L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (7 page)

Connor managed to avoid Lady Moira for the next few days—both a
blessing and a curse. Fortunately he didn’t see her when he rose before dawn
for his morning ritual, for if he’d had the slightest inkling she was anywhere
near, ′twould have distracted him worse than he was already. Try though
he might, he could not keep her out of his thoughts.

But he spent that valuable time alone, settling his mind and
exercising his body as best he could.

He’d need a clear head and strong arms for what might lie ahead.

By the time the sun cleared the horizon, Connor was ready to lead
out a troop to explore the territory around Gerald’s Keep. With either d’Athée
or Will in charge of the garrison he left behind—for he didn’t dare leave the
castle unprotected—he set off each day to familiarize himself with the terrain
and the inhabitants of the area, and to seek information about the MacCarthys.

He and his troops would return to the castle near dusk, weary and
sore. Each night Connor retreated to his chamber as soon as possible after
receiving a report from whichever man he’d left in charge, to rest up for more
on the morrow.

′Twas a punishing routine. Though it didn’t keep his
thoughts away from Lady Moira, at least it kept his
body
out of temptation’s way.

Lady Moira’s estimate that nearly everyone who lived close to the
castle either had been killed or had abandoned their home appeared correct. The
chill surrounding Connor’s heart grew colder with each burned-out farm or
crofter’s hut they found, with each crudely marked grave. Though the MacCarthys
apparently didn’t have the strength or influence to lay siege to a castle or
attack a large troop without help, they weren’t above doing everything else
within their power to instill fear into people who had already suffered at
their hands.

How many had died, Connor wondered, so that the MacCarthys could
drive the Normans from Gerald’s Keep?

They would not succeed, he vowed as they rode toward a small
manor set just outside the demesne of Gerald’s Keep. Sir Robert de Montfort, a
minor vassal of Lord Pembroke’s, had welcomed Connor when he’d gone there the first
day, and had promised to ask among his people if anyone had word of Hugh
MacCarthy’s plans.

Now, after four more days of searching and unsuccessfully seeking
any word of the MacCarthys, Connor could only pray Sir Robert had news to
share.

Sir Robert’s wife led Connor and Will into the small hall and
settled them near the central hearth with mugs of ale, sending a boy to bring
her husband from the stables.

“′Tis no bother for us to seek him there, mistress,” Connor
told her, but she would not hear of them leaving. Once he’d answered several of
her carefully phrased questions about Lady Moira, he realized why he was being
grilled. ′Twas clear that concern for Lady Moira’s well-being ran high
among her acquaintances, who’d seen and heard nothing of her since Lord Brien’s
death.

“Poor lady, to lose her husband so near her time,” said Sir
Robert’s wife, wiping away a tear with the edge of her wimple. “And to have to
raise her child alone! Lord Brien so wanted a son, you know.” She shook her
head and blotted her eyes. “Such a tragedy!”

′Twas a relief to learn that here, among the Normans, it
appeared the specifics of Lady Moira’s ordeal at the MacCarthys’ hands remained
unknown. Connor had wondered if she’d be shunned or disgraced—and perhaps she
might be yet, if all the details came out—but at least for now, people were
concerned for her and willing to help her.

Connor also gave silent thanks that he’d brought Will with him
today, not Sir Ivor. Though d’Athée remained silent on the subject of Lady
Moira these days, Connor wouldn’t have trusted him to hold his tongue in this
situation.

Sir Robert strode into the hall and joined them, casting a
patient look at his wife, whose face wore stark evidence of sorrow. She wiped
her hand over her quivering cheek and poured her husband a cup of ale.

He took it from her with a murmured word of thanks. “My dear, I
know you’ve duties awaiting you,” he said, his voice kind. “I’m sure Lord
Connor and Sir William will understand if you leave us.”

“Of course.” Connor stood and bowed politely. Will, who’d risen
when Sir Robert entered the room, bowed as well.

“Please convey my best wishes to Lady Moira,” she said, still
sniffling as she made her way out of the hall. “I shall hope to hear soon that
she’s been safely delivered of a fine, healthy child.”

“Please excuse my wife,” Sir Robert said as they resumed their
seats after she left. “We were not blessed with children, and my lady feels
that lack deeply.”

