Cahira tilted her head, tugging at the braid with one hand while she sliced with the other. “I’ll take the blame,” she muttered between her clenched teeth. “When I beat the Normans, Father will be so proud that my foolish hair won’t matter one whit.”
The braid now hung by a wisp. Sorcha covered her face and moaned until Cahira’s knife bit through the last strands. When the braid fell away, Cahira offered it to Sorcha.
“Save this for my mother. She’s always liked it more than I have.”
Peeping through the splayed fingers of one hand, Sorcha gingerly accepted the shorn braid, handling it as if it were a dead mouse. Laughing, Cahira ran her fingers through the shorn edges of her hair, marveling at the cool breath of the wind upon her neck. “I should have done this years ago,” she said, picking up the stable boy’s cap. It slid easily over her head.
“Now,” Cahira fixed her maid in a stern gaze, “hide all these things in some safe place while I go with Murchadh to fetch my bow and quiver.”
Sorcha pressed her lips together in a sign of disapproval, but she gathered Cahira’s castoff clothes into her arms and turned away to do as she was told.
After unseating Oswald and two other challengers in a jousting competition, Colton slurped from a dipper at a water station, then sniffed in appreciation as the aroma of roasted pork wafted over the area where the merchants had set up their booths. The carefree atmosphere pervading the tournament grounds reminded him of the fairs he had known as a child in Normandy. Merchants from all over France traveled to his province to set up booths and hawk their wares, while the common people from miles around came to visit neighbors, greet kinfolk, and be awed by the great variety of goods available from lands across the sea.
He dropped the dipper back into the bucket and wiped his sweaty brow with a kerchief. He’d been so young in those days—and so innocent. But the innocence vanished when the fever took his father, leaving his penniless mother with no choice but to offer ten-year-old Colton to the first passing knight who could find use for a squire. Fortunately—for Colton later learned that not all young boys escaped childhood as unscarred as he—the traveling English baron who accepted Colton was a truly honorable man. Lord William Archbold had vowed to spend his life honoring God, his king, and the chivalric ideals of loyalty, honor, and obedience. Before he had spent five years in England, Colton had passed the tests of knighthood, and that knowledge brought a smile to his dying patron’s lips.
Lord William had been felled by an accident—or a curse, depending upon how an observer interpreted the simple wound that crusted and bled and sent red streaks shooting up the aristocrat’s arm. After a fever set in, Lord William’s affected limb swelled to twice its normal size. Despite the physician’s attempts to purge the poisonous evil from his body, the kindly baron died, leaving Colton free to take an oath of fealty to Lord William’s nearest relative, Lord Hubert de Burgo.
Attending his new master, Colton spent some months in the English courts where the boy king Henry III pretended to rule. Courtly duties bored him (and the king as well, it must be noted), and it was Colton’s turn to pretend when Lord Hubert regretfully announced that he was sending all his newly acquired men to Ireland. Like the others, Colton frowned and made a great show of being reluctant to depart, but every man’s heart lightened when their ship set sail. Their new master was Hubert’s nephew, Lord Richard de Burgo, who was seeking to raise an army in order to claim lands he had lawfully won.
Colton enjoyed his months at Richard’s castle on the River Shannon, but his mind immediately focused on the proposed cavalcade into Connacht. Expecting to see armed camps upon every hilltop, his nerves were strung as tight as a bow as they rode into the disputed territory. But in the six weeks he had traveled in Athlone and the surrounding areas, he met only peaceful people, pleasant folk who were quick to smile at him once he assured them that he meant to harm.
Why did Richard need an army?
It wouldn’t take much to overwhelm the Irish, Colton thought, watching the people as he walked through the merchant booths. The people of this so-called Emerald Isle were not adventurers by nature. They tended to remain home caring for kith and kin while the Vikings, the Normans, and the English plundered and settled their shorelines. The Norse Vikings, invaders of generations past, had entrenched themselves into the southern seaports and now seemed as Irish as the Gaels themselves, while many of the Normans in the southland evidenced the same disposition.
