A/N: I apologise for the history lesson in advance but I stress that it is integral to the plot. I’m trying to be as accurate as possible whilst still making it inventive. If someone has already written a FF with the same ideas than no infringement intended… I really hope that this is somewhat original.

One of the major changes in this storyline is that it’s set in the 1300’s (1376 to be precise) and therefore Angel and all the rest of them must be shifted back to that time period. The English and native Irish were constantly engaged in small skirmishes, vying for control of the land. The result was that the region within which English law held sway steadily shrank until, by the end of 15th Century, it encompassed an area barely 50 miles square around Dublin. Within this Dublin 'Pale' was the 'Land of Peace' administered by the King's Justiciar or, later, Lord Lieutenant. "Beyond the Pale" lay the 'Land of War', where Irish and Anglo-Irish lords raided and battled one other in an endless series of petty wars and clan succession struggles. Now this is important in the fact that William is an English noble, sent to take over the province of Ulaid (modern day Ulster). I will warn everyone that this isn’t an instant fall-in-love-and-swoon romance but I would love to hear feedback (constructive). Thanks for reading. Translations of various Gaelic words shall always be listed at the bottom of the chapter.


Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,
From glen to glen and down the mountain side;
The summer's gone, and all the leaves are falling;
'Tis ye, 'tis ye must go, and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow;
'Til I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow;
Danny boy, Oh Danny boy, I love you so.

And when ye come and all the flowers are dying,
If I am dead, as dead I well may be.
Ye'll come and find the place where I am lying,
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

And I shall hear, 'though soft ye tread around me,
And all my grave shall linger sweeter be,
Then ye will bend and tell me that ye love me,
And I shall sleep in peace until ye come to me.
-Sinead O’Connor ‘Danny Boy’


It was a song that her mother had whispered upon her death bed, soft tones and gasping intermingling throughout the words. Older than anyone could imagine and surprisingly haunting in its tones. In the wooden shack in which they had lived her ears had been strained in an attempt to listen. Her mother’s voice had been so quiet that the interfering wind which blew along the outside walls, rushed over much of the melody. Legend said that it had first been used on a battlefield, a tribal leader passing on leadership to his son.

For Buffy, the song held little meaning besides to act as her mother’s death dirge.

Joyce had come from Ulaid, one of the five provinces in what was a war torn Ireland. It had been controlled by the British but at this point was constantly being raided by different Gaelic tribes. There was no real sense of allegiance between any, except to the villages they hailed from. Buffy’s mother had been stabbed during an attack on their property. It was a major target considering the fact that her father was of Anglo-Saxon descent. His ancestors may have interbred with the local Gaelic people but there was still animosity. Joyce had been a victim of that hate.

What little Buffy knew of life had been confined to the fields upon which she ran and the local villagers her father controlled. When she had first caught glimpse of the band of men she had thought they had arrived with her father. Hank had been negotiating with a lord to allow him to move to another province. He’d never given a reason for the move but then it wasn’t expected.

Neither Joyce nor Buffy’s view would change anything. They were only women.

Storming down the hill, the first man had fallen to a pillage of arrows. The raiders, being intent on pillage and rape had simply killed her rather than let the elderly woman live. This attack was a symbol of power, a message to the English and all the people which fawned over the lords.

Murdering one old woman was nothing to them.

Hidden and terrified, Buffy watched her mother be taunted as another blade sliced through her left lung. It had taken mere minutes before the marauders rode off once more, cruel laughter hanging on the wind. Buffy had crawled towards Joyce, despite the fact that she could still be taken as bounty if they came back and dragged her body into the small wood home. As Joyce had sung, Buffy had wiped the congealing blood away from her mouth. It was the one thing a small girl of fifteen, now considered a woman, could offer a máthair.

It was three long days before Hank returned home and then it was only to announce that they were moving to the village of Kilkenny. He’d barely spared a glance at his wife’s grave or the grief stricken face of his only daughter. In his mind now he could perhaps find a woman who would actually bear him sons.

Daughters were only useful for making connections socially. That and breeding.

With Joyce’s death, Hank considered him a free man. All that needed to be disposed of was his daughter and by the age of sixteen that would be more than reasonable.

Having paid his land to the lord as bribery, Hank took his daughter and headed south along the river Liffey and into the town of Kilkenny.

Buffy mourned her mother the entire journey.

***

The bar was a rotten dirty place, stinking of Irish whiskey and coating the floorboards of what William suspected was forgotten firewood. Most likely stolen. He snorted in distaste and tried to remember why it was he had come to this province. It certainly wasn’t for the company… William, like all English lords detested the Irish; loathed them to be precise.

Grimacing at the bar maids which clung to the sides of the tavern, William stalked further inside. He had to bite his cheek to stop himself from reprimanding the guards who slyly winked back.

I’m surrounded by heathens.

It was a well known fact that Ireland, from the English viewpoint, was utterly out of control. The land that remained under the king’s control diminished daily and that was with the presence of an army. Dublin was the one place that a noble could reside without an armed guard.

William had been sent primarily to change that. His blood relation to the king meant that he was a prime target for political plotting or worse to be forced to attend the king’s court and idly chat about absolutely bleeding nothing. The man had spent enough time trapped during a rather bad reenactment of the Iliad to know that no amount of power would make him stay in such company.

Particularly when part of the aforementioned company included Drusilla.

William sighed, knuckling his forehead and motioned to his guards who clumsily followed after. The sooner he banished that woman’s face from his mind the better he would be.

He’d arrived a month ago, passing through Dublin with a cursory glance and then moving slowly south. Numerous homes that they passed had been left smoldering, ransacked and empty of life except for the circling shadow of ravens. He’d heard one native soldier, newly devoted to the king’s army, refer to one of their goddesses. Supposedly the chit liked to appear in the form of a raven right before battle. William had been unable to hold back his snort of laughter at that but then it was a common saying.

The lack of English domination had allowed the Gaelic language and mythology to flourish. God Save the King. A large part of William looked forward to taking control over the Irish if only to hear the infernal Éirinn go Brách silenced.

Cursing under his breath William finally spotted the innkeeper, who he had been informed went by the name Willy.

Like a rat caught in the ireful gaze of a cat, the man stilled in the middle of his conversation, the patron forgotten as William stalked closer.

“My lord” said Willy bowing. “How may I be of service to you?” Greasy black hair already shorn was raked through by nervous hands. Willy only needed to look at the condescending expression of the man’s eyes to know he was in the presence of an English aristocrat. Summers will want to know about this…

William watched as Willy grasped the front of his apron, dirty smudges marring a grey surface. He wasn’t much to look at, perhaps of Scottish heritage although his voice carried little inflection. A large prominent nose jutted forward, overriding the his other geatures. All in all the man was merely a small runt, simpering to whoever would listen. The only reason William did not pull forth his sword and press the blade against the git’s throat was because of the off chance that he might be useful. Though William would be surprised if that was indeed true.

Rumor since he had entered the town suggested that the innkeeper was a chief informant for another of the village’s newcomers, a man by the name of Hank Summers. A decidedly foreign name and William was to bet that the power hungry sod would become a problem very quickly. He might as well add the names to the ever growing list of those not to trust and save himself the trouble. Keeping his voice low so as to hold back the venom William clenched his fists and studied the wall behind.

