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After several minutes, Gavin O’Neil finally managed to swallow back the knot of fear that had been threatening to choke him. “How did you come by the things you said to the soldier, Conor?”
Conor shrugged, prepared for his father’s famous temper to explode. “I know not. The words just seemed to come into my mind. I knew that if I didn’t stop the soldiers with words, you would be forced to stop them with your sword. And Rory with his knife.”
“It is our duty to defend those we love. You know that I’m a skilled swordsman, as you and Rory are skilled with a knife.”
“Aye, Father. But sometimes words are better than swords. Especially if they can prevent bloodshed.”
Gavin glanced over the lad’s head to where his wife, Moira, was standing. A look passed between them. And in that instant they both knew. Though Gavin believed in the power of the sword, he had just witnessed an even greater power. An unbelievable power.
There were places of learning in Spain, in France, in Italy, where a lad with a fine mind could be given every advantage. Fed by the writings of the world’s scholars, a fine mind could be honed until it might equal or even surpass an army of swordsmen.
Could it be that this, their middle child, might prove to be the answer to a nation’s prayer? A prayer for freedom from their hated oppressors?
There was no doubt Conor would be as skilled a warrior as his father and brother, for he had the fearlessness, the steady hand, the vision. But if he could become equally skilled as an orator, he would be a formidable foe indeed.
They owed it to him, to their family, to their country, to do everything in their power to make it so.
In the years that followed, there was much to discuss around Ballinarin. There was the power of Conor O’Neil’s words, for he had become a famed orator. But as skilled as he was, another was even more acclaimed. A mysterious, hooded warrior had begun waging a solitary war of vengeance against the cruel bands of English soldiers that roamed the countryside. A warrior who spoke not a word as he slit the throats of soldiers caught in the act of brutalizing helpless women and children. Because he always dressed in the garb of a monk, with the hood pulled down to his eyes, and the cowl pulled up to hide the lower half of his face, he’d become known as Heaven’s Avenger.
Emma Vaughn was small and slight for her age of ten and two. Dusk had already settled over the land when she began making her way home from the village apothecary. Her beautiful mother had never regained her strength after a difficult childbirth. But Emma was determined to see her mother fully recovered. This day she carried a pouch of special herbs and potions said to have healing properties. They had taken longer to prepare than she’d anticipated, and she was anxious about the lateness of the hour. But her mother’s health was worth any amount of time.
The sound of horses coming up behind her had her turning in alarm. When she caught sight of the band of English soldiers, her heart leapt to her throat, and she cursed herself for her carelessness. She knew, as did every woman and child in Ireland, what these hardened soldiers considered sport.
Hiking her skirts above her knees, she veered off the path and raced across the meadow, hoping the tall grass would slow down those in pursuit. She heard a roar of laughter as the horsemen caught sight of her and began to give chase.
Her chest heaved, the breath burning her lungs as she pushed herself to the limit. But as she headed toward a line of trees, hoping to hide herself, she saw a second group of soldiers emerge from the cover of the forest and advance toward her. She paused. Turned. Then realized, with growing panic, that she was surrounded. The circle of soldiers narrowed as they moved in on their target, who darted from one side of the meadow to the other, like a creature of the wild bent on escape.
“I’ve got her.” One of the soldiers reached down and scooped her up like a rag doll, holding her imprisoned in his arms as he nudged his horse toward the cover of the woods.
The others were laughing and cursing as they made their way to their encampment.
The one holding Emma slid from the saddle. “Since I caught her, I claim the right to be fiat. The rest of you can have what’s left.” He gave a mocking laugh. “From the looks of this scrawny wench, I doubt she can pleasure me much. But I’ll have to make do.”
The others joined in the laughter as a cask was opened and ale was passed among them.
“She’s no more than a child,” one of the men complained.
“All the better. We’ll teach her the ways of a woman. Maybe, if she pleases us, we can keep her around.” The soldier kept a firm grasp on Emma as he dragged her across the camp toward his blankets. Along the way he snagged a tankard of ale, tipping it up and draining it as he walked.
When he reached his bedroll, secured beside a fallen log, he tossed her down, then fell on top of her. Her screams died in her throat. She nearly gagged on the stench of ale and sour breath as her mouth was covered by his.
