She opened her eyes. The blaze from the candle held in the nun's hand
made her squint. "I've only just fallen asleep, Sister. It can't be time to
pray yet."
"I haven't wakened you for prayer, child. Mother Superior awaits you
in the refectory."
"The refectory? She's eating?"
"Nay. She is seeing to a meal for the lads who have come to escort
you home."
Home. Briana blinked, unable to say the word aloud. Her banishment
of one year had grown to two, and then to three, as she had railed
against the injustice of the rules, managing to break every one of
them. For each rule she broke, the prospect of ever seeing Ballinarin
again had become so remote, she had feared it would never happen.
And now, without notice, she was being given a reprieve. Still,
though there was the slightest flicker of hope, she held back, refusing
to allow it to burst into flame for fear it would be snuffed, as it had so
often in the past. "But why now?"
"I don't know, child. Mother Superior will explain it to you. Now
hurry and dress." Satisfied that her young charge was not going to fall
back asleep, the old nun took her leave as silently as she had come.
Briana slipped off the coarse nightshift and crossed to a basin of cold
water, washing quickly. Then she dressed in a shapeless brown
garment and scuffed boots, before folding up her pallet and setting it
in a corner of the room. A quick glance around assured her that the
cell was as clean and as bare as when she had arrived, three years
earlier.
Despite the time she had spent here, there was nothing of Briana in
this simple cell. No mementoes of home and family. No small
comforts. The sleeping pallet consisted of a rough blanket on the
floor. On a plain table rested a basin and pitcher, which bore no
adornments. There was no mirror. For that, Briana was grateful. She
had no desire to see how she must look now, with her hair shorn, her
hands, rough and callused, the nails torn and ragged from her hours
spent tending the crops and flocks in the fields. Even her body had
changed. Gone were the soft, round curves of younger womanhood.
Over the years she had grown taller and reed slender, with the merest
slope of hips, and breasts so small and firm, they were easily
concealed beneath the robes of a peasant.
She stepped from the cell and pulled the door closed behind her,
moving soundlessly along the darkened corridor.
When she entered the refectory, Mother Superior hurried over.
"These lads have come to fetch you home."
Briana glanced at the lads who were seated at a long wooden table,
eating a hastily prepared meal of meat and cheese and crusty bread.
With a sinking heart she realized that they were the faces of strangers.
The lads she'd known in her girlhood had probably moved on with
their lives, no doubt with wives and children of their own.
"Why am I being summoned home?"
Mother Superior motioned for her to sit. At once Sister Ascension,
the cook, waddled over to place a platter of meat and cheese in front
of her.
While Briana dutifully ate, Mother Superior explained. "Your father
was recently wounded."
"Wounded? What...?" Her words trailed off at the look on the nun's
face.
Mother Superior gave a sigh of dismay. Even after three years of
training, the lass still hadn't learned to hold her tongue. But at least
she had remained seated. The firebrand who had first come to the
convent would have leapt to her feet and demanded all the details
immediately.
"The wounds are not serious. But your mother desires your assistance
in caring for The O'Neil. She feels that the challenge is too great for
her to carry alone."
Briana's smile was quick. "Aye. My father healthy is challenge
enough. My father wounded would be unbearable. Especially once he
started to mend."
Then another thought intruded. It was her mother who had sent for
her, not her father. Did that mean that he had still not forgiven her?
She felt the pain, sharp and quick, then quickly dismissed it. It no
longer mattered. Once Gavin O'Neil saw her, he would realize that
she had changed. She would win his love. She had to. It had been the
one thing that had always driven her.
She suddenly found that she had lost her appetite.
The thought that she was really going home had her nerves jumping.
Because she had often been lectured on the sinfulness of wasting
food, she gathered the rest of her meal and placed it in a pocket of her
robe, before getting to her feet. Across the room, the lads pulled on
their cloaks and headed toward the door. Briana and Mother Superior
followed.
In the courtyard, the horses were saddled and ready. Mother Superior
handed Briana a coarse, hooded traveling robe. "The ermine-lined
cloak which you wore here was given to the poor. As was the purse of
gold which your father sent. But though this is a humble replacement,
it will serve its purpose, Briana, and keep you warm throughout your
long journey."
"I care not for clothes, Reverend Mother."
"I know that, child." It was one of Briana's most endearing qualities.
The lass had no artifice. And though she was an incorrigible rascal,
she was much loved by all at the convent.
