Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight (17 page)

BOOK: Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight
7.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Emyle Bossuet rued the day he had set foot in Ireland. He had spent his adult life in the pay of one nobleman or another, and had jumped at the Earl of Chester’s generous offer to command a band of mercenaries charged with assisting in the capture of Irish estates.

But Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain disgusted him. They were not noblemen in his opinion, but uncouth louts. Their malodorous presence offended his Norman sensibilities. They personified everything he had ever heard about the barbaric Irish.

He was not in their employ, but the Earl had put him and his men at the disposal of these thugs. He had seen and participated in many brutal acts, but never had he inflicted pain for the amusement of it.

His gut clenched whenever he recalled the unnecessary torture and maiming of the rightful lord of the tower now renamed Túr MacFintain. The prize had been secured. No information needed to be extracted. If Bossuet had been in command he would have had the man executed. He was almost glad the wretch had escaped, but as long as what had happened to him remained a mystery, he represented a threat.

Rape was commonplace after a battle. Who could blame bloodied men for satisfying their male needs when a wench was to hand? But Bossuet had rarely seen a woman brutalised as the fair haired mistress of Túr MacLachlainn had been by Lorcan MacFintain—and she was with child. Why had it been necessary to kill her?

The few servants who remained after the seizure were terrified of the MacFintains. Even dogs avoided the pair. It was evident at meal times the servants preferred to serve the Normans rather than their ill-tempered, foul-smelling fellow countrymen.

Bossuet knew the effectiveness of rule by fear, but it pained him to see a well built and maintained dwelling fall into disrepair as filth and waste accumulated. Lorcan and Fothud did not seem to notice. Túr MacLachlainn could not compare to the grand castles of Normandie, yet it had a feeling of comfort, wealth, and prosperity that was disappearing quickly under the rule of the MacFintains.

The pair had not left enough labourers alive to tend the extensive fertile fields. As August wore on, Bossuet feared much of the harvest would rot.

The MacFintains had quickly earned the scorn of his men—all battle seasoned warriors. Many of them itched to be gone from Ireland, but Chester would not abandon the brothers. The rag-tag mob of undisciplined Irishmen who followed them would never hold the Tower alone against an attack. Chester would protect his investment. Bossuet did what he could to soften the excesses, and hoped his Earl would not blame him if the MacFintains squandered all the riches of Túr MacLachlainn.

 

Ronan had not anticipated any difficulty controlling the Norman crew that rowed him and Conall across the Irish Sea, but had overlooked the possibility of seasickness. Fortunately, the rowers only smirked in disgust as he retched into the bottom of the boat, clutching his dagger, not daring to take his eye off them.

Conall had succeeded in steering the boat and communicating his directions to the Norman coxswain who kept up a steady chant to maintain the rhythm of the rowers. As lord of Túr MacLachlainn, Ronan had never paid much attention to this resourceful young man. He prayed he would repay his debt to Conall by avenging his father’s death. He gave thanks Steward MacCathail had taught his son the rudiments of sailing.

It was a relief when the lad sighted land.

“Where are we?”

Conall peered at the horizon. “If my guess is correct, my lord, we are south of Sord.”

“Good. Can you see the tower yet?”

After a few minutes of silence, Conall replied. “Aye. Yonder is Túr MacLachlainn.”

Ronan longed to turn to look at the home he burned to reclaim. He gritted his teeth. “Bring us close to shore in the bay below the tower, but not right in.”

As the longboat edged its way closer to the shore, Ronan spoke to the coxswain, wishing he had learned more of Rhoni’s language. “My intent is to deliver the Earl’s message to the Norman Captain here—no more, no less. You will not have failed in your duty to your lord, and none of you will be harmed if you obey me.”

He turned slightly to look at the Tower with his good eye. The sight of it filled him with nostalgia. He swallowed hard and made an expansive gesture towards his grandfather’s pride. “I am the rightful lord of this Tower, and I will reclaim it, but not at the expense of Norman blood. All the Norman commander has to do is obey the Earl’s command to withdraw, and you can take him and his men back to England.”