“First off I would like board for my men and if possible a decent meal without bleeding potatoes…”

Willy gulped audibly. “I’m sorry my Lord but every room has already been rented out…” His voice trailed as William’s frost like eyes grew colder. “I could perhaps show you somewhere else more befitting one of your station though.”

“Right then.” The flare of his cloak was all the warning that Willy had before William latched onto the man’s collar with one hand and began to drag him along the dusty floor. Coughing and spluttering Willy tried to keep his head up, knowing that no one would come to his assistance. William was renowned for his violent nature. So much so that the religious thought a demon resided inside. Now Willy could claim personal experience. His beaky nose, smashed against the first step as they entered the main street of Kilkenny.


It seemed the Lord wanted to make an impression quickly.


A/N: I've got a second chapter ready and will write more if there is interest...

A/N: I’m so amazed by everyone’s responses. Thank you all so so very much. You have no idea how much it means that everyone is interested in this FF. Thank you Squawks for the early grammar mistake. I’m a fool sometimes.

In terms of Irish culture, I’ve mentioned a few details about Irish weddings. For the Irish a cloudy or overcast sky on the wedding day can mean absolute disaster for the marriage. They consider it the worst possible omen. This is also true in the case of funeral processions. If there is one on the day of the wedding, the bride and various parties will go on a different route specifically to avoid it.

Just thought that might explain things more.

PS: Jolynn. I replied to your review and would love to hear from you regarding critique and also in terms of plot direction.

two

The grass was unusually soft beneath her feet, caressing her soles and relaxing her in a way that no human being ever could. Out here in the fields she was safe, protected from her father’s demands or the loathed eyes of her fellow townspeople. Unbidden her eyes traveled across the field down towards the town below. It remained as industrious as ever, the blacksmith’s clanging hammer ringing out into the late afternoon air. Smoke still curled up through the air like beacons, allowing her to see which homes were busy.

Buffy noted with fear that her own home remained disturbingly silent. But then her father’s business was not her concern. At least not out here…

Trembling Buffy once more began to walk slowly. Each step made her heels sink deep into the earth, the ground squelching its protest. To her ears it sounded like freedom, reminding her of a lost childhood. As a young girl she had been given relatively free rein. Her mother had been a simple woman, content in tending to the home and Hank for the most part had been too self-involved to take notice in any of her activities.

That had all changed the moment they entered Kilkenny.

Within the village Hank had quickly gained power through the usual bullying tactics and deviousness. To Buffy it was normal behaviour, and she adjusted quickly to the glares of the more foolhardy villagers who hated her parent. Wherever Hank had gone the same always occurred. But never had she faced this much hate.

A sob threatened to sound for a moment as Buffy recalled the vicious taunts which now embroiled around her. They reveled in her misery.

Just three days from now she would be wed. And she didn’t even really know her betrothed…

It was no secret amongst her neighbors that Buffy had protested the match. Her cries had not been stifled enough for them to remain oblivious. The next morning had brought soft words from the elderly women mending clothes but no one else. Her idealism had been well known by everyone and subsequently mocked. They saw it as fitting that she be forced to behave like a ‘proper Irish maid’. Buffy’s dream’s of an actual romance, cherished for so long, were merely fanciful flights of fancy.

Which made her current situation all the more terrible to bear.

Everyone knew that Liam was marrying her in order to curry favour with her father. Hank held so much power that even the Lord Butler in his castle, had invited them to dine inside the cold walls.

It took one sharp slap for Buffy to finally realise her place in the world.

She was merely a possession; a ticket to more power.

More so she was lucky that Hank had not married her off sooner.

And all the villagers knew it. All the girls with uncompromised virtue had been wed during April the year before, in keeping with Irish custom. Her late arrival in Kilkenny had meant that she couldn’t be married till the following year for fear of drawing bad luck on her match. Buffy knew that if the decision had been left to Hank, he would have married her off in the middle of a thunderstorm in the dead of winter. Wed for nearly a year now, the women had regaled Buffy with tales of their marriage days, recalling how soon until she herself could be wed. Their constant reminders had slowly eaten away at her till Buffy could barely think of anything but the match. Now that she knew her fate was to be given to Liam, the day seemed to approach quicker.

She shivered and increased her pace.

The year before had brought only the slightest shower during April and the families had rightly considered it as a blessing. But now Buffy only had to dig her toe into the softened ground to feel the effects of rain. If the mage’s senses were anything to go by, the showers would not let up till late June.

Buffy didn’t need the weather to tell her that the match was cursed.

How could it ever be a happy marriage if she was forced into it?

Though it was foolish, Buffy had found herself quickly becoming ambivalent to the entire situation. Once her chores were completed, she moved almost as though in a dream, detaching herself from the hateful expressions and laughter. She could still feel them, there was no true way of blocking out the loneliness but she found herself no longer caring about her eventual fate. Her heart lived only for the present. Her mind could no longer attach importance to her marriage, the child inside of her still too scared and shocked by her current predicament.

Dismissing Liam’s impact on her life was the only way of accepting her fate.

Tilting her head upwards, Buffy regarded the clouds which lazily drifted over her. Rather than detesting them, she relished their presence. They provided a comfort that she could barely explain beyond the fact that the sun no longer beat down upon her skin. Even now it was rosy from its effects. She scowled for a moment ineffectually before allowing her thoughts to once more wander over Liam.

Out here was the only time she let her fears surface.

To Buffy the sun shining on her on the wedding day would be no different than if it poured. Liam was so foreign, so indescribably cold that she dreaded the very notion of belonging to him. If they met a funeral procession on the way to the ceremony Buffy would consider it just one more omen.

And so would the villagers.

Amongst the peasant folk, Buffy was considered to be cursed. No one felt that Liam would gain anything by marrying her besides an early death. The gossips were so certain of it, that they didn’t bother to hide their conversations when she walked near. If not for her father’s cruelty, Buffy would have been actively spat upon.

She was so alien to them.

The blood of her father’s ancestors blossomed in the colour of her eyes and hair so strongly that it was impossible to pretend she was pure Irish. Rather than the hues of caramel or cherry red, her hair flowed past her shoulders like a waterfall of gold. Perhaps, if it was only her complexion they could have forgiven her yet Buffy made other mistakes. She was constantly mixing her Gaelic phrases, for no other reason than carelessness. She loved to watch the men practice with their bows, wishing that she herself could participate. She wore shoes…

Buffy smiled bitterly as she remembered the day her father brought the useless things home. They were made of rabbit’s hide, the fur left on the inside in order to provide some comfort. The skin on the outside was hard yet malleable from worked in tallow. She had stared at them in surprise until Hank demanded that she put them on.

The gift had at first made her feel loved; that maybe her father did actually care about her as more than a bargaining tool. For the first day she’d worn them proudly, ignoring the sullen glares of her neighbors. It was considered improper for someone so low in the social order to be allowed such a status symbol. Normally only men were thought worthy of the extra protection.

