Chapter Forty-Five
Turn Round
Aedan, August 24, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
Proud and grand, withwalls set on the inside of river Eske’s loop, Tiernan’s castle was a mighty fortress. But it was no match for Aedan’s army of gallowglasses with their sharp javelins, unceasing battle rage, and fondness for coin. And even less so for his fevered, nearly demented longing to reclaim, possess, never let go of his heart’s true desire.
...come to me...I’m here... Her words coaxed and beckoned in the dark recesses of his mind.
He faced his army, voice dropped into a whisper. “Onward.”
Swift and stealthy, his men became one with the shadows. No rallying calls, no clash of iron on iron, no parrying shields. No alarm bells. For all their formidable size and hefty weapons, they moved like deadly wraiths, like death itself—a precise, silent formation that breathed the same breath and dreamed the same dream.
With the speed and might that rivaled the mythical Fianna, they scaled the walls before the archers could loose an arrow and silenced the lookouts before they could utter a sound.
They surged into the courtyard like a torrent, crushing and unstoppable.
Aedan didn’t see the faces of the sentries as he struck his single, punishing blows—only his Neave, pallid and frightened within.
I’ve come, my Neave. He wrung his long sword from limp flesh and whirled round for more.
But his men had done quick work of the castle guard. The courtyard lay silent. The blood was everywhere—soaking the ground, dripping from his saffron, filling his nostrils with its sharp, metallic tang. It mingled with the stench of fear and death and Irish lives laid to waste—to what end? Empty pride. Cruel adultery. Ceaseless wrath. He swallowed his gorge.
At last, I confessed all my transgressions to You...
The ragged breaths of his gallowglasses brought him back to himself. They stood at the ready, awaiting his command.
Aedan shook himself. There is yet time for repentance.
“Go deo abú!” Forever to victory. Always and forever. His call rumbled throughout the courtyard, bounced off the castle walls.
They stormed in like a bolt of lightning, unheralded and unhampered.
His battle cry erupted in a deafening roar, a demented howl of a beast set upon bloodshed and annihilation. “Strike for the O’Neal! Kill them all!”
O’Donnell had taken care to defend his domain, but Aedan’s army outnumbered the home guard two to one. Each of his soldiers was a weapon—born for combat, honed for war, made for carnage.
It was daggers, not javelins, in close quarters. Hacking, slicing, tearing. And no sight of the man himself. Likely hiding away or gathering his wits to make use of his one remaining advantage.
Aedan’s blood boiled at the notion of her being mistreated, desecrated, impounded within these loathsome walls. His thoughts were like his blows—swift and conclusive. You’ll not be his hostage long now, a rún... Spare none... Kill them all... I’m coming...
He heard the scian before he saw the hand wielding it. A young guard had gained on him, eyes wide and unseeing, mouth twisted in a vicious snarl. Aedan whirled before the lad could skewer his flank. The blade came down like a rock, slashed through the chainmail covering his arm. Aedan didn’t feel its sting as he stuck his deadly blow. But the guard retreated. Aedan’s dagger sliced the air.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears, stars burst in the corners of his eyes. He crushed into the lad with all his force, tumbled down with him. They lost purchase with the floor, slick and reeking of slaughter. For a beat, they skidded, then Aedan seized the guard’s head in an iron brace, his blade at his throat.
Aedan’s breath came in frenzied puffs as he shoved its tip into the lad’s flesh. “Where...is...your...lord?”
“Gone west...” The guard’s face contorted as he spat the word.
Aedan stilled himself, pulled back his blade, and raised the lad’s head to face him. “It shall be a very long death for you.”
The guard scoffed. “He’s not to be found here.”
The clang of iron about them came to a halt, replaced with frenzied cries, strangled moans, and last breaths. Aedan pressed his dagger to the lad’s throat again, harder this time. “And what of Lady Neave?”
The guard’s face took on an expression of grim resoluteness, mixed with calculated incitement. “His lovely wife...is being bathed...and scented for his return.”
Aedan didn’t spare a glance for the vile wretch as he thrust his blade deep into his gut, yanked it back, and stood.
A graveyard of fallen sentries—their pillage was done, their victory complete.
