The Falcon's Bride (18 page)

Wrapped in a hooded cloak of indigo homespun, Thea met her brother at the stables. The midnight sky, heavy with snow that had just begun to sift down, was a ghostly shade of gray-blue with an eerie tint of pink bleeding through from the full blood moon hidden behind the clouds.

James was mounted on his Andalusian, waiting, just as
Jeta said he would be. The Gypsy seemed to walk with a slower gait, each step a weary effort. Thea watched in dismay that mother’s grief for a son she knew would die in the battle to come. That she was powerless to prevent the onslaught was all too visible in the old woman’s eyes.

But Thea wasn’t ready to admit defeat. One look at the skeptical expression on her brother’s face set her in motion, and she mounted the side-saddled Gypsy horse he was holding for her.

“What is this all about, Thea?” he barked. “Where are we going? There’s a fresh storm brewing.”

“ ‘We’ aren’t going anywhere, James,” she replied, taking the ribbons from him. “You are going home.” Then, to the Gypsy as she dug her heel into the horse’s side: “Which way to Si An Bhru?”

Hope glistening through the tears in the old Gypsy’s eyes, she pointed westward. “Bless ye, miss,” she cried. “Follow the river just so, but do not enter the forest. When the time comes, trust the bird to lead ye!”

“Will one of you please tell me what is going on here?” James barked, as the woman seized his horse’s bridle.

“Send my brother home, Jeta!” Thea cried. “Send him
now
!” And ignoring James’s shouts, she leaned low over the neck of her mount and drove him at a gallop over the lowered drawbridge, straight for Newgrange and Cosgrove’s castle beyond, her cape spread wide on the wind.

Scarcely thinking beyond that she could not leave Drumcondra behind, Thea drove the dappled horse over the invisible snow-covered lanes, its feathered feet and forelegs flying, gouging clumps of snow from the crusted ground. Occasional snowflakes drifting down were evidence that heavier snow would soon be falling. It was bitter cold. Her chinchilla fur pelerine would have spared her much of the wind’s bite, but Thea scarcely thought about
that. Trusting that Jeta would see James safely back to their own time, she concentrated upon only one thing—finding Drumcondra before what he was planning brought him back to Falcon’s Lair and the gruesome fate she’d seen in the old woman’s bucket.

Thea’s fingers were numb gripping the reins. Her cheeks were like ice. The wind whipped tears into her eyes, which she narrowed as the water froze on her cheeks and lashes. It seemed an eternity before she saw movement again. She had nearly come upon Newgrange, and she saw the falcon soaring through the gently falling snow before she saw the riders. At least a dozen mounted horsemen were coming on at breakneck speed. But they weren’t headed for Cosgrove’s castle; they were riding straight for Falcon’s Lair, raising clouds of diaphanous snow as they came.

Thea reined the horse in on the crest of a hillock. She had a panoramic view of the land all around. The reason for their haste soon became clear: A veritable army was in pursuit of the ragtag band of gypsy renegades. Drumcondra was in the lead astride the great white stallion, his falcon circling overhead. The sight of the hulking giant of a man astride that feather-footed horse took her breath away. She had ridden on the animal with him, but she had never seen him from this vantage. Was he aware of the horde that followed? He must be. He couldn’t win, not against that army—so few against so many gaining on him. He was evidently trying to reach Falcon’s Lair to mobilize the rest of his own men, who were lazing unaware. Her heart sank. He would never break ranks and follow her instead, not in such a situation. Nonetheless, she slapped her horse about the neck and withers with the reins, and plunged down the hill into the valley below.

A close eye upon the bird, Thea drove her mount straight for Drumcondra. It was a foolhardy tactic with
such an army in pursuit, but that army meant their death if she were to believe the old gypsy—and her own eyes. She’d scarcely reached the valley when a hitch in the warlord’s stride showed recognition. He had seen her; so had the bird. It soared off farther north, though still toward Falcon’s Lair. It was almost as if it traveled in a direct line from Newgrange to the castle.

Thea gasped and started to follow. Would Drumcondra come after her? She held back to be sure. If she were to pursue the bird’s path without him and they became separated, how would she ever find her way back to him, or he to her? Timing meant everything. Somehow, the bird seemed aware. The tinkling of his tether bells was reassuring as he circled aloft, seeming to wait for her to catch up.

