The Prisoner Bride

“Do not touch me or my maid,” she commanded in a tone so regal that Kieran could not countermand it, not even with one of his famous smiles. “Ever,” she added stiffly. Gathering her skirts, she spoke with equal sharpness to her maid, who had begun to weep again. “Come, Dina. I suppose we must make the best of this wretchedness, even if we take chill from the rain and die of it.” She descended from the carriage, head held high, refusing to accept Kieran’s steadying hand, right into the rain. Kieran didn’t realize that he was staring at her as she stepped away until the maid, Dina, cleared her throat and set her tiny hand upon his arm. Coming to himself, Kieran helped her descend.

It took but a few brief moments to fix the window coverings on the carriage and settle matters with Tom—good, proper thief that he was. Kieran made certain that he knew where to leave the carriage along the road, near London, hopefully before being discovered. The two menservants, John and Willem, would have been found in the alley where they’d been left and safely delivered back to Metolius by now, and the Seymour family would have alerted the London sheriff. An entire party of rescuers might already be on their trail, but Kieran believed they’d be able to evade them, and once they made Bostwick’s, they’d be well and safe.

“There are only two horses,” Mistress Glenys stated amid the rumblings of more thunder, pulling her heavy cape more closely about her. She had no hood, and the rain had begun to soak her hair, so that the wayward tendrils he’d admired earlier clung to her cheeks. The maid was faring somewhat better, for Jean-Marc had lifted his own cloak to cover her. Kieran would have done the same for Mistress Glenys—knowing full well that she wouldn’t have allowed it—but she was a tall female, coming up past his shoulders, and the attempt would have proved fruitless.

“Aye, just two,” he told her, taking her shoulder in a firm grasp that she couldn’t shake off. “You will ride with me, mistress. Come.”

She gave no fight, clearly realizing that it would do her no good now, but let him lead her to where his great destrier stood waiting.

“’Tis a very large, fine horse for so sorry a knave,” she stated, setting her hand upon the wet pommel as if she could possibly lift herself up into the saddle without aid.

“Aye, but he is mine, nonetheless.” Kieran bent, folding his hands together to give her a boost up. “His name is Nimrod,” he said, easily tossing Mistress Glenys upward and moving so that she could swing her legs about to sit in the saddle. As he wiped his wet hands against his leggings, he added, “My father named him that apurpose before giving him to me, which you will doubtless believe wise.” He swung up into the saddle behind her, reaching forward at once to take hold of the reins. He was glad that she hadn’t attempted an escape. It would have been fruitless, of course, but also unpleasant and a waste of time.

“Your father recognizes you, then?” she asked, her tone more one of disdain than curiosity. She had taken note of the “Fitz” in his name, knowing that it branded him as either bastard-born or descended of a bastard, and was purposefully stating the fact out loud in order to give him insult. Or so it seemed to Kieran, but the matter of his birth and family had ever been his sorest spot. She could hardly have aimed any arrow more accurately.

“I am well recognized,” he told her tautly, waiting for Dina and Jean-Marc to mount their steed before setting Nimrod into motion, “by all my family. It can be more of a burden, at times, than a blessing.”

She gave a mirthless laugh and muttered, “Aye, ’tis so.”

Kieran set one arm firmly about her, holding the reins with the other, and gently prodded Nimrod forward, away from the road and farther into the trees. Water dripped from the leaves, soaking them, and the wind began to blow even more coldly.

“Where do we go?” Mistress Glenys asked, holding herself as stiffly as a statue within the circle of his arm. Despite that, and despite the heavy cloak and clothing she wore, she was unmistakably female, warm against the front of him and clean-scented and far more soft—delightfully so—than he’d initially believed. He tightened his hold with gentle pressure, and felt her draw in a breath.

“To a place some miles away.”

A low, wet branch brushed against her face, and with a sound of aggravation she thrust it aside.

“Are there no decent roads leading to it, or must you take us only to such dens of iniquity as exist far out of the reach of civil establishment?”

That tone of hers, so proper and rigid and filled with disapproval, made him smile. It reminded him greatly of his mother during one of the many lectures she’d given Kieran over the past years.

“’Tis warm and dry, and that is what will concern us most once we reach it. And, nay, we will take no roads for some while. The rain will cover our tracks well enough, but I’ll take no chances till we’re well away.”

Another branch slapped at them, and another clap of thunder sounded overhead. The rain began to pour heavily, and the late afternoon grew dark as night. It was altogether a miserable time to be out in the elements, and Kieran couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at dragging two innocent females far from shelter. When Mistress Glenys pushed her wet, straggly hair off her even wetter face, that guilt increased.

