The Emerald Isle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  If Connacht was to be won, Richard had decided, it would not be by diplomacy, but by the sword. But though they had a sizable company in Athlone, twenty knights would not be enough to sweep Felim O’Connor from his home. That king had warriors aplenty, and those men were as broad as tree trunks and nearly as thickheaded.

  Ignoring the rough voices of the knights around him, Oswald leaned back and studied his master’s face. Anxiety had etched lines of weariness upon Richard’s wide forehead, faint marks that had not been there three months ago when they returned from the tower at the River Shannon. Colton’s supposed defection had injured Richard’s pride. If his own captain’s loyalty could be shaken by the smile of a lovely Irish wench, what would happen to the other men if Richard lingered in this fair land? With crystal clarity, Oswald saw that his master’s overweening self-assurance had at last been shaken. He would be leaving for Limerick and Castleconnell soon unless something or someone convinced him victory could be won.

  Oswald picked up his mug, knocked the last drop of ale into his mouth, then dropped it back to the table and wiped his chin. It was now or never. The opportunity would never be more ripe.

  He stood, smoothed his surcoat, and approached the master’s table. Dropping to one knee, he waited in silence until Lord Richard’s gaze fell upon him.

  In a voice cracking with exhaustion and despair, Richard spoke: “What is it, Sir Oswald?”

  Oswald lifted his gaze to his master’s. “If I might beg leave to speak with you for an instant.”

  Richard waved his hand in an absent gesture. “Speak, then. Mais en français, s’il vous plaît.”

  Oswald switched immediately to his native tongue. “If I might ask, my lord—what do you intend to do with Sir Colton?”

  Richard’s eyes flew up at him like a pair of bluebirds startled out of hiding. “What concern is it of yours?”

  “If it please you, sir, the man was a friend. I am concerned about his welfare.”

  Richard’s brows lowered. “If you must know, I have decided to kill him. We are accomplishing nothing here, and I’m thinking we should return to Castleconnell within a fortnight. ’Twould be wiser to rid myself of a disloyal knight than risk traveling with him to a province he no longer cares to defend.”

  Oswald winced with false remorse. “I beg you to spare him until we leave. I have an idea you might want to consider before sending his soul to heaven.”

  A faint line appeared between Richard’s heavy brows. “Go on.”

  Oswald rubbed his hand over his face. “It has occurred to me that Colton might yet be of use to us. After all, if the fish nibbled once, perhaps it will strike at the bait again.”

  Richard’s mouth spread into a thin-lipped smile. “Speak plainly, Oswald, before I lose my patience. I’ve had my fill of riddlers and poets. This place is altogether lousy with them.”

  Giving his master a bland half-smile, Oswald spoke in his most direct tone. “Felim O’Connor’s daughter loves your treacherous knight. If she could be persuaded to meet him, perhaps we could entice her to slip into our hands. A quirk of fate prevented you from taking her as hostage at the tower, but perhaps she might prove a hostage yet. You may still leave in a fortnight, sir, but wouldn’t it be better to leave as the acknowledged lord of Connacht?”

  Richard sat in silence, considering the idea, then a blush of pleasure showed on his face, as if the idea had caused younger blood to fill his veins. “The idea has merit, but how will we convince the girl to venture away from her father’s rath? Felim O’Connor is no fool; he is not likely to allow the woman to wander freely about the countryside.”

  “Cahira O’Connor is no ordinary young woman, my lord. You cannot have forgotten the spectacle she made of herself at the tournament. She is not afraid to defy her father. With one word in her ear, I am certain she would agree to meet Colton in some secluded place—where, of course, your lord and his men could take her into custody.”

  Offering the curious Philip a distracted nod, Richard drummed on the table and lifted his eyes to the fire shadows dancing on the ceiling. Oswald watched the Irishman, realizing that poor, ambitious Philip, who had probably hoped the Normans would increase his prosperity and standing, had received nothing for his hospitality but trouble and aggravation and the ill use of his serving maids.

