Lord of the Isle (21 page)

A stiff wind from the north had dissipated the morning fog. Morgana had fastened her hair under a netting to keep it out of her eyes. She took the extra precaution of binding it now underneath a kerchief. Last, she drew on her kidskin gloves. The palms and fingertips were showing their age and the use she’d put them through in the past year. Still, they were the last pair of gloves she owned. Use them she would, until they fell apart completely.

Maury and Sean were not in the least surprised to find that three red-haired boys had joined their troop. Names were exchanged and caps admired.

As Hugh boosted Morgana onto her saddle, she scanned the group. “We are missing O’Toole and Shamus.”

“That’s right.” Hugh answered cryptically. He didn’t want Morgana to worry. He hadn’t mentioned the soldiers tailing them.

“How far is Dunluce?”

“A league and a half, north by northeast. We’ll ride straight through, and be there well before noon.”

“When’s high tide?” It was Morgana’s last question, for the time being.

Hugh turned round to look at the moon. He finished buckling the last strap on her saddlebag and patted her hip reassuringly. “After midnight, by my judgment. You won’t miss it, I promise you.”

Taking him at his word, Morgana turned her attention to her brothers. It had been decided, for safety’s sake, that Sean and Maurice would each ride double with a kern and the new boys would ride their ponies.

Hugh boosted Sean onto Boru, then sprang up into the saddle behind him. Maurice was almost completely hidden
by the drape of Art Macmurrough’s ample plaid. They rode across the wide bridge over the Bann into Antrim. At the crossroads before Portrush, took the lesser road east, between Aghren and Ballyreagh.

Tyrone’s forests were far behind them on this leg of the journey. The hills leading to Ballyreagh were less steep, and the closer they came to the coast, the rockier the landscape became. What trees there were began to show the marks of the relentless north Atlantic wind.

A tall bank of clouds loomed on the northeast horizon, flat-topped and billowing underneath, and the sunrise bore a distinct and lingering aura of red—a portent of a stormy afternoon.

Castle Dunluce could be seen from miles away, high on a promontory overlooking the sea. Even from a distance, the castle looked formidable and impregnable. The closer they came to it, the less appeal it had for Morgana’s eye. She urged Ariel to catch up with Boru, specifically to ask Hugh questions about the inhabitants of the austere structure. But when she did catch him, she had something even more important to ask about.

The north wind now howled in their ears. It swept over the top of the black granite cliffs, tearing the words from Morgana’s mouth as she shouted her questions to Hugh.

“Who built Dunluce?”

“Originally?” he shouted back. “Normans, I think. A de Burgh, possibly. The Scots wrested control of it some time ago. Why do you ask?”

“It looks a dreadful place.”

“Wait till you step inside it. It’s worse than you- can imagine. Haunted, they say.”

“By whom?” Morgana asked.

“By every race known to Ireland. Look, there’s the road, or what passes for one here. We’ll cross via the drawbridge, provided I’ve got credentials enough to get us inside.”

“Isn’t the Mac Donnell your vassal?”

Hugh grinned, and the wind whipped his hair across his brow. Sean looked up from the drape of Hugh’s plaid to squint into the wind and see where they were going. He’d been very quiet since coming face-to-face with Morgana in the bedchamber where she’d spent the night.

“Sorely Boy’s my vassal as much as he’s any man’s vassal.”

“What does that mean?” Sean asked.

“That means never turn your back on him, lad,” Hugh answered with blunt authority. He waved Morgana ahead of him on the narrow track winding up the rocks to the castle gate. When she was well surrounded by the five kerns who remained with him on this leg of the journey, Hugh dropped back to use his spyglass and search the plateau for O’Toole and Shamus Fitz. They had remained behind in Colraine to investigate any redcoats lingering in the vicinity.

As he closed the glass to put it away, he noticed that Sean’s fingers fairly twitched on Boru’s pommel. Except for the one question asked in the presence of his sister, Sean Fitzgerald had been a silent companion from the start of the ride till now.

Hugh opened the glass full out and asked, “Do you want to have a look, Sean?”

“Aye, sir, I do.”

Hugh put the spyglass in his hand and instructed briefly, “Twist it to bring things into focus. There, that’s right. What do you see?”

“Rocks, a bent tree and the sky, sir.” Sean swiveled in front of Hugh, scanning to the south and west. “Who is it you are looking for?”