It was impossible to move. She was pinned beneath him. Still, panic gave her strength she’d never known she possessed. Her hand reached out blindly and encountered a rock. Her fingers curled around it, and she struck the back of his head with all the strength she could manage.
He gave a grunt of pain. “Little witch. I’ll teach you.” He grabbed both her hands, holding them above her head in one of his. Then he slapped her so hard stars danced behind her eyes. “Now you’ll pay.”
Emma braced herself for what was to come. But as he fumbled beneath her skirts, he suddenly went rigid with shock. She caught sight of a flash of silver as the soldier’s eyes went wide, then seemed to glaze over. Blood streamed from a gaping slash across his throat in the moment before he slumped forward, pinning her beneath his dead weight.
With a sense of panic she pushed and struggled to free herself. Her hands, her gown, even her hair were smeared with his blood.
Suddenly his body was yanked roughly away. Standing over her was a figure clad in the garb of a friar, with the cowl pulled up over his mouth, and the hood pulled down to his eyes. And the bluest eyes Emma had ever seen. They glowed in the moonlight like sapphires.
“Who...? What...?”
He shook his head and touched a finger to her lips. Then, without a word, he turned away and began to crawl toward the encampment, where the voices of the drunken soldiers could be heard.
Kneeling up, Emma watched in amazement as the hooded figure moved among them, silently slitting each throat. He moved so quickly, none of his victims had time to notice his approach, or to offer any resistance.
When he returned, she was weeping in relief. Big wet tears that spilled down her cheeks. He lifted her face and wiped the tears with his thumbs. In his eyes she could read both simmering anger and heartfelt compassion for what she was suffering. Without a word he picked her up and carried her to his waiting horse. She could feel the ripple of muscle as he climbed easily into the saddle, all the while holding her against his chest.
“Thank you,” she murmured when she could find her voice. “I know... I know what would have happened if you hadn’t come to my rescue.”
Again he touched a finger to her lips to silence her words. Then he gathered her close, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder. They rode across the meadow in silence. In fact, it seemed to Emma, the whole world had gone suddenly silent. No breeze stirred the leaves of the trees. No night birds sang. Even the frogs in the pond made no sound as the horse splashed through the water, then climbed the embankment and headed toward her village in the distance.
In the circle of this stranger’s arms she felt warm and safe. No harm would come to her, she knew, as long as he held her like this.
When they reached the village he slid from the saddle and set her on her feet.
“I need to know your name, sir, so that my father can properly thank you.”
He shook his head.
“Are you mute? Is that why you don’t speak?”
He merely remained silent.
She offered her hand. “Then I thank you, sir. I will never, ever forget you, or what you did this night.”
Though the lower half of his face was covered by the cowl, she could see the smile in his eyes. He pressed her hand between both of his, then turned and pulled himself into the saddle.
He waited until she ran up the lane and let herself into her house. Then, as she stood in the doorway and waved, he saluted smartly and wheeled his mount. Minutes later he blended into the darkness.
From that day on, Emma Vaughn told all who would listen about the mysterious warrior who had saved her honor and her life. When asked to identify her champion, she could describe only his eyes. Deep blue eyes, filled with ageless wisdom and courage and compassion. Though she was little more than a child, she had already lost her heart to this stranger. To emulate him, she put aside her fears and mastered the art of defense with a knife, vowing that no man would ever again find her helpless.
Throughout all of Ireland the legend grew. And all spoke in awe of the courage of Heaven’s Avenger.
Chapter One
Ireland, 1563
“I wish you weren’t going to England, Conor.” Moira O’Neil struggled to keep the emotion from her voice as she hugged her son. But the pain and fear were there, just beneath the surface. She knew that her middle child was widely regarded as Ireland’s most persuasive orator. Knew, also, that he was a warrior second only to his older brother, Rory. A man adept with both word and sword could surely take care of himself in any situation. Still, the worry persisted. He was going to the land of their enemy. Into the very den of the lion.
It had been his father’s plan since Conor was a lad. And gradually, Conor had accepted the plan as his own. His gift was this wonderful ability to persuade people, through logic and pretty words, to use common sense over emotion. To negotiate rather than fight. To make peace rather than war.
