The Heart of a Queen (A Historical Romance)

Chapter 8

Brienna didn't dare break her horse into a canter or a gallop; it was still pitch black and she couldn't risk having the mare take a wrong step, injuring herself or her and Brienna both and cutting their escape short. There was no moon and she had only the light of the stars to go by, but she knew that if she stayed on the well-worn trail they'd used to get to the castle, she would make good distance by daylight, and by then she'd have a head start on anyone who attempted to follow her.

She'd never had any reason to fear the dark, and the nerves she felt now were the result of wanting to put as much distance between her and Gwynedd as possible. In Ireland, the only danger she'd ever known was that of the opposing clans, who occasionally swooped down on her family's home on raids, but those, being a point of pride, only ever happened in daytime. The warriors wanted their deeds witnessed, and hopefully memorialized in some poem that would keep their names alive forever. Her own brothers had had that inborn desire for fame—it was what made them daring and foolhardy in battle, and had cost the lives of all but one.

As she rode, Brienna considered what she was going back to, assuming she made it home. Since her brothers had died, her father was all but obsessed with making war with the powerful Û Niell clan, who had made treaties with the English to retain their titles as long as they bowed down to the English King. Brienna knew that no Irishman felt any allegiance to the foreign crown, but the feigned fealty freed the Û Niell's to pursue their agenda of stealing territory from the other clans, who were beset on both sides as they continued to war with each other as well as the English.

An alliance between clans was usually tenuous and short-lived, but her father had hopes that marrying Brienna into the clan of Leinster would be the start of a long-lasting pact to join the strength of the two clans together. It was a strategic union, and it was more important than ever, now, when Ireland was being carved up into estates for members of the English King's court.

Brienna had known about her arranged marriage from a very young age; she could not remember a time when she had not known about it. As a child, she had viewed it as her destiny, and looked forward to the day that she would play an important part for the safety of her family, their way of life, and their homeland.

Since being sent to Llewellyn, however, she had started to see the whole affair in a different light. She saw how her father moved her around like one of the figures on Llewellyn's sprawling map; a pawn in the art of war. She knew it was her duty—as a daughter she only had so much use—but it chafed, knowing her father valued his legacy more than he did her happiness. Looking back, she could see how he had used her brothers the same way. He had mourned their deaths bitterly, but she wondered now how much he had been their cause.

Still, Brienna was loyal in her blood. Despite her reservations, she vowed that she would follow through on her father's wishes, because that was what she was born to do. Besides, if she renounced her clan, she was nothing.

Shaking herself from these dark pontifications, Brienna tried to look forward to her homecoming, and being reunited with her father and her brother, Ruarc. He was a year older than she and already a warrior. He frequently carried massages between Connaught and the old Leinster king, and liked to tease Brienna with snippets of news about her betrothed, Prince Donnall. It was usually news about his training; how well he did with a sword, or a dagger. Nothing very useful for the imagination of a young girl, eager to paint a romantic portrait of her future husband.

It occurred to her now that she used to spend quite a lot of her day dreaming about Donnall and what he looked like, how he would be as a husband, the kiss he would place on her hand when they first met. Since coming to Gwynedd, she hadn't thought about him at all. She supposed it was because she didn't want to bring thoughts of him into her mind when she was so unhappy. When she tried to summon a mental image of him, the one she'd built over years of fantasy, a picture of Llewellyn burst fully-formed into her head instead. She tried to banish it, but next to a man that was flesh-and-blood, her imaginary Donnall wavered and grew pale like seaweed.

She quenched the picture in her head. The whole reason she was running away was because she refused to be treated so poorly, and she was sure Donnall wouldn't want her to suffer any more discourtesy either. She didn't have to meet him to know that her future husband would be good, and strong, and always look after her.

Above her, the sky lightened, and Brienna urged her horse into a gallop. She calculated it to be two days, maybe three, before she reached St. Brigid's. As a serving girl to Llewellyn and Isobel, she'd had access to the kitchens and had brought enough bread and hard cheese to last her that long, in a sack tied under her cloak. Every so often she travelled off the path to find water and rest her horse.

When it got dark, she spent the night in the bank of a hill that was softly carpeted in moss and protected her from the sea's unending wind. Wrapped in her sheepskin with the horse grazing nearby, she was so exhausted from her long ride that she fell straight to sleep, the wind rattling the branches of nearby trees all the lullaby she needed.

The rocking of the earth woke her. At first she thought that the patch of land she slept on had broken off and was floating out to sea. But then she realized she was slung facedown over the back of a horse, and that the horse was not hers.