Wild Angel (45 page)

Triona sighed. She had no idea what she was going to do
then. The future without Ronan looked so bleak that she didn’t want to think
about it, and, with her fast approaching the city gates, right now she didn’t
have time to.

After she made sure that her hood was pulled securely
over her hair, Triona veered Laeg closer to a creaking wooden cart full of
ripe-smelling goat cheese and asked the wiry driver in a gruff voice, "Bound
for the market?"

The man cast
her a
sideways
glance then looked back to the road. "Aye. What’s it to you, lad?"

Keeping her voice low, Triona shrugged. "I just
wondered if it was near Dublin Castle, is all. I’ve never been to the city
before. Don’t know my way around."

The driver glanced at her again, this time looking her
up and down before he focused once more in front of him. "The castle’s not
hard to find. You just look for all the stinking Normans." He gave a
grunt. "Follow alongside me if you want . . . but you’d best grab that
blanket from the cart and throw it over your horse. It might keep the guards
from asking you where you got so fine a steed."

"T-thank you," Triona murmured, hastily doing
what he said.

"And another thing—
miss
."

Triona gasped, meeting the man’s sharp eyes.

"I’d suggest you say as little as you can if you
don’t want anyone else to guess there’s a wench under that cloak."

She gulped, lowering her head as they came to the
massive gates. Her relief was intense when no one stopped them, the
cheese-seller giving her a quick wink when she dared to look up again.

As they wound their way along streets wider than
Kilkenny’s but just as crowded, Triona had no choice but to stick close to the
cart, so many people bustling here and there it was an amazing thing to see. Most
astounding were the number of Norman soldiers, but she shouldn’t have been
surprised considering it was rumored seven hundred ships had been needed to
carry King John’s army across the water to Eire.

"Dublin Castle, lad. Straight ahead."

Grateful that the cheese-seller was playing along with
her ruse especially with so many Normans around, she gave him a small smile
only to have him frown at her.

"None of that now," he muttered, nodding her
along. "You’ll give yourself away for sure."

With that, he clucked to his horse, the cart rumbling
onto another street before Triona could even thank him. Left alone, strangers
passing by her on every side, she gave in to a moment’s hesitation. But all she
had to do was remember Fineen, aye, and the cruel fate of her true parents as
well, and she found the courage she needed.

Somehow she had to get inside the castle walls, for
surely if King John was holding court, Maurice de Roche couldn’t be far from
his side. Her heart hammering at her sudden idea, she pulled the blanket from
Laeg’s back and mounted, carefully clutching her bowcase under her arm as she
kicked her horse into a trot and rode toward the guarded gates. She knew she
was drawing attention to herself, but better to be brazen and look convincing
for the mission she would soon profess.

There were others waiting to gain entrance, mailed
knights on horseback and still more people approaching on foot, but Triona
slowed Laeg to a walk and pushed right through to the front.

"A message for Baron de Roche," she said
gruffly to the nearest guard, a harried-looking man who swept her with a glance
and then waved her on. Her breath stilled, she didn’t tarry, but she’d no
sooner urged Laeg through the arched gateway when a strangely familiar voice
sounded behind her.

"For the baron, you say? I was just going to meet
him myself, boy. I’ll take the message for you."

It was the "boy" that struck her like a jolt.
Triona dug her heels into Laeg’s sides and spurred him across the huge yard
toward the building she hoped wildly was the hall.

"God’s blood, didn’t you hear me?"

Aye, she’d heard him, Triona’s heartbeat slamming so
loudly in her ears that it nearly drowned out the sound of Laeg’s hooves
hitting the earth.

"Stop that rider! Stop him at once!"

She gasped as guards suddenly came running at her from
all directions. She shot a glance behind her to find several mounted knights
riding hard on her heels, one of them the man who was shouting. With no hope
now of reaching the hall, she tugged up on the reins and veered Laeg sharply
around, crying out in dismay as she lost her hold on her bowcase, the leather
sheath tumbling to the ground.

