The Emerald Isle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “Is he truly well?” she asked, not turning around. “Has he suffered on my account?”

  “No more than you have suffered on his.” Oswald’s voice softened. “Turn, lady, and let me tell you what he did not dare write in a letter.”

  Cahira whirled, hope setting her suspicions and fears to flight.

  “My friend Colton,” Oswald said, nearly disarming her with his smile, “wishes to see you. He is watched most carefully, of course, but of late his guards have begun to relax. He does not dare leave Athlone in daylight hours, but wants to slip away after dark and meet you at some convenient place.”

  Cahira’s heart raced. “We have heard that Richard is leaving soon.”

  Oswald tilted his head, acknowledging her statement. “’Tis true. So if you want to claim your husband, you must agree to meet him in a private place. The riverbank is not safe, for it lies too close to your father’s fortress. Carnfree would be better. The landscape on that hilltop is bare, so once the sun rises, any intruders would be visible as they approached.”

  Cahira let her eyes drift from the knight’s face as she considered his news. Colton had promised to meet her by the river if he escaped. This perilous plan did not sound like anything Colton would suggest.

  She looked at the disguised knight, her joy deteriorating into suspicion. This Oswald had betrayed Colton and murdered Lorcan. Though he came bearing an honest letter from Colton, he had already shown himself fonder of treachery than of friendship. It was likely that he wanted to snare her in a trap, for Colton himself had warned her that Richard would like nothing better than to have the king’s daughter for a hostage. Carnfree was secluded and convenient to Athlone, so if she went there alone, no one would hear her screams or see her abduction. And any number of men might be hiding in the little huts when she arrived.

  She closed her eyes and bit back a scream of frustration. She wanted to go. She would have gone in a heartbeat if Colton had truly asked, but she could not risk herself because doing so meant risking her father and his men! Oh, that her father were not a king!

  She returned her gaze to the knight’s face. “When shall I meet Colton at Carnfree?”

  “On the morrow, after sunset.” His brows lifted. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you to come alone. Bring your maid if you must, but no guards.”

  Cahira folded the parchment and slipped it beneath the sleeveless tunic she wore over her gown, daring to hope that Oswald spoke truly. How Colton would rejoice when she told him her secret! News of the coming child would seal their marriage and signal God’s blessing.

  “I will come.” Determined to test his story, she tucked one hand into her belt and studied Oswald’s dark face. “But tomorrow will not be possible—and I must bring a guard. My father does not allow me to venture away from Rathcroghan without Murchadh.”

  “Impossible! Colton will not remain if he sees a warrior approaching.”

  “Colton has nothing to fear from Murchadh.”

  The knight’s expression clouded in anger. “Your men were ready enough to kill him three months ago.”

  “Those were my father’s men. Murchadh would not dare harm the father of the king’s grandson.”

  Oswald’s expression didn’t change for a moment, then her words fell into place. “Colton sired a son in one night?” He slipped from his horse, his face twisting in an expression of remarkable malignity. “Or can it be that you are lying?”

  She met his accusing eyes without flinching. “I’m not lying.”

  “Then perhaps,” he came closer, “the child you carry is not Colton’s at all. Perhaps you married him only to disguise your dalliance with some Irish peasant. Did you wed Colton only to cover the birth of your—what is the Gaelic word?—your fatherless diolain?”

  Cahira stood her ground, unwilling to cower before the arrogant lout who came steadily closer. “My child was conceived in love and in honor,” she said, fury almost choking her. “Though I am not surprised that you are familiar with the Gaelic word for a fatherless child. How many poor girls have you ruined during your stay in Athlone?”

  His hand caught her arm and held it tightly. “Enough,” he whispered in her ear, his stench filling her nostrils. “Enough to know there’s not an Irish wench alive worth dying for. And Colton will die, my fair Cahira. Whether you come with me now or surrender at Carnfree on the morrow, Colton will die unless you present yourself to Lord Richard. Your husband is disgraced, useless in the eyes of our lord. His only worth is as bait to lure a king’s daughter.”