“O’Toole.”

“Oh.” The boy took the spyglass from his eye and twisted it closed. Curious, he opened it and closed it twice before handing it back to Hugh to put safely away. Hugh clucked to Boru and turned back to the road. Boru trotted briskly up the hillside.

“I hope nothing I said or did caused any friction between you and your gillie, sir,” Sean said stiffly. Hugh was well aware of what it cost a proud boy to apologize. He’d been in Sean’s shoes most of his life—at the mercy of powerful barons and lords who had the queen’s ear.

“It would take more than an insult or two to put something serious between Loghran and I, lad. He treats me like I’m his errant son.”

“I see,” Sean answered, but Hugh knew that he didn’t.

“Perhaps the easiest way to explain what I mean is that Loghran has been a father to me when I’ve needed fathering.”

“Is your father dead, sir?”

“Yes,” Hugh answered concisely. “I never knew him, though my uncle, Matthew, tried to take his place.”

“Like me and my father?”

“Possibly. How long has it been since you’ve seen your father?”

“Years, sir. Once or twice he came to Clare Island and visited, but he has always gone back to France to raise his army.”

“You and Maurice lived on Clare Island with Morgana and her husband?”

“No, not then. Only after she was widowed and she came out of the convent.” Sean’s shoulders went up and down. “She sent us away. Said it wasn’t safe to be staying in a pirate’s compound. I always thought it was because she’s afraid of ships sinking.”

Hugh mulled over that insight as he came abreast of the others waiting outside the castle gate for the portcullis to be raised. Some fool as old as Sorely Mac Donnell manned the gatehouse.

“Open the gate, Donovan,” Hugh raised his voice to be heard above the howl and whip of the increasing wind.

“Who is it that wants in?” asked a small girl who poked her head out the wicket portal.

Hugh glared at the impish face regarding him with the curiosity of a sun-warmed cat. “The earl of Tyrone,” he barked at her.

“Och, Donovan,” she said, loud and clear, as she withdrew from the wicket. “Ya best let the man in. He’s full of himself, he is.”

Morgana ducked her head and hid a smile behind her glove before managing to straighten her face and look back at Hugh. “Clearly we’re all going to hell in a handbasket together, my lord, if this is the state of things with the next generation. No respect for their elders.”

“Don’t goad me,” Hugh warned. “I’ve got troubles enough getting what little respect I do get, milady.”

Only one of the huge barred doors swung open, both the old man and the girl powering it. The girl ran ahead of the retainer, and was first to take hold of Ariel’s bridle when Morgana drew to a halt.

“Who are you, milady?” she asked curiously as Morgana dismounted.

“I’m Morgan O’Malley,” Morgana replied, with a smile for the dark-haired child. She was all eyes for the band of red-haired boys dismounting and stretching their legs.

“Are ye Irish or Scots?” she asked next.

“Irish,” Morgana replied. The statement was out before Morgana realized what she’d said and how proudly her voice sounded to her own ears. Her smile broadened on her face, but it wasn’t reflected back at her in the eyes of the somber child.

“Oh,” the child said, crestfallen. She stood very still, watching Hugh dismount. He stood back from Boru, allowing Sean to spring to the cobblestones.

“Who are you?” Morgana asked her.

“Me? Oh, I’m the Mulvaine.” There was a light lisp in her voice, the result of her missing several prominent milk teeth while permanent ones descended into place. “I’ve been watching out the wicket for ever so long, waiting for someone special to come.” Her eyes left Hugh, and she looked at
each adult member of their party with an intensity that seemed uncommon for so young a child. “He’s not here.”

“Who is it you are looking for?” Morgana asked.

“Why, the O’Neill,” the child replied solemnly. “I’m going to be a sorcerer’s apprentice. The O’Neill is to take me to the master.”

Morgana blinked in surprise at the child’s guileless statement. The doors of the hall burst open then, spewing hounds and servants and a blustering old man in plaid trews and a tartan slung across his shoulder. The girl ducked under Ariel’s belly and ran away before Morgana could tell her another word.

Sorely Mac Donnell bellowed out a greeting, and Hugh went up the steps to meet the elderly leader. In the bustle of being presented and welcomed, Morgana did not think of the strange little girl with the clear gray eyes again till much later in the day.

