The Emerald Isle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Simpletons. They don’t even have the sense to recognize superior warriors when they see them.

  The girl was to blame for the guards’ indifference, of course. Ever since that blasted tournament when the brazen hussy had shorn her hair and pulled on men’s clothing, the Irish warriors had regarded the Normans with bored apathy. But she would soon learn to respect Norman strength.

  “I am looking for my master, Lord Richard de Burgo.” Oswald directed his comments to the tallest man on guard. “Is he within?”

  “Aye.” The word slipped from a mouth that curled as if on the edge of laughter.

  “Then let me pass.” Oswald did not wait to hear the reply, but stepped between the two men and entered the gloomy chamber beyond. A pair of chickens clucked in the corner; a pair of serving women bent and cackled over the wide fireplace that filled the room with heat. But there, in the far corner, Oswald saw his lord sitting before a board and game pieces. His master was teaching the Irish barbarian how to play chess.

  Oswald crossed the room in long strides, then dropped to one knee before Richard. His master looked up, distracted, then smiled when he recognized the face. “Oswald. How fares the land of Connacht?”

  Oswald took a deep breath, flashed a glance at his Irish host, then bowed his head before his master. “Truth to tell, my lord, I have important news. I have just ridden in from Carnfree.”

  Philip’s brow wrinkled, and something moved in his eyes. “I know Carnfree. ’Tis a most holy place to my people, the altar where kings are consecrated and crowned.”

  “Indeed?” Richard’s brows rose, graceful wings of scorn. He dropped a pawn onto the chessboard, then folded his hands, and gave Oswald his full attention. Drawing a deep breath, Richard lowered his voice and spoke in carefully modulated French: “Perhaps you should explain what drew you to this holy place. Unless you’re planning on declaring yourself king of Connacht, I cannot fathom what you were doing there.”

  Answering in French as well, Oswald dropped his gaze in a show of humility. “I would never think of myself as king, but I cannot speak for another of your men, my lord. Colton has proceeded with his plan. Felim’s daughter is with him now. Time is of the essence, for I believe they are planning to escape to Walter de Lacy’s province of Meath.”

  Richard cocked his head to one side, as far as his multiple chins allowed. A faint glint of humor filled his eyes. “Let me understand you. Felim’s daughter has run away and married my captain?”

  “I witnessed the ceremony myself.” Oswald paused for effect, then drew a deep, exasperated breath. “The brehon who performed the ceremony vowed he would convince the Irish king to accept the marriage.”

  The amused look suddenly left Richard’s eyes. “Does this brehon still live?”

  “No, my lord. He lies somewhere on the road between Carnfree and Rathcroghan. Felim’s warriors will find him soon enough.”

  “Finally,” Richard whispered, his hand gripping a marble chess piece so tightly that his knuckles whitened, “the cursed Irish king will venture out of his fortress! He will ride out on a reckless tide of anger, and we shall be waiting for him.”

  Oswald remained silent for a moment, allowing his master to enjoy his thought, then he lifted a hand. “Sir, what of Colton and the girl?”

  Richard frowned. “What do you mean? The girl will mean nothing once Felim is destroyed.” He lifted his head and idly rubbed the fur at his collar. “We should probably lay a trap for him at that ridge of hills just outside Athlone.”

  Oswald lifted a brow. “Forgive my intrusion, but I think I should point out something about your captain. Though he appears to be one of your most loyal men, apparently he has been asking questions of the Irish—wanting to know about their way of electing kings, their approach to marriage, and so on. He has learned, for instance, that anyone can become king with the consent of those he governs. If a man lays claim to the throne through marriage to a royal daughter, and if the marriage itself took place at the holy place of Carnfree…”

  A deep red patch appeared over Richard’s rounded cheekbones, as though someone had slapped him hard on both cheeks. As Oswald waited, his master drew a long, quivering breath, mastering the passion that made him tremble. Philip lifted a brow, but Richard did not look toward his host. He kept his eyes fixed sternly upon Oswald.

