Sorcha’s strained voice broke into her reverie. “Please, lass, my throat is parched. Do you think we could step down to the river for a drink?”
Cahira swallowed, suddenly appreciating her own thirst. A chill had settled into their shady hiding place, and the sunshine on the tall river grasses beckoned irresistibly. She glanced up and down the river and noted that the riverbank stood as empty as before. Not a single Norman—common or aristocratic—in sight.
“Sure, and why shouldn’t we go to the water?” After unpinning her cloak, she tossed it over a bent tree branch, then lumbered forward, disappointment making her feet heavy. “After that, I suppose we should turn back. Rian must have been wrong about seeing the Normans in this area, or they have already departed.”
A fly swooped down from the sky to buzz around Cahira’s ear. She swatted it away, then stepped out onto the grass and leaned backward, resisting the bank’s steep slope. Within a moment she and Sorcha were kneeling on the soft muddy bank by the river’s edge, their hands cupped in the cool water.
“Och, and that’s cold!” Sorcha shivered dramatically as she paused to slurp a long draft of the sparkling water. Then she reached for another handful and squealed when her pass caught a small minnow.
“Hush your screaming, or you’ll scare the wee bugs from their hiding places.” Cahira pressed her wet hand to the warm place at the nape of her neck. Her waist-long hair, remarkable for the white streak that began at her left temple and zagged like a lightning bolt through the red plait, hung in a single wrist-thick braid. Cahira often thought she would never be properly cool as long as the weight of a lifelong braid pressed upon the back of her neck.
“Are you warm then?” Sorcha’s eyes widened.
“A little.”
A mischievous light filled the maid’s eye. “Well, perhaps a little cooling off will do you good!”
Before Cahira realized her peril, Sorcha ran her cupped hand through the water again, sending a spray of silver drops in Cahira’s direction. Sputtering in surprise, Cahira responded with a fervor Sorcha did not expect. Giggling and laughing, the girls waded into knee-deep water and splashed each other with abandon, the chilly water stinging their sun-warmed faces.
As Sorcha threw up her hands and splashed toward the shore in a noisy retreat, Cahira stooped to wipe a smear of mud from her cheek. She smiled, grateful that Sorcha was no longer miffed about leaving the fortress, but her skin chilled when Sorcha let out a fearful squeak. “Cahira! Do you hear?”
Cahira froze in the water, her ears straining for whatever sound had spooked her maid. A jangling sound came to her on the wind, accompanied by the steady, rhythmic clop of horses’ hooves.
She felt a cold panic prickle down her spine. The riders were coming from the north, which meant they could be Irish, but that jingle was a foreign sound, signifying harness and armor no Gael would wear.
Normans! At least a pair of them, coming from the north. And close enough that they would see the girls if they tried to flee the river.
Sorcha realized the truth too. The maid’s face, sheened with water, had gone dead white.
“Go deep into the water.” Cahira turned and gestured toward the bank of reeds growing near the shore. “Get into the reeds. Crouch in the water just there, among the rushes, but move carefully. Do not make a sound.”
Sorcha opened her mouth as if to protest, but Cahira grasped her arms and pulled her into the water. The girl moved woodenly, as if her spirit had fled and left only a clumsy doll in its place, but Cahira had no qualms about propelling the doll into the thickest growth of the reeds. Once she was certain Sorcha had found stable footing, Cahira knelt in the water beside her, blocking the girl’s escape. Lowering herself into water that seemed much colder than it had only a moment ago, she tried hard not to think about what might be lurking beneath the surface—and thanked God that Saint Patrick had banished all snakes from Ireland long ago.
As long as Sorcha did not panic and scream, the thick reeds would be more than adequate camouflage. Cahira settled herself in the water, sinking until the river lapped at her chin, then felt her heart contract in a paroxysm of mingled anticipation and fear when the Normans drew up and stopped at the clearing. She had wanted to see Normans, and she could not have chosen a better hiding place—or a riskier one—than the river itself.