  Struggling in his grasp, Cahira found the knight stronger than she had supposed. She drew a deep breath to scream, but his free hand clapped over her mouth, holding her tight against his chest. “Your hairy giant is too far away to hear,” he hissed. “How clever of you to walk so far behind! Cahira, my little rebellious princess, your obstinacy will get you into trouble if you do not yield!”

  Urgency set Cahira’s blood afire. Her hand flew to her belt, where she pulled out the little dagger and held it in the folds of her tunic. It was a small blade, more useful for whittling or cutting string than for defense, but Murchadh had taught her how to use it to maximum effect.

  “Be still!” Oswald murmured, dragging her toward his horse. “’Twould have been easier if you had agreed to meet me, but I shall take you to Athlone nonetheless. If you truly are with child, for your own sake, be still!”

  She relaxed for a moment, hoping he would believe she had acquiesced. In the instant she went limp in his arms, he turned his head and glanced over the horse’s back. As he turned, Cahira tightened her grip around the little blade, then swung it in an upward arc, aiming directly for the fiend’s eye.

  The blade struck home. Oswald bellowed in a roar of pain and released her. Cahira stumbled from his grasp as blood poured over his cheek and hands, painting his face in a crimson devil’s mask. For a long moment he stood there, his hands pressed to his eye, his fingers curling in a paroxysm of pain, then he staggered toward her, hate burning like a torch in his remaining eye.

  “I’ll kill you, witch!”

  She turned to run, but hadn’t gone more than five feet when his bloody hands gripped her shoulders. Before she had time to think, he turned her and swung his fist, the blow slamming a shaft of pure white pain through her head. The air smelled of male sweat and fury, the road vibrated with his inhuman roar, then she folded gently at the knees and crumpled, her eyes wide and unfocused.

  When the world cleared again, Cahira lay with her head in Sorcha’s soft lap. Murchadh stood before her, his eyes shiny with concern and kindness.

  “He’s dead, lass,” he said, shrugging. “He’ll not be bothering you again. But we’ll have to take his body to your father and explain all this.”

  “He brought me news of Colton,” she whispered weakly, her head throbbing where his fist had connected with her temple. “But I am certain ’twas only a trap. Colton is not so crazy in love that he would risk our lives.”

  “And you’re a clever girl, haven’t I always said so?” Murchadh stood, exposing the sight of Oswald’s body draped across his own gigantic horse, the ground dark and damp where his blood had spilled.

  At the sight of the dead knight, Cahira’s tears began to flow again.

  “You’re not crying for that foul brute, are you now?” Sorcha frowned, her eyes dark. “The world’s better off without the likes of him in it.”

  Cahira shook her head, unable to explain that she wept not for the loss of an enemy, but for the loss of hope. She would never see Colton again. And if Oswald meant it when he said Colton was useless except as bait for her, her husband was doomed.

  Fiery light licked at the plastered walls as Cahira stood in the midst of her father’s councilors. Murchadh and Sorcha had already given their reports of what happened on the trail, but the king of Connacht had not yet called for his daughter’s testimony. Finally, he looked at her, his handsome face reserved, his eyes wary.

  Cahira stood, her legs feelin
g as insubstantial as air, then slowly began to tell her story. She started from the beginning, on the day she decided to enter the tournament at Athlone to show the Normans that the Gaels would not be easily conquered. She restrained her pride when she spoke of Colton’s honor and courage. “This vile knight,” she pointed to Oswald’s body, which lay stretched out in the center of the hall, “killed Lorcan the brehon. Colton was with me the entire night, for we had just been wed. Ask Peadar, and he’ll confirm the truth of it. My husband is a noble and virtuous man, and though for him I would have slipped away to meet the Normans at Carnfree, yet I could not. I will be loyal to Connacht’s king, though Connacht’s king would disown me if he could.”

  A silence settled upon the room, an absence of sound that filled the room like smoke from green wood. Cahira walked through that silence, pushing her way through the strangely thickened air, and sank to her chair as her father stood.

