The Emerald Isle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  She returned his smile in full measure. “You know the devil himself can’t stop me from doing the thing I’ve made up me mind to do.”

  “Well, naturally,” Murchadh answered, leaving the two girls at the gate. He turned and winked at Sorcha as he walked toward the stables, then pointed a stubby index finger at Cahira. “Take care of your part, and trust me to speak to your father tonight.”

  Astray sunbeam shot through the oilskin-covered window and touched Cahira’s eyelid, bringing her as wide awake as if Sorcha had just screamed in her ear. She sat bolt upright in her bed and looked around the chamber, trying to see what had needled her awake.

  The room was chilly in the weepy gray light, and all the other sleepers—Sorcha, the kitchen maids, and Brigit, her mother’s maid—lay curled up like cats beneath their covers. The window glowed softly with the advent of morning, and through a pinhole crack a single sunbeam shone bright enough to make Cahira squint when her eyes met it.

  The sound of hooves on the gravel outside snapped her back to reality. The tournament! At this moment Murchadh was probably preparing their horses, and soon they would be on their way to Athlone.

  She swung her legs off her low bed, then pulled her blanket around her shoulders. Taking advantage of the silence, she padded to the trunk in the corner of the room and opened it. She cringed when the heavy wooden lid thudded against the wall, but none of the others stirred.

  Cahira knelt and quickly rummaged through the stacks of clothing—gowns, aprons, workday caps, and sleeves. Finally, at the bottom of the trunk she found some castoff garments her father had worn before the dignity of kingship required him to dress in finer tunics. She picked up one léine, a traditional linen tunic, and fitted it against her shoulders. The shapeless blue garment fell to her knees, the perfect length for a young Irish archer.

  She dropped the tunic to the floor, then pulled out garters, a pair of woolen hose, and a woven belt. Sitting back on her heels, she mentally ticked off the garments she would need. All she lacked was headgear, and she absolutely had to cover her head. Not many Irishmen, not even the roughest, wore their hair in a waist-length braid.

  Seeking a cap large enough to cover a coiled braid, she riffled through the trunk again, then flattened herself on the floor to peek under the sleeping girls’ beds. A gray mouse stared at her with bright eyes, then turned and darted through a hole in the wall. Cahira made a face and sat up. She’d have to take one of the stable boys’ caps when she went to the barn. This room had nothing to offer but dainty woolen hats and wimples.

  She rolled the garments into a ball, laid it on the bed, and reached for the gown she had worn the day before. The dress was still damp from the river and smelled slightly sour, but it certainly would not get any cleaner on the journey to Athlone. The laundress could have it after they had returned from the day’s business.

  She slipped the gown over her chemise, then took a quick glance in the looking glass. Her face seemed narrow and pale in the gray light, and again she wondered why her father often praised her beauty. His compliments probably sprang from his increasingly urgent desire to find her a husband.

  She stood in the corner of the room and picked up a brush. With one hand holding the looking glass, she ran the bristles over the crown of her head, just enough to smooth the flame-colored frizz that haloed her face. Murchadh had never called her beautiful, for he always spoke the truth. And in truth, the face that stared back at her now was an imp’s face. Cahira’s mother had tried to impress the marks of education and gentility upon her daughter, but the mask of refinement rarely concealed the sprite who had never asked to be a king’s daughter.

  Sighing, she laid the mirror on the table and glanced at Sorcha’s sleeping figure. While her fingers automatically subdivided the heavy mass of her hair, she reviewed the plan she and Sorcha had devised during the night. The girls would attend prayers at her mother’s knee as they did every morning, then they would hie themselves out to the stable to meet Murchadh.

  Before going upstairs to bed last night, she caught Murchadh’s eye and saw his chin dip in a barely discernable nod—all is well. Cahira took a deep breath as a dozen different emotions collided in her heart. Her father had given permission for them to visit Athlone—probably hoping Cahira would pick up a suitor among the men at Philip’s rath—and their daring plan would proceed.