I
nghinn Dubh rushed to the hall the moment she was informed that the earl of Tyrone had come to call upon her father, Sorely Mac Donnell. Her eagerness for company was chilled when she saw who Hugh O’Neill escorted into Sorely’s hall. That bedraggled, wretched woman he’d pulled out of the Abhainn Mor.

Still, it was Inghinn’s duty to act the gracious hostess to all her father’s guests. The name the lady gave had some meaning to Inghinn. Grace O’Malley frequently visited Dunluce. As she escorted Morgana to the solar, Inghinn did her best to draw in her claws and make polite conversation.

“So, you’re an O’Malley. Do you know the Lady Grace?”

Morgana knew a test when she heard one. She smiled politely back at Inghinn. “I am related by marriage to a woman named Grace O’Malley. She is my late husband’s sister. Is she the Grace of whom you speak?”

“You’re Gregory’s widow?” Inghinn choked, and she colored to the roots of her lampblack hair. She stopped walking and dropped into a deep and graceful curtsy to Morgana. “Countess, I beg you, forgive me. I did not realize to whom I was speaking.”

“Nonsense.” Morgana caught Inghinn’s wrist to stop her from making an unnecessary show of obeisance. “You do not have to curtsy to me, Inghinn. That old title passed to

Gregory’s heir several years ago. I am no longer a countess, and to tell the truth, I never felt I was from the start.”

“Oh, I am so embarrassed.” Inghinn laid her hand on her breast, still apologetic. “Why, I snubbed you abominably at Dungannon. Please, I beg you, forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. We barely met in passing, and I will be the first to admit that I was woefully lacking in any and all graces at the time. Come, we will be friends from here out, correct?”

“Certes, my lady.” Inghinn ushered Morgana into the cheery solar that overlooked the sea. “Welcome to Dunluce.”

A bank of beautiful mullioned windows gave a dramatic view over the distant stony formation called the Giant’s Causeway. Now that her eyes were shielded from the sting of the wind, Morgana could appreciate the wild and natural beauty of the northern coastline. She really hadn’t been able to do so on the ride across the bluff.

“What is that curious rock formation?” Morgana asked Inghinn, pointing to an upright tor nearly as tall as the basalt cliffs themselves. “Hugh has already described the wonder of Finn mac Cool’s bridge, but we couldn’t see those tors from the road.”

“It’s called Chimney Tops,” Inghinn explained, then joined Morgana at the mullioned windows to point out other curiosities. “Antrim has not much else to boast about, save our wild weather and the stark beauty of the coast. Those beautiful gray mountains rising from the sea are in Scotland. It’s a lovely view, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes.” Morgana considered the whole scope of the dramatic formation of sea, earth and sky. To the northwest, both sky and sea were a threatening, ominous bluegray of a new storm bearing down on Ireland. Directly over the castle, white, fleecy clouds ran fast across the brilliant azure sky. “Why, were I to live here, I’d be driven to paint such beauty.”

Inghinn chuckled softly. “Many of us are. I try with my watercolors and conte, but I fear my efforts are never as splendid as the real thing. My sister Leah was very gifted with paint and brush. She did many of the oils you will find scattered about the manse. Father keeps them as a reminder of her.”

Morgana shook her head, marveling at the dramatic splendors framed by the window. Looking at the dark, ominous clouds in the northwest made her shiver.

“It’s going to storm,” Inghinn said, reading Morgana’s thoughts.

“It most certainly is,” Morgana agreed. “How safe and protected is your harbor?”

“Very.” Inghinn pointed to the jutting black stones at the base of Dunluce. “You can just see the entrance to the cove. It’s well sheltered from the north wind. Father’s ships ride out most storms there. I’m told, by those who know, that the trick is to put into port before a storm.”

A genuine smile creased dimples in Inghinn’s creamy Celtic complexion. She was just as beautiful as Morgana had suggested to Hugh. She and Inghinn were of the same age, both in their early twenties, but two women could not have been more different. Inghinn was delicately formed, graceful, as feminine as damask linen. Standing next to her, Morgana felt toweringly tall and overdeveloped. For a moment, she saw Inghinn as a formidable rival for Hugh’s affection.

Morgana put that negative thought aside as petty and selfish. Hugh was entitled to any woman he wanted. Theirs was not a permanent liaison. Come tomorrow morning, Morgana would be gone. It would behoove her not to dwell on Hugh, longing for what she could never have.

