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
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
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.
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.
&n
bsp; "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.