The Emerald Isle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “Amen.”

  With prayers thus concluded, Felim O’Connor folded his hands, cast his wife a meaningful glance, then nodded at Cahira before leaving the chamber. Cahira sank to the cushion where she had been kneeling. Her mother had obviously been charged to dispense either a rebuke or a compliment, and there was nothing to do but wait for it.

  Cahira watched, mystified, as her mother continued kneeling at the prayer rail for another moment, then she lifted her chin and cast a weary smile toward the cross. “Come, Cahira,” she said, standing. As she gracefully made her way to the hall and a chair near the fireplace, Cahira felt herself being drawn toward her mother’s kind smile in the same way moths are drawn to flame on a summer night.

  After seating herself, Cahira’s mother plucked a bit of lacework from a basket and began to work her needle, quietly humming under her breath.

  Will she not speak?

  Cahira dropped in a most ungraceful heap at her mother’s knee and stared at her open hands. “If I have done anything to displease you, please forgive me.” She dared not lift her gaze to her mother’s face. The sight of a single tear upon that pale cheek would be enough to break her heart, and a glint of disapproval in those gentle eyes would snap her spirit like a dried twig.

  “You could never displease me, Cahira.” Her mother’s voice echoed with love. “And though I would not have approved your actions had I known of them beforehand, ’tis not my right to say what you ought to do. You are a woman grown, and as a woman, you will answer to your father or your husband. In this case, your father takes pride in your courage and your skill. Most important, you saved Brian’s life. Any man in the house—or woman, too—would be proud to claim that honor.”

  Cahira relaxed, resting her temple against the arm of her mother’s chair as a warm glow flowed through her. The sight of a woman on the contest field might have affronted the Normans, but the Gaels were not offended. ’Twas not so long ago that Gaelic women had gone into battle beside their men, babies hanging from one shoulder and thirty-foot battle pikes resting upon the other. They had fought, wounded, killed, and died upon the green fields and in the woods, beside their husbands, brothers, and fathers. They were not weak, nor were they cowards.

  Let the Normans prefer their pale women in extravagant clothes and castles. She was descended from the warrior Gaels and proud of it, unless—

  Cahira bit her lip as a terrifying thought struck her. Did the Normans really prefer delicate, porcelain women? Lord Richard apparently did, and probably Oswald and the rest of them. But the light of genuine interest had flickered in Colton’s eyes. Hadn’t he followed her from Athlone and begged to meet her again? Would he have done so if he liked helpless, simpering women?

  “Mother,” Cahira lifted her gaze to her mother’s smooth face, “how will I know when a man begins to love me?”

  Her mother’s eyes tenderly melted into Cahira’s. “How will you know?” Slowly she lowered her lacework into her lap, and her eyes took on a dreamy expression. “First comes liking—you can’t have anything without that. Then you begin to fancy one another more than any other man or maid. And then, after marriage and the sacred vows, love moves into your heart and binds you together as one soul.” She paused for a moment, and the silence of the chamber flowed back into the space their conversation had made, until the room was as still as if neither of them had ever spoken.

  Shifting in the silence, Cahira rested her back against her mother’s chair. She certainly liked Colton far better than any of the other Normans, and he must like her as well, for there had been no sign of revulsion in his eyes even after she announced her true name and gender. He had been surprised, certainly, but not offended.

  And she fancied him—oh yes she did. His appearance pleased her tremendously, far better than any man in all of Connacht, and she could find nothing objectionable in his manners, his speech, or his character. He seemed gentle, compassionate, and courageous, and he had dared leave his master long enough to ride after her today…so perhaps he fancied her as well. Would he have come if he did not?

  Her mother’s soft voice spun into Cahira’s tumbling thoughts. “Did you see your kinsman Rian today? Your father thought he might have chosen to go to Athlone.”

  “Rian?” Cahira frowned, unable to recall. Her kinsman may have been at the tournament, but she had paid little attention to the Irishmen. She had spent the greater part of the afternoon searching the crowd for glimpses of a tall, dark-haired Norman with sparkling eyes.

  “Rian is a good man, Cahira.”

