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Bertrand grappled to catch hold of her again, but she ran forward, out of his grip, shouting in Irish, “You vowed you would live for me. You vowed it!”
Behind her, a chorus of startled shouts rose up. “What the hell…”
“What did she say? Is that a spell?”
“Is she a witch?”
“Accursed Irish garble.”
Then, louder than the rest, “Grab her, for God’s sake.”
She made it perhaps twenty yards before she was grabbed from behind and wrenched backward into a soldier’s chest. She hung there in his armored grip, hands tied behind her back, panting, watching Aodh come up as if nothing were amiss, as if he was meeting her for a picnic out on the green grass. The wind blew his hair, his eyes locked on hers, and the archers trained their arrows on his chest.
Even when they shouted at him to stop, he did not stop looking at her. He stopped walking, but he did not stop looking at her.
And when they ordered him to remove his sword and blades and pistols, he did not stop looking.
And when they ordered him to kneel down, and put his hands behind his head, he never looked away from her.
Tears, fat and hot, birthed themselves from her eyes, a nursery of tears. She wrestled uselessly against her captor’s hands as they bound him and lifted him to his feet.
“Aodh, dúirt tú go mhairfeadh tú domsa,” she called when he was brought near enough. You said you would live for me.
“Shíl mé go raibh muid ag labhairt teoiriciúil,” he replied.
“Theoretical?” she repeated, incredulous he could jest at such a perilous time. “Níl, Aodh, tháinig na focail ó cheartlár mo chroí.”
“As did I,” he said, being dragged nearer, his eyes intent. “Every word.” He glanced up, then hollered loud enough to turn heads. “Ludthorpe!”
The commander was deep in discussion with his captains, and already, tents were being broken down, men were hurriedly grabbing bundles and tossing them onto wagons. They were eager to get the hell out of Ireland.
At Aodh’s call, Ludthorpe turned. “Welcome to my army, Con!” he called. “I am pleased you decided to visit.”
“It was the least I could do, since you had my wife.”
The commander smiled. “We’re going to take a little trip, back to England, you and I. The Irish press upon one so in Ireland.”
Aodh turned toward Katarina and saw her face now, closer up. He went still. “What happened to her?”
Ludthorpe sighed. “It was a misfortune. Of Bridge’s.”
A ripple moved through Aodh. “Release her. Now.”
It was obscene, almost, for Aodh to be giving commands, bound and manhandled as he was. But nevertheless, Ludthorpe turned to the soldier who held Katarina, but Bertrand stepped up, his face furious.
“No! She comes with us. I decide what to do with the spoils and the hostages,” he added hastily when Ludthorpe turned toward him, no doubt recalling the threat about being thrust outside the English lines for the native Irishry to feast upon. But in this, he was correct—being noble gave him certain precedence, for all that he was not in command, and Ludthorpe paused, then shrugged. It was a trifling matter. What did he care whether she stayed or went?
Bertrand looked triumphantly at Aodh. “You are fortunate I do not have you beheaded right here, Mac Con,” he snarled.
Aodh stared at him. The seconds ticked away and he never broke gaze. Bertrand’s face flushed a hot red, then he turned and snapped at a subordinate, cuffing him on the back of the head when the man did not hurry fast enough. Aodh turned back to Ludthorpe.
“May I have a moment with my wife?” he asked quietly.
Bertrand started to protest, but Ludthorpe cut him off. “Concern yourself with matters that matter, my lord,” he said tersely, and nodded to the soldier who held Katarina. “Let her speak to him. And for God’s sake, cut her cords.”
Bertrand seemed about to complain, but subsided when Ludthorpe turned a glare on him. “We bound the lady to bring in the Hound, Bridge,” he said coldly. “The Hound is here. We cut her cords. Have you a reasonable argument, speak.”
Bertrand scowled mutinously but subsided, stalking a few paces away to glower at them.
