The Irish Bride

by Sarah Woodbury

  The woman at her feet said something in Gaelic, and then another woman, whom Gwen hadn’t noticed, as she was sitting somewhat in the shadows, spoke from behind Cait. “Introduce me to your friend, Caitriona.”

  Gwen knew what she’d said because the words were in polished French.

  Caitriona gestured in typically graceful fashion herself and said, “This is my mother, Dorte. She arrived in Dublin only this morning. Mother, this is Gwen, the Welsh friend I told you about.”

  The seamstress stood up, having finished her hemming, at which point Cait shed her dress before stepping off the stool. Meanwhile, Dorte herself rose gracefully to her feet and came forward into the light. She and her daughter looked so much alike, Gwen would have known Dorte was Cait’s mother without the introduction, and she understood where Cait had acquired her gift for languages as well as her beauty. Cait’s mother was as slender as her daughter, making Gwen feel even dowdier and more awkward than she already did in Cait’s presence. Dorte’s hair was dark like Cait’s, except for two pure white streaks arising from her temples, and her dress was on a par in style and quality with Cait’s wedding dress too, though it looked so perfect on her that Gwen supposed she wore such finery every day.

  Gwen curtseyed. “It is wonderful to meet you.”

  “And I you, since I have heard so much about you, not just from Cait but from Conall too. You saved his life.” Initially, Dorte had been putting out a hand to Gwen, but then she changed her mind and wrapped her arms around Gwen in a tight hug. Given that Cait was marrying Godfrid, a fierce hugger, Dorte appeared to fit right in. “Thank you. Thank you for allowing my son to come home to me.”

  Over Dorte’s shoulder, Cait smiled, and for a moment Gwen thought she saw moisture in her eyes. “I haven’t thanked you properly for that either.”

  Gwen’s upper arms were trapped at her sides, but she bent her elbow and managed to pat Dorte on the back. “Conall is a great friend. Gareth and I think often of that investigation, grateful ourselves we reached him in time.”

  Dorte stepped back. “It was a close thing, I understand.” Then she dropped her arms, and her expression changed to one of embarrassment. “I apologize for being so forward.”

  “No apology is necessary!” Gwen put out a reassuring hand. “We Welsh are known for wearing our hearts on our sleeves. I am very pleased to meet you and, as I said, Conall is a true friend. We are blessed to know him.”

  By now, and with the help of a maid, Cait had clothed herself in her day-to-day attire, and she stepped closer to her mother to kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you for your help with the dress.”

  “It is my pleasure, as you well know. And I did nothing but provide you with my seamstress.”

  “You chose the color.”

  Dorte spread her hands wide. “I knew whatever looked good on me would look even better on you.” She touched Cait’s cheek with the back of her forefinger and followed the seamstress down the stairs.

  Cait frowned. “Are you going somewhere, Mother?”

  Dorte looked back, her expression suddenly coquettish. Few women nearing sixty could have pulled off such a look, but Cait’s mother was one of them. “Your uncle asked me to visit with him at the palace. One of his advisers is a wealthy widower, and he thought I might enjoy meeting him.”

  “Mother!” Cait was genuinely shocked.

  “I mourned your father, Cait, you know that. I observed the rites. But he’s been dead a long time. I’m tired of being a widow.”

  And to her credit, Cait subsided. “I’m sorry I reacted badly. This time I would want the decision of whom and when to marry to be all yours.”

  Dorte’s expression hardened slightly. In a flash of insight, Gwen knew where Cait had inherited her iron will too. “Believe me, it will be. If this one won’t do, I will refuse him and my brother until he finds me a man who does suit. No more sister wives for me, for starters.”

  Among the Irish, instead of mistresses, which was the Welsh and Norman way, lords were allowed multiple wives. Conall and Cait were half-siblings, sharing a mother but not a father. Dorte had married Cait’s father after the death of Conall’s father, but she’d shared him with two other women—not, it seemed, entirely happily. What Gwen didn’t know, not having spent any time in Ireland outside of Dublin, was if the practice was also usual among the common people. It seemed like a practice destined to create jealousy and a situation where there were too few women to go around. But she could see that if the death toll among men in war was very great, the custom could have been created instead because there were too few men.