  Cahira nodded absently. “Of course he is.”

  “You know your father has decided to promote him as his successor. He has begun to speak to the other chiefs about Rian’s strength and abilities.”

  Cahira resisted the urge to shrug. This was no surprise; everyone in the tuath assumed that Rian would one day take her father’s place as king of Connacht. Her father was young, with many years left to rule, and Rian would be mature and capable when his turn came. None of the other chieftains seemed inclined to challenge his position.

  “Rian will make a fine king,” she said softly, hugging her knees to her chest. She rested her head on her crossed arms and sighed deeply. Colton would make a fine king too, but a Norman would never be entitled to rule an Irish kingdom. The chieftains decided such things, and the man best fitted to rule over the ancestral line had to be accepted and inaugurated by the members of his own clan. No stranger could ever hope to govern an Irish province.

  “Cahira,” her mother’s voice floated down, “you should not be afraid to follow your heart. It is easy to love a good and godly man.”

  “In truth, I know you are right.” Cahira breathed the words in a heavy sigh as she stood to prepare for bed. “I never realized how easy until today.”

  Snugly wrapped in a warm woolen blanket, Cahira twisted in the wooden chair and studied the star-thick darkness beyond her window. The noises of the house faded as she focused her attention on the trail outside and sharpened her thoughts toward Athlone.

  Somewhere beyond that field, behind those trees and over the trail, Colton lay wrapped in his cloak beneath the same sky. She held her breath, straining to hear some sound on the wind that might have blown past Athlone, but the dense silence was like the hush after a storm when the leaves hang limp and nature seems to catch her breath.

  A whisper of wind lifted the hair over her ears, and she brought her hand to her cheek. Perhaps the same wind that touched her face had just caressed his! She smiled at the fanciful notion. Sorcha would roll her eyes at such drivel, but Sorcha had never felt like this…nor had she felt the power in Colton’s eyes when he smiled.

  Cahira shivered and pulled the blanket more closely around her. The night was cool and clear, but the gusting wind hooted over the outbuildings and fluttered the garments the laundress had hung on a rope outside the kitchen.

  What sights were meeting Colton’s eyes at this moment? What thoughts filled his head? Was he thinking of her?

  “Cahira! Where are you?”

  Sorcha’s frenzied whisper shattered the stillness of the dark chamber, and Cahira closed her eyes in resignation. She had hoped to pass an hour in rare solitude, but if she didn’t answer, Sorcha would light a torch and wake the others.

  Cahira reached out from behind the covering tapestry and waved her hand toward the dancing light of Sorcha’s candle. “I’m here, by the window.”

  The candle lifted, lighting Sorcha’s worried face. “Come away from the window, lass, or you’ll catch your death of the cold. And then what would your mother say?”

  “She wouldn’t say anything.” Sighing, Cahira slipped from the chair and let the blanket fall like a mantle to the floor, then she shuffled toward the bed she shared with her maid. Compared to the bright, clear coolness of her curtained window seat, the chamber felt uncomfortably warm and stuffy.

  “Come to bed, lass, and that’s the end of it. What, can’t you sleep?”

  “Not r
eally.” Cahira obediently crawled onto the large bed in the corner of the room, then scooted to the far side. Sorcha blew out the candle, then settled in with a loud sigh, pulling the blankets to her chin and tucking her arms neatly out of sight. Across the room, in two other beds, six of the other female servants tossed, turned, and snored in various stages of exhaustion and sleep.

  How could Sorcha lie down to sleep so calmly? Cahira rose on one elbow and propped herself up, staring at the dark spot where Sorcha’s face should be. For some time the maid had fancied Murchadh, so perhaps she had experienced feelings like these. Though it was hard to envision Sorcha sighing for Murchadh’s rough touch, stranger things had been known to happen.

  Cahira reached through the darkness and poked the mound of blankets. “How can you sleep?”

  Sorcha drew a ragged breath. “What? Is something amiss?”

  Cahira leaned forward, her voice controlled and tight. “How can you just lie there after the day we’ve had? Are you dreaming of him then? Or are you making fanciful thoughts inside your head?”

