Frowning, Cahira turned her attention back to her bowl. Her father did not lie well. If he truly intended to hunt, the hunting party would include nearly every man in the castle, including Rian. If he intended to hold a meeting with the other chieftains of Connacht, Rian would attend as well. So where was he going?
She glanced toward her mother for some clue, but Una kept her head down as if she found her porridge utterly fascinating. The king and his men stalked out of the hall with a great clattering and gathering of weapons, then the wooden door closed with a sound like thunder.
Cahira saw her mother flinch at the sound. She lifted her gaze from her bowl, stared at the door for a moment, then turned to Cahira and forced a smile. “Rian will say prayers with you today,” she said, standing. “I will make my morning prayers in solitude. I feel the need for a special time of—supplication.”
Cahira lifted a brow in Sorcha’s direction, but her maid only sank to the bench and propped her head on her hand, blocking Cahira’s view.
Was this a conspiracy? Cahira dropped her spoon and pressed her hands together, glancing around the nearly empty table. Her father’s men had all vanished; only Rian and a handful of serving women remained. Her father was not likely to purposely exclude Rian from any venture, so the fact that he had been left alone with Cahira must signify—
She stiffened, abashed, when the truth hit her. This was matchmaking, pure and simple. Hadn’t Sorcha plainly said that her father had Rian in mind for her? Apparently her parents had decided that nineteen was a ripe age for marriage, and today a propitious day for proposing.
She pressed her hand to her forehead as her thoughts flitted back to the previous evening. “Rian is a good man,” her mother had whispered, and Cahira naturally agreed. Her agreement, apparently, was tantamount to assent.
Sure, and hadn’t she gotten herself into a fine mess? Cahira rubbed her temple and took a wincing little breath. She had no desire to hurt her parents or her dear kinsman, but she could not marry Rian, not as long as a man named Colton lived. She would just have to explain the situation to her parents. Sorcha and Murchadh had met the knight, and they would understand, even if they would not approve.
A knot formed in her stomach at the thought of Murchadh. Even now he rode with her father, and at this very moment her father might be asking for more details about the tournament at Athlone. Would he speak of Colton? Would he reveal her secret?
“Rian, I will meet you in the chapel when you are finished breaking your fast,” Cahira whispered, her voice sounding weak and tremulous in her own ears. “I will engage in private prayer until you are able to join me.”
“But I am ready now, Cahira.” Rian nearly toppled the bench in his eagerness to stand. “I lingered at the table only to keep company with you.”
“Then let us begin our prayers.” Cahira stood and moved away from the table, then fairly sprinted into the chapel. She collapsed on the kneeling bench before Rian even entered the room, but her apparent panic did not dissuade him from joining her. He knelt at her side only a moment later, the manly scents of peat and horses filling her nostrils as he leaned toward her.
“Is something troubling you, Cahira?” His voice broke in an awkward gurgle, and she realized he was as nervous as she.
Cahira shook her head and gripped the railing. “Nothing that need concern you, friend. I’m just feeling a sudden need for God’s grace.”
“You call me friend now,” Rian’s warm, damp hand fell upon hers, “but surely you know I would have you soon call me husband.”
Cahira felt as though she had swallowed a large, cold rock that pressed uncomfortably against her breastbone. This painfully sincere man was her kinsman. She would not willingly hurt him for the world, but she would not marry him either. Before yesterday she might have eventually accepted his proposal. But in the bright light of Colton’s glory, Rian seemed completely ordinary.
She took a deep breath to quell the leaping pulse beneath her ribs. “We must pray for wisdom, Rian,” she finally managed to whisper, “so God would clearly reveal his will to us.”
She sighed in relief when Rian lifted his hand and turned toward the prayer book on the altar.