“I understand,” Connor said, though in truth, he felt confused.
He’d been surprised by Sir Robert’s patience and tolerance of his wife’s
behavior; this apology surprised him even more. Connor knew there were married
couples who had so caring a relationship; indeed, he need only see Rannulf and
Gillian together to know such solicitude existed. But he hadn’t expected
strangers to show their feelings so openly in his presence.

“Have you anything to report, Sir Robert?” he asked, impatient
for news after days of finding nothing.

“Aye, I have,” the older man replied. He leaned closer and
lowered his voice, though Connor had noticed no one else in the room. “You must
look to the cliffs, milord.”

“The cliffs? The cliffs below the headland?” He couldn’t imagine
anyone successfully attacking from that direction.

“Gerald’s Keep sits atop the ruins of an ancient fortress, a
fortress that was in MacCarthy hands many years ago.”

Sir Robert started when a manservant entered the hall carrying a
basket of peat for the fire. He motioned for the fellow to leave, and waited to
speak until he’d set the basket on the hob, bowed and departed.

“Sir Robert, ′twas not my intent to put you in danger,”
Connor said, rising to his feet and setting his cup on a table. “But from your
actions, I fear I must have done so.”

Sir Robert stood as well and glanced about the hall yet again.
“Nay, milord. Tis just that some of our servants are Irish, and I’ve no way of
knowing who might be related to the MacCarthys. These people carry tales … You
cannot imagine, Lord Connor, how swiftly news can travel here.”

By the rood, did no Norman have anything good to say about the Irish?
Connor bit back the words he knew he should not say to their host—despite the
provocation—and sought deep inside himself for courtesy enough to hold his
temper.

For now.

“I assume you’ve nothing further to tell me?” he asked.

Sir Robert shook his head, then brought his ale to his lips and
drank deeply. “Just look to the cliffs for the answers you seek, milord. I can
tell you nothing more.”

“Look to the cliffs?” Will
said, glancing at Connor through the thickening dusk as they rode at the head
of the troop. “What the hell does that mean? Are the MacCarthys
goats, that
they can climb up to the castle from the sea?”

Connor shook his head and nudged his mount closer to
Will’s
. “From what Lady Moira says, the headland cliffs are
too sheer to be scaled. Besides, even if one or two men could manage it, they
couldn’t overcome an entire garrison.”

Sir Robert’s words haunted him for the rest of the journey back
to Gerald’s Keep. There must be
some
truth to them, else the man wouldn’t have bothered to relay the information—nor
been so nervous about it.

Perhaps there might be someone among the Irish families currently
living within the castle grounds who would know what Sir Robert’s words meant.

The torches mounted on the gatehouse sent a welcome glow through
the lowering night, a far cry from the darkness that had greeted their arrival
a
sennight
ago.

As was the sight of the drawbridge, already dropping into place.
They rode straight into the bailey and dismounted near the stables.

A man-at-arms approached Connor as soon as he climbed from the
saddle. “Milord.” He bowed. “Lady Moira invites you—and all your men—to join
her in the hall tonight for supper,” he said. “If it please you, milord.”

“A moment,” Connor answered. He handed the reins to a stable lad
and, frowning, left the soldier and walked over to Will. The young knight stood
near the stable door, talking earnestly with Cedric, one of the men they’d
brought with them from l’Eau Clair.

“Something wrong, milord?” Will asked.

“Nay, unless you count that Lady Moira has invited us to join
everyone in the hall this evening,” Connor said, removing his helm and running
his hand impatiently through his hair. Dear God, but he was tired! Not that
he’d any time to sleep. “I’d planned to start exploring, see if we can discover
the truth of what Sir Robert told us.”

Will nodded. “Aye, milord, ′tis important. But do you
believe we could see anything at night that we haven’t noticed—so far—in
daylight? And the men are tired, milord, and growing as dispirited as everyone
else here, so Cedric tells me.”

