Rose of the Mists (45 page)

But when he crouched down before her his grin was as broad as ever. “Did ye hear that, lass?” he questioned in Gaelic as the shrill howling of the Irish warriors reverberated through the early-morning air. “Those are Butlers out there. Carew will rue the day he set foot in County Kilkenny. One of the
bonaghts
told me that he saw O’Conner, Burke, and Kavanaugh standards among the attackers yesterday. Our cause has roused the whole countryside. It would never have come to this if the Kavanaughs had stood up to Carew when County Carlow was taken from them; but they’re more English than Irish, and that’s against them. They’re nae fighters. Now, our Butler lads—Lord—I’d give a few years of me life to be out there with them!”

He grinned and chucked Meghan under the chin. “I’m thinking the Butlers will be proud to add more Gaelic-Irish to our bloodlines. My lady tells me ye’re breeding, lass.”

Meghan looked at him for any sign of disapproval but saw none. “Ye do not mind?”

Piers laughed. “Who am I to deny the lass who saved my family from murderers?” He glanced back at his family. “Captivity does not sit well with any soldier. To have them here beside me rubs me raw; but if not for ye, they’d be dead, and I know it.”

His expression sobered as he looked at her. “I’m not saying I hold to a belief in charms and such, but I’ve seen yer power wielded over those who do. Ye’re a Catholic, to boot, and I don’t encourage that among my people; but I’ll say not a word against ye and more than a few for ye should Revelin take his case to Black Tom.”

Meghan shook her head. “Sir Robin—” Meghan gulped back a sob. “Sir Robin said Revelin might never come back. He is to be married.”

“So I’ve heard. But Revelin’s a good lad, and a stubborn one. I doubt he will do much that is against his nature; and that lad needs more than a court lady to satisfy him. But if he
proves too stubborn or too fastidious to leave his place at court, come and see me, lass. I can nae offer ye my hand, but ye’ll never want for anything, that’s me promise to ye.”

He patted her cheek, then rose, cocking his head to one side. “Ye hear that? They’re closer than usual. God knows I wish they’d win through. No food, little water… Kilkenny will become a graveyard from famine if the peasants keep burning the crops just to keep Carew from filling his belly.”

Meghan stood up, unhampered by chains. Where was she to go? “Do ye think we will be freed?”

Piers put a fatherly arm about her. “Of course, lass. Carew meant none of this to happen. Oh, he won’t own up to it, but I see the haunted look in his eyes of late. He’s holding hostage the brothers of the earl of Ormond. How long does he think he can do that? The earl himself will be coming to Ireland soon, and then we shall see what Carew will do.”

The earl’s name was mentioned by all his kinfolk, Revelin included, with a kind of awe reserved for legends. “The earl must be a great man,” she said mostly to herself.

“He’ll be the laughingstock of the realm if he does not answer Carew’s impudence with shot, and soon!” Piers replied.

When Piers left her, Meghan felt the pressing call of nature, which she had felt more frequently of late. Dawn filtered through the mist as she made her way toward the rear of the camp. Dully, she noted that there were fewer soldiers than usual in the flanks, and she knew that not all of them were fighting or dead. Many of them had deserted. Others had joined the opposite side, their loyalty bought by food and better odds. Many of them were trading the silver plate stolen from Saint Canice’s for a loaf of bread.

She pressed her stomach to stop the sharp gnawing of hunger. They were all hungry and weak from traveling on foot. After she found a private spot to relieve herself, she would look for wild berries and edible roots.

The rustling of nearby bushes startled her as she squatted
in the tall grass above a stream. Lowering her skirts, she remained squatting as she stared at the bushes. Once more they shook, and then the glint of metal winked at her between the dripping leaves. Soldiers! But whose? After a moment she heard the faint creak of a crossbow being drawn and a muffled Gaelic curse. Irish warriors! Her heart began to thump like a rabbit’s. These warriors were ambushers, waiting for Carew’s men to retreat along this path.

