The Emerald Isle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “No!” Oswald lunged for the younger man, his sword singing as it rent the empty air, but the student turned and dove into a hedge, then scrambled out the other side and sprinted toward the dark horizon.

  The brehon’s hand closed like an iron vise around Oswald’s arm. “Let him go. He cannot hurt your plan. He might even help you.”

  Oswald’s lips thinned with irritation as he watched the retreating figure. “What do you know about anything, old man?”

  Shadows rippled over the brehon like water over a sunken rock. “I know you and your lord want to instigate war with Felim O’Connor. I know you are thinking that if I do not persuade Felim to approve his daughter’s marriage, the king of Connacht will ride to Athlone and impulsively attack the Normans there. But they will be ready for him, aye?”

  Oswald gave the brehon a hostile glare. “Sometimes a man can be too wise for his own good.”

  A flicker of a smile rose at the edges of the old man’s mouth, then died out. “Aye. Sometimes he can.”

  They stared at each other across a sudden ringing silence. Oswald felt his hand grow clammy, and he gripped his sword more tightly. It would be easier to do this if he were angry or on the receiving end of some insult.

  “I’m not afraid,” the brehon said, a bright mockery invading his stare. “I have lived a full life and am ready to meet my Savior. But I feel I must ask you, Sir Knight, to reconsider this act. Not for my soul’s sake, but for your own. Will you be ready to stand before God with an innocent man’s blood on your conscience?”

  Oswald stepped back, torn by conflicting emotions.

  “If the love you bear your friend Colton is real, think yet again. You think you know him, but a man in love is not as predictable as you might believe. He will fight to defend Cahira. He may even turn against you.”

  There was a blank instant when Oswald’s head had swarmed with words, then a burst of anger tore through him at the sound of Colton’s name. “You talk too much!” In a surge of killing anger, he lifted his sword and brought it down, the blade slicing through neck and shoulder and chest until it caught somewhere in the vicinity of the brehon’s rib cage. The old man said nothing, but his eyes widened slightly at the first bite of the blade, then he swayed on his feet and put out a hand as Oswald wrenched the sword free in a desperate tug.

  Oswald swallowed, forcing down the sudden lurch of his stomach. The brehon took one unsteady step forward, then fell to his knees, gouts of blood pumping from his throat and flowing over his white robe. The man opened his mouth as if he would speak again, then fell forward onto the earth, his pale hand reaching over the dirt toward Oswald.

  Oswald stepped back and sheathed his sword, shuddering as the murderous passion left him. Fury had its own intoxication, but the black and dizzy vortex of aftershock was overpowering.

  He walked to his horse, placed his foot in the long stirrup, and struggled to swing himself into the saddle. The brehon’s body lay in the road like a discarded toy, blood shining wet and black in the moonlight. Gathering his reins, Oswald stared down at the road. Should he hide the corpse? He hadn’t hidden the carcasses of the slaughtered cattle, intending them for a warning. Well, this would be a warning too.

  Turning his horse toward Carnfree, he pursed his lips and forced himself to whistle one of the Gaelic dance tunes the harpers played every night at Athlone.

  Adrift in a sea of fragmented dreams, Colton swam toward wake-fulness, keenly aware that his God-ordained place in the universe had changed. Before last night he had been born and bred to battle, a man of the sword, of chivalry, and of loyalty to a sworn master. But after taking his vows to Cahira, he had added a more pressing duty. He could no more cast off his heritage or his loyalty to Richard than he could rid himself of his shadow, but he could be true to his bride no matter what the cost. He had loved her spirit from the moment he saw her lift her chin in defiance of Richard’s order to shoot toward the old man. He had come to love her intellect and her womanhood as she opened herself like a gently unfolding blossom. And last night, when he held her in his arms and loved her as a husband, his blood had soared with the conviction that he would kill to defend her, would die to preserve her honor. From the beginning of time, God had made her for him, and Colton rejoiced to find the piece of himself that had been missing for far too long.

  Safe and snug inside one of the stone huts, he opened his eyes as his ears filled with birdsong. Cahira lay stretched out on his mantle, silky strands of red hair draped across her dreaming face, the pale white streak glowing in the slanted sunlight from the narrow window.