As soon as morning prayer ended, Cahira slapped one hand atop her hat and veil, then sprinted out of the room. Rian would probably think she had lost her wits, but as the morning office dragged on and on, Cahira had convinced herself that Murchadh’s overbearing sense of loyalty would overrule his promise to keep silent about Colton’s approach last night. The warrior seemed ill at ease this morning, his face more troubled than it should have been if he were only concerned about Rian’s ill-fated proposal of marriage. Perhaps his conscience had kept him awake during the night; perhaps even now he had resolved to tell her father about Colton’s bold pursuit on the road from Athlone.
“Cahira!” Rian’s voice echoed in the hall behind her, but Cahira flew through the doorway and into the courtyard, desperate to know the truth before anyone had a chance to soften or convolute it. Lifting her skirts, she forfeited her hat and veil to the wind, then hurried across the courtyard toward the main gate. A guard from atop the rampart saw her and called out a warning, but Cahira ran on, too desperate to heed his call. Let them chase her. By the time they caught up, she might have learned what she needed to know.
She had no trouble discerning the path her father and Murchadh had taken, for fresh hoofprints led in only one direction from the gate. Her head down, Cahira walked swiftly over the trampled trail, her nerves strung as tight as a fiddle string. Her heart had congealed into a small lump of dread, yet her mind was cold and sharp, focused to an awl’s point. If her father would not allow a Norman to court her, she would defy him and marry Colton anyway—unless Colton had no desire to marry. If such was the case, she would enter the convent at Clonmacnois and devote herself to prayer and good works. But never, ever could she marry Rian. With one look in those faded blue eyes this morning, she had known that her red-haired kinsman could never be her husband.
The wind caught the hair at her neck, blowing it forward toward her face. Her fingers absently flew upward to catch her hat, then she remembered that she had lost it somewhere between the door and the gate. All that remained was her wimple, which doubtless looked silly without a hat and veil. She had intended to meet Colton dressed as a proper lady, but the wind and her own impetuosity had ruined all chance of that. In a wave of irritation, she yanked the long wimple free and sacrificed it to the wind too, her steps growing unsteady as her vision clouded with tears of frustration.
Oh, how unjust, to discover the love of her heart and then learn her parents intended her to wed another! Her parents would not be so cruel as to make her marry a man she did not fancy, but only last night her mother had insisted that love followed marriage. As long as you like Rian, she would insist, happiness and love will grow.
Not with Rian it wouldn’t. Cahira knew that as surely as she knew the sun would rise on the morrow. Yesterday she met the man God designed to fit her temperament and taste, and it was no matter that he was a Norman…
The sound of voices caught her ear, and she froze on the trail, then ducked behind the hedgerow bordering the road. Behind the closest hedge she saw a blur of movement in the pasture. Normans?
She moved closer and parted the greenery, peering through branches and leaves until she saw a pair of horses snuffling the earth, searching for some overlooked bit of grass. She could not see the men, for the horses blocked her view, but her stomach clenched when she recognized her father’s robust voice. At one point the horse turned his head, and she caught a glimpse of her father’s flushed face. By heaven, what had Murchadh told him?
Cahira parted the branches of the hedge further, insinuating herself into the bush. One of the horses heard the rustling of the evergreens and lifted his head in curiosity, then whickered softly and went back to his search for greenery.
“’Twas the Normans,” she heard her father shout, his voice rolling with thunder
and indignation. “Who else would take advantage in this way? When I find the guilty party, I will have his head, no matter who defends him!”
Cahira clung to the branches of the hedge, her heart pounding in her chest. What had Murchadh said to rouse her father to such a state? Colton had done little but speak to her, and in all things he had behaved with honor and great civility. He had not taken advantage in any way.
Her father’s horse stepped to the side, moving on to a more profitable bit of pasture, and Cahira gasped. Her father and Murchadh were standing in a field of carnage unlike anything Cahira had ever seen. At least ten of their prized longhaired cattle lay dead on the ground, their bloody entrails coloring the faded winter grass with congealed crimson blood. Someone—or something—had descended in the night to wreak this bloody havoc, for the herd had been alive and well when she and Murchadh passed at dusk the night before.
