Chapter Six
He couldn’t believe she was here.
He’d seen a woman coming through the gates with Tristan and Addax and William when they’d returned from patrol, and he had watched as the escort came to a halt and the woman was removed from her palfrey.
It had been years since he’d seen Andromeda de Courcy and, honestly, he’d had no idea who she was until the rumor mill began to churn and the soldiers began to talk.
He’d been in the gatehouse when word reached him—the woman who had been brought to Wrexham was none other than Carr mac Murda’s daughter.
A woman with a true Irish name beneath the English trappings.
Morrigan Nic Murda had arrived.
So many things ran through Dermot’s head as he realized what it meant to him, a man who had been posing as a supporter of mac Murda and the entire Dubliner dynasty when, in fact, the truth was much different.
But Dermot was clever—he came from a long line of clever men, nobles who had fought and died for the high kings of Ireland—so as much as royal blood was in the veins of Carr and his daughter, the blood of rebellion was in his.
He’d been well placed.
Well trained.
And William Marshal knew nothing about it.
Odd how the man who was so entrenched in the politics of England and was rumored to be the commander of an elite spy force should not suspect who Dermot really was.
It was a tribute to his training and how he held himself, because he made sure he was affable and obedient, never a man to take charge or voice an opinion unless asked.
His entire mission was to watch William Marshal and the English and relay any plans or observations back to the collection of men he’d dedicated his life to.
They called themselves Aingil Lochlainn.
Angels of Lochlainn.
They were devotees of the last great High King of Ireland, Muir mac Lochlainn, a man who had been decidedly at odds with the King of Dublin, Ascall mac Ragnaill.
It hadn’t always been like that, but the animosity had developed over the years.
Though the Irish kings had allies and enemies, and there were many kings and many factions, this was the faction that Dermot was involved in.
The deadly angels who supported the family they believed to have the last true High King of Ireland and the family who had known of the birth of Morrigan, renamed Andromeda, and sent to live with an English family to hide who she truly was.
The woman through whom all royal Irish blood flowed.
She was more royal than God himself.
The trouble had started years ago when Lochlainn’s family had offered for the hand of Brigid, the only daughter of Ascall, and been denied.
Lochlainn’s family believed a marriage with Brigid could form ties to cement an alliance that would bring peace and a united Ireland, but Ascall saw it as the family trying to absorb his only daughter.
Perhaps they would turn her against her father and follow suit with any subsequent children of the marriage.
Ascall had, therefore, denied the suit, and the Lochlainn son, Caine, had married another lass of royal blood from the Leinster tribe, and they’d had a son, Gavan.
Caine passed away years ago in battle, but Gavan was now of marriageable age.
When the Aingil Lochlainn had made their way to Rockbrook Castle last year to discuss a possible marriage between Gavan and Ascall’s granddaughter, whom they knew to be living in the House of de Courcy, they’d been chased away and the granddaughter had vanished.
But Aingil Lochlainn was clever.
They knew that Brigid’s husband, and Andromeda’s father, served William Marshal.
That was why Dermot had accompanied Carr to Pembroke those years ago.
Carr had served the Marshal in Ireland at his Irish properties, and Dermot had endeared himself to Carr back then, so when he moved to England, bringing Dermot along seemed natural.
They were friends and colleagues and, truthfully, Dermot liked Carr.
They got along well. It wasn’t as if he was there to hurt Carr, but he was there to watch over him and report back to his aingil brethren.
About a year ago, when the marriage with Gavan had been proposed and Andromeda disappeared, Dermot had received word in a missive from his own mother explaining the situation and telling him to keep an eye out for her appearance.
No one was sure if she would go to her father, whom she hadn’t seen in years, but Dermot kept vigilant.
That vigilance had paid off.
Andromeda, the lass of pure royal blood, had arrived.
And with her, the keys to the Irish high kingdom.
Before the day was through, Dermot sent a missive to his mother, telling her of the damp Welsh weather, the food, his general health, and of the glorious news that a comrade’s daughter had arrived at Wrexham.
If the missive was intercepted by Ascall supporters, and there were plenty in and around Dublin still, it would seem like a joyful letter from a homesick Irish soldier to his mother.
They more than likely wouldn’t know that the comrade’s daughter was none other than the lass they’d all been looking for. But Dermot’s mother would.
And so would Aingil Lochlainn.
All Dermot had to do was wait for help to arrive.
A united high kingdom was on the horizon.