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Taryn tensed, for she’d known that her parents’ marriage had never been a happy one. Her mother had miscarried many children over the years, and it shadowed her moods at all times. She controlled every moment of each day and kept the servants at her beck and call. Those who disobeyed were punished for any infraction.
Maeve sighed and paced across the room. ‘I am sorry, but you cannot go to Tara. And you may not send more of my soldiers on Devlin’s behalf.’
My soldiers? Taryn bristled at that. As if she’d already given up on her husband?
‘They are still Father’s men, too,’ Taryn corrected.
But Maeve’s face turned cool. She walked to stand at the window and said, ‘I have not, nor will I, give permission for you to take soldiers against King Rory. Every last man of them would be killed, including yourself. And I am not a woman who sends others to die needlessly.’
Not even for your husband? Taryn wanted to ask, but didn’t.
‘I do not intend to take an army,’ she told Maeve quietly. ‘I go only to plead for Father’s life. Surely there is no harm in appealing to King Rory. I am no threat to the High King.’
‘You will not leave,’ Maeve said. ‘And that is final.’ Her gaze swept over Taryn. ‘The Ard-Righ will not listen to anything you have to say.’ She reached out to touch Taryn’s scarred cheek. ‘And unlike other women, you cannot use your looks to win his attention, I fear.’ Her mother’s touch burned into her skin like a brand.
Taryn knew she would never be beautiful, and she would bear the disfigurement of her face and hands forever. But to hear it from her mother was a blow she hadn’t expected. She stepped backwards, lowering her gaze to the floor. ‘I do not want King Rory’s attention.’
Far from it. She knew she had a face that made men shudder, and she was too tall. Her hair was black instead of her mother’s fiery colour. They shared the same eyes, however. More than once, Taryn had wished that she did not have to see those icy blue eyes staring back at her in a reflection.
Sometimes she wished that her mother had been taken captive, instead of her father. Maeve never seemed to care about anyone but herself. And it hurt to imagine Devlin in chains, suffering torture.
Taryn closed the trunk and stood. ‘I do not understand why I may not take a small escort when I speak with the High King. Two or three men are harmless.’ More than that, she could see no reason why her mother would care what risks she took. ‘If I fail, there is nothing lost.’
‘Nothing, save your life,’ Maeve countered. She continued staring out the window, and at last she said, ‘A messenger came this morn. Devlin is to be executed on the eve of Imbolc.’ With that, she turned back. ‘I do not think you want to witness your father’s death. And if you go, the Ard-Righ will force you to watch.’
Horror wrenched her stomach at the thought. Taryn gripped her hands together tightly, wishing she could control the trembling. ‘And you’ll do nothing to stop it.’
‘I will not interfere with the High King’s justice, for I value my own life.’ Maeve moved closer, cupping Taryn’s chin. ‘Just as I value yours. Devlin is gone, and there is nothing more to be done.’
The Queen’s face held traces of regret. ‘I can read your thoughts, my daughter. You plan to slip away and try to save Devlin. But I will not let you endanger yourself or others. Your father is not the man you think he is.’ She paused a moment, as if she wanted to say something more, but then held her silence.
Taryn said nothing, not at all believing her mother. Devlin was a quiet, wise leader whom the people respected. Her blood ran cold at the thought of her father’s death. Their small province would fall into chaos, for Maeve would rule with an iron hand. Devlin had brought peace and prosperity among them, but it would not last beneath her mother’s commands.
She swallowed hard, her stomach churning at the prospect of facing the High King. But face him she must, if it meant saving Devlin’s life. Imbolc was only a few weeks away.
‘May I go now?’ she asked her mother. There was little time left, and she wanted to leave Ossoria at dawn. She dared not travel with more than a single guard, and it would be difficult to find anyone who would go with her, if she asked it of him.
‘To your chamber, yes,’ Maeve answered. ‘But nowhere else. And, Taryn, if you do attempt to leave against my orders, my soldiers will bring you back. Be assured of it.’
Taryn said nothing, but curtsied to her mother before leaving. An uneasy fear gathered in her stomach, for she suspected her mother would punish any servants who dared to accompany her.
Once she reached the hallway, she leaned back against the stone wall, terrified of the next few weeks. It would take at least a sennight to reach Tara, and even then, she needed men to defend her. Not an army—but enough fighters to help her rescue Devlin, if King Rory would not listen.
Who would agree to such a task? She didn’t know how to hire mercenaries, and if she asked a neighbouring chieftain or king, they would never consider allying against the High King.
She needed leverage, something King Rory wanted.