It had been plain, from her first day, that she would never fit in to the
life of a humble sister. But it was also plain that she was kind, and
dear, and with her impulsive behavior and irrepressible humor, the
most impossible challenge of Mother Superior's life. As she looked at
Briana now, she wondered just how she would fit into that other
world beyond the convent walls. She'd had no time to flirt, to dance,
to experience the things of young womanhood. By now, the women
Briana's age would be wives and mothers. And though this sweet lass
would be treated like a woman, by those who met her, she was still, in
her heart, that naive girl of ten and five who had burst upon their
silence and order, bringing with her chaos and passion.
The older woman lifted a hand and Briana bowed her head. "Until we
meet again, child, may God hold you safely in His hands."
"And you. Reverend Mother." Briana turned away and was assisted
onto her mount.
With a clatter of hooves, the horses moved out.
Briana turned for a last glimpse of the Abbey of St. Claire. Mother
Superior stood, her hands folded as always inside the sleeves of her
robes. Behind her the roof of the building, and the cross that rose
from the highest peak, were still cloaked in darkness.
Briana turned her head and stared straight ahead. Toward the sunrise,
just beginning to tint the sky. There lay Ballinarin. Her heart fluttered
with unrestrained happiness. At long last, she was going home.
"What is it? Why are we stopping here?" When the leader of their
little group signalled a halt, Briana urged her mount forward.
"A village, my lady." From his position at the top of a small green
hill, the lad pointed. In th
e distance could be seen the thatched roofs
of sod huts, and the smoke from turf fires, and beyond them, the
towers and turrets of the distant keep. "We'd be wise to seek shelter
before it grows dark."
"I'm not yet weary. I could continue for a few more hours." For every
hour would bring her closer to home.
"You have been away now for several years, my lady." He kept his
tone respectful, but Briana felt the sting of censure. ' 'There are many
more English soldiers in our land now. And no one, man or woman, is
safe after dark."
It was on the tip of Briana's tongue to remind thelad that she was an
O'Neil, and that the decision should be hers and hers alone. But
though it stung, she knew he was right. She had been sheltered so
long, she had no way of making a proper judgment. The lad was only
looking out for her safety.
Reluctantly she nodded. "Aye. We'll seek the shelter of a tavern then,
and be on our way again in the morning."
Below them lay a field of green. Peasants from a nearby village could
be seen tending their flocks. It was a pleasant, peaceful scene that
brought a smile to Briana's lips as she and her escorts urged their
horses down the hill. This was what she had missed. Laughter, as
clear and tinkling as a bell, carried on the breeze. The sound of voices
raised in easy conversation. How long had it been since she had heard
such things? Even in the fields, the sisters and novices never broke
their vow of silence.
As her horse moved in a slow, loping gait between the furrows, she
lifted a hand and waved, and the men and women straightened and
returned her salute.
She was halfway across the field when she heard the thunder of
hooves. For a moment she didn't know what to make of it. Then,
seeing the lad in front of her turn and mutter an oath as he unsheathed
his sword, she followed his gaze.
An army of English soldiers, perhaps fifty or more, was heading
directly toward them from a nearby forest.
With a feeling of dread Briana looked around. They were-taught in
the open. Trapped. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to seek
shelter from the trained warriors bearing down on them.
The leader of her escorts, a fierce, muscular lad of perhaps ten and
six, shouted orders. "The village. At once. It is our only hope."
As they urged their horses into a run, Briana glanced over her
shoulder. The peasants, caught off- guard, were being cut down by
the invading soldiers' swords. In the blink of an eye, five, then ten,
then more, were seen falling to the ground, screaming in anguish.
The air was filled with the sound of voices shouting, swearing.
Women weeping. The sharp clang of metal on metal as those few
peasants who were armed strove to defend themselves. Horses
whinnied in pain as they died, crushing their riders. That only made
the soldiers more determined to retaliate against those peasants who
dared to fight back.
The once tidy rows of grain were now slashed and torn, the earth red
with blood as the mounted soldiers overtook the fleeing peasants and,
in a frenzy of killing, left not a single one standing.
When they had finished with the peasants, the soldiers turned their
attention on the five horsemen, fleeing across the fields. Within
minutes they fanned out, determined to cut off any chance of escape.
Seeing that there was no hope of making it to the safety of the village,
the leader of Briana's escorts signalled for the others to form a circle
around her. "Come lads. We must defend the lady Briana with our
lives."
"Give me a sword," she shouted.
But her voice was drowned out by the thunder of hooves and the
shouts and jeers of the approaching army. As soon as Briana and her
escorts slid from their saddles, their terrified horses took off at a run.
The lads formed a ring around her, swords at the ready, determined to
defend her to their last breath, as the soldiers bore down on them.
"Halsey." A soldier's shout had the leader of the army turning in the
saddle. "Look at this. These lads are spoiling for a fight."
