Emerald Prince (44 page)

Liam drew first blood, the tip of his sword snagging de Lacy’s left arm after a furious riposte. De Lacy withdrew, swearing, but anger gave him strength to leap into the fray again, and his own sword retaliated, leaving a bloody slice across Liam’s kneecap.

His balance compromised, Liam staggered, and with a roar of triumph de Lacy swung again. The rushed blow was intended to cleave Liam’s head from his shoulders, but at the same second Liam’s knee gave way and he sagged to the ground. De Lacy’s blade whistled overhead, catching only air.

The momentum of the hard swing threw de Lacy off-balance, and with a grunt Liam dove for the man’s ankles. Down they went, hard, rolling on the ground. Liam scrambled atop de Lacy and executed a hold, securing his lighter weight in position by pinning his rival’s shoulders. To do so, he had to drop his own sword, and incapacitate the other man to avoid being gutted.

De Lacy heaved and bucked, and Liam quelled the movement with a head butt. His rival shouted from the cracking pain. A fierce uppercut to de Lacy’s ribcage bought Liam the time he needed to wrest the weapon from his opponent and send it skidding across the ground to rest beside his own.

“Now,” Liam half gasped, half growled, “let’s finish this.”

His life as an outlaw allowed for plenty of hand to hand physical combat, and his skill shone through as he methodically pummeled de Lacy. It seemed the fight had turned in Liam’s favor, but Alianor noticed de Lacy’s hand grappling inside his opposite sleeve.

Her breathing stopped and she opened her mouth to scream a warning. Too late. The little dagger de Lacy wore strapped to his arm slid free, a final defensive measure. It seemed an ineffective weapon, too tiny for real use, but striking the right spot could inflict fatal damage. Alianor stared in horror as de Lacy buried it like a pig-sticker into Liam’s left thigh.

Liam gasped and de Lacy grinned with savage triumph as he tossed Liam off him. He scrambled to his feet, close to victory, and his stance reflected his confidence. The crowd roared in fevered delight and his ego demanded he savor the success with a flourish, and a brutal kick to Liam’s ribs.

The onlookers erupted with blood lust, screaming for satisfaction. Someone must die to sate their hunger; they cared not who, so long as it was a magnificent and gory death. Pushing and clambering atop each other for a better view, they surrounded the two men, urging them on, goading them to settle this grudge.

Liam moaned, rolled away and yanked the dagger from his leg with a grunt. Pain seared him like a fire from a forge, yet he mustered the last of his strength to strike a final blow.

He stumbled onto his feet and came up under the man’s guard to drive the blade deep between the Norman’s ribs. For good measure, he finished with fist against face, bone splitting skin, blood splattering him as de Lacy’s nose crumpled beneath the blow.

De Lacy’s scream echoed in the tournament yard, and a ragged cheer arose from onlookers who had bet on his slightly smaller, but quicker foe. With de Lacy crippled with pain, Liam took his chance and moved to finish him off. Suddenly hands grabbed him, dragging him away.

A disapproving hiss rippled through the crowd. The King had stopped the fight. He made no move when Liam was the underdog, but when de Lacy fell, he interfered to save his life. Alianor looked on, not surprised by the King’s lack of fair play. She remembered a particular chess game with bitterness.

Liam was restrained, no match for four of the King’s soldiers with their full reserves of strength. He glared at Lackland, blood running down his thigh. “Why?” he rasped, wheezing with the effort of forcing out the word.

The King stared at him. “Why should we sacrifice a loyal subject like de Lacy to an Irish outlaw?”

Liam stumbled back against the guards, his own weariness threatening to topple him. The crowd muttered with disappointment at the unfair end of the fight.

“Secure him,” the King ordered his guards. “Take him to the dungeon.”

Alianor looked on, still immersed in her own private agony. Yet, when she heard the King’s order, something stirred deep within her. Anger, outrage, and a spiraling indignation seeped through the numbness and spurred her into action.