He had another gift, as well. Moira had seen the looks of approval in the eyes of the young women when he passed, and knew that he was a dashing ladies’ man who had caught the eye of the queen. But Elizabeth of England was no innocent. She was a worldly monarch, famous for keeping charming young men around her only so long as they amused her. Once she lost interest they could find themselves in grave peril.
Moira sighed. In her eyes Conor would always be that blue-eyed laughing charmer who had captured her heart when he was born, and owned it still.
“It seems like only yesterday since you and Rory returned from that hellish place. And now you’re going back, to the very palace where your brother nearly lost his life.”
“I’ll be fine, Mother. I’m going at the invitation of the queen. What harm could possibly come to me?”
What harm indeed? She had heard of the villainies and betrayals among those who surrounded Elizabeth at court. But she kept such things to herself as she hugged her son.
“I’m proud of you, Conor.” Gavin O’Neil clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder and dragged him close. “You’ll do us all proud. Your family. Your countrymen. And all those who will come after us will bless your name because of this sacrifice you make for Ireland. If you can’t persuade the English queen to leave us in peace, at least you’ll have your ear to the throne, so that we’ll be prepared for what is to come.”
“I’ll do my best, Father.” Conor turned to his older brother, Rory, and the two men clasped hands. “You’ll see to everything on this side of the sea?”
“Aye.” Rory grinned. “And gladly leave the other side to you.” He gave Conor a cool, measured look. “There was another attack last night upon a group of English soldiers. Heaven’s Avenger found them abusing a wench, and without a word, slit all their throats with a very small, very deadly knife.”
Conor took a step back. “Is that so?”
Rory nodded. “Like all the others, this wench insists her avenger had superhuman strength, subduing all seven soldiers before even one could lift a hand in defense. She is telling all who will listen that he was as tall as a giant, and as handsome as a young god, even though she couldn’t see his face.”
“Thus are legends born,” Conor scoffed. “If she couldn’t see his face, he could be either fair of face, as the wench insists, or perhaps scarred so badly he hides his disfigurement beneath a mask.” Conor’s tone was dry as he turned to kiss his sister-in-law’s cheek. “Continue taking care of my brother, AnnaClaire, for he is surely losing his senses.”
She laughed. “I’ll see to Rory. You’ll give my father my love?”
“Aye. If I should see him before he sets sail.” James Lord Thompson, AnnaClaire’s father, was Conor’s only friend among the queen’s counselors. But he had just sent word that he was being sent by the queen to Spain. Some suggested he was being banished because he had dared to cross words with the queen’s favorite, Lynley Lord Dunstan.
Conor turned to the lad who stood between Rory and AnnaClaire. The orphan, Innis Maguire, had become a son to them, living in their household, blossoming under their loving care. In the past months he had grown more than an inch in height. The beginnings of muscles could be seen beneath the sleeves of his tunic.
Conor tousled the blonde hair and dragged the lad close. “Next time I leave, maybe you can go with me.”
“You mean it?”
“Aye, lad. Though I think, when I return from England, I’ll be home to stay.”
Conor turned to his little sister, Briana, who was openly weeping. “No tears now, lass. I’ll be home before you have time to miss me.”
“I miss you already.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“I know.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “But when the Queen of England issues an invitation, it’s really a royal command. I must go.”
“She isn’t my queen.” Briana pushed from his arms and stomped her foot. She’d inherited her temper, as fiery as her hair, from her father. “Nor is she your queen, Conor.”
“True enough. But I’ve learned that ‘tis ofttimes more prudent to lull an enemy with sweet songs than to approach with sword raised. So I’ll go to England, lass, and watch and listen.” He shot her that charming smile that had broken the heart of many a colleen. “And even croon a minstrel’s song of love to the lady on the throne, if that’s what it takes to keep my people safe from English swords.”
He pulled himself into the saddle and saluted his family smartly. Then, with a last wave at the servants who had assembled to wish him godspeed, he turned his mount toward Dublin.
