Emerald Prince (53 page)

D
ESPITE HER WEARINESS,
A
LIANOR
was unable to sleep well that night. Memories and plans alike churned through her head like a raging river. Finally she got up, dressed and went to Liam’s room to read.

Curled up on the big bed with a single sconce lit on the wall above, she tried to occupy her mind by focusing on the colorful prose of
La Chanson de Roland
. In the darkest hour before dawn, she heard a strange sound echoing throughout the night outside. It reminded her of the eerie keening she heard during her journey on her first night in Ireland, which Niall later told her was the
bean-sidhe
.

The lamenting wail, faint yet distinct, prompted Alianor to set down the book and slip down from the bed. Though she tried to convince herself it was the wind whistling through the stones, when she stepped outside the abbey, she felt no wind and the noise was more pronounced. The hair rose on her neck. She touched the cross at her throat, willing it lend her courage.

The sound seemed to come from one of the huts near the abbey. She walked quietly towards it, her path lit only by a few flickering sconces. The keening was not constant, but the intermittent silence was almost more frightening. Swallowing hard, Alianor neared what seemed to be the source. To her surprise, she saw light filtering into the night beneath the closed door of a cottage.

She recognized the soft sobs as female, but surely the
bean-sidhe
did not carry a lantern. Alianor’s shaking hand found and tried the latch. It gave way and the door swung open, startling her and the occupant within.

From where she knelt beside an empty pallet, a woman scrambled to her feet. Alianor did not recognize the face with the blotched skin and swollen eyes at first, but the snarled mass of curly dark hair she did.

“Rosaleen.” Alianor saw she was crying — nay, sobbing — and by lantern’s light, even the scowl she returned looked pitiful. “What are you doing here?”

“G-go away.”

Rosaleen bent an arm across her face as if to shield herself from the sight of her visitor.

Alianor glanced around the desolately empty one-room cottage to the woman, remembering. “This was Torin’s place.”

At the sound of his name, a choked wail escape Rosaleen’s lips. Some unknown force compelled Alianor to step into the hut. Despite the fact this woman hated her, and she bore no lost love for Rosaleen, either, she found herself driven to offer some kind of reassurance.

She touched Rosaleen’s arm and a flood of intense emotion rolled over her, causing her to gasp and step back. Images flashed in her head: Torin laughing with Rosaleen, the two lovers embracing, Torin fighting Liam, Rosaleen weeping over Torin’s body — and then Rosaleen herself lying pale, still, unmoving. With a rush of insight, she glanced at the pallet and saw the bundle of herbs arranged there: henbane, nightshade, the frothy blossoms of cowbane. The last vision had not happened yet, but the intention was there. And she saw something else …

“No, Rosaleen, you must not consider this desperate act.”

Startled, Rosaleen stared at Alianor and bit her lip as if debating whether or not she should be angry.

“Your grief has overruled your wisdom,” Alianor said. “Agony has clouded your insight.”

“Shut up,” Rosaleen cried. “What do you know about pain?” She clapped her hands over her swollen eyes, weeping bitterly.

“I know it will destroy you if you let it. But not just you, Rosaleen, you would destroy Torin’s last gift to you …”

Rosaleen’s hands dropped like lead to her sides. She gazed into Alianor’s eyes while her own streamed with tears; her mouth opened, but no words emerged.

“Aye, you carry Torin’s bairn beneath your heart,” Alianor said gently.

With a whimper, Rosaleen clutched her midriff and her legs trembled so much Alianor rushed to support her. She lowered the woman onto the pallet, tossing the deadly plants aside.

“You have a reason to live, as you have part of Torin forever with you now.”

At Alianor’s words, Rosaleen slumped against her, too shocked and dazed to even cry. Alianor did not know how she knew it herself, but when she had touched Rosaleen’s arm, her mind flooded with images ranging from death to new life.

And now, she sensed a seed of something else growing in Rosaleen — joy.

“I-I have not b-bled since Beltane,” she whispered wonderingly. “Can it be true?”

