Читать книгу Briana - Ruth Langan, Ruth Ryan Langan - Страница 9

The Abbey of St. Claire 1656

“Briana.” The voice of tall, stern Sister Immaculata came from just outside the doorway. “You must wake, child.”

“Not yet.” The figure huddled deeper into the nest of coarse blankets, wanting to return to her dream. It had been such a sweet dream. She’d been riding her favorite steed across the lush green hills of Ballinarin, in the shadow of towering Croagh Patrick. Her best friend, Innis, and her brothers, Rory and Conor, had been with her, laughing and teasing. She’d been free. Gloriously free of the odious rules that now governed her life. Prayers before dawn, followed by a meal of tasteless gruel, and then work in the fields until noon, when the Angelus was prayed and they were allowed a meal of meat and cheese before retiring to their cells to pray and rest. The afternoon was the same. Endless work, followed by bread and soup, and then evening vespers. Even sleep was regulated, broken at midnight and again at three o’clock in the morning for common prayer in the chapel.

Out of consideration for their age, the older nuns were given duties inside the convent, scrubbing floors, washing linens, cleaning the chapel. The younger ones, students and postulants alike, worked the fields and tended the herds.

“Briana, you must get up now.” The voice was beside her. A hand touched her shoulder. That, in itself, had her coming fully awake, for there was no touching allowed in the convent. There were no hugs. No squeezing of hands. Even the brush of one shoulder by another caused both parties to stiffen and turn away.

She opened her eyes. The blaze from the candle held in the nun’s hand made her squint. “I’ve only just fallen asleep, Sister. It can’t be time to pray yet.”

“I haven’t wakened you for prayer, child. Mother Superior awaits you in the refectory.”

“The refectory? She’s eating?”

“Nay. She is seeing to a meal for the lads who have come to escort you home.”

Home. Briana blinked, unable to say the word aloud. Her banishment of one year had grown to two, and then to three, as she had railed against the injustice of the rules, managing to break every one of them. For each rule she broke, the prospect of ever seeing Ballinarin again had become so remote, she had feared it would never happen. And now, without notice, she was being given a reprieve. Still, though there was the slightest flicker of hope, she held back, refusing to allow it to burst into flame for fear it would be snuffed, as it had so often in the past. “But why now?”

“I don’t know, child. Mother Superior will explain it to you. Now hurry and dress.” Satisfied that her young charge was not going to fall back asleep, the old nun took her leave as silently as she had come.

Briana slipped off the coarse nightshift and crossed to a basin of cold water, washing quickly. Then she dressed in a shapeless brown garment and scuffed boots, before folding up her pallet and setting it in a corner of the room. A quick glance around assured her that the cell was as clean and as bare as when she had arrived, three years earlier.

Despite the time she had spent here, there was nothing of Briana in this simple cell. No mementoes of home and family. No small comforts. The sleeping pallet consisted of a rough blanket on the floor. On a plain table rested a basin and pitcher, which bore no adornments. There was no mirror. For that, Briana was grateful. She had no desire to see how she must look now, with her hair shorn, her hands, rough and callused, the nails torn and ragged from her hours spent tending the crops and flocks in the fields. Even her body had changed. Gone were the soft, round curves of younger womanhood. Over the years she had grown taller and reed slender, with the merest slope of hips, and breasts so small and firm, they were easily concealed beneath the robes of a peasant.

She stepped from the cell and pulled the door closed behind her, moving soundlessly along the darkened corridor.

When she entered the refectory, Mother Superior hurried over.

“These lads have come to fetch you home.”

Briana glanced at the lads who were seated at a long wooden table, eating a hastily prepared meal of meat and cheese and crusty bread. With a sinking heart she realized that they were the faces of strangers. The lads she’d known in her girlhood had probably moved on with their lives, no doubt with wives and children of their own.

“Why am I being summoned home?”

Mother Superior motioned for her to sit. At once Sister Ascension, the cook, waddled over to place a platter of meat and cheese in front of her.

While Briana dutifully ate, Mother Superior explained. “Your father was recently wounded.”

“Wounded? What…?” Her words trailed off at the look on the nun’s face.

Mother Superior gave a sigh of dismay. Even after three years of training, the lass still hadn’t learned to hold her tongue. But at least she had remained seated. The firebrand who had first come to the convent would have leapt to her feet and demanded all the details immediately.

“The wounds are not serious. But your mother desires your assistance in caring for The O’Neil. She feels that the challenge is too great for her to carry alone.”

Briana’s smile was quick. “Aye. My father healthy is challenge enough. My father wounded would be unbearable. Especially once he started to mend.”

Then another thought intruded. It was her mother who had sent for her, not her father. Did that mean that he had still not forgiven her? She felt the pain, sharp and quick, then quickly dismissed it. It no longer mattered. Once Gavin O’Neil saw her, he would realize that she had changed. She would win his love. She had to. It had been the one thing that had always driven her.