“We’re going to a tavern where the innkeeper, a fellow by the name of Bostwick, is a friend of mine,” he said, not certain why he offered the information. “’Tis not a particularly fine place, but there will be a fire to keep you warm and a roof to keep you dry. If fortune favors us, there may even be a private chamber where you and your maid can find a few hours of peace in which to sleep, though I will admit…”

She turned her head slightly toward him. “What?” she asked, her voice filled with suspicion.

“Well, ’tis merely that Bostwick’s is often filled with much merrymakng. ’Tis far more likely to be loud and cheerful rather than given to any peace, though we must pray ’tis not so this night.”

“Merciful God,” she said dismally, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “It could not become worse than it already is. Please God. It cannot.”

It was worse. Much, much worse. Glenys stood in the midst of the hovel that Kieran FitzAllen had brought them to and stared about her with utter dismay. It was a filthy, crude, poorly built dwelling that looked as if it might collapse beneath the weight of the ongoing storm at any moment. The large chamber they stood in was filled with heavy smoke, foul odors and so many loud, coarse, drunken people that there was scarce room to move, and certainly nowhere among the many tables to sit. Glenys had never seen—or smelled—anything to compare. In the farthest, dimly lit corner she could make out, beyond the thick, stale smoke, the figures of two people engaging in an act of intimacy that Glenys knew full well the church demanded should be undertaken only in private and by a lawfully wedded man and wife. That the pair drew very little attention made it quite clear that this particular crowd was well used to such public displays. In truth, the sudden arrival of Kieran FitzAllen and his accomplice drew far more attention and reaction.

They had but just arrived, and the tavern came to life with shouts of greeting and drunken, earsplitting cheers of glad tidings. A sea of arms and smiling faces surged upon them, sweeping Glenys and Dina aside in order to embrace the two knaves who stood just behind them. The body smells and fumes of ale and bitter wine that followed nearly made Glenys swoon. She looked down at Dina, who had gripped her hand, and saw that the girl was deathly white. Glenys set an arm about her shoulders and drew her closer, striving to protect her from the jostling crowd.

In the midst of it all, she could hear Kieran FitzAllen’s voice booming merrily, returning each greeting as if these filthy creatures were his dearest friends, each and every one. Women, especially, were rushing at him—crude, ill-dressed females with unbound hair and the look of harlots, which was, Glenys knew, most likely what they were. She didn’t have to watch to know how happily he received their particular greetings.

“Now,” a great, loud voice boomed over the din, causing the entire dwelling to shake, “here are my lads, come at last! Make way! Make way!”

“God save us,” Dina murmured, her voice quavering. “’Tis a giant.”

“Nay,” Glenys said, but it was a lie. The man coming toward them was a giant. A great, black-headed, swarthy giant, whose substantial girth was almost equal to his tremendous height. His arms were so long and heavily muscled that he looked as if he could squeeze a great tree and split it into tiny, crumbling bits.

“Bostwick!” Kieran FitzAllen greeted in return, pushing his way through the swarm of dirty bodies surrounding him and embracing the giant just as warmly and heartily as the giant embraced him. “Well met! God above, ’tis good to see you again!”

“Aye, and ye, ye great rogue!” Bostwick pounded him on the shoulder until Kieran nearly doubled over from the force. “And Jean-Marc, as well, ye damned rascal!” He picked the smaller, towheaded man up off the floor and shook him playfully. Jean-Marc flopped like a child’s doll. “How are ye, lad?” He set Jean-Marc down so suddenly that he collapsed upon the rushes. “And here are the lovely captives, brought to me for safekeeping, eh?” He turned to grin down at Glenys and Dina.

“Oh, m-m-mistress!” Dina sputtered, shrinking against Glenys and trembling mightily.

“Hush, Dina.” Glenys held her more closely and glared up at the giant. “I’ll not let him so much as set a finger to you, I vow.” She meant it, too, though she was just as afeard of the huge man. He was approaching them with open arms, as if he intended to scoop the both of them up into a ferocious embrace.

“Gently, Bostwick,” Kieran FitzAllen said, stepping forward to stop the giant before he reached them. “These are indeed the prisoners I sent word of, and I pray you’ve readied a suitable chamber for them. They are ladies of good family, as you can see, and not used to such rough peasants as we are. If you greet them too closely, they are like to swoon, merely from the foul smell of you, by the rood.” He laughed aloud at his own jest, and all those surrounding him laughed, too, Bostwick louder than the rest.