  “I suppose,” Richard said, still speaking in soft French, “you could draw her out? I’ve discovered you are nothing if not inventive, Oswald.”

  “I believe I could, sir.” Oswald smiled. “If you will give me leave, I will don a plain tunic and ride to Rathcroghan without a saddle, in the manner of the Irish. The girl’s maid knows me, and so does the captain of O’Connor’s men. I know I could get a word to her.”

  Richard nodded slowly. “So be it. Ride tomorrow and arrange the meeting.”

  “There is one more consideration,” Oswald ventured, taking a calculated risk. Richard had neither spoken of nor laid eyes on Colton since they returned to Athlone. After being beaten for his insubordination, the former captain had been locked in a cattle shed, deprived of all but the most meager food and water.

  Oswald lifted a brow and met his master’s gaze. “The girl, as I said, is no ordinary young woman. She may want proof that Colton still lives.”

  Richard scratched his beard for a moment, then nodded. “Then visit the prisoner and have him write her a message. But make certain he writes nothing of his confinement…or of anything else unpleasant.”

  “I will do it, my lord.”

  Bowing his head in submission, Oswald stood, crossed the stuffy chamber, and stepped gratefully out into the cool, crisp night.

  Cahira walked slowly on leaden legs, her thoughts as heavy as the air that surrounded her. The morning’s gray promise had been fulfilled with a weeping drizzle that seemed appropriate for a joyless December afternoon. The rain fell in soft spatters that caught in her hair and lashes, blurring her sight like tears. The mown fields to her right and left, heavy now with wild ragwort, trembled in the wind, while somewhere in the distance a hawk screeched and wheeled for cover beneath the trees. She ought to be seeking cover too, but what did it matter if she took a chill and caught a fever? Colton was gone, and not a single word had come from Athlone regarding his welfare. Did he still live?

  Her father certainly behaved as if he did not. Though Cahira had spent an entire night after her return begging her father for understanding and mercy, the king of Connacht stared past her in stony silence. In a fit of grief, Cahira dropped to her knees, then fell to the floor and gripped his ankles, crying that she would not release him until he acted on her beloved’s behalf. With an effort, Felim o’ the Connors pulled himself free and proclaimed he had a funeral to arrange. Instead of sending warriors to Athlone, he dispatched runners throughout the province to summon free men and filid to mourn the brehon.

  Two days later, a band of hired mourners sat outside the gates of Rathcroghan, splitting the air with their keening. Silent and defeated, Cahira watched them through the window of her upstairs chamber and felt as if she were mourning the death of her marriage, her love, and her hope.

  Even after the great man had been buried and the guests sent away, Cahira’s father refused to hear her pleas. Bound by brehon law, he could do nothing to void her marriage, for unless she was proved a widow it must last at least a year and a day. As the days melted into weeks and weeks into months, Cahira began to believe her father planned to ignore her until the requisite interval ended. His silence and indifference built a wall between them not even Murchadh’s entreaties could breach.

  When her father refused to listen, Cahira turned to her mother, who had retreated from the family discord by delving into religious practice. She spent nearly every free minute in the chapel, her lips moving soundlessly as she recited the seven offices of the day in an endless liturgy. Limited as she was by her husband’s wishes, she could not offer her daughter comfort. “I have no answers for you, lass,” she whispered one afternoon when Cahira wep
t before her. “But I’m certain God does. Pray, Daughter, and let the peace of heaven lift this heaviness from your heart.”

  Feeling lost and alone, Cahira turned to Sorcha, but her maid seemed as intent on avoiding all mention of Colton as the rest of the family. There remained only Murchadh, and Cahira went often out to the courtyard to seek her uncle’s company. He did not speak of Colton or of the Normans, but he often placed a bow in her hand and wordlessly guided her aim. In the discipline of archery she found a way to occupy her time, and Murchadh seemed to understand that she felt closer to Colton when she worked with the weapons that had brought them together. The sewing room and the great hall were not for her. She would never see herself as a princess, but a warrior’s bride.