Ice, sharp and merciless, crept into his veins as he took in the butchery: a grotesque display of léine-clad corpses, their heads—dark, bright, pale—adorned with Irish forelocks, their hands still gripping Irish scians. Aedan swayed on his feet, swallowing bile. He’d never murdered his own countrymen, nor killed lest it was in battle and against the blasted English.
Lord, I lay before You my sin...do not...not cast me from Your...It took all his strength to remain upright.
“Brother, you’re bleeding.”
He stared at Kian, then at his arm. Blood pooled beneath his chainmail, crimsoned his saffron.
His men stood waiting. He wiped his dagger on the dead guard’s linen and dropped it into his sheath.
“The O’Neal has come for his woman!” His booming voice reverberated throughout the castle like a thunderbolt. “He who disturbs one hair on her head, will taste of such abyss that hell will seem a respite!”
Aedan turned to his army before heading to the stairs. “One hundred groats to whoever brings O’Donnell to me.”
His heart beat a sluggish drumroll as he barreled from chamber to chamber. No trace of O’Donnell, nor his men. Nor of his Neave. Women—young, old, weeping, pleading. Aedan winced. They thought him a monster bent on punishing the innocent.
His chest felt weighted with lead, his head pounded with words, more uncertain every time he uttered them. “Where is your mistress?”
Frantic sobs, violent tremors.
Mad, each one of them. Or playing the part?
Shaking and drenched in sweat, he lifted his chin. “You will pay if you don’t tell me!”
Unhinged wails, frenzied entreaties.
He balled his hands into heavy fists. “Where is she, damn you all to hell—”
Aedan froze at the threshold to a lady’s chamber. Her trunk stood open; her gowns lay inside in a strange, ominous disarray. His stomach lurched with misgiving—the leper wood arose in his mind’s eye, clammy and lifeless. Once again, she was gone. Gone, as if she’d never been.
By God, my Neave. Where are you?
He raised his head, swallowed at the sight of her basin—mud gathered at the bottom, her golden strands clung to its side.
Throat dry, he rummaged through her trunk. All her lovely gowns lay within, not one missing. He clutched the familiar sky-blue kirtle, buried his face in it. It smelled of her fear, anguish, despair. The walls rushed toward him. All blood drained from his face. Where was she concealed, disrobed and terrified?
Aedan returned to the great hall, swaying and cold all over. The young guard’s corpse lay motionless where he’d left it, surrounded by his fallen fellows. He sat on his haunches beside it and stared ahead, unseeing.
Through the open door, the night broke into dawn. He schooled his mind to calm. How could O’Donnell have learned of this raid? He couldn’t have.
I’m here, my Neave. He buried his throbbing head in his hands. I’ve come for you. Where are you?
Her voice was silver bells trilling in the thin mist outside.
Turn round and come to me, a chroí—
It was the strangest of sensations as Tyrconnell walls vanished into the night, along with Aedan’s men and the murdered guard. He was back in Benburb, flying up the stairs, kicking his bedchamber door open. His heartbeat thrummed in his throat, wild and free, as she stood before the hearth—his dazzling new bride—wondering, doubting, giving over. As she gazed up—his stunning wife—discovering his body, her cerulean eyes trained on his. As she faced him—his one true love—naked and undone, whole and healing. As she lay with their new babe in her lovely arms, sacred and majestic—the mother of his children. A scorching flame thickened within his chest and seared his face as she peered at him with swimming eyes when he slammed their chamber door and left her to pursue his empty ambitions. To seek that which had lost all meaning without her.
I’ll make it right.He pulled her close, drowning in her smooth skin, silky hair, rosebud lips. Trembling, he gulped and drew back. He’d gone mad. It couldn’t be.
But she was there—in his chamber, in his bed, in his arms—soft and warm and redolent of all that made life worth living.
I’ve come home to you, my Aedan—
A sharp stab of pain in his flank jolted him from the vision.
“Curse you, Aedan O’Neal...and your children...and your children’s children...” The guard, who ought’ve been dead, dropped the dagger, twitching with his last agony.
Aedan’s arms tingled with her warmth, her heart-wrenching scent lingered in the air, her gentle voice called to him like a siren.
He collapsed beside his kill.
Return to me, return to me, return to me...
“Brother!” Kian’s face—a frozen mask of horror—was the last thing he saw before the world went black.