You cannot use your looks to win his attention, her mother had said. And Taryn knew that all too well. The very idea of offering herself was impossible, for men did not want a scarred bride—they only wanted her kingdom. Most behaved as if they didn’t see her, or they turned their backs to avoid her presence. Her stomach twisted at the unwanted memories. Although no one dared to mock her openly, it was easier to hide herself away from others, pretending as if she was unaware of their revulsion.
She forced back her thoughts, still wondering how to save her father’s life. She’d heard Devlin speak of the betrothal between King Rory and Carice Faoilin. The young woman was rumoured to be the most beautiful woman in Éireann—a perfect bride for the High King. But Taryn doubted if any woman alive would want to be wedded to such a cruel man.
Then, again, it was unlikely that Carice had a choice.
A union between the High King and the Faoilin tribe would be a powerful one, giving the King more influence in the southern territories. Rory Ó Connor needed strong armies and alliances that would protect Éireann, since the Norman invaders were gaining a stronger foothold. War was brewing, and they knew not who would win.
Would the King listen to a plea from his bride? Taryn wondered if she could convince Carice to let her travel with her as a companion. Though she had never met the young woman, perhaps she could visit Carrickmeath and seek help on her father’s behalf.
Inwardly, Taryn worried whether pearls or gold would be enough to gain their assistance. She had little else to offer in exchange for Devlin’s rescue. And now that her mother had forbidden her to take soldiers as escorts, she could not travel in a wagon. It meant she could only bring wealth she could carry. Even then, she might not gain the help she needed.
An idea began to form as she thought about Carice Faoilin. Perhaps a distraction was what was needed. Carice had not yet married the High King...but what if Taryn accompanied her to the wedding? A celebration would offer the strongest diversion yet, where hundreds of wedding guests would attend, offering the perfect chance to rescue her father in secret.
She didn’t need an army—only a small group of well-trained men to slip past the guards.
And she knew exactly where she would find them.
* * *
The overcast sky darkened as the afternoon stretched into evening. Taryn huddled within her fur-lined cloak while the damp conditions turned into frost. Her guard, Pól, accompanied her, carrying the small bundle containing a bag of jewels and silver, as well as a second gown. She’d had to leave almost everything behind, since they hadn’t taken a horse. Pól had protested, saying that it would take far too long to travel on foot.
Taryn had argued back that she wanted to disappear quietly. The truth was, horses terrified her. Her heart sickened at the memory of her older brother’s death, and never would she forget that terrible day when he had died after being thrown from his horse. She had tried to avoid riding ever since.
No, if she could not travel in a wagon, she would walk. It wasn’t that far to Carrickmeath—less than a day’s journey on foot. And without a horse, it was more difficult for her mother’s soldiers to track them.
She was so tired, her feet were numb. She’d been walking since the middle of last night, in order to get past her mother’s guards. Her hair was sodden from the earlier rain, hanging across her shoulders against her blue woollen gown. Weariness cloaked her, but she could not stop this journey. Her mother would send men to bring her back, and she had to put as much distance as possible between them. Once she reached the safety of Brian Faoilin’s ring fort, she could stop.
* * *
After another hour of walking, she spied a fortress in the distance. It was a wooden structure atop a hillside with a deep trench surrounding it. Sharpened stakes were set at even intervals all around it, with a wicker fence to keep out invaders.
Thank goodness. She would beg hospitality with the Faoilin tribe for this night, and gain their protection, if possible. But when she drew nearer, she spied two dozen soldiers approaching the fortress, their commanders on horseback. They were riding towards the gates with spears clenched in their fists, and it was clear that they had not come for an amicable visit. One carried the High King’s banner, and they looked as if they were waiting for the right moment to attack.
Why would the High King’s men wage a battle here? Were they here to lay siege upon the fortress? Or had the Faoilin chieftain betrayed the High King? Whatever the reason, Taryn was not about to intrude. At least, not until she knew why they were here.
She slowed her pace and exchanged a look with her escort. ‘I think we should wait before approaching the ring fort.’
‘I agree, my lady.’
Taryn motioned for Pól to follow her into a grove of trees. The wind whipped at her cloak, freezing her skin. Even worse, the rain started up once more, mixed with ice. Taryn hurried towards the oaks, taking shelter beneath a large tree. She had no idea what to do now or how long she should wait. The last thing she wanted was to sleep out in the open. At night, it would begin snowing, and the ground would harden into ice. It was dangerous to sleep in the midst of such treacherous weather.
‘What should we do?’ she asked Pól.
The older man rested his hand upon his sword, shrugging. ‘We’ll have to wait until they’ve left. Or at least until they’ve gone inside.’
