Emerald Prince (24 page)

“Perhaps not,” she admitted. “It’s not important I understand, but you do. You know what needs to be done.”

“Nay.” He sounded troubled. “I do what little I can to ease their suffering. But it’s not enough … it’s never enough.”

“Well,” Alianor linked her arm through his and pulled him along with her, “come what may, let us celebrate the here and now, and Rohan O’Toole’s life beyond.”

Liam’s serious look vanished beneath a grin. “As milady commands.”

A
LIANOR’S EYELIDS DROOPED.
W
EARY
, she yawned, tired from continuous eating and drinking, and her legs ached from hours of dancing. The wine made her feel languid, and brought her at ease amongst the frolicking throng. They all stayed awake throughout the night, the festivities centered around a simple coffin raised on a bier draped in a linen shroud. Everyone gathered around a bonfire as friends and family gave farewell speeches to the dearly departed.

It was odd to experience merriment at a funeral. Walter’s passing still lay like a leaden weight in her heart. At first, it all seemed a sacrilege, and she looked on uncomfortably when the singing commenced, along with a generous portion of ale.

Yet the first hour passed, and the genuine respect of those in attendance drew her in. Friends and family gave heartfelt speeches and toasted O’Toole with mirth and love. As the night passed, she grew to admire their way of saying goodbye. Instead of oppressive sadness weighing them down, they chose to remember the joy, happiness and good times shared with him.

At one point, a young man with a clear tenor sang a ballad and everyone quieted to listen. Conell sang in Gaelic, but somehow, Alianor understood. Sadness overtook her, his words stirring, the pure emotion in them like a quivering arrow plunged into her breast.

Alianor closed her eyes, swaying, humming, the simple melody stealing her away to another time, another place. The song seemed familiar, and her lips formed the words in harmony with the singer:

Báidín Fheilimí, d’imigh go Góla, báidín

Fheilimí is Feilimí ann,

Báidín Fheilimí, d’imigh go Góla, báidín

Fheilimí is Feilimí ann.

When she started to sing, Liam stood on the other side of the fire but he moved to her side. Alianor’s eyes remained closed; she did not know he watched her. Rapt fascination engulfed him. Entranced by her singing, he listened to her sing low at first, then clearer and stronger as emotion carried her along.

Others heard her singing and they too listened. Even the balladeer Conall stilled; his lyrics trailed off and Alianor picked them up. Her sweet voice filled the night air, capturing each and every man, woman and child in her tale of Feilim’s little boat going off to Gola and Tory Island, only to be lost to the cruel sea.

It was magical. No one dared move for fear of breaking the spell. Liam’s breath stilled inside his chest, and his heart pounded so hard he was afraid it would drown out Alianor’s haunting refrain. Rarely had anything moved him so.

When Alianor finished, all hushed, so still the crickets in the tall grasses could be heard chirping beyond the crackling fire they gathered round. Liam wondered how she could sing this song, much less in perfect Gaelic.

Her eyes opened at last, wet with tears. She blinked, looking dazed, as if she’d been away to the place she sang of. A far place, indeed.

“How do you know the Song of Feilim, Alianor?”

“I … I don’t know.” Confusion clouded her eyes and crossed her beautiful face.

“You sang in Gaelic, nary missing a word. A trifle odd, don’t you think?”

Alianor looked uncomfortable, glancing embarrassed at those who watched her. “I think I’d best get some sleep.”

“Would you no’ sing another?” a young woman shyly asked.

Alianor shook her head. “I am weary — it’s time to retire.”

Liam thought she looked uncommonly pale. “Are you all right?” he whispered to her.

“I feel lightheaded. Too much drink, I suppose.”

Liam took her arm and escorted her away from the gathering. All turned to watch as they went. When they were out of range of curious ears, he said, “I’m sorry I kept you up overlate, Alianor.”

She said nothing, but seemed thoughtful and sighed when they reached the abbey. They walked down the long, empty corridor in silence. When Liam reached the door to her room, he lifted the latch and swung it open. Neither moved. Neither spoke.

“Tell me what’s bothering you,” he said.

Alianor faced him, her gaze pleading. “It seems there are only two choices with us. Either we are fighting, or,” she paused, her head dipped and her cheeks turned rosy, “we are in each other’s arms.”