  “Daughter.” Her father looked at her with unguarded tenderness in his eyes. “You would have broken my heart had you gone to Carnfree—and you would have doomed our kingdom. I am glad that you have come to your senses about this Norman.”

  Cahira shook her head. “’Twas not only regard for your kingdom that kept me from agreeing to go to Carnfree. I refused because I knew Colton himself would not have approved. If my husband wanted me to be Richard’s pawn, he would have taken me to Athlone as soon as we were bound in matrimony. But Colton knew his master’s plans, so we went instead to Meath. We did all, Father, in the hope that our two peoples could dwell together in peace, safety, and affection.” She held up her hand and lowered her gaze to the silver band that encircled her finger. “Love, loyalty, and friendship—that was our dream for Connacht.”

  Her father looked down, his long lashes hiding his eyes, and hesitated for a moment. “Perhaps I have misjudged your husband,” he said, his voice dull and troubled. “There is honor in him, but still he is a Norman, and his master is set on returning to Limerick. When the required year and a day have passed, you will be well rid of him.”

  “No.” Cahira’s gaze shifted from her father to her mother. “I will not be rid of my husband, for I carry his child within me. In six months, Colton’s child will be born in this house, and if the child is a boy, he will be part of our rigdamnae and eligible to be king. I will not leave my son fatherless.”

  The councilors gasped in surprised horror; even Murchadh blinked in amazement. The thin line of the king’s mouth clamped tight for a moment, and his thick throat bobbled as he swallowed. Without speaking, he turned to his wife and reached for her hand.

  Cahira’s mother stepped forward, her free hand at her pale throat. “Daughter,” a sudden spasm of grief knit her brows, “are you quite certain? It has been a stressful time—”

  “I am certain.” Cahira’s hand flattened across her belly as her lips curved in a smile. “A child will be born in summer, and Colton will be his father.”

  Her father sighed heavily, sank back into his seat, and gripped the armrest of his chair. “Cahira,” he commanded, his eyes meeting hers, “take your mother and your maid, and wait upstairs while I speak to my men. We will decide what we must do.”

  Cahira nodded and rose from her chair, then joined Sorcha and her mother at the doorway. Perhaps, she thought as she stepped into the chilly air of the entry, Colton and I can accomplish through separation what we could not accomplish through unity.

  An hour later, Murchadh entered the chamber, ready to convey her father’s decision. “The king has decided to ride to Athlone with the villain’s body,” he said, swiping his hand through his tangled hair. “When confronted with the proof of the incident, we pray Richard will stop his plotting and return to Limerick. We will do all we can to prove ourselves honorable, calm, and willing to work with the agents of his majesty King Henry. ’Tis the only way we can remain faithful allies and keep our land of Connacht.”

  “And Colton?”

  A broad smile lifted the warrior’s lined cheeks. “Your father the king is marshaling the largest force we can gather so that his request for your Colton will carry a reasonable amount of weight. He’s not certain what he’ll do with a knight, providing Richard is willing to part with him, but perhaps he can teach us a thing or two about Normans.”

  A cry of relief broke from Cahira’s lips. Weeping with gratitude and joy, she fell into Murchadh’s awkward embrace and scarcely heard his embarrassed words of comfort.

  The next morning, messengers left Rathcroghan just after sunrise, and a return message set the time and place for the meeting: On the morrow, Monday, at midday of the first day of the new year, Lord Richard de Burgo would meet Felim, king o’ the Connors, on the road between Athlone and Rathcroghan. “My intentions,” Richard had scrawled at the bottom of the page, “are entirely honorable. We will not come to fight, but to parlay a peace.”

  “I’ll believe Richard is sincerely interested in peace when I see him coming with a bigger army than ours and a flag of truce,” Murchadh grumbled.

  The next day Murchadh met Cahira at the barn and helped her mount her horse. Though her father objected, she insisted upon riding with the king’s party. She didn’t know if Colton would be riding with Richard’s men, but if he was, she had to look on his face. Richard might object to releasing Colton, but she could wait patiently for the issue to be settled as long as she knew Colton was well.