Taryn despised waiting. She much preferred to take action and hope for a good outcome. Yet she knew better than to act on impulse and endanger their lives. The wooden gates remained closed, and four men stood within a guard tower, overlooking the entrance. For a time, the High King’s soldiers remained in front of the gates, and she could not tell what was happening. Eyeing the men, she wondered how they would respond if she approached.
‘We cannot wait all night,’ she mused aloud. ‘We have to find out why they’re here.’
Her guard shrugged. ‘Whatever the reason, I would not be asking them, my lady. I can build a fire and a shelter for you in the meantime.’
The older man had insisted upon accompanying her to Tara, and she was grateful for his loyalty. But he wasn’t the strongest escort, and she questioned his ability to defend her. He could wield a sword, but his hands suffered aches and pains during damp weather. Pól was nothing like Brian Faoilin’s men, who were among the strongest fighters in Éireann, second only to the MacEgans.
Taryn exhaled, her breath forming clouds in the air. Somehow, she needed to ally herself with Carice Faoilin. The High King’s bride was her safest means of getting close to Tara.
She started pacing, worried about why these soldiers were here. Would they allow her to approach the fortress? Likely if the Faoilin tribe kept their gates closed, then there was a reason for it.
‘Do you want me to move in closer to learn more about why they’ve come?’ Pól asked. ‘So long as I leave my weapons with you, no one would suspect me.’
It was a dangerous risk, but one they needed to take. They had to get inside the fortress and seek shelter for the night.
‘Yes, you should go,’ she ordered the guard. ‘Return when you know what’s happening.’
Pól bowed in agreement before he walked towards the main road. Then he adjusted his gait to add a slight limp, making it seem that he was a harmless old man.
With every moment she was alone, Taryn’s apprehensions increased. What if Pól didn’t return? She couldn’t remain here alone. Yet, if she approached the High King’s men, they might harm her. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, but as a woman, there was still a strong risk. Then, too, if she appealed to Lady Carice, there was still the chance that the young woman would refuse to let her join her ladies—even if Taryn confessed her reasons. The more she dwelled upon her rash decision, the more unlikely it seemed that she would succeed.
You cannot give up, she told herself. No one else would save her father.
And so, she continued to wait. Pól had given her a dagger, which she had secured at her waist. She had no idea what to do with his sword, for she could hardly lift the heavy weapon. In the end, it seemed best to prop it up against a tree.
* * *
After nearly an hour, the men still had not entered the fortress. Something was very, very wrong. Minutes crept onward, and when Pól did not return, Taryn couldn’t stand the waiting any longer. She simply had to know what was happening.
This is dangerous and foolish, she told herself. But what choice did she have? She was alone, with no shelter for the approaching night. She could die at the hands of these men, or she could freeze to death.
They might not kill her, she supposed, as she began walking towards the fortress. They had no true reason to take her life. It was a small consolation.
The rain had slowed to a soft drizzle, and she kept her head and scarred face covered with a woollen brat. No matter how she tried to square her shoulders and walk with confidence, like the lady she was, she couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering or her hands from trembling.
Within moments, one of the soldiers spied her. Word began to spread, and it wasn’t long before all two dozen men were staring at her. Taryn adjusted her head covering, searching for a glimpse of Pól. But he was nowhere to be found, and she realised that he had likely hidden himself.
‘Were you going somewhere?’ one of the commanders asked. He wore an iron helm, and a sword rested at his left side. Trying not to show her alarm, she averted her gaze. She never had time to answer before another man emerged from the fortress.
He strode forward, his gaze narrowed upon the soldiers. And the moment she glimpsed his face, her pulse quickened.
Never in her life had she seen a warrior so handsome. He was like the son of Lugh, a god walking among them. He was tall with dark hair that hung below his shoulders. Every perfect feature looked as if it were carved from ice, with steel-grey eyes, an aquiline nose, and a mouth that tightened as he stared at the armed men. He seemed to be assessing their strength and ability to fight. Though he was dressed in ragged, worn clothing, she spied the glint of chain mail beneath it.
He carried no weapons, but she suspected he was not a man who needed them. There was not a trace of fear in his demeanour, and he didn’t seem to care if he lived or died. But when his gaze swept over her, she caught a warning in his eyes, as if he’d ordered her to say nothing. Her cheeks warmed beneath his gaze, and she tried to suppress the embarrassment of such a man watching her.
She lifted her chin, still keeping her face covered by the woollen brat so that only her eyes were revealed. Though it was vain, she didn’t want him to see her scars. For a moment, she wanted to look upon this warrior as if she were his equal.
The man turned to the soldiers and said, ‘Our chieftain would like to know why you’ve come with armed men to Carrickmeath.’
The commander moved forward, two riders on either side of him, armed with spears. His eyes narrowed for a moment as he confronted the man. ‘You have the look of the Ard-Righ about you.’
