Emerald Prince (56 page)

Duvessa flinched at the vehemence in his voice. Perhaps not so much fear for herself, but for the implication of his words for Dermot.

“I know your every scheme, woman, and over the years I have chosen to ignore your duplicity and sour nature, but no more. I promise, Duvessa my sweet,” his endearment was clearly sardonic, despite the softness of his tone, “you shall die long before I do.”

“What about Dermot?” she demanded, still insolent despite her present situation.

“Never fear, your sorry offspring will get what he deserves, as will you.” He waved at the guards. “Secure them in the dungeon.”

De Lacy shouted as he was dragged past them, “If you release me, O’Connor, I am prepared to reward you.”

“With what? Your charm, or your cock?” The old warrior-king laughed. He glanced at the empty goblet on the floor and Duvessa, amusement tinging his words. “Are you playing with potions again, my dear?”

She stiffened. “You cannot prove anything. Besides, nobody will care when you are moldering in your grave like your beloved Caireen.”

When his next fit of coughing subsided, O’Connor glowered at her. “Speak her name again, witch, and I will slit your throat myself.”

“Potions?” de Lacy demanded, looking back and forth between them.

Duvessa remained silent and would not meet his gaze, and O’Connor laughed.

“Aye. Apparently my lovely wife has a penchant for mischief, de Lacy. Not only has she been poisoning me by slow degrees, but may well have others in mind for her vengeance. The old witch who sells her these deadly wares says my queen here knows more than one way of dealing dark cards to a man.”

Suspicion and fear shone in de Lacy’s eyes. He cast a panicked glance to the goblet on the floor. “Nay!”

O’Connor chuckled. “Perhaps if you had not been so busy futtering my wife, you might have noticed her mixing potions behind your back.” His mirth subsided, and his manner hardened as he turned to his guards.

“Let them share a cell. After all, since de Lacy’s tasted the delights between my wife’s legs, so too should he endure the bite of her viperous tongue. Mayhap she can even be coaxed by his charms into telling him the antidote, if there is one.”

Duvessa cried, “My husband, you cannot … please …”

O’Connor ignored her, and motioned to his guards. “Take them away. I will gaze upon their lying faces no longer.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

L
IAM WATCHED
K
ING
J
OHN
enter his cell, holding a scented handkerchief delicately to his nostrils to diffuse the smell. The sight almost made Liam laugh. How rich. The pompous King of England offended by filth of his own making.

“You seem mirthful for a man who’s about to die, Caomhánach.” The King’s voice held a twinge of disappointment, but his gaze told Liam the idea of his death brought him great pleasure.

“You also seem a bit healthier than we anticipated. Obviously our direct orders were ignored in favor of the Queen’s.” The King glanced accusingly toward the guards, who stood stoic and unmoving, avoiding his gaze. “But, mayhap we should be grateful to my wife. Had those orders been followed, you might not have lived long enough for us to see your head roll on the morrow. It promises to be an entertaining event. Already people are coming from far and wide to see their so-called Emerald Prince die the death of a common criminal.”

Liam shrugged. “Death will only render me a martyr.”

King John laughed, his small eyes glinting with malice. “You are mortal, like any other common peasant, Caomhánach. Centuries of foolish legends will die when your head drops into the executioner’s bucket.”

 Liam watched the man pacing back and forth in front of him. The King stopped and faced him. “Have you nothing to say, Irishman?” he demanded.

“Beheaded? I thought I was going to hang,” Liam replied. His tone was so casual, the King’s face reddened.

“How you die is of little import,” he snapped. “Surely you wish to beg us for your life?”

“Not particularly.”

Absently rubbing at his shoulder, the King resumed pacing. “The O’Connor,” he paused, glancing at Liam for his reaction. Seeing none, he continued, “Your father has sent a plea, asking for a stay of execution.”

Liam said nothing.

“We are told you deny your relation to O’Connor. Why? Royal blood courses in his veins, though it bears the taint of Irish kings.”