  When he spoke, the words came out hoarse, as if forced through a straining throat. “You think Colton means to install himself as a king of Connacht? Before I can even press my claim? Can greed and ambition have such a grip upon his heart that he would forget his oath of allegiance to me?”

  Oswald lifted one shoulder in a shrug, then lowered his head in an air of remorse. “I do not know everything in Colton’s heart, but I know ambition resides there. Did he not rise to the highest position of leadership among your own knights?”

  Oblivious to the curious gaze of his host, Richard stood, sliding his chair back with such force that it toppled and crashed onto the floor. Bracing his hands on the table, he leaned toward Oswald, the muscles of his face tightening into a white mask of rage. “I never dreamed I would find such brazen disloyalty among my own men.”

  “The matter is not without remedy,” Oswald answered smoothly, “because the marriage was most irregular. Colton spirited his bride away in the dark, and the rite was performed by a kidnapped brehon, not a true priest.”

  “Then they are not married in the eyes of the Church.” Richard straightened and reached for empty air, then closed his fist around it as if grasping a thought. “The marriage can be annulled. It will be annulled. I cannot have one of my own men laying claim to an Irish crown!”

  Oswald said nothing, but pursed his lips together. His master saw the expression and paused. “You disagree?”

  Oswald shrugged and spread his hands wide. “I thought mayhap the girl might prove useful as a hostage. If, perchance, Felim escapes during the coming attack, you will have leverage if you hold the girl in your prison. From all accounts, the king is a doting father. And Colton has already managed the girl’s capture and restraint.”

  “By heaven, Oswald, you have the devil’s own genius!” Richard’s eyes darkened and shone with no pleasant light. “We will take her. We’ll keep her here, and when her father comes, we’ll settle this stalemate without losing a single man. He’ll give his life for hers, and he will forfeit his claims to Connacht as he forfeits his life—”

  Oswald bit back an oath. Richard was far fonder of expounding upon his dreams than acting upon them, and time was slipping away. He pointedly cleared his throat. “Sir, by now Felim O’Connor has realized his daughter is missing. Before sunset, without a doubt, he’ll be searching for her. If we’re to take her, we must do so quickly or we’ll meet Felim O’Connor in the countryside before we have secured our hostage.”

  Richard slammed his fist upon the table with such force that the chess pieces jumped. Philip sat back, his mouth agape, but Richard pressed on. “You are wise, Oswald. Order the men in the garrison to mount up. We’ll ride at once for Meath and bring the girl back. Colton will stand trial for his treachery, and Felim O’Connor will find himself forced to meet with me—and to agree to my terms.”

  Richard transferred his gaze to Philip, and spoke in English. “I beg your pardon, sir, but duty calls me away from our game. We shall have to conclude the match when I return from Meath.”

  “Meath?” Philip asked, his gaze curious and questioning.

  “De Lacy’s kingdom.” Richard tapped Oswald on the shoulder, his eyes glowing with a sheen of purpose. “And if I find that my dearest enemy Walter de Lacy is harboring one of my own men, I shall take the matter to the Crown.” He laughed, the sound muffled by his broad hand as he rubbed his jaw. “This bit of trouble may pay off handsomely for both of us, Oswald.”

  “I certainly hope it benefits your lordship.” Oswald stood and bowed as his master moved away from the table. “As for me, I am happy only to serve you.”

  Taking pleasure in t
he simple fact of Colton’s nearness, Cahira handed him the reins of her horse, then climbed up into the wooden saddle, which was roomy enough for two. They set out at a relaxed trot and followed the river as the sun rose to its zenith. Finally they found a place where the river narrowed sufficiently for them to cross to the other side—the province of Meath.

  Cahira’s stomach had just begun to growl when they approached a small farmhouse where a woman stood in the yard scattering grain for a clutch of chickens. Noisily calling “chook-chook” to her hens, the woman watched Cahira and Colton advance with a wary eye.

  Cahira nudged Colton into silence as he pulled the horse to a halt. “Good morning to you,” she called out in Gaelic. “I wonder if we might find a bite to eat in your house?”

