Colton felt himself shrivel at her confident expression. “Richard saw to it that I could never help your father. I cannot lift a sword; I cannot even manage a catapult.”
“He cares nothing for those things.” Turning his head, Cahira buried her hands in his thick hair and gazed up at him. “Don’t you understand, you dote? ’Tis your spirit he values, and your knowledge. And you are strong, Colton, stronger than the men who come with Richard, because you will be fighting for the land and the people you love. You will stir our warriors to defend themselves. You will teach us the secrets of Norman warfare. And if God is good, we shall defend ourselves honorably.”
Colton closed his eyes, seeing a mental image of his life spread out in a line, its humble beginning in Normandy, and its end on a green field somewhere in Connacht. He would breathe his last with the men of Éireann, these brave, friendly, free souls who would rather die than work their own soil for a foreign master.
His mind kept turning to a song he’d heard Murchadh singing at dinner:
If all my days were happy, could I say
In Éireann fair God wipes all tears away?
My tears, my pain, my loneliness,
E’en my death may be God’s way to bless.
He would die, as all men did, but his life might not be meaningless. He would leave behind a child, a blend of Ireland’s bravery and Normandy’s pride. He would leave a wealth of memories with Cahira, who would guard them with her life and her own considerable courage.
He lowered his head, then pressed his left hand to the burgeoning weight that swelled beneath the fabric of her gown. “Be sure the child survives,” he said, knowing she understood completely. “No matter what happens, you and the child must be safely away from the trouble.”
“Nothing will happen,” she whispered, pulling his head down to her shoulder. She held him there like a mother comforting a child, and both of them knew she lied.
The bitter cold of February sharpened in the windy days of March, then melted into April’s rains and gilded sunsets. As Colton struggled to train the warriors of Rathcroghan in the techniques of war, he kept one eye on the southwestern horizon, watching for any sign of smoke or the dust of an approaching army. But his eye saw only emerald ribbons of foliage and the bright patchwork of ripening fields.
He wasn’t sure which was most exasperating—waiting on Richard, waiting on the coming child, or waiting for his Irish warriors to settle down and get serious about the art of war. The men of Rathcroghan preferred the Irish battle-ax to the heavy broadsword, despite Colton’s contention that a man could be run through with a sword while he stopped to lift and lower an ax. On the pretext of strengthening his left hand and arm, Colton engaged Murchadh and several of the others in mock duels, but the Irish had little interest in pretend fighting. Their natural talents, Colton decided, leaned more toward dreaming, talking, and arguing than fighting, training, or plotting. A single well-scored point in a duel was reason enough for breaking into riotous celebration, and the telling of a cook’s interesting dream would find a more rapt audience than Colton’s lesson on dueling techniques.
Rumors trickled down upon Rathcroghan like the gentle rains that watered the fields nearly every morning. Dozens of men were assembling at Richard’s castle in Limerick, the traveling poets reported, some of whom spoke nothing but French. The soldiers were giants, armed with pikes and broadswords so heavy that a man needed two strong arms to lift them.
The Irish laughed at the rumors and kept an eye on their greening fields. When Colton insisted that the stories might be true, Felim asked, “So what would you have us do, lad? The cattle must be fed, and furrows plowed. Our men don’t lack for bravery, but there isn’t time enough to sit around and worry.”
As the month of June waxed and waned, Colton felt his own wariness fade. Cahira’s time was imminent, and her moods and twinges were far more fascinating than the stories swirling about the countryside. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from glancing at the southwestern sky every morning and night. If Richard were to attempt an invasion, it would be likely to come in temperate weather.
Cahira’s time of travail began on the twenty-second day of June. Sorcha, breathless and red-faced, brought the news to the men in the king’s hall, and Murchadh, Colton, and Felim instantly retreated to the chapel. The king and the burly warrior completed their heartfelt prayers and stood to depart, but Colton lingered by the altar, caught up in a desperate need to do something useful while his wife struggled in childbirth. She had borne so much for him… Though it was probably unseemly for a man, Colton quietly told God he would gladly bear the pain of childbirth for her, if such a thing were allowed.