  Propping his head on his arm, he lifted himself and studied her. By heaven, she was a treasure! As elemental and primitive as this green and pungent land, imbued with a stunning, vibrant beauty that could not be found in the pale-faced damsels of English and French courts.

  A gust of wind blew through the chinks in the stones, lifting the hair on Colton’s arm. When he reached out and tugged on Cahira’s cloak to cover her bare shoulder, a smile flickered over her face.

  Was she awake? Her eyes did not open, but surely women did not smile when they slept…unless they dreamed of pleasant things. He had not been in a room with a sleeping woman since leaving his childhood, for he had spent his youth and manhood amongst men. Perhaps women were a race apart.

  He lowered his head, wondering if he should be so bold as to kiss his new bride to wakefulness, then froze at the sound of a footstep on the gravel outside. Oswald had promised to return at an early hour to see if Colton wanted to send any message to Athlone. Eventually Lord Richard would have to be told about this hastily arranged marriage, but the disclosure would have to be made with great discretion and tact. Richard had been mightily offended by the Irish king’s refusal to meet with him, but perhaps he would be encouraged by the news that Felim’s daughter, at least, had proved herself open to the idea of accepting Normans…and loving one.

  Reluctantly tearing himself away from his bride, Colton thrust his head and arms through the woven tunic he wore under his mail, then walked to the door and opened it. Wearing an indulgent smile, Oswald leaned against another of the stone huts. “How fares the groom?”

  “Well enough.” Colton couldn’t keep a smile from his own face. Though for years he had written love songs as part of his chivalric training, the concept was but a moon-cast shadow compared to the reality of resting in his beloved’s arms. “Did you pass a good night? I thought you might ride back to Athlone.”

  “I didn’t want to arouse suspicion by passing the night guards without you,” Oswald answered, his brows drawing downward in a frown. “And my night was tolerable, though nowhere near as pleasant as yours.”

  “Ah—well.” Colton felt almost embarrassed at the tingle of happiness running through him. Oswald must think him a sentimental fool. “I’ve thought about it, and the brehon’s plan is a good one. Cahira and I will go into Meath while Lorcan counsels her father. ’Twill be very helpful if you can disguise my absence for a few days. But if Lord Richard notices that I am missing, give him the truth, but gently.” Colton forced his lips to curve in a still, calm smile. “Assure him that all is well, and that Felim o’ the Connors will soon have a new reason to consider establishing a peace. We will place our faith in God and the brehon.”

  Oswald’s eyes gleamed like glassy volcanic rock beneath his helmet. “I can cover for you as long as a week. There’s no need for you to rush away. After all, you are traveling with a woman.”

  “I appreciate your consideration, but Cahira is no fragile flower.” Colton reached for his friend’s hand and clasped it warmly. “Thank you. Someday I will return the favor.”

  Oswald jerked his head in a brief nod. “I doubt it will be the same favor. I can’t see myself marrying an Irish wench.”

  “Neither could I, until last week.” Colton released Oswald’s hand, then smiled. “’Tis passing strange, how God can change our plans.”

  Cahira woke to the sound of birds and the clatter o
f hooves upon gravel. Opening her eyes, she saw that she was alone in the hut. She rose, slipped quickly into her gown and mantle, and stepped out into the sunshine.

  A few feet away, Oswald sat upon his horse and Colton stood by his side, speaking to him in a quiet voice. A moment later Oswald picked up the reins, and Colton swatted the big stallion’s flank. Away went the horse and rider.

  Cahira felt her heart turn over when Colton turned and smiled at her. Her husband! She would have preferred waking in his arms, but it was also nice to awaken and find him waiting for her.

  She flew over the stones and flung herself into his arms, her mouth hungrily seeking his.

  “Well,” Colton whispered when they finally parted, “if that is the greeting I shall receive every morning, I shall take pains to keep you with me always.”