Indecision gnawed at her. Carew always drove the Butlers and their families before his army, hoping to curtail many such plots by exposing his captives to the front of the line. Did these men know that? Or would they launch their assault before they realized their targets?

Meghan stood up. “I know ye’re there. I’m a Butler. Show yerselves.”

Her voice was low but carrying. Still, nothing moved. “If ye won’t talk with me, ye should know Sir Piers and Sir Edward’s families are forced to march before Carew’s army. Do not murder the women and children.” She turned, lifted her skirts, and fled through the tall grass.

She had covered no more than ten yards when a shove between her shoulder blades sent her falling headlong into the grass. The breath knocked out of her, her eyes stinging with tears, Meghan raised her head and was assaulted by a warm sticky tongue.

“Ualter!” she shrieked in disbelief as the great fuzzy muzzle came into view.

A moment later, hands reached under her arms and lifted her to her feet. Weak as a rag doll, she slumped against her captor for an instant before fear spurted through her and her head jerked up as her body tensed for a fight.

“Ye’ve a fair nose for trouble, lass. We must cure ye of it.”

The Irish brogue was fake but the leaf-green eyes laughing down at her could only belong to one man. “Revelin?” she whispered, incredulous.

“Aye, lass,” Revelin answered in a rough tone. His hands closed tightly on her shoulders. “God’s blood! What are you doing wandering about the countryside when there’s a battle going on?”

Meghan shook her head, unable to speak with the intense emotions careening through her. Revelin was here, alive, and his hands were on her. The ghost of her dreams had materialized before her as warm flesh and blood.

“Revelin!” she cried softly and threw her arms about him.

Chapter Seventeen

“Lass!” Revelin whispered in her ear as his arms came around her to hold her breathlessly tight.

“Ye came back!” Meghan murmured brokenly against his leather jerkin. “I prayed ye’d come, but I feared ye would not!”

“Poor lass, has it been so very hard for you?” he crooned softly.

Meghan raised her head suddenly and broke away from him. “Ye must go, quickly, before ye’re caught!”

Revelin smiled down at her. “You worry for everyone but yourself, lass. Do you find my arms no longer to your liking?”

Happiness flowed through her like a stream tumbling down a rocky embankment. In the morning light he was as perfect a man as she remembered. The mist had gathered in his hair, encrusting the golden waves with pearls of dew. But it was his eyes that held her attention. They were vividly green with warmth and joy and pleasure in her presence. “I love ye, Revelin!” she whispered quickly before she could stop herself.

“Well then?” he prompted gently, holding his arms out to
her once again. She went into them willingly, and he stroked her dirty, matted hair as calmly as though they were alone in a peaceful, secluded valley instead of a quarter-mile from battle and with armed soldiers at their backs. At that moment, nothing existed for them outside the circle of each other’s arms.

“Sir Revelin, what is yer pleasure?”

The sound of a man so close to them startled Meghan, but Revelin did not release her. He tucked her head under his chin and spoke over her head to the soldier, who was one of his own. “You heard the lass. Ambush is a chancy thing at best. If Carew is leading with his hostages, he must be tired of them and ready to negotiate their release. I’m about to give him that chance.”

Meghan lifted her head. “No! Ye cannot be thinking of going into camp to talk with Carew! He’ll kill ye!”

Revelin smiled and touched his lips briefly to her brow. “I think not, lass, when he learns that I’ve a message for him from Sir Sidney.” He looked back at the soldier. “The rest of you remain here. If I have not returned by midday, attack!” When he looked down at Meghan again, his face softened. “Will ye show me the way? I’m certain my uncles will scald my ears for being so long about this business.”

Meghan tried to still her trembling. There was something important she should remember to tell him, now, before it was too late. But her poor beleaguered senses would not school themselves to order. Her heart pounded wildly, and her blood sang through her veins to the lilting shrill of pipes as love surged over her. When he urged her toward camp, she turned and led the way, but she would not release his hand, afraid that he would vanish into the misty morning from which he had come.

