The Falcon's Bride (3 page)

“In addition to the soldiers defending the place, there were three thousand unarmed and unsuspecting citizens in Drogheda when the conflict began,” Nigel said. “Only
thirty Irish remained after the slaughter. One of them, a half-breed Gypsy, Cormac Drumcondra, lived to father the most infamous libertine ever to prowl Irish soil—Clan Chieftain Ros Drumcondra, archrival of the Cosgroves, a fearsome giant of a man who once owned this castle and surrounding lands and commanded a formidable army of local supporters. But he was betrayed by the powerful nobles in England.”

“What happened to . . . D-Drumcondra?” asked Thea, swallowing the dryness in her throat while Nigel paused to sip his wine.

“Patience, pet, I’m coming to it,” her fiancée said, punctuating his narrative with little stabs of his fork in the air. He scowled. “Though I would have expected you to be more concerned over what happened to
our
ancestors.” Wary of his tone, Thea made no reply and he cleared his voice before commencing again. “When King Charles II died and was succeeded by King James II, a Catholic, the Irish populous rejoiced, believing that King James would restore their lands, but the English nobles, unwilling to give up their power here so easily, called upon William of Orange to be their king. In 1688, William defeated James, who fled to France to regroup. He returned a year later and won a few skirmishes, in which the Drumcondras and the Cosgroves took part—on opposite sides, of course. Then, in the summer of 1690, William landed with his army and defeated James in the infamous Battle of the Boyne—”

“That site is nearby, isn’t it?” James interrupted.

“Yes, how astute of you, old boy, just two or three miles downstream from here at Oldbridge. The land hereabout is rich in history, and baptized in blood.”

Thea shivered, not entirely from the chill in the dining parlor despite a blazing hearth. “It’s hard to imagine this peaceful, pristine place a bloody battlefield,” she said.

“Must we have this dreadful discourse at table, Nigel?” the countess spoke up. “It’s hardly fitting mealtime conversation.”

“I am proud of our heritage, Mother,” Nigel replied, “and the tale is nearly told. Now where was I? Oh yes, Drumcondra, with his army reduced to no more than a ragtag band after the carnage, was driven into the hills where he strove to win back this castle to no avail. Meanwhile, the Penal Laws imposed by the English reduced the Irish Catholics to nonentities in their own country. Cosgroves owned this castle and surrounding land, and have done since, having seized it from Drumcondra in their own private war amongst the clans.”

“Evidently Drumcondra wasn’t quite the fearsome warrior you painted him,” James observed, “if he could lose his holdings so easily.”

“To the contrary,” Nigel replied. “If he had been in residence, it would have had a different outcome entirely. He was raiding in the north, and our ancestors took advantage of his absence and their alliance with the English nobles to seize the castle. There’s more, of course, but what remains is quite unfit for a lady’s ears. There were four Cosgrove brothers holding this keep at the time, each more bloodthirsty than the next.”

“And naturally the eldest took control,” James presumed. “There must have been fierce rivalry amongst them.”

“No,” Nigel said. “The Penal Laws abolished the policy of the eldest son of a Catholic inheriting his father’s land. Instead, it was to be divided equally amongst the sons when their father died, unless one of them opted to renounce his Catholic heritage and embrace the Protestant religion. Then he would inherit the property entire. It was our ancestor, Cian Cosgrove, the second eldest—Ros
Drumcondra’s arch nemesis—who did just that, which is the reason this branch of the Cosgrove family is Protestant today. The other three brothers were weak, and would not have been able to stand against Ros Drumcondra’s constant efforts to take back his land. Bad judgment in battle soon cost them their lives. Cian Cosgrove was a fearsome lord, and he held it. Some say he had otherworldly help, that he did so by supernatural means. At any rate, he held on to the land, and that is why you dine tonight in Cashel Cosgrove and not Cashel Drumcondra.”

“What caused the feud between Drumcondra and the Cosgroves?” James asked, earning him a strained look from Thea. Having heard enough, she really wanted to escape, but she dared not—not until she’d heard it all.

“What started it is lost in the mists of prerecorded Celtic history,” Nigel said, “and dates back to medieval times. What fueled it at the last was that Drumcondra captured Cian Cosgrove’s betrothed, whisked her off to another of his keeps, and made a love slave of her. The tale stops there. No further written records exist.”

