Lords of Darkness and Shadow (39 page)

An Irish Medieval Adventure Romance

By Kathryn Le Veque

“Wilt thou come to my home, fair-haired lady? to dwell

In the marvellous land of the musical spell,

Where the crowns of all heads are, as primroses, bright,
And from head to the heel all men's bodies snow-white.”

~ The Courtship of Etain (translated from The Heroic Legends of Ireland, 1905)

∾

CHAPTER ONE

Leinster Coast, Wicklow County, Ireland

March, 1323 A.D.

The invasion had been a disaster from the beginning.

Waves crashed and thunder rolled. The English never stood a chance as the vicious storm bashed them against the rocky Irish coast. More than that, an entire army of five thousand angry Irishmen had been waiting for them, boarding the foundering ships and killing anything that moved. As the Irish forged deep into the belly of the rolling vessels, even the rope boys and cooks were targeted, one raggedy rope boy in particular. But this boy wasn’t a boy as much as it was a young lady in a very bad way.

Slammed against the hull of the lurching ship, the sharp movement gave her enough of an edge to duck the big fist that was flying at her head. She tried not to scream, knowing that the Irish rebels would hear her woman’s voice and focus on her like flies to honey. They would discover she was a woman and the moment they pulled off her disguise, they would quickly figure out that she was a very beautiful one. It would give them cause to do unspeakable things and, at this moment, she was very much coming to regret stowing away on Kildare’s invasion fleet.  

It had been a bad decision. But she was in the habit of making bad decisions. As the Irish warrior with the red ochre smears across his face made another swipe at her, she fell to her knees and crawled between his legs, escaping the hand that grabbed at her ankle. But she’d been forced to kick at him to keep him away and the woolen Montgomery cap on her head came loose, spilling forth long golden-red hair. When she realized that tendrils of curls were tumbling down the right side of her head, she panicked and tried to shove them back under the cap. 

The woman began to run, thrusting herself between fighting Irish and English, dodging blades that were cutting through flesh and bone. She stumbled over dead bodies, becoming covered with their blood as she fell, scrambling to her feet and sprinting through the dark hold of the ship in her desperate quest to reach the upper deck. Perhaps she could throw herself overboard when she drew near the rail. She knew for a fact it was her only chance to escape this hell she had put herself in the middle of.

The ship she had stowed away upon was nearer the shore than some of the others. It had been one of the first attacked by the waves of angry Irish waiting for them. The rain was pounding when she reached the deck, gangs of men fighting on the wet wooden planks with blood running in rivers off the side of the boat. She could see the boat rail through the driving rain and she made her way towards it, terrified, slipping on the blood beneath her feet and trying not to get hit by the thirty pound broadswords that were swinging around her. She had no idea if the big Irish ruffian was behind her but she wasn’t going to take time to look; the rail was within her grasp and she reached for it.

The wood was wet and slippery. She had a good grip on the rail but her hold was violently broken when someone grabbed her around the waist, tightly, swinging her up into the air. As she kicked and struggled, the boat lurched heavily to the starboard side and everyone seemed to roll in that direction. The woman and her attacker rolled with the ship, surrounded by the pounding rain and the sounds of battle, and both were pitched off the side of the ship and into the swirling surf.

Fortunately, the sea wasn’t particularly deep. The woman struggled to find her footing and her head broke the surface as she gasped for breath. Coughing, she labored against the strong sea and wind to make her way to the rocky shore. She could see it several feet away, trying to keep away from the surging boat. It was pitching violently and she was sure she would be crushed if she drew near it. So she scrambled across the rocky sea floor, drawing on every last ounce of strength she had to reach the shore. She fell at some point, cutting her knees on the sharp rocks, and the salt water stung the open wounds. Just as she reached ankle-deep water, she was grabbed from behind.

Exhausted and terrified, she hadn’t lost her fight. She began to kick ferociously, swinging her fists until her abductor managed to grab her arms and pin them. He made his way onto the shore, staggering when she kicked at his knees, but he maintained his grip.  The woman was shrieking now, struggling to break his hold on her as he carried her off.  She could only imagine what horrors await her and she was determined to fight for her life. No Irish bastard was going to rob her of her innocence, perhaps her very life, and expect an easy target.  She was going to give him hell.

He trudged off the shore and into the land beyond. There was so much rain and wind from the storm that she couldn’t see where he was taking her. Water was in her eyes, lashing her, and her hair was now sticking in great wet clumps across her face. She couldn’t see through the soaked hair and bad weather, but she could smell the dark Irish earth and the scent of wet grass with a hint of mold. The salty smell of the sea was mingled with the storm.

The man slugged across muddy ground and eventually, they were moving up a hill; she could feel the change in elevation, in the angle of the ground as he struggled to gain traction. Although she was growing increasingly weary, she drew deep on her inherent strength and began to fight him in a new round of struggles. It was like a lamb fighting against a bull, the pathetic struggle of a weary woman against a bear of an Irishman.

The terrain leveled out. The man’s grip slipped a bit and he ended up lifting her up and slinging her over his shoulder. She fought and kicked, her vigor renewed, as he carried her roughly. The woman pounded on his back and tried to kick him, but he slapped her on her arse, hard, momentarily stunning her. Although her hair was hanging in her face, she could see the rocky ground as he moved quickly. As she twisted and pounded, she began to see stone beneath his feet, then wood. Warmth hit her in the face and the smell of dirty, sweaty bodies.

Men were shouting all around her and the harsh smell of smoke filled her nostrils. There were dogs barking but she couldn’t see much from the way he was holding her and the hair hanging in her face. Suddenly, the man threw her off his shoulder and she stumbled as she hit the ground, falling to her arse. Frightened, she scrambled to get away as men around her roared with laughter.