Thea glanced behind her again. Yes! Drumcondra was following. She picked up her pace, as the bird did also.

It was reckless, riding sidesaddle at breakneck speed over such uneven ground; there were pitfalls hidden beneath the snow and it wasn’t long before a rut disguised by a snowdrift tripped up her horse. The beast shrieked as its forelegs floundered, and it went down, pitching her over the pommel into the drifted snow. Overhead, the bird’s screams pierced her with terror. There was exasperation in the sound. Her horse could not get up, its floundering evidence of a broken leg.

Thea staggered to her feet as Drumcondra’s strong hand lifted her, hauling her up on the horse in front of him. “What do you think you are about, eh?” he seethed. “Running from me, were you? Little fool! That is sure and sudden death in pursuit back there. Hold fast!” And with no more said, he turned his mount toward his ranks to the south.

The falcon continued in its northerly course, and Thea
struggled in his arms. “I wasn’t running from you, my lord,” she pleaded. “I was coming to help you!”

“Eh?”

“Please,
the bird!
”

“What about him?”

“It goes a different way.”

“So? He knows what he’s about. Be still. There is no time here now for foolish prattle. I will deal with you later. Another of my keeps is under siege! I will not see any more of my holdings taken unaware—not ever again!”

“The falcon knows a better, shorter way,” she persisted. “Jeta, your mother, told me. My lord, I know something you do not. I beg of you, trust me! There isn’t time to tell it here now. If you would live to see another dawn . . .
follow that bird
.”

The falcon beckoned, dipping and soaring, circling overhead before it sailed off in its chosen northeasterly course toward Falcon’s Lair.

Drumcondra glanced behind him and loosed a string of oaths in another tongue. His men had scattered. Cosgrove’s army was bearing down upon them, closing the gap, the thunder of their galloping mounts amplified by the heavily falling snow.

“My lord, I beg you.
Please
,” cried Thea, “Before the bird is out of sight.”

Tightening his grip upon her, Drumcondra loosed a beastial roar, kneed his frenzied mount into a rear that nearly unseated them both, then set him on the falcon’s course and galloped after.

Chapter Fourteen

Drumcondra drove the horse beneath him through the windswept darkness like a man possessed. Clinging to him, Thea shut her eyes. The bird was still leading them, a dark silhouette against the eerie pinkish sky, when last she’d looked, but she could bear to look no longer. Neither could she brave a glance behind to see if Cian Cosgrove’s men were still in pursuit. Drumcondra did not speak, and Thea was grateful for that. Soon enough he would demand an explanation, and she had no idea what she would tell him, or if she would ever get the chance to tell him anything. If they didn’t find the corridor, neither of them would live to see the sunrise.

She wracked her brain, trying to recall how it was when she’d come through the passage tomb. Try as she would, she could remember nothing significant occurring in the transition—no vertigo, no pain. One moment she’d been exploring the chambers in 1811, the next she’d been standing in the unblemished snow in the winter of 1695.
Would it be the reverse now? How would she tell? When would she know? And what of Jeta? Would she be there to greet them, or had her angst when they parted, insisting that Thea go while she could still give aid, have been because there was no way for her to avoid the coming devastation? And what of James? Would she ever see her brother again? Thea’s mind was reeling.

All at once the snow stopped falling, and a structure loomed before them, black against the starry sky. Thea’s breath caught in her throat. The great bird swooped down and alit atop the battlements of what had once been Falcon’s Lair, exactly as James had described it, though now the portcullis was raised, and the drawbridge was extended.

Drumcondra reined in his mount so severely that it spun in circles and reared back on its hind legs, pawing the still air with its feathered forefeet. Thea cried out, clinging to Ros’s mantle with both hands fisted in the fur back and front.

“What’s
this?
” he thundered. “My keep in ruins? They could not have gotten here before me. They could not have!”

“N-no my lord,” Thea murmured. “If you will let me, I . . . I think I can explain.”

“Explain?” he said. “What have you to do with this treachery? Speak!”

“I have done no treachery. I have saved you . . . saved us both this devastation. . . .”

“Where is the moat?” he gritted out, staring wide-eyed toward the snow-clad hollow looming before them. “It was filled with freezing water not two hours ago. It could not have been drained dry in that space of time.” He gazed up at the stars. A sickle moon winked down now among them in a clear sky, no blood moon hidden behind dense snow clouds. “What sorcery is this?”

