Conor

  CONOR

  Ruth Langan

  Book 2 - The O'Neil Saga

  An Honorable Rogue...

  Gifted with a smooth tongue and a sharp blade, Conor O'Neil sought

  to avenge the hardships his people had endured. But while he played a

  risky game of politics and power, Emma Vaughn played an even

  riskier game still.

  An Innocent Seductress...

  Emma was shy and innocent, until she arrived at the queen's court

  with one duty-filled goal - to turn Conor O'Neil's attentions from

  intrigue to pleasure. But though each flirtatious caress brought her

  closer to success...Emma was beginning to wonder on which side her

  true loyalties lay.

  For John Ryan Langan,

  the newest link in our chain of love

  And his brother and sister, Tommy and Annie

  And his proud parents, Tom and Maureen

  And of course, to Tom, the love of my life

  Prologue

  Ireland, 1546

  Good morrow, young Conor." The old peasant woman beamed at the

  son of Gavin O'Neil, the lord of Ballinarin. "Ye've come with your

  family to market, have ye?"

  "Aye, Mistress Garrity." Nine-year-old Conor O'Neil paused at the

  table laden with rich, delicate pastries.

  This was his favorite stop on market day. At a nearby stall his father

  was sharing a bit of ale with Friar Malone and some of the men from

  the village. Just across the green his mother and little sister, Briana,

  were admiring bits of ribbon and lace that a young woman was

  holding aloft. In the lane his older brother, Rory, was surrounded by a

  cluster of lads who were pretending to ignore the pretty lasses who

  were giggling and blushing as they passed by.

  All around were vendors hawking their wares. There were stalls filled

  with pens of squawking chickens, buckets of wriggling fish,

  wheelbarrows of mussels and other shellfish. Farmers displayed their

  fruits and vegetables, or bartered lambs for seafood.

  "I've raised six sons of my own," Mistress Garrity was saying in that

  lovely musical voice that Conor loved. "And I know what most

  appeals to the heart of a wee lad."

  With a wink she handed him one of the pastries. As always he

  reached into his pocket for the coin. And as always, she added a

  second pastry with the whispered admonition, "This one's free. Just to

  hold ye until ye get home, lad."

  They shared a secret smile. He bit into the pastry and gave a little sigh

  of pleasure. But before he could take a second bite he felt a hand

  against his shoulder as he was roughly shoved aside. As he fell to the

  ground, he looked up to see more than a dozen English soldiers

  elbowing their way through the crowd.

  The happy voices suddenly faded into silence. Even little children,

  who had been chasing each other around the stalls laughing and

  shouting, went still as death.

  "What do you want here?" one of the farmers demanded.

  "We've come for food, old man. We're hungry." The leader of the

  band of soldiers kicked over a stall and reached for a pen of

  squawking, flapping chickens. While the vendor watched helplessly,

  the soldier tossed it to one of his men and said with a laugh, "While

  we're at it, we'll have your gold as well."

  The soldiers began snatching up buckets of fish, baskets of bread, all

  the while filling their pockets with coin from the tables.

  One of..the soldiers spied the pastries and began scooping them up.

  "Where's your coin, old woman?"

  Mistress Garrity emptied her pocket, placing three gold coins in his

  hand.

  He caught her by the front of her gown, dragging her close. Through

  his teeth he hissed, "I want all of them, old woman."

  She hung her head in shame. "That's all I have."

  "Liar." He slapped her hard, snapping her head to one side, then gave

  her a shove backward.

  At that a tearful little girl came forward, clutching at the old woman's

  skirt as though to comfort her. She was a wee bit of a lass who often

  played a game of tag with Conor while her family tended their stall at

  market.

  "Hush, now, Glenna." Mistress Garrity was more concerned with

  soothing the child than with her own pain. "Yer old grandmother's

  fine."

  Seeing this, the soldier snatched up the girl and pressed a knife to her

  throat. "You'll give me the rest of your coins, old woman, or you'll

  watch your brat's blood spill right here at your feet. And just to make

  certain that you never forget, I'll have my sport with her before I kill

  her."

  At the soldier's words Conor, still lying in the dirt, reached for the

  small, sharp dirk he always wore beneath his tunic. From his

  youngest days he'd been taught to think like a warrior. It was in his

  blood, as it was in the blood of all the O'Neils. The soldier's threat had

  his blood running hot through his veins. Despite his tender age, he

  knew what would happen to his young friend, Glenna. The need to

  stop these monsters by any means nearly clouded his vision. But

  before he could attack, he looked up to see his father's hand go to the

  sword at his waist. Across the lane he saw Rory unsheath his knife.

