Realizing she stared, Anya settled into Maeve’s slightly smaller chair and beckoned the newcomer to approach the dais. She spoke three languages. She hoped he spoke at least one of them.

He stepped from the shadows of the hearth into the light of the candlelit iron chandelier and made his bow, not quite so courtly a one as Garvan’s, but fair enough. When he straightened, the light fell full on his face, and Anya inhaled with shock.

His jaw was scarred in the same manner as the vision she’d seen last night over the cradle. His stature was as broad and tall as she remembered. What meant this? Was he a ghost? Or a portent?

She had the urge to reach out and touch him, to test his reality, but that would cause others to wonder if she’d lost her mind. Her grip tightened on the gilded chair arms. She wore a short sword in her girdle, and her father’s spear leaned against his chair. Her dream world clashed with reality. She was trained to face threats with weapon in hand, but she had seen this man weep for the child.

Deciding she did not act from a position of strength, she waited silently, as taught, learning all she could before showing her hand.

«Your name?» she asked in the language of her father’s Irish ancestors.

The handsome stranger hesitated at her question, as if considering how much truth to offer. Then bowing his head with respect, he replied, «Finn mac Connell, my lady.»

He spoke the old language and used the old name of mac Connell, son of Connell. Connells were once legendary gods and kings to whom the O’Brions had sworn fealty. These days, simmering enmity separated their descendants.

«I see,» she said coolly, although her thoughts raced ahead of her to dire situations that might require that the King place an enemy in her father’s stronghold. Or did the stranger lie? «Did His Majesty send a message with you?»

Again, the hesitation, as if he pondered every word before speaking it. She did not trust a man who could not speak from the heart. And she could not trust a man who had appeared in a vision, like one of the elusive, ever mischievous, Good Neighbours.

«His Majesty wishes to show his friendship for the new King of the O’Brions, and to offer his protection. I am at your service, my lady,» he finally replied with bold authority.

In this, she believed him. The vision had watched over the babe with tenderness. For all she knew, the next king of the O’Brions was fae born, since he was most certainly not Maeve’s. It did not matter. The child was all that stood between her clan and destruction. He needed all the protection she could summon.

She must see the boy christened immediately.

«Garvan.» She turned to the captain of her small army. «Have we a place for the King’s man?»

Garvan stepped forwards eagerly. Before he could say aye, the stranger had placed himself between Anya and her knight quicker than she could think.

She wrapped her fingers around the dirk in her belt and regarded his broad back. Did he think her so helpless that she could not stop him? Or did showing her his back mean he trusted her?

«My place is to serve the boy,» Finn declared firmly. «I will guard him with my life, but I will not guard him from the bottom of a mountain of stones. My place is beside him.»

Garvan’s hand went to his sword hilt. Finn merely crossed his massive arms and stood like the mountain of stones he scorned. There would be violence if Anya did not interfere. Did she side with her brother’s friend or a stranger?

Garvan’s men had not been able to protect her father or her brother. What chance did an infant have in their care? She had no reason not trust the vision who had wept over an infant. Yet.

«Pax,» Anya said softly, rising from her chair. «We have a funeral and a christening for which to prepare. If the High King sees fit to send his man here, let the mac Connell take his place on the landing. For now, the babe stays with his wet nurse in the women’s quarters, with me.»

Calling for the priest, she swept past the roomful of towering soldiers, aware that the largest of them all followed her to the stairwell.

The haughty wench hadn’t even introduced herself, Finn recalled in amusement, watching the O’Brion princess carry his son down a chapel aisle to the waiting priest. He’d learned her name, of course, but name and title were unimportant in comparison to the woman who wore them. Before he left, he needed to know she could defend and care for the boy.

Anya O’Brion’s temerity alone ought to terrify half the men in the land. She’d stood at the head of a hall full of armed soldiers and commanded respect like a warrior queen, instead of a petite princess. Standing to one side of the altar so he might observe all who entered, Finn hid his grin. Even the goddess Brigid must approve of a woman who could slay grown men with her flashing eyes.