  Cahira heard the creak of straw as Sorcha twisted on the mattress. “Cahira, go to sleep. ’Tis not the time to be playing games.”

  “I’m not playing games. I want to know if you’re thinking of him.”

  “And who would him be?” Annoyance struggled with embarrassment in Sorcha’s voice as she snapped at Cahira in the gloom. “Just who would I be thinking of at this hour?”

  Cahira lowered herself back to her pillow and eased into a smile. “You’re thinking of Murchadh. Just like I’m thinking of Colton.”

  “Och, you little eejit, mind what you’re saying!” In a fit of embarrassment, Sorcha flung the blankets up over her head, retreating to that private place where the girls had whispered and giggled in confidence for years. Cahira immediately followed, then listened in the warm darkness for the steady sound of Sorcha’s breathing. Though maturity had taught her that things whispered under the blanket were easily overheard, the dark cavern of the bedcovers seemed a place of magic and secrets.

  “Did you note the knight then?” Cahira whispered. “Isn’t he terrible handsome?”

  “He’s a Norman, and not one you should be thinkin’ about.”

  “But you have to admit he’s gallant. He didn’t have to take old Brian’s place at the post, but he did.”

  “You suggested the idea first. Until that moment, he was quite willing to shoot at Brian’s fool head.”

  “But he saw reason, so he’s not thickheaded like so many of the others.” Cahira brought her knees to her chest, curling into a ball. “And he is devilish handsome. His hair is as black as Mag’s cat, and his eyes as dark as the night.”

  “And you, lass, are as foolish as a lass who judges a horse by its harness. Can you be forgetting how your father feels about the Normans? He bears them no love.”

  “He bears them no hate either. And if indifference can turn to love—”

  “He does not trust them, nor will he trust one with black-cat hair and night-colored eyes. Though I’ll admit the knight is right fair and noble looking,” Sorcha sighed, her voice resigned, “your father has Rian in mind for you, and everyone knows it. Your kinsman is a good man, full of life and humor.”

  Cahira laughed to cover her annoyance. “I like Rian well enough, but Mother says I should fancy the man I will marry. I can’t say that I’ll ever fancy Rian. I’m right fond of him, sure, and he’s a lovely gentleman, but he is not Colton.” She hesitated, unable to clothe her thoughts in words. How could she explain the feeling that leapt into her heart whenever Colton so much as glanced her way? Her spirits had ebbed as they rode from Athlone, yet when Colton came thundering into view, her heart had well nigh burst with happiness. And the feeling was mutual and reciprocated, she knew that well. Even after all the unwomanly things she had done, he still fancied her and wanted to see her again.

  And on the morrow he would come. She would meet him by the river and hear his proposition. By this time tomorrow night she would know if he meant her heart good or ill.

  “Sorcha,” Cahira lowered her voice to the barest whisper, “tomorrow I must take you into my confidence and keep you there until this thing be resolved. Do you agree to take my part in this, or shall you run to betray my secret? Even Murchadh must not know.”

  For a long moment there was no answer, then Cahira heard the rush of Sorcha’s resigned sigh. “I will keep your secret,” she answered, “but have you considered the risk? Your father will be furious.”

  “He is not angry with me. He is proud.”

  “Only because he thinks you made the Normans look like eejits. And what of Richard de Burgo? If he learns one of his knights is courting a daughter of Felim O’Connor, will he not try to take a hand in it?”

  Cahira frowned at the hint of censure in Sorcha’s tone. “I do not know. But God will watch over us. If Colton’s intentions are noble, all will work for the best.”

  “So you say,” Sorcha answered, her voice heavy with sarcasm. The straw mattress creaked as she thrust her head out of the covers and rolled over. “I will keep your secret, Cahira. But do not make me sorry for doing so.”

  “Felim.” Alone in their torch-lit chamber at Rathcroghan, Una reached out and touched her husband’s arm. “Have you noticed that our daughter seems in a strange state of late?”

  Felim’s left eyebrow rose a fraction as he lowered the book he’d been reading. “Hasn’t she been in a strange state since her twelfth year?”