  Personally, Gwen found the policy of allowing Irishmen to have more than one wife at any given time troubling. In her world, interacting with a man who was married was safer for a woman, married or unmarried, than to converse or associate with one who was not. If the fact that a man was already married was no barrier to pursuing another bride, it threw all social compacts into disarray.

  Of course, other peoples, the Normans in particular, thought the Welsh law allowing illegitimate children to inherit was an equally disturbing cause of turmoil. But to Gwen’s mind, it was one thing to punish a couple for adultery. It was quite another to condemn the resulting child, who’d done nothing wrong.

  But that was why allowances had to be made for differences when visiting another place. Northern Welsh felt out of place when traveling south and vice versa. Though Gwen shared more blood with the Irish than the Danes, at times she felt the latter were just a bit more familiar in their policies and customs (other than their love of salted herring), though she would never say so to Cait.

  After watching Dorte glide out the door, Cait turned to Gwen. “I hope you are here because you need something from me other than to discuss my mother or wedding dresses.”

  It was the opening Gwen had been looking for, but now that it came to it, she wasn’t sure how to begin. “I am.”

  “Does it involve going somewhere outside this house?”

  “Yes.”

  Cait grinned. “You can tell me on the way. I need to walk in the sunshine.”

  Gwen caught up by the time Cait reached the door, but put a hand on the latch before Cait could open it. “You don’t even know what I came here for, and now that I can ask you, I’m having second thoughts.”

  Cait nudged at Gwen’s elbow, getting her to pull on the latch and open the door. Warm summer air flooded the room. “Does it have something to do with the investigation?”

  “Well ... yes.”

  “Then what more do I need to know?”

  “Are you that anxious to escape your wedding preparations?” Gwen still didn’t follow her out the door.

  “My mother has them well in hand. As you can see, she is gracious and perfect, and I am not.”

  Gwen laughed. “I think many would argue with that assessment, including me—and Godfrid, I’m sure—but all right. If you insist: we are in pursuit of the meaning of the wooden coin.” She took it from her purse and held it out. “I came here to ask you if you have a thought as to where we might go or to whom we might speak about what it unlocks?”

  Cait took the coin. “You are so polite! Let me tell you what you are really asking: I lived as a slave, and I know slaves and members of the lowest social order in Dublin.” She looked down at the coin, turning it over in her fingers like everyone who’d held it so far had done. “The last wooden coin like this you saw gained entrance to the brothel where my brother was being held prisoner.”

  Gwen bent her head. “I apologize for not trusting you enough to speak frankly. You are right, of course. Gareth and Conall spoke to the bishop yesterday and are even now interviewing the monks and priests. Hopefully they will discover something of use today. A churchman might know about the coin, but I find it much more likely that one of your acquaintances will—and it’s likely enough that I think we really ought to ask.”

  “I can see that if a churchman knows what it’s for, and it gains entrance to a brothel, they would no
t be willing to admit it.”

  “Exactly.”

  Cait turned the coin around again. “I’m wondering that Conall doesn’t know about it either.”

  “Maybe it’s new?”

  Cait pressed her lips together, for the first time showing real concern. “That would not be a good thing, because it would be new since Brodar’s ascension to the throne—and that means he doesn’t know about it because we don’t know about it.”

  “Let’s not borrow trouble,” Gwen said. “Best simply to ask and await answers.”

  Cait bobbed a nod. “Thus, you came to me.”

  “I would ask your brother, but he can’t ask questions in his current form, as ambassador to Dublin, and Gareth assures me he shouldn’t be asked to become Fergus the Sailor except as a last resort.”