These men were warriors—knights, she supposed, for each wore the peculiar metal tunic she had heard her father’s men describe as mail armor. Over the mail they wore brightly colored sleeveless garments of bright blue, emblazoned with a white cross. The pewter-colored mail, however, covered their arms, legs, and apparently even their bodies, for the air filled with a faintly metallic sound when they dismounted and led their horses toward the river. Sharp metal spurs protruded from the backs of their heels and tore at the long grass, while a sword hung from a belt at each man’s waist and slapped against the muscled thighs. Upon their heads, Cahira noted as she lifted her gaze, each man wore a dull silver helmet. An odd choice for headgear, she thought, shrinking further into the reeds as the men led their horses down the sloping bank. ’Tis shaped altogether too much like a milking bucket to inspire fear in an enemy.
At first glance the knights seemed as alike as twins, but then she studied their faces and discovered a world of difference. Though the first knight appeared compact and muscular beneath his strange costume, the face that turned toward Cahira was fleshy and pockmarked. As his horse began to drink, he removed his helmet and pushed the mail hood off his hair, then noisily splashed his face, as comfortable in the water as a pup.
His companion seemed more cautious. He led his horse into the water as well, but stopped on the bank and dipped his strange helmet into the stream. While his companion frolicked, the second knight dipped his hand into his helmet, then pressed the cool water to his cheeks, neck, and forehead. Only after several minutes did he push back his mail coif and allow Cahira to see dark and lustrous hair, with copper highlights that sparked in the sun. He was a good-sized man, tall and broad through the shoulder. The strange coat of mail became him.
The men were roughly of the same age, Cahira guessed, about thirty years. They rode well, they carried themselves with confidence, and the second man’s countenance was particularly well formed and pleasant. She saw no scars upon either man, no evidence of plunder hanging from their saddles, no blood dripping from their gloves or their swords.
Faith, these Normans weren’t vicious marauders—they were rather handsome men!
She was about to give them her complete and utter approval until the free-splashing one began to speak in a melodic language she had never heard.
I’ll say this for the ignorant Gaels,” Oswald said, shaking his head so that water flew, “they certainly have a lovely land. Fine-looking horses, too—and the women! That flaming-haired wench upriver was a treat for these weary eyes.”
Colton lifted a brow. “The Irish say that if you meet a red-haired woman on a journey, you’d be wise to turn back.”
“Turn back to her house, perhaps.” Oswald’s mouth twisted in something not quite a smile.
Colton sighed heavily, feeling as weary as a father who has spent too much time with an active child. “Make me a promise, s’il vous plaît. The next time you feel compelled to wink at a comely woman, take pains to be certain her husband isn’t standing right beside her.”
“You’re no fun at all.” Oswald thrashed his way up the bank, then swatted his horse to send the animal further into the water. “Why shouldn’t we take our pleasure from these barbarians? It wasn’t as if I tried to take her on the spot.”
Colton glared at his friend. “You know Lord Richard wants us to maintain the peace here. You will make them hate us.”
“It matters not.” Oswald lowered himself to the grassy bank, then leaned back on his elbows and lifted his face to the warming rays of the sun. “The sun seems remarkably gentle in this land, have you noticed? When our Lord Richard rules here, I think I’ll build a sma
ll castle right on this spot.”
Colton drew his breath through his teeth in exasperation, then moved toward his saddle, where a generous loaf of Irish bread and a lump of cheese rested in a bag. His comrades, to a man, saw Ireland as a fertile land of happy fools. In their month at Philip’s rath at Athlone, they had twittered at stories of fairies and mocked the Irish belief in leprechauns and changelings. But while they had been quick to ridicule a culture as old as their own, they had not noticed the particular gifts of the Gaelic inhabitants—their delightfully different music, their skill with metalwork, their plump and handsome livestock.
And yes, their host had assured Colton one night after dinner, though the Gaelic Irish had no knights per se, Éireann was famous for its warriors. “Look here,” Philip said, pulling a book from a shelf in his hall, “a quote from the Greek geographer Strabo, who visited us in the first century.”