And like a fool she had misplaced the intended isolation as her father’s attempt of affection. In the end Hank wanted her to be hated. It kept him in control of her actions. With no one else to turn to her father could continue to dictate her every move.

And then it’ll be Liam’s turn.

Buffy again dug her foot into the softened earth and sighed in release. Today the hated hide did not bind her, allowing Buffy to savor the earth soaking into her skin. She couldn’t help offering up silent thanks for the rain which had bathed the field.

She already knew the punishment if anyone caught her up here. Though Buffy could not be reprimanded by the normal villager, it would only take one word to Hank before she would face the strap. The shame of facing her betrothed with bruises was enough that she again looked to the village.

No one had seen her.

The sigh of relief was audible as her attention drifted back to the ground. It seemed the gods had given her respite after all. Buffy couldn’t help feeling as though she had earned it though. It was to be her last day as a child. The least she could do was walk barefoot amongst the flowers without fear of Hank’s threats.

Trailing her hand over tall stalks of wheat and various other plants, she noticed a cluster of Heartsease, or Field Pansy to her left. Delighted at finding the flower so soon into April, she settled herself down and peered at the petals closely. Childhood memories of her mother laying the cream colored petals with a yellow and orange tinge on her straw bed were instantaneous. Joyce had loved the variation of what many considered a weed. She had said that it spoke of the Irish in general.

It made Buffy wonder why it was that Joyce had ever agreed to marry someone like Hank. His ancestry meant relatively little to anyone; the Normans had already integrated themselves into Irish customs and readily accepted their heritage. In her mind she could see Joyce as a young girl, ready to marry and having the pick of the town.

To choose Hank willingly would have been nigh impossible.

Her hand clenched around the smooth green stalk, tightening slowly. If her mother’s circumstances had been anything like her own, Hank would have manipulated the entire courtship.

Unbidden the memories of her childhood rose to the surface, images of her playing the fields interspersed with the deafening yells of her father. She had been sheltered from it back then by Joyce’s willingness to obey and please. Whatever Hank had demanded she gave with all the grace a village woman could muster. Even when her husband had taunted her ancestry, degraded her in front of the other men she never complained.

To Joyce, serving your husband was the ultimate role for a woman. She never questioned the morality of Hank’s actions.

It was not her place to.

And now neither could Buffy.

She didn’t have to listen hard to hear of Liam’s exploits in the local tavern. Nor did she bother imagining his face contorted in anger. Anyone her father had chosen would be just as barbaric as him.

Her hand slowly moved upwards from the bruised stem, clenching hard around the flower’s petals. She didn’t even notice the slight sound of troubled earth as she ruthlessly ripped it from the ground, her thoughts becoming that much more troubling.

It was these very thoughts that kept her from hearing the sound of hoof beats until the beast was nearly upon her.

She did however see him.

Buffy scrambled back in fear as imperious cold eyes swept over her form.

“What are you doing in my field?”

Chapter three

A/N: Quick history detail: The Kilkenny castle still belonged to William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke at this current time. The Butler family bought the castle in 1391 and continued to rule over the populace for 500 years. Due to the Butler family being Norman, I really want to use them as an early piece in the story so if everyone’s okay with this, I’ll write as though the Butler’s already had control of Kilkenny castle.

Now to a more important matter. From the summary, I am hoping that everyone knows there will be rape in this FF. There’s no way of getting around it, nor do I want to. This element of non con is essential to the plot moving and being realistic. I know some people have a problem with this and so this is your warning. If you are uncomfortable reading about rape and scenes of a non con nature then do NOT READ THIS STORY. My subject matter is very much NC17 in nature and as a result can reflect the nature of that time period.

Any flames declaring that I haven’t warned you will be laughed at and promptly deleted.

Updates will be a weekly matter, due to a number of factors. I’m in law school at the moment, have managed like an idiot to break my finger and general RL. I’m really sorry about the long wait for this chapter but everything is now organised. Thank you to everyone who emailed me, especially Jolynn and Im_bloody_english.

Now that that’s out of the way…

Gaelic words and phrases:
Cill Chainnigh : Church of Canice (the Gaelic name for Kilkenny)

earlier that day…

William dropped Willy’s lax body to the ground with distaste, lips curling as the man spluttered. One kick to the ribs and the man was already babbling about Hank, even as his lungs burned for air. William lifted his eyes to the other villagers, noting their accepting expressions with satisfaction. Their cowardice saved him the effort of making some poor oaf an example.

William didn’t really care to hear the shrieks of a man losing his hand so early in the morning.

Grinding his heel into the small of Willy’s back, William wondered if he should simply kill the sod. His life was worth nothing if the rumors of Hank were anything to go by. The upstart would have Willy’s throat cut by noon at the latest. He had no misgivings about word reaching Hank already.

Let the blighter come.

Dark eyes met his for a moment, the unspoken plea evident in their inky blackness. William held back a sigh, taking one last glance down at Willy, as though to memorize the fleeting life that still filled his lungs. His hand waved down a second later and William steadily moved further out into the street. For once he didn’t have the heart to dispatch the man himself.

It didn’t take long for the soldiers to lumber towards him, yet his curt nod never reached their eyes. William didn’t need to look at his men’s hands to know that blood covered them.

He’d first heard of the town in an English court, though the reference was barely worth mentioning. Kilkenny was considered so worthless in terms of political tensions that further investigation of Ireland’s towns had led him to be ridiculed. More than a few heads had turned in surprise when William had formerly asked permission to serve the king abroad and in Ireland specifically. Drusilla, in her usual fashion had begun screaming in outrage that only the guards could silence. Her long thick midnight hair had fallen into tangles within seconds of hearing the words as she raked her hands through it.

The King had stared at her for a moment, as though surprised at her behaviour, before nodding his head.

It was all the acceptance William needed.

Even without the King’s permission, he still would have left. England held nothing for him except a slow death filled with boredom. The bent form of a beggar scuttled amongst one of the barren pathways as he passed. A mangled face, most likely created at birth twisted the lips and cheek, leaving an ever jeering smile. William held the man’s gaze until the shadows swallowed him whole.

At just twenty three years of age, he had seen more than Drusilla ever would with all her potions and drugs. William didn’t know whether that could be considered a successful attribute or merely enlightening. For the most part he chose not to ponder it. His step quickened as Drusilla’s pale face flashed through his memories.

Amongst the royals and courtiers she was known for being either physic or raving mad. William thought it had much more to do with the tonics and various powders she injected than any thing worthy of heresy, though he held his tongue when the king discussed his ‘beautiful niece’s visions.’ It was better not to disagree and instead mutter along approvingly of Drusilla’s actions. Other courtiers had found themselves in very unfortunate positions for daring to speak badly of the royal.

And they had never been as privy to Drusilla’s antics as he was.

