Chapter Nineteen
William knew immediately what had happened.
They’d been betrayed.
He and Kieran were crouched beneath the windows of the tavern, beneath the very room they knew the Irish to be in, and they heard conversation.
Because both William and Kieran had spent much time on the Scots border, they were fairly well versed in Scots Gaelic, but that was nothing like Irish Gaelic.
Not even close. It never occurred to William that Dermot would speak to them in Irish and he wouldn’t be able to understand a word.
That meant listening to the conversation wasn’t having the desired effect because they couldn’t make anything out. No plans, no information.
Then something happened.
A brief pause in the conversation was followed by Irish jumping from the windows and landing on top of them.
One man leapt out of the window over Kieran’s head and ended up falling onto Kieran, who reacted as if a hornet’s nest had just been dumped on him.
He was all arms and legs, lashing out madly, and from a man that size, the Irishman didn’t stand a chance.
He went down quickly from a vicious strike to the head, but the second man who came from the window after him fared a little better.
He brought a dagger with him, which forced Kieran to arm himself.
As Kieran and the second Irishman fought over the body of the Irishman’s unconscious colleague, William had his hands full with two more Irish rebels.
There were no weapons at this point, but plenty of kicking and punching.
Because William had been caught off guard by a man literally dropping on his head, he had a cut above his left eye that was bleeding steadily.
He was able to get one man in a headlock, swinging him around like a battering ram until he took the legs out from underneath the fourth Irishman, who was aiming a club at William’s head.
Dermot had been wrong about the number of Irishmen in the room—there were seven, three of them back in the shadows where he couldn’t see them.
Therefore, three more men were bailing from the windows, going after Kieran and William as Paris, realizing what had happened, left the tavern keeper’s daughters and rushed to aid his friends.
Fists and feet were flying as he entered the fray.
The man on the ground between Kieran and his opponent regained consciousness fairly quickly, but as he tried to get up, Kieran kicked him in the head again to keep him down.
As he went out like a candle, Paris managed to unsheathe his sword, and the fistfight became something deadlier.
Until that point, they’d only been throwing fists, mostly, but the swords began to come out—first Kieran, then Paris, and finally William.
Now, the English were in their element as the Irish produced weapons to match.
The fistfight became an all-out sword fight.
The Irish kept switching opponents, meaning two would fight William and then one would rush off to engage Paris, who already had two men against him.
William dispatched the Irishman he was fighting against, clipping the man so that he dropped his sword and ran off, but once that man ran, all of the Irish followed except for the unconscious man on the ground, who was just starting to come around again.
Kieran kicked him in the head yet again, and out he went.
As quickly as it had started, the fight was over.
A little bloodied, and a little beaten, William, Paris, and Kieran faced each other, breathing heavily with exertion. But one word from William had them all running again.
“Dermot,” he breathed.
The three of them bolted back into the tavern, rushing into the room where the Irish had been, only to see that it was vacant.
Dermot was gone.
“Damnation,” William said. “He betrayed us.”
Paris wiped his bloodied lip. “No tie is so strong as the one that binds a man to his brethren,” he said. “He was never ours, William. He has always belonged to them, and we brought him right to them. Delivered on a silver platter.”
William knew that, but he felt stupid that he’d taken the chance and failed.
He’d thought his threats would be enough to keep Dermot in line.
“We need to return to Wrexham immediately,” he said.
“Dermot knows how to get in and out of the castle, and it’s possible he’s taking them back there and convincing the gate guards to admit them at this very moment. ”
That thought sent them running for their horses, but not before Kieran returned to the man he’d kept kicking into unconsciousness. Pulling the semi-lucid man to his feet, he half carried and half dragged him back to the stable.
Now they had a hostage.
*
She’d never been to London before.
In fact, Andromeda had hardly strayed out of Rockbrook Castle, but in the past year, she’d certainly had a world of travel, from Dublin across the sea to Liverpool and down along the Welsh marches.
She’d discovered that she liked travel, or at least she would if it was not under such stressful circumstances, so she was looking forward to the trip to London with her husband.
Her husband.
She could still hardly believe she’d married Tristan, but in the same breath, she felt as if they had always been together.
He completed something in her that she never knew was missing.
Though they’d not known each other a great length of time, they knew each other enough to fall in love with what they knew.
She was looking forward to falling in love with what she didn’t know.
Flora and Aldis joined her in her chamber, and when she told them that she needed a satchel or a case, they hurried back down to the storage room, which still wasn’t completely cleaned out.
Andromeda knew that she and Tristan would be traveling by horse, probably two horses, which meant the satchel couldn’t be too large.
A sack would probably do just as well. Something to tie to the saddle, and not too heavy.
And that brought about the question of what to bring.
She had so many lovely things now, garments from the painted wardrobe that had been altered for her, along with the four garments that Aldis had made.
She had dresses and shifts and aprons to work in, but she suspected that she wouldn’t be doing much work in London.
She was there to meet people and present a well-dressed wife for Tristan, so that knowledge alone made the decision for her.
Only nice things should be packed.
Going over to the wardrobe, she pulled forth three well-made and expensive garments, all of them dresses that had been altered for her.
There was one of red brocade, another of pale blue damask, and a third of an exquisite dark yellow that glistened in the light.
She didn’t know what the fabric was, but the dress was quite rich looking.
But there were others she liked, so several ended up neatly strewn across her bed as she tried to make a decision.
But other things had to come, as well.
Soaps and combs and oils, things a well-dressed wife would need.
Shoes and hose, ribbons and shifts. And the jewelry—the previous lady of Wrexham had left behind a goodly amount of expensive jewelry that now all belonged to Andromeda, including pearls and sapphires and gold necklaces and earrings.
She didn’t want to leave any of it behind because she was afraid it might disappear in her absence, so she hunted down a silk purse to store it all in.
There was one thing she wouldn’t have to store, and that was her wedding ring, or at least the ring that had been used as a wedding ring.
One small piece of the jewelry cache in the painted wardrobe had been a gold ring with elaborate etchings and a rock crystal center stone.
She’d found it whilst dressing for their wedding mass and shown it to Tristan, who was keen on the idea of using it for a wedding band until he could buy her something else.
It was a little big for her finger, but not uncomfortably so.
She looked at it even now as she dug around in the wardrobe, admiring the lovely ring and remembering the look in Tristan’s eye when he’d slipped it on her finger.
It was such a lovely memory.
“I told you that I’d buy you another ring,” Tristan said, standing in the doorway. “You can have any ring you wish when we get to London.”
He’d caught her looking at it. Andromeda turned to him, still holding her hand up as she looked at the band.
“But this one is so pretty,” she said. “And it is the one we used at our wedding mass. I do not know if I want another one.”
He shrugged as he came into the chamber. “That is your decision,” he said. “If you wish to keep it, you’ll get no argument from me.”
She smiled at him, putting her hand down and turning back to the wardrobe. But she noticed that he was looking over the garments on the bed, so she left what she was doing and went over to him.
“I know we will be seeing important people in London, so I want to bring some of the nicer things,” she said. “Mayhap you can help me decide. Which ones do you like best?”
He fingered the red brocade. “All of them,” he said softly, smiling at her. “Anything you wear is my favorite.”
She smiled in return, falling into his embrace when he opened his arms up to her. “You’re supposed to say that,” she said. “Now that we are married, you are obligated by the law and by God to tell me how beautiful I am.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
“I will have to ask the priest about that.”
“No need. Take my word for it.”
He started chuckling. “Then I shall,” he said. “Confidentially, however, I will tell you a secret—even if it was not a legal requirement of marriage to tell you that you are beautiful, I would do it anyway.”