 As if in a dream, Alianor groped for the sword Camber had tried to use before being cruelly struck down. She grasped it and stood, rising so fast her brother’s limp body slid to the dais.

With every ounce of strength she possessed, Alianor cast the sword into the air. It arced gracefully, flashing and tumbling end over end across the distance between her and Liam. The sight drew surprised gasps from the crowd, and a furious snarl from the King.

All eyes widened as the sword impacted earth, and buried its tip into the ground in front of Liam, hilt up and quivering like a lightning bolt sent by God. With a final burst of strength, Liam yanked free of the guards and grabbed up the sword. Against the odds, he turned and fought like a wild beast, magnificent in his savagery. As the soldiers swarmed him, tears blinded her and Alianor lost sight of her love.

A
LIANOR HUDDLED IN THE
bed, weeping. She was cleansed of Camber’s blood, perfumed with damask rose to rid her of the smell clinging to her. Yet the memory remained, her mind forever branded with its horror. Despite the scrubbing efforts of several servants, she still saw the blood staining her hands, like a bad omen. Camber’s last words echoed in her head — the great lady’s bird watches over it. She knew he meant the cross and where he had hidden it.

Weary and grief-stricken, Alianor didn’t care anymore. The cross couldn’t help anybody. Nothing and nobody could help her or Liam. She buried her face in her hands, overcome by pain. Memories of Liam, bloody and battered, haunted her. Unable to bear her own thoughts, Alianor willed her mind to emptiness.

She looked up at a noise. Shocked, she watched a door she had not noticed before swing open from the wall, and the King entered her bedchamber. He was garbed in his sleepwear, a flowing white chamber robe. As he sauntered towards her she scrambled from the bed, panic gripping her.

In her despair, Alianor had forgotten the King. He had obviously not forgotten her. His small eyes gleamed as he studied her rigid figure, bathed in the glow of a few candles. Even in the plain, heavy nightrail, she felt vulnerable.

“Have you no respect for the dead?” she cried.

“Your brother’s fate was of his own making,” King John said, and she flinched at his cruelty. “He would not have been killed had you cooperated.”

Alianor did not believe it, but she realized the futility of expecting this man to feel any sympathy for her loss. “What happened to Liam?” she demanded.

King John looked amused. “Why, how touching to hear you speak the scoundrel’s Christian name with familiarity, my dear. We wonder how your lord husband feels, hmmm?” His gaze hardened on her. “The Irish knave’s fate will be the same as other thieves and murderers, Alianor. What else?”

“Set him free. He has only tried to aid his people as any leader would.”

“Leader?” The King snorted with contempt. “I am the only leader here, in England and Ireland both, and the rabble best remember it.”

Alianor bristled. “You are unworthy of the throne.”

Her treasonous insult fell upon deaf ears. He seemed entertained by her spirit, dismissing it as he always had. “My, you are a handful, Lady de Lacy. Whatever shall we do with you?”

He licked his lips and Alianor shuddered at the revolting gesture. He was toying with her. She grimaced, her wary stance warning him to stay clear.

 Picking up one of the candle holders, he moved and stood before her, his eyes greedily devouring every curve through her gown. Alianor shrank from his lustful stare and the betraying light of the candle. Though he was not a large man, the King’s presence was unsettling and she knew refusal on her part was risky.

“You know you dare not deny your King,” he said, as if reading her mind.

“You cannot dangle Camber’s life over my head any longer,” she said. “Checkmate, Sire.”

Reminded of the chess game, his nostrils flared. Despite her defiance, he smiled and reached out to stroke her cheek like a lover. She jerked her head back and averted her gaze.

“Aye, a pity our leverage is gone, but what loss is one more monk?” He chuckled. “We may not have your brother any longer, but now there is Caomhánach.”

She stiffened and tears filled her eyes.

Her reaction seemed to amuse the King. He resumed his touch, trailing his fingers down her neck. “Your skin is like silk, my dear. How could an Irish barbarian ever appreciate it?”

