Chapter Three
Balor was careful to remain in the shadows at Laochre Castle. He’d been here on several occasions, ever since he’d returned from England and mostly when he was trying to avoid his own tribe.
A few months ago, he’d competed among the others on the night of Bealtaine to become the Horned One, even though he’d known he wouldn’t win the honour. It had simply been a moment to fight and pit himself against some of the strongest warriors in éireann.
Fighting gave him a purpose, a way of releasing the years of resentment and hatred. It closed off his emotions in a way that drowned out any feelings of emptiness.
In the next few days, Mairead would choose a husband. It was the purpose of this aenach, and he’d wanted to bring Kenneth—even knowing that his brother was an unlikely match.
But worse was the thought of watching her pair off with another man. The dark sense of possession brewed within him, along with the desire to shred apart any man who dared to look at her.
Inside the Great Chamber, rows of trestle tables filled the room, loaded with platters of bread, fish, roasted meat of all kinds, and honey cakes. Fresh flowers were everywhere, and Norman soldiers gathered with the Irish for the feasting.
At first, Balor stayed near the back of the Great Chamber, far away from his brother or Fergus. The chieftain would want to be as close as possible to the MacEgans, and Balor didn’t want to be anywhere near them.
He decided to join one of the tables filled with Norman soldiers. They paid him little heed, but one passed him a wooden goblet filled with ale. He drank and kept to himself, but two other Normans sat down beside him.
‘Who do you think she’ll choose?’ the man asked.
Balor hadn’t expected them to speak to him, but he shrugged and switched into their language. ‘Probably the man King John chose for her. Whoever has the most wealth and power.’
His companion laughed. ‘I suppose that’s true enough.’ He eyed Balor’s clothing and added, ‘You speak the Norman language well.’
‘I was fostered in England,’ he said, draining the cup. ‘With Lord William Fleming de Beaumont.’
‘Were you?’ the soldier said. He exchanged a glance with the older Norman soldier. ‘I am Gerald of Mowbray.’
‘Balor ó Phelan,’ he answered. He noticed that the older Norman was staring at him now, his gaze piercing. ‘Is something wrong?’
But Gerald shrugged. ‘Not at all.’
‘Did you know Lord Beaumont well?’ the older man asked.
Balor shook his head. ‘Only from a distance. My mother sent me to England, and I was fostered with a dozen others.’
The older one turned thoughtful and nodded. ‘I did know the earl. He’s a good man. I suppose you learned to fight among his men.’
He couldn’t deny it. Beaumont’s captain had forced all of them to train, night and day, until Balor was confident he could fight back against anyone. ‘Well enough,’ he answered.
Gerald motioned to the serving girl to bring them both more ale.
‘And do you think you have a chance of winning the Lady Mairead’s heart, ó Phelan?
’ He nodded towards the king’s daughter, who was sitting with her family upon the dais.
Mairead wore a léine and overdress of deep green while a golden necklace set with green stones encircled her throat.
Not emeralds, but he guessed they were polished marble stones from Connemara.
Above her forehead, she wore her hair in a complex, braided coronet, letting the rest fall freely below her shoulders in soft waves.
‘I’ve no chance at all.’ Balor reached for the bread and tore off a large piece. He kept his expression and tone neutral, acting as if he had no interest in the king’s daughter. Even if he was fully conscious of every move she made.
‘Then why are you here?’
He shrugged. ‘For the food?’ Though it was an honest answer, the men around him began to laugh, and they raised their glass to him.
‘I like you, ó Phelan,’ Gerald said, slapping him on the back.
It was strange to be welcomed among them, and a rise of uneasiness came over him. ‘What of you?’ he asked. ‘Do any of you think you have a chance at winning the hand of an Irish noblewoman?’
Gerald shook his head. ‘Not at all. We’re here by the king’s command. Well, some of us are.’ He glanced at the older man. ‘Others are here for their own purpose.’
Balor wanted to ask what he meant but held back. He would gain more information if he remained silent. With a light shrug, he lifted his glass and said, ‘Then enjoy the food. Sláinte.’
While they ate, he started to count how many Normans were among them. Without armour, it was difficult to tell, but he listened to their conversations. It really did seem that the king was trying to infiltrate the MacEgan forces under the guise of sending men to court Mairead.
The feasting continued before several of the tables were cleared back to make space for dancing. Lady Mairead joined with several of her cousins, and Balor watched as she moved among her suitors. Her smile was genuine, and she moved like someone who had been surrounded by beauty all her life.