The man did not seem pleased by the observation. ‘I am the High King’s bastard son. And you still have not answered my question of why you are here.’ His words were iron, revealing his impatience.
‘Brian Faoilin betrothed his daughter to the Ard-Righ,’ the commander answered. ‘And yet, he has not brought the bride to King Rory, despite messengers that we sent over the past few months. The King wishes to know his reasons for delaying the marriage.’
‘Lady Carice has been ill,’ the dark-haired man said. He crossed his arms over his chest and met the man’s accusations openly. ‘The High King already knows this.’
‘I have my doubts,’ the commander said. ‘It looks as if she was about to flee.’ He stared hard at Taryn, and she ignored his gaze, feeling a sudden rush of fear.
He hadn’t seen her face. He thought she was the Lady Carice because her scars were hidden. Her heart beat faster, and she had no idea what to say. Taryn stole another look at the dark-haired god, but he did not deny the soldier’s mistake. Instead, his eyes fixed upon her, and in them, she caught another warning. Whatever was happening, he wanted her to follow his lead.
It was clear that she had to maintain a pretence. A frozen chill washed over her at the thought of such an illusion. It would never work—not in a thousand years. The moment anyone saw her face, they would know the truth.
But whatever it was that the man wanted from her, he would owe her a favour if she did as he asked. She needed his help, more than he needed hers. And for that reason, she met his gaze evenly and gave a slight nod.
‘Lady Carice was not trying to flee,’ he said smoothly, reaching out his hand to her. It was an offer of sanctuary, so long as she obeyed him. Taryn hesitated a moment, for this man was a stranger to her. She had no idea whether or not she should trust him.
His grey eyes were as cold as frost upon stone. There was no trace of emotion or any reaction upon his face. It was as if he cared not what she did.
Taryn took a slight step forward, feeling uneasy about the deception. But she kept her face shielded by the wool, lowering her gaze to the ground. Each step brought her closer to this man, and she had no idea why he wanted to perpetuate such a lie.
But perhaps her acquiescence would lead to the help she needed. One wrong move, and the High King’s men would attack this fortress and bring violence with them—she had no doubt of it.
When she reached the dark-haired god’s side, Taryn could feel the tension stretched tightly between them. She risked a glance at him and sent a pleading look, praying that he would help her.
Despite his ragged appearance, his hard body strained at the wool and hidden armour, revealing a warrior’s build. He crossed his upper arms, and the bulge of muscle made it clear that he had the strength to fight any of these men. But more than that, he held an unshakable confidence.
She took his hand, and he squeezed it lightly in a veiled command to remain silent. She decided that this was her best chance to save her father’s life. All she needed was to maintain the deception long enough to gain their cooperation. Just a little longer.
But the wind tore at her woollen brat, whipping free the dark locks of her hair. She seized the edges of the wool, trying to hide her scarred face.
For a moment, she held her breath, afraid that they had seen her. But instead, the commander gave a nod, as if her identity had been confirmed. ‘What have you to say, Lady Carice?’ He eyed her and remarked, ‘I presume you were trying to flee and realised your mistake.’
She sent another questioning look towards the dark-haired warrior. But this time, he gave no indication of what he wanted her to say. Instead, he seemed to be waiting for her response.
Taryn needed help from the Faoilin clan. Her best means of gaining an army was to offer them assistance in her own way.
‘You are right,’ she told the commander, trying to sound sheepish. ‘I was trying to flee. But then I realised how foolish it would be to do so.’
She lifted her chin, keeping the wool firmly in place to reveal nothing but her eyes. ‘I am Lady Carice. And I suppose you’ve come to escort me to Tara for my wedding.’
Chapter Two (#ulink_26c51fac-4a57-5211-82e2-ac755e642fb1)
Who in the name of the gods was this woman? And why was she here?
Killian had never seen her before, but her presence had been the answer to a dilemma. He had left the fortress, intending to speak with the armed men, and the woman had appeared out of nowhere. The pleading look in her blue eyes was a silent cry for help, and he’d acted on impulse, letting the commander believe what he wanted to.
Because Carice’s freedom depended on the decisions he made now.
These men had come to seize his sister, and it would have ended her chance of escaping. But now, there was a fragment of hope.
The woman had kept her face hidden, and the effect had magnified those beautiful eyes. Her hair was wet from the rain and snow, like a length of black silk. Every man there had been unable to take his eyes from her, and that was why the High King’s men had believed she was Carice.
Fate had delivered a way of saving his sister into Killian’s hands, and he had acted on that instinct. The woman clearly wanted help, and he would give it—at his own price.
