Emerald Prince (59 page)

He moaned from pain and when she started to toss the foul rag away, he grabbed her wrist. De Lacy plucked something from its folds — a hidden scrap he held reverently, like a precious treasure. He bunched it in his hand, muttering, and released her to continue her ministrations.

Alianor unwound the bandage from his middle. The stench that assaulted her senses was so powerful she turned away to quell the retching. When she turned back, the sight of the festering wound was so putrid she feared she would be sick anyway.

She placed her hand over her mouth and, with great effort, forced the bile to retreat from her throat. Steadying herself, she cleaned the infected wound as best she could with a mixture of spirits and water. De Lacy flinched, but he was too far gone in his cups to scream as he would have had he been sober.

When she cleared out the last of the pus, he hissed through his clenched teeth, but said nothing about the discomfort she caused with her ministrations. Instead he continued to rub a lock of hair he captured between his fingers.

“God, you are beautiful. So bloody beautiful, like an angel,” he rambled on until a cough interrupted him, followed by a searing pain that made him gasp for air.

Even as pale as he was, the remaining color drained from his face, leaving it a ghastly shade of milky gray. He desperately pointed to a vial across the table and Alianor handed it to him, watching his hands shake so hard she thought he might drop it. He yanked the cork and swallowed the whole contents. When he was able, he grabbed another bottle of wine from the rubble at his feet.

“Do you remember this?” he asked, holding something to his lips. When he coughed again, he left a bloom of blood on the fabric scrap.

She did not reply but concentrated on her task.

“’Tis a hanky you dropped at court.”

Surprised, Alianor glanced at the ragged little cloth, and wondered why he had sentimental thoughts about a handkerchief. It seemed unlike the man.

“It still smells of violets. It seems, wife, you are partial to the scent.”

By the time she wrapped a clean cloth about his midriff, he had finished the second bottle of wine. Alianor let him drink, knowing it would ease the agony somewhat. She tied the makeshift bandage securely and started to step away, but his hand snaked out and grabbed her.

“I like it when you take care of me. Like you did the old man. Walter, wasn’t it?”

Alianor flinched. “You need a physic, Quintin. I’ve done all I can, but your wound is infected.”

He laughed, drink slurring his words. “Aye, I s’pose. But firth things firth.”

She didn’t like the change in his voice, his manner. She saw a flash of lust in his eyes. Too late. Despite his inebriated state, he moved fast, surprising Alianor with his strength. He dropped the bottle and it rolled rattling across the floor, the sound jarring her nerves. Before she knew it he had manacled her left wrist with his fingers, and she cried out from the crushing pain.

With a burst of savagery, he threw her hard against one of the remaining walls. Alianor gasped as her head and body slammed into the stone. Stars flashed before her eyes, but she fought off the threat of darkness. She did not see the dagger until cold steel touched her neck.

De Lacy leaned into her, his right hand holding the dagger, braced against the wall, his other free to roam over her. He dropped his head, kissing her shoulder and neck. Suddenly, he spoke clearly again. Somehow it frightened her more than his rambling.

“Mmm, you smell of violets, even better than I remembered,” he said, burying his face in her hair. “Much better than the whoring queen of Connacht. Oh, my sweet, sweet Alianor.”

Alianor pushed at him, and his head snapped up. He looked into her eyes, his hand moving the blade up until it stroked the soft flesh of her cheek. “Do you realize what this is, Alianor? ’Tis our wedding night at last, my pet.”

Terrified, she closed her eyes. He grabbed and kissed her, deep and long, a low moan coming from him. She shrank from his cruel grip as de Lacy rubbed against her, his hips shoving her into the hard wall in a grinding parody of lovemaking.

Desperately he groped her, pinched and bruised her delicate skin. His dirty hand kneaded her bosom as his wet mouth laved her flesh. Over and over he thrust against her and he released her breast to yank her dress up above her hips.