But then the men around him rose to their feet. ‘Come on, ó Phelan. You’re coming with us,’ Gerald said.
It would cause a greater problem if he protested, but soon enough, he realized they only meant to surround the dancers and watch.
He tried to drift back behind them, but Gerald laughed and said, ‘Oh, no. We’ll see if another maiden chooses one of us.
We have wagers on who’s going to dance with you. ’
‘No one,’ he started to say.
But their merriment had drawn attention, including the ó Phelan chieftain’s. Fergus stood from his seat at the table, his gaze furious. He strode towards Balor, murder in his eyes. ‘You shouldn’t be here. Get out.’
Balor ignored the chieftain, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. Instead, he calmly took his place among the Norman soldiers at the edge of the dancing, his gaze fixed upon Mairead. Her expression paled when she saw him there.
Fergus apparently didn’t care about causing a scene.
But the moment the chieftain drew his colc sword to force him out, Balor reacted.
He seized Gerald’s goblet and dashed the contents into the chieftain’s face.
While the man was briefly blinded, he took a wooden stool and used it to knock the weapon out of Fergus’s hand.
‘You bastard,’ the chieftain cried out, just as several MacEgan men surrounded him. ‘You weren’t invited here.’
‘Don’t you know better than to draw a blade in the presence of the king?’ Balor countered.
As the men escorted Fergus out, two of them remained in front of him. One was a solidly built man, and Balor recognized Ewan MacEgan, the king’s youngest brother.
‘Is it true that you weren’t invited?’ The man’s voice was quiet, but Balor didn’t miss the underlying threat. When he glanced back at Mairead, he decided it wasn’t worth it to answer the question. With a shrug, he stood and started to leave. He’d already eaten, anyhow.
‘I invited him.’ Mairead’s voice rang out above the music, and the moment she spoke, all conversation died down.
Balor froze in place, feeling the eyes of everyone upon him. He hated being the center of attention, but he forced himself to face her. Her green eyes held worry, and she bit her lip as if she wished she hadn’t spoken.
But it was the dark expression on the king’s face that reminded him of his place. He gave a slight bow of deference and started to retreat.
A hand upon his shoulder warned that he was going nowhere. ‘If my niece invited you, then you’re not leaving,’ Ewan MacEgan commanded.
He turned to face the man and waited. The Irishman stared at him while the Norman soldiers gathered around. All appeared quite interested in the conversation, and he didn’t miss Gerald’s smirk.
Although Balor itched to leave the Great Chamber, he wasn’t about to offend Mairead so publicly. Better to say nothing and blend in among the others.
The king watched him for a moment, as if casting a silent judgement. Then he signaled for music, and conversations eventually resumed.
Ewan switched into the Irish language. ‘I’m wanting to know exactly why my niece would invite the Demon of éireann to a feast in her honour. I suspect there’s a story you’re not telling us.’
Balor straightened and met the man eye to eye. It was clear that Mairead had not told her family of his role in her rescue, which didn’t surprise him. He hadn’t been a hero at all. He’d fully intended to kidnap her for his own purposes until she’d talked him out of it.
But an inner voice warned, She didn’t want them to know about you. She told them nothing.
It was the reminder he needed, that he could never be a part of her life. She didn’t want him the same way he desired her. He didn’t belong in her world, and it was better if they knew nothing about him.
He straightened and answered, ‘You’re right. But that’s her story to tell, not mine.’
* * *
Mairead tried to appear indifferent to Balor’s presence, but she saw her uncle Ewan questioning him. She could also feel the tension from her parents, that she would dare to invite someone so unsuitable to wed. But that wasn’t why Balor was here.
She told herself that, even as she excused herself from the dancing and made her way towards them. ‘Uncle Ewan,’ she greeted.
‘Mairead.’ His gaze softened upon her. ‘I’ll admit I’m curious about why you invited this man here. Especially when his grandfather Donal tried to overthrow your father.’
She blinked a moment as the words fled, leaving her utterly unable to speak. Undoubtedly, her uncle was trying to make her question Balor’s motives.
‘Donal ó Phelan is dead,’ Balor answered. ‘And his mistakes are not mine.’ Without waiting for her to intervene, Balor took her hand in his and led her towards the dancing.
‘I thought you didn’t dance,’ she protested.
‘I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know how.’ He led her into the steps, his arm around her waist. ‘I need to talk to you.’