“This is Éireann and Connacht,” Felim O’Connor answered, tossing the words across the void like stones. “And my daughter has told the story in my council, where she was completely cleared of any wrong. Your man, as you describe him, lunged for her, assaulted her, and would have abducted her—and this after learning she carries a child!”
The surge of sudden rage took Colton unaware, like a white-hot bolt of lightning through his chest and belly. Oswald had attacked Cahira? Struck her? And she was…with child?
His child. His wife, wherever she was, was carrying his son or daughter.
Biting back an oath, he pulled against the ropes binding his wrists. By heaven, he would stand idly by no longer! He had written the note that convinced her to listen to Oswald, half hoping that Richard would succeed in bringing Cahira to Athlone, for at least they would then be together. With crystal clarity he now saw that those hopes sprang from selfishness and pride; God had been right to deny them. But if God was merciful and just, he would hear Colton’s prayer now and grant him strength.
“I am sorry to hear that Oswald behaved in such an unchivalrous manner,” Richard said, his voice smooth as the wind carried it over the hills. “And of course we will accept his body and take care of the burial. And peace shall continue to overspread this land.”
“Hold, I am not finished with the matter of the dead man,” O’Connor called back. “I must know why this murderous scoundrel was outside Rathcroghan. Did he come purposely to work mischief upon my daughter? Or perhaps he sought to injure our cattle and crops again.”
Richard tilted his head and, watching from the base of the hill, Colton saw the gesture and recognized it. Richard adopted that posture when he was searching for words.
“I know nothing about cattle or crops, though a devil may work mischief wherever he chooses,” Richard finally answered. “But I suspect Oswald was in your vicinity because your daughter enticed him to come. She has done nothing but flaunt herself before my men since we arrived in Connacht.”
Colton gasped at his master’s bald lie. Sputtering with rage and indignation, he lifted one foot over his saddle and slid from his horse, his hands still tied. Until that moment, he had imagined that Richard still possessed some honor, but if he was willing to accuse Cahira of immodesty in order to disguise his own ambitious plot, there was not a speck of genuine honor in him.
Bracing himself, he quickened his pace and panted up the hill, then pushed his way through the line of mounted knights.
“Lord Richard!” he roared, aware of startled expressions all around him. “I beg you, my lord! Hear me!”
A Sabbath stillness reigned on the field, with only a snatch of bird-song to disturb it. Though the warriors on the northern side of the field were an indistinct blur, his worried eyes caught a glimpse of a bright blue garment—a lady’s gown. Cahira was there, after all. Nothing else mattered.
Richard turned slowly, the once handsome and compassionate veneer on his face peeled back to reveal the violence underneath. He regarded Colton with an expression he might have used to consider an especially repulsive insect.
“Get back!” he ordered, his low voice brimming with hate.
“No sir.” With a quick snap of his shoulders, Colton turned to face the Irish, lifting his bound hands into the air. Let them see him and know the truth. He had not deserted Cahira, nor had he sent Oswald to harm her. They might be thinking anything, but he would tell them the truth.
“Lord Richard!” Felim came forward on his horse, close enough for Colton to see the blue in the king’s eyes. “I mentioned a trade. We have returned the scoundrel’s body to you, and in return we would ask for this knight.” He glanced at Colton for any sign of objection, then returned his gaze to Richard. “I see from the man’s bonds that you no longer have any use for him. If he is dead to you, let him live with us. Under Irish law, he is my daughter’s husband.”
Richard scowled, his brows knitting together. “You would exchange a dead man for a living one? Both men are mine, sir. This is no exchange at all. ’Tis robbery and murder, pure and plain.”
Energized by anger, Colton stepped toward his master. “I must beg you, sir, to heed the king of Connacht and relieve me of my vows of fealty. In exchange for my bed and board I once swore my service to you, but the time has come for us to part. ’Tis obvious from your ill treatment of me that you no longer consider me of service.”
“This is how you would repay me?” Richard’s voice dripped with contempt as he stretched his arm toward the huddle of Irishmen. “You would prefer life with a band of barbarians to service in my garrison?”