Alianor smiled as she waited for full realization to sink into the stunned woman. “Aye, a babe-in-arms by Imbolc next. What will you name him?”

She didn’t have to ask, of course; she knew just as Rosaleen did, there was only one name for the blond bairn who would bring his mother delight beyond words for many years to come.

Chapter Thirty-six

L
IGHTNING CRACKLED OVER THE
O’Connor keep, though no clouds marred the rust-colored horizon. Glancing out the leaded windows, Duvessa yanked the heavy curtains closed. In the canopied bed behind her, a man spoke querulously.

“Leave them,” O’Connor said. “I want to see my hills and the lough.”

His weak voice quivered with strain. Duvessa took delight in ignoring his request. Instead she turned and resumed her position before the cold hearth, where she embroidered on a black stag tapestry by the dim light of three candles.

“Did you hear me, woman?” Her husband’s fist struck the mattress, frail as a child’s. She sewed another stitch and looked up, content to see his red-rimmed eyes sunken in his face and his frame shriveled from its former size.

O’Connor was dying. The physical evidence pleased her, as did the knowledge she was secure in her role as sole Queen of Connacht. Mor no longer posed any threat; that annoyingly devout woman had conveniently retired to a nunnery to live out her days. All that remained was getting rid of Aedh and Felim now, and of course Liam. She had received a message from de Lacy, and despite his exile from Fountainhall, he promised arms and support against the King, who was bound to challenge her rule in the wake of her husband’s death.

King John did not believe any woman competent when it came to ruling a shire, much less an entire kingdom, and word of the O’Connor’s illness had already reached him. Lackland’s emissaries already paced, waiting for opportunity to pounce, and declare O’Connor’s possessions forfeit to the Crown.

Duvessa might appeal on behalf of her son, Dermot, but her notion of ruling Connacht as an invisible guardian no longer pleased her. She had decided she had every right to rule open and proud as the glorious Queen Maeve had done. Had not the Queen faced her enemies, with no spare thought for their outrage? She would do the same, and no anemic English King would stop her. Nor would the once-hale man glaring at her from the bed across the room.

“I heard you,” she said at last, the needle in her hand flashing by candlelight. “You needn’t shout.”

“I want to see the lough,” he repeated doggedly.

Exasperated, Duvessa threw the tapestry aside. “Why, so you can dream an old man’s foolish dreams about young love?” A sneer curled her lip and she laughed outright at him. “No doubt you imagine running down to the water’s edge to meet your precious Caireen.”

“No doubt I do,” he said, a hint of the gruff O’Connor lacing his voice. The surge of strength made her eyebrow arch. Aye, he was an old dog dying by slow degrees, but Duvessa knew a wounded cur still might snap at one’s ankles in passing. She must not underestimate his determination to drag out his passage to the underworld.

Annoyed, she succumbed to an evil urge. “There is news, milord.” She kept her voice cheery and casual, watching him from beneath lowered lashes.

“Eh? What news, woman? Is Lackland planning a dance, does he wish the infamous King of Connacht to attend?” O’Connor shout of laughter filled the room, but he subsided into a fit of coughing. Duvessa waited for him to quiet.

She found the tincture effective, after all. A small pinch in his mead or ale each day, and all his symptoms appeared to be those of a natural wasting disease. Though he ate and drank, somehow no nourishment fed him, and he weakened a bit each day. Nobody suspected a thing; even Dermot’s eyes teared whenever he visited his father. Whilst she watched her son snivel like a babe in swaddling, Duvessa wondered how it was possible she and the great O’Connor had spawned an ineffective weakling.

Dermot had inherited her cruel streak, and O’Connor’s temper, but little intelligence. His fits were those of a mad child, and getting progressively worse. She feared Dermot was unfit for ruling Connacht. If so, there was naught to be done; she must step into the high seat. Should King John be displeased with her rule, she would bring Connachtmen to bear arms in her defense.