With an explosion of frustration and anger, he cried out. Alianor opened her eyes as he raised the knife and struck. The blade buried deep into the wall’s wooden cross-beam with a thud, not a scant inch from her head. Again and again, he screamed, the sound chilling her to the bone with its agony.

Finally he turned away and scrambled amongst the mess littering the table. He found another vial. Frozen in place, Alianor stared after him in shock, not comprehending the abrupt change in his mood.

He greedily gulped the contents of the last vial and hurled it aside, the glass striking the wall and shattering. His eyes were feral when he looked at her again. Even in his maddened state, he saw the confusion and question in her eyes.

“The bitch,” he said, his voice shaking with rage, “that bitch-whore, O’Connor’s wife, gave me something.”

“Something?” Alianor’s voice shook, too, but with fear. He stepped closer, her only hope to distract him. “What do you mean, Quintin?”

“The ale,” he shouted. “The fucking bitch put something in my ale.”

Her eyes widened. She remembered the look on Duvessa’s face when she gave him the ale in her chambers; and O’Connor’s words about his wife’s penchant for potions. She dismissed the possibility of poison; de Lacy yet lived. Could a different elixir exist? She had heard whispers of these things — tonics to unman a lover — understanding dawned.

Judging by de Lacy’s rage, he was impotent. He could not perform what he had dreamed of since he first laid eyes on her. Her gaze fell on the hanky he still clutched in his hand with dogged devotion. She almost pitied him. Almost, but not quite.

“Can you not counteract the philter?” she asked, in an attempt to keep him talking. “Surely someone …”

“Duvessa refused to say. I beat the bitch with my bare hands, and still she would not tell me, choosing to die with her secrets. When the guard came to check on her, I overpowered him and escaped.”

Alianor drew a shaky breath. She knew him capable of murder, but to hear him state it so matter-of-factly, without so much as a blink of the eye, horrified her. Yet, in the end, it seemed those two evil people were destined to destroy each other. She gestured toward the smashed remnants of the vials he had drunk. “What are these?”

“Some witch-woman’s concoction,” he muttered, wiping his sweaty brow. “Something to counteract Duvessa’s damage. It doesn’t work.”

Alianor fell silent. She did not know what to say anymore. He stared at her, his eyes tinged with a terrifying new emotion.

“Do you laugh at me, Alianor?” His voice grew dangerously soft, accusing.

“Nay, I would not be so cruel.”

“Do you laugh at me?” he screamed. Realizing he might kill her in his state of mind, Alianor turned and reached for the dagger buried beside her head. It was struck deep into the wood and desperation gripped her as she struggled to free it from the beam.

“What are you doing, Alianor?” He stepped closer.

“Quintin, please …”

With a single leap over the rubble separating them, he slammed her up against the wall, pressed flush against her. Alianor could not move; her hands still wrapped around the dagger hilt. He pried her fingers off and yanked it from the wall. He whirled her around, grabbed her in a chokehold and placed the tip to her throat. “If I can’t fuck you, wife, what good are you to me?”

She gasped, choking as he squeezed off her air. She clawed at his arms, his face, trying to break the vice-like grip he had on her throat. The ruins around them spun, darkened. The hiss of his words sounded in her ear, sibilant and evil.

“Shall I give you a scar to match mine, hmm? The Irishman won’t want you if I mar your beauty.”

Tears soaked into her hair as he rubbed his face in it, inhaling deeply, filling his senses with violets. “Ah, yes, your beauty. You are so beautiful, Alianor. Too beautiful.” Crazed eyes stared into hers and, tenderly, he kissed her forehead. He pushed back the hair falling into her eyes with the tip of the dagger, cutting her as she struggled for air.

“So beautiful,” he murmured his voice thick with pain and torment. “Don’t you see? I can’t let you live, my angel, my sweet. If we cannot be together here in this life, we must be so in the next.”

“Let her go, de Lacy.”

The echo of Liam’s voice in the ruins, and Turrean’s growl, reached Alianor through the darkening veil of consciousness. She shuddered, but de Lacy never moved. He continued to kiss her, weeping, muttering things only a madman might understand.