  When she was not practicing with Murchadh, she walked or rode down to the river. Her father had commanded Murchadh and Sorcha to accompany Cahira each time she left the rath, but they were wise enough not to intrude upon her grief. Her two guardians usually rode several paces ahead, leaving Cahira alone with her thoughts as she followed.

  Though her heart remained steadfast in hope, she began to wonder if Colton would ever keep his word and meet her at the rock on the riverbank. Day after day she searched for a note slipped beneath a stone or a message scrawled upon the broad face of the rock itself. Her heart sank each day she looked for a sign and found none. Then she would sit and pray and encourage herself with the thought that every day she passed was one fewer she would have to wait. Colton would come for her. It was only a matter of time.

  But a shadow lay across her heart today, a deep and dark cloud of grief. This morning a messenger had come to Rathcroghan and asked for her father, and within moments of his arrival the sounds of shouting and merriment poured from the hall. As the king’s men danced to the sounds of the bodhrán, flute, and fiddle, Murchadh found Cahira and pulled her into the deserted stairwell. “There’s news from Philip’s rath at Athlone,” he said, his expression withdrawn and worried. “They’re saying Richard is planning to leave for Castleconnell soon. ’Tis said he’ll be taking all his knights with him.”

  Despite the lively music coming from her father’s hall, Cahira choked on air suddenly thick with the heaviness of despair. “Do you think,” she touched Murchadh’s sleeve, “that my father will ask for Colton’s release before they go? If Richard holds him prisoner, my father could ransom him—”

  “I’m thinking you’d be more likely to ask for the moon and get it.” Pity and understanding mingled in Murchadh’s eyes. “Your father is set in his ways, and he’s set on marrying you to Rian when your time is up. I’m sorry, imp, but that’s the lay of it.”

  Cahira had gazed at Murchadh in despair, then picked up her cloak and moved slowly through the door. Oh, that she could speak with her love! She had tried to send messages to Athlone, but since Sorcha trembled at the very thought of the king’s disapproval, Cahira gave her letters to Murchadh, who had to send them with unreliable travelers occasionally spotted on the road outside Rathcroghan. Cahira doubted that any of her letters had been delivered to Colton.

  Now, as Cahira walked toward the river behind her guards, she felt as though there were invisible hands on her heart, slowly twisting the life from it. Three months ago she had been a happy bride; nothing of that happiness remained now but the raw sores of an aching heart. She knew Colton would not willingly leave Connacht without her, so he must be either in chains or dead.

  Ceaseless inward questions badgered her brain as she tried to imagine Colton’s situation. If he were free, he would have come to see her. Neither duty nor fear of his master had stopped him from coming before, so his absence could only mean that Richard had physically prevented him. And if Richard considered Colton’s disloyalty grounds for imprisonment, what prevented him from ordering Colton’s death? Cahira had already seen how little respect Richard held for life. He saw himself as lord and master of everyone under his authority, and he could have brought about Colton’s death with little more than a nod.

  If Colton was dead—Cahira tried to swallow the lump that lingered in her throat. For weeks she had been telling herself that Colton was strong and clever enough to prove his worth to his master. His tongue was quick; he would convince Richard to let him live. His arm was strong; he would fight and be victorious if allowed to duel for his life. His love was deathless; he would come to her as soon as he found a way to escape his master.

  But he would not die. God would not let him die, for her baby would need a father.

  Cahira’s hand moved automatically to her stomach, where the seed of life fluttered like a wee butterfly against the smooth underskin. She had suspected that she carried a child a few weeks after her return home, and now she was certain. She had not shared her secret with anyone. Upon hearing the news, her mother would only retreat deeper into her prayer life, and Sorcha would go pale and sway on her feet. And her father—her father did not deserve an heir as extraordinary as this child. This child would have Colton’s heart and strength, his sterling good looks and noble qualities. And if by God’s grace he possessed a wee bit of her Irish nature and her father’s leadership, one day he would make a king who might just be gifted enough to establish a true and lasting peace between the Gaels and Normans.