  An hour later she knelt before the wooden cross in the small room that served as the family’s chapel and bowed her head as her father began the morning prayer. As his rich baritone filled the room, she clasped her hands and leaned on the altar railing, then lifted her gaze in a disobedient glance. A slight crease marred her mother’s smooth forehead, and Cahira knew she worried about old Brian, who was still missing. Cahira closed her eyes and lifted her heart in a silent prayer that Brian would be soon and safely returned.

  Her father’s voice, quiet and reverent, echoed in the chapel. “One thing I have asked of the Lord, this is what I seek: That I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life; to behold the beauty of the Lord and to seek him in his temple. Who is it that you seek?”

  Cahira was so caught up in her thoughts that she nearly forgot to make the proper response: “We seek the Lord our God.” “Do you seek him with all your heart?”

  She pitched her voice so that it blended perfectly with her mother’s. “Amen. Lord, have mercy.”

  “Do you seek him with all your soul?”

  “Amen. Lord, have mercy.”

  “Do you seek him with all your mind?”

  “Amen. Lord have mercy.”

  “Do you seek him with all your strength?”

  Yes, Cahira thought, even as her lips replied, “Amen. Christ, have mercy.” Give me strength today to shoot well, to show these Normans we are not ignorant savages or ignoble peasants. The fierce blood of the Gaels flows in our veins, and we are free.

  She pressed her hands more tightly together in an attempt to stop the spasmodic trembling that rose from within her. In less than an hour, she, Sorcha, and Murchadh would be on the road to Athlone, where Cahira would don the most audacious disguise of her life. Sure, and wasn’t their plan purely brazen? In all the winding length of her life she had never met another woman who would even consider entering a men’s contest, nor had she met another man who would have allowed her to do so.

  A chiding voice rose in her mind, whispering that a king’s daughter belonged within her father’s walls, behind the guards who had sworn to protect her. But Cahira had never found the role of royal daughter a comfortable fit, and in assigning her care to Murchadh, her father had only strengthened her obstinate heart, for the gruff old warrior had never been able to refuse her anything.

  “May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you, wherever he may send you.” The king’s voice gentled as he concluded the morning prayer, and Cahira knew he was thinking of the journey she would take today. She opened her eyes and caught her father’s gaze as he concluded the morning office. “May he guide you through the wilderness, protect you through the storm. May he bring you home rejoicing at the wonders he has shown you. May he bring you home rejoicing once again into our doors.”

  “Amen,” Cahira echoed, returning her father’s smile.

  They departed immediately after breakfast. Cahira was soon grateful for Murchadh’s company, for he engaged Sorcha in conversation, thus preventing the maid from trying to divert Cahira from her purposed course of action. Though it would have been proper for Murchadh to ride next to Cahira, nothing moved on the trail ahead. So with a great show of nonchalance, Cahira invited Sorcha to ride next to Murchadh. She followed behind them like a servant, much happier without Murchadh at her elbow. She wanted time to think, to consider repercussions of her victory or loss to the Normans.

  If she lost the archery competition, no one need know that Felim O’Connor’s daughter had participated as a nameless Irish archer. But if she won, how delightful it would be to rip off her cap and allow her braid to tumble d
own her back! She would proclaim her identity, and her kinsman Philip would lift a toast in her honor. And, having been defeated by a woman, the Normans would slink back to whatever castle they had recently vacated.

  Cahira sighed in satisfaction, warmed as much by the colors of late autumn as by the prospect of a bloodless victory. She dropped her horse’s reins and let the animal follow the others, her own thoughts wandering to the memory of the men she had spied upon at the river. The one fellow was an overconfident fool, of that she was certain, but the other had proven himself polite and tactfully incurious.

  Or had he? In that moment when their eyes met she had been certain he saw her, but perhaps her heightened senses had fooled her into imagining his notice. With all she had heard about demanding Norman knights, it was difficult to believe that any one of them could have seen her and left her safely alone.

  The man couldn’t be the gentleman she supposed then. Her heart had been gripped with the thrill of the unknown, her eyes bedazzled by his striking good looks and the glint of his sword. He had been staring at his reflection, perhaps, but he could not have seen her.

