Emerald Prince (10 page)

“Your Majesty? Forgive the interruption.”

The voice of William Marshal shattered his brooding reverie.

Turning to face the tall, gray-haired knight, John frowned. He was daunted by Marshal’s height and envied him the mellow charm he had with the ladies. The man was a virtual relic, but the ravages of time had not bent his mind as they had his body.

As the second son of a middling baron, Marshal had by necessity gone into royal service. Over the years, he gained knighthood, renown and respect throughout the kingdom. He was shrewd enough to marry Strongbow’s heir, Isabel de Clare, and so inherited all of Strongbow’s lands in England, Wales and Ireland. He was also a friend of the late Coventry. This made Marshal one of the biggest burrs under the King’s saddle, joining the Pope, Philip Augustus, de Lacy and Lady Coventry.

Only four years ago, Marshal had offered to fight an ordeal by battle to prove his allegiance to John. While none dared take up the challenge, the dramatic act had not gone unnoticed and many still spoke of this aged knight with awe.

Their admiration annoyed John. He knew a different side of Marshal, the soldier rather than the statesman. Marshal had been a hard taskmaster, given the chore of educating a young Prince John as he had tutored Henry II, John’s father. But John did not possess his sire’s natural physical abilities, and he felt picked and put upon whenever Marshal corrected him.

John still chafed under Marshal’s counsel. He had never trusted the knight since the loss of Normandy, suspecting this cunning old man must be keeping secret correspondence with Philip Augustus. Some time ago, Marshal’s attempts to bring about peace between the two countries had angered John, and in a fit of rage he had confiscated all of Marshal’s possessions, including his castles, and held two of his eldest sons hostage until he made reparation.

Peace between these men was a long time coming. Marshal retired to Ireland for a spell, avoiding his wrath, but the two clashed there as well. Marshal had the better and more faithful knights, and to John’s fury a truce was necessary in the end so the two might coexist. Otherwise, they might fight on forever, while those Irish savages chuckled with glee.

No, John realized he could not slay Marshal outright; the old goat was too admired and adored throughout the kingdom. He had returned to court now to ease the negotiations with the Pope, and swung the baronage behind the King in yet one more display of loyalty. It seemed Marshal was more beloved by the day, and he more despised.

He regarded the knight coolly. Marshal was still armor-clad, having returned from the field. His helmet was clutched beneath one arm, his silvery hair damp with sweat. He bowed with respect, but there was nothing servile in his manner. Yet another trait that irritated John.

“If you deem it necessary, Marshal, we are certain the interruption is warranted,” he replied, though he could not keep a tinge of sarcasm from his tone.

Marshal let the jibe pass, as he had so many others. Instead he smiled, worsening John’s mood.

“Another missive has been received from His Holiness, Your Grace. He asks you reconsider your position on France, and offers to review the matter of the Interdict.” Marshal’s expression stayed neutral, but clearly he was, as ever, on the side of peace.

John scowled. “
Review
meaning we are asked to return Church properties and pay compensation.”

“I do not doubt it, Sire.”

“We needed the Church treasury to put down the Welsh revolt,” John muttered. He knew he sounded petulant and hated how his old tutor still made him feel like a child.

“By God’s grace Wales is settled, Sire, and order is restored,” Marshal said. No rebuke was obvious, but John sensed it and seethed.

“How fares our Irish campaign?” he demanded.

“Same as ever, Your Majesty. De Braose maintains his defiant posture.”

“It will not do.” John stroked his chin. “Prepare the army to set sail. We shall make our position clear in person.”

“Sire?” Marshal looked surprised. “You would go to Ireland?”

“And why not? That isle of bogs and barbarians is part of our kingdom.”

Marshal was silent at the challenge. He did not grasp the logic behind the abrupt decision to go to Ireland, and John sensed his suspicion.

“We shall avail ourselves of Lord de Lacy’s hospitality whilst there,” John added. “Send word ahead to Fountainhall to expect our retinue.”

