The Knight's Return

The wisdom had come too late to Sorcha, but it might yet aid Onora. Sorcha watched a group of girls chasing butterflies nearby and felt a pang of yearning for those simpler times when they would have joined the village children in such a game.

“But at least they are your choices.” Onora gazed off into the distance. Nay, she seemed to be staring toward Hugh and the groom. “You did not bend to father’s will to wed some toothless old nobleman who would swive with a sheep in the absence of a woman.”

“Sister!” Sorcha sought for a sense of outrage with which to chide her, but could not hold back a laugh. “I cannot fathom where you have gained such a wicked mind.”

“It is not far from the truth, and well you know it from the men Father offered to you.”

Sorcha recalled two different lords her father had suggested as husbands and shivered anew. She had spent so much time these past moons regretting the life she had to offer Conn that she had almost forgotten what made her rebel so strongly in the first place. Would she have been any better off now if she’d dutifully wed one of those ancient noblemen?

“But I have learned that acceptance is more important than you realize.” She squeezed Onora’s arm to emphasize the point as a nearby children’s game grew rambunctious.

Hot cockles always appealed to the most rowdy children as it involved placing a hood over the eyes of a person in the center while others circled him and randomly hit the blinded person until they were identified by name.

Somehow, this round of hot cockles had spread all the way up the hillside as the blindfolded boy listed about, trying to both duck and guess his tormentors’ names.

Hugh must have noted the players’ advance, for he called out to her from his position farther down the hill. She was about to proclaim her safety when she was struck in the temple and fell heavily to the ground.

Chapter Six

Reckless youths scattered like the wind.

Hugh plowed past them to reach Sorcha, suspicious of every face that streaked by but unable to search for a culprit until he knew the princess of Connacht had suffered no lasting harm. He had been alert for full-grown men who might wish to hurt her or steal her away, not barefoot urchins in the midst of a game.

“Sorcha.” He kneeled to the ground beside her, careful not to land on the river of auburn hair spilling out onto the grass.

Her skin was pale, the faint freckles on her nose standing out in sharper relief. He plunged his hand beneath the blue veils hung from her silver circlet, feeling along the back of her head for any injury. Gently, he sifted through her silky hair.

Relief rushed through him when he found no blood, though he discovered a lump just above her ear. The spot was swollen and warm to the touch.

“She said nothing before she fell,” Onora told him, her voice breathless. “She merely sank to the ground.”

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