She suddenly found that she had lost her appetite. The thought that she was really going home had her nerves jumping. Because she had often been lectured on the sinfulness of wasting food, she gathered the rest of her meal and placed it in a pocket of her robe, before getting to her feet. Across the room, the lads pulled on their cloaks and headed toward the door. Briana and Mother Superior followed.

In the courtyard, the horses were saddled and ready. Mother Superior handed Briana a coarse, hooded traveling robe. “The ermine-lined cloak which you wore here was given to the poor. As was the purse of gold which your father sent. But though this is a humble replacement, it will serve its purpose, Briana, and keep you warm throughout your long journey.”

“I care not for clothes, Reverend Mother.”

“I know that, child.” It was one of Briana’s most endearing qualities. The lass had no artifice. And though she was an incorrigible rascal, she was much loved by all at the convent.

It had been plain, from her first day, that she would never fit in to the life of a humble sister. But it was also plain that she was kind, and dear, and with her impulsive behavior and irrepressible humor, the most impossible challenge of Mother Superior’s life. As she looked at Briana now, she wondered just how she would fit into that other world beyond the convent walls. She’d had no time to flirt, to dance, to experience the things of young womanhood. By now, the women Briana’s age would be wives and mothers. And though this sweet lass would be treated like a woman by those who met her, she was still, in her heart, that naive girl of ten and five who had burst upon their silence and order, bringing with her chaos and passion.

The older woman lifted a hand and Briana bowed her head. “Until we meet again, child, may God hold you safely in His hands.”

“And you, Reverend Mother.” Briana turned away and was assisted onto her mount.

With a clatter of hooves, the horses moved out.

Briana turned for a last glimpse of the Abbey of St. Claire. Mother Superior stood, her hands folded as always inside the sleeves of her robes. Behind her the roof of the building, and the cross that rose from the highest peak, were still cloaked in darkness.

Briana turned her head and stared straight ahead. Toward the sunrise, just beginning to tint the sky. There lay Ballinarin. Her heart fluttered with unrestrained happiness. At long last, she was going home.

“What is it? Why are we stopping here?” When the leader of their little group signalled a halt, Briana urged her mount forward.

“A village, my lady.” From his position at the top of a small green hill, the lad pointed. In the distance could be seen the thatched roofs of sod huts, and the smoke from turf fires, and beyond them, the towers and turrets of the distant keep. “We’d be wise to seek shelter before it grows dark.”

“I’m not yet weary. I could continue for a few more hours.” For every hour would bring her closer to home.

“You have been away now for several years, my lady.” He kept his tone respectful, but Briana felt the sting of censure. “There are many more English soldiers in our land now. And no one, man or woman, is safe after dark.”

It was on the tip of Briana’s tongue to remind the lad that she was an O’Neil, and that the decision should be hers and hers alone. But though it stung, she knew he was right. She had been sheltered so long, she had no way of making a proper judgment. The lad was only looking out for her safety.

Reluctantly she nodded. “Aye. We’ll seek the shelter of a tavern then, and be on our way again in the morning.”

Below them lay a field of green. Peasants from a nearby village could be seen tending their flocks. It was a pleasant, peaceful scene that brought a smile to Briana’s lips as she and her escorts urged their horses down the hill. This was what she had missed. Laughter, as clear and tinkling as a bell, carried on the breeze. The sound of voices raised in easy conversation. How long had it been since she had heard such things? Even in the fields, the sisters and novices never broke their vow of silence.

As her horse moved in a slow, loping gait between the furrows, she lifted a hand and waved, and the men and women straightened and returned her salute.

She was halfway across the field when she heard the thunder of hooves. For a moment she didn’t know what to make of it. Then, seeing the lad in front of her turn and mutter an oath as he unsheathed his sword, she followed his gaze.

An army of English soldiers, perhaps fifty or more, was heading directly toward them from a nearby forest.

With a feeling of dread Briana looked around. They were caught in the open. Trapped. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to seek shelter from the trained warriors bearing down on them.

The leader of her escorts, a fierce, muscular lad of perhaps ten and six, shouted orders. “The village. At once. It is our only hope.”

As they urged their horses into a run, Briana glanced over her shoulder. The peasants, caught offguard, were being cut down by the invading soldiers’ swords. In the blink of an eye, five, then ten, then more, were seen falling to the ground, screaming in anguish.

The air was filled with the sound of voices shouting, swearing. Women weeping. The sharp clang of metal on metal as those few peasants who were armed strove to defend themselves. Horses whinnied in pain as they died, crushing their riders. That only made the soldiers more determined to retaliate against those peasants who dared to fight back.

The once tidy rows of grain were now slashed and torn, the earth red with blood as the mounted soldiers overtook the fleeing peasants and, in a frenzy of killing, left not a single one standing.

When they had finished with the peasants, the soldiers turned their attention on the five horsemen, fleeing across the fields. Within minutes they fanned out, determined to cut off any chance of escape.

Seeing that there was no hope of making it to the safety of the village, the leader of Briana’s escorts signalled for the others to form a circle around her. “Come lads. We must defend the lady Briana with our lives.”

“Give me a sword,” she shouted.