“I know. And you’re right, ′tis too dark now to start
looking.” Connor frowned. “Especially when we don’t know what we’re looking
for.” Resigning himself to wait until the morrow, he clapped Will on the back.
“We’ve dragged the men far and wide the last few days. They deserve a bit of
fun. We’ll double the guard on the headland portion of the wall, and halve the
time for each watch. Everyone not on duty may join us in the hall tonight.”
Seeing Cedric’s wide smile, he warned, “Be certain they stay sober enough to
remain competent. I’ll not have the garrison reduced to a pack of drunkards,
lest we have need of them.”

“Aye, milord,” Cedric agreed. “Thank you!” Bowing briefly, he
hurried away to spread the news.

“Will you see to mounting the guard?” Connor asked Will.

“Of course, milord.”

Connor nodded his thanks. “I’ll see you in the hall then.”

After Will left, Connor returned to the man-at-arms. “Tell your
mistress that my men and I would be pleased to join her, as soon as we’ve had a
chance to wash away the dust of travel.”

After the man left, Connor sighed wearily and crossed the bailey
to the stairs leading into the keep.

As if he didn’t have enough to bewilder his tired brain, now he
must find the strength within him to spend the evening in Lady Moira’s presence
… without revealing to her or anyone else just how tempting he found her.

Moira spent the days since she spoke with Lord Connor on the
headland cloistered in her solar with her maids, spinning and sewing. She had
time aplenty to berate herself for telling him anything of what had brought
them to this coil, and to try—without success—to convince herself that he held
the power to carry them through their troubles to a happy resolution.

There
was
no way out of
this without more pain, more sorrow. When had life held aught else?

But never had she felt more powerless than she did at this
moment.

She paused at the head of the stairs and listened to the hum of
noise rising from the hall. ′Twas louder than usual—not surprising, given
that their numbers had nearly doubled with the addition of the men Lord Connor
brought—but the sounds seemed more cheerful, as well. The reinforcements had
given back to her people the sense of hope they’d lacked since Lord Brien’s death.
Tonight they’d have the opportunity to celebrate that fact.

They’d kept hope alive throughout the first few months of Lord
Brien’s illness, for hadn’t he vanquished a much younger foe? ′Twas
surely a sign that God smiled upon them, or so Father Thomas told them.

Though Moira had done all she could to save her husband, and had
prayed as long and solemnly as anyone, deep within her heart she couldn’t
stifle her fear that all their prayers and hope would not prevail. Guilt nagged
at her—guilt that her sins were so much worse than anyone knew.

She had not dared confess the depth of them even to Father
Thomas, for what if he should turn against her? She knew ′twas God’s
forgiveness she needed, not the priest’s, but she feared to lose the gentle
cleric’s support when she—when they all—needed it most.

′Twas sheer cowardice on her part, she knew. Though it was
yet another sin to stain her soul, her pride was all she had left to sustain
her.

But every word of comfort offered to her twisted the blade of
guilt deeper into her heart, until she wondered if there was penance enough in
all the world to atone for everything she’d done.

A door opened on the floor above her, and the sound of
voices—Lord Connor’s and another man’s—carried down the stairwell to her,
bringing her useless, maundering thoughts to a blessed end. She tugged at the
loose folds of her gown to straighten it, and realized as she was about to turn
to greet them that her cheeks were wet with tears.

She’d never cried so much in her life as she had the last few
months! She used the trailing end of her linen veil to blot her face before
they reached her, though ′twas likely they’d still know she’d been
crying. ′Twas the babe that made her weep, Brigit claimed, a convenient
excuse for the fact that Moira had turned into a sniveling coward.

And a nervous fool. She drew in a deep breath. What did it matter
that she’d not seen Lord Connor in days? He’d been in her thoughts often during
that time—too often.

Both men had dressed more formally than usual, as had she, in
keeping with the spirit of celebration. Lord Connor’s dark green tunic fit him
well, the soft wool outlining his muscular shoulders and arms and causing a
strange warmth to fill her. Though it appeared he’d bathed, for his hair was
still damp, he hadn’t shaved. The shadowy whiskers covering his jaw, coupled
with the scar on his cheek, lent him a dangerous air she found all too
appealing. With her heart pounding wildly, she lowered her gaze.

Enough of that, she berated herself, and forced herself to face
them. “Lord Connor, Sir William,” she said, her curtsy awkward, but as proper
as she could manage.