  The woman didn’t answer, but her eyes narrowed as she studied the trappings that encased Colton and his mount. Understanding the woman’s wariness, Cahira slipped from the saddle and walked toward the woman with her hands open. “Welcome, and good morning to you,” she began again, softening her tone, “but the stranger and I have had nothing to eat. Might you have a bit of something to spare?”

  The question seemed to amuse the woman. “Should I be feeding a Norman,” she asked in Gaelic, her eyes almost disappearing in her taut, bony cheeks, “when they are doing their best to starve us? Our new lord de Lacy already demands more of us than the land can give.”

  “Please.” Cahira dropped her hands. “I am Cahira o’ the Connors, from Connacht. I know not what evils your Norman lord has heaped upon you, but you may trust in this—the man you see on yonder horse is not like the others. Like me, he dreams of peace.”

  The woman remained silent for a moment, her eyes shifting from Cahira to Colton and back again, then she nodded brusquely. “I’ve a bit of bread and cheese to spare, but that’s all. Come into the house—just you, lass—and I’ll give it and send you on your way.”

  “I thank you.” Cahira followed the woman toward the house, waving to Colton behind the woman’s back. A cat darted out as the woman pushed the door open, and within a moment Cahira found herself in a small dark house redolent of animals and hay. The woman pressed a half-loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese into her hands.

  “You don’t look like you have the strength to do much about this peace you’re dreaming of,” the woman remarked as Cahira turned to leave. “But they say a raggedy colt often makes a powerful horse. I’ll be praying that God will yet make you strong.”

  Cahira paused in the doorway, half tempted to tell the woman that she had strength aplenty, thank you. She was a king’s daughter, educated and skilled, with courage enough to marry a man whose will matched her own…but a thought clicked in her mind. She had been a king’s daughter, but she had walked away from that position and privilege, forfeiting all for Colton and freedom. She lifted a brow, intrigued by the unsettling thought. She had disdained her position for so long, but she felt curiously bereft without it.

  She thanked the woman, walked outside, and let Colton pull her up behind him. She smiled when he bowed his head in deference to their reluctant hostess.

  “She didn’t seem to think much of me,” Colton remarked as they rode away. “She couldn’t have looked more displeased if the devil himself had ridden up to her house.”

  “She didn’t think much of me either,” Cahira remarked dryly, recalling the woman’s comment about a raggedy colt. “But at least she was kind. I don’t think she had much to share; she said her Norman master demands too much.”

  “De Lacy is no more beloved than any other baron.” Colton lifted his arm and pointed to a stone tower near the river’s edge. The waters ran quiet and slow at the narrow spot, and a nearby copse of trees would provide a small measure of camouflage for the horses. “Shall we stop there and break our fast? I can water the horses at the stream, then climb into the tower and scout the trail ahead.”

  “A wonderful idea.”

  Within a few moments Cahira stood in the river, the cold water lapping around her ankles. Colton was fitting hobbles around the horses’ legs, leaving them free to graze while he and Cahira ate their meager meal.

  Cahira shivered as a cool wind blew, then retreated from the riverbank. It was a cold day, but a bright one, the sun gilding the ancient tower and the surrounding fields. She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face, and banished all bittersweet thoughts of Sorcha, Murchadh, and the other loved ones she had abandoned. All that mattered was that Colton stood only a short distance away, so her heart and her future were in safe reach.

  The distant sound of thunder echoed from the horizon. Cahira looked up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she searched the emerald vista. The sky was a faultless wide curve of blue, so what had caused the thunder?

  Leaving her shoes on the grass, she climbed to the highest point of the riverbank and turned toward the sound. A cold hand passed down her spine when she saw a shadow on the earth, a dark cloud of horses and dust, of warriors set upon a quest.

  Not thunder—hoofbeats. A steady drumming sound, signaling a sizable host of riders, coming from the northwest. From Connacht.

  “Colton!” Gathering up her skirts, Cahira turned and sprinted toward the stone tower. He would not have time to free the hobbled horses; they would have to hide and hope the warriors rode by without stopping. If her father caught them in the heat of his anger, he would be more likely to kill Colton than forgive him.

