Briana. Ruth Langan
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giving a deft jab with his sword tip. To his surprise his opponent danced to one side and caught his arm with a sharp slice. The yelp that bubbled to his lips was quickly turned into a string of oaths, in order to save face in front of his watching men.
“The Irishman must pay for that, Halsey,” one of his soldiers called.
“Aye.” Gritting his teeth, Halsey charged forward, determined to inflict pain.
Instead, his opponent once more managed to avoid his sword and swung out, catching his shoulder with a sword tip.
As blood spilled down the front of his tunic, his eyes narrowed to tiny slits. Gone was the sly smile of a moment ago. Now, this was no longer sport. It had become deadly serious.
“I tire of this game, Irishman.” He signalled to two of his soldiers. “Hold the lad while I teach him a lesson.”
Briana turned to face the two men who advanced. Wielding the sword like a club, she swung out viciously, and had the satisfaction of seeing them back away rather than face her weapon. But, with her back to Halsey, she was defenseless. She felt the white-hot thrust of a sword as it pierced her shoulder. The weapon dropped from her fingers and fell to the ground.
Stunned and reeling, she turned to face her attacker. His smile was back. His eyes were glazed with a lust for blood.
Up close she could see that his face bore the scars of many battles. His nose had been broken. His left ear had been cut away, leaving only a raw, puckered scar.
“Now will you know death, Irishman.” His voice was a low taunt. “Not only your own, but the death of this land, as well. For all of it, and all who live in it, will answer to an English sword.”
“Hold him,” he shouted to his soldiers. “And this time, see that he doesn’t break free.”
With one soldier on either side of her, holding firmly to her arms, Briana was unable to move. She kept her eyes open as the one called Halsey drew back his hand and brought the sword forward with one powerful thrust. When the blade entered her chest she felt nothing at first, as her legs failed her and sent her crashing to the ground. And then there was pain, hotter than any fire, burning her flesh, melting her bones. Pain that seemed to go on and on until she could no longer bear it.
A loud roaring, like thunder, filled her head.
Then, from far away, came the sound of laughter. And Halsey’s voice, that seemed to rise and fall. “Come. Let’s find a tavern, and wash away the taste of these filthy Irish.”
And then, mercifully, there was only numbness. And a deep black hole that swirled and swirled, stealing her sight, her mind, enveloping her in total darkness, as it slowly closed around her and took her down to the depths of hell.
“Bloody barbarians.” The old man from the nearby village knelt beside the body of his brother, cradling the familiar head in his lap.
“Aye.” His son nodded toward the lord of the manor, who had brought a wagonload of servants to survey the carnage. “And there’s another one of them.”
“Aye. Bloody Englishman. A pity, what he’s become. I knew his grandfather. Now there was a true and loyal son of Ireland.”
“You can’t say the same for his father.”
“Nay. A wastrel, true enough. And now his son has returned as a titled gentleman. The only reason he came home was to claim his inheritance. With his father dead, he’ll take the fruits of our labors back to England, to live as his father before him, like royalty.”
“The bloody English will soon enough own all the land and everyone on it.”
Though Keane O’Mara couldn’t help but overhear the mutterings of the villagers, he gave no indication as he moved among the dead. On his face was a look of complete disdain. It was the only expression the villagers had seen since his recent return to his childhood home.
When he came upon a body that had not been claimed, he paused.
“How many, Vinson?” he asked his servant.
The old man hobbled closer. “I’ve counted a score and ten, my lord.”
Keane struggled to show no emotion. Thirty men, women, even a few children. All caught by surprise, apparently, while tending the fields. With nothing more than a handful of weapons among them with which to defend themselves.
He’d come upon this sort of thing so many times lately, he’d begun to lose count of the bodies. The bloody scenes of carnage had begun to blur together in his mind, so that they all seemed one and the same. And yet, each was different. Each time, he was reminded of the families who would grieve. The widows who would never again see their husbands. The orphans who would grow up without knowing their parents. He winced. The parents who would carry the loss of their children in their hearts forever.
“Has Father Murphy finished the last rites?”
The old man nodded.
“Order the servants to begin loading them into wagons for burial.”
“Aye, my lord.” Vinson shuffled off, and soon a staff of servants began the terrible task of lifting the bloody, bloated bodies onto carts and wagons for burial in the field behind the chapel, on the grounds of the family keep.
Many of the villagers had brought their own carts, and they now trailed behind in silence, unable to give voice to their grief. Only the anguish in their eyes spoke of their pain and sorrow.
As Keane approached yet another bloody section of field, his servant looked up. “These five were not of the village, my lord.”
“You’re certain?”
“Aye, my lord. Neither the priest nor the villagers has ever seen them before. They must have been strangers, who were just passing through.”
“A pity they chose this time.” Keane turned away. “Before you bury them, examine their cloaks and weapons. Perhaps you’ll find a missive or a crest that will tell us the name of their village.”
He hadn’t take more than a dozen steps when the elderly servant called excitedly, “One of these lads is alive, my lord.”
Keane returned and stared down at the figure, crusted with mud and dried blood, the face half hidden in the folds of a twisted hood.
“You’re certain?”
“Aye, my lord.” Vinson leaned close, feeling the merest puff of warmth from between lips that were parched and bloody. “There’s breath in him yet.”
“From the looks of him, he put up a bit of a fight. Take him to my keep and see to him, Vinson.”
“Aye, my lord.” The old man got to his feet. “Though his heartbeat’s so feeble, he might not survive the trek.”
Keane gave a sigh of disgust. So many wasted young lives. “All we can do is try. And hope he survives.”
A servant approached, leading the lord’s stallion. Keane pulled himself into the saddle and began the long sad journey to the chapel, where he would try to give what comfort he could to the grieving villagers. If he were his grandfather the villagers would accept what he offered. But because he was viewed as an outsider, his attempts would be rebuffed.
All along the way he prepared himself for the storm of anger and grief and bitterness that would be expressed. There was a groundswell of hatred festering, and for good reason. There would come a time, he knew, when it would spill over into war. And when it did, there would be even more death and destruction. For the English would never give up their hold on this land and its people. And though he understood the need for vengeance, he also knew the futility of it. Despite the growing tide of sentiment against the English, this