  “True!” Suddenly Cait’s eyes brightened, and she smiled again. “Better not leave this to him. We will do what we can by ourselves.” She hooked her arm through Gwen’s. “I will take you to speak to my friends.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Day Two

  Godfrid

  Godfrid had intended to make inquiries with Gareth this morning, or at least get to eat breakfast with his beloved future wife, but instead he found himself caught up in another matter entirely—or at least he thought it was another matter when the King of Leinster began talking. “I must speak to you all of Donnell and Rory O’Connor.”

  The four men—Diarmait, Brodar, Hywel, and Godfrid—had come together alone in Brodar’s receiving room. Godfrid could hear the general hum of conversation in the main hall, which he could see through the doorway. The door had been left open so the servants could have easy access to the room with their serving dishes. Two of Brodar’s personal guard stood on either side of the doorway, charged with preventing anyone who shouldn’t overhear from entering. Hywel’s Dragons, barring Cadoc, who’d gone off with Godfrid’s man Jon, ate at the nearest table.

  “What is the issue, exactly?” As the newcomer to the group, Hywel could get away with asking the obvious question. Godfrid was glad of it. He supposed he should know already, but with the wedding, he’d been very distracted of late and didn’t want to guess if the issue was old or new.

  “It is clear now that they continue, in their separate ways, to undermine Brodar’s rule of Dublin and its relationship with Leinster,” Diarmait said. “Just because Donnell’s forces were defeated at the Liffey doesn’t mean he has given up his efforts.”

  “And Rory?” Godfrid said.

  “He has decided to come to your wedding,” Diarmait sad flatly. “I confess, it is a development I had not anticipated.”

  Hywel tipped his head. “Isn’t a willingness to attend an indication of a desire for improved relations?”

  Diarmait, Brodar, and Godfrid all spoke the same words in reply. “Not when it’s an O’Connor.”

  Hywel laughed. “I take your point.”

  Brodar leaned forward, his attention on Diarmait. “We lost many men in the battle, my lord. It will take time to recruit more to fill out our ranks. If Connaught or Meath attacks the city itself, I am unsure if we have the men to defend it.”

  “I have worried about that too. Enough men of Meath died that they can’t be wanting another go any time soon, but—” Diarmait eyed Dublin’s king, “—I’m not sure we want to take the chance they won’t.”

  “Or that someone else won’t see an opportunity,” Godfrid added.

  “I could leave a garrison of my men in the city,” Diarmait said.

  It was as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over Godfrid’s head, and he knew without even looking into Brodar’s face that he felt it too. Long experience with hiding what they were really feeling allowed both men to keep their expressions impassive, and Brodar said, “It would not be my preference.”

  Diarmait snorted, not remotely fooled. “You are a proud people. I understand. But I have my interests to protect, and while I am giving you Cait, Leinster itself is not the bride to Dublin’s groom.”

  There were many ways Brodar could have answered Diarmait. Over the last decades, the situation had been reversed, with Dublin the bride, subject to the whims of her husband, Leinster. But neither Brodar nor Godfrid wanted to antagonize Cait’s uncle only a few days before Godfrid’s wedding.

  So Godfrid stepped in, “If O’Connor’s men cross the river again, we won’t be caught unawares. We will not be giving up Dublin to them, no matter who fights. No matter the cost.”

  Brodar cleared his throat. “You should know, my lord, that I have already heard from Donnell.”

  Godfrid shot his brother a sharp look. When Donnell’s overture had arrived two weeks ago, they’d discussed how and when to tell King Diarmait about it. Truth be told, Brodar was reluctant to admit any weakness, but he’d spoken the truth about Dublin’s lack of fighting men, and if Diarmait knew about that, he had to know about this.

  “When?” Diarmait sat up straighter. “What did he say?”

  “He offered me the same deal he wanted to give Ottar: more independence for Dublin if we forswore our allegiance and alliance with Leinster in favor of Connaught—specifically him.”

  “And help him murder his brother, probably, though that wasn’t spelled out,” Godfrid added.

  Hywel scoffed. “Did he refer to the original deal with Ottar, Brodar, which included your murder?”

  Diarmait’s eyes were focused on Brodar’s face. “When was this?”

