His carefully planned ambush at Benburg bridge awaited one last event; the English soldiers must all cross the bridge. Hugh raised his right hand as the foremost rider charged out of the woods and into view on the flood-swept verge below the bridge. Two redcoats bore down hard on the lone rider, to prevent him reaching the bridge and escaping into wild Tyrone. It was going to be close.
Hugh urged the rider to more speed and followed with a curse on Kelly’s wily ways. Well-mounted Englishmen knew how to ride. Kelly’s red-coated soldiers were no exception to that rule.
“Damn my eyes,” Hugh cursed out loud. “That’s not Rory, O’Toole! I told you that wasn’t his horse. What’s going on here?”
Hugh knew horses as well as any man in Ireland. That fleet-legged mare in the lead was an Arabian palfrey. No other breed ran with such nimble grace and speed. When the rider’s cloak caught on the wind again, Hugh spied something he didn’t like seeing at this moment in his life at all.
A woman’s petticoats fluttered over gartered knees.
The mounted soldiers bore down on the palfrey, shortening the gap. Neither man was Hugh’s quarry, Kelly. Hugh delayed his last signal, his hand clenched, but raised and visible to his men. The English must cross the bridge. His gut tightened. His simple plan to capture Kelly was about to be compromised.
Rory was supposed to lead the English into the trap. But Rory wasn’t on the Arabian galloping toward the bridge.
Hugh spied the man he wanted in the second pack of redcoats, fifty yards behind the leaders.
At the same instant he saw his quarry, the gap closed. One lout sprang from his saddle and took the woman to ground on the muddy verge below the river. The palfrey bolted onto the bridge, then reared, frightened by the turbulent, raging, muddy water flooding over the structure.
Hugh ground his teeth. A curse issued from his throat. His breath locked inside his chest. This was not what he’d planned. A woman’s scream pierced the wet air, matched by a shriek from the terrified horse.
Without a rider guiding it, the palfrey toppled off the bridge, into the flood, and careened downstream. It fought mightily to regain its footing and swim across the Abhainn Mor.
Kelly reined in his mount, ten feet shy of the bridge. His evil laugh echoed across the water as he dismounted. Redcoats and brown horses surrounded the unlucky woman. Hugh didn’t need to see inside the closing circle to know the woman’s immediate fate. The sounds of imminent rape were testament enough.
The valuable Arabian struggled to gain footing on the west bank. Art Macmurrough darted out of hiding and plunged into the river, snaring the trailing reins and taking charge of the beast. Hugh growled a shout, enraged that the man had dared break his given orders. His shout died between grinding teeth as he told himself not to be surprised.
That impulsive act by a battle-tested Irish soldier spoke to all that was wrong with Ireland and to why Hugh’s homeland remained in a perpetual state of domination by English overlords. Celtic soldiers, unlike their English counterparts, followed their commander’s orders to the letter only when the whim suited them.
Incensed, Hugh reached for his sword. Something dark and dangerous pushed him perilously close to slicing his own man in half.
Damning his Irish for their fatal caprices, Hugh dug gold spurs into Boru’s sides, galloping out from under the shelter of the wych elms on the bluff above the ravine. His purpose was obvious. He was going after Kelly alone.
Loghran O’Toole immediately rode forward, physically barring Hugh’s path with his war-horse. “‘Tis not our quarrel. Bide a while yet, my lord. Give Rory and Brian a chance to make up ground. All is not yet lost.”
“Get out of my way, O’Toole,” Hugh growled, his voice laden with malice. “Had my orders been followed to the letter, that woman wouldn’t be there. I’ll not stand idle while Kelly takes his sport before my very eyes.”
“You will,” Loghran said, challengingly. “It’s my sacred duty, sworn on the deathbed of your grandfather, Conn O’Neill, to see that no English blade carelessly takes your life. Give our men time to recover. Brian and Rory won’t let you down. Think of the woman as—” Loghran injected a twist of gallows humor into his voice “—a minor diversion.”
Hugh was not amused. He unsheathed his sword.
“My lord, I didn’t bring you safely through fifteen years of English hell so you could risk all for a skirt. Stay, else I’ll call the men and order you returned to Dungannon. Trussed if necessary.”
“Get out of my way.” Hugh’s sword cut through the rain. Another wretched scream pierced the tumultuous dusk. The point of Hugh’s steel pressed into the boiled leather carapace molded to Loghran’s chest. The younger man’s voice softened to a dangerous snarl. “You know what Kelly’s men will do to a woman. We’ve seen their handiwork before.”
“Aye. More than that, I know what he will do to you, should he be lucky enough to get his hands on another O’Neill. Heed my words. Stay to this side of the Abhainn Mor.”
“To the devil with your counsel. I’m in command here.” Hugh drew back on the reins. Boru reared, flashing mighty hooves at the horse and warrior that blocked the worn path to the bridge. “Listen to me, old friend—cross me and you lose your head. Move! That’s an order. Defy me at your own peril.”
“My lord.” Loghran tried one more time, unwilling to let Hugh face unnecessary danger. “The fate of one lone woman cannot alter Ireland’s destiny in the same way that your fate does. She is not your quarrel. Think you of the united Ireland of our dreams. You know as well as I that the wench is likely naught more than an abbess who cut and ran with a soldier’s purse.”
“She may be Mary Magdalene, herself. On Tyrone land, we will bloody well protect all women from English abuse.”
Hugh O’Neill touched his gold spurs to Boru’s sides once more. The stallion charged.
O’Toole yielded ground, wheeling his horse around full circle. With deep regret, he unsheathed his sword and followed, hard on the young earl of Tyrone’s heels, down the cliffside, to the flooded bridge crossing the Abhainn Mor.
Chapter Two
Morgana Fitzgerald drove one strong knee into the groin of the soldier attacking her. By the time his womanish howl split the drenched air, she had her blade in hand. With well-practiced efficiency, she slashed the dagger across his throat. He fell to his knees, clutching his throat and his cods, his scream now a dying gurgle.
Morgana bounded to her feet, balanced and ready. She was winded from the fall from her horse, but not terrified, as Kelly wanted her to be. The cut man’s death rattle proved that English soldiers were not made of the steel Lord Deputy Sidney, the governor of Ireland, and his cruel and bloodthirsty adjutant, James Kelly, would have all Ireland believe they were.
She regretted her one reflexive scream, which might have made these soldiers think she were frightened. She knew from experience to act as though she were the one in control. To do anything less would give away her only chance to keep the upper hand.
Unfortunately, she had screamed. Any woman would, when being rudely and deliberately tumbled her off her horse.
Morgana Fitzgerald didn’t have the luxury of pretending she was any woman. If that were the case, Sidney’s soldiers wouldn’t be following her. The second soldier stalked her as she circled the fallen man, edging her way to the bridge.
When she tried to run for it, he darted in front of her, blocking her path. Her knife was no match for the sword in his hand. He feinted at her with it, driving her back as the rest of the English arrived. James Kelly laughed as he dismounted.