“My reasons are my own.”

King John smiled thinly. “No coincidence surely that our favorite hunting dog is called a liam hound. As we command that great stubborn brute of a canine, so shall we rule you, Irishman.”

He stepped closer, his face only inches from Liam’s. He knew how to get a reaction out of this maddeningly calm man. “Your leman has also come to beg our mercy,” he said, “or try and buy it with the honey between her legs.”

A low growl escaped Liam. He lunged at King John, but was jerked back by the chains binding him. The King stepped away, satisfied he had, at last, hit a raw nerve. He smiled. “Aye, our little Alianor is a tasty tidbit.”

Liam closed his eyes against the foul image the man evoked. But he could not close his ears to the King’s vile words.

“Love has rendered fools of you both.”

He continued, “Still, we are pleased she has returned to court. Alianor pleads clemency on your behalf, Caomhánach. We hear a rag-tail lot of Irishmen accompanied her and find it most amusing. Where do you find all these dirty miscreants? Followers with misplaced devotion and misguided faith placed in their outlaw prince.”

The King mockingly emphasized the word prince. Again, his laughter rang off the cold stone walls. “Alianor is a fool to think a motley bunch of Irish vermin can sway our decision. These peasants do not warrant any consideration beyond contempt.

“Neither does your sire, although in his younger days O’Connor was a worthy adversary.” King John turned to leave. “But,” he added, glancing back at Liam. “we certainly won’t mind entertaining a bargain in private with the luscious Lady de Lacy. We confess she still has the capacity to stir our loins.”

The smile twisting the King’s lips faded a bit as he touched the purple scar marring his forehead. “But she’ll not catch us unawares again.”

“She should have crushed your skull in.” Liam spat, his words unleashing the violent hate and fury he felt. He wanted to kill this man with every fiber of his being. If pure rage dissolved steel, the manacles would have dropped from his wrists right there.

Anger flashed in the King’s eyes. “We will enjoy watching her face as your head rolls into the basket, or your body twitches and jerks from the drop. We haven’t yet decided which method of execution will torture the lady more. Whatever our decision, once dispatched, we shall bend her over and take her, while your body cools. It will be a lovely sight for the spectators to behold, don’t you think?”

He spun on his heel and left. Liam’s anguished cry echoed throughout the damp, dark dungeon.

A
LIANOR GAZED OUT THE
window of Fountainhall Castle, her fingers clenched upon the windowsill. She dreaded the coming dawn. King John was going to make a spectacle out of Liam’s execution and had refused to see her until now, only hours before Liam went before the executioner.

She waited in the great hall for the royal summons. Niall stood nearby. He had declared he would not let her go alone for an audience with the King and Alianor was glad of it. She trusted the King as much as a poisonous snake. Saint Patrick had driven the serpents from Eire, but who would banish Lackland from her shores?

She knew the King made them wait to build anxiety and break down courage. Alianor did her best to stay calm and collected, but found each minute ticking by added to her agony. She grew more agitated, pacing and wearing a path in the Turkish carpet.

Drawing in a deep breath, she tried to slow her racing heart as fear nagged at her. Why was she even here? What could she hope to gain from this meeting? It was a gamble, a risk; she prayed she held enough cards to bluff the King.

Would O’Connor’s aid and the unspoken threat of an Irish uprising make Lackland reconsider his position? Or had matters gone too far for either of them to back down? These were questions she couldn’t answer. She only knew she must do everything possible to free Liam.

A door swung open and the King’s justiciar, John de Grey, entered the great hall. She acknowledged him with a deep curtsey, thinking again he had kind eyes.

Shortly thereafter, King John himself entered, William Marshal flanking him. Despite the King’s dislike of the famous knight, he trusted no other to guard his back. Alianor noted the pinched look on the King’s face, the paleness of his skin and dark circles beneath his eyes. Her last encounter with him had left its mark. Besides the bruise upon his high forehead, his eyes reflected hatred when he looked at her. Still, she made her proper obeisance, as did Niall.