Her father was pointing now at a slaughtered animal whose great head had been split. “Only a Norman and his broadsword would do this,” she heard him say. “Look, no one has taken the carcasses; not a single skin has been carried away. This deed was committed for sport. ’Twas born out of sheer evil and recklessness. I shall demand that Lord Richard de Burgo pay for every animal.”
“You’ll have a time persuading him one of his men did it,” Murchadh answered, turning toward the hedge. “He’ll blame everyone from a rival tuath to your own people.”
Cahira ducked as her father turned as well.
“My own people wouldn’t kill the cattle they need to see them through the winter, would they now?” A thunderous scowl darkened her father’s brow. “I’ve tried to hold my tongue and keep my distance from Lord Richard, but this will not be borne!”
Murchadh’s square jaw tensed visibly. “Have you considered that someone may be trying to provoke you? Whether this is Richard’s doing or not, perhaps ’twould be wise to wait until your temper has cooled.”
In a silent fury that spoke louder than words, Felim o’ the Connors turned toward the south, where Richard de Burgo and his knights were camped, then lifted his fist and shook it.
Cahira shrank back in dismay, remembering that Colton would soon be coming from that same direction.
She did not return to the rath, but walked steadily northward, past the gates of Rathcroghan and on toward the river. Her feet felt leaden, her heart completely lifeless. Her father was furious with good reason, for no Gael would kill cattle in such a meaningless way. The idea was inconceivable. Any man who would do such a thing cared nothing for property or the future. And the only men in these parts who fit that description were the Norman knights who fed from Lord Richard’s table.
But why would knights do such a thing, and why would they do it now? For over six weeks they had been guests in the land, partaking of Philip’s hospitality, denied nothing but an audience with her father. Yesterday they had seemed quite content with their sojourn, eagerly joining in the dances and merriment.
That memory brought another in its wake, with a chill that struck deep in the pit of her stomach. They had not all seemed eager to join in the dance, nor had they all been merry. Colton’s friend Oswald had not danced, nor had he once smiled at her. In fact, she could not recall seeing him at all after dinner. Perhaps he had remained in the hall, sulking over his bowl.
Could he have committed this bloodshed? And could his anger have sprung from her performance at the tournament?
Walking on, she stared at the sun-dappled ground where shifting silvery patterns danced as the wind blew through the trees. Colton’s affections might prove to be as changeable as these shadows. She had known him only two days; had spoken with him only thrice. In the hours they had been apart, Oswald might have poisoned his heart, turning his kind thoughts into disdain. He might have even been among the mysterious marauders who slaughtered her father’s cattle last night.
Colton might not keep his appointment with her. And if he did not, at least she would know why.
She reached the river before midday, then moved to the bank and looked north and south, half hoping Colton would have already arrived. But the riverbank stood silent and empty as the muddy, dimpled waters slid by on the way to Athlone and Clonmacnois and Clonfert.
Disappointed, Cahira moved to a wide, flat rock, then sat and drew her knees to her chest, her skirts spilling around her. Beyond caring about her appearance, she pasted a blank expression on her face and tried to corral her troubled thoughts. Last night she had slept in a soft cocoon of happiness and joy, but the morning’s complications had ripped her from that safe and contented place.
Was love itself so fragile and ephemeral? If so, was it a thing worth having? Worth fighting for?
“You may be the biggest fool Connacht has ever seen,” she told her reflection, idly running her fingers through the chin-length tresses framing her face. “You sit here, alone and unescorted, waiting upon a man your father counts as his enemy. If his intentions are dishonorable, you will discover it within the hour. But if they are—”
She had no time to finish the thought, for the sound of hoofbeats reached her ear. She raised her head, too tense to call out, but something in her heavy heart lightened when two mounted knights appeared on the trail. The foremost knight spurred his mount when he saw her, then swung himself from the saddle in one easy movement.
