched as her troop formed to escort the enemy from her doors. Her knights were good men. She did not wish to lose them to battle. That was the reason women did not win wars.

With a sigh, she set down her spear to confront her new warrior. "What in all the heavens did you think you were about? 'There are better ways of persuading women'," she mimicked. "Are you after having the b.a.s.t.a.r.d court me?"

"It seemed one solution," he replied without apology. "I like to think a Connolly would be an honourable man, and joining your lands rather than fighting over them is good for all."

"Including the High King," she said with disgust, understanding his ploy now. "I should have known not to trust any Conn or Connell. You may leave now, Finn of the Connells. I will fight my own battles, thank you."

She pushed past him to the stairway, weeping inside, where none could tell. She did not possess a warrior's heart. But it seemed she must develop one.

Not known for his obedience, Finn claimed his place on the landing between his son's chamber and the great hall below and pondered his predicament. Resting his shoulders against the stone wall, he pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, "Aoibhinn, how much time have I here?"

A grey mist swirled above the stairs. "As you are mortal here, not long," she answered dryly. "Warriors do not live long lives, especially when they antagonize their neighbours. Have you not learned that by now?"

"A man does not let worms stand up and speak for him, or he is not a man," he retaliated.

"Then use them to catch salmon." The mist evaporated.

Finn would dip Dubh in the nearest river and let the salmon chew his toes if he thought that would work, but G.o.ddesses did not speak in literal terms. He had not lived as long as he had without learning a few lessons, though. The lady and his son needed him.

He also knew he didn't wish to see a lady as courageous as the Princess be beaten into submission by a brutal cur like Connolly. The other chieftain was a handsome man, one some ladies might prefer. Finn had had to offer her the choice, but he hadn't enjoyed it. Glad he was that she was smart enough to spit in her suitor's face. But it would not do.

He stalked up the stairs and rapped at the top door. The old woman, Breeda, answered. He did not give her time to dismiss him but seeing over her shoulder, stepped forwards, forcing the maid back.

"We must speak," he announced. "Come with me."

The beautiful, golden-haired Princess raised shapely eyebrows but did not set aside her embroidery. "Breeda, call Garvan. I believe we have bats in the rafters."

The women t.i.ttered, and Finn resisted growling and flinging the fool woman over his shoulder. He would have done so with Niamh, but his wife would have grabbed his b.u.t.tocks and tormented him until he lay her down and took her in the gra.s.s. The haughty Princess would more likely stab him in the back.

So, he was not king of all he saw here. He did not possess pretty words any more than a pretty face. But he had not come this far to lose his son to a sweet smile and a sour att.i.tude. "I have an urgent message you must hear. It is better spoken privately."

"I am armed," she warned, rising from her chair. Instead of immediately following him, she stopped to cover the infant in his cradle. "I learned to kill a man when I was only six. I do not fear using a blade."

She lied. Anyone with half an eye could tell the gentle Princess might poison a man with words, but never gut one with steel. A good ruler should have no need to shed blood. She had the makings of an excellent queen.

"I do not wear armour," he told her. "If you wish to kill me, you can. But for now, I am all that stands between you and a wolf hungry for power."