The Knight's Return

Her son.

Plucking up Conn in her arms, she ran home with all haste, grateful for another day of freedom from the convent to be with her child.

Chapter Two

She knew him or she knew of him. Of that much Hugh was certain.

He paced an empty antechamber within the walls of Tir’a Brahui, the coastal keep belonging to Tiernan Con Connacht. Hugh had reached the holding the night before but did not wish to intrude in the dark and appear a threat. He truly had lost his horse and his sword, but not to thieves as he’d told Sorcha. He’d needed to trade them for various supplies on the long journey since he’d had no funds to speak of. Last night, he’d foraged for food, stamping down the desire to build a fire, and spent the night anonymously in the king’s forest, the same way he’d spent so many nights these last two moons on the road.

Now, at midmorn, he paced the sparse room adorned in naught but colorful tapestries that were surely aged and tattered a hundred years ago. The petty kingdom ruled over by Sorcha’s father was subject to a higher king of Connacht, but Hugh’s understanding of the country’s leadership stopped there. He’d been too focused on figuring out who he was and how to survive the long journey to pay attention to politics and the incessant warmongering that seemed to take place among the smaller kingdoms.

Now that he’d come to Ireland, he hoped to see something or someone that would nudge a memory. His impression of Tiernan Con Connacht was not favorable thus far and Hugh rather hoped they were not related. What king allowed his daughter to live unprotected on the fringes of his kingdom? Hugh could not envision the woman and her son surviving for long with Norman invaders at Hugh’s heels.

The idea of harm befalling her did not settle well. In fact, he’d felt pulled to her so strongly he guessed they must have met. And yet she’d denied any knowledge of him. Still, even without a connection between them, he’d been compelled to protect her. The memory of her gripping a knife so fiercely her fingers bled stayed with him long after night had fallen yester eve. The warrior in him recognized her absolute commitment to protecting her son at any cost, and he had no doubt she would have wielded the blade fiercely if Hugh posed a threat.

Had he left behind a woman so devoted to family? Stopping in front of a faded yellow tapestry depicting a man and a woman releasing their falcon, Hugh smoothed his hand over the lady’s face. He’d given little thought to the possibility of being married, but the stirring in his blood at the sight of Sorcha made him consider the likelihood.

Could he have forgotten a wife? A child?

“You may see His Highness now,” a man announced as Hugh spun to see him. A servant was dressed in red and blue, his clothes as vibrant as everyone else’s in this strange land.

“Thank you.” Hugh released a pent-up breath, more than ready to get answers about his identity.

He’d offered up a false name at the gate to Tir’a Brahui, calling himself Hugh Fitz Henry. The surname was common enough, the kind of moniker bastards received all the time when their mothers wished to point fingers at a father. Other times, the name was chosen in homage to a king since there had been a Henry on the English throne for nigh on seventy years.

How sorry was it that Hugh remembered more about the king’s seat than his own place in the world?

“Follow me,” the servant said, disappearing into the corridor lit by a torch despite the daylight hours. The keep allowed in precious little sun, and the interior corridors remained shadowy.

Squinting to adjust to the dimness, Hugh planned his strategy for this meeting. He needed to pinpoint the king immediately—to gauge the lord’s reaction before he could mask his response to Hugh’s presence.

Perhaps the king was a friend. But what if he was somehow behind Hugh’s predicament? The stitches healing in his head told him someone had brutalized him. Was his lack of memory due to the beating? He knew he was no half-wit since his skills with a weapon and his instincts for survival had proven well honed on the journey here.

“This way, sir.” The servant paused beside a door but did not enter it, standing aside to let Hugh pass.

Hugh nodded and surveyed the portal. Light streamed from the chamber. The one wall within his view contained a rack of swords polished and ready for use. Steeling himself for the meeting, Hugh walked through the door.

Any expectations for a crown-wearing lord in a high throne were dashed by the sight of twelve men seated at a table, none higher than the other. He scanned the faces quickly, his eyes starting at one end of the table and working down, only to be struck by the sense that the king was the largest man seated in the center.