They made small talk into the late morning, then went down to the hall for the midday meal. Sean cajoled Hugh into loaning him his spyglass. He wanted permission to stay the whole afternoon on the parapets, watching for the
Avenger
to come. The Mac Donnell said that was impossible
when a storm was brewing. He did send one of his retainers out with the boys to let them look for a little while, but when the storm hit, everyone was back indoors.

The fires in the great hall’s hearths were kept well stoked all afternoon because the storm brought a bone-chilling cold north wind howling over Antrim. Great, booming claps of thunder rattled the rafters in the castle’s roof. Frequently lightning struck hard enough to shake the stone walls.

A constant bustle of servants and the commotion of boys dominated the midday meal in Sorely Mac Donnell’s hall. Hugh O’Neill had brought with him a handful of extra excitable boys. Like Sean and Maurice, each wanted to be where the next crack of lightning was going to strike, to see if Dunluce’s thick walls would shake.

Morgana and Inghinn visited pleasantly amid the ebb and flow of the menfolk’s more heated conversations. Morgana occasionally heard snatches of politics and religion, punctuated by outlandish oaths regarding the sport of kings, horse racing.

An hour into the storm, Maurice gave up trying to keep up with Sean and contented himself with playing chess against the Mac Donnell’s confessor, lame Father Eddie.

The little girl with the gray eyes put in an appearance shortly after Maurice settled in at the chessboard. Morgana saw her peeking out from behind a pillar, studying Maurice and the chess pieces with a covetous eye. Morgana hoped the boys would have the good manners to invite the child to join the game. Neither Maurice nor the old Cleric took any note of her.

“Who is the shy little girl?” Morgana asked Inghinn.

Totally unaware of the child, Inghinn turned to look and then returned to Morgana, shrugging a negligent shoulder. “That’s Cara, my half sister Leah’s child.” Inghinn added a deep sigh to her answer. “She’s as wild as the weather. Ignore her. She’s only looking for attention.”

Morgana wanted to say that the little girl had claimed she was seeking the O’Neill, but something made Morgana keep
that remark to herself. For some reason, Hugh did not want to be called by that title. His kerns did so with impunity, but no others did.

A short while later, Hugh separated himself from conversation with Sorely Mac Donnell and his sons and crossed the vast hall to where Morgana stood in conversation with Inghinn and her sisters-in-law.

His arm slipped easily around Morgana’s waist, and he kissed her cheek. “Did you miss me, my dearest? Inghinn, you’re looking beautiful as ever. Your father tells me Red Hugh O’Donnell called upon him yesterday, asking for your hand in marriage. May I be the first to congratulate you?”

Morgana blinked in surprise. Inghinn shyly blushed over Hugh’s compliment and accepted his congratulations with grace.

“You know full well I have always had a special place in my heart for the O’Donnell,” Inghinn admitted. “Thanks to your sisters’ gracious hospitality, and the fact that you had returned at last from England, O’Donnell became jealous enough to rise out of his complacency and ask Father for my hand. I feared I would wither away here in Dunluce forever.” Dimples flashed in Inghinn’s cheeks as she added, “I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

“We couldn’t have that, now, could we?” Hugh laughed as he gave a brotherly kiss to Inghinn. He winked over the top of her dark head at Morgana. “You can’t go wrong with old Hugh. He’s a bookish man, but fair. Likely he’ll worship the ground you walk on, as well he should.”

“Please, don’t go on,” Inghinn insisted softly. “If you will both excuse me, I must see what progress Brenna is making toward supper. My lord.” Inghinn curtsied deeply to Hugh. Gracefully lifting her skirts just clear of her dainty feet, Inghinn withdrew from the hall.

Her ladies took that as a signal to withdraw, also, leaving Hugh and Morgana alone with each other.

“I thought she’d never leave you to me,” Hugh whispered in Morgana’s ear. “Let’s stroll on the parapet and
watch the storm. I want to have a look to the south, to see if Loghran and Shamus Fitz are coming to the Castle gates. They should have been here by now.”

“Why did you leave them behind?” Morgana asked.

“To check out the rumor that James Kelly was sighted in Colraine,” Hugh explained bluntly. “Come, the parapet is this way.”

Morgana declined, with good reason. “We’ll get struck by lightning.”

“Nonsense,” Hugh insisted. He steered her toward an open door into the gallery. “The parapet I’m talking about has a covered walk. I promise, you won’t even get wet.”