“I cannot answer that, my lord,” said Thea. “Your mother is the one to tell it, and I do not even know if she is here to do so. . . .” She trailed off, drawing his eyes to her dismay. He shook her gently. “Explain this,” he insisted.

“Might we go inside, my lord?” she said. “I am freezing.”

“What are you doing in that flimsy thing? Where is your fur wrap?”

Should she say? There was no use to lie. “Your Drina stole it from me,” she said.

He loosed a string of oaths, and climbed down from the horse. “Stay here,” he said, producing a gate key. “I will go first and unlock the portal.”

With no more said, he strode off over the lowered drawbridge. For a split second, Thea fought against the instinct to go with him, for fear of one of them accessing the corridor again. The falcon seemed at home upon the battlements here, perched like a gargoyle on the top of the curtain wall. Taking comfort in that, she waited somewhat less than patiently for his key to turn in the lock. The rasping sound the heavy rusted hinges made from disuse—audible even at this distance—made her blood run cold. The minute he hefted the great doors open, she urged the reluctant horse on and crossed over.

Thea climbed down from the stallion while Drumcondra tethered the animal and untied his saddlebag, slinging it over his shoulder. Giving him a wide berth, she followed him as he stomped incredulous through what remained of Falcon’s Lair. The stables were gone; they had burned in the fire. Thea was right: It was the wing that had housed Drumcondra’s bedchamber that had been destroyed. Cold chills unrelated to the cold December night riddled her mercilessly. Her teeth had begun to chatter, more from shock than cold. For a time she didn’t speak, following him through the corridors. It was almost as if he’d forgotten
her presence. Then, when he threw open one of the chamber doors on the north side of the second-floor corridor, he seized her wrist and reeled her inside. Tossing the saddlebag he’d been toting down, he faced her, his arms rigid at his sides, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists.

“I will ask you again,” he said. “What has happened here?”

“M-might we have a fire, my lord?” she said.

Two chairs leaned against the wall. He broke them into pieces, clearly venting his rage, and heaved them into the hearth. He seemed to be familiar with the room because he knew where to find the tinderbox. Opening a drawer in the bottom of a tall oak wardrobe, he snaked it out and lit the fire.

Clouds of soot belched from the clogged chimney, which was on the verge of collapse for lack of use. Thea fanned the sooty fog away with her hand, and buried her nose in her homespun cloak while it subsided. Then, her ankle boots crunching upon what remained of broken crockery beside the door, she drew near the fire, reaching for its feeble warmth.

“I am waiting,” Drumcondra said, his sinewy arms folded across his chest.

Thea spun to face him. The time she dreaded was upon her. She could stall no longer. She drew a ragged breath and pulled herself up to her full height before him.

“My lord, do you remember how often you have told me that I seemed . . . different to you somehow. My clothes, my manner, my speech?”

“Aye. So . . . ?”

“I passed it off as the result of my English heritage. I could not tell you the truth then. You would never have believed me. I doubt you will believe me now. I was hoping
Jeta would be here to persuade you, but she is not, and . . . I am afraid . . .”

“Of me?” he asked.

“Of you, yes—and of myself . . .”

“Go on.”

“I am betrothed, my lord, though not to Cian Cosgrove, but rather to his descendant, Nigel Cosgrove.” One look into those riveting green eyes, and she threw her arms into the air. “Oh, it is too bizarre!” she cried, “I can see that you do not believe me already, and I’ve scarcely begun.”

“I know of no Nigel Cosgrove,” Drumcondra said.

“No, you would not,” she replied. “He is not of your time. Neither am I. That is why I seemed . . . different to you. I am from the Year of Our Lord 1811, my Lord Drumcondra. I visited Newgrange, the passage tomb that you know as Si An Bhru, at sunrise on the winter solstice to see light flood the chambers. My brother James was with me. He remained outside while I explored the chambers. When the light failed and I stepped back outside, your men assaulted me. All the land around was changed, just as this land is changed here now, and you told me yourself that it was the year 1695! There is more—so much more that I do not even understand, but I swear to you that I speak the truth. You are standing inside Falcon’s Lair, but not in your time, in
mine
, after the devastation—after the fire that would have consumed you, consumed us both if I hadn’t found you in time. If I hadn’t tricked you into following that bird through the corridor that links our times in some way we may never understand. Jeta, your mother, knew, my lord. It was she who gave me the means to save you.”