The Emerald Isle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “Nock your arrows at your leisure,” Philip called again, clasping his hands at his waist. “But hold until you hear the order to let the arrows fly.”

  Cahira ran her fingers over the string, testing its strength, then slipped her quiver from her shoulder and let it fall to the ground. She withdrew an arrow, completely aware that a sudden silence had fallen over the line of contestants as each man nocked his arrow for the one shot that would spell victory or defeat. Holding the bow in a horizontal position, she placed the notched end of her arrow onto the reinforced center of the bowstring, gripped the bow with her left hand, and rested three fingers of her right hand upon the string.

  “Ready?” Philip called. “Take your aim!”

  Like the others, Cahira turned her bow, extended her left arm, then pointed the tip of the arrow toward the target. In one steady movement, she pulled the bowstring with her three center fingers, then locked her right thumb under the bone at the junction of her jaw and earlobe.

  “Release!”

  Closing her left eye, Cahira centered on the target, then opened the three fingers of her right hand. The arrows flew out in a whistling cloud, and Cahira held her breath as her arrow, flying straight and true, struck the apple and knocked it from the post.

  A ferocious cheer erupted from the crowd, and for an instant Cahira felt as though the clamor of approval rose for her alone. The men on her immediate right and left had completely missed their targets, one man’s arrow flying far beyond his post, and the other burying itself in the hay stubble not twenty feet away.

  Her cheeks reddened when she glanced down the line and saw that only one other, no, two other apples were missing from their posts. And both of those were on the Norman side of the field.

  Shock rippled along her nerves when a crowd of burly Irishmen surrounded her. “Sure, and didn’t I know the wee one would show all of us how ’tis done,” the man next to her said, his broad hand pounding her back. “Thanks be to God, lad, that he sent a David among the Goliaths. For a moment I thought the Normans would take the day.”

  A pack of small boys ran behind the targets to fetch the pierced apples, and Cahira saw one lad triumphantly lift hers, her colorful arrow piercing it as neatly as a pin. Her pleasure turned to dismay, however, when she saw two other boys holding aloft the Normans’ apples—or what remained of the Normans’ apples. Both knights not only struck their targets, but their arrows hit the fruit with such force that nothing but weepy pulp remained.

  She felt her smile freeze on her face.

  “Och, can you just imagine what one of those arrows would do to a man’s skull?” One of the lads in the Gaelic crowd voiced every man’s thought. “What are they made of, steel?”

  “’Tis the length of their bows,” another man countered. “I’ve heard stories of them—Welsh longbows, they call them. They say an arrow fired from such a bow can strike a man and pin him to the ground.”

  A moment of heavy uneasiness followed, then a hand tightened around Cahira’s arm. “Ah, lad, you wouldn’t be letting such things worry you, would you now? This is a contest for accuracy, and you’ve got that to spare. You’ll do fine, we’re sure of it.”

  And then she was swept up in a surge of Irish masculinity and pushed, prodded, and fairly propelled toward the two Normans who stepped out of the line. Her dismay turned to outright horror when she realized that the two archers in front of her were the same two knights she had encountered by the river—him and the other.

  God help me.

  Watching in interest and approval, Colton chuckled when the Irishmen herded their wee champion forward. So, the lad with the hot temper had a sure aim as well! It was a miracle he had managed the distance with that dainty bow, but the young man had obviously been well-schooled in the art of archery. The lad wore plain clothing, so he was no one of significance, but even the common folk often had to shoot their supper.

  Oswald exploded in a loud guffaw as the boy came forward. “What is a stripling doing on a tournament field? He ought to be home minding his mother.”

  Colton ignored Oswald’s jibe and stepped forward. “Congratulations, lad. ’Twas a good shot.”

  For an instant the boy lifted his head, and from the angry glitter in those green eyes Colton thought his compliment would be repaid with another insult. But Lord Richard had stepped forward, and at the sound of the nobleman’s voice the Irish lad lowered his gaze and turned away.