Revelin refused to think about the events of the last minutes, lest they overwhelm him. Meghan was so thin, her bones felt birdlike beneath his hands, and the sockets surrounding her eyes were so dark that he had thought at first she had been
beaten. What had she endured and seen in the month of her captivity? No, he could not allow himself to speculate. He must think only of his mission and how best to accomplish it.

He had not been able to leave Dublin the day he had received the letter from Kilkenny. To his amazement his uncle Sir Edmund had arrived at nightfall to protest Carew’s attack on his home and family before the Dublin Parliament. When support failed to materialize, Sir Edmund had returned to battle, vowing open rebellion, and charged Revelin with waiting for the earl’s arrival in Dublin.

Revelin’s hand tightened on Meghan’s. He had been in agony; a man on the rack could not have suffered more than he, thinking what each new day might bring Meghan and his family. Finally, with Sir Sidney’s acceptance, he had deserted his waiting post, only to learn on the ride south that Sir Edmund himself had been captured.

When they came within sight of the camp, Revelin held Meghan back. “Tell me who is wounded, ailing, or dead among the Butlers.”

Meghan blinked up at him; his eyes were like sunlit emeralds shining down on her. “None dead. Lady Elenore still ails, but the rest are hardy but hungry.”

Revelin smiled. “I want you to announce me to Peter Carew but no other. Do you think you can slip me into camp?”

She nodded. “Do nae let go of me hand or draw yer sword, no matter what. The power will help us.”

Revelin did not ask her what she meant but followed her docilely into the shadow of the forest. The sounds of the battle had died down and shadowy figures of men moved under the trees as they returned from the fray.

Revelin pulled the hood of his mantle up over his head and held fast to Meghan’s hand as she picked her way unhurriedly through the throng. He had begun to believe that there was no danger at all, when suddenly he was grabbed from behind and the sharp edge of a skean bit lightly into his throat.

Meghan swung about. “No! He’s safe!” she bawled loudly enough to attract the attention of the soldiers nearby. Revelin was released instantly, and she reached up and pulled his hood from his head, revealing his bright golden head. “This man is mine. He is protected, do ye understand?”

Revelin watched in amazement as she lifted a hand to her birthmark and then lightly touched her fingers to his lips. “My protection on ye,” she said loudly, and then her fingers curved in a caress on his cheek as she smiled at him. As quickly as he had appeared, Revelin’s attacker melted back into the misty shadows of the morning.

As Meghan took him by the hand and led him on, confused and suspicious thoughts whirled through Revelin’s mind. What had she meant by her strange actions, and why had the men released him? Was she not their prisoner rather than the reverse?

A moment later all was forgotten as he spied one of his uncles. “Piers!” he whispered sharply.

The man came to his feet slowly and Revelin heard the rattle of his chains. “Who dares call me by my Christian name?” Piers demanded.

“Your rascally nephew, of course!”

Piers peered across the distance and his face lit up. “Rev, you young hellion! Are we saved? You’ve routed Carew?”

“Hardly that,” replied a voice from the opposite side of the clearing. Dripping sweat and smeared with blood from half-a-dozen small wounds, John Reade came across the space with his blade bared. “We’ve won again, but do not despair, Sir Piers, we’ve yet to catch the last of the Butlers.”

Revelin shoved Meghan from him into Piers’s arms and unsheathed his sword. The blade came free with a sharp scraping noise and he smiled when the weight of his weapon lay full in his palm. “John Reade. I might have known you would be where the blood runs thickest.”

John chuckled. “Such pleasantries, Revelin lad. Are you strolling about Kilkenny in search of a home?”

“As a matter of fact, I was here to retrieve something I’d left in safekeeping at Kilkenny Castle.”

John’s smile grew. “I’d choose a safer place next time, lad. What with quarrelsome neighbors on all sides, nothing of value is safe from thieves in these parts.”

Revelin inclined his head. “’Tis said you urged Carew on in this matter. I wonder at your reasoning.”

“Simple. A man who earns his living by the sword has no living if there is no rebellion or war to keep him employed. Carew needed no encouragement, only eager allies.”