“Aye, it seems so,” Liam agreed. He placed a finger under her chin, raised her head so he might look into her eyes.

“I don’t know whether to hate you or — love you. Which is it, Irishman?”

Liam kissed her gently on the lips. “Alas, milady, I wish I knew. I’m as confused about my feelings as you are. I cannot give you any answers.”

Alianor nibbled her lower lip after his kiss, and whispered, “Goodnight.” She turned and entered her room, closing the door softly behind her.

Liam lingered, staring at the wooden door, wishing it would open again; hoping to see a slim white hand beckon. It didn’t. Disappointed, he turned to leave.

“Goodnight, my Alianor,” he whispered to the empty hall, and blinked a mist from his eyes.

C
AMBER STOOD IN THE
hallway, and tried to still the worry inside him. For the third time, the message he had sent to Alianor was returned unopened. The first two he sent from Wales, but today’s he sent from the religious house in London where he was staying.

St. Martin-le-Grand was a collegiate foundation founded by Ingelric and Edward in the time of William the Conqueror. The religious house offered sanctuary to any who asked, and since Camber was far from his mentor’s abbey in Wales, he accepted their simple hospitality whilst here.

As the day was chilly and the halls likewise, Camber settled his threadbare cloak about his shoulders as he struck out for the small, bare cell he occupied. Something was wrong; he knew it, felt it. He sat in his room and composed another message, this time for Greta, Alianor’s retired maidservant. He knew where Greta lived and hoped she might know something about his sister, for her daughter Edie was Alianor’s maid. He paid a lad to deliver the message, then passed the next few hours praying and meditating.

Camber reflected back on his life. Occasionally he traveled with his mentor, Gerald the Welshman, and it was while in the company of this great man he had met a Cistercian abbot called Serlo who forever changed his thinking.

Abbot Serlo had been a Benedictine, plump and content, but he had nearly lost his life when his horse bolted and dashed through a narrow gateway, seriously hurting him. Serlo said, half-joking, this incident was a message from God he must turn from a life of contemplating sugarloafs to studying the Scriptures. Both he and Gerald harbored dark feelings for the Black Monks, while Camber was neutral. He simply preferred more austere surroundings and had humbler needs than his Benedictine brethren.

He was content in his life as a Cistercian, pleased to be the porter at his abbey, and had gained a considerable reputation as a monk sought for his counsel. Ordinary folk understood his simple words and humble bearing, and he knew their hearts far better than the loftier clerics of the great houses.

He gladly turned his mind to the interpretation of the Scriptures, and as his meditation progressed he found he sought contact with the outside world less and less. Truly, he wished only to pursue a life of quiet contemplation and religious study.

A soft knock sounded on his cell door and Camber crossed the room to open it. Greta, stood there, an answer to his prayers. Her shoulders were stooped, her joints twisted from age, but her faded gray eyes widened in happiness at the sight of him.

“Greta,” Camber cried, delighted and relieved to see her. He realized she must have come immediately upon receiving his message. “Bless you for coming. Come in, sit. Pray tell me what news you may have.”

He guided Greta to a chair near the window. It was early spring and the room was cold, but the meager sunlight provided a little warmth and light. The old woman nodded gratefully, easing down into the chair with her worn shawl clutched about thin shoulders.

Camber’s cell was located high in the west wing, away from the finer portions of the religious house. It took a minute for her to regain her breath, and in the while her hand gripped and patted his affectionately. “Oh, Camber, praise Jesu at last you’ve come. Milady Alianor is in dire need of your help.”

“Let me fetch you a little wine. You should not be climbing so many stairs at your age. You should have sent someone to fetch me.”

Dread swelled inside Camber, yet he tried not to give way to panic. Gently he extracted his hand from Greta’s, and turned to pour her a bit of wine in a wooden cup. It was cheap, but pleasantly sweet. He coaxed the old woman to drink it, and only when she was finished and a bit of color had returned to her drawn cheeks, did he proceed with his questioning.

“What’s happened? I sent messages to Nora, but all came back, unopened.”

“Aye, my poor lady. ’Tis wrong what they’ve done to her, so wrong.” Greta shook her iron-gray head. “The King bundled her off to Ireland to marry a Norman lord there. My Edie went with her.”

Relieved, Camber smiled. “Well, Greta, it’s not unusual the King would arrange another marriage for Nora. A trifle soon, I suppose, since she is still in mourning. But, she is young and it might even be for the best. This way she has a chance at happiness, a chance for children.”