The King and O’Connor had made truce; her husband had met the justiciar at Athlone before he sickened and promised Connacht would pay tribute. Yet Duvessa had no qualms in dissolving the agreement if the King proved irascible to her plans. She did not intend to be a pawn to any man, be he King or husband. Or both.

She looked at O’Connor with no emotion save bitter satisfaction at his impending death. “Not a dance, milord husband, a public hanging of a common thief. I vow ’twill prove entertaining in the end.”

O’Connor grumbled as he fussed with his blankets. “Entertaining, my arse. In the old days, Lady Justice did not wait. She dealt a swift blow, ruthless, without parading in public a man’s execution merely for the purpose of amusing the rabble.”

“Oh, I quite agree. I am, of course, a bit distressed for your sake, however.”

“Hmm? Why so? Now, where is my feather tick pillow?” O’Connor sorted through the bolsters until he found the one he wanted, and tucked it behind his head. Spent even by a small action, he paused to catch his breath. “Why would a footpad’s death interest me, wife?”

Duvessa hesitated, but the temptation to provoke a fit in this man she loathed proved too tempting. “Because the criminal who will meet his end is your bastard son,” she said, swallowing the laughter threatening to escape her lips.

O’Connor’s face grayed; pain and grief flooded his dark eyes. Duvessa was certain any affection for Liam was spawned from older, deeper memories of Caireen Caomhánach. Even that she could not countenance.

“Liam. Why?” he rasped, staring at her, stricken.

Duvessa shrugged. “’Tis said your bastard is accounted a no-good ruffian, a wastrel outlaw, a lowly thief. Apparently, he followed in his mother’s footsteps, for she was wont to steal what did not belong to her.” She could never resist insulting Caireen; she hated having to compete with the woman’s sainted image all these years. A flash of anger lit O’Connor’s eyes; he had struck her for far less, but he was too weak and she safely out of range.

“Be quiet, woman,” he railed at her, between another fit of coughs which rattled like old bones in his chest. “Send for Moineruadh.”

She made no move to summon the scribe. “There is nothing you can do, husband.”

“I will put a stop to this,” O’Connor vowed, trying to hurl back the covers. Duvessa watched with secret glee as his frail legs refused to cooperate. He scrabbled about in the great bed, helpless as a bairn. He was gasping, his face red as his hand now. She hoped his heart might fail, but alas, he struggled on.

“A spot of ale will revive you,” she suggested, rising at last and fetching the decanter from the sideboard. While he wheezed behind her, she added a few flakes of powder from a small vial hidden in her sleeve into a pewter goblet. She then poured fresh ale atop it, watching to make sure it dissolved.

She turned and smiled at him. “If you flail about so, you will hurt yourself, dearheart.”

O’Connor gasped, clutching at his throat. She carried the goblet over to him, placed it in his shaking hand and wrapped his fingers about it.

“Drink,” she urged. “It will clear your throat, calm your nerves.”

He glanced at the goblet in his violently shaking hand, and nodded. Duvessa started to pivot away, satisfied he would do her bidding, when he hurled the ale at her, the liquid splashing over her face and bosom. She gasped, outraged by his gesture of contempt and defiance.

When she whirled back, his dark eyes glowed with satisfaction.

“I’m not dead yet, wife,” O’Connor snarled at her with a ghost of his old spirit. “I suggest you call off the mourners for a wee bit longer. Now fetch the damned scribe before I throttle you senseless.”

Shaking with fury, Duvessa swept to the door and opened it. It was true, the old cur could still shout for help, or accuse her of all manner of reckless things within the hearing of others. She must play along until he was sufficiently weak. She called out to a passing page, her voice sharper than usual.

“Fetch Moineruadh, quickly.” She made certain O’Connor heard her order, hoping it would placate him long enough for her to institute the next stage of her plan.

Duvessa had no intention of letting her husband send a missive to the King, but she wished it to seem as if she still did his bidding. Let the old goat be lulled by her apparent submission, until he trusted her enough and turned his back. The next time she plunged the proverbial dagger home, it would be swift and sure.