“You certainly appear to know your way about Dunluce,” Morgana remarked.

“I suppose I do. I’ve spent some time here. Sorely has the uncanny ability to involve the O’Neills in his devious and sometimes nefarious schemes. For the sake of peace with England, I’d rather he didn’t, though.”

The castle was huge, full of unending corridors and shut-off rooms. Hugh’s denial notwithstanding, Morgana was convinced he rather liked being a frequent guest here.

Some of Dunluce was in dreadful repair, and crumbling, Morgana discovered as they went up to the parapet that ran the full width of the castle’s northernmost seawall. Hugh had to put his shoulder hard into an oak door to force it to open. There was evidence that the outer wall had collapsed and been repaired. The cliff face on which that edge stood gave Morgana vertigo at the sheerness of the drop into the crashing sea.

No sooner had they left the solid confines of stout stone walls than the cold banshee wind howled and tore at Morgana’s skirts, batting them against her legs. Hugh laughed as the wild wind struck his face. He leaned over the balustrade and looked down at the foamy surf beating at the solid rock on which Dunluce stood, dominating the sea.

Hugh turned to Morgana, hand out and fingers beckoning to her to come close. “You must see this. It’s magnificent. The sea boils against the cliff.”

Teeth chattering, Morgana said, “I’d rather not.”

“What?” His brow twisted above his so endearing brown eyes. “Are you frightened, Morgana?”

She took a deep breath of salty, spume-tasting air, whipped to frenzy. Rain slanted in under the roof of the parapet and beat at Hugh’s tunic, flattening his hair against his brow. He was in his element, delighted by nature’s tempest. She swallowed and made her feet bring her forward to him, but when she reached the edge, where she could look down and see the crashing waves, she turned her face into Hugh’s chest, refusing to look.

Hugh’s laugh sounded so gentle as he drew her close. His breath warmed her ear. “So, at last, I’ve found your specific weakness. Tell me, my love, it isn’t the heights that bothers you, is it? It’s the water.”

Morgana rubbed her hand across her face. Her skin felt clammy. Her stomach rolled. She gripped his tunic and lifted her face to look over the edge of the stones. Far, far below them, white water pounded against the rocky cliff, foaming and gurgling as it curled up the wall, then sank out to sea again.

“Aye, it’s the water.” She pressed her fingers against her mouth and shut her eyes. Hugh’s arms tightened around her. A soft kiss soothed her brow.

“Ah, Morgana, my love, why is it you never tell me what to expect from you? Do you want to go back in?”

“No.” She shook her head, taking control of her stomach and her head, determined to face her deepest fears. “It’s wonderful out here with you, the wind and the wet, the chill and your heat.”

“My heat, eh? Do you know how you tempt me with words like that?” His fingers lifted her chin, tilting her face so that his mouth could join with hers. His tongue slid past her lips in that dueling dance of mating that only he could
do so well. His kiss was hot and full of his spice and over too soon. “Shall we go indoors and find some quiet alcove where we can tuck ourselves away and out of sight?”

“There is no such thing as a quiet alcove in a storm like this, my lord,” Morgana told him.

“My bedchamber at Dungannon, my lady. It’s the perfect refuge in a storm. The walls are so thick, it’s like some deep cocoon buried in the earth. Safe, warm, and womblike. I’d give my all to be there with you right this moment.”

Morgana knew exactly what he meant. She rubbed her brow against his shoulder, content to stand in the circle of his arms while the elements did their worst around them. No force on earth would move Hugh O’Neill’s arms from her body. That made her feel more secure than she’d ever felt in her life. Not even the roiling sea could bother her, so long as Hugh had his strong arms around her.

Hugh spread his fingers in the coils of her hair, gently massaging the silken tresses encasing the back of her head. “The storm will pass soon, Morgana.”

“Aye.” She looked to the gray belly of the storm, where lightning gilded the dark. The clouds ran fast overhead. Those still coming from the north were less intense now, and the slanting rain was no longer so fierce. “It will pass before dusk.”

“And then what, Morgana?” Hugh asked somberly. “Is this the end for us? Are you leaving me?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, startled by so direct a question.

“You know what I mean.” Hugh slid his thumb under her jaw to tilt her face to his. “Are you going back to the sea? Will you climb aboard Grace O’Malley’s ship and sail away without ever looking back at me? Is that what this is about?”