This made Marshal frown. Since the King never evidenced any desire to pay a social call to de Lacy before, they both knew there was only one reason to explain his newfound interest in Ireland. A reason named Alianor Coventry.

Sensing Marshal’s disapproval, John sought to distract him. “Sir William,” he said, “what think you of this jewel?” He reached into a velvet satchel dangling from the ornate girdle over his wool supertunic. He presented a large diamond for the knight’s inspection. “Will it please my Isa, d’you think?”

Marshal’s steel-colored eyebrows lowered at the deliberate change of topic. Yet he glanced at the gem and remarked, “Truly a prize to win any lady’s heart, Your Grace.”

John smiled. “We obtained it from a merchant Jew passing through on his way to the Holy Land. We know you oft dealt with those sorts.” He named the sum he had paid, and demanded, “D’you find it a fair bargain?”

Something flickered in Marshal’s eyes, anger mayhap, for the old man abhorred prejudice. He looked weary as he replied, “I am certain the merchant obtained the lesser end of the deal, Your Majesty.”

This mollified John. He reckoned himself a shrewd negotiator. “Aye, Marshal. Those who boast of haggling skills soon find themselves cornered in negotiations with us.”

The double entendre was not wasted on William Marshal. Only King John dared equate the Pope with a Jewish merchant. He quelled a sigh, realizing it was useless to approach the King today. He must wait until the man dubbed ‘Softsword’ by his people was more receptive to reason. Glancing at the King’s smug demeanor, he conceded defeat.

William kept an ear close to the ground. He knew of Lackland’s latest obsession with Lady Coventry and he could not fault her disgust. The King was a paunchy man of average height with flaring nostrils and thick lips set in either a sulky pout or cruel sneer.

King John had inherited the tempestuous nature of his father and a demoniac energy. He raced around his kingdom like a man possessed, while also finding time to indulge his obsessive interests in gambling, and women. Simply put, and saddest of all in William’s eyes, the King of England could not be trusted.

Any man who wasted a quarter of his annual revenue on defense, who plundered the Church treasuries and sold holy relics to finance reckless campaigns, and who could not tear his gaze from a woman’s bosom to save his life, was doomed to be an ineffectual leader and an even deadlier foe.

William worried about England, but more so Lady Coventry. He had served the crown with Walter Coventry, and adored and respected the widow of his late friend. He realized the depth of the King’s obsession — any man who waved aside an angry Pope and his own excommunication to brood upon a woman who was not even his own wife, was tottering upon the edge of sanity. He feared the worst was yet to come.

Chapter Seven

“W
AKE UP, MILADY.”

Alianor heard Liam’s voice and felt the blindfold removed from her eyes. Despite her weariness, she obeyed. She started a bit, having forgotten through the blessed aid of slumber her true plight. Liam’s arms were wrapped about her, both of them still damp from the earlier rain.

She took a deep breath and willed herself to turn her head and look back at him. His intense green eyes studied her, and she forgot the pain, the cold, the bone-deep exhaustion. It was too easy to forget what had happened or whose arms held her. She only saw an emerald sea she wanted to lose herself in.

“Where …?” she mumbled, jolted further awake with the realization Biorra no longer moved.

“We’ve reached our destination.”

Alianor blinked back vestiges of weariness, but her focus remained on Liam. Without thinking, she reached up and touched his cheek shadowed with stubble. The blunt hairs tickled the sensitive ends of her fingertips, a surprisingly erotic sensation. His jaw tensed and she quickly withdrew her hand.

Shame scorched Alianor. Whatever had possessed her to touch him so intimately? As if they were — lovers.

Embarrassed, she tried to pull away but her long braid was trapped between them. She wasn’t going anywhere. From the corner of her eye she saw a faint smile touch Liam’s lips. Despite the futility of her actions, Alianor again tried to free herself from his disturbing embrace.

Her actions and thoughts distressed her, but she could not deny she found the Irish outlaw attractive. She mustn’t entertain untoward thoughts, much less of the brute who had captured her. How could she dishonor Walter so? As if to emphasize the depth of her turmoil, her fierce struggle nearly knocked them both from the horse.