He could remember watching her in the parlor room, the back of her hand pressed against her lips and nose as she inhaled madly. She had often invited him into her chambers, one pale hand bending in mimicry of the other ladies as she asked him to ‘sit like the cherubs.’ William had been too surprised, and later far too enthralled to deny her requests. Even as his vision blurred he never complained. Thinking back on it now, William could only berate himself. Whatever mystical quality Drusilla had, was only based on strange chemicals and powder. He wondered how he could ever have thought of her as some enchantress. The very room, in which she danced, had seemed stale with the thick smoke that curled onto the ceiling in great coils. The image of Drusilla weaving madly about in it, dress unfastened and the maid grinning dazedly in the background, half heartedly trying to protect her lady’s ‘honor’, reared again. A smile tugged at his lips, before being suppressed. He could never recall the poor maid gaining any control at all. Drusilla was too wild of a girl to conform to the standards of the upper class. Her life up until the time he’d left had been one induced state and then another.

Drusilla could not handle reality.

William was desperate to.

He had actively sought out the poverty in Ireland. It fascinated him in the way a child would stare at a fly caught in spider’s web. The pain, the misery which was inflicted onto the peasants was both horrifying and one of enthrallment. Never before had he seen the strained cries of a child in hunger, nor heard the widows lament their dead husband’s.

William fancied himself stronger for witnessing it.

In his mind, and indeed amongst all the lords, the strength of a man was decided not by their compassion but by their apathy. The less he reacted, the better he became. After all, the peasants were beneath him. Who really cared about their position in society or about them at all?

William certainly didn’t give a sod.

Certain of his position in relation to the Irish, William loathed them. They were suffered purely for their labour and goods. Any other aspect of the Irish was considered irrelevant and impure.

It thus came as a shock that William could be held spellbound by the very soil the Irish bled over.

Kilkenny was referred to as Cill Chainnigh in the Gaelic tongue, but it was also known as the ‘Marble City’. William himself had at first marveled it, expecting the precious stone to have been imported. Surely the Irish could not have such an asset at their disposal…

But they did. Just one mile from the outskirts of the village, lay the Black Quarry, filled to the brim with marble.

William hadn’t expected to see its colour gleam in the buildings, but in Kilkenny its rarity was unknown. The Butlers had dispensed of carelessly, letting it mould their buildings, showing their organic wealth without fear of reprisal or another’s greed.

The English would soon, if not already, take care of that.

As he walked, William noted its presence with awe. The beautiful black stone interspersed with decorative white fossils, dared him to take a closer look. It shone like a backbone in the Abbey and the more treasured buildings. The men said that the castle boasted the stone’s color inside its walls with abandon. Entranced by it, he finally stopped and moved closer, half expecting to see his reflection shine out. Cobalt eyes, so used to meeting their match, widened in surprise as the stone remained stoic. Underneath its mottled surface, his image was washed away, unnoticeable in the patterns. The comparison to the gleaming mirrors in England was monumental. Memories of him staring into the polished surface, wishing himself into someone new; someone with power, played like one of Dru’s stupors.

The lack of reflection was a sign, a blessing.

A satisfied smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, even as his men kicked their feet idly. Here in Ireland, William could and would remake himself.

And nothing would stop him.

***

The pounding on his door woke him. And with Doyle that could never be a good thing. Having just retired from guard duty, the Irishman had hoped that he could find sleep without being disturbed. His bloodshot eyes flashed in annoyance as the door rattled again before flying open.

Cormac… I should have known.

As though knowing of his captain’s ire, Cormac offered an embarrassed grin, eyes anxious as Doyle sat fully up in his bed.

“Please forgive me for interrupting you, Captain. It was not my intention and-“

“But you drew the short straw.” Doyle sighed as Cormac nodded dumbly. It wasn’t a surprise that the men would send him in to face the captain’s wrath. Cormac was the only soldier which Doyle gave any respite, if only because he was so hopeless. Doyle’s hand grazed the stubble on his chin, flinching as the rough hair irritated a cut. He had never gone more than four days without some injury from the rebels.

Another minute passed in silence.

“Well out with it!” Doyle groaned, patience snapping as the wasted sleep he would be missing flitted away like a dream.

“Well it’s just that the Lord Denver, Captain…” Cormac halted as though hoping that his few words were enough of an explanation. His youthful face seemed to be trapped between embarrassment and fear as his captain’s fists clenched.

“What about the cold hearted bastard?”

“He’s here.” Immediately Cormac cowered, shoulders slumping as he waited for Doyle’s temper to unleash itself. He squeezed his eyes shut, not caring if his fear showed. There was no point to hiding his feelings if the trembles which coursed his body continued to rattle his sword like an army drum. If he made it out without the beating Doyle was reputed for, Cormac was certain the other soldiers would feel his hand.

This is the last time I get dragged into playing straws…

Instead the thick brogue of his captain’s voice merely demanded that he leave. Cormac took the opportunity and scurried out like a miscreant child.

Doyle could only shake his head.

Pushing himself out of bed required a slight effort. He was reluctant to leave the rough covers even as they scratched already bruised skin. Doyle was aware of the difference between his room and those of the barracks. As captain he could enjoy the rare privilege that Butler afforded him. The men were not so lucky.

Doyle didn’t spare a glance at himself, already knowing that his skin was dirty from the morning’s exertions. The men were oft to fall asleep unless he forced them to stay awake.

A dip in the river Nore in full uniform was enough for any soldier to halt the lazy drooping of eyelids.

Doyle stalked to the foot of the bed, dragging out clothes that he had dropped onto the floor. Anyone else would have charmed one of the castle maids into folding the soiled things, but he resisted. He made sure that they had little to do with him. Doyle’s temper, sometimes put on in order to gain control, was well renowned in the castle, especially amongst the younger girls. Women were dangerous creatures. It was far better to pay an old washwoman than tempt himself with a fair girl.

The soldiers didn’t seem to understand it though. Even as they felt the heavy hand of their captain’s authority, they still continued to admire him. Doyle managed to cross the line between a loyal Irishman and serving the British with ease. He was a personification of their future, not submitting completely and still surviving.

It was to Doyle’s dark eyes and raven black hair that they looked for leadership, rather than Butler’s. He commanded them utterly.

Which was why the men were unnerved over Doyle’s apparent aversion to women. His slight frame, lithe and quick was more than enough to attract the feminine side of attention. His face appeared youthful under any condition, quick wit shining through in the nuances of his lips. Unlike his back which hosted a series of scars, his face remained untouched, pure. It was only the indifference and hint of malevolence which forced a young simpering maid back.

Doyle used it to his full advantage.

Rubbing his jaw once more, he thought of her, dressed in a wedding veil, the claddagh ring alight on her finger.

In the emptiness of his room he could still hear her screams.


A/N. Im posting the next chapter tomorrow so please dont be mad that I didn't get to the meeting with Buffy.

Chapter Four:

AN: After I finished my last chapter I was fairly certain that it was okay. But it seems like I’m confusing everyone… For that I apologise. The two main characters which everyone seems to be puzzling about are Drusilla and Doyle and thank you all for your comments. I appreciate them so very very much. I thought I might as well address a little bit of it here. I’ll get to the reviews tomorrow if that’s okay.

