Only a day’s journey separated Glenmalure from Athy in Kildare, where Maurice de Saint Michael resided in a forbidding castle that would soon become Annalise’s new home—God help him, he couldn’t bear to think of it!
Conor threw back the last of the ale in utter frustration and slammed the cup on the table, startling a stout serving maid who stood nearby with a pitcher.
Cursing under his breath, he waved her away and stared again at the freshly stoked fire as he thought of the last time he’d been to Athy to secretly survey the strength of Norman forces there.
Ronan regularly sent out clansmen to Dublin and other towns to keep an eye on their enemies, so he knew full well their numbers were forever increasing, which had clearly fueled his decision to demand a ransom for Annalise.
The castle in Athy was imposing, true, but not large enough to house the hundred or so men-at-arms that rotated in their duties of guarding the stone ramparts and square tower. Instead, they resided outside the fortress walls in low outbuildings with thatched roofs—and Conor had been close enough one time in his disguise as a merchant to hear several of them grumbling about the leaks whenever it rained.
Yet Maurice was surrounded by knights as well of what number, Conor had never been able to glean, though he had seen some of them atop their heavy horses riding toward the castle.
Arrogant-looking bastards with their gleaming chain mail and weapons who laughed with coarse amusement when townsfolk scattered before them like frightened sheep to avoid their horses’ pounding hooves.
Conor had even seen several Norman knights grab comely young Irishwomen right off the street and hoist them struggling and screaming onto their saddles, only to disappear through the massive iron-clad gate.
His heart going out to them as distraught parents stood helplessly wringing their hands and weeping, though there had been nothing Conor could do but inwardly curse them to hellfire.
Even now he felt a similar swamping sense of powerlessness that made him clench his fists to think again that Annalise would soon be among that despicable lot. He had no doubt that Maurice had given his brazen knights the freedom to do whatever they wished to those they considered inferior to themselves, which attested to his loathsome nature. God, how Conor hated them—hated them all!
“Except for one…” he said under his breath as he glanced over his shoulder for the serving maid he had sent scurrying away with her pitcher.
Why not shout out for more ale? Anything to dull the helpless feeling that reared up inside him again as he considered how many more cupsful it would take until he collapsed in a stupor right there in the feasting-hall?—
“Conor, did you not hear me?”
Startled, he twisted around in his chair to find Orla had come up alongside him, her expression not kindly at all, but stern as she heaved a sigh.
“You’ve been drinking—ah, God, how much?”
“Three cups,” he admitted with some chagrin for Orla had known him since he was a wee boy, after all. “I’ve never been one for drunkenness, but tonight—well, tonight is different. Now where is that serving maid…?”
He had twisted back around only for Orla to lay a firm hand upon his shoulder that he remembered well from childhood, too.
No harsh words ever coming from her at his misbehavior, only a good sound squeeze that made him meet her eyes.
“Mayhap I shouldn’t tell you, Conor, given you’re full of ale and in no right mind?—”
“Tell me what? By God, has something happened to Annalise?” Conor felt sharp relief when Orla shook her head, his senses cleared as suddenly as if she had slapped him.
“If you must know—and if you promise me that you’re clearheaded enough to go to her?—”
“Go?” he echoed, rising abruptly from his chair even as Orla still appeared hesitant. “Aye, I swear to you I’m fine. Now will you tell me?—”
“She wants to speak to you, but you better promise me as well that you will treat her kindly—Conor? Conor!”
He didn’t answer but charged across the feasting-hall, his heart thundering.
Annalise wanted to speak to him! Yet he slowed near the door as it struck him what Orla had said about treating her kindly.
Did that bode well or ill? Was Annalise intending to rail at him for offering to wed her? Was she happy that soon she would be ransomed and returned to her own kind—and she was eager to let him know as much?
His gut clenched, Conor sucked in a deep breath when a cold blast of air struck him in the face as soon as he stepped outside—and he would swear he saw flecks of snow in the torchlight.
Was an early snowstorm brewing? He prayed it was so as he strode toward his dwelling-house, for then his father would have to delay sending Joffrey under guard to Athy.
Even if she wouldn’t consider marrying him now, a harsh change of weather would mayhap buy him more time to both sway Ronan and win over Annalise, aye?
Such hope fueled him now that he shoved so hard when opening the door that it slammed into the wall, and he heard her cry out from his bedchamber.