  Conor knew that the sword of one man and the knives of two lads

  would never be enough against more than a dozen armed English

  soldiers. It might satisfy the warrior's blood in them, but in the end it

  would only incite the soldiers to more brutality.

  His own life mattered not to him. But he had the feeling, in that

  instant, that the fate of his mother and sister, and the entire village,

  rested in what he chose to do here. He knew, with perfect clarity, that

  he could save them all with the only weapon he had. And this time, it

  was not his knife.

  Without thinking of the consequences he leapt to his feet and, in a

  surprisingly strong voice, asked, "Is it true that you swear allegiance

  to Henry of England?'

  The soldier was so startled by the bold question he turned to face the

  lad, completely forgetting the threat to the weeping lass in his arms.

  "Aye. And what's it to you?"

  Conor shrugged. Out of the corner of his eye he saw several of the

  soldiers begin to circle around him and prayed his father would hold

  his temper for a minute more. Though he knew he was babbling, he

  couldn't bear the thought of losing his brave father and brother to

  these foreigners' swords. Not when there might be another way, a

  better way, to win. "Then it can't be true what I've heard about your

  king."

  "And what might that be?"

  "That he's an honorable man."

  The soldier's eyes narrowed with fury. "Are you saying he isn't

  honorable? Do you dare to slander the King of England?"

  "If Henry of England is an honorable king, and if you swear

  allegiance to him, then how can you justify taking the life of an

  innocent lass? According to the laws of your own land, stealing food
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  is a crime, punishable by confinement in prison. But the taking of an

  innocent life is a crime punishable by death."

  At the' look of amazement on the soldier's face, his comrades began

  to taunt and jeer.

  "This bright Irish lad's trapped you, Ian."

  "Aye, what have you to say for yourself now, man?"

  "Better release the girl before good King Henry himself comes

  seeking vengeance."

  "I've heard these Irish are gifted with words," another soldier jeered.

  "This lad's proved it. He's bested you, Ian."

  The leader of the band hurried forward and, hearing the taunts, said

  angrily, "I want no trouble here. We came for food and gold, nothing

  more. When we leave this place, we leave with no blood on our

  hands. Is that clear, Ian?"

  The two faced each other for long silent moments. Then the soldier

  dropped the girl and she scrambled to her feet and raced, weeping and

  wailing, into the trembling embrace of her grandmother.

  In the silence that followed the soldier turned and caught Conor

  roughly by the arms, yanking the lad up until they were eye to eye.

  "You've a glib tongue, Irish."

  Conor's heart was thundering inside his chest. If the soldier felt the

  knife beneath his tunic, it would be turned on him. But he swallowed

  back his fear and met the soldier's stare in silence.

  "That's better. You'd best see that your mouth stays closed if you want

  to keep that clever golden tongue. Else you may find it cut out by my

  blade." With a vicious oath he tossed the lad down in a heap, then

  whirled away.

  Minutes later the English soldiers disappeared into the forest as

  quickly as they had arrived.

  At once the villagers pounced on Conor, hugging him, squeezing his

  arm, shaking his hand and exclaiming while Mistress Garrity thanked

  him over and over again through a mist of tears.

  "Ye saved my little Glenna, Conor O'Neil. Had it not been for yer

  courage, and yer fine words, he'd have brutalized her and slit her

  throat. I know he would. And all the swords in the land wouldn't have

  been quick enough to stop him."

  When Conor's family gathered around, the villagers stepped aside out

  of respect.

  His mother and sister hugged him, while his brother slapped his

  shoulder in approval. And all the while his father studied him in

  silence.

  After several minutes, Gavin O'Neil finally managed to swallow back

  the knot of fear that had been threatening to choke him. "How did you

  come by the things you said to the soldier, Conor?"

  Conor shrugged, prepared for his father's famous temper to explode.

  "I know not. The words just seemed to come into my mind. I knew

  that if I didn't stop the soldiers with words, you would be forced to

  stop them with your sword. And Rory with his knife."

  "It is our duty to defend those we love. You know that I'm a skilled

  swordsman, as you and Rory are skilled with a knife."

  "Aye, Father. But sometimes words are better than swords.

  Especially if they can prevent bloodshed."

  Gavin glanced over the lad's head to where his wife, Moira, was

  standing. A look passed between them. And in that instant they both

  knew. Though Gavin believed in the power of the sword, he had just

  witnessed an even greater power. An unbelievable power.

  There were places of learning in Spain, in France, in Italy, where a lad

  with a fine mind could be given every advantage. Fed by the writings

  of the world's scholars, a fine mind could be honed until it might

  equal or even surpass an army of swordsmen.

  Could it be that this, their middle child, might prove to be the answer

  to a nation's prayer? A prayer for freedom from their hated

  oppressors?