  Today she could not afford to be distracted by romantic notions. The Normans were a vicious lot, and she would take pleasure in humiliating them.

  Philip’s rath at Athlone was not as impressive as Rathcroghan, but Cahira felt her pulse quicken when the walled embankments rose into view. She leaned forward and urged her horse into a slow trot, aware that Murchadh had straightened in his saddle and done the same. In the blink of an eye he transformed himself from a relaxed man out on a pleasant ride to captain of the king’s guard and guardian of the king’s only daughter.

  Sorcha held her horse in check until Cahira rode beside her, then she cast her mistress a questioning look. “I haven’t changed me mind, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Cahira said in a voice loud enough for Murchadh to hear. “Once we are inside, why don’t you see if you can find us something to drink. I will find Philip and convey my father’s greetings.”

  “I’ll be staying with you,” Murchadh called over his shoulder. “The place is crawling with strangers; see how many horses are in the field! You will remain with me until I have stabled our beasts.”

  Cahira lifted her chin, determined to show him how unconcerned she was. “I am not a child, Murchadh, that you should oversee my every move. I am perfectly capable of greeting a kinsman. Besides—I have my dagger with me.”

  “Aye, you do.” Murchadh twisted on his horse and slowed until the two girls caught up, then he gave Cahira a one-sided smile. “And that is why I say I should remain with you. Either you wait for me, or you promise not to flash your blade at any lad who happens to waggle his brows in your direction.”

  “No one’s going to waggle at me.” Cahira’s lips puckered with annoyance. “All right then. I promise not to pull out the dagger unless I have need.”

  “Real need, mind you. Which means you can’t be challenging Philip’s sons to a tossing contest.”

  “Really, Murchadh.” Cahira lifted her brows in pretend horror. “Can you be thinking I would do such a thing? ’Twould be rude.” She flashed him a slight smile of defiance. “Besides, Philip’s sons couldn’t beat me if they tried.”

  Murchadh lifted his hand in supplication and looked to the sky. “Heaven, hear her!”

  “I’ll help you stable the horses, Murchadh,” Sorcha offered, giving Cahira a quick glance. “If you could use the help.”

  Cahira resisted the urge to laugh aloud. Her love-struck maid knew nothing about horses, but it was obvious she’d do anything to spend time with a certain warrior. “And would you be leaving me all alone then?” She caught Sorcha’s eye and winked. “Leave me then, Sorcha, but be sure to find me soon. I’ll be needing your help.”

  A betraying blush brightened the girl’s face, but Murchadh took no note of it. “You’ll have to change into your disguise as soon as they call for the archers.” He lowered his voice to a deeper tone. “If you can find a quiet corner, I’ll stand guard while the maid helps you dress.”

  Cahira nodded and absently bent to pat her horse’s neck. The animal stopped, for they had reached the fields where the horses were penned. She slipped from the animal’s bare back, then smoothed the fabric of her skirt with one hand while she held the reins with the other.

  “Thank you, Murchadh,” she said, leading her mount to him. “And be quick with the horses, I beg you.”

  His eyes twinkled with mischief and a hint of concern. “Are you feeling a little nervous then?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She smiled at her maid. “Sorcha, if you can tear yourself away from Murchadh, I could use a drink of water.”

  Murchadh went pale at this unexpected comment, then a deep, bright red washed up from his throat and into his face. Cahira walked away, grinning.

  Philip had arranged for the contests to be held in a pasture south of the fortified compound, and benches lined both sides of the field to afford every spectator a decent view. After Cahira greeted her kinsman and his family, Philip’s wife invited her to view the contests by her side. Cahira smiled and replied that Murchadh would fall into a fierce temper if she did not remain within his sight at all times. A tournament so populated with Normans, she pointed out, greatly troubled his mind.

  The lady lifted her brows at this explanation but did not protest, so Cahira slipped away from her host and hostess and went to look for Sorcha. She found the girl at the well beside the kitchen building. Though occasionally servants would run in from the fields to fill their water buckets, now the area was deserted. Not a Norman was in sight, but Murchadh stood in the empty courtyard, his hands on his hips.