He was still kneeling in the chapel two hours later when Murchadh entered, his face ashen. “Colton, you are needed now.” His voice wasn’t much louder than a whisper, but the effect was as great as if he had shouted in Colton’s ear.
Colton whirled. “Has something happened to Cahira?”
“No.” Fear radiated from the older man, and the somber look on the warrior’s face sent a thrill of alarm shooting through Colton’s middle. “A scout has raised the alarm. An army is approaching from Athlone.”
Colton closed his eyes as the hair on the back of his neck rose with premonition. Richard. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “How many?”
“More than we’ve ever seen. The scout says the hills are crawling with them.”
Colton silently held up his hand, then turned again to the altar. God, this is the time, he prayed, lifting his eyes to the cross mounted on the wall. You have brought me to this place and saved me for this day. You have given me a wife and a child and a people…and I return them all to you. Do with us—do with me—as you will.
Rising to his feet, he silently followed Murchadh from the chapel.
Through a veil of weariness and pain, Cahira saw Colton leaning over her bed. “What are you doing here?” Despite her exhaustion, a smile crept to her face. “Come to look at your son, have you now?”
“I’ve seen him. He’s beautiful.” Colton sank to the edge of the bed and reached for her hand, then gripped it tightly in his own. “We have to talk, my love.”
Cahira grimaced as she turned and shifted her weight. Portions of her skin burned and her muscles ached, but the pain was nothing compared to the joy of enfolding her son in her arms.
Aedh. Named for another king of Connacht.
“Can we talk later?” Her lids slipped down over her eyes. “I’m tired. I don’t know what you’re knowing about childbirth, Colton, but ’tis no easy thing I’ve done here today.”
“Cahira.” Colton clung to her hand. “You must take the baby away at once.”
His voice was a bolt of energy, conveying a force of will that demanded her response. She opened her eyes and stared at her husband, stunned…and yet not surprised. He had said all along that Richard would come again when the weather improved.
She lifted her head to give emphasis to her words. “I haven’t the strength. The birth was more difficult than I expected.”
“You can rest later, Cahira, after you’re safely away. Swear to me that you’ll take the baby and go, right now. Richard is coming.”
Cahira leaned back and read her destiny in his somber eyes. The time had come to fight, just as Colton had predicted, and all of her dreams vanished in the light of the looming battle. What did her dreams matter when her people’s fate hung in the balance?
The next few hours would decide the future of Connacht. Since Colton had been right about Richard’s return, he would most likely be right about the outcome of the battle as well. Richard would not have returned without an invincible army.
“What will happen when he comes?” Her voice faded as she considered the inevitable. “Will he have my parents killed?”
For a moment Colton studied her intently, then his vivid brown eyes filled with a distant stillness. “He will doubtless burn this place and anyone in it, for it is the king’s house and a symbol of
the past,” he said, his voice flat. “But after his victory, Richard will only destroy those who threaten him. If your father survives the battle, ’tis likely Richard will let him live, if only to curry favor with the people.” His mouth curved in a mirthless smile. “Richard will need the people to till the land and care for his cattle.”
Cahira nodded, digesting this answer, then forced another, more crucial question across her lips. “Will he see our son as a threat?”
Colton bent over her, his hand smoothing her hair. “If your father takes a vow of fealty, ’tis almost certain his heirs will swear allegiance to Richard as well.” His voice was rough, torn by despair and longing. “The boy will be safe, Cahira—as long as he and your father survive this day.”
“Then I swear the child will live.” Cahira grasped his hand and gazed steadily into his eyes. “You have my oath on it.”
He pressed his lips to her damp forehead, then rested his cheek against hers. “Good-bye, my love.” His voice, like her nerves, was in shreds. “Remember this—as life is eternal, love is immortal. Death is only a horizon, and a horizon only the limit of our sight. I will see you again.”