“Cahira.” Colton smiled when he said her name, and the sight of that smile dispelled her fears. “You came.”
“Of course I came.” She wrapped her arms around her bent knees as he approached. “Were you thinking I would not?” She studied his face, searching for some flicker of disloyalty or shame, but she saw nothing in his eyes but honor and truth.
“You came alone?” The question came from his companion, Oswald, who remained on his mount. Cahira barely glanced at him, then nodded. “My father was occupied with troubling matters, so I left on my own.”
Colton was staring at her as if he hadn’t heard a word. “Will you walk with me?” he asked, his eyes brimming with a curious deep longing.
Cahira didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
He took her hand, helped her from the rock, and for a few moments they walked along the riverbank without speaking. Cahira was beginning to wonder if he regretted asking her to meet him, but then he stopped and abruptly turned to face her.
“If we were in my country,” he said, watching her intently, “I would speak to my lord, who would send a representative to your father to arrange a marriage. If your father was agreeable, we might be wed without spending another hour in each other’s company. We would meet again outside the doors of the church and then spend the rest of our lives together.”
Though a delightful shiver ran through her, Cahira strove to keep her voice light. “In my country,” she countered, “I would speak to my father, who would send a representative to your master. He would ask about many things before a marriage could ever be arranged.”
“What sort of things would he want to know?”
Cahira shrugged and allowed her eyes to drift over the silent river, which moved without a ripple in the windless calm. “He’d want to know if you have bad habits. Are you profane? Do you honor God and seek to serve him? Are you kind to orphans and old men?”
“No, yes, and I think so.” He turned to survey the river too and thrust his hands behind his back. “Anything else, Lady?”
“Of course.” Cahira pressed her hands together, delighted for an opportunity to learn more about him. “Have you a family?”
“No. I am an orphan and belong only to Lord Richard.”
“No brothers or sisters?”
“None.”
“Are you overfond of ale? Are you underfond of bathing?”
A deep chuckle rose from his throat, but he quickly cloaked it in a mantle of dignity. “No and no. I am only one step shy of sainthood in this life and assured of it in the next. I am kind to animals, I give alms in the church basket, and I confess my sins every night.”
“You
’re not a very agile dancer.” She tossed the accusation at him from beneath half-closed lids. “I saw you stomping about with the other knights. Though you may liberally dispense grace in your words, that elegance does not extend to your feet.”
“But you, Lady, have refinement enough to cover my lack.”
Cahira felt one corner of her mouth lift in a wry smile. Murchadh would certainly not agree with that assessment, neither would her mother. They had too often seen her mud-spattered, bedraggled, and soaked through with rain and river water.
“I think,” her voice softened, “I would be pleased with those answers when I heard them.”
“You are not fair.” Colton lifted a brow in accusation. “I might send my representative out with a list of questions too.”
Turning to face him, Cahira crossed her arms. “What sort of questions?”
“Do you gossip?” He bent toward her, his eyes bright with merriment. “Do you cook? And most important, Lady, do you snore?”
Cahira’s eyes widened. “No, no, and no!”
His grin flashed briefly, dazzling against his tanned skin. “How do you know you don’t snore?”
“I know! My maid would have told me!”
“And you don’t cook?”
Cahira’s indignation cooled as if he had thrown water upon it. The snoring question was a joke; the cooking was another matter. Every woman was supposed to know how to cook and clean and keep a house, but she had never taken the time to learn.
She debated telling a lie, then decided to give him the truth. “I don’t cook or clean or keep house very well,” she answered in a rush of words. “But I can shoot an arrow and wield a sword and throw a dagger with the best of my father’s men. I can trim a hoof and milk a cow and—when no one is looking—vault a fence. And I can dance!”
“My lady,” he said, his extraordinary eyes blazing, “your accomplishments far outweigh what I have any right to expect.”
The Emerald Isle Page 23