The coxswain indicated he understood and issued terse commands to the rowers who had been glowering with incomprehension at Ronan. Their relief when they knew what the future held was evident on their exhausted faces.

When the boat was securely anchored off shore, Ronan put one foot on his iron chest and leaned forward to rest his forearm on his thigh. He ordered the coxswain to blow his horn. As the strident sound echoed across the water, one or two men came out from the tower.

“Blow it again,” he commanded.

The second blast brought more soldiers to the shore, all Normans. Ronan fixed his eye on the tall fair haired man at the front of the group. He remembered him from the fateful night of his capture. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Bossuet?”

The man took a step forward. “I am Bossuet. Who are you and what do you want?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ronan caught a glimpse of Lorcan MacFintain swaggering down the path to the water. Suddenly he espied Ronan. His mouth fell open and he scurried back to the tower. Ronan’s gut clenched.

Craven coward! Your time is at hand, Lorcan.

He took a deep breath. “I am Ronan MacLachlainn, lord of this tower.”

He took out the parchment and brandished it in the air. “My mission is twofold. I bear a message from the Earl of Chester. You are to withdraw your men and return to England.”

Bossuet fixed his gaze on the document and folded his arms across his chest. “I assume you will permit me to see the orders. If they are genuine, I will obey them. What is the second part of your mission?”

“To kill the worm who just slithered back into his hole, and his worthless brother.”

To his surprise, the Norman snorted with laughter. “I would like to help you in that, Lord Ronan, but I suspect those are not my orders.”

The men standing with him snickered their agreement.

Bossuet glanced back at them and they quickly quieted. “What next? Will you come ashore and hand me my orders?”

Ronan smiled. “I think not. I have sampled your hospitality before.”

Bossuet rubbed his chin. “I will guarantee your safety until we leave, then it’s up to you.”

There was a time when Ronan would not have trusted the word of a Norman, but that was before he had met Rhoni and her family. “As a friend of the Earl of Ellesmere, I accept your invitation.”

 

Two days later, as night fell, Lorcan paced. “Where are the rest of them?”

His brother, leaning against a tree in a wood near the tower, fidgeted with the laces of his leggings. “Don’t ask me. The word was spread our men were to meet here.”

Lorcan scowled at the score of clansmen who had heeded his call. To a man they lay prostrate in the grass in various stages of intoxication, grumbling about the interruption of their revelries.

A shiver of fear marched up Lorcan’s spine as he surveyed the miserable crew he was now dependent on. Their stench stuck in his throat, along with the knowledge Ronan MacLachlainn was a
guest
of the Norman commander in Lorcan’s very own tower! Why had the Earl withdrawn his support? How had Ronan managed to ally himself with powerful Normans? The man had been half dead when he escaped.

The Earl’s words haunted him.

Dispossessed and tortured men tend to hold grudges. They seek revenge.

He wished now he had simply hung MacLachlainn. Why had he listened to his brother’s giggled suggestion that they torture him?

The Earl had sent the one eyed giant to get rid of the MacFintains. Feckless Normans! After everything Lorcan had done for Chester.

He gritted his teeth and kicked a snoring sot. The man rolled over with barely a grunt. Fothud retreated further into the shadows, but the pallor of his face shone like a full moon.

“Where are you going, you miserable excuse for a brother?” Lorcan shouted.

“Just, just—just to relieve myself,” Fothud stammered.

Lorcan snorted. “Get on with it then. Be quick. We must devise a plan to rid ourselves of Ronan MacLachlainn. It’s evident we cannot rely on this drunken lot. Stealth will have to be our watchword.”

“Stealth?” Fothud parroted, coming back into the clearing.

Lorcan slapped the back of his brother’s head. “Aye, dolt. Cunning, strategy, stealth.”

“Ow!” Fothud wailed sulkily, rubbing his head. “You’re a bully, Lorcan. You’ve bullied me my whole life.”

Lorcan strode away from his brother, stifling the urge to strangle the wimp. “It’s sometimes hard to believe you and I are brothers.”

Fothud sulked but did not reply.