“I once fought for you,” Colton answered, his determination like a steady rock inside him. “Many times I have picked up my sword and struck men for no other reason than your pleasure. But your pleasure of late has been to keep me chained like a dog, so today I swear I will fight for you no more! Kill me or release me, but I will not return in your company.”
The veins in Richard’s throat stood out like ropes. “You would disavow your allegiance to the king?”
“I bear King Henry no ill will. But if he and his Crown stand for deception, ruthlessness, and ambition, yes, I disavow my promise.”
Silence lay upon the line of knights like a dense and heavy fog. Colton sensed the shock and horror of his comrades, but he dared not tear his gaze from his master’s face. For an instant Richard’s eyes showed white all around, like a panicked horse, then his jaws wobbled and he gestured to Gilbert, the knight who rode at his right hand.
He shifted slightly in his saddle. “Gilbert, bring your sword.”
Colton stared, perplexed, as Gilbert slipped from his horse and unsheathed his blade. The barrel-chested knight advanced slowly and hesitated a few feet from Colton.
“Our friend knight has said we must kill him or release him,” Richard continued, looking at Colton with a smile hidden in his eyes. “And the Irish across the way have given us a corpse to take his place. So I suppose we agree to the exchange.”
“No!” A keening wail rose from the Irish crowd, lifting on the wind like the howling of an animal in pain. Colton closed his eyes at the sound, knowing Cahira had heard enough to guess Richard’s intention. The nobleman’s pride would not allow Colton to walk away; the knightly vow had been made for life. Colton’s life was what Richard would take today.
“Hold there!” A swift shadow of anger swept across the Irish king’s face, and the strength of this voice overpowered even Richard’s. “That man is my son-in-law. Do not take his life, or this peace you speak of will die today as well.”
Richard turned to face Felim, his eyes wide with pretended innocence. “Surely you do not expect me to let him depart with his hands still bound.”
Richard looked down at Gilbert, who stood in front of Colton with a melancholy frown upon his face. “Nor can I,” Richard pitched his voice to reach the two knights, and not a hair beyond, “allow you to join the Irish and lift your sword against us. Free him, Sir Gilbert, but do it by cutting off his right hand.”
Terror lodged in Colton’s throat, making it impossible for him to speak. He saw his master smile as he maneuvered his horse to stand between Colton and the Irish king, effectively blocking Felim’s view.
“You will lose your arm, and quite possibly your life,” Richard said, meeting Colton’s gaze, “unless you beg my forgiveness and forswear this foolish marriage. The choice is yours.”
Colton closed his eyes and thought of Cahira, then offered his arm to Gilbert’s blade.
Sunday, August 29, 1999
Ballyshannon
Somewhere a rooster crowed, calling me awake. I drifted out of a deep sleep in which memories of the previous day mingled with inchoate fragments of dreams. Sitting up, I ran my fingers through my tousled hair, puzzled by images of Patrick at the Shannon Pot, Cahira and Colton at Carnfree, of Lorcan the brehon’s thoughtful face as he warned the newly married couple that their path was fraught with risk.
The
risks had not lessened with the passing of time. By choosing a different path than his family and most of the people in his village, twenty-first-century Patrick would face hazards too.
What had happened yesterday? Last night I had been certain Patrick made a sincere commitment to Christ, yet I couldn’t be certain his decision would stand in the trials of the coming day. The parable of the four seeds drifted into my thoughts. Jesus told a story of a farmer scattering seeds along a path. Some seeds fell on the path itself and were gobbled up by birds; other seeds fell upon rock and couldn’t grow because they couldn’t put down roots. Other seeds fell among thorns, which choked the plants, but other seeds fell upon good soil, where they grew and yielded fruit.
To which group did Patrick belong? Thomas Smithson had planted a seed in the fertile soil of Patrick’s heart, and I had witnessed an immediate growth, but I honestly couldn’t say whether his response was based in emotion, intellect, or will. In the next few days I’d probably see whether the seed had landed on the dry rock of his considerable intellect or in the soil of his emotions. I’d pray that the seed of the gospel had taken root in a genuine commitment to Christ.