He squeezed her hand one final time, pressed another kiss to her lips, then turned to join the battle.
Staring at the space he had just occupied, Cahira reached out with trembling fingers and traced his image in the dust motes shifting in the slanting sun’s rays. The Normans were coming, and her husband, armed only with a sword in his left hand, was determined to resist every step of their advance. They might strike him down with her father and many of her friends, but they would not harm her innocent baby.
“Sorcha!” Gathering all her strength, Cahira pushed herself up on one elbow and waited until the maid crept into the room, her eyes red-rimmed with weeping. “Take my child, swaddle him in warm blankets, and go. I want you to ride north toward the kingdom of Tir Conaill. Do not stop, and do not look back.”
Sorcha crossed herself, nodded a scared-rabbit kind of assent, and bent to pick up the baby. “One more thing,” Cahira murmured, reaching toward the child. “Take Murchadh with you. If my father objects, tell him it is for his grandson’s benefit. The two of you should go at once, and guard my son with your life. In him flows the royal O’Connor blood. If you do not reach safety, he will be the last.”
Sorcha scooped the baby into her arms, then lowered him to Cahira’s side long enough for her to press her lips to the child’s wrinkled brow. He was a beautiful boy, perfectly formed and pink, with swirls of dark hair that would one day be as thick and lustrous as Colton’s.
Cahira bit her lip, her anguish nearly overcoming her control. Why had God allowed her and this innocent one to be caught up in this inescapable tragedy? If her body were not so weak and exhausted, she’d at least feel in charge of her destiny, but there was nothing she could do here but wait for the enemy.
She swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat and trailed her fingers over the baby’s cheek. If she were a man, she’d be on the battlefield between her father and husband, fighting for Éireann and freedom. But because she was a woman, she lay here instead, weakened by pain and fatigue, bloodied by the honor of bringing a new life into the world. She reveled in the joy of it, but she could not dismiss her regrets.
“I pray God,” she whispered, resting her cupped palm against the baby’s round head, “that those who come after us will shine like the stars, yet have the courage to break free from their foreordained courses and restore right in this murderous world.”
Sorcha said nothing, but trembled so violently Cahira feared she would drop the baby.
“Go.” Cahira held her emotions in check until her maid left the room, then she fell back onto the bed and dug her fingers into her pillow, watering it with hot tears.
Two hours later, Cahira called the women of Rathcroghan into the main hall and had them bolt the entry doors. Every single man had deserted the fortress to meet the enemy en route, and Cahira knew few of them would return. But Sorcha and Murchadh had slipped safely away with their precious bundle, and that was all that mattered.
In the thick silence of the hall, her mother sat in the king’s chair, her hand trembling as she caressed the carved armrest that had supported a vast line of O’Connor kings.
“Fear not, Mother,” Cahira whispered, bracing her shoulders as she walked slowly to the center of the room. “If the Normans reach us, God will give us the courage we need.”
“Listen!” One of the maids lifted a hand, then brought it to her mouth. Cahira turned toward the high window and heard the dull rumble of hoofbeats.
They were coming. Her father’s men—and Colton—had failed to hold them.
Whirling in the open space of her father’s council chamber, Cahira extended her hands to the women gathered there. “Courage, lasses,” she cried, triumph flooding through her when the women ceased their quiet weeping and looked up. “Dry your tears, mind your courage, and remember that the grave is not our goal. Dust we are, and dust we’ll be, but no man can touch our souls.”
The hoofbeats grew louder, punctuated by the hoarse cries of men intent upon victory.
“Cahira?” She turned, and saw one of the young scullery maids standing before her. Tears stained the girl’s oval face, but she bravely lifted her arm and offered Cahira a sword.
Colton’s sword. Cahira would have recognized it anywhere.
“He gave it to me before he rode out with the others,” the girl said, her voice whispery and tinged with terror. “He told me to give it to you.”