She had wanted to make a dash for the gates but already
she was too late. Within an instant, she was surrounded by Normans. Hands
reached out to snatch the reins away from her while someone grabbed her cloak
from behind and yanked her violently off Laeg’s back. She hit the ground so
hard that she could only lie there on her side, stunned. But not for long.

"Get up!" that same familiar voice commanded
,
Triona hauled to her feet so abruptly that her head spun.
As her hood was pulled back, her hair tumbled free. A gasp went up from her
captors, Triona jerked around to face the blue-eyed de Roche knight who she’d
last seen in Kilkenny.

"You!" he grated, clearly incredulous. "You’re
the Irish bitch who cut me. Tricked me, too, you little whore! Jumping with
your black-haired friend from that window—"

"Aye, too bad it was only your hand I slashed and
not your damned throat!" Triona cried, reaching desperately inside her
cloak. But the man grabbed her wrist before she could pull out her dagger, a
tight smile creasing his face as he yanked the weapon from her belt. Yet he
sobered when he held it up, another gasp sounding from the men gathered around
her.

"God’s nightgown, William, you’ve a king’s
treasure in your hand!" someone breathed behind her. "Diamonds,
rubies. . ." But William ignored the man, holding the dagger only inches
from Triona’s face.

"Was this the message you intended for Baron de
Roche?" he demanded, staring furiously into her eyes.

"She had this with her, too!" added another
knight, the tall man pushing through the crowd with her bowcase.

"You’ve come to Dublin well armed, wench,"
William grated when Triona lifted her chin, remaining silent. "Since you’re
so clearly unwilling to talk to me, perhaps you might enjoy speaking to the
baron instead. It’s only fitting after all. He’s the one you came to murder."

The knight thrust her ahead of him so roughly that
Triona stumbled and fell hard to her knees, but he caught her by the collar and
hauled her once more to her feet. "Bring her horse!" he called out as
he dragged Triona along with him. "You’ve a fine steed, wench. Fine
weapons. I’d wager you’ve got a fine story to tell us as well."

Triona said nothing, stubbornly holding her tongue
though her apprehension was close to overwhelming her. Yet she forced herself
to keep her head. It was clear she was being taken to the hall, which was right
where she had wanted to be in the first place. God willing if King John were
inside, she would denounce Maurice de Roche to the very rafters.

"Hold her here," William commanded as they
approached the huge doors, two guards coming forward to grab her by the arms. "She’s
caused enough commotion for one day without disturbing the king’s audience."

"No, I demand to go with you!" Triona cried,
only to be silenced by such a blow across her cheek that she saw brilliant
lights flare in front of her eyes. Dazed, she slumped between the two guards,
tasting blood. Tears threatened but she refused to give in to them, not even
when William returned moments later to wrench her head up by the hair.

"Here she is, Baron. The same bitch who made me
look
such a fool in Kilkenny."

Triona opened her eyes, staring into the swarthy face
of a man she knew at once recognized her. She wanted to scream, to shriek, to
rail at him, but all she could manage was a hoarse whisper. "Murderer."

Maurice’s cold dark eyes narrowed,
then
he struck her, his backhanded blow so violent that she was knocked nearly
senseless to the ground.

"Fetch me your horse, William."

"My horse, Baron? But why—"

"Just do as I say!"

Through slitted eyes, Triona saw Maurice turn to face
those Normans still standing near, her jeweled dagger clutched tightly in his
hand.

"Go back to what you were doing, the rest of you.
Nothing more than a jealous Irish chit who’s showing her claws over my new
mistress."

Triona heard male laughter like strange echoes in her
ears, the crowd dispersing. Then the harsh voice of her uncle sounded once more
as he looked down at her.

"Say a word and you die right here."

Her wits slowly coming back into focus, Triona
nonetheless remained very still as if she
were
still
stunned from the blow. Her condition seemed to satisfy Maurice for he sheathed
the dagger in his sword belt and picked her up in his arms while William came
forward with his horse.

"Here. Take her while I mount, then lift her up to
me."

Willing herself to remain limp, Triona wanted
desperately to make some move against them but she was still so dizzy she didn’t
know if she might collapse during the attempt. Better to wait for a few moments
longer.