  Oswald lifted a brow in an unspoken question, and Colton shrugged.

  “This next round of competition will be most interesting,” Lord Richard was saying, his gaze roving over the mixed crowd of Norman and Irish. “And I must congratulate our three champions. I recognize two of them as my own loyal men, my captain, Sir Colton, and Sir Oswald. My congratulations to you both.”

  Colton stepped forward to acknowledge the compliment, then he and Oswald bowed as tradition and honor demanded. The Irish lad, he noted as he turned to wave at the cheering crowd, neither bowed nor smiled. He had planted his bow in the soft ground, and stood with his hands resting atop it, looking out at the world with an intense but secret expression on his striking face.

  “I’m afraid I cannot introduce yonder youth,” Lord Richard said, gesturing to Philip. “Know you his name or his father’s name?”

  The balding Irishman stepped forward and squinted in the youth’s direction, then shook his head. “Who are you, lad?”

  Colton turned. The boy’s face went pale above his bow and his fingers trembled, but his eyes flashed as he lifted his head and called out, “I am one with those whose blood has flowed in freedom from of old! A descendent of the great Brian Boru, an offspring from Éireann’s last high king, Rory O’Connor!” The Irish in the crowd went wild with glee, and Colton blinked in surprise when the boy looked directly at him…and smiled.

  The Irishmen behind the lad tossed their caps in a frenzied cheer, obviously finding more significance in the boy’s words than Colton had. Philip flushed deeply, then stepped back to Richard’s side.

  Colton couldn’t help grinning back at the boy. While the lad of a certainty lacked tact, he possessed an admirable overabundance of boldness. Judging by his clear speech, he had also benefited from education. Pride lay in the set of his pointed chin, and fierce determination shone from those green eyes—there was no denying the lad was as Irish as yonder green hills.

  Lord Richard held up his hand, quieting the crowd’s enthusiastic roar. “For the next round of this competition,” he began, “we will test not only your skill, but your nerves. We have a criminal in our custody, a man caught yesterday in a brazen act of theft. The apple will not rest upon a post this time, but upon the head of a man accused of stealing from our host, Philip.”

  The knights behind Richard parted ranks, and two Irish guards led a stumbling old man out of a storage shed and into the bright sunlight. The criminal, stooped and shriveled with age, pressed his hands to his eyes and walked slowly despite being yanked along by the guards’ ropes. The fringe of white hair that crowned his head lifted in the faint breeze, and he seemed to proceed almost willingly, though his head remained lowered in shame. A dull rumble began amongst the Irish crowd, and Colton dimly noted it.

  “We will begin by placing a melon on this thief’s head,” Lord Richard explained as the guards stood the prisoner beside one of the target posts and began to lash him to it. “If all three of you successfully pierce the melon, we will then move to a gourd, and finally to an apple. We will continue in the rounds, each man taking his turn, until two of the three men fail to hit the target. The remaining archer will be our champion.”

  Oswald withdrew an arrow from his quiver and began to whistle a cheerful tune. Colton withdrew one of his arrows and picked up his bow, wishing he could block the annoying sound of Oswald’s whistling from his ears. From the corner of his eye he saw that the Irish lad had not moved.

  “Lord Richard will probably want you to go first, lad.” He held the arrow before his face and sc
anned it critically, searching for a loose feather. Even a tiny break in the gluing could send an arrow dangerously off course. “But you’ll have to be ready when he calls for you. His lordship is not a patient man.”

  Still the boy did not move. Colton lowered the arrow. The lad had gone pale; his eyes glittered like emeralds set on bleached parchment. He was staring at the target—no, at the old man—in fixed concentration.

  Colton leaned toward the young man. “Something wrong, lad?”

  His mouth dropped open when the boy whirled on him. “Don’t do it. I beg of you, don’t do it. Raise a protest, join your voice with mine, and surely Philip and this Lord Richard will heed us.”