Before he reached the village he turned for a lingering look at Ballinarin. The sun had burned away the last of the morning raindrops. The sky was awash with feathery clouds that seemed to brush the highest peaks of Croagh Patrick. A waterfall cascaded down the side of the mountain, sending up a misty spray. A flock of sheep undulated across a hillside. This land was so green, so beautiful, it seemed like an artist’s rendering.
He thought of his little sister Briana’s words to him and felt a sigh well up from deep inside. He wasn’t yet gone, and already he missed the land of his birth. At times he felt like a nomad. Since boyhood he’d spent as much time away as he had at his beloved home. He’d lived with a tutor in a villa in Rome, where he’d mastered the classics. Learned to speak fluent Spanish in a monastery. Could converse in French after two years in Paris. What he longed for, more than anything else, was to spend the rest of his life at Ballinarin. Hearing words spoken in a soft, soothing brogue. Riding his horse across the green, verdant hills. But he had a duty. To his father. To his country. This was what he had trained for. What his mother had prayed for. What his father and brother had fought for.
He would do his best to turn away from his legacy as a warrior and become, instead, an advocate for peace. But if peace could not prevail, he would never submit to the oppressor. He touched a hand to the knife at his waist. A knife that had spilled too much English blood.
There was no turning his back on his destiny.
Clermont House, Outside London.
“I grow weary of waiting for the throne.” Henry, Earl of Huntington, paced back and forth. “Elizabeth grows more popular with her subjects every day.”
His sister put a hand on his arm. “Queens have a way of dying.”
He turned on her with a snarl. “Elizabeth is young and healthy. She could live for years.”
“She need not die of...natural causes.”
He studied her with new interest. “What are you planning?”
“What I have always planned. What we have always planned, brother. You will be king.” She turned to the other man in the room, who had remained silent throughout their exchange. “You, Dunstan, will get richer. And I...” Her smile bloomed. “As the new Lady Vaughn, I hold power over a certain someone who will do exactly as I say.”
Her brother Henry’s frown deepened. “How can you be certain your stepdaughter will spy for us, Celestine?”
She walked to the window and pointed. “You see? Even now she rides up the lane. The girl is as predictable as the English rain. She thinks herself smart and strong. But I intend to prove her wrong.” She touched a hand to his arm. “Leave Emma Vaughn to me. And put your fears to rest. Prepare, instead, for your reign as King of England.”
Huntington’s voice was rough with impatience. “I am not prepared to wait forever.”
“Nor am I,” Dunstan said. “For I have a few plans of my own.”
“Then see to them. But if your plans fail, mine will not.” She left her brother and Lord Dunstan and went to her chambers to prepare herself for her performance. It was an art that she had perfected.
When she was ready she descended the stairs and made her grand entrance. “Foolish, defiant child. I ordered you to stay away. It is enough that I permit you use of your father’s London townhouse.” Celestine swept into the parlor with the polished air of a courtesan. Her gown had been artfully designed to show off her lush figure to its best advantage. Her eyes blazed as she confronted the young woman who was pacing before the fireplace. “Did you think the servants wouldn’t tell me you were lurking about?”
“I am not lurking.” Emma stopped her pacing and lifted her head to stare at the older woman. “I’ve come to see my father and little sister.”
“I’ve told you before, Emma. You are forbidden to see them.”
“You have no right, Celestine.”
“I have every right. I’m your stepmother now. Yours and little Sarah’s. And your father’s wife. It is a wife’s duty to look out for her husband.”
“Husband.” Emma’s hands knotted into fists at her sides. “You care not a whit about being a wife to my father. All you care about is securing his wealth.”
The woman gave a chilling smile. “It is my wealth now. I’ll use it as I see fit. And you, my girl, will not see a farthing.”
“I care not for my father’s wealth.”
“If that is true then leave.”
“Oh, I shall. But first I will see my father and little sister.”
“I forbid it.”
“You cruel, wicked creature. If my father knew what you were doing, he would renounce this farce of a marriage and have you publicly flogged.”
“Beware that idle tongue, my girl. For I am the mistress of Clermont House now. And I am telling you that your father and sister do not wish to see you.”
“That’s a lie. My father loves me. He would never turn away from me. Sarah adores me. I’m like a second mother to her.” With an anguished cry Emma crossed the room and caught the older woman’s arm. “What have you said to them? What have you done to turn them against me?”