That noble wore a jeweled brooch at his collar and the ruby at the center was the kind of stone few lords would possess. In a land where the number of colors a person wore seemed significant, this person’s garb contained the most. Purple and yellow vied with green and blue. Checkers on his tunic were not enough ornamentation. Stripes on his crimson cloak made him a target for the eye. Every other knight at the table wore bright silks and satins.

But for a court that adhered to a hierarchy of dress, giving slaves but one color to wear and the king as many as imaginable, Hugh was surprised the king did not take a seat at a higher table or even at the head.

If Tiernan Con Connacht was a man of traditional custom, Hugh had yet to see a sign of it.

He also had yet to see any hint of recognition in the sovereign’s face. While it was disappointing not to discover an answer to the matter of his identity, it also meant he was able to relax without having to pretend to know someone he did not recollect.

“Your Highness.” Hugh swept a low bow. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Bowing did not feel natural to him. Another hint he spent more time battling enemies than licking royal boot soles.

“If you are here to talk peace between our lands, you are the strangest courtier I’ve ever seen.” The older man spoke between sips of ale, the knights around him going quiet. “Ye look more like a warrior than a peacemaker.”

The knights clustered around the king appeared ready to lunge for their knives at any moment.

“Peace is no business of mine. I come to offer you my sword if you have need of a mercenary.”

He had no sword, of course. He’d bargained with lords and thieves, merchants and even a child who had taken the bribe of a cake in exchange for help unlocking an armory on his way to their seaside kingdom. He’d not stolen any weapon from that armory, but he’d needed a blade to obtain a meal, after which he’d replaced the knife. In that way, his journey had been unbearably slow, but he’d arrived in Connacht at last.

He would talk his way into a place among the king’s court until he had time to know these people. To understand what connection bound him to them.

“I find it hard to believe you would offer that which you do not possess.” The king’s keen eye assessed Hugh’s lowly garments. “I spoke with my man at the gate and was told you carried no weapon save a dagger, and I would be more than surprised if you could inflict much damage on a sword-wielding enemy with such a knife.”

“You might be surprised what cunning will accomplish when it allies with such a knife.”

Someone at the king’s table snorted.

“And think you I will take your word on this skill?” One sandy eyebrow arched and Hugh knew he was a moment away from being dismissed.

His lack of checkered clothes and leather shoes put him at a disadvantage.

“I am content to prove the claim.”

For a moment, no one at the table spoke, and then the king barked with laughter.

“Do you hope to cut down my men from inside my walls, English? Are you my enemies’ latest weapon?”

One of the king’s men stood, his hand still on his sword, although he did not draw it.

“I would lay waste to any enemy first, my liege,” the younger man swore, his cheeks flushed with impassioned feeling.

“No need, Donngal.” The king waved him down, still studying Hugh. By now, Hugh thought he spied a hint of interest or—possibly—respect in the other man’s eyes. “I would ask that Fergus do the honors.”

With a nod to the man seated at his right, Tiernan Con Connacht as good as gave the battle order.

“You must know your gatekeeper relieved me of my knife.” Hugh gauged the other man’s height. His breadth.

“Donngal, give him yours.” The king took another sip of ale and leaned back in his chair at the table. He seemed ready for a show.

Hugh would strive not to disappoint. Being taken in as a mercenary meant earning the right to remain in the court, where there must be a clue to his past. The right to remain in Connacht long enough to discover why Lady Sorcha’s eyes lit up when she first spied him.

The boy who’d risen to threaten Hugh now flushed even deeper to hand over his dagger to an English knight.

“Thank you.” He accepted the blade as Fergus stalked around to Hugh’s side of the table.

Before the knight stepped within sword’s reach of him, Hugh reacted. He arced back the blade and let it fly, seeing the knife launched from his hand before he had time to wonder if he possessed the necessary skill for such a trick. The knife traveled end over end, spinning through the air until it found its mark under Fergus’s arm, pinning the fabric of his tunic and cloak to the wall behind him.

The captive cloth pulled the knight back in midstride. Steel clanked and reverberated as ten men drew their swords in response. Hugh marveled at this newly discovered talent even as he thanked the saints he did not kill the warrior. Every day he learned more of his skills and he had to think he’d once been a powerful knight. A leader of men, perhaps. Or a battle tactician.