  Colton snapped his mouth shut, stunned by the boy’s sudden ferocity. “Why shouldn’t we follow our orders? The man is a criminal.” Colton frowned, unable to understand the lad’s passion. “Surely you Irish have laws. If a man is found guilty of a crime, he deserves whatever punishment the lord of the land decides to mete out.”

  The lad glared at Colton with burning, reproachful eyes. “Aye, we have laws. But this man is no thief, for he has a home, and with the king of Connacht. He is no more guilty of this crime than I!”

  Colton pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to smile. “And how do I know you are not a thief?”

  “You know, sir,” the lad answered, his voice quavering with conviction, “because I give you my word.”

  Trembling in the silence, Cahira allowed herself to cast a withering stare in the knight’s direction. He seemed to think a man could be used for target practice as casually as a horse could be harnessed and ridden, but the thought of shooting at poor Brian sent a shiver of revulsion through her.

  What sort of barbarians were these men? She’d heard rumors that the Norman lords ignored the basic rights of life and liberty in pursuit of their goals, but she had never thought she’d discover the truth in those rumors on a field of contest. Apparently the life of an old and poor man was useful only for pleasuring a crowd, for adding a bit of excitement to an otherwise dull and boring competition.

  The knight, Sir Colton, was staring at her, his bow in one hand and his arrow in the other. He lifted the hand holding the arrow and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then squinted toward the post where Brian had been bound. The other knight, who had already nocked his arrow, turned and stared at his competitors.

  “What’s this?” he asked, his English pinched and nasal. “Have you lost your courage or your skill? Let me remind you, Colton, we have a wager riding on this event.” His smile deepened into laughter. “Riding on this—I’ve just made a little joke. How clever of me to remind you that you’re about to lose that grand horse of yours.”

  “Please.” Cahira scarcely recognized the quavering voice as her own. “Let us agree to protest the use of a human target. ’Tis unjust, for though we are skilled with a bow, the winds are unstable and anything could happen—”

  “You gutless Irish.” The one called Oswald spoke again, his voice dry and biting. “What, are you afraid you’ll nick the old man? His ghost won’t have the strength to haunt you, laddie, nor are his heirs likely to come after you.”

  “Please!” Perilously close to tears, Cahira clenched her fist and stared at the more reasonable knight. She could explain that old Brian was part of her household, one of her father’s own men, but doing so would reveal her identity and possibly expose Brian to worse danger. If Richard was truly looking for a means to move her father to action, shooting poor old Brian might be just the way to do it.

  Girding herself with resolve, Cahira dropped her bow to the ground, then crossed her arms. “I won’t shoot at him, and I won’t let you shoot at him either.”

  Sir Oswald threw back his head and roared with laughter. “How, now, listen to the twig threaten us!”

  From his observation post, Lord Richard bellowed for their attention. “Fie on this delay, gentlemen! What seems to be the trouble?”

  Oswald grinned and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then looked from Cahira to Colton. She followed his gaze, instinctively knowing that Colton would settle the matter. Something about him demanded deference, and perhaps Lord Richard would respect him enough to grant his request for another target, if she had convinced him to spare Brian.

  “Lord Richard!” Colton’s voice, strong and resonant, rang out over the assembly. “It has been brought to my attention that in Ireland the crime of theft does not warrant a death sentence.”

  Richard’s mouth curved in an expression that hardly deserved to be called a smile. “The old man is not Philip’s prisoner; he is mine. Furthermore, Sir Knight, if your aim is true, the sentence will not be death. Hit the melon, and the old man is spared.”

  Cahira stepped toward Colton, her shadow blending with the Norman knight’s. “Then, sir,” she called, “if you have such confidence in your knights, let me replace the old man. Release him to his kinsmen, and let me stand in his place.”

  Colton stood there, blank, amazed, and shaken as the lad bellowed out his solution to the dilemma. The boy would stand in the old man’s stead? Such loyalty was rare even among knights; he had not expected to find it anywhere in Ireland. The lad was probably confident of his and Oswald’s ability; still, this was a contest to the finish. At least one arrow would have to miss the mark in order for a winner to take the prize.