Liam swore. “Be still, you little fool.”

Outrage pushed Alianor over the edge. How dare he speak to her so. Angry, she drove an elbow into his ribs.

Biorra objected to the jostling of his riders and without warning, the horse reared. Liam and Alianor tumbled to the ground together, their respective “oofs” muffled by the dense undergrowth. Biorra shook his head, snorted as if disgusted, and galloped off into the trees.

Alianor could have been hurt, were it not for Liam protecting her by taking the brunt of the fall on his back and pulling her on top of him at the last second.

Before she could react, he rolled her beneath him, their positions now reversed. He grabbed her flailing arms and pinned them above her head. To Alianor’s surprise, his weight upon her was not in the least uncomfortable. On the contrary, it felt far too natural, and her body reacted when he slid down into the saddle of her hips.

Liam stared at her — his face only inches away, his breath hot against her cheek. Alianor’s heartbeat quickened as a languid heat burned through her.

His eyebrow arched, as if he knew what she was feeling. It galled her he was so damned confident, while her body remained unmindful of her will. Her cheeks burned when she felt him grow hard where his man-part wedged against her woman’s core.

A wonderful tightness flamed and ached in her loins. Never before had wet wool felt so thin, so sensuous. The cloth seemed inconsequential as the heat of their bodies flowed back and forth like a storming tide.

How would he kiss her? Soft or hard? Perhaps both? For the square, hard jaw of a man steeled by experience belied the sensual lines of his mouth, giving way to the softness of his lips. Lips she longed to touch, feel against her own.

She struggled against the forbidden longings even harder than she did the man. His eyes twinkled, pricking her conscience. Desperate, she did the only thing she could think to do when confronted by a tangle of forbidden emotions. She spat in his face.

L
IAM FLINCHED.
T
HE SPITTLE
struck his cheek, trickled down. He let her hands go and wiped it off. Alianor stilled; her eyes went dark and unreadable. He expected her to cringe, beg his mercy, for surely danger was evident in his expression. She did neither. Instead, much to his surprise, she raised her chin a notch, as if they stood toe-to-toe rather than him lying atop her in the forest’s makeshift bed.

He thought of something to confound her more than his anger. He smiled, and the action disarmed her as easily as he had plucked the dagger from her fist the day before.

“Sure you’ve not a wee bit of Irish in you?” he teased.

Alianor’s eyes snapped blue sparks. “Certainly not.” She looked as if she might strike him for his insolent suggestion.

Liam gazed down at her angelic face, one still bearing soft traces of passion. Her spirit intrigued him, and made it all the harder to quell a sudden raging desire. Harder, aye. In more ways than one. His smile faded; the real purpose of her presence dashed over him like icy spring water.

“As I said, milady,” he repeated, his voice husky from suppressed emotion, “we’re here.”

Liam rolled off her, coming to his feet. He offered Alianor a hand and pulled her up to stand in front of him, a bit rougher than he intended. It was not an easy task untangling his thoughts about his captive.

Alianor’s flushed face and rapid breathing betrayed her upset as she brushed leaves and twigs from her soiled skirts. Liam went to fetch the wayward Biorra from his indolent grazing. When he had the horse’s reins in hand, Liam gestured to a nearby clearing.

With a mock-gallant sweep of his arm, he offered, “Ladies first.”

A
LIANOR SENT
L
IAM A
withering glance. The Irishman maddened her with his quicksilver moods, and she turned her attention to their surroundings. There seemed to be a makeshift village of sort, constructed around and amidst the ruins of an old, large abbey. Thin wisps of smoke drifted up here and there.

As they approached, dogs barked in warning. Alianor heard the playful shouts and scuffles of children nearby. She soon saw several figures tending an open fire, three women in long skirts and woolen cloaks. Two men hunkered down beside the fire, one mending what looked like a harness and the other sharpening a short sword on a whetstone. They glanced over as she and Caomhánach came near.