  She broke into a smile and lifted her chin at the thought. Though it would pain her father to admit it, the Gaels would benefit from a touch of Norman blood. The outsiders were a ruthless and stiff people, to be sure, but in many things they seemed years ahead of the people of Connacht.

  Cahira tilted her head, studying Sorcha and Murchadh. Those two rode together ahead of her, their horses covering the forest trail with slow, stately steps, their own thoughts probably a thousand miles away. If not for Cahira’s trouble, Murchadh might have found the courage to ask her father for permission to wed the maid, but of late no one had dared risk the king’s dark and dangerous mood to ask for anything.

  Cahira felt her spirit stir as she crossed the invisible boundary between her father’s fields and the primeval forest. Murchadh’s gruff voice faded in the stillness, and she lifted her eyes to the tall, straight trunks surrounding her like masts of ships long sunk in the sea. Once, when she was younger, her father had taken her to the coast of Connacht, where the tides roared in at the base of steep rocky cliffs and seagulls pinwheeled overhead. Awed by the power and frightening force of the sea, she had clung to her father’s arm as the wind sprayed her with seawater. In time, when she learned that the crashing turquoise ocean would not hurt her, the scene filled her with a profound sense of understanding. It was as if God carved out this special place just to remind man how great the Creator was.

  The forest spoke to her of the same truth. Cahira slowed her pace, allowing Murchadh and Sorcha to move further ahead. A cathedrallike stillness pervaded the woods here, and by closing her eyes she could almost imagine that she had entered the throne room of God himself. If he would only look down and see her, an earnest petitioner ready to make intercession on behalf of another soul.

  A rustling sound made Cahira’s heart leap in her chest. A colossal horse with legs like tree trunks stomped through the ferns alongside the trail. Though the man astride the beast wore a common tunic and cloak, Cahira knew instantly that the rider was no Gael.

  The stranger sat unsteadily on the animal, his eyes dark beneath his hood as he maneuvered the animal onto the trail. Cahira automatically hooked her thumb in her belt, where a small dagger lay hidden among the folds of her tunic, and her eyes darted toward the place where Sorcha and Murchadh rode, unconcerned and unaware.

  “Do not call out, Cahira.”

  The low voice seemed familiar, and she frowned as she placed the voice with a name. “Oswald?”

  He reached up and slipped the hood from his head, then gave her a dry, one-sided smile. “I thought I’d find you here. The river was your trysting place, was it not?”

  Was? His use of the past tense startled her. A thousand emotions rose in her breast—hope, fear, and anger, for
the man before her was a traitor and murderer. And yet he would have news of Colton. He had obviously come from Athlone, and in disguise.

  After a long pause, during which she fought for self-control, she demanded an answer: “Why are you here?”

  A wry smile flashed in the thicket of his beard as he pulled a parchment from his tunic. “I have a message from your beloved. Colton is well and sends you his greetings.”

  Mindless of all else, she rushed forward and sprang for the letter; she would have torn it from his hand had he not relaxed his grip. Breaking the seal, she unfolded the parchment and turned away to read the inked lines. She would not let Oswald study her face while she read her husband’s words. Since they had been so cruelly wrested apart, this was the first private moment she could share with him.

  My darling wife—

  Oswald has come and said I might write you. Though I do not understand his motives, I am happy to be able to tell you I am well. My heart longs-for your voice, my eyes grow weary with waiting for some glimpse of your lovely face, and my arms ache to hold you. Most of all, I most earnestly desire to tell you all I have been thinking about the future, and I have not grown weary of praying for the peace you and I both earnestly desire.

  Oswald urges me to hurry. He must be away before the guards resume their patrols. Dearest Cahira, know that I adore you and think of you constantly. Rest in our blessed Lord, and in my prayer for peace.

  I remain your loving husband forever, Colton

  Cahira clutched the letter to her breast as her eyes filled with tears. He was alive and well! He did not say if he was imprisoned or in want, but he seemed in good spirits.