“Aye, ye speak well, Kieran, ye great rogue. And what good would these pretty prisoners be to us if they faint away, eh?” All present laughed again.

It was a fine jest, Glenys thought bitterly, knowing full well just what she and Dina looked like. They were sopping wet from crown to sole, their hair and clothing limp and bedraggled after more than three hours riding upon horseback through a raging storm. They were weary and hungry and chilled to the bone. All in all, they probably looked as uncomely and unappealing as two wet mongrels. If not Dina, then certainly herself.

“Well, they do look as if a tiny breath might knock them down, wet and weary as they’re like to be,” Bostwick said thoughtfully, surveying Glenys and Dina with a knowing gaze. “’Tis a pity they must be fine ladies, for they will give ye much trouble on your journey, my friend.”

“Doubtless, this is so,” Kieran agreed with a sigh.

“But naught can be done about it, I suppose,” said Bostwick. “We must all take what fortune falls our way, is that not so, my friends?”

The surrounding crowd cheered the words drunkenly. Two of the more attractive women among them had attached themselves to either side of Kieran FitzAllen, Glenys noted, and another had draped herself lovingly about Jean-Marc’s smaller person. Neither man appeared to be distressed by such brazen possession. In truth, they appeared well pleased.

“Bring them over to the fire, then, and let us have a better look at such fine, rich prisoners,” Bostwick commanded in his booming voice. “Mayhap they’ll be more seemly once their color has returned, and they have some ale and bread in their bellies. Gently now, lads,” he instructed sharply as Glenys and Dina were poked and pushed and prodded toward the huge, heavily smoking hearth. “They don’t want such rough handling as you’ll give them. Margie, girl, leave Kieran aside a moment and fetch our guests some ale and victuals.”

Despite Bostwick’s words, rough hands grabbed at them, and Glenys felt a sharp tug at the small leather pouch Uncle Aonghus had given her, which was yet tied on her girdle. Without thinking, she turned about and soundly slapped the man who’d dared to touch her. He reeled back, a hand held to his reddened cheek, and stared at her in momentary shock. Then he growled in fury and charged forward. Glenys scarce had time to blink before Kieran FitzAllen was in front of her, shoving the man back.

“Calm yourself, Hiram, and give me no trouble,” he said in a warning tone as the noise of the tavern began to die away. “These women have no gold upon them, nor anything of value. All of you, listen to me well.” He lifted his voice and looked about. “They’re not to be touched, nor robbed. They are in my care and I’ll not suffer them to be harmed in any way. If I should hear aught—even the smallest complaint—I vow I will deal with the culprit myself.” He turned abruptly and pointed to another man, shorter and stouter than the first, who had begun to move to the back of the crowd. “Coll of Chester, come you back. Now.”

The smaller man shuffled slowly back, already putting his hand in the pocket of the coarse tunic he wore. When Kieran FitzAllen held out his hand, the man placed what he’d stolen into it—the small white, glowing stone. Seeing it, Glenys gasped and pressed her hand into her inner pocket, feeling, with intense relief, that the valuable chess piece was yet safely within.

“’Twas only a rock,” the man said sullenly. “Naught more.”

“A rock, by the rood!” Bostwick exclaimed, laughing as he gazed down at the small, smooth white stone in Kieran’s palm. “’Tis the truth you speak, Kieran, my friend. They’ve naught of value upon them if the flame-haired wench carries rocks about. A tiny little rock, by God!” He laughed again, and the crowd laughed, as well, regaining their loud merriment.

Kieran turned to Glenys and set the stone in her trembling hand. She was faint with gladness that it hadn’t begun to glow, and quickly shoved it back into her pocket to join the druid queen. God help her, but what would have happened if anyone had seen the stone glowing, or the ancient chess piece, with its lively eyes? How could she ever have explained to these thieves—aye, most especially to Kieran FitzAllen—what they were and why they seemed to possess such magic?

The touch of Kieran FitzAllen’s warm hand upon her cheek caused her to look back up at him. He was gazing down at her, his blue eyes possessing a measure of concern.

“You tremble,” he stated. She could scarce deny it. “There is naught to be afraid of. I’ll let no one bring harm to either you or your maid.”

“No one save you,” she muttered, then was sorry for it. He was a knave and a fiend, but he was their only protection in this hellish den, and he had meant to reassure her. “We are cold and weary,” she said more calmly. “The fire here smokes far more than it gives heat, and these people…these friends of yours…”

“Aye?” His eyebrows rose. All about them the noisy crowd chattered and laughed and jostled one another.