I swung my legs out of bed, stretched, and padded softly to the window. A chilly breeze had blown last night, but I lifted the window and leaned out on the window sill, breathing in the pungent scents of morning, heather, and manure.
I grinned as I heard the rumbling sound of the milking machines and the loud blare of the radio. Patrick was up early, but as I leaned out the window and looked toward the barn, I was surprised to see him in the doorway of the milking shed. He stood there, propped against the doorframe, his head bent over a book.
Bemused, I leaned back into my room. What book could be so engaging that he snatched moments from the milking to read?
I showered and dressed, then went downstairs for breakfast. “Good morning,” I told Mrs. O’ Neil, who stood at the sink. She glanced at me over her shoulder, flashed a quick smile, and went back to rinsing a stack of dishes.
I sat on the bench and helped myself to toast and eggs from the serving platter. “Are Taylor and Maddie up already?”
“They’re going to Dublin to look at flower designs,” she answered, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “’Tis stuff and nonsense, if you ask me. Simple is better when it comes to decoration. But Maddie picked up some peculiar ideas in New York. She wants the front of the church to be totally covered in flowers.”
I ran my knife along the mound of butter and kept my mouth shut. If I defended the New York notion of a properly decorated church, I might alienate Mrs. O’ Neil. But if I agreed with her, she might mention it to Maddie, who’d think I was complaining about her taste in wedding decoration. The less I said, the better off we’d all be.
My heart lifted at the sound of thumping on the back porch. I tried to appear indifferent and calm when Patrick entered the kitchen, but I couldn’t help feeling happy that he’d come in. “Morning, Kathleen.”
I tingled as he said my name. Good grief, I’d have to be careful, or soon I’d be hanging on his every word like young Erin Kelly.
“Good morning yourself,” I answered lightly, transferring my gaze to my toast. “You’re up early.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” He came forward with a book in his hand and dropped it on the table. As he sat across from me, I glanced at the leather-bound volume and widened my eyes: The Holy Bible.
He grinned at my reaction. “I’ve been reading half the night and in every minute I could find this morning.” He folded his hands, ignoring the empty plate and the tray of food in front of him. “I thought I’d start reading at the beginning and make my way forward, but I didn’t get far. Already I have questions.”
“About Genesis?” I frowned, trying to figure out what might have given him trouble— creation versus evolution, the creation of man, or Adam’s incredibly long life span. I tended to think of Genesis as fairly straightforward, but Patrick wasn’t a typical reader. He possessed a questioning intellect, and there were a number of tough questions in the first chapter of Genesis alone.
He opened the Bible and turned a few pages. “I understand about Creation. We learned about that in catechism. But the thing that gives me pause is here, in Genesis chapter two.”
“What’s that you’re reading?” Unable to control her curiosity any longer, Mrs. O’ Neil peered over at us. “The Bible? What’s got into you, Paddy?”
“Curiosity, Mum.” He kept his eyes fixed upon me as he answered. “And reality. Consider this— in the Bible God said, ‘It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.’ So God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and while he slept, God took one of his ribs and closed up the flesh. And from the rib, which God took from Adam, God made a woman and brought her to the man.” He paused and looked at me expectantly.
“So?” I lifted a brow. “If you can accept the creation of the world from nothing, why can’t you accept woman’s creation from Adam’s rib?”
“ ‘Tis not the creation that gives me pause—’ tis the reason she was created. Was woman meant only to be a helper for the man?”
Mrs. O’ Neil laughed. “And what else would you have us be?” Vigorously wiping a wet dish, she turned to face her son. “’Tis what we are, helpers. I’ve been helping your father since the day we married, and I expect I’ll be helping him— “She turned the catch in her voice into a cough, then shook her head. “Well, ’tis a woman’s lot in life, the helping. If God decreed it, it must be so.” Her face closed in a forbidding expression. “And you’d better not let your father hear you questioning God’s holy Word. Accept it for what it is, and don’t ask questions.”