In his time, he’d left worship to the women. That men now commanded the sacred waters and prayed to male gods did not bother him. What bothered him was the tension he sensed in the chapel as Princess Anya kneeled before the priest, holding his son. They doubted her ability to lead them or protect their king — against what enemy?

Was this the price the Old Ones commanded for providing his son the home he deserved — knowing the boy must fight for his place? The Others did not speak plainly but left the consequences of Finn’s actions on his shoulders. He supposed they would smite him dead if he did not obey, but as far as Finn was concerned, he was already dead. He’d died with Niamh.

He glanced at the colourful glass in the chapel windows and wished it gone so he could see outside. How could a man protect his kin if he could not see all the land around him?

Hearing the thunder of hooves, he stepped from the shadows of the altar to stand directly behind the Princess, his sword and his knife crossed over his chest in warning.

The audience gasped at his warlike action, but in the next instant, others heard what he had. The men pushed for the exit, heading for the ramparts, Finn hoped.

«I christen thee Ardal Patrick Connor O’Brion, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,» the priest intoned, blithely ignoring the departing soldiers.

Finn did not recognize the name Patrick, but Ardal was a fine old name, and Connor was fitting for the son of a king. Conn was the origin of his own name. The Princess had chosen well. Now that the naming was done.

Finn grabbed the lady’s arm and hauled her from the floor. «Upstairs, now,» he ordered.

Holding the babe, she could not reach for her knife, although he saw murder in her glare. She had eyes the colour of emeralds and hair of the finest flax. And a glower that would pierce stone walls. «Release me,» she whispered harshly.

«After I’m seeing you up the stairs, where no man can go without dying on my blade.» With determination, he rushed her down the aisle.

Rather than submit to the indignity of struggling with him, she hurried ahead as if fleeing the chapel were her idea. She shielded the boy with her heavy mantle as she walked, so Finn approved.

«They fly the Connolly flag,» a guard called from his post in the tower.

The slender woman under Finn’s hand jerked to a halt, forcing Finn to stumble rather than fall over her.

«I will not run from the Beast,» she announced. «Breeda, take Patrick to our chamber.» She placed the protesting bundle of flailing limbs into the hands of her gnarled old maid.

Finn scowled, unprepared for the two to separate. Did he follow his son or stay with the woman? Narrowing his eyes, he watched as the servant carried his son to safety, while the foolish Princess swung to meet some foe called the Beast.

«Are you run mad, woman?» he muttered. «Let the men do battle. Your place is with the boy.»

Her look of scorn would have melted iron. «Your place is with the King. Mine is to slaughter the man who has taken my family. I may start with that part of him that makes him male.» She drew a deadly dirk from her girdle and hid it between the folds of her mantle and tunic.

Finn winced as he caught her meaning. «And wouldn’t it help to be seeing what the man wants before emasculating him?» he asked dryly.

«I know what he wants, and he cannot have it. Emasculating is exactly what he deserves,» she said with satisfaction.

Finn could not resist a challenge like that. He’d have to stay with the mad Princess to see how this game was played. Planting himself in front of the tapestry concealing the stairs, sword in hand, he watched over the Princess Anya as she assumed her chair on the dais.

Three

Well trained, the castle knights formed a phalanx around Anya as the visitors hailed the sentry on the wall.

«Order them to allow Connolly and one of his men in, no more,» she commanded. The moat hadn’t been completed, so there was no way to prevent riders reaching the walls. But horses couldn’t fit through the narrow aperture through which the sentries allowed visitors.

The men who strode in wore mail and helmets and strutted like peacocks. They were big men, without question, but Anya had known them all her life. They had small minds and only two thoughts in them — her, and the lands she now guarded for her nephew.

«You have come all this way to express your condolences?» she asked dryly. «Would you not have done better to bring your mother and sister so we might console together?»

Dubh Connolly removed his helmet to uncover thick black curls interspersed with grey. «I regret the passing of Queen Maeve,» he said gruffly. «How fares the child?»