  She gave him a sympathetic smile. “A wee bit perhaps, but no more than any other woman.” Taking pains to smooth her voice and her facial features, Una dropped her needlework and shifted to face him. “Husband, I believe our daughter has begun to warm to the idea of marriage. She is behaving as if love has befuddled her senses.”

  “Love?” Felim’s smile vanished, wiped away by astonishment. “Our daughter? When has she had time to find love? She’s been so busy shearing her hair and outshooting the Normans—”

  “She asked me about love tonight, after prayers.” Tilting her head to one side, Una stole a slanted look at her husband. “Trying to be discreet, I mentioned Rian, of course. Cahira led me to believe she has finally begun to fancy her kinsman as a husband.”

  “’Tis about time.” Felim pulled back his shoulders and lifted his granite jaw, then sniffed with satisfaction. “Good. The boy shall have the kingdom and my daughter. All is as it should be.”

  Una blinked back tears of nostalgia as she recalled memories of the carrot-topped youngster who had terrorized the household. “Murchadh will be lost without her.”

  “I shall miss the girl.” Felim’s gaze shifted and thawed slightly when his eyes met his wife’s. “Things will be quiet without her.”

  “She won’t be far away.” Una reached out again, squeezed his arm, and sighed in contentment when Felim’s hand slipped over her own. “Lasses grow into women, and women into mothers. And fathers give them away to other men—”

  “Who aren’t nearly good enough for them.” Felim’s voice was gruff, but Una heard a strong note of affection in it. “Well, I’ve always liked Rian. The lad has many fine qualities. He will be a good husband for our Cahira.”

  Una said nothing, but turned her hand and laced her fingers with her husband’s. They sat still for a long moment, taking pleasure in the simple warmth of togetherness. Finally Felim cleared his throat. “I should send for Lorcan at once. It may be difficult to find him.”

  “It is only right that he be here,” Una agreed, squeezing his hand. “A brehon should certainly be present at a future king’s wedding.”

  The next morning Cahira rose and dressed under the hot light of Sorcha’s disapproving eyes. From the wardrobe trunk she pulled a simple long-sleeved gown of blue, then slipped into a sleeveless white overgown. The colors, she remembered, were those the knights had worn in honor of their lord. Perhaps today Colton would notice her effort to please him.

  When she had finished dressing, sh
e sat at the little stool and picked up a mirror, momentarily startled by the odd reflection that met her gaze. So little of her hair remained it seemed pointless to even attempt to dress it, but Sorcha insisted on brushing the ruddy tresses until they shone and fell smoothly to Cahira’s shoulders. The maid also produced a blade and evened up the untidy ends, then disguised the absence of hair with a wimple, hat, and veil—far more headgear than Cahira usually wore at home. When Sorcha placed the mirror in Cahira’s hand again, she had to admit the result was pleasing. Different, definitely, but far from repulsive.

  When all matters of toilette had been completed, Cahira and Sorcha slipped down to the hall where her father and his men were breakfasting. Rian sat at her father’s right hand, as usual, and as Cahira entered he lifted his head and gave her a warm smile. “How lovely you look today, Cahira,” he said, the warmth of his smile echoing in his voice. “That hat suits you. I have never seen you wear that one before.”

  From lowered lids, Cahira shot a commanding look at him. “I doubt you’ve ever seen me wear any hats, Rian, but I thank you for noticing.” Cahira sat down at her father’s left side and motioned for Sorcha to take the seat next to her. Frowning, Sorcha shook her head, and when Cahira looked up, she understood why the girl had balked. Murchadh, tall and towering, stood opposite the king, his face a study in fierce displeasure.

  “My king,” he bowed his head slightly in Felim’s direction, “the horses are saddled, and all is ready.”

  “Very well.”

  Cahira glanced up in surprise as her father and the rest of his men stood. “Going out so soon, Father? Is something amiss?”

  “Nothing that can’t be handled.” Her father bent for a moment to kiss her cheek, then he straightened and gestured toward her kinsman. “Rian will remain here to look after you and your mother. Murchadh and I are out to do a little hunting.”