“Excuse me, sir. Would you like some ale?” A pretty Irish maid stopped before Colton and timidly offered up a gourd. Colton gave her an indulgent smile, then slipped his hand around the gourd and drank deeply. When he finished, he noticed that the girl’s flush had deepened to crimson.
So, it was like that. Many of the Irish girls had been bedazzled by the sight of his men. Colton tried not to encourage them, for he and his knights were in the country to serve Lord Richard, not Lady Love.
“Thank you, lass,” he said, pressing the gourd back into her hand. “Now shouldn’t you be getting back to your mother?”
The girl gave him a quick, jerky nod, then spun on her heel and moved away through the crowd. Colton locked his hands behind his back and continued his walk, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts.
Once he asked his master the reason for their advance into Connacht, and for an answer received only a peevish look. When Colton persisted, reminding his master that they had come a great distance and remained over a month in Athlone without once spying an enemy, Richard finally grunted out a reply. “The enemy are the O’Connors, and they are all around you, Sir Knight.” His eyes flashed a warning. “We are here to fight not with swords, but with strength. They will see our power, and they will know we are superior. When the time is right, we will force them to realize they cannot resist us.”
Colton halted as Richard approached now, with one arm draped loosely over Philip’s shoulder and a cup of ale in the other. He had ingratiated himself with this kinsman o’ the Connors, promising friendship and benefits in return for Philip’s influence with Felim O’Connor. Richard wanted an audience with the king of Connacht in which he could press his claim, but thus far neither Philip’s entreaties nor the excitement of a tournament had worked to entice the king out of his fortress.
Colton bowed deeply to both men, then straightened himself as they and their retinue passed by. The Irish king must be as wily as a fox, he thought, moving through the crowd again. In truth, he would not like to raise his sword against any of these charming people. In a brief time, he had learned that the Gaels were easygoing to a fault, most of them, unless you toyed with their crops, their cattle, or their daughters.
A familiar voice caught his attention, and he glanced up to see Oswald trying to charm an English merchant’s daughter. He leaned on a table in her booth, his eyes raking her form in a manner that seemed highly indecent. Curious to discover what Oswald found so appealing, Colton glanced at the girl. She was well-rounded and comely, but her mouth was decidedly thin and her eyes a bit narrow, nothing like the wide green eyes Colton had glimpsed among the shadows of the river reeds.
He opened his mouth to rebuke Oswald, then thought better of it. It was a festival, after all, and as long as Oswald was talking and not touching, the girl would remain safe. There were too many strong arms and sharp eyes about for Oswald to get into true trouble.
Turning from the annoying antics of his friend, Colton directed his attention to a boisterous game wreaking havoc along the path separating the merchants’ tents. Someone had offered a boar’s bladder to a group of freckle-faced boys who, having inflated the organ, were now indulging themselves in a vicious game of kick-away. Colton followed the progress of the bladder, grinning as a wave of bittersweet nostalgia tugged at his heart. If he were not thirty years old, a knight, and a Norman, he might actually join in this game.
The bladder sailed in Colton’s direction, and a sandy-haired youngster raced to intercept it. The boy pulled back his foot an
d kicked, but the wooden sole of his shoe only grazed the organ, leaving it spinning in the sand. While the boys hooted and cheered, the whirling bladder came to rest only inches from Colton’s boot.
A flutter of alarm ran through the observant group. “He won’t give it back!” one boy shouted, but a flood of reproachful shushing drowned the unflattering opinion.
Colton stared down at the bladder, then saw the tips of two small shoes shuffle forward. He looked up and found himself facing a wide-eyed lad of not more than seven or eight. The boy said nothing, but stared with owl eyes at Colton’s mail, the armor, and the sword. He backed away, too cowed to speak.
Colton swallowed hard, feeling his own cheeks blaze with embarrassment. What rumors had these children heard that they should retreat from him in fear?
“Wait!” He held out his hand, and exhaled in relief when the little boy met his gaze.