Camber knew of his sister’s unusual marriage with Walter Coventry. She confessed everything to him. Even as a monk, he found it sad and unnatural. Had Nora desired a life of celibacy, she would have chosen the Church. He had liked the gallant knight as much as any, but he considered Walter too old for Nora. He thought it cruel his sister was denied one of God’s greatest blessings.

“Happiness? Nay,” Greta shuddered. “De Lacy is an evil man. Everyone says so. My poor, sweet Alianor.”

Camber frowned. “If this is true, why would Nora willingly go to Ireland? Surely her standing at court could keep her from an arranged marriage if she pleaded for Isabella to intervene.”

“Oh, it’s not to Her Majesty’s liking, either. But even she cannot sway the King when his mind is made up.”

Greta glanced left and right, as if frightened the walls might have ears. “Truth is, when Lady Alianor refused his bed, the King punished her by giving her to de Lacy.”

Camber snorted in disbelief. “Now, Greta, I think the servants’ rumors must have become twisted somewhere in the winding halls of Windsor.”

Greta’s lips pursed. “I’m old, but I’m not daft, Camber. And my Edie knows well the goings-on at Windsor. Sir Coventry weren’t even cold in his grave a’fore that royal vulture swooped in with indecent proposals for her lady.”

Camber’s brow furrowed. “Nora dared refuse the King?”

“Aye.”

“Then why agree to marry this Norman in Ireland?”

Greta did not answer, but looked away from Camber’s questioning gaze.

“What —” Camber swallowed hard; dread choked off his words. “What are you not telling me?”

Sad eyes turned back to him. “She did what she must, Camber.”

“That does not sound like our Nora. Since when has she ever meekly complied with anything?”

Greta pressed her lips together. Camber could tell she was still holding back something. “Please tell me. What made Nora wed without love?”

“There’s nothing she’d not do for you, Camber.”

Truth dawned like a blow to Camber’s stomach. He felt sick. “Surely she’d not be so foolish,” he whispered. Had Nora made a flesh sacrifice for him? Wed against her will? The answer resounded in his head with the clarity of a bell, and he felt the sinking certainty of it. Aye, she had.

He knew of King John’s threats towards the Church. When the King of England could treat the Pope himself with flagrant contempt, in how much less regard did he hold a simple monk?

Camber shivered with foreboding. “What can be done to stop this marriage? Should I appeal to the King?”

Greta wrinkled her nose, as if the mere mention of the man offended her. “Nay, Edie says we mustn’t trust him. Besides, Lady Alianor never made it to de Lacy’s bed.”

Camber steeled himself for even worse news. “What do you mean?”

“Their retinue was attacked en route to the Norman by a band of Irish outlaws. My Edie barely escaped with her life. She made it back to England only with the kind aid of a traveling merchant.”

“Nora’s been kidnapped?” The ominous words rung inside Camber’s head, like a bell tolling. He clutched the plain wooden crucifix resting on his breast. His lips moved in a swift and, he hoped, not futile prayer. “Dear Father in Heaven,” he entreated, asking the Lord’s protection for his sister. “Do not forsake Nora.”

Greta pulled on the sleeve of his robe, drawing his attention back to her. “’Tis not God we can rely on, Camber. You must find Lady Alianor and see she is brought back, safe and sound.”

“What is it these Irish outlaws want? Ransom? I have no money — I have taken a vow of poverty.” Camber slumped into a chair beside Greta, defeat robbing the strength from his legs. He buried his face in his hands. “I have nary a thing I can exchange for my sister’s life.”

Greta patted his shoulder in consolation. “Oh, my boy. I do not know how, but you must bring your sister home. You must find a way — you must not forsake her now.”

“I won’t, Greta. I vow I won’t.” Camber took her crabbed hands and squeezed them reassuringly. He must find strength, strength beyond any he’d summoned before.

“W
E’VE A MESSAGE FROM
de Lacy.”

Liam looked up from his bed as Niall entered his chamber. The expression on his uncle’s face matched his emotions, a combination of anticipation and dread. Liam was kicked back on the bed, fully clothed, arms folded behind his head. The casual air was mostly feigned. He was nervous as a cat, wound up so tight he feared he would explode from the tension.