  A cold, drizzling rain began to fall as they left Rathcroghan, and Cahira drew her cloak closer about her and rode in silence. The gray rain seemed to deepen the colors of the land around her—washing the green fields, darkening the muddy path, brightening the crimson berries on the roadside shrubs. They rode in silence for the space of half an hour, then Murchadh reined in his horse and pointed toward a rise on the path ahead. “There they are—in position for battle.” A bitter edge of cynicism steeled his voice. “Lined up and ready for the charge.”

  “They won’t charge.” Cahira scanned the line ahead for any knight who looked like Colton, but from this distance one armored man looked just like another. Though none wore visors over their faces, mail hoods covered their hair, and nearly every man wore a beard.

  “Bring the villain’s body forward,” Felim called, lifting his hand. As the Gaels spread out in another line, Murchadh rode toward the king, leading Oswald’s horse. The knight’s body, bound now in burlap, was draped over the saddle like a sack of gourds.

  Cahira turned her head as the malodorous burden passed. The traitor had been dead three days.

  Urging his horse forward in a slow walk, her father stiffened and took on a regal air. “Hear me, Richard de Burgo,” he called. “I have arranged this meeting on a mission of peace and to discuss a trade—one man for another. The man I offer you is dead, but since he is one of yours, I am returning the scoundrel’s body instead of exacting vengeance for his assault upon a king’s daughter.”

  Richard straightened in the saddle as the horse and its loathsome burden approached. Murchadh stopped just beyond the line of Gaelic warriors, then turned and flicked a whip at the dead man’s mount. The animal jolted forward, then slowed and whinnied in the empty space between the two lines.

  Richard jerked his hand toward a pair of knights, who rode forward and caught the beast. While one man held its bridle, the other dismounted and cut the strings around the shroud. He peered for an instant at the dead man, then turned away, his face contorted in a grimace of revulsion.

  “My lord,” he called in a strangled voice, “’tis Oswald, and no doubt. His eyeball is pierced, and his throat’s been cut.”

  Richard received this news in silence, then gestured for the men to bring the horse forward. When the animal and its dread baggage had passed behind the line and below the slope of the hillside, the nobleman rested both hands on the broad curve of his saddle.

  “How do I know you did not murder this man without cause?” Richard called, his voice courteous but patronizing. “I can think of no reason Oswald would assault your daugh
ter. I have only your word to account for the matter.”

  “You have my daughter’s word as well,” Felim answered in a rough voice. Cahira’s heart stirred with pride as she stole a sidelong look at her father. His long face and glaring eyes, which could intimidate most men even from a good distance, filled now with beaten sadness. “I trust my daughter, Richard, above any man in Connacht. She would not lie to me. And she would not put her dagger into a man’s eye without good cause.”

  An audible murmur rose from the long line of knights, and Cahira felt grim satisfaction in the sound of it. Did Norman women not know how to defend themselves? She’d strike the same way, and more forcefully, if any conniving traitor ever attacked her again.

  From beneath the hillside, tucked out of sight, Colton heard Felim’s defense and the murmur that followed. He wasn’t certain why Richard decided to bring him along for this meeting with the king of Connacht, but he was glad to be free of the miserable hut where he had been confined. And though his arms were still bound, signifying that Richard did not yet fully trust him, his heart rejoiced to know Cahira’s father had finally proved willing to meet with Richard. God had certainly worked in an unexpected way, and the peace he and Cahira had dreamed of might be within reach today. Both leaders had spoken of peace, and both seemed willing to avoid conflict.

  Despite these auspicious signs, the voice of uncertainty still nagged at him. He had not heard from Cahira in more than three months, and he suspected Oswald had not delivered his hasty letter of three days before. Most troubling was Felim’s assertion that Cahira had wounded Oswald.

  Richard’s thoughts seemed to wander in the same direction. “Before I can accept the word of an Irishwoman,” the baron was saying now, his voice crisp and clear in the chilly air, “I must know why your daughter struck my man. Was she seized in a fit of temper? Did she toss the blade and accidentally stick Sir Oswald? If this were Normandy or England, we would convene a court to hear this case and come to a clear understanding of the matter.”