  “A fortnight ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “I’m telling you now,” Brodar said. “It wasn’t something to be put into writing or to come from the mouth of a messenger.”

  Diarmait eased back in his seat. “No, I can see that. As Ottar learned last spring, we must always be careful about what we put in writing.”

  Hywel folded his hands and settled back in his chair too. “Why not recruit men from the countryside or the other Danish cities? They owe you allegiance, even if they are reluctant to admit it.”

  “It would show weakness,” Godfrid said flatly. “If we can manage this ourselves, we would prefer to do so.”

  “They weren’t attacked,” Hywel pointed out. “And you are all one people.”

  “Tell that to the men of Waterford!” Brodar managed a laugh.

  Hywel now turned to Diarmait. “I have spent less than a day in Dublin, my lord, and I am pleased to see that the populace appears accepting of Cait, but I would hate to see that goodwill vanish in an instant if they knew you were garrisoning men in the city.” He shook his head. “That is a quick path to unrest.”

  “Which I can ill-afford? We are being honest now, aren’t we?” Diarmait touched a cloth to his lips and then threw it down beside the wooden bowl that had held his porridge. He claimed that in his old age, his digestion required it. For his part, Godfrid hoped it would never come to that for him. “I hear you are half-Irish, lad. Did your mother’s family teach you nothing?”

  Hywel’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he otherwise kept his expression bland. “They taught me that a single slight can start a war. They taught me to tread carefully when a man’s pride is at stake. They taught me that a man can have both Irish and Danish blood, as I do, but be entirely Welsh in his heart.”

  Diarmait studied Gwynedd’s prince for a moment, and then he let out a bark of laughter that appeared genuine. Godfrid hadn’t realized he was holding his breath, but now he let it out too, and he didn’t think he was the only one who felt the tension drain out of the room.

  “You think it would be a mistake to test their loyalties, eh?” Diarmait waved a hand. “I am well aware I am viewed as a necessary evil.”

  “I wouldn’t say evil—” Brodar began.

  But Diarmait waved his hand again. “You are a prideful people, as are we. So no garrison for now.” Then he looked hard at Godfrid. “I may need my ambassador back, however. Now that the city isn’t torn apart by rival claimants to the throne, his skills are wasted here.�
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  Godfrid spread his hands wide. “I am not the one keeping him in Dublin.”

  “But you agree he has been champing at the bit, wanting a new challenge.”

  “I do.” Godfrid sighed. “Reluctantly, I do.”

  “After the wedding, then.” Diarmait raised his goblet to the other men. “Something must be done about the O’Connors.”

  Brodar lifted his cup. “As we are being honest, I should say out loud what everyone here knows, even if we don’t speak of it: Dublin would prefer to be independent of Leinster. But we also know we are surrounded by enemies. Dublin remains wealthy, but it doesn’t have the men to resist all the kingdoms of Ireland.” He looked at Diarmait. “You have our thanks for our recent victory. You have our respect. And we have your back. While I am king, we will not defect to Connaught.”

  The four men touched goblets, but as Godfrid drained his drink and set it on the table, his eyes found first his brother’s face and then Prince Hywel’s. Both wore almost identical thoughtful expressions. Godfrid believed he could read his brother like an open book, and he’d told King Diarmait the truth. Hywel, however, had looked away rather than hold Godfrid’s eyes, and while Godfrid could content himself with not challenging his brother with questions until after the wedding, he wanted to hear what Hywel had to say.

  Thus, after the four men dispersed, Godfrid sought out Hywel on the wall-walk, where’s he’d gone to look west, over the countryside. At one time, it had been Danish as far as the eye could see. These days, Godfrid wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t Irish right up to the wall.

  At Godfrid’s approach, the Welsh prince lifted one hand and dropped it. “I was wondering if you would find me.”

  “You were not pleased with that conversation at breakfast. Why? You have no stake in Leinster’s relationship with Dublin.”

  Hywel turned to look at him directly. “Don’t I?”