  “I would go with you always,” Cahira answered, meaning every word. “If you must travel with Lord Richard to England, or Normandy, or Paris, I will go with you. I will sleep in the rain with you, and make my home among the cliffs—”

  “How you talk.” Colton slipped down to sit on a rock, then pulled her firmly onto his lap. “I know you would travel with me, and moreover, I know you could. But I want to protect you, Cahira, to set you in a safe place where we shall be free to make a home and a family. Lord Richard must be consulted, for he is my master, but I am confident he will allow me to settle on his estate in Limerick. And if all goes well with our plan to unite my master and your father, mayhap we can one day settle on an estate in Connacht.” His eyes brimmed with tenderness. “I would not separate a princess from her people.”

  “I have told you,” Cahira lowered her forehead until it gently grazed his, “I care nothing about being a king’s daughter. I care only for you, Colton. If our marriage can help bring peace to your people and mine, then I am happy, but if we must live in Meath, or in Limerick, or even in Normandy, I am content as long as I am with you.”

  “You are a wonder,” he murmured, nestling against her. Cahira shivered at the heady sensation of his lips against her neck. “But as sweet as this place is, now we must think of the future.” He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. “Oswald will disguise my absence at Athlone, and Lorcan will speak peaceably to your father, but we will not have many days without interference. We must make our way to Meath.”

  Cahira nodded, sobered by the thought of discovery, while Colton turned toward the east, his face shining in the light of the rising sun. “Walter de Lacy rules that province. While he and Lord Richard are civil to one another, they are not close. If we beg de Lacy for sanctuary until our people come to terms, I see no reason for him to refuse our petition.”

  “Across the river, in Meath,” Cahira gestured toward the east, “stand several of the ancient towers. They are nearly impregnable; we could hide there for many days, even if this de Lacy is not disposed to aid us.”

  “I might be locked in a tower with you for days?” Colton pasted on an expression of mock horror as his hands tightened around Cahira’s waist. “Heaven help me, how I am to stand the torture?”

  “Withstand the temptation, you mean.” Cahira brushed a gentle kiss across his lips. “And as much as I’d love to pass the morning sitting here on your lap, I’m thinking we should begin to move. My father might send out patrols, and if they find us at Carnfree, all will be lost.”

  “I won’t let them take you from me.” Colton kissed the pulsing hollow at the base of her throat, then lifted his gaze into hers. “Before we go, there is one thing I must know. Are you sorry, Cahira O’Connor, for having wed me? I have taken you from a life of comfort and thrust you into danger and exile. I do not even know where we shall eat our next meal.”

  With careful deliberateness she placed her hands against the sides of his head and bent until their faces were but a breath apart. “I am not sorry for one moment I have spent with you, Colton. And if, God forbid, we should die before dark, I would know that I have found more love in the space of one glorious day than some folks discover in a lifetime.”

  Murchadh’s heart was squeezed so tight he could barely draw breath to speak, but he forced the dreaded words out: “Sorcha, we know Cahira has left the rath. Tell us where she is.”

  The maid stood in the center of the women’s chamber, her arms wrapped about herself. An aura of melancholy radiated from the girl’s pale features, and her soft brown eyes flickered with pain and despair. Yet she did not speak.

  “Sorcha!” Felim’s voice held a note halfway between disbelief and pleading. “You are her maid—you are entrusted with her safety. Tell me why my daughter did not sleep in her bed last night!”

  The maid flinched at the question, yet she only lowered her eyes in response, seeming to study the wooden floor. Una extended her hand toward her husband, warning him against pushing the girl too hard, then she stood from her chair and took a step toward Sorcha.

  “We know you are loyal to our Cahira,” she whispered, her own voice emerging as a despair-crusted croak, rusty with swallowed frustration. “And I am not forgetting she is a stubborn lass. She has gone somewhere and told you not to tell us, I know it as surely as I know the sun will set tonight.”

  The girl’s thin shoulders began to tremble; her head dipped in a barely perceptible nod.

  “But Cahira does not know the depth of her risk, dear Sorcha. Her head is too full of daydreams and fancy to know about the dangers of matters between lords and kings. And if she is caught up in some mischief where she might be ill-used by the Normans, I fear for her.”

  The girl’s jaw trembled in a dry, choked spasm, but she neither wept nor spoke.