"Then, let's give them what they want." The one called Halsey threw
back his head and roared. It was obvious that he was enjoying the
killing. "I'll do the honors myself. The rest of you can see that the
sniveling cowards don't escape."
His soldiers held back, allowing him to lead the charge. He singled
out the leader of the band of defenders, plunging his sword through
the lad's heart with a single swipe.
His voice rang with disdain as the lad fell to the ground, writhing in
pain. "Embrace death, Irishman. And may your sons and their sons
join you in it."
At his words the other soldiers began to laugh. When the remaining
lads formed a tighter circle around Briana, several of the soldiers slid
to the ground and drew their swords.
"Jamie," Halsey called to a comrade. "Throw me your weapon.
Mine's buried too deeply in the Irishman."
The soldier tossed his sword, and Halsey easily caught it before
engaging a second lad in battle.
Brj.ana watched with sinking heart as the lad fought bravely. But
each time he managed to dodge a thrust from Halsey's sword, the
soldiers behind him would strike him about the head and chest with
their weapons, leaving him dazed and bloody. Soon, seeing that the
lad was too weary to defend himself, Halsey gave a final death thrust
with his sword, sending the lad to the ground, where he gasped his
last.
"That leaves only three," Halsey said with an evil grin. "Who would
care to test his skill next?"
The last of Briana's defenders stood back to back, keeping her
between them. With drawn swords, they fought with courage and
skill, though they knew they had no chance to win. Even if they were
to best the one called Halsey, his soldiers outnumbered them by fifty
or more. His death would make their own that much more painful.
Still, they had sworn to see the lady Briana safely to her home. No
matter what the odds, they would fight to the death to keep their word
to the lord of the manor.
"Do you think two Irishmen can outfight one English soldier?"
Halsey's voice rang with contempt. "Not even a dozen could best
me."
As if to prove his boast, he cut down the first lad with a single thrust,
then turned his attention to the second. Though the lad was clumsy,
he was tall and strapping, with muscular forearms. His first blow with
the blade caught Halsey by surprise, and the soldier had to leap aside
quickly to avoid being wounded.
Annoyed that his soldiers' taunts had gone suddenly silent, he slashed
out, catching the lad's arm, laying it open. With blood streaming
down his arm, the lad fought back, but was quickly slashed a second
time, and then a third, until his tunic and breeches were stained with
his own blood.
"Come, Irishman. Is this the best you can do?" Halsey leapt forward,
causing the lad to back up too quickly.
He tripped and lande
d on his back. Like a feral dog, Halsey stood
over him, the tip of his sword at the lad's throat. "You'd best pray that
the God you worship is merciful, Irishman. For you're about to meet
Him." With a laugh he plunged his sword through the lad's throat.
Then, for good measure, he pulled the blade free and thrust it again,
directly through the lad's heart.
His men sent up a cheer as he turned toward Briana, who stood alone.
If her years in the convent had taught her anything, it was that death
was not to be feared, but rather to be embraced. She took a deep
breath and lifted her head, prepared for what was to come.
"So, lad." Halsey glanced around at his men, clearly enjoying his role
as fearless enforcer. "I see you're too young to be entrusted with a
sword. Is this why the others were protecting you?"
Briana blinked. It took her several moments to realize that this man
and the others mistook her for a lad. No wonder. In the coarse robes
of a peasant, with her hair shorn, she would never be mistaken for a
noblewoman.
"It's too bad." Halsey took a step closer, his sword raised for the kill.
"I would have enjoyed a bit of a challenge before retiring for the night
with my men. Ah well. I suppose it was too much to hope for."
As he stepped over the body of his last victim, Briana took that
moment of distraction to bend toward the lad lying at her feet. In one
swift motion she pulled the sword from his chest.
She cursed the fact that it had been too many years since she'd
handled a weapon. She was surprised at how heavy it felt. It took both
hands just to hold it aloft.
Halsey looked up, his eyes narrowing. Then, seeing how she
struggled with the heavy weapon, his lips split into a grin.
"That's my sword you're holding, lad. I'd wager it doesn't like being
held by Irish hands. Be careful the hilt doesn't burn your flesh."
The others roared with laughter.
"Maybe you're the one who should be careful." Briana slowly
lowered one hand, flexing her fingers. Though she hadn't held a
sword these last three years, she had held her share of plowshares and
scythes. Her work with the flocks and in the fields may have whittled
her weight, making her lean, but it had also made her strong. She
tightened her grip on the hilt of the sword and tested its strength.
Halsey's smile grew. "You Irish always have so much to say until you