‘Aileen has done all she can to heal your wounds.’ Jealousy hardened the man’s face. ‘You should return to your own people. Your presence bothers her.’
‘It bothers her?’ Connor questioned. ‘Or does it bother you?’
‘Hurt her, and you will answer to me.’ A darkness tinged Riordan’s threat. He did not allow Connor to reply, but moved toward the long trestle tables where Aileen worked alongside the women.
Connor resented the man’s threat. Never had he harmed a woman. He longed to sink his fist into Riordan’s stomach, to feel the satisfaction of a fight. Though he recognised the words as idle jealousy, his hackles rose when he thought of Riordan being near Aileen.
As he strode through the throng of people, he caught sight of a familiar banner. A grave chill spread over him. Theméirgeheld the colours of the Ó Banníon tribe. Somewhere among them was Flynn Ó Banníon, the man responsible for his injuries.
He stared at the crowd, searching to find his enemy. A cool trance seemed to settle over him, the need for vengeance outweighing all else. He reached to his side, forgetting that he had left his sword in the hut. The absence of the weapon reminded him once again that he was not ready to face the Ó Banníons in combat. But his time would come.
The priest Father Maen raised his hands, the dark brown folds of his sleeves falling to his sides. He waited for silence when all the tribesmen had gathered. Then he invoked a Latin blessing, calling for the folk to pray for fruitfulness in both harvest and in family. Connor joined the tribe in their response of ‘Amen’, but his gaze remained locked upon the faces of Ó Banníon men he had once called his friends. Now, nothing of that camaraderie remained. There was still no sign of Flynn Ó Banníon, the chieftain.
After the prayers, the folk dispersed into groups for storytelling and the games. Children raced, shouting and laughing as they moved amid the dogs and animals. A few elders began games of chess with pieces carved of ivory and black stone. Connor kept a wary gaze towards the Ó Banníon tribe, but none spoke to him.
He walked through the crowd, passing among merchants who vied for his attention. He had brought along a few pieces of silver from the purse Trahern had given him. Though it would not be enough to purchase more than a few trinkets, he found himself moving toward the horses.
A fine blackEch, its skin sleek as midnight, caught his eye. Such a warhorse might cost a chieftain four hundred cattle in exchange. The steed tossed its head, the silver bridle flashing in the morning light.
‘Brought over from Wales, he was,’ the vendor boasted. ‘Fastest animal for riding you’ll find. Good bloodlines. The Norman king wanted this one.’
‘He is very fine,’ Connor acknowledged, ‘but I am looking to gift a woman with a horse. She does not need an animal better suited to royalty.’ Nor did he have the silver to purchase such a steed, not even with help from his eldest brother Patrick, the King of Laochre.
The merchant’s eyes gleamed. ‘Then it might be you’d be wanting a gentler animal, like this one.’
Connor examined the grey mare. The bone structure proved to be good, although the mare seemed more interested in grazing than in trotting or walking. ‘She is tame, I see.’
He stroked the animal’s coat, intending to walk away before the merchant began bargaining.
‘Flynn Ó Banníon will be anxious to see you,’ a low voice said.
It was Niall, a man he’d once called friend when he’d fought alongside the tribe. Slightly taller than himself, Niall had trained with him on more than one occasion. They were evenly matched, which made the sparring good practice for both of them. Though Niall’s hair was a darker gold than his own, he had been like a brother to him.
Connor tensed, his glance moving toward Niall’s sword. The man caught his look. ‘I played no part in what was done to you. Had I known, I would have tried to stop them.’ Niall’s expression was solemn. ‘I am sorry for it.’
Connor wanted to believe him. Niall had never been known to deceive others. Always had he spoken the truth. ‘Does Ó Banníon believe I am dead?’
‘No. He knows you are alive. Seamus Ó Duinne asked him to answer thebrehons.’
Connor ignored the merchant’s pleas to stay and inspect more horses. He walked alongside Niall, moving toward the food preparation tables.
‘I’ve no wish to see him.’
Niall shrugged. ‘That I can understand. When you confront him, it will be your word against his.’
To Connor, it did not matter what Ó Banníon claimed. He preferred to settle his vengeance outside of the courts. ‘Do not reveal my presence to him yet.’
‘It does not matter what I do. He will know where you are within moments. Look.’ Niall pointed toward a blonde-haired beauty who was staring at both of them.
Connor met the gaze of Deirdre Ó Banníon. Shock transformed her expression into fear. Good. She had reason to fear him, after her treachery.
‘I’ll leave the two of you to speak,’ Niall offered. ‘I am certain you have much to say.’
Connor made no reply, his gaze trapping Deirdre. She glanced around, as though searching for an escape. He allowed none, willing her to stay rooted in place.
Her golden hair was neatly braided, sun-kissed auburn highlighting the strands. Clear green eyes rivalled the hills of Éireann with their striking colour. A beautiful woman was Deirdre, and a powerful one with her position as the chieftain’s daughter.
With a light smile, she began walking toward him. He considered avoiding her, but a cold rage simmered within him. Her lies had caused his punishment. As she moved towards him, her hips swayed seductively. Deirdre twined her arms about his neck and pressed herself close. ‘Connor MacEgan! I cannot believe it is you.’ With a sensual smile, she added, ‘I have thought about you often.’ Her breasts rubbed against him, her hands moving down his back.
