Claiming Her

The commander smiled. Bertrand fabricated a stiff smile and stretched it across his thin mouth, so level it did not even bend the thin, trimmed moustaches that topped his upper lip. “His Irish wit has infected you too, I see.”

“I believe it comes down in the rain, my lord. Perhaps if you spent some time here, it would infect you too. Yet you have never spent any time here, and nevertheless think you can rule it well.”

He stared in amazement, glanced at the commander, then back at Katarina. “You…you cannot expect the Irish to rule Ireland, can you?” He laughed in astonishment. “Why, even a woman is better than one of them.”

She cast a derisive glance over Bertrand. “The marches would gnash you in their teeth before a week was out, Bridge.”

A flush of anger and embarrassment showed on Bertrand’s face. “I am a nobleman, lady, born to lead.”

She waved her hand dismissively, and from the corner of her eye, she saw the commander smile. “Aodh Mac Con is twice the leader you shall ever be, Bertrand.” Now the flush of red was bright, like a stain. “Know you how many English souls have cleaved to him out here, amid peril and uncertainty?”

“Fools.”

“They do it for love.”

He took a step toward her. “Is that why you do it, cunt?” He pulled her up out of the chair. “Share your charms with a dirty Irishman and not me?” She jerked on her arm, but he shook her so hard, her teeth rattled. On the other side of the table, the commander got to his feet.

“That’s enough, Bridge,” he said coldly.

“No, it is not. These marches need an iron grip, and your rebellious spirit is proof of it, Katarina. You grab hold,” he shook her arm, “and you squeeze.” He tightened his fingers into a painful circlet of anger. “And you never let up. That is how you rule a lawless land and a barbarous people. The Irish understand nothing less, and apparently, neither do you.”

He backhanded her across the cheek.

“Stand down, Bridge,” ordered the commander.

She reeled away from the blow, but Bertrand yanked her back. “No self-restraint”—he slapped her—“no honor”—another backhand strike—“no discipline.”

The commander came up from behind, hauled him off and spun him as he released, so Bertrand ended up on the far side of the tent.

Katarina, cheeks burning, lifted her chin. “I quite agree, my Lord Bridge. Men who have power but no self-control are unfit to rule.”

Bertrand turned between her and the commander, who was staring at him with flat eyes, then gripped his hands together, rubbing the knuckles that had struck her as he paced the tent. “Well, what of it? A moment’s loss of control…you cannot think she did not earn that. With so much at stake… She”—he pointed and started back around the desk toward her—“must be taught a lesson. A woman’s place, and an Irishman’s place—”

She spit at him. Her spit was mixed with blood, and it sprayed across his face.

He lunged for her, but the commander gently pulled her out of the way and put a hand out, stopping Bertrand. He looked down at her. “My lady, we are wasting time. Open the gates for us, and you will be spared.”

Blood pooled hotly in the corner of her mouth from her split lip, then trickled down her chin. Shaking, her breath coming fast and shallow, she realized now there was no hope. None at all. Nothing but open defiance. She had become her father.

“No, my lord, I will not. Even if I wished it, I have not that power. Aodh commands the castle now, and he will not open the gates for anything.”

The commander eyed her. “I doubt that,” he said, and turned for the tent flap.

A knife blade of fear slicked through Katarina’s belly. “What do you mean?”

“Bind her and bring her to the front, Bridge.” Ludthorpe ducked out of the tent.

“What are you doing?” She took an instinctive step after him, but Bertrand loomed, and she stopped.

Ludthorpe glanced back through the tent flap. “I’m going to stand you up on the cannon and offer Aodh Mac Con a choice: he surrenders, or you die.”

Chapter Forty

AODH STOOD on the southern wall, chewing a piece of bread and talking with Ré as they surveyed the army below, when a small group broke free from the main camp and came forward.

“Does a new dawn bring any further clarity to your stubbornness, Aodh?” Ludthorpe’s voice carried thinly through the speaking trumpet up to the battlement wall.

Aodh shook his head and turned to Ré. “Reckless. We are being reckless. Why do they keep calling it stubborn?”