Chapter Forty-Three
On My Way to You
Aedan, August 24, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
If not for wee Aine, Aedan would have set out for Tyrconnell the day of Lady Maura’s return. But there was no telling what would befall the babe if caught in a bloody pillage. Thank heavens that Cormac, with all his sorrowful hostilities, had remained a man of reason. Aedan’s precious daughter—the spitting image of her mother—was now tucked away in the safety of Benburb. And Aedan’s wait was done.
He clenched his jaw. His Neave must have grown despondent to fancy an escape from O’Donnell’s watchdogs. Even Lady Maura, much as she fought for calm, seemed uncertain of Neave’s designs and gave no account of strategy, nor of tactic in the event of failure. But it mattered nothing now, for once he reached Tyrconnell, the only failure would be to leave a single soul bearing the loathsome O’Donnell name alive.
Aedan tightened his hand on the reins. Lady Maura’s feeble attempts at reassuring him of Neave’s well-being had only convinced him of the contrary. Blood boiled in his veins at the notion—it was one thing to wed the woman to spite him, and quite another to mistreat her. The hell to pay would rival the purgatory awaiting them all. His Neave may have come to O’Donnell of her own misguided accord, but she’d leave it a scorched pile of rubble, crimsoned with the clan’s foul blood.
The moon had not yet reached its zenith when Aedan reined in Tuireann and glanced over his shoulder at his men and gallowglasses. “We camp here and raid at sunup—”
A shadow fell upon his face as a large black bird flew low overhead.
Open your mind and listen, fool...
Aedan shook himself—the drink must have muddled his brain. He turned his mount round toward his army, his voice rumbling in the falling darkness like a demon’s. “Spare none.”
After a meal of salted venison and ale, he lay in his tent without sleep, staring before him, sightless and numb. What had she suffered at O’Donnell’s hands to have grown so desperate as to seek escape in disguise? The power-hungry chieftain, his once prisoner—humbled and humiliated anew by his mortal foe. And the foe’s woman under his dominion and at his mercy. Aedan clenched his fists, breath coming in swift puffs. He’d make O’Donnell talk before the bastard took his last breath.
I’m on my way to you, my Neave.
The waning moon peeked through the narrow aperture in his tent. Its silvery light skimmed his face, soft and gentle as a woman’s touch. He tucked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. I’m near, a rúnsearc.
The sound of her fading voice, filled with fear and despair, made him bolt upright.
...come to me...I’m here...
Unblinking, he stepped into the cool night air. The camp had fallen silent, his men asleep, save for the guards, vigilant in their posts.
Would that I could ride now.
But his men needed their rest. He carved a hand through his hair. Bide a bit longer, a rún. I’m coming.
With a loud, incensed caw that sounded oddly like an oath, the black bird took flight from an oak above, its dark feather fluttering down on him in the rope of moonlight.