Alianor felt his grip weaken. In the end, it seemed he had neither the will nor resolve to destroy her. Tentatively, she brought her hand up and wrapped it around the blade he still held to her flesh.

The dagger sliced into her hand, the trickle of blood warm as she pushed it away from her throat. De Lacy released it and she let the weapon clatter to the floor.

When the dagger fell, Liam lunged forward from the shadows and pulled her free. De Lacy staggered back against the wall and slid down it in slow degrees, blood seeping bright red through the cloth binding. Alianor stepped between the two men. She laid her palm flat on Liam’s chest, her own blood staining the shirt he wore. “It’s over, Liam. Leave him be.”

Confused, Liam tried to get past her. He was quivering with emotion. “I intend to send this bastard to hell. Stand away, Alianor.”

Alianor shook her head. “Nay, my love. Quintin de Lacy died some time ago. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

A
LIANOR WATCHED THE LAST
of King John’s fleet pull away from the harbor. So much had changed. Liam stood behind her, one hand upon her shoulder, the other draped about her waist. Faithful Turrean stood beside them.

She had remained with de Lacy until he drew his last breath, caring for him in his last hours of life. Liam could not understand her compassion, but he did not interfere. Alianor knew her actions touched de Lacy in the end — aye, even his black soul. The capacity for forgiveness, she knew, was as important as the ability to love. Camber had taught her well.

Liam was learning, too. Learning to accept the legacy of royal blood in his veins, and beginning to mend old wounds with the O’Connor. In his son’s hour of need, O’Connor had rallied, and Liam would not soon forget it.

A tear slid down her cheek as Alianor touched the cross about her neck. Her fingers stroked
Seòd Fios
and she felt its magick seep into her being. She thought of the many sacrifices made so the Emerald Prince might reign as legend decreed. Walter; her parents and Camber, her only family; the outlaws turned saviors Seth, Rob and Paddy; and countless others she couldn’t name. Her mind filled with remembrance, and her heart overflowed with pride.

She took a deep breath. The legend had unfolded as foretold, and Connacht and her people had come together, united by love, for love. Now, Liam and Alianor could go home — home to Wolf Haven.

Alianor knew this was not the end, only the beginning. The struggle for independence would not be easily achieved. But their hearts were strong, their purpose clear, their conviction unending. She and the Emerald Prince would guide their people through the darkness to the dawn of a new day.

Epilogue

Church of the Oak - Cill Dara

Spring, 1211

A
LIANOR RELISHED THE SUN’S
warmth washing over her, finding the day glorious. Happiness touched her heart, and this day reminded her of life’s never-ending blessings. She watched as Niall and Ione strolled about the stone tower, hand in hand, the marriage vows they exchanged at the Church of the Oak only an hour before still ringing clearly in her mind.

Their love brought to mind her wedding and the holy words she and Liam exchanged, binding them together for life. They wed two years ago and she considered every moment a precious gift. Gifts she treasured with all her heart and soul.

 During this time, so much had happened, good and bad, yet each challenge they faced together. Their love born from trial and tribulation was so strong, so sweet, none could doubt it. As none doubted that the Emerald Prince and his lady would see to their people, and usher them into a time of peace and prosperity.

Alianor thought about the major changes in their lives. Within weeks of Duvessa O’Connor’s death, Dermot attempted to overthrow his father and take his place as the King of Connacht. But, in the end, Duvessa’s son showed his true colors in battle. At first sight of an enemy wielding an axe, Dermot turned to flee in a frantic, coward’s retreat and skewered himself onto one of his own men’s swords. Alianor had heard O’Connor laughed at the news, though she hoped this part of the tale was untrue.

O’Connor ordered all physical traces of Duvessa and Dermot removed from his keep, and he also commanded the scribe that any mention of their lives be struck from the records. Duvessa’s daughters he gave to the Church, an act of mercy considering the alternative.