Lord Connor steadied her with his hand beneath her elbow, though
her reaction to his touch nearly sent her reeling again. “Milady, you need not
be so formal.” He led her deeper into the hallway, released her and bowed. “′Tis
not necessary on my account, nor would I have you tumble down the stairs.”

Sir William bowed as well. “And you don’t have to call me ‘Sir
William,’ milady. I’ll think you’re talking to someone else,” he added,
chuckling.
“ ‘Will’
is fine with me.”

“But you must have worked hard to earn your spurs, Sir Will,” she
said, smiling in response. “There’s much that’s different between Irish and
Norman, but proving yourself a worthy fighter remains the same. Once my
brothers achieved that status, they’d not permit anyone to forget it.”

“Nor should Will,” Lord Connor said. “He’s proved his worth as a
warrior many times in service to Lady Gillian, my sister by marriage, and to my
brother since Rannulf and Gillian wed. ′Tis a measure of his ability that
Rannulf sent him here with me.”

“Don’t let him deceive you, milady,” Sir Will said. “′Tis
only that I’ve known Lady Gillian since she was a child—fought with her then
and since.” He laughed. “Fought with her and for her, I should say.”

His words brought a strange vision to Moira’s mind, of a warrior
woman clad in armor and armed with a sword and shield. That could not be the
case with Lady Gillian, but Moira would have to wait to question Sir Will
further, for the gong sounded, calling them to dinner.

Lord Connor held out his hand to her. “May I escort you, Lady
Moira?”

Surprised by his gallantry, she was nonetheless pleased to accept
his assistance. “Thank you, milord.” She placed one hand atop his and gathered
up her skirts with the other, then glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “You
do realize, if I trip, my weight would carry us both to the bottom,” she
warned, unable to resist teasing him. “Perhaps you ought to send Sir Will ahead
of us, in case I start us rolling down the stairs.”

Lord Connor appeared as startled by her words as she was that
she’d said them. His brown eyes intent, he scanned her face, lingering on her
eyes for a moment, before gifting her with a slow smile. “I trust you’ll not
drag me down
apurpose
.”

His words could be taken in more ways than one, and the meaning
that filled her mind drove away the sense of playfulness that had so briefly
washed over her. She lowered her gaze. “Nay, milord, I will not,” she said, her
voice flat.

Unaware of her change of mood, Sir Will raced lightly down the
stairs and waited for them at the bottom. “Come along,” he called. “If you
don’t hurry, I’ll go on without you.”

She took a step toward the stairs, only to be brought up short by
Lord Connor’s hold on her hand. He tightened his clasp on her fingers and moved
closer. “What troubles you, milady?”

“′Tis nothing,” she murmured. “They’ll be waiting for us in
the hall—we must go.”

He leaned down, making her aware of his size, his strength,
though not in a threatening manner. “I wish you would tell me. But perhaps ′tis
too soon,” he added, so quietly she barely heard him.

“There’s naught more to tell,” she replied.

He stared deep into her eyes for a moment, then shook his head.
“I wonder.”

Straightening, he eased his clasp on her hand and led her down
the stairs, matching his steps to her slow ones. They entered the hall and were
immediately surrounded by revelry.

More torches than usual lit the huge chamber, casting a
flickering golden glow over the room. ′Twas easy to see that the people
of Gerald’s Keep had been glad of this opportunity to celebrate. Folks laughed
and smiled, many of the women had livened their garb and hair with bright
ribbons, and some of the men appeared cleaner than usual.

It seemed they’d welcomed Lord Connor’s men into their midst
already. Life at Gerald’s Keep had been dark and solemn for months, and ′twas
clear everyone needed a respite from those days.

Moira returned smiles and happy words of greeting, as Lord Connor
led her across the long room to the table set upon the dais at the far end. Her
heart swelled with gladness to see her people’s joy.

Her pleasure dimmed somewhat when she stepped up onto the dais
and discovered Sir Ivor waiting for them, arms folded tight across his chest,
his handsome face twisted in a mocking sneer.

Once Lord Connor pulled out the bench for her, bowing over her
hand before stepping away and taking a seat to her right, she motioned Sir Ivor
closer. “Good humor and revelry are the order of the day, Sir Ivor. I will not
allow you to cast a pall over this meal with your ill temper.”