The way I write is pretty confusing to be honest. I hadn’t included the last section about Doyle for review so I’ll try to make sure that its clearer from now on. With me, details about the characters tend to leak out and that is why Drusilla is like a ghost wafting around in the background. The issues with her general craziness will eventually be gotten to within the story. I have remembered that such actions as described would be committed to a nunnery and it is my intention to stay true to that. The reason why she was allowed to act like that in England was mainly due to her uncle, the King, who through various maneuverings and such, kept her from being locked away… I can’t really justify where I’m going with this unless I reveal the plot. I’m really looking forward though to everyone’s reactions concerning Doyle… the reason he works for the Normans even though he loathes them, his twisted logic. I’ve let the cat out of the bag with this chapter in hopes to make it easier for everyone, but I haven’t revealed everything. Just trust where I am going with them and if it keeps looking like a murky puddle of mud rather than clear water, then please tell me.

As to Drusilla’s relationship with William… ah bugger it. I’ll spell it out in the next few chapters.

Thank you all for your continuing support, especially Jolynn.

Gaelic phrases: cailin: girl



His footsteps echoed into the main chamber, two soldiers looking up from their posts to nod respectfully. Even with the Earl of Kilkenny sitting down at the table just five feet from them, they still made an attempt to acknowledge him.

Doyle wondered whether Butler had noticed.

The table jutted across the room like the deck of a boat, wide and solid. Butler sat at the far end, dishes of various meals heaped before him in gross decadence. His black hair was tied neatly at the back of his nape, giving him the regal appearance that the Earl so obviously desired. As one hand, cuffed in fine white cloth, reached again for the ale, Doyle coughed politely.

“You asked for me, Master?”

Butler’s eyes crinkled, the crow’s feet imprinting deeper into his skin. “Aye, indeed I did.” Butler focused his attention on the only other person which sat, pride suffusing his cheeks. “This here is Allen Doyle, my captain and finest soldier in Kilkenny.”

“That’s a fine boast to make, Robert… But have you any proof?” William toyed with the hem of his cloak, not bothering to glance at the older man. Already he was bored, and the old sod had just begun to eat. Irish hospitality… William turned in his chair, one booted foot brazenly leaning against the table, as his sword rattled. “I mean what proof have you, that he’s loyal? He certainly looks Irish from over here.”

Butler spluttered, unable to answer as embarrassment and anger burned his cheeks. How dare he? In my castle! My home!

William watched in amusement. The whole thing was going perfectly. “Robert?” he asked. “Your face is redder than the blood of a virgin. Whatever is the matter?” William rose from his chair, one foot kicking dishes and ale to the floor. His face, so calm before now boasted a horrifying smirk of satisfaction as he regarded the Norman. Any attempt to look concerned was lost. “Bloody hell, Robert, are you alright?”

Butler stumbled to his feet, pushing back his meal in fury. “Alright? How can I be anywhere near alright when you insult me in my castle? You arrogant, selfish –“

“I’d stop right there if I was you, Robert. Treason can be such an ugly word.”

“No one would stand for this! I opened my home to you and you dare to question the valor of one of my most trusted men.”

“Only because you are too stupid to do so yourself!” retorted William. “His loyalty could never belong to you rightfully.” William strode forward until his eyes met unflinching orbs of brown, knowing he could use it to his advantage. The hatred which burned in them was too familiar for William to suspect a normal dislike of the Earl. This man had lost someone close. Probably a bleeding woman. “You isolated him from the common people so he can never return and in the same breath stole what he treasured most.”

William clapped like a king did for the resident fool. “You really know how to inspire loyalty don’t you old boy?”

William’s words were like a knife. “You mean the girl?” Butler asked. His heart began to beat faster as he remembered the shrill cries. Surely the fool can not hold that against me. “She was only a peasant!”

William’s wan smile never met his eyes. “And he was only a man.”

The idiotic expressions of the soldiers drew him in. Might as well embellish a little. Remind the poor sod of what happened.

“I suspect” said William, addressing the chamber, “that you told him she would be returned unharmed. But then we must remember that women are fragile creatures. They can’t handle pain like us.”

His hands moved as he talked, irony and sarcasm causing a collective flinch in the chamber. Such business as this was best kept between the royal and rich. A chambermaid slid into the background as William surveyed them with distaste.

“And you” his voice carried in the room like a god, as Doyle once more became the focus of his attention, “you would have believed him; perhaps even sworn an oath of fealty in return for her protection.” The shock in the smaller man’s eyes was enough to inform William that his tale was on track. “But it didn’t work out quite as planned, did it? Bird was too full of shame or some such rot. Ran off on you without a backwards glance… And he’s the one to blame for it all.”

Doyle let his eyes fall to the floor, tracing the patterns of dust even as William stepped closer. The man was as insidious as a viper, letting him feel the sword of revenge but not wield it.

“No.”

“No?” A laugh erupted from the Lord’s lips as he stepped back.

“No” repeated Doyle, quietly. “She didn’t run off into the eaves…” His voice halted, unable to continue for a moment as the chamber fell into silence. The ground remained his focus, as the burning looks of pity settled on his shoulders.

William nodded silently. Perfect.

The Earl, still trapped in a state of shock, gaped at Doyle. What had just happened? He was EARL here! Outrage flooded his veins as he pointed at William. “Lock up this man. I have no wish to see anything but his bones.”

Doyle sighed, the sudden gaze of at least twenty soldiers looking to him for guidance. He’d known from the second Cormac uttered the name of Lord Denver that it would come to this. One finger traced the hilt of his blade, imagining the metaphorical offering of the blonde Lord. His slight frame remained strong as he bowed towards William in supplication.

”My Lord,” he uttered.

Butler roared in rage, beautiful garments becoming torn as he struggled in the soldiers’ grips. Resolutely, they began to drag him away like a common peasant, no one uttering a whisper of protest.

His last backward glance froze his heart with horror. William’s smile of satisfaction was like that of the devil’s.

***

The horse’s muscles moved underneath him flawlessly, it’s very body acting like another limb. With each motion, they became one. William breathed out into the afternoon air, a laugh breaking free as he considered the day’s events.

After ousting Robert from his sodding high horse, it had been easy to command the men. All of them followed the Doyle character like children, forgetting themselves in an effort to please him. It would have annoyed William more, if not for his confidence. Doyle had been like a man doomed to execution. Waiting desperately for someone to open the trapdoor and let him fall. Up until his arrival, William imagined Doyle’s activities consisting of a soldier’s duty and lots of brooding. Now that he knew the root of the poor blighter’s hatred, there would be no problem controlling him. It wasn’t like Doyle could lead an uprising anyway. His own people would never accept him back. The Irish could kill each other over a pint, but their hatred of the British was universal.

No, he thought with finality, there would be no problems with Doyle’s loyalty. The man had nothing now except for William’s promise of retribution.

And what a promise it would be. Another whoop of delight sounded unabashedly as his heels dug further into the horse’s flanks.

The protest of the earth could be heard in each clod of dirt which flew from the beast’s hooves. William cast a glance back, delighted in the trampled path his mount had carved. The cloak had been dispensed as soon as he entered the stable. Wind now flew through his clothes, unfettered and wild.

His eyes moved to a field just out of reach and urged the stallion again. The muscles bunched beneath his saddle as the horse began to gallop up the slope, it’s harsh breaths lost in the rushing air. William leaned down into it’s neck, closing his eyes, and feeling for a moment blessedly free.

And then everything stopped.