  There was no doubt Conor would be as skilled a warrior as his father

  and brother, for he had the fearlessness, the steady fiand, the vision.

  But if he could become equally skilled as an orator, he would be a

  formidable foe indeed.

  They owed it to him, to their family, to their country, to do everything

  in their power to make it so.

  * * *

  In the years that followed, there was much to discuss around

  Ballinarin. There was the power of Conor O'Neil's words, for he had

  become a famed orator. But as skilled as he was, another was even

  more acclaimed. A mysterious, hooded warrior had begun waging a

  solitary war of vengeance against the cruel bands of English soldiers

  that roamed the countryside. A warrior who spoke not a word as he

  slit the throats of soldiers caught in the act of brutalizing helpless

  women and children. Because he always dressed in the garb of a

  monk, with the hood pulled-down to his eyes, and the cowl pulled up

  to hide the lower half of his face, he'd become known as Heaven's

  Avenger.

  Emma Vaughn was small and slight for her age of ten and two. Dusk

  had already settled over the land when she began making her way

  home from the village apothecary. Her beautiful mother had never

  regained her strength after a difficult childbirth. But Emma was

  determined to see her mother fully recovered. This day she carried a

  pouch of special herbs and potions said to have healing properties.

  They had taken longer to prepare than she'd anticipated, and she was

  anxious about the lateness of the hour. But her mother's health was

  worth any amount of time.

  The sound of horses coming up behind her had her turning in alarm.

  When she caught sight of the band of English soldiers, her heart leapt

  to her throat, and she cursed herself for her carelessness. She knew, as

  did every woman and child in Ireland, what these hardened soldiers

  considered sport.

  Hiking her skirts above her knees, she veered off the path and raced

  across the meadow, hoping the tall grass would slow down those in

  pursuit. She heard a roar of laughter as the horsemen caught sight of

  her and began to give chase.

  Her chest heaved, the breath burning her lungs as she pushed herself

  to the limit. But as she headed toward a line of trees, hoping to hide

  herself, she saw a second group of soldiers emerge from the cover of

  the forest and advance toward her. She paused. Turned. Then

  realized, with growing panic, that she was surrounded. The circle of

  soldiers narrowed as they moved in on their target, who darted from

  one side of the meadow to the other, like a creature of the wild bent on

  escape.

  "I've got her." One of the soldiers reached down and scooped her up

  like a rag doll, holding her imprisoned in his arms as he nudged his

  horse toward the cover of the woods.

  The others were laughing and cursing as they made their way to their

  encampment.

  The one holding Emma slid from the saddle. "Since I caught her, I

  claim the right to be first. The rest of you can have what's left." He

  gave a mocking laugh. "From the looks of this scrawny wench, I

  doubt she can pleasure me much. But I'll have to make do."

  The others joined in the laughter as a cask was opened and ale was

  passed among them.

&nbs
p; "She's no more than a child," one of the men complained.

  "All the better. We'll teach her the ways of a woman. Maybe, if she

  pleases us, we can keep her around." The soldier kept a firm grasp on

  Emma as he dragged her across the camp toward his blankets. Along

  the way he snagged a tankard of ale, tipping it up and draining it as he

  walked.

  When he reached his bedroll, secured beside a fallen log, he tossed

  her down, then fell on top of her. Her screams died in her throat. She

  nearly gagged on the stench of ale and sour breath as her mouth was

  covered by his.

  It was impossible to move. She was pinned beneath him. Still, panic

  gave her strength she'd never known she possessed. Her hand reached

  out blindly and encountered a rock. Her fingers curled around it, and

  she struck the back of his head with all the strength she could manage.

  He gave a grunt of pain. "Little witch. I'll teach you." He grabbed

  both her hands, holding them above her head in one of his. Then he

  slapped her so hard stars danced | behind her eyes. "Now you'll pay."

  Emma braced herself for what was to come. But as he fumbled

  beneath her skirts, he suddenly went rigid with shock. She caught

  sight of a flash of silver as the soldier's eyes went wide, then seemed

  to glaze over. Blood streamed from a gaping slash across his throat in

  the moment before he slumped forward, pinning her beneath his dead

  weight.

  With a sense of panic she pushed and struggled to free herself. Her

  hands, her gown, even her hair were smeared with his blood.

  Suddenly his body was yanked roughly away. Standing I over her

  was a figure clad in the garb of a friar, with the cowl pulled up over

  his mouth, and the hood pulled down ( to his eyes. And the bluest eyes

  Emma had ever seen. They glowed in the moonlight like sapphires.

  "Who...? What...?"

  He shook his head and touched a finger to her lips. Then, without a

  word, he turned away and began to crawl toward the encampment,

  where the voices of the drunken soldiers I could be heard.