He ran his finger over a beautifully inscribed page that glimmered with traces of gold. “Here.” Philip’s finger stabbed the parchment, and his voice softened to a reverent whisper as he translated the words into English: “At any time or place, you will find the Gaels ready to face danger, even if they have nothing on their side but their own strength and courage.”
Philip lifted his gaze, his eyes burning like the clear, true blue that burns in the heart of a flame. Colton did not doubt that if he had drawn his sword at that moment, Philip would have struck him down or died in the attempt.
The memory brought a wry smile to his face. Let Oswald and the others dream of the estates and castles they would build on these river-banks. Those dreams would fade to the clear light of reality the first time they faced a Gael’s sharpened battle-ax.
He opened the bag on his saddle, withdrew the loaf of bread, broke it, and threw half to Oswald.
Oswald caught the bread with a saucy grin. “What about you, Colton? You could find some pretty Gaelic wench to warm your nights and a proper English lady to attend to your house—”
“I’m not making any plans about the morrow, ’tis too uncertain.” Colton eased himself down on the grass and bent his legs before him, his eyes following his horse. The animal had stepped further into the mud, seeking the clearer water that moved past the shoreline. The beast could swim, but the wooden saddle and a heavy blanket weighted him down. If the gelding got into deep water, he might lose his balance and be pulled under.
“Don’t know what you want?” Oswald crinkled his nose. “The great captain Colton has not made plans? Surely you intend to ask for Richard’s daughter in marriage, with some handsome Irish estate as her dowry.” He lowered his voice, as if the trees themselves might be listening. “I hear Lord Richard plans to take possession of this very soil before too long. Connacht is rightfully his—the Crown says so, and Richard will have it before he dies.”
Colton chewed a stubborn mouthful of the dark bread, then swallowed. “I want nothing of Richard’s but his favor.”
One of Oswald’s brows lifted in amused contempt. “Come now! We knights have nothing except that which our lord sees fit to bestow upon us, and neither of us is growing younger. In the space of three years, mayhap four, you will want to have a little house where you can train younger knights—”
Colton had been about to take another bite, but the bread stopped just short of his mouth. “I know,” he said, speaking slowly in order to make certain his meaning penetrated Oswald’s thick intellect, “that our Lord Richard is ambitious. I cannot fault him for it. He is as God created him, and he is an honorable man. But ambition has no place in the heart of a knight. We live to serve God and our masters. We have no higher calling.”
He lifted a brow and stared at Oswald, whose expression had gone blank with astonishment. For a moment silence reigned, then Oswald threw back his head and rocked with laughter.
Colton clenched his mouth tight and plucked a spot of mold out of his bread, then tossed the offending bit over his shoulder. “I don’t know what you find so funny.”
Oswald’s mirth died away—a few last whoops, then he wiped tears from his cheek. “You are funny, my friend. You say you are not ambitious, yet you fought to become captain of Richard’s knights.”
“I believe in excellence. I want to be the best because I owe my master no less.”
Oswald looked at Colton with amused wonder. “So be a knight, friend, for as long as you can. Mayhap your ambition will awaken when you find you have no skills and no master. The day is coming, for already your reflexes are slowing. Your aim is off too.”
“Only in your imagination.”
Oswald rolled onto his side and grinned up at Colton with a speculative gaze. “Care to make a wager? I’ll bet I can defeat you in any field of combat—”
“A dangerous wager. You must be more specific.”
“All right then.” Oswald’s smile narrowed. “At the tournament—let us wager about the outcome of…the archery contest.” He picked up an imaginary bow, nocked an invisible arrow, then squinted and sent it winging over the river. “Let’s see if your eye is as clear as it used to be.”
Colton’s heart thumped against his rib cage. He had a true aim, certainly, as well as a steady hand and quick eye. But he had not shot a bow in months. “The wager?”
Oswald’s eyes flicked momentarily toward the horses, and Colton felt his throat tighten. His Percheron gelding was an exceptionally fine animal, deep-chested and broad, fast and yet undemanding. Oswald had often expressed his admiration for the beast.
He looked at Colton again, and leaned forward in a casual, friendly posture. “The wager is this: If I defeat you, your horse becomes mine. If you defeat me, my horse becomes yours.”