But her voice was drowned out by the thunder of hooves and the shouts and jeers of the approaching army. As soon as Briana and her escorts slid from their saddles, their terrified horses took off at a run. The lads formed a ring around her, swords at the ready, determined to defend her to their last breath, as the soldiers bore down on them.

“Halsey.” A soldier’s shout had the leader of the army turning in the saddle. “Look at this. These lads are spoiling for a fight.”

“Then, let’s give them what they want.” The one called Halsey threw back his head and roared. It was obvious that he was enjoying the killing. “I’ll do the honors myself. The rest of you can see that the sniveling cowards don’t escape.”

His soldiers held back, allowing him to lead the charge. He singled out the leader of the band of defenders, plunging his sword through the lad’s heart with a single swipe.

His voice rang with disdain as the lad fell to the ground, writhing in pain. “Embrace death, Irishman. And may your sons and their sons join you in it.”

At his words the other soldiers began to laugh. When the remaining lads formed a tighter circle around Briana, several of the soldiers slid to the ground and drew their swords.

“Jamie,” Halsey called to a comrade. “Throw me your weapon. Mine’s buried too deeply in the Irishman.”

The soldier tossed his sword, and Halsey easily caught it before engaging a second lad in battle.

Briana watched with sinking heart as the lad fought bravely. But each time he managed to dodge a thrust from Halsey’s sword, the soldiers behind him would strike him about the head and chest with their weapons, leaving him dazed and bloody. Soon, seeing that the lad was too weary to defend himself, Halsey gave a final death thrust with his sword, sending the lad to the ground, where he gasped his last.

“That leaves only three,” Halsey said with an evil grin. “Who would care to test his skill next?”

The last of Briana’s defenders stood back to back, keeping her between them. With drawn swords, they fought with courage and skill, though they knew they had no chance to win. Even if they were to best the one called Halsey, his soldiers outnumbered them by fifty or more. His death would make their own that much more painful. Still, they had sworn to see the lady Briana safely to her home. No matter what the odds, they would fight to the death to keep their word to the lord of the manor.

“Do you think two Irishmen can outfight one English soldier?” Halsey’s voice rang with contempt. “Not even a dozen could best me.”

As if to prove his boast, he cut down the first lad with a single thrust, then turned his attention to the second. Though the lad was clumsy, he was tall and strapping, with muscular forearms. His first blow with the blade caught Halsey by surprise, and the soldier had to leap aside quickly to avoid being wounded.

Annoyed that his soldiers’ taunts had gone suddenly silent, he slashed out, catching the lad’s arm, laying it open. With blood streaming down his arm, the lad fought back, but was quickly slashed a second time, and then a third, until his tunic and breeches were stained with his own blood.

“Come, Irishman. Is this the best you can do?” Halsey leapt forward, causing the lad to back up too quickly.

He tripped and landed on his back. Like a feral dog, Halsey stood over him, the tip of his sword at the lad’s throat.

“You’d best pray that the God you worship is merciful, Irishman. For you’re about to meet Him.” With a laugh he plunged his sword through the lad’s throat. Then, for good measure, he pulled the blade free and thrust it again, directly through the lad’s heart.

His men sent up a cheer as he turned toward Briana, who stood alone.

If her years in the convent had taught her anything, it was that death was not to be feared, but rather to be embraced. She took a deep breath and lifted her head, prepared for what was to come.

“So, lad.” Halsey glanced around at his men, clearly enjoying his role as fearless enforcer. “I see you’re too young to be entrusted with a sword. Is this why the others were protecting you?”

Briana blinked. It took her several moments to realize that this man and the others mistook her for a lad. No wonder. In the coarse robes of a peasant, with her hair shorn, she would never be mistaken for a noblewoman.

“It’s too bad.” Halsey took a step closer, his sword raised for the kill. “I would have enjoyed a bit of a challenge before retiring for the night with my men. Ah well. I suppose it was too much to hope for.”

As he stepped over the body of his last victim, Briana took that moment of distraction to bend toward the lad lying at her feet. In one swift motion she pulled the sword from his chest.

She cursed the fact that it had been too many years since she’d handled a weapon. She was surprised at how heavy it felt. It took both hands just to hold it aloft.

Halsey looked up, his eyes narrowing. Then, seeing how she struggled with the heavy weapon, his lips split into a grin.

“That’s my sword you’re holding, lad. I’d wager it doesn’t like being held by Irish hands. Be careful the hilt doesn’t burn your flesh.”

The others roared with laughter.

“Maybe you’re the one who should be careful.” Briana slowly lowered one hand, flexing her fingers. Though she hadn’t held a sword these last three years, she had held her share of plowshares and scythes. Her work with the flocks and in the fields may have whittled her weight, making her lean, but it had also made her strong. She tightened her grip on the hilt of the sword and tested its strength.

Halsey’s smile grew. “You Irish always have so much to say until you taste an English sword. Then your babbling turns to the bleating of lambs at slaughter. Prepare yourself, lad. You’re about to face your own slaughter.”

He stepped forward, 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.