Chapter 1
Wicklow Mountains, Ireland, Autumn 1234
* * *
A peaceful morn.
Conor O’Byrne relished this hour before dawn when the stronghold was quiet, everyone still abed except for the guards atop the ramparts. Even the servants had not yet begun their duties, and only a few nickers drifted from the stable where the horses were tucked away in their stalls.
The sky still dark and heavy with clouds.
A crisp breeze rustling his hair, which he swept back from his forehead.
Aye, his favorite time of the day. Conor breathed in the air that smelled of wood smoke and autumn leaves as he strode past a row of dwelling-houses, his senses nonetheless alert in spite of the morning stillness.
It was his turn to remain awake all night long to oversee the stronghold’s security while his clansmen and their families slept, a critical task he shared with his brothers-in-law—Liam and Tiernan—and four trusted members of the O’Byrne clan. Each man on duty one evening a week to oversee the guards and to stay watchful for any signs of trouble—though such events were rare indeed.
The stronghold was impregnable; Ronan O’Byrne, Conor’s father and the legendary leader of their clan, had paid diligent attention to their defenses over the years…just like every chieftain before him.
As Ronan’s only son, Conor would one day shoulder that responsibility, but first in line as Tanist was Niall, Ronan’s younger brother and Conor’s beloved uncle. He didn’t mind at all that Niall would become chieftain before him, a well-deserved honor for years of loyal service to their clan. He was an acclaimed warrior, too, and yet with an easygoing manner that differed from Ronan’s sterner approach to his position—Conor’s temperament falling somewhere in between the two of them.
He gave a low laugh now as he passed by the dwelling-house of his elder sister, Deirdre, which she shared with her husband of three months, Liam O’Toole.
The pair no doubt contentedly abed whereas before the wedding, Deirdre would have been up already and saddling her stallion, Tam, for an early morning ride, Conor usually accompanying her outside the stronghold at their father’s behest. Ronan never wanted her to venture out alone no matter her high-spirited bravado, which amazingly had tempered since Deirdre had become a wife and already a mother-to-be.
Aye, she could still be a handful, but Liam seemed to take her strong-willed nature in stride as if she constantly amused him—ah, God, love could bring even the most formidable warrior to his knees. So it had done to Ronan, his devotion unwavering for his wife, Triona, Conor’s indomitable mother…and to Tiernan, the stouthearted husband of Conor’s twin sister, Eva, their second son, Brian, born two months ago.
Yet, even with such marital happiness all around him, Conor didn’t crave it for himself, though he supposed it was only a matter of time before Ronan demanded he wed as their father had done to Deirdre. He wasn’t averse to the thought of a wife and home and family one day, but no woman had ever stirred him enough to?—
“Conor, a rider approaches!”
The guard’s shout from the rampart shattering the stillness, Conor lunged toward the stout inner gates where other men stood ready for his command. Yet he waited until the same guard’s wave indicated not a foe, but a clansman, before Conor signaled for all three sets of massive gates to be hauled open.
His instincts pricked a few moments later to see the rider’s flushed face in the torchlight and the lathered condition of his horse, the exhausted creature’s sides heaving and froth dripping from his mouth.
“Normans, Conor! Four leagues from here!”
“By God, that cannot be,” he murmured under his breath even as the young man, one of the warriors sent out to patrol strategic points along Glenmalure, the O’Byrnes’ home valley, vigorously nodded.
“Aye, we couldn’t believe it ourselves that any would dare venture into our mountains. Fools! Yet not a large force, and only a few men standing guard around their camp.”
“A camp, you say?”
“Aye, we couldn’t believe that, either, a circle of tents around a stoked fire as if they have no inkling they’ve trespassed upon O’Byrne land. We were only two men, not enough to launch an attack, so I rode here straightaway?—”
“We can reach them within an hour,” Conor said tersely, his fist clenched around the hilt of his sword.
Fury engulfed him that any Normans would dare to camp in Glenmalure, let alone the Wicklow mountains. Had the bastards not learned after years of defeat suffered during any incursion into lands ruled by Éire’s rebel clans that their slaughter was assured?
Conor’s full-throated battle roar rang out across the stronghold, which exploded at once with commotion, clansmen rushing from their homes in half dress or even naked after lunging from their beds.
His strapping brother-in-law Liam thrusting his legs into trousers while Deirdre, enveloped in a blanket she had snatched to cover herself, stood alongside him until she rushed back into their dwelling-house to fetch the rest of his clothing and boots.
It seemed that men were dressed and standing at the ready within mere moments, sword belts fastened and weapons sheathed, while Conor had donned chain mail brought to him before he strode into the center of the stronghold to again raise his voice.
“Normans have invaded our land! One pitched camp at least, but who knows how many more might be out there? Mount up to ride and fight!”
His heart pounding and his face hot with outrage at the encroachment, Conor saw Ronan wave to their clansmen to affirm Conor’s command since his father wouldn’t be joining them.