His sneer turned to a frown, but he gave a curt nod and took his
seat—thankfully, as far away as he could be from her.

Lord Connor’s questioning look changed to a commanding glare as
he glanced from her to Sir Ivor. “Ignore him, milady. I don’t plan for him to
be here much longer.”

The level of noise tapered off as people took seats at the tables
ranged below them in the hall. Moira rose and clapped her hands together,
silencing the last snippets of chatter. “I am so pleased to see smiles and hear
laughter,” she said, smiling herself as she gazed about her. “It’s been too
long since we’ve had something to smile about. But that has changed.” She
turned to Lord Connor. “Our overlord, Lord Rannulf FitzClifford, has heeded our
request for assistance and sent his brother with troops to help us. I know
you’ll continue to make them welcome and to lend them whatever aid they need.
We’ve hard work ahead of us, but for tonight, let us celebrate our newfound
good fortune.” She reached for her goblet of wine and raised it to salute the
man seated beside her. “Our thanks, Lord Connor.” She sipped the drink as the
crowd echoed her words, then placed the goblet on the table before her and sat
down.

Father Thomas rose and blessed the food, and the servers carried
the platters among the trestle tables below. A young man, tall, slim and
unfamiliar to her, knelt and held a basin of scented water for her to wash her
hands. “My squire, Padrig,” Lord Connor told her. “He’s come into my service
only recently, but already he’s proven himself a valiant assistant.”

Color flooded Padrig’s pale cheeks at his master’s words, and he
turned his attention to offering her a linen towel to dry her hands. “Thank
you, Padrig,” she said. “I can see that you perform your duties well.”

His flush darkened and he bowed his head. “I’ll do my best to
serve you, milady,” he said before turning away.

“He’s a brave lad,” Lord Connor told her as he served her meat
and cheese from the platter before them. “You’d not know it to look at him now,
but ′twas not long ago that he lay near death with a lung fever. He
recovered quickly, and could not wait to get out of bed and to his lessons in
swordplay. He’ll make a fine warrior.”

As the talk turned to courteous pleasantries, the level of sound
filling the hall rose once again. A motley group of musicians had assembled
near the hearth, their music lending a festive air. Moira tried to keep her
attention focused upon their lively songs and the activities of those seated in
the hall below them, but the man at her side proved a most formidable
distraction. All she could do was remind herself, again and again, that she’d
nothing to offer any man now.

Nor would she put any man at risk through her actions.

A guard in mail and helm made his way through the hall and
approached the high table, carrying silence in his wake. Even the music came to
a jangling stop. He halted at the foot of the dais, tugged off his helm and
bowed awkwardly to her. One of Lord Connor’s men, for she didn’t recognize him.
“Pardon, milady. Milord, there’s a messenger outside—”

Lord Connor cut him off with a gesture and motioned for him to
join them on the dais. “There’s nothing wrong,” he called out in the near
silence. “Please, carry on with the revels.”

“A messenger from where, Henry?” he asked once the man stood
beside him.

Henry leaned close and whispered his reply, too quietly for Moira
to hear.

Lord Connor frowned, then nodded. “Bring him in.” He cast a swift
glance at the gaiety once more surrounding them. “Let him see that we’re not
cowering in fear behind the walls.”

Henry bowed to them again, turned smartly and hurried toward the
door.

“Who is it, milord?” she asked as soon as he’d left.

Connor picked up the goblet, raised it to his lips,
then
set the drink down untasted as he realized what he’d
done. “I should have asked your permission before giving the order, milady.
This is your home—it should be your decision who enters here,” he said. “I
apologize.”

“′Tis nothing. I’m content to leave matters of our defense
to you, milord.” She picked up the wine ewer and topped off the goblet, sliding
it closer to him. “This does concern our defense, does it not?”

“Aye, it does.” Should he wait, have
her
learn who had sent the man to them, or warn her now? In her condition, ′twould
be best if she were not overset by shock or surprise. “′Tis a messenger
from the MacCarthys.”

He thought she grew pale, though it was difficult to tell in the
flickering torchlight. He’d been wise to tell her, to give her time to prepare
herself.