Jerking its thundering legs to a halt, the stallion reared high into the air, William clinging to the beast’s neck. His legs tightened instantly around the stallion’s frame, anger slowly filtering in as impassioned neighs ripped through the air. When finally the stallion’s front legs met the ground, William immediately stared down at the intrusion, which had nearly gotten him thrown.

“What are you doing in my field?”

Buffy gasped, hands not caring if they tore up the ground as she crawled desperately away from the man. I knew it! I knew I was going to get caught! Her mind never even stopped to ponder exactly who the man was above her. It was not her place.

“I asked you a question.” William growled. The adrenalin continued to rush through his veins even as the girl kept her head to the ground. He readied himself in case the chit was foolish enough to flee.

Bloody, sodding women… Can’t do a bleeding thing without them getting in the way.

It never occurred to William that the girl, so obviously traumatized, could have been minding her own business. Cold, arrogant logic required that she was in the wrong. Tightening his jaw, William swung himself off the saddle and onto the ground. His hand easily took hold of the reins as he once more surveyed the field.

Flowers littered the ground, bruised stalks remaining where his mount had not managed to not completely decimate. From the green stain on the girl’s hands, she’d obviously been enjoying them.

Another lazy peasant. What a surprise.

He waited for her to answer, but obviously it was no use. Fear had rendered the chit speechless.

Searching his mind for some form of Gaelic, he tried a different approach. He might as well investigate the locals whilst he was here. Why not start with her?

Softening his voice, William took a step towards her. “Cailin” he said, success flashing in his eyes at the small nod, “Cailin come here.”

Curiosity over her appearance welled in him as he considered the repercussions for being caught here. If she was a peasant then she would have to be an incredibly stupid one.

Surely flowers were not worth such a beating?

Buffy rose to her feet, her head remaining down as she walked back towards the cold man. He was obviously a royal or rich, his clothes so well made that Buffy itched to touch the fabric. She’d never seen anything so fine or beautiful. Her foot caught in the ravaged earth and she stumbled.

Strong, rigid arms broke her fall.

“Well let’s have a look at you then.” William tilted her face till it was level with his own, a grimace surfacing at the amount of dirt. He’d never taken a serf to bed, disgusted by their appearance. Now he had personal experience with them. Being so close to this girl, the smell was overwhelming. William quickly released her, allowing the girl to stand on her own.

A sigh of relief echoed out of her mouth before she could suppress it.

“I wouldn’t be so thankful if I were you” admonished William. “Just because you stink doesn’t mean that I won’t punish you for trespassing.” He watched her shoulders slump, dirty blonde hair brushing the edges. Part of him settled to wait for the begging but she remained silent. How odd.

William stepped closer again, a responding flinch telling him all that he needed to know. This girl had heard too many threats already. It was touch that affected her. His hand caressed her cheek, dirt painting it as he looked at her more closely.

Her nose was akin to a button, too short for the rest of her face. Her lips seemed thin in the afternoon light, pressed thin from terror or anxiety. His thumb brushed across them only to receive a shiver. Beaten into submission. William curled his fingers into her hair, marveling at it’s colour.

“What is your name?”

Startled, her lips parted for an instant in confusion. “My Lord?” she asked. Why on earth does he want to know that?

“Your name?” William pressed. His hand tightened, wrenching her head back as his temper took hold. Even her innocent query was a question of his authority.

Hazel green eyes welled with tears as she stuttered out: “Buffy.”

William laughed, genuine amusement flowing through him. “Who” he gasped, “gave you that awful sodding name?”

“My mother” she replied.

The lord stiffened, mirth lost as he again tightened his hold. “Surely not, Irish pigs haven’t gone that far yet. What is your real name?”

Buffy wrenched her head back, “Elizabeth” she bit out.

Understanding dawned. “You’re of Norman line. Some half breed Irish bint made to be like the other peasants.” William shoved her to the ground. On her knees her odd beauty became apparent, the oval face, marred by dirt reminding him of a fallen angel. He stared at the gold strands still caught between his fingers. Feisty little chit.

“We're alone here you know. I could do anything I wanted to you. And not only would you enjoy it, but you would never say a word in protest." His sigh broke the threat, lessening its potency. "That would be the fitting thing no doubt. You've been hit for less.”

Plus you’ve obviously got no more sense than that bleeding horse" William muttered. "And not much hope besides... I’m guessing that if anyone were to find out that you were here…”

A shudder was enough to alert him to the consequences.

“That’s what I thought” he muttered. “But it isn’t my problem.” His fist curled as he raised his hand to swing. If he caught her in the field again then he would make good on his threat.

But not today.

He idly wondered whether her husband would take pity on her and consider the beating enough.

The dead look on Buffy’s face told him another story.

“My LORD!”

William halted as yet another Irish peasant ran into view. Does no one have respect for my authority?

“What do you want?”

Liam fell to his knees, forehead pressed against the wet dirt as he began to plead. “My Lord Denver, please forgive this insolent girl’s actions. She is stupid and doesn’t deserve any of the good King’s blessings. If you wish it, she shall be punished most severely and brought to the castle as evidence of her contrition.” Liam raised his face to peer at imperiously cold blue eyes. This has to work. “I myself shall be beaten for it is my fault she was allowed to wander.”

William tilted his head, puzzlement showing as he regarded this newest idiot. Butler had obviously been lax. Why am I not surprised?

“And how is she your business?”

Liam mumbled his answer into the dirt. “She is my betrothed.”

Chapter five:

A/N: Im getting home early today specifically to answer reviews. Im really sorry about the late postage and not replying. Hopefully this chapter is long enough and accurate. as always thanks to everyone who supports this fic: Jolynn, Im_bloody_English and jamie’s lady… Oh and another warning. For those squeamish around near rape scenes please turn away now... right now.


Liam mumbled his answer into the dirt. “She is my betrothed.”

Buffy watched the lord stare down at Liam with disgust, her heart secretly wilting. This could only end one of two ways and neither saw her receiving anything but a beating. She held back the unconscious desire to plead for mercy as Liam had done and instead simply watched as the two men completely forgot her.

Silence hung like the clouds above.

Part of her couldn’t help following the fall of his chest as he breathed. This lord, so inclined to let her go with nothing more than a bruise, was mysterious. He was different. And worst of all, he made her feel.

As though in reprimand for even thinking such, Buffy cowered back, shifting her knees like a miscreant child.

His eyes, shaded by thick curls of sun kissed blonde, glinted with annoyance and rage as he glanced in her direction. His lips, thin like a blade, were pursed into a curved line, showing just the hint of amusement. Buffy allowed herself to breathe when his eyes settled back on Liam.

Her heart however continued to race.

There was no doubt that Liam had saved her from an immediate beating but beyond that she knew nothing. Buffy couldn’t even understand why he had thrown himself at the lord’s feet. Any other man would have watched, bowed respectfully and dragged the woman home. Liam’s odd decision made her more than uncomfortable.

The royal obviously was also perplexed. Even as his steed beat the ground, tail whipping at the air, he remained silent. His hand, pale and muscled grasped at his sword hilt yet he did not move forward. Whether the royal knew it or not, he controlled every movement.