  Aye, the lad possessed boldness aplenty. No tact, not much wisdom, but loyalty and impudence enough to equip a king’s garrison.

  “Let me propose an alternative.” Colton dropped his bow and arrow in the grass and moved two steps forward, distancing himself from the lad. “Why have two knights competing against one another, when all the land wants to see a contest between the natives and the newcomers? Let me stand as the target, my lord, and let the lad compete against Oswald. Release the old man, and let the target rest upon my head.”

  Richard stood immobile, shock flickering over his face like heat lightning, but Philip clapped his hands in loud approval. “A lovely idea!” the Irishman shouted, turning to share his glee with the members of his household. “Norman against Gael! And the old man goes free!”

  As the crowd thundered its approval, Colton began to walk forward, knowing Richard could not now deny his request. To do so would seem dishonorable, and Richard valued nothing so much as the appearance of honor.

  He felt the light touch of a hand on his sleeve and turned to see the Irish lad trotting beside him, his eyes wide. “Why?” the boy asked, his brows drawn together in bewilderment. “The old man means nothing to you.”

  “But he means a great deal to you,” Colton answered, stopping. “And no man loves life like him that’s growing old. So get you back to your bow and remember—I’m growing older myself and am rather fond of living. I place my life in your hands.”

  The boy released him, and Colton continued walking toward the post, where a pair of his own comrades waited to bind him. One of Philip’s guards was leading the old man away, and the poor old soul stopped to gibber a few words of gratitude before the guard yanked on his rope.

  Some dim recess of Colton’s mind, not occupied with immediate survival, speculated upon the boy’s relationship to the old man. The lad bore little resemblance to the old fool, but Colton could have sworn that the boy’s eyes flashed with recognition, even affection, when he saw the old fellow. If they were related, then, or even if they were friends, Colton had done the right thing.

  He walked to the post and leaned back against it, then thrust his hands behind him. The knight standing there snickered as he bound Colton’s wrists. “Is the sun getting to you today, Captain? Or have these Irish bewitched you? Oswald will shoot first, you know, you can take pleasure in that. He’ll not miss, but that little Irish lad doesn’t look like he has strength enough to get the arrow across this field. I’m thinking that his arrow will fall and strike you”—the fellow stopped knotting the rope long enough to step forward and tap Colton squarely in the center of his chest—�
��right about there.” The knave gave Colton a humorless smile. “Too bad mail armor won’t stop an arrow. You may regret your actions here today, Captain.”

  Colton didn’t answer, but lifted his gaze toward the sky. Thou shall not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day.

  Another man pulled a black hood from his belt.

  “What’s that?” Colton asked, uncomfortably suspicious.

  “So you won’t flinch,” the knight answered, his fat face melting into a buttery smile. “That would be messy, wouldn’t it? With this over your head, you won’t know what’s coming till it’s all over.”

  Colton closed his eyes as the black cloth descended and blocked out the world. The crowd grumbled and hooted until someone balanced the melon upon his head. He stiffened his spine and held his breath, afraid he’d send the melon toppling and misdirect the archers.

  Silence sifted down like a snowfall. In his mind’s eye he could see Oswald picking up his bow and nocking the arrow.

  God, if ever you steadied Oswald’s arm, please do so now.

  A tide of goose flesh rippled up each of Cahira’s arms and raced across her shoulders as the arrogant knight lifted his bow and drew back. She closed her eyes as his fingers released the string, not daring to open them until she heard a solid thwack and the crowd’s approving roar. The insolent Norman had succeeded, and now everyone waited for her.

  How could she shoot at the man who had just saved her friend?

  She couldn’t. But neither could she withdraw from the contest, for doing so would mark her as a coward. Her withdrawal would shame Éireann, disgrace her father, and dishonor the memory of Brian Boru and Rory O’Connor, the kings she had just touted as her ancestors. Leaving the field of contest now would reinforce every supposition and prejudice the Normans had formed about her people.