Chapter 3 #2
Locke studied him for a long moment. “I am sorry for your grief,” he said, “truly, but your blood-price will have to wait, I’m afraid.
She’ll be a bride before she’s a corpse.
Mine, in fact.” He rubbed the brass button on his sleeve.
“Do not marvel at my bravery though, Colin. My feelings on the matter were not consulted. I believe that the thought was, should she be as vicious as the rumors say, I would be the most expendable option, in the event of a – tragedy, and thus was I the lucky man selected to serve as her groom.” He arched a brow.
“Do you think she will find me pleasing, Colin, this soon-to-be bride of mine?”
Colin looked him up and down, his gaze lingering at the broadsword at his hip, the callouses on his hands, the set of his shoulders. Locke recognized that look – an assessment, one fighter to another, a weighing of strengths and weaknesses. “No,” he said. “I do not think she will, my lord.”
Locke laughed. “You're probably right, and yet I do intend to persuade her otherwise. I’ve been told that I’m very good at it – persuading pretty women.”
The man's expression did not flicker in the slightest, but only continued to stare at Locke with that same cold look, his features set in unforgiving, expressionless lines.
“I acknowledge your claim to see her dead, Colin,” Locke said after a moment. “I acknowledge, and I will see it done.”
In unison, Eamon and Tadhg’s protests broke out from behind him.
“My lord, no –”
“Your father expressly commanded –”
“I will see it done,” said Locke, and his men’s voices died away at the sharpness in his tone.
“But I would ask this of you, Colin – I would ask that you defer your claim, until we bring the rebellious clans of Connacht back under our dominion, to stop this war that is ravaging our land. We need her claim to the throne of Connacht to see that done, but once it is, once we have quelled the rebels and united the realm as one, as it was always meant to be – then I will grant you the blood-debt owed to you, Colin. I swear that you shall have your éraic, that you shall watch as the girl burns for the lives of your lost wife and child.”
Colin was silent for a moment, lips tight. “You will let me do it,” he said at last. “Let me be the one to kill the witch. I will defer, but this is my demand. You will let my face be the last thing she sees before she is set alight and burned.”
“Done.”
“And I wish to tell her who it is that has brought her to ruin,” he said, eyes unfathomably dark.
“I wish her to know that it is because of her brother’s sins that she will die, that it is for the sake of my wife and child, crushed under his boots as carelessly as he might a worm, that she will know nothing but pain until death releases her. ”
“A bit harsh,” said Locke mildly. “It was not her that put your family to the sword. She was, after all, lost for well over ten years now, until you appeared here in my camp with her, bound and beaten bloody.”
“She’s a monster,” the man said. “I did not feel the need to have a care of her pretty face.”
“Something far worse than a mere monster, I hear.” Locke smiled, gentle and bland. “Which makes your capture of her that much more impressive, of course.”
“I have no fear of death.” The green of his eyes flashed. “Only of failing the memory of those I have loved, and have long since lost.”
There again, Locke thought. Something true, a strange confession in the midst of an otherwise contradictory mass of lies.
Some kind of mischief at work here, surely.
But discovering the truth of these two would start, he knew, not with this stone-faced man, but the woman waiting for him outside in the cool morning air.
Locke straightened, clapping his hands together briskly. “In the meantime, you will serve in our ranks, yes? As a loyal man of Leinster.”
“It would be my honor, my lord.”
“Good.” Locke pivoted, gesturing towards where Eamon stood, face thunderous.
“My friend here will take you under his command, and will make sure you receive your promised gold, of course. It’s quite a hefty sum, the reward for bringing the lost princess of Connacht to heel.
” He nodded toward Eamon, who stepped forward to lead the man from the tent.
“Deliver your message in vengeance, Colin, my lad, and then Eamon will see you settled A few months from now, and you will have your éraic. I swear this much to you.”
The man bowed again, low and humble. “I believe that I will, my lord,” he said, face hidden from view. “I have complete faith in that.”
Then he straightened and was gone, pushing through the flap with Eamon close on his heels, and Locke let out a low whistle as he turned towards the table, expression thoughtful.
“My lord – Locke.” Tadhg came to stand next to him, arms folded across his chest. “You cannot kill that girl. She is integral to your father’s plans, to his allies’ plans. You know what would happen, were you to defy them.”
“Calm down, Tadhg. I’ll bet my right arm and all the whiskey in my tent – which is, as you know, a considerable amount – that our friend Colin has no more wish to see his former captive burnt alive than I wish to be stone-cold sober for my reunion with my father in a fortnight.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s lying to us, Tadhg.” Locke picked up one of the maps lying on the table, studying it with pursed lips. “His name’s not Colin, and he’s not grieving a wife and child – a very sad little tale, isn’t it? No doubt designed to pull on our tender heartstrings.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He is grieving though,” said Locke absently, more to himself. “Full of rage, that one. He has been wronged, but it’s not at the hands of our lovely guest and her little brother. It was a nice touch, roughing her up a bit to make it seem more convincing.”
