Ruth Langan - Briana

She had to run now to keep up with her husband’s impatient steps.

There was a murderous look in his eyes as he tore open the massive door leading to the courtyard. “If those English bastards have touched one hair on her head, I’ll kill every one myself.” He had already pulled himself onto the back of a waiting horse when he spotted the procession of villagers walking slowly across the sloping lawns of Ballinarin. At the front of the line was a muscular lad carrying the motionless figure of his youngest child.

His heart nearly stopped.

“Dear God in heaven.” He slid from the horse and crossed the distance at a run.

Seeing the lord of the manor, the villagers paused in their march, whipping the hats from their heads in respect.

“Ah. Briana. Briana.” With a sob catching in his throat he took the limp, bloody form from the lad’s hands and gathered her against his chest.

By the time Moira reached them, he was kneeling in the damp grass, rocking his child the way he had when she was a wee babe.

Rory and his wife, AnnaClaire, came racing from their rooms, with their adopted son, Innis, leading the way. Behind them came Conor and his wife, Emma. All came to a sudden halt at the sight that greeted them.

“Who did this thing?” Gavin’s voice was choked with tears, his face filled with unbelievable anguish.

“That can wait, Gavin.” Moira touched a hand to her daughter’s throat, then gave a sigh of relief. The heartbeat was strong and steady. However much blood had been spilled—for the lass’s gown was soaked with it—the wounds were far from fatal. “We must get her inside.”

Gavin felt as if he’d taken a knife in his chest, making his breathing labored and painful. Nothing in the world mattered to him as much as his children. And this one, his youngest, his only daughter, his beloved Briana, owned his heart as no other.

As tenderly as if she were still that tiny bundle he had first seen ten and five years ago, he cradled her against his chest and made his way inside the keep, with his wife and family and the parade of villagers trailing somberly behind.

In the great hall the servants had gathered in silence.

“Adina.” Moira’s voice was stronger now, relieved that there was work to be done. “You will help me tend Briana’s wounds.”

“Oh, aye, mistress.” The smile returned to the servant’s eyes, for fiery little Briana was a favorite among all of them. Life was never dull, the chores never mundane, when Briana was near.

“Come.” Moira indicated the fur throw in front of the fire. “Lay her here, Gavin, and I’ll see to her shoulder, which seems to be the source of that blood.”

As she and the servant began to cut away the bloodsoaked sleeve and wash the wound, she said softly, “Despite appearances, it is but a small wound.”

Gavin watched in silence. Now that the first wrenching wave of fear had swept away, a newer, stronger emotion was beginning to emerge. He turned to the villagers, his blood hot for vengeance. “Now you will tell me everything. Who did this thing?”

“A group of English soldiers, my lord.” One tall lad answered for the others. “They were coming out of the tavern.”

“How many were there?” Gavin knew he fed the flames of anger, allowing the hatred to grow before he knew the facts. But he couldn’t help himself. He had spent a lifetime hating the English soldiers who moved in small bands across Ireland, defiling, not only the land, but innocent women and children in their path.

“At least a score, my lord.”

“So many?” Moira made a sound of surprise.

Gavin interrupted with a hiss of impatience. “Which way were they headed?”

“The last I saw, they were heading toward the forest, my lord.”

Moira looked up from her work. “But why did they attack our daughter?”

The lad stared hard at the floor.

Gavin’s voice was a growl of command. “Why did they single out Briana, lad?”

“She…” He swallowed, and shot a glance at the others. “She attacked them, my lord.”

Gavin’s brow furrowed. “Briana attacked them?”

The villagers nodded, dreading what was to come. Gavin O’Neil’s temper was a frightening thing to see. It was already there, growing with each moment, darkening his eyes, flaring his nostrils.

“Are you saying the English did nothing to provoke the attack?”

The lad stared at his fingers as they played with the ragged edge of his hat. “The English didn’t even see her until she charged into their midst with her sword aloft.”

“Her sword?” Gavin spun around, glancing upward, seeing the empty space over the mantel where his father’s sword always hung. “What did they do then, lad?”

Briana pushed aside the servant’s hand and sat up, brushing tumbled red locks out of her eyes. Her voice, a husky mix of breathlessness and energy, deepened her brogue. “They laughed at me.”

Everyone turned to stare at her. But the only one she saw was her father. His face, looking tight and angry. His eyes, staring at her with a look of puzzlement. It wasn’t the proud, joyful expression she’d been anticipating.

Hoping to put the light of pride back in his eyes she hurried on in a rush of words. “At first they managed to evade my blows. But when the leader ordered me to throw down my weapon, and I refused, the English dogs were forced to defend themselves.”

“Aye, my lord. ‘Tis true.” The lad nodded. “One of them struck her with the flat of his blade, knocking her from her horse. When she fell to the ground, she seemed stunned, but she’s a true O’Neil. She managed to get up and attack again.” There was admiration in his tone. And a sense of awe, that one small female could take such blows and keep her senses about her.

Briana O’Neil was a constant source of amazement among the villagers, for, despite her life of luxury as daughter to the lord of Ballinarin, she was a wild thing, always plowing headlong into danger. There were those who said she was in a race with her warrior brothers, to see who was the fiercest. There were others who said she was merely trying to please a harsh, demanding father. Whatever demon drove her, Briana O’Neil was surely the fiercest female in their midst.

“That’s when the leader pinned her with his sword, drawing blood. He ordered his men to mount and ride. And when they were safely away, he followed, my lord.”

Gavin spoke to the lad, but kept his gaze fixed on his daughter. “Did the soldier say anything?”

“Only that he had no desire to have the lass’s blood on his hands.”

Gavin’s eyes had narrowed with each word until they were tiny slits. Now he swung the full weight of his fury on his daughter. “You little fool. Is it death you desire?”

“Nay, Father.” She struggled to her feet, determined not to let him see any weakness in her. “I desire the same as you.”

“Do you now? And what might that be?”

“I’ve heard it since I was a wee lass.” With her hands on her hips she flounced closer. “Freedom from tyranny. And death to the bloody English.”

Gavin’s voice rose, a sure sign that his tightly-held control was slipping. “And you thought you’d see to it all by yourself, did you? You’re an even bigger fool than I thought. It’s lucky you are that the leader of that band had the sense to only wound you. He’d have been within his rights to kill you.”

Crushed by his words, Briana exerted no such control over her own temper. With eyes blazing she shouted, “You call me a fool? If I had been Rory or Conor, or even young Innis, you’d have had nothing but praise for my courage. I’ve watched you, Father, sitting around the fire at night, boasting of your sons’ courage. But never once do you recognize that I have the same blood flowing through my veins. The same courage. And the same need for vengeance. Why can’t you see it? Why can’t you see me?”