King John appeared to ignore her. Still, Alianor saw his covert glances; he could not disguise his interest in her. She made no effort to move closer to him, nor offer any show of respect other than the minimum demanded by law.

It was de Grey who cleared his throat, his slight frown noting her lack of true humility. Alianor stepped forward and looked straight at the justiciar, then turned her stone-like gaze to the King. Still, she made no move resembling groveling.

King John flashed Alianor an angry look, telling her without words he had noticed her defiant stance, and considered it an affront. When she still made no effort to speak, he finally did so, chagrined to be the one to break the strained silence between them.

“So, Lady de Lacy,” he snapped, already showing his impatience with her. “You have come to beg us for the Irish bastard’s life.”

Alianor didn’t flinch. She refused to crawl before this maggot of a monarch, despite her earlier intentions to do so. “I speak no words even remotely associated with begging. I shall not bother. I know too well you have no heart, nor a conscience of any kind, Sire.”

The insult was clear and hit him squarely. He drew himself up to his full height in an effort to intimidate her with his power and position. “Your King and Master does not tolerate insolence. Watch your serpent’s tongue, Madame, or we shall have it cut from you, so you shall never speak again.”

Alianor was beyond the caution fear brings. Niall grasped her elbow and whispered in warning, “Can you refrain from poking the hornet’s nest, colleen?”

She shook off Niall’s warning. “Would you gouge out my eyes as well, Your Majesty?” Her words released the venom surging inside her. “Then I cannot glare my hatred of you.”

The King sucked in a long breath, the sound echoed by de Grey’s gasp. Even Niall shot Alianor a look of shock, his eyes wide with dismay. He feared Alianor had signed their death warrants, but she knew they were already in place. She realized the King had no intention of letting them leave alive the moment he entered the chamber and looked at her. There was no more lust in his eyes, only fury. His pale, watery eyes narrowed on her. “You would be wise to remember you are at our mercy, Lady de Lacy.”

“Yes, I know what kind of merciful cards you deal out. Do you think me a fool who will fall prey to false hopes again?”

“The only hope we grant you is knowing you shall die alongside your Irish lover,” King John spat. “But first, we will break your stubborn spirit, and before death takes you, you
will
beg for our mercy. We are determined upon it.”

Alianor looked at him, all fear gone. “You would be wise to hear me out, Your Grace, lest you find an Irish army at your doorstep on the morrow.”

“Irish army? You call that flea-infested, mongrel lot you brought with you an army?” He snorted derisively.

Alianor waited for him to quiet. “Perhaps you were misadvised, Your Majesty. Last I heard there were thousands, and still they gather across Connacht.”

He sobered, and looked in Marshal’s direction. The elderly knight nodded. The King scowled. “The Irish dare no act of outright war. Why would anyone care what happens to one measly thief and his leman?”

“Because Liam Caomhánach is a son of Ireland,” Alianor said softly, proudly. “He is the Emerald Prince.”

“Emerald Prince. Bah! What has an insipid faery tale to do with all this?”

Alianor drew the cross from the bodice of her dress. The gold gleamed against her stark black gown, and the emerald glittered with the promises it held. “It’s not just a legend, and I, a daughter of Eire, am here to take Liam Caomhánach home.”

King John did not hear most of her words, his greedy gaze drawn to the Jewel of Knowledge,
Seòd Fios
. He stepped forward as if to touch it.

De Grey reached out and stayed his liege. There was worry sketched on the bishop’s face; he looked as if he actually feared for the King’s life if he touched the sacred stone. He murmured something to the King.

Glancing at his justiciar, King John reluctantly abandoned the notion. Instead, he sniffed and his lip curled in disdain. “Only a trinket. It means naught.”

Alianor shrugged. “Perhaps. Yet to the people of this land, it means everything, as our Prince does.”