Colton stepped forward, about to bend and toss the bladder back to the boys, but an irrational notion overtook him. Meeting the boy’s eye, he flashed a winning smile, then brought his leg forward in a snap kick, launching the bladder in a high arc that would have impressed his own childhood friends.
The boy opened his mouth and gaped, following the sight of the inflated bladder as it flew over the baker’s booth, the spice merchant’s, and the silk importer’s, then fell like a star toward the earth—and struck a young man directly in the face.
Colton cringed as his ears caught the sharp smacking sound. The boys scattered like the wind, and the offended youth stood still, his eyes lowered, one hand floating up toward his face as if he wanted to be certain the flesh remained attached to his head. A young woman standing next to the lad shrieked in horror, and a grizzled Irish warrior reached for his dagger as he fixed Colton in a blue-eyed vise.
Instinctively, Colton’s hand moved toward the hilt of his sword. Though the assaulted youth did not appear to be armed, Colton had seen men come to blows over more trivial insults than this. He hesitated, then advanced with long strides, eager to make amends or defend his honor, whichever would be necessary.
“I do beg and pray you to forgive the accident,” he began, ignoring both the warrior and the trembling maid. He spoke to the cap on the youth’s head, all that was visible from his height. “I only meant to return the game to the boys. They seemed unwilling to play with the bladder in my vicinity.”
“You goatish, beef-witted barnacle!” The warrior growled and took a step in Colton’s direction.
But the youth put out a pale, restraining hand. “Arrogant show-off.”
The whispered words barely reached Colton’s ear, but he could not deny the venom in the voice. He rested his palm on the hilt of his blade, sending an unmistakable message to the bearded behemoth whose eyes glittered with challenge.
“I have asked for your forgiveness,” he said, finding himself inexplicably uncomfortable facing an opponent who would not meet his eye. “If you will not give it, perhaps you would like to defend your honor on the field.” He stopped and took a half-step back, bowing in a courtly gesture. “I am at your disposal, sir.”
The head lifted then, and the Irish eyes beneath the brim of the cap were narrow with fury. “I will defend my honor, but not for this offense. I will readily pardon an accident, but offenses to one’s home and family are not so easily forgiven.”
Colton frowned, confused by the youth’s words and his tone. “Offenses? Forgive my ignorance, but I do not take your meaning. I’ve been in this province only six weeks, hardly long enough to commit any offenses toward your people.”
“You will take my meaning soon enough.” With that, the youth lowered his head, spun on his heel, and stalked away through the merchants’ tents, drawing his odd companions after him.
Cahira kept her eyes down as she hurried away, afraid that at any moment she might shriek or cry or scream. Him! Of all people, she had encountered him, and Murchadh had drawn his dagger and nearly skewered him! The knight seemed charming enough at first, rushing up to apologize for nearly knocking her senseless with that foul-smelling pig part, but he also had been quick to suggest that if she didn’t feel forgiving, she should have the feeling carved into her on the field of contest.
Conceited Norman knight! How she would enjoy defeating him! And after she had done so, she would tell him that she spied upon him at the river, that she saw his eyes fill with fear when he thought he heard a noise in the reeds. He was no warrior—he was a man, and a rather silly one at that. Her father would never be caught playing kick-away with a band of boys, and Murchadh would never apologize for accidentally striking a passerby.
Sorcha called out to her, begging her to slow down, but Cahira kept up her quick pace, resentment beating a bitter cadence in her heart as she marched toward the field where the men were setting up targets for the archery competition. Half a dozen Irishmen and as many Norman knights lazed about outside the circle, each group remaining a careful distance from the others and occasionally eyeing the competition with suspicion. If Philip arranged this tournament to help the two groups get along, Cahira reasoned, thus far he has made little progress.
She walked toward the opening that led to the archery field, then halted as Murchadh grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. “Wee imp,” his burning eyes holding her still, “I am beginning to think I was wrong. These are not our people you’re shooting against; they are strangers.”
“They are big,” Sorcha added, her eyes squeezed closed so tight that her whole face seemed to collapse in on itself.