And all she could do was wait…

Buffy sighed, traitorous thoughts slipping in far too easily. Time and her father had taught her to follow directions perfectly when under supervision. And indeed she mirrored every order, at least while a man was around.

But in the small moments of freedom, Buffy became someone else. Someone uninhibited. She could only explain it as being a mood of apathy, a wild desire in her to simply walk away and forget the consequences. It was this very spirit that had possessed her to walk amongst the flowers and indeed gaze unperturbed at the overpowering royal. Blood flamed her cheeks as yet again it came, whispering of possibilities and turning her head down to the village.

Her actions, right now, were uncontrolled, no heavy masculine hand pushing in the ‘right’ direction. Liam still continued to breathe into soggy churned earth and the lord still stood there grimacing. Her knees, wet and creased pushed into the dirt as she considered it. It would only take one flying leap to raise herself and then dart away. She could run, feet pounding, back down to the village or perhaps further; away from everything. Her feet dug deeper into the ground as though it was really an option.

And then he looked back at her.

The ice in his eyes seemed impenetrable, freezing her into place even as the wind pushed at her ragged clothes. They spoke of knowledge, flaming her cheeks red at her body’s obvious movements. Why hadn’t she expected him to catch her longing looks? He’d managed to catch her here alone, despite her best efforts. Buffy forced away any hope of flight with only a sigh. Even if Liam didn’t catch her, the noble on his horse certainly would. The land was not too difficult for the beast’s iron shoes. She snuck a glance at him again, her heart quieting back into a steady beat.

“Get up.” William ordered. His hand motioned upwards as though beckoning a dog. Don’t take for sodding ever.

Rather than responding the peasant did not move from his position, an odd tremble crawling down his back the only sign that he had heard. The mop of dark brown hair seemed to kiss the rough ground as still the idiot held himself rigidly.

Blind obedience.

William could only look skyward. I wonder how they get anything done around here, if this nonsense is the norm. William pulled forth his sword, the slide of metal forcing Liam to look up instinctively.

“I told you to get up.”

“Yes M’Lord.” Liam jerked his head from the ground, heavy brow now caked with dirt. His eyes, dark soulful brown studied the sword for a moment before daring to look at the noble in front of him. “M’ Lord.” he said again, this time tilting his head ever so slightly. He never looked in Buffy’s direction, knowing that she could be dealt with later.

Perhaps I should even thank her, for letting me see him, he thought darkly.

Since Willy’s murder in the morning, the town had been afire with talks of the new Lord. Most of the peasant folk, thought of him only as the simple could: a new tyrant ready to take their women and feed off of the village’s bounty. Liam however saw an opportunity.

William represented everything that the roving Irish gangs hated. He was of English birth, noble to the point of blind adoration and respected. William commanded everyone, controlled everything. For such as Liam, the desire to plan another’s destiny or even halt a man’s life with a single nod of the head was intoxicating. It was what had attracted him to Hank in the first place. Being young of heart and foolhardy himself, Liam’s head had been quickly filled with images of taking the great Lord hostage and waging utter war against the British. The pure foolishness and idiocy of the idea did not even appear to him, and without urging he would never dare to try. But seeing him now, Liam wondered whether it was possible. Hank had not been lying when he described the man as regal but he hadn’t mentioned the Lord Denver’s arrogance. With just a sword and no accompanying men, this William was looking for trouble. Liam bit his lip to hide the grin which threatened.

Brushing his hands against stained clothes like a flummoxed courtier, Liam could not see how obvious his spite was. None of his pleading, so desperate from the serf’s position now showed.

The frustration William had been holding back seemed to snap at this new display of insolence. The man obviously thought that he was in the right. Or simply is an arrogant tosser. His jaw tightened as the lumbering man shuffled his feet. There was no need to guess as to the fool’s nature. The widening eyes of the girl, Buffy, was enough of an indication.

The moment this peasant moved, she froze.

He’d been watching the girl sneak glances at him like a gossiping courtier and had almost called her on it before holding his tongue. After her dead expression, any curiosity, even so inappropriate was acceptable. William didn’t question himself on why her strange detachment bothered him. It simply wasn’t worthwhile. As a Lord, justification for any of his actions, was so little needed that he himself didn’t even try. He ruled by his feelings.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Liam”. The smile was like that of a bar wench, far gone with child and desperate for coin. False, rotting, fake. “Liam McIntyre.”

“And she is to be your bride.” William didn’t bother to ask the question. The greedy gaze of ‘Liam’ was more obvious than an inward claddagh.

Still Liam answered him. “Aye, she’s to be mine in less than a week’s time.” His awkward grin seemed violent as he locked eyes with Buffy. “That’s if she behaves… I can’t have the wench running amuck through the village. I promise that I’ll-“

William held up a hand, halting the man’s speech. “I have no need for your promises,” he said quietly. “What I want to hear is that she’ll be obedient. Women cannot be trusted without a guiding hand and I was nearly thrown for her foolishness.” He drew back his sword, letting the metal shine as it slid back into place. He had already killed one man today. William hoped removing the weapon would lower the temptation.

Not so.

Turning his back on the peasant dismissively, William reached for the leather reins of his steed. The horse snorted, tail flicking irritably as the maid stared at him unabashedly. Her hair was a tangled mess of knots, sun lit strands splaying across her face and along her neck. William breathed out, one hand grasping the saddle. There was nothing he could do for the girl except to leave her idiot of a betrothed in one piece. He averted his eyes as the deadened look moved across her face, settling it into apathy.

“Take her back to the village.” William barked, leg already swinging over the saddle. The unabashed smile of Liam felt like a slap against his back. Sodding wanker. “I’ll take my pound of flesh from you another day.”

As the horse turned away, William fought the urge to look back at her, a twinge in his chest forcing unwanted pity. He slapped his hand desperately against the stallion’s flanks, as though fighting away the feeling.

When Buffy finally allowed her eyes to stare across the field he was gone.

Good riddance.

***

“He won’t be coming back you know.” He’s too stupid to know your worth.

Liam crouched directly in front of her, the ugly raised skin around her neck his sole focus. His own hand reached forward, stroking the imprints like a newly discovered trail. Her flinch of pain was ignored.

Why torment her physically when her thoughts were so obvious?

“Wants no part of you I suspect,” he jeered, voice loud now that they were alone. “Man would be more than a fool to take you. What with all this mischief you’ve just caused. Though I guess it’s only the weather that turned his head" he said, eyes flickering upward at the sky almost religiously. The storm would break soon, dousing the fires with fresh rain. "Next time you might’nt be so lucky…” Liam smiled, this time genuine and watched as Buffy’s eyes slowly met his own. That’s my girl. It was obvious that she’d thought well of the noble, doe eyes trailing after him like an awe struck child. From his vantage point, her interest could only be considered stupidity. Probably thinks that the man won’t be so heavy handed. Liam snorted at the idea. Willy’s headless corpse was example enough that Lord Denver did not walk lightly. Rather he stamped down on anyone, belittling them to the point of embarrassment. The innkeeper’s kin would no longer be able to hold their heads high at market after the man’s confession. The only redeeming factor was the shared hatred for his killer. Irish bonds borne from bloodshed.