Patrick gave his mother a quick, denying glance. “I don’t think God is afraid of my questions, Mum.”
“That’s right,” I added, hoping she would understand that for Patrick, this was no small step. “The Bible says we can come boldly before the throne of grace. And the Lord promises to give wisdom to anyone who asks.”
“Right so.” Patrick leaned over the table, his eyes burning into mine. “Keeping that in mind, yesterday you told me about women who left the traditional roles of womanhood, and God blessed their efforts. Anika took up a sword, and Aidan a paintbrush, and Flanna entered war itself. They were far more than mere helpers, Kathleen. I just can’t believe God would create something so lovely and competent”— his eyes clung to mine, analyzing my reaction— “and intend women only for helping.”
His gaze was so compelling I didn’t think I’d be able to answer. “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I managed to whisper, “but I was thinking about going back to the library at Terryglass soon. I could ask Mrs. Sullivan to help me look for a Hebrew dictionary and a copy of the Pentateuch. We may be able to find the answers there.”
Patrick slapped the table in satisfaction. “Marvelous idea. I’ll go with you. The library will be closed today, being a Sunday, but we’ll go tomorrow.”
The corner of my mouth twisted in a half-smile as I stood. Obviously, Patrick wasn’t one of the seeds gobbled up by wild birds. He had already begun to put down some serious roots. The trouble was, God seemed to expect me to be the gardener. I didn’t see myself as mentor material.
“You’re not going to make it easy for me, are you?” I asked.
“I just want to understand. Curiosity, you know.” Patrick grinned at me, then sniffed appreciatively at the sausage and rashers on the breakfast tray. “Smells great, Mum. I’m starving.”
I left them alone in the kitchen and went outside to work on a less taxing project.
The house was quiet the next morning when I came downstairs to meet Patrick. I knew he was waiting outside in the yard; I’d seen him from my bedroom window. Maddie and Taylor had stayed overnight in Dublin with one of Maddie’s old school chums, and the house would be nice and peaceful today so Mr. O’ Neil could rest.
I tiptoed through the foyer, drawn by the memory of a pretty bowl of fruit on the k
itchen counter. Mrs. O’ Neil kept the bowl well stocked, so I thought I might grab a couple of apples in case Patrick and I got hungry on the drive to Terryglass. I paused at the swinging door, though, when I heard the sound of hushed voices in the kitchen.
“Maddie is the key, you mark my words.” The words were low and intense, but there was no mistaking Mrs. O’ Neil’s voice. “She’ll convince him to stay. If he truly loves her, he will.”
I backed away, mortified by the realization that I’d been eavesdropping. Apparently Patrick and I were not supposed to hear this conversation, but what did it mean? Maddie was the key to what? And who were they wanting to stay? Taylor or Patrick?
I reached the stairs, then turned and opened the front door, calling a loud and cheerful good-bye before I stepped out into the yard. Patrick looked up, and if I were a vain woman, I’d say his face lit up as I approached. Maybe the morning sun was playing tricks on me. Or— I was trying to be realistic— maybe he was just grateful I was finally ready to go.
We enjoyed the drive to Terryglass, and I was glad to see that Patrick seemed to genuinely relax in my company. Whatever pressures he felt at home did not follow him today, and he passed the time telling me funny stories about his flatmates in Limerick. I was pleased to note none of the flatmates had feminine names, so the rumors of Patrick’s availability appeared to be true.
Mrs. Sullivan looked up from the reference desk and smiled when Patrick and I entered the library. “So you’re back,” she said, her smile broadening when she saw that I was returning several of the books she had loaned me. “Were they at all helpful?”
“They were wonderful, thank you.” I slid the books over the desk, then nodded at Patrick. “Mrs. Sullivan, I’d like you to meet Patrick O’ Neil. He has a question about a Scripture verse in Genesis, and we thought we might check the original Hebrew to clear up any confusion about the translation.”
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