Lorcan resumed his pacing. The snoring had become a cacophony. How was he supposed to think amid the noise? Sleepless nights camping out in the woods seemed to have robbed him of his wits. He dared not return to the Tower. Ronan would strike him down immediately, and he doubted the Normans would do aught to prevent it.

Anger boiled in his veins. There had to be a way to regain the Tower.

“What’s that noise?” Fothud suddenly asked.

Lorcan strained to listen. Something was happening at the tower. Raised voices. Then Lorcan heard it—the strident honking of barking seals.

 

To his surprise, Ronan found he liked Emyle Bossuet. The man was the perfect host, and made no bones about his disgust of the MacFintains. There was no sign of the Irishmen at the Tower, though Bossuet’s men reported they were camped in the woods beyond the fields. Ronan had yet to learn how many remained loyal to Lorcan and Fothud, but sensed the number dwindled with each passing day. Bossuet shared his opinion.

On the second day back, Ronan sauntered through the overgrown herb garden, breathing in the sweet air of Ireland. He stooped to grasp a handful of lavender, crushing the purple blossoms between his palms, inhaling the aroma.

Suddenly, it came to him. Rhoni’s perfume. “
Labhandair
,” he whispered to the wind, regretting her loss with an intensity that brought him to his knees. He wiled away an hour amid the patch of fragrant herbs, humming the song he had sung for her, wishing he held her in his arms.

He wandered the keep, running his hands over the rough stone, remembering. His feet refused to take him into his chamber. Lorcan had murdered Mary there and then taken the chamber as his own.

Bossuet invited him to dine in the Hall in the evenings. The old banners still wafted in the rafters.

The two men ate heartily, Bossuet remarking on the sudden reappearance of good food. Ronan churned with resentment that he was treated as a guest in his own home, but preparations were well under way for the Normans to leave. Soon his revenge would be at hand.

“What is your plan once we are gone, Lord Ronan?” Bossuet asked. “My captain tells me we can sail as early as the morrow. I have decided to leave the boat you arrived in. The large boats we came in suit our purposes better. I am sure the Earl of Chester will not miss one small longboat!”

Ronan smiled, remembering Rhodri’s words. He was grateful for the gesture. A boat might be an asset, though the Norman crew would be returning with Bossuet.

The visible relief of the serfs and servants at his and Conall’s reappearance had been heartwarming and he was confident Conall could soon train a worthy crew. It saddened him how few of his people had survived the brutal rule of the MacFintains.

Ronan sensed Bossuet had tried to temper the brothers’ excesses. He was about to thank his Norman host, when Conall hurried into the Hall.

“My lord, seals, in the bay, barking. Something is amiss.”

Ronan came to his feet quickly.

Bossuet shrugged. “Seals? What of it?”

The servants grew agitated, looking to their lord.

“The people of this Tower have learned never to ignore the seals,” Ronan explained, heading for the door.

They hurried to the shore, many of Bossuet’s men bearing torches. The sea foamed with a myriad of leaping, thrashing seals. The noise was deafening. One seal left the water and slid up onto the sand, barking furiously at Ronan. His heart skipped a beat. The seal was warning him of danger, but to whom and where?

He peered out at the black waters. While the bay was mostly free of hazards, there was one rock perilous to the unwary. It was named for his mother. His father claimed it was where he had discovered her in human form long ago and stolen her seal skin.

Conall grasped his arm, pointing out to sea with the other hand. “My lord, there!”

Night vision had been difficult for Ronan since the loss of his right eye, but on Orlaith’s Rock he made out the shape of a boat aground. Dread spiralled its way up his spine. The seal’s frenzied barking told him someone dear to him was aboard that doomed vessel. “We must get them off there. The boat will break up.”

BOOK: Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight
7.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

The Virtuous Assassin by Anne, Charlotte
A Little Harmless Obsession by Melissa Schroeder
Tex by S. E. Hinton
Act of Evil by Ron Chudley
Dangerous Games by Mardi McConnochie
Riding Barranca by Laura Chester
Summer People by Elin Hilderbrand
Hunter Killer by James Rouch
The Bargain by Vanessa Riley