As the sounds of horses quieted and Norman exclamations cut through the deep silence outside the hall, Cahira gripped the heavy sword by its hilt and felt the sharp stab of a memory. Would an ordinary woman dress like a man to best Lord Richard’s archers? Would an ordinary woman offer herself to stand as a human target? Would an ordinary woman slip away from her father’s fortress to go riding with one of the enemy?
Colton knew. He had heard her vow that their son would live, and he knew she would remain behind to defend her father’s house. She was, after all, a warrior’s wife and a king’s daughter. Position required commitment, and commitment demanded obedience and sacrifice.
The barred door suddenly shuddered and cracked beneath a heavy blow. The still air of the chamber shivered into bits; a maid’s scream scattered the last of Cahira’s regrets. Death was only a horizon, and she would soon see Colton again.
“I beg you, Father God,” she whispered, her heart like a drum within her chest. “Let me not be the last.”
Rousing herself from the weariness that weighed her down, she lifted the heavy sword and pointed it toward the door.
Monday night, October 18, 1999
Ballyshannon
“So what happened to Cahira’s baby?” Patrick lay stretched out on a rug before the fire while I sat next to him, my back propped against the easy chair. I had just finished reading the conclusion of Cahira’s story, and Patrick had been a good listener, interrupting only twice for a quick kiss after declaring he couldn’t bear not comforting me in the midst of such a moving tale.
I fumbled through my notes and pulled my stockinged foot away from Patrick’s restless fingers. “Cahira’s son, Aedh, grew up in his grandfather’s household. After the initial invasion of Connacht, Felim O’Connor surrendered to Richard de Burgo. Felim lost his daughter, his son-in-law, and his wife, but he managed to keep his title. Richard, after all, needed someone who knew how to keep the native Irish in line, so the O’Connors continued to rule, but as subjects of the earl. Later, though, the O’Connors rose up against the English, and one or two gave the English a royal drubbing.”
“Serves them right.”
“More than thirty-five kings issued from the O’Connor line, but the last direct heir to the kingship of Connacht took Jesuit vows in the nineteenth century, so there the line ended.” I leaned forward, planting my elbows on the carpet as I looked down into his eyes. “So what do you think of my ancestor Cahir
a?”
“I’m pure mad about her.” His hand reached out and cupped the back of my neck. “Just as I’m pure mad about you.”
Seeking another kiss, he pulled me forward, so I buried my face in his neck, breathed a kiss there, then playfully pushed him away. With Maddie and Taylor away on their honeymoon and Mr. and Mrs. O’Neil tucked away in the back of the house, it wasn’t wise for us to be by the fire, alone and in love.
He smiled at me, and the smoldering flame in his eye went far beyond the bounds of brotherly affection. “You’ve had time now, and plenty of it. What’ll it be then?” He pushed our bowl of popcorn out of the way, then rolled onto his stomach and propped himself on his elbows. His eyes glinted as he looked up at me. “You promised me an answer days ago, and I’ll be wanting to have it now. Will you marry me or won’t you?”
I deliberately let my mind run backward, thinking of a stony hilltop seven hundred years away from Ballyshannon. In an age when the risks were higher and the opposition greater, Cahira and Colton, a Gael and an outsider, had fallen in love and defied the odds, knowing they were following God’s plan for their lives. I could see God’s hand in the events that linked my life to Patrick’s too.
Colton, Cahira’s beloved outsider, had entered an Irish family in a time of peace and died in the struggle that followed. I had entered an Irish family in a time of struggle, and in the resulting peace I was learning how to live. There was a certain symmetry to the situation, a completeness that appealed to me.
“I think,” I began, looking into Patrick’s eyes, “I’ve finally discovered what it means to be an heir of Cahira O’Connor. All my forerunners—Anika, Aidan, and Flanna—had one thing in common: They embraced life, its good and bad, with every ounce of their energy. Before coming to Ireland, I wanted only to observe life, to copy it down in neat, ordered paragraphs. I think the death of my parents made me pull inside myself, to avoid loving and risking again.”
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