His vile caress shocked Alianor’s courage back to life. “Don’t touch me again,” she said. “I’ve warned you.”

“Or,” he taunted her, like a little boy pouting for a kiss, “you’ll kill me?”

“You assume me incapable?”

“We never assume anything when it comes to you, sweet witch.” His hand fell away as his voice took on a darker, sinister tone. “But if you do not please your sovereign tonight, you invite retaliation upon another tomorrow.”

Alianor swallowed, and asked, “What is it you want from me?” She knew, but she’d make him say it. Let him see the scorn and disgust in her eyes at his filthy proposal.

“Your husband made a deal, sealed in a nobleman’s bargain. His bridal night is ours and we have come to claim it.”

“De Lacy,” she sneered back, “is a villain. I will not honor a villain’s bargain.”

“You will this time.”

His confidence irked Alianor. “Why should I? Threaten all you like; I know in the end you shall execute Liam anyway. I have nothing to lose by refusing.”

“Ahh, you are mistaken, my dear. Caomhánach is wounded, but not mortally. If you honor de Lacy’s agreement, we promise your pet, the Irish wolf, shall be released. We will permit him to crawl back to his lair.”

“Why should I trust you?”

He shrugged. “What choice have you? We have no true grievance with Caomhánach. He was a burr under de Lacy’s saddle, aye, but a poor Irish outlaw and his filthy handful of followers scarce poses any real threat to the Crown.”

Alianor considered his words. She didn’t want to trust him — her instincts told her not to. Yet he was right, what choice did she have? Without her flesh sacrifice this night, Liam would be killed. If she honored de Lacy’s perverse bargain, perhaps the King would honor his own word. She would be out of his blood at last and he would move on to new pastures.

She must take the chance. Alianor drew a shaky breath and looked at the man she loathed with every fiber of her being. “Release Liam first, and I shall submit to you without further argument.”

Chapter Thirty

L
IAM STOOD ON HIS
toes, his calves screaming in protest, his wrists manacled and chained to the wall high above his head. Relegated to the torturous position for nigh three hours, perhaps more, he had lost all sense of time.

His whole body ached, and though his wounds no longer bled he felt the dried evidence of it on his legs. His head lolled upon his chest for awhile, seeking refuge from the horrific sight and smell of this place.

Finally, he opened his eyes, what little he saw distorted through the swollen slits. The King’s guardsmen had taken pleasure in beating him and idly, he wondered how many ribs they had broken. It did not matter. He would not leave this place alive. He raised his head, pain lancing down his spine, and looked at his bleak surroundings.

The dungeon hold was dark, windowless, airless. His nostrils stung from the sharp scent of human decay and death. He prayed he would die soon. A lingering death in this pit surely exceeded the biblical hell threatened by the Church.

Distant moans and screams drifted into his cell, eerie reminders his end would neither be swift nor merciful. Death itself was inevitable, but dying at the hands of cruel taskmasters and their implements of torture was the ultimate shame.

Liam hoped he would die with his dignity intact. He understood it was a torturer’s job to break him before death claimed him. For some men, their threshold of pain was easily reached — surrender and death came quickly. For others, days dragged into weeks, weeks into months.

Liam figured his stubborn nature guaranteed a lingering torture. Death was certain — only the time it would take was not. He wrested his mind from dire thoughts to Alianor instead. Where was she? What evil fate did the King plan for her? His heart ached. He cared not what they did to him — he would endure. What he could not bear was the thought of Alianor suffering.

Tears burned his eyes and ran down his cheeks, mingling with the dirt and blood caking his face. Pain unlike any he had ever felt choked him. Not a physical pain, but a deeper one. His soul cried for Alianor.
He had never told her he loved her
.

K
ING
J
OHN HESITATED AT
Alianor’s demand. His eyes gleamed with lust and his hands trembled with anticipation as he set down the candle.

“Give the order with me present,” Alianor said. “Else you shall not have your heart’s desire, not willingly.”