"I’ll be back before sunset, William. Tell the
rest of my knights. If anyone else asks for me, say to them just what you heard
me tell the others."

"Very well, my lord."

Triona kept her eyes closed as Maurice kicked the steed
into a gallop, his muttering not so low that she couldn’t hear him.

"I don’t know how you survived the wolves, wench,
or how you found out about your parents, but I’ll not have you laying claim to
all that I’ve gained. This time I’ll make sure you’re silenced."

His words chilled her, but Triona told herself to keep
calm. She knew they had already passed through the gates, the street noises
growing loud and boisterous. She didn’t want to wait until they were too far
from the castle; she wasn’t giving up so easily no matter his threats. She
waited one more moment, then she grabbed wildly for the reins, jerking up on
them with all her might.

"God’s teeth, wench!"

They were both thrown to the ground as the horse
reared, Triona landing on top of her uncle. But she no sooner rolled from him
and tried to scramble away than Maurice caught her by the foot, the fall
apparently having done the powerfully built man little harm. Shrieking, she
kicked at him with her other leg as shocked passersby began to stop in the
street. But still Maurice pulled her toward him, his hand fumbling at his sword
belt.

"Fiend! Murderer!" she cried, using her elbow
to smash him in the face. It was enough to throw him off balance, and Triona
seized her chance. Within an instant, she’d grabbed her dagger and was on top
of him, the razor-sharp blade pressed to Maurice’s throat.

"Make a move and you’re dead, de Roche!" she
rasped, her breath coming so hard that she’d never felt such a pain in her
lungs. But she gave it little heed, wondering how she was going to get her
uncle on his feet so she could march him back to the castle and King John.

Nor did she pay much attention to the thundering of
hooves, so intently was she glaring down at her uncle. She saw him look beyond
her, his eyes widening, then an Irish sword appeared in front of her, aimed,
too, right at de Roche’s throat.

"Aye, woman, you’ve always been one to take care
of yourself. I’m beginning to wonder if you need me at all."

Chapter 41

"RONAN . . . !"

Triona had no sooner breathed his name in disbelief
than he pulled her to her feet and crushed her in his arms, holding her so
fiercely that she could feel the pounding of his heart against her breast.

It was only when she heard Maurice’s vehement curses
that she looked down, astonished to see her uncle pinned to the ground by a
half dozen armed Irishmen. Some she recognized at once as Ronan’s
clansmen—Flann O’Faelin and amazingly enough, Fiach O’Byrne—but as for the
others she had no clue.

At least not until she glanced beyond Ronan to the
coppery-haired chieftain seated atop a huge roan stallion, Caitlin at his side.
Behind them, the road was packed with mounted Irishmen as far as she could see.
Stunned, Triona looked back to Ronan.

"You rode here with Donal MacMurrough?"

Ronan nodded, pulling her closer. "My men and I
came upon them this morning while riding south to find you. They were preparing
to head to Wicklow with the ransom when your cousin arrived safely home, so
they changed their course to Dublin." He pressed a fervent kiss to her
brow. "The MacMurrough and I shared a common cause this day, woman. You."

"Then . . . then you must know everything,"
she began, only to have him touch a finger to her lips.

"You’re my Triona O’Toole and always will be. The
blood in your veins bears no weight on my love for you."

Triona felt foolish Lady Emer tears leap to her eyes
but she couldn’t help it, staring at Ronan like the besotted maiden she was
while he gestured to his men.

"You should have seen how readily they chose to
come with me. You’ve won their hearts as well. And Niall . . ." Ronan
shook his head. "I practically had to tie him to his bed to keep him from
joining us, while Maire was beside herself, pleading for me to hurry—"
Ronan suddenly stopped, glancing past her to where Donal MacMurrough had
dismounted. "We can talk of this later, Triona. There’s someone who wants
very much to meet you."

Triona left the warmth of Ronan’s arms as the
MacMurrough chieftain approached her, Donal standing as tall as Ronan. She
could swear the man’s eyes were wet, his voice slightly hoarse when he spoke.