“Locke.” Tadhg placed his hand on Locke’s shoulder. “I don’t understand – you think the bounty man is a traitor? He’s sounds Leinster-born.”
“Yes, I think he is, actually.” Locke hmphed thoughtfully. “A Leinster-born man, conspiring with the lost princess of Connacht. Curious, isn’t it?”
“My lord –”
“Not,” said Locke, shrugging on his fur-lined mantle, “the most auspicious of omens, for this first step in our plan. Well. Regardless, our new friend is hiding quite a lot of intriguing secrets. It’ll be fun, I think, seeing which of us proves to be the better liar – myself, or my bride and her alarmingly oversized whelp. ”
“You think that they might be working together?”
“They are most assuredly working together, no doubt with the intention of killing us all. I wonder why.” Locke’s lips quirked as he took in Tadhg’s horror-stricken expression.
“Don’t fret, old friend. I’ve survived far worse horrors than the one waiting for me outside.
” Locke spun, cloak swooshing around his boots, arms spread. “Well. How do I look?”
Tadhg stared at him, unamused and grim. “Locke,” he said. “I have known you since we were but boys. We are, I think, not man and master, but friends.”
“You know that we are.”
“Then you will forgive me when I tell you to cut the shite, my lord, and have a care. Your father will not tolerate any more of your shenanigans.”
Locke barked with laughter. “Shenanigans? You honor me, Tadhg. You may call it for what it is, you know – I have nothing but contempt for him, for the dishonor he has brought upon our name.”
“He will not hesitate,” said Tadhg slowly, “to have you killed. He has another son still living.”
“Diarmuid? He’s a fool and my father knows it, but I see your point. Did you not hear me just now, Tadhg? You think it a coincidence that I am the poor fool tapped to be wed to this creature? No one will much grieve if she makes a meal of my bones an hour into our wedding night.”
“I would grieve. Eamon would grieve.”
“Ah well,” said Locke. “Not for long, I would think, if she has her way. I imagine the two of you would be skipping right along behind me into the realm of Magh Meall if that happens, whether it is by my bride’s pretty hands or my father’s sword.
” His smile slipped away for a moment, shoulders sagging.
“I shall do my damnedest, Tadhg, to ensure that does not happen though, either way.”
Tadhg nodded, lips tight underneath his beard. “I know.”
Locke cleared his throat. “You never answered me,” he said, resuming his former levity. “How do I look?”
“Very handsome,” said Tadhg. “She’ll be falling in love with you within the hour, no doubt.”
“You mock me, but stranger things have happened. Do you remember the girl from Maigh Nuad a few years back? From the bruiden where we stayed during the storm?”
“A man would be hard pressed to forget that girl.”
“Precisely. She wouldn’t so much as look at any of you, all good-looking boys, the lot of you, and Eamon declared that no man could tempt her, that she was beyond such carnal delights.” He nudged him with his elbow. “Do you remember what happened next?”
“You will not allow any of us to forget it, my lord.”
“My bed was quite warm that night.”
“And I was very happy for you, my lord.”
“She was tireless. Insatiable, even.”
“With all due respect, my lord,” said Tadhg, “shut it and go greet your bride.”
Locke grinned, then pushed out through the tent flap into the cool morning air, tugging his cloak close around him. There she stood, waiting underneath the shadow of the evergreen branches, still silent, still bruised, her hands still straitened with thick coarse bindings.
She really was unnervingly lovely.
Her head turned, and she stared right at him as he approached, his boots soundless in the grass.
Gods, he thought. Her eyes – a dark and fathomless gray as the under sky after an early morning storm. There was something unearthly about those eyes, something ancient and terrible and visceral in its beauty.
He paused a stone’s throw away from her, and for a moment, there was only silence between them, as each studied the other, and despite his best intentions, Locke’s spine grew slick with sweat.
With dread.
He had already known that it was a charade, her deliverance into his hands.
He had suspected it as soon as he heard the news, had known for certain as soon as the man called Colin had stepped inside his tent, but it was one thing to know it, abstractly, and quite another to stand here, face to face, and stare into the eyes of a being hell-bent on destroying him, one who had the power to do so with a mere mention of his name.
As a boy, he had spent hours poring over the poems of old, fascinated by the battles of glory and the time of heroes long past, when gods had walked the earth of éire, but none had enthralled him more than the tale of the Mórrígan herself, awash in blood and smoke, prophesying war.
What a thing to behold, he’d thought so many times in his youth, to hear the voice of truth itself sing out the ending of the world and of time itself. What a sight to see.
And now here it was before him, fractured and dimmed, sure, but there was no doubt of what it was swirling in those unblinking eyes that watched him so closely now.
To show weakness now would mean the death of him – the death of all of them.
So he leaned his shoulder against a tree, and smiled at her – this lost princess, the voice of nightmares, the presumptive queen of Connacht and the vale of Inagh, and the last living descendant of the Mórrígan herself.
His bride-to-be.
Rory ó Conchúir.