  “Enough!” His patience at an end, Felim slammed his fist against the wall, then nodded at Murchadh, who stood at his side. “Fetch a whip from the stable. If the girl will not speak, I’ll beat the truth from her.”

  Murchadh’s thoughts roiled with disbelief. “Felim, you cannot mean to do this. The girl is only obeying her mistress.”

  “The girl forgets she must obey her king!”

  “But you cannot be thinking of beating her like a common animal! She’s a faithful servant, trusted by your own daughter—”

  “By heaven, Murchadh, if you persist in this folly you shall administer the whipping yourself!”

  “No!” Sorcha’s eyes welled with hurt, her tears spilling over cheeks as pale as parchment. “Don’t force him to hurt me. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Then tell us where Cahira is.” Una walked forward and drew the sobbing girl into her arms, pulling the maid’s heavy hair from her eyes as she soothed her. “Speak, Sorcha, and no harm will come to you.”

  Sorcha wept aloud, rocking back and forth in Una’s arms, then she lifted her head and peered woefully at Murchadh through tear-clogged lashes. He gazed at her, despairing, until she began to speak. “She has gone to marry the Norman knight. She is in love with him and cannot be dissuaded.”

  “Impossible!” Felim roared. “No Irish priest would marry her without my consent.”

  The maid shook her head, her eyes large and fierce with pain. “The knight…was going to abduct Lorcan. Cahira was certain the brehon would agree to marry them.”

  Utter stillness reigned in the chamber; even the hooting of the wind seemed to hush in a conspiracy of silence. Murchadh closed his eyes, feeling as though the room swirled around him as he absorbed the terrible news.

  “Murchadh! Felim!” The sound of pounding footsteps and Rian’s voice broke the tension, then the young man stalked into the chamber, his face contorted in a fearful grimace.

  Felim waved the young man away. “This is not a good time for bad news, Rian. We have just heard more than we can bear.”

  Rian lifted his chin, boldly met his king’s gaze, and spoke in a trembling voice. “This cannot wait. Peadar stands in the courtyard with news—Lorcan has been most foully murdered by a Norman knight!”

  A wave of grayness passed over Murchadh, a kind of dark premonition. Cahira had gone to marry a knight—a knig
ht who was going to abduct the brehon—and Lorcan had been murdered? How could this be? The imp was not particularly known for good sense, but Murchadh would have sworn that Colton was a man of honor.

  Felim’s brows drew together in an agonized expression, then he fixed a grim look to his face. When he spoke, his voice simmered with barely checked fury. “Murchadh, call for my men. Prepare the horses. We will ride at once.”

  Murchadh stiffened at something he heard in the king’s voice, something sharp and cold, like words torn by the blade of a dagger.

  Una heard it, too. “Felim, remember! She is our daughter!”

  “I shall not be forgetting that, woman!”

  Sorcha broke into fresh sobs as Felim stormed out of the chamber, and Una automatically drew the girl into her arms again. “Whist, now, stop your crying,” she murmured, stroking the maid’s back. She lifted her gaze and met Murchadh’s. “How could I have so misread my own daughter? Is it possible that the light in her eye of late sprang from love for a cursed Norman?”

  “She begged me not to tell—she made me swear I wouldn’t tell,” Sorcha babbled, wailing in the reckless abandon of the newly confessed. “But she loves this man, and she said she would marry him no matter what anyone said or did to stop her.”

  “God, grant me wisdom,” Murchadh prayed, moving out the doorway. “Help us bring Cahira home.”

  Oswald swung out of his saddle, then stumped toward the thatched-roof building that Philip dared to call “the great hall.” Compared to the magnificent stone castles of Normandy and England, the building was neither great nor a proper hall, but Richard seemed content to headquarter there. Oswald could not wait until they could leave this mud hut and take possession of the land. Then they’d show these backward Irish what a proper castle should look like.

  The guards at the door, a pair of Irish lads who looked pitifully underdressed in their short tunics, sandals, and cloaks, nodded grimly as Oswald approached. The Gaels had observed the knights for nearly two months, yet they did little to imitate them. The guards still kept watch with simple spears and axes at hand; the horsemen still rode bareback on steeds as slender and delicate as porcelain china.