Silent until then, Thea found her voice. “But, what happened to Ros Drumcondra . . . and the girl?” she asked in a small voice.

All eyes bore down upon her.

“Why would you care?” Nigel blurted, taken aback. “That’s twice now you’ve shown partiality.”

“I . . . I don’t,” she replied, setting her fork down to keep it from clattering against her plate. “And being curious is hardly showing partiality. You’ve told a one-sided tale, and I always like to hear both sides of a story.”

The countess rolled her raisinlike eyes, and leaked an exasperated grunt. Thea nearly laughed, recalling how often Nigel made the same rude sound and gesture.

“Sometimes you amaze me, Thea,” Nigel said, his voice
cold. “I should imagine you would be more ‘curious’ about the Cosgroves, since you are enjoying their hospitality under their roof and are about to become one of them.”

“I’d like to know, too,” James spoke up.

Nigel’s eyes became daggers cast across the table, his lips curved in an acid smile. “Curiosity runs in the family, does it?” he said. “Well, I’m afraid I really cannot help you. No one knows. They were never heard of again. Ros Drumcondra simply vanished from the pages of our family’s recorded history. Some say he ended his days in hiding at Newgrange. He was a Gypsy, remember—at least by half—and leader of his clan. He and his band evidently found a way inside the cairn that was no more than a mound of earth then, because that is where many of their bones were found when it was excavated in 1699. But Ros Drumcondra’s bones were not among them.”

“How would it have been possible to tell?” James challenged. “Bones are bones, I should imagine.”

“He was such a hulking giant, it would have been easy to identify his remains,” said Nigel. “Some say his ghost walks this very castle, still seeking to claim it. The servants will attest to that. I do not suggest that you encourage them. Others swear they’ve seen Drumcondra stalking the hills, his falcon on his shoulder. Some say the bird was his familiar. That’s why the peasants and nobles alike called him The Black Falcon. Still others say his spirit lives within the passageways of Newgrange, and that each year at the winter solstice, when the sun lights the tomb, he ventures forth to try again to win back the castle. He has become the stuff of legends. I say, you can take your pick—it’s all balderdash. Fill your heads with such nonsense, and you may as well credit the ridiculous Gypsy tales of time tunnels hereabout that sweep men away and carry them from place to place. Or the Loch Ness monster!”

Thea hadn’t touched her roast mutton. It had grown cold on the plate. She let the liveried footman take it away, and cried off when he offered the removes. Rising from the table, she set her serviette alongside her plate and cleared her voice.

“I hope you will excuse me,” she said. “I’m quite exhausted after the journey, and I am really more in need of rest than food.”

“I’ll see you to your chamber,” James said, rising also.

“No!” cried Thea, a little too loudly. If she were to let him, he might ask her about the Gypsy again. She couldn’t tell him now—especially not now, maybe not ever. “Stay,” she murmured. “Finish your meal. I’m quite capable of finding my chamber without an escort.”

Nigel was on his feet as well. Thea knew he wouldn’t offer to accompany her; it would hardly be proper. Besides, it was all too plain that he was still cross with her. When she turned to go, his voice addressing one of the footmen froze her in her tracks.

“Digby, light her way,” he charged, nodding toward the candlebranch on the sideboard. “It’s probably best that you do retire and reflect, Thea,” he said. “We’re off on the wrong foot. Perhaps tomorrow we might begin again on more amiable ground.”

The footman took up the candles and escorted her toward the dining hall arch. The countess’s shrill monotone echoed along the corridor. Thea didn’t have to hear what she was saying to get the gist. Her very tone exuded her displeasure. But that was the least of Thea’s worries now that she’d heard the tale of Ros Drumcondra. Still, the acoustics in the ancient castle were such that she did hear fragments of the conversation echoing along the drafty hallway, the countess’s voice in particular dominating the others.

“You, sir, are her brother,” she was saying. “Surely you can take her to task. For centuries the Cosgroves have fought to upgrade their image. We are no longer barbarians, sir. We entertain here, and proper decorum is essential. The child has no concept of it. Thea, indeed! She shall be called
Theodosia
. We shall begin with that, and
you
, Nigel . . .”