“But we are on a cavalcade through Connacht. The loser will have to ride something.”
Oswald shrugged. “Then the winner will not take possession of the animal until we arrive back at Castleconnell.”
Colton looked away, his gaze roving over the water as he considered the proposition. It would be a cruel blow to lose his mount. He’d have to find a way to win another unless Lord Richard should feel generous and agree to give his captain another beast. And it would be embarrassing to explain how he, a sworn knight of over fifteen years, had no destrier to ride into battle. But his honor had been challenged. And if he expected to continue to lead his men, he could not back down.
“I agree to your wager and its conditions.” He emphasized his decision with an assertive nod. “No matter who wins the tournament at Athlone, the other shall ride until we return to Castleconnell.”
“Wonderful.” Oswald took a bite of his bread and smacked it in delight. “Now, friend, why don’t we seal our bargain with a drink from your wineskin? And don’t you have cheese as well? All this Irish beauty has awakened my appetite.”
Colton stood and splashed into the shallows where his horse browsed the river grass. He affectionately patted the animal’s neck as he reached for the wineskin hanging from his saddle.
He couldn’t lose the gelding. The beast was only a tool, as necessary as a knight’s sword and armor, but this was a good animal, an uncomplaining beast that had carried Colton unscathed through many a tournament and joust.
He slung the wineskin over his shoulder, then pulled the cheese from his bag. Setting it atop the wooden saddle for a moment, he cut two generous hunks with the tip of his dagger.
He was just about to sheathe his dagger when the gelding abruptly jerked his head toward a tall stand of brown reeds. The horse whickered softly, his ears flicking forward in interest. Something in the reeds had piqued his curiosity, possibly even incited his alarm.
Were they not alone? Memories of Philip’s tales passed over him, shivering Colton’s skin like the touch of fabled fairy. Irish warriors were foolhardy, Philip said, often flinging themselves into battle with no more armor than a helmet and belt, and no more deadly weapon than a short stabbing sword. And yet they won battles by virtue of unbridled courage—by surprise and stealth they overcame better-prepared enemies.
Were there Irishmen nearby? Hiding behind the reeds, perhaps, or beyond the curtain of trees that edged the riverbank?
Colton wrapped his fingers around the handle of the dagger, then reached for the horse’s bridle. Clucking softly with his tongue, he maneuvered the animal so the gelding’s massive bulk stood between him and the stand of fading reeds. Once he was safely sheltered, he peered over the top of the saddle and studied the water’s edge.
The gelding tossed its great head in agitation, but still Colton saw nothing but tall withered reeds, flies buzzing over the fading stalks, and a duck paddling against the river’s current. Further away, dark against the blue sky, a sparrow hawk circled over the opposite shore, looking for prey. A constellation of water bugs speckled the surface of the water, dimpling its smooth surface…and just beyond, a pair of great green eyes stared at him from the thickest part of the reeds.
His throat went dry as his feeling of uneasiness suddenly turned into a deeper and much more immediate fear. Philip’s myths about monsters and fairies who dwelled in lakes and bogs and mists took on a sinister aspect, and Colton felt his heart leap into the back of his throat. He was a Christian, a God-fearing knight sworn to obey the Lord, but perhaps the fathers of the church had not yet cast all the demons and devils out of Ireland.
Unable to tear his gaze from the riveting sight of those bewitching eyes, he instinctively crossed himself. The dark-lashed orbs blinked and widened slightly, and in that instant Colton realized that the river creature was as frightened to be discovered as Colton was to discover it.
Not a monster then. Not a demon, fairy, or ghost, but human.
“Colton?” Oswald’s voice broke the stillness. “Are you coming with that cheese?”
“In a moment.”
Colton kept his gaze fixed to the eavesdropper, afraid the stranger would submerge himself and vanish if he looked away. Oswald’s mount moved lazily through the shallows, drinking his own reflection from the river, sending a wave of ripples among the reeds. As the tall stalks swayed in the slight disturbance, he caught a glimpse of a fair forehead and a flash of red hair.
The Emerald Isle Page 9