Murchadh relaxed his grip, but his eyes remained serious. “If it were a contest between our own people, I wouldn’t be minding at all. But these are not our kind, lass, and I don’t know what they will think if you defeat them. You saw the pride in the one we addressed a moment ago—such pride does not handle defeat with good grace.”
Cahira stared at her beloved mentor, then felt her anger and determination drain away in a rush of insecurity. What was she thinking? To her left stood the huddle of Gaels, many of whom would recognize her if she stood among them and tried to make conversation. To her right stood the Norman knights, and even at this distance they seemed inhumanly enormous. They had to wear some sort of padding beneath all that mail, she thought, squinting toward them, or the effort of carrying around so many extra pounds added unnatural layers of muscle. She heard them joking with each other in the strangely nasal language she recognized as French. To her left, the Irishmen laughed and hailed each other in Gaelic.
In the center of the field, poor Philip stood next to a smaller man clothed in a crimson, fur-trimmed tunic. This man, Cahira realized instinctively, had to be Richard de Burgo, her father’s enemy and the master of these knights. If she withdrew from the competition now, not only would she pass up the opportunity to humiliate these egotistical bullies, but she would also miss her chance to thumb her nose at the lord who kept her father pacing the floors at night.
Her mouth tipped in a faint smile. “You’re right, Murchadh. Pride does not accept defeat easily, but I am proud too. And I will do my best today.”
The blare of a trumpet suddenly lanced the confusion, piercing Cahira’s heart with its brittle blast.
Philip stepped forward and lifted his arms to welcome his guests. “Come one, come all.” He spoke in a stilted, inflectionless English. “In honor of my guest, Lord Richard de Burgo, we will now begin the archery contest. Come, my friends and kin, and let us sharpen our skills as we toast each other.”
“Go then,” Murchadh’s broad hand came to rest on Cahira’s shoulder, then gave her a gentle shove. “And prove that these Normans have not yet seen what the free blood of Éireann can do.”
Both groups of contestants had begun to move forward. With Murchadh’s words ringing in her ears, Cahira walked at the edge of the Irishmen and kept her head down. The newly cut hay crunched under her feet, which seemed ridiculously small compared to the huge boots marching around her.
“You’ll be needing a right sharp eye
to win with that thing.” The man next to her had spoken, and Cahira was confused until she glanced up and saw him looking at her bow. He carried a regular hunting bow, a long instrument that required a man’s muscled arm. Her short bow, which Murchadh had carved especially for her, required far less strength.
“My eye is sharp enough,” she muttered, taking pains to pitch her voice low. “’Tis sharper than any of those Normans, truth be told.”
The man cackled in appreciation of her bravado, then the group halted at a plowed line in the earth. As the group dispersed along the line, Cahira saw that Philip’s men had set several upright posts on the far side of the field. Upon each post rested a single, small, unremarkable apple.
She closed her eyes. Hitting an apple would be easy enough, for she had hit smaller targets. But the distance was another matter—the men around her, including the Normans, would use bows with far more power. She could compensate by overpulling, but if she drew the bowstring too far, the stress might cause the bow to wobble, sending the arrow careening over the grass. She had come to win, not to humiliate herself.
“The first round of the competition is simple enough,” Philip explained, glancing down the row of competitors. “Each man to hit an apple will move into the next round, where the stakes and the difficulty will rise. Those who do not hit the apple are dismissed, and may God grant you better luck in the next contest!”
The competitors around Cahira twittered with nervous laughter, then shed cloaks and quivers and sword belts as they prepared to string their bows. Cahira kept her eyes downcast as she stepped between her bow and its string, then expertly pressed the bow’s lower curve against her foot and slid the string to the upper notch.
“Faith, I haven’t shot at an apple in years,” the man next to her said as he adjusted his bowstring. “If they’d run a rabbit across this field, then we’d have some sport.”
Cahira made a soft sound of agreement as she picked up her bow and pulled, testing the tension. She had not practiced in more than a week, but the skills involved in archery had always come naturally to her. Too naturally, Murchadh always said. Ladies should be skilled with a needle and thread, not weapons.
The Emerald Isle Page 12