  Cahira and Sorcha moved to the far side of the stone kitchen, away from any prying eyes. Philip’s servants had been roasting and baking for nearly two days, and the succulent scents of roasting lamb and pork made Cahira’s stomach growl. She shoved all thoughts of hunger from her mind, though, and focused on her task. Lifting her eyes to meet Sorcha’s, she pressed her lips together and put out her hand.

  “Saints preserve us!” Sorcha whispered, a glint of wonder in her eyes. “Are you still intending to go through with it?” “I am.”

  “Then God be with you.” Sorcha pulled the bundle of men’s clothing from the sack she carried and handed it to Cahira, who spread the garments on the low wall of the cistern. While Sorcha helplessly hovered nearby, Cahira pulled her gown over her head, then unrolled the bundle of clothing she had taken from the trunk.

  “Truth to tell, I prayed all night that you’d change your mind about this crazy thing,” Sorcha whimpered, wringing her hands as she swayed on her feet. “We could have a lovely time with Philip and his wife, sitting on the benches and just watching the men.”

  “I’m not changing my mind.” Cahira tossed her gown to Sorcha, then slipped the short tunic over her chemise. At least four inches of white linen hung beneath the tunic’s hem, but Cahira gathered up the excess fabric and caught it in the belt at her waist.

  “You are only going for the archery, aren’t you?” Sorcha worried aloud. “I can’t see you lifting a sword against those other fellows. And I’ll run screaming to Philip if you’re thinking of riding with a lance.”

  “I’m not going to lift a sword or an ax or mount a horse.” Cahira pulled one of the knitted stockings over her white legs and tied it above her knee with a garter. “I’m no fool, Sorcha.”

  “Y’are sometimes.” The girl’s eyes filled with water. “A darling eejit, to be sure, but an eejit all the same. What if they recognize you? What if they find out I knew? Your father will beat the life out of me, and he’ll never trust Murchadh again.”

  “My father has never beaten a servant before, and I can’t believe he’ll be starting now.” Cahira finished tying the other garter, then slipped her feet into her leather pampooties. Her legs looked strangely thin beneath the short edge of the tunic—almost insubstantial. How would they look when she walked onto the field and a hundred eyes compa
red her to those mail-clad monsters?

  “Well then.” Cahira wiped her damp palms on her tunic. “That settles it, but for the hat I took from the barn. Help me wind my hair beneath this cap, Sorcha.”

  The maid tried her best, but after a moment it became clear that the length of Cahira’s braid simply would not fit into the snug hat. “It’s a boy’s cap, and no doubt.” Sorcha folded her arms as she stepped back to survey the impossible situation. “So it cannot be done. Let’s get you properly dressed again, and we will join Philip and his wife—”

  “I’m not giving up.” Cahira reached back and pulled the heavy braid over her shoulder, then stared at it. She had never considered cutting her hair, not even when that strange white streak appeared above her left temple shortly after her father became king. Her mother had been horrified by its appearance, seeing it as an evil omen, but her father only laughed and said God had set Cahira aside for some special purpose. An invisible saint’s kiss had painted the hair white, he suggested, or an angel had bent down and touched her with the blessing of hair as rich as rubies cooled by the breath of snow.

  Blessing or not, the hair was now a liability. Without another thought, Cahira pulled her little dagger from her belt and began to hack at the braid.

  Sorcha’s eyes bulged. “Saints preserve us, you’ve gone truly mad.”

  “A wee bit, perhaps.” Cahira kept cutting. “But hair will grow. And opportunities like this do not present themselves every day.”

  Sorcha closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her chest. “I’ll be wanting to die when I see your mother again. She’ll want to know why I let you destroy your one true beauty, and what answer can I be giving her? ’Twas bad enough when you decided to play at this charade, and unthinkable that Murchadh would come down with the same lunacy. But you could have done it quiet like, without speaking of it, but now she’ll know for certain that you were up to mischief. There’ll be no hiding this.”