Thea would like to have heard her brother’s response, but it was just as well that the footman led her out of range. It didn’t matter. She was what she was. Nothing the venerable Countess Ridgewood could say or do was going to change that.

She was having serious misgivings, however. She might not be ready to confide that to others, but she never lied to herself. Why had she agreed to her father’s edict? Why had she allowed it to go this far? Why hadn’t she held out just a little longer in search of the man of her dreams? Granted, such marriage arrangements were politically correct and quite commonplace amongst the ton, and it was good that her father settle her well, and himself into the bargain, but what of
her
? Did her feelings mean nothing? Why had she bent to his will? The answer to that was distressing at best, but simple enough: because she no longer had a choice. The marriage was brokered. She had no say in the matter. It was simply the way things were done to save face when a girl was on the verge of passing her prime. She was hardly the only young woman in England to be trapped in a loveless marriage for the betterment of others. She would just have to make the best of it.

If she were to be honest with herself, she had to admit that in the beginning she’d been dazzled by Nigel’s good looks, suave manner, and cultivated charm. But no longer. Upon closer inspection she found him to be seriously flawed, possessed of a vile temper, prone to black sulks,
with a propensity for holding grudges. Nonetheless, things had gone too far to turn back. They’d come all the way to Ireland to align with the Cosgroves, and everyone was expecting a wedding in a fortnight. By then, her father would have arrived. There was no hope for it but to see things through to the bitter end, to join the ranks of her martyred mother and settle for what consolations the ton afforded such women. She would content herself with her children once they came, while her husband languished with his Cyprian—an acceptable arrangement, all supposedly very civilized.

They reached her chamber, and Thea thanked the footman and stepped inside. Annie was waiting to ready her for bed. Her nightshift and wrapper had been neatly laid atop the counterpane. The maid dressed her before the fire, then brushed out her shoulder-length curls before the vanity looking glass. She was the image of a Gypsy herself, with her hair, dark and wild, loosed from its combs, falling from a natural center part.

Thea hadn’t quite been won over by the new short hair-styles, nor had she the patience for keeping long hair, since Annie was not clever with coiffures. She opted instead for something in between that could be swept up from the nape of the neck and styled in loose curls and tendrils in such a way that she didn’t resemble a skinned cat.

Once her toilette was complete, she dismissed the abigail, whose cell adjoined hers, blew out the candles, and went to the window, tugging her shawl about her shoulders over the rest. The cold damp was penetrating despite the blazing fire. Outside the snow was still falling, blowing, drifting, and would be until morning, she had no doubt. The night sky had an eerie pink glow about it. There was no sign of the old Gypsy woman; the snow had long since covered her tracks. It was almost as if she had
never come. But she had. The whole household could attest to that.

But for the wail of the wind and the soft hissing of snow blowing against the panes, there was no sound until a mournful screech rent the silence, riveting her to the spot. Soaring above the battlements, a great peregrine falcon dipped low, black in silhouette against the eerie snow-swept sky. Thea estimated its graceful wingspan at nearly four feet across. It screeched again, swooped low—almost touching the window—and as if borne on an updraft of the wind, wended its way skyward again. Up, up, it climbed, to sail off and disappear in the night.

A cold chill snaked its way along Thea’s spine as she watched the magnificent bird’s performance, for that is what it seemed. Was it a welcome, or an ill omen? She couldn’t be certain. Nevertheless, she stood at the window for a good long while hoping for another glimpse of the creature. It did not return.

Standing there, Thea felt a throbbing start deep inside—a shuddering pulse that beat at her very core—and she realized in surprise and dismay that the exhibition had aroused her.

“
Ye do not belong with this lot. Ye have come here for another. Two days until the solstice and ye see Ros Drumcondra, the Black Falcon, in the flesh. Beware the Cosgrove clan. Ye are the Falcon’s bride. . . .
”

The old Gypsy’s words came to Thea again and again in her dream. What did it all mean? How could she be the bride of a warrior long dead? She tossed in the bed, disturbing the covers, displacing the feather mattress, the counterpane and cold linen sheets. When the sound came, she wasn’t sure if it was the blood-chilling scream
that woke her, or the cold draft that had snaked its way beneath the covers.