Hands were grabbing at her, yanking at the wet tunic she wore, pulling at her legs. Someone yanked a leather shoe off and she screamed, slapping at the hands that were grabbing at her. She brushed the wet hair out of her eyes, seeing that she was in a smoky and cavernous great hall, an enormous fire burning in the hearth and smoke belching into the room. 

Big men with big weapons were all around her, blocking out the light from the hearth, crowded around her, laughing and grabbing at her. More men were pouring in to the room, shouting about victory and glorious death. Dogs yipped. The woman screamed again as someone made another swipe for one of her legs, pulling at the woolen leggings.  

She cowered against the wall, looking desperately for an exit but she couldn’t see any way out. The walls were solid stone and men were everywhere. But she did spy a great and heavy banqueting table, cluttered with weapons and remnants of food. When someone else thrust another hand at her, she kicked the hand away and skittered like a spider across the floor, disappearing beneath the giant table. Hidden by table legs and benches, she huddled in fear.

The Irish barbarians thought it a great game to grab at her and try to chase her from underneath the table. She would dodge from side to side, avoiding hands and swords they were poking at her. One sword tore her hose and scratched her leg. Weeping, she kicked in terror at the men grabbing for her and promised God she would never do anything so foolish again if he would only allow her to make it out of this situation alive. She had her doubts.

Most of the Irish eventually grew tired of the game as more men poured in from outside. A couple of the men, especially the one who had captured her, were still trying to chase her out from underneath the table but shouts eventually caught their attention. A group of heavily armed men had just entered the hall, shouting war cries of victory, and the entire room took up the cry. 

As the woman huddled and softly wept, the Irish of the dank and smoky castle lauded their victory over the English invaders. On this dark and stormy night on the Ides of March, the Earl of Kildare’s English forces had been defeated and their ships either burned or confiscated. It was an Irish victory in a long line of them against the English as of late.

As the men celebrated, they seemed to have forgotten about their quarry trapped beneath the table. The woman stilled her frightened tears, watching the dozens of legs moving around the table, listening to the men speak in the harsh Irish tongue. She didn’t understand their language. No one seemed to be paying her any mind and her fear eased as her courage was fed. She could see the open doorway of the hall and she could smell the wet air from outside. It told her that the entry door was close. She knew she had to run or die trying.

But there were too many men surrounding the table, blocking her path. The last thing she wanted to do was have obstacles in her way. So she huddled in the center of the table, listening to the men laugh and drink, eyeing the big dogs that drifted too close to her, sniffing. She was watching the entry of the hall so intently that she never noticed one of the dogs coming up behind her, sitting down politely. She was startled when she felt the heat from the dog’s body, turning to see big brown doggy eyes looking back at her. She went to shove the dog away but realized he was furry and warm. She was wet and freezing. She scooted next to the dog to have some of his heat and the dog didn’t seem to mind. He lay down against her.

The night wore on. The heat from the hearth was intense, even under the table. More men had entered the hall, all shouting and happy. By this time, the woman was becoming drowsy with heat and exhaustion, struggling to stay awake, fearful of what would happen if she fell asleep. But her exhausted state also lowered her guard and she was unprepared when a hand shot underneath the table again and grabbed her firmly around the ankle.

Someone pulled her free of her protective little prison. Shrieking, the woman found herself surrounded by enormous Irishmen, all leering down at her. In a panic, she scrambled to run but the man who initially captured her grabbed her around the waist and carried her over to the far end of the table where a small group of men were gathered. Roughly, he tossed her to the ground.

The men laughed when she sprawled on the floor. Terrified, the woman picked herself up and, on her knees, pushed her hair from her eyes to see what was happening. Her gaze fell on a massive man seated at the head of the table, partially illuminated by the light from the flickering hearth. She couldn’t see him very well, but she could tell he was looking at her.

“What is this?” he flicked a finger at the woman, his Irish brogue deep and rattling.

The man who had captured the prize beamed with satisfaction. “I am not entirely sure, m’lord,” he said. “I found her on board one of the ships. I do not think she is one of the usual crew.”

“So you bring her to me?”

“A gift, m’lord. A reward after your decisive victory.”

The men around them cheered and the woman shuddered in fear, pulling her wet tunic more tightly about her slender body as if it could protect her from the enemy. The enormous man at the head of the table was watching her steadily and she inspected him in return; even in the dim light, she could see that he dressed in a well-made leather tunic and pieces of mail. He sat upon a very big chair, like a throne, and a dark bird of prey perched ominously on the high back of the chair. The man’s hand, gripping the wooden cup, was as big as her head. 

He had milky-pale skin and a big red mustache that blended into a neatly bearded chin. The rest of his pale face was shaved and smooth. He wasn’t old, nor was he particularly young, but seemed to have that wise and ageless countenance. When he shifted in the firelight, she could see his chiseled and handsome face. He didn’t look like the rest of the filthy barbarians around him. The eyes, glittering, stared at her.

“Who are you, lass?” he rumbled, as if he had no patience for such a thing.

The woman met his gaze nervously, defiantly. “I will not tell you.”

The men snickered as the big brute who had captured her lashed out a hand and slapped her, hard, across the side of the head. She yelped and fell over. The man was going in for another strike but the enormous man in the chair stopped him.

“Hit her again and you shall answer to me,” he rumbled, watching the man back off before refocusing on the woman. “I asked you a question. Who are you?”

The woman pushed herself off the floor, meeting his gaze. Resistance was written all over her. He could see it in her expression as well as her manner. After a moment, she simply turned away and closed her eyes. A lone tear trickled down her face but she made no move to wipe it away.