  What happened to Lorcan’s plan?

  She flew up the grassy hill beneath the tower, slipping in her bare feet, grasping at grass and rocks and weeds. “Colton!” she screamed again, but her voice sounded strangled and rasping in her own ears.

  And then she stood outside the tower, her hands twisting until she found a half-rotten ladder someone had left in the underbrush. Calling upon all her strength, she pulled it free of dying foliage and vines, then propped it against the tower, all the while calling Colton’s name.

  After hobbling the horses near the river’s edge, Colton bent to wash his hands in the river, then wiped them dry upon his surcoat. The cleared land on the other side of the river rose in a gradual incline toward the south, and against the horizon he saw dust rising in a peculiar straight pattern, almost as though an invisible scythe were stirring up the ground beneath it. He paused and swiped his hand through his hair, recognizing the wide V formation the knights used when scouting for any sign of an enemy. They were advancing from the southwest, from Athlone.

  He felt a bead of perspiration trace a cold path from his armpit to his rib. Richard was coming for him then. Oswald had failed, and his master’s wrath had been kindled too soon.

  “Cahira!” he turned and yelled. His frantic eyes found her at the base of the tower, struggling to hold a ladder upright. Leaving the horses, he sprinted away from the river.

  “’Tis the only way,” she panted, already climbing the ladder’s rungs when he reached her. “We can pull the ladder up after us.”

  “Go,” he urged, glancing over his shoulder.

  The tall, cylindrical towers dotted the Irish countryside, as ancient as they were out of place. Though Colton could not imagine what enemies could drive the ancient Gaels to seek shelter in such towers, suddenly he felt a profound gratitude for them.

  The thunder of hoofbeats grew louder, coming from two directions now, and he urged Cahira to move faster on the yielding ladder. “Hurry,” he challenged, looking down as the earth receded beneath him. Cahira moved upward, then fell into the tower’s rectangular opening, and Colton followed. With one quick glance he saw that the rotting floor had broken through in several places. “Stay near the edge of the tower,” he called, gripping the ladder. “Don’t walk into the center of the chamber.”

  “Let me help.” Kneeling by his side, Cahira thrust her arms through the opening and pulled too. They had just managed to pull the ladder into their chamber when the first group of riders appeared on the riverbank. The warriors, Irishmen all, thundered across the river,
sending a froth of white ripples to the shore. They might have ridden by, but one of the riders yelled and pointed toward the two hobbled horses. Within two minutes, the Gaels had dismounted, and a tall man with an air of authority was studying the tower.

  “Murchadh,” Cahira whispered, her voice breaking. She sat with her back pressed to the wall, her face a picture of misery. “He’s seen the horses, and he knows we’re here. In a moment my father will demand that I come down.”

  “We will have to come down eventually,” Colton answered, taking pains to keep his face in shadow as he peered out the doorway. “But we will do so on our own terms, Cahira. Though we didn’t think to make peace in quite this way, the opportunity is about to present itself. Look to the south.”

  Cahira obeyed, and the sight of mounted Normans on the riverbank sent a chill through her blood. She might have been able to persuade her father to forgive her, to be merciful to Colton, and to give the marriage a chance, but what could she do with a pack of Normans listening to her every word? While her father might have been moved by an appeal to his compassion or fatherly love, he would not allow his heart to soften while his enemy watched from a few feet away.

  And yet cold sweat prickled on her forehead as she thought of Colton’s predicament. She was responsible to her father, but how much more responsible was Colton to Lord Richard! He had taken a vow of loyalty and obedience to that Norman baron, and Cahira knew he did not hold that vow lightly. Though she had spent her entire life rebelling against her parents and keepers, she did not think Colton had ever disobeyed his sworn lord.

  Her parents loved her and forgave every insubordination, but Lord Richard de Burgo would not feel similarly inclined to forgive Colton. He was a proud man, and a cruel one. She couldn’t allow Colton to face that overbearing Norman.