Hank would of killed the fool anyway, irregardless of squealing or not. At least with the blood drying on William’s hands, they could blame the English. High and mighty Lord Denver had saved Hank from some bad publicity.

Still, Liam had to worry slightly. Intuition told him that the Lord knew Buffy’s full name and well, Liam didn’t think the man was stupid. Just arrogant.

When he hadn’t been able to find her in the village, Liam had feared the worst. By traditional standards Buffy was considered more odd than lovely, those pale colored eyes squinting at everyone like a judge. Her movements were so unconsciously fragile, regal even that some were offended just by the sight of her. The fact that she had no idea made the transgression all the worse. Young women, particularly single young women, were meant to be simple, hardworking and timid. Her apathy ate at them, like the condemned’s conscience.

Buffy reminded the village of what they were not, of what they could never be.

Most people he knew thought that any child borne of her would be bad luck, but he’d simply ignored it. After too many brawls and ale, her beauty and strange behaviour came to fascinate him. Ill fated as the match was, Liam was determined to draw her out, make her react to him.

Whether love came from their relationship mattered little.

At first silence and mirroring her own behaviour had seemed the best approach. He was naturally indifferent to those lower than himself and found it an easy task. But rather than confiding in him or at least becoming used to his presence Buffy had only shied further away.

Which had led him to this very spot…

In the midst of Willy’s murder Liam had been seeking her out in a last attempt to win her affection. If cold indifference did not make her burn then maybe his dominating passion could. The clouds had mirrored his mood when he couldn’t find her anywhere. If not for the washing women, this whole situation would be very different. His legs had burned the entire mad dash towards the field, half expecting her to cry out. His hands carried no weapon, but they were curled, relaxing only as the haughty glare of the lord faced him. He’d expected to find her battered and bloodied when he reached the field, rather than merely waiting for her punishment. Now with the fading thud of horse hooves ringing in his ears, Liam could finally relax.

Releasing her neck with surprising gentleness Liam reached for her wrists. His long fingers easily wrapping around them dragging her upwards with a biting grip. He twisted the skin slightly to watch her squirm but was only rewarded with a silent stare.

Time for a change.

Not giving her a chance to prepare, Liam pulled back his fist and plunged it into her stomach.

Her cry of pain was immediate. Struggling to catch her breath, Buffy toppled back onto the ground. Her left hand flailed back onto the ground as she fell, twisting in a pathetic attempt to break her fall. The other, still dirty, clutched at her abused stomach.

Working her mouth as though in search of words, she stared up at him with just a tinge of surprise. And in that moment she truly saw him.

I should’ve known.

Liam’s face was twisted into one of malicious delight, the dark heavy brows drawn together as he intently studied every wince of pain. His stubborn thick jaw jutted forward as he moved down to her level.

Panic flooded through her veins.

She attempted to kick one foot out at him, toes pointed out like a dancer’s. They met his chest with a small thump, knocking out a puff of air but nothing more. If anything his grin became that much wider.

“Stop fighting me Buff. It’ll only make it worse.” His hand latched onto her, dragging her squirming body underneath his own. Heavy muscled thighs trapped her sides, as his hot breath cascaded onto her neck. Her skirt scrunched around her hips, yet still she didn’t dare pull it down.

It would only anger him more.

The brogue of his voice snaked through her mind in mimicry of his hand. “You probably acted like this for him too…” Liam breathed in heavily, fingers caressing her inner thigh. He could almost taste her fear and was relishing every moment of it. “He would’ve parted your lovely legs with ease and simply taken you.” He leaned close into her ear, “and you wouldn’t have uttered a cry of protest. Such a little harlot” he murmured. “Playing the mute won’t save you now Buffy. You’re going to have to beg to get out of this…” Liam laughed as sobs reached his ears. His hand found her neck, this time squeezing viciously and forced her completely to the ground. “You must of thought that I was stupid… Or perhaps too cold to care but you forgot something Buffy… you’re mine! No one else is allowed to touch you.” His fist smashed into her face, splitting the lip like ripe fruit. Blood began to stream down, coating her chin.

“DO YOU HEAR ME?” Liam raised his hand again, smacking her even as Buffy nodded brokenly.

“That’s a good girl” he whispered. “Such a good girl.” His tongue swept over his stained lips, relishing the salty tang. Her whimper of pain as he kissed her again was all but ignored.

Now for the final piece.

“We still have a problem though Buffy.” His tone was overbearing but still she said nothing. I need her to beg. “Maybe you and I will know the real story of what happened up here but other people… they may get ideas. Everyone knows that only the whores wander. And I can’t be certain that you weren’t meeting someone else up here. ‘Picking flowers’ really is not that wonderful of an excuse.” He paused, the mad pounding of her heart the only sound to be heard. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Tell anyone about what happened and I’ll declare you sullied.”

No thought Buffy. NO! He can’t. Her fingers pulled him closer as though it was enough to change his mind. She could barely see through the tangle of gold hair which covered her face as she moved closer to him. All she could think of was Hank. Next to him Liam was nothing. Gods no! Don’t tell him… Don’t tell him… The sky faded out of view as fat tears of desperation slid down her cheeks without notice. If Hank even considered the idea that she wasn’t a virgin…

“No” she pleaded out loud. “Don’t. I’ll be ruined.”

“You deserve to be.” His jeering lips were just inches form her own, red from her spilt blood. They curled spitefully as he ground against her. "Letting him touch you... " Anger flooded his senses as William's image appeared again. She's mine. "Did you think that he was interested in you or something? That man, that royal was going to hit you.”

Buffy peered at him in confusion, the sudden shift in mood misleading her for a moment. He’s jealous of the royal… “You’ve done worse.”

Liam nodded, fingers brushing against her navel as she remained immobile beneath him. Her hands were still wrapped around his shoulders but they felt like stone. It mattered little to him now. Her cries of protest were as good as a marriage vow. He stared down at her, the thrill of controling her intoxicating. His next words were confident and full of jealousy. “I won’t mislead you Elizabeth" he said darkly. "I'm not some pathetic soft handed noble and this isn’t some kind of romance. When I kiss you, you won’t wake up from a deep sleep and live happily ever after.”

“No” responded Buffy softly. Her eyes were twin pools of calm, unmarred by the spattered blood. The tangled knots of her hair seemed to form a halo, catching what little light the clouds allowed. Liam gazed down at her, bewitched. “When you kiss me” she whispered, “I want to die.”

Rage suffused him for a moment, the desire to simply take her pushing his hands along her warm skin. He pressed himself against her, waiting for the pleas but it seemed his spell was broken. Buffy merely stared at him, her body unyielding like her heart.

Once more she was frozen but Liam finally knew how to get to her. He removed his hands, wiping them against her stained dress. Lifting his head, he stared at their surroundings. Grey sky above was already hailing the coming storm whilst the flowers they had trapped beneath them, begged for release. The scent of broken stems and crushed petals meshed with spilt blood, turning this childish place of beauty dark. It was no place to take her. Not when she would be his for the rest of her short miserable life.

His calloused hand reached for hers again.

This time she took it.