The Emerald Isle (12 page)

P
ositioning herself beside the wooden gates of the outer rampart, Cahira pulled her cloak more tightly around her and glanced toward the doors of the hall. Not a single man had yet appeared, so someone must have broached a new topic and set their tongues to wagging again. She wrapped her fingers in the edges of her cloak and turned her back to the wind, reminding herself to be patient.

The compound that housed Felim O’Connor and his family was nothing like the grand castles the Normans had erected in the southern kingdoms. The brehons and filid spoke of castles with tall stone walls and impregnable towers marked with slits through which an archer could shoot at approaching enemies without fear. Some Norman castles, the rumors reported, featured private water closets and pipes through which water could be brought from tanks on the roof.

The O’Connor stronghold, like all those of the Irish kings, had been built according to the ancient brehon laws. Erected by the king’s lowest vassals, his
ceili giallnai
, in return for his protection, patronage, and prayers, the king’s home was guarded by two ringed embankments of earth topped by spiked fences. Cahira suspected that the Normans would think the wattle and daub dwelling small and common, but its great hall was roomy enough to seat the heads of Connacht, and the two upstairs chambers provided sleeping space for her parents, herself, and ten female servants. Murchadh and his men
slept in a small building next to the stable. In the ancient times of war, when the battle cry summoned members of the king’s
ceili giallnai
to Rathcroghan, as many as two hundred men, women, and children had found shelter in the great hall.

The brehons spoke of the bloody and troubled times when Éireann’s kings had continually battled one another, but Cahira had never known anything but peace. Though rumors of unrest hung over Connacht like the low, gray rain clouds that blew in from the sea nearly every afternoon, Cahira could not imagine her life changing. So what if Richard de Burgo claimed to own Connacht—what could he possibly
do
with all of it? Each measured field would still answer to the farmer who plowed it; each cow and lamb would still depend upon an Irishman to care for it.

“You’re certain your mother will approve us being out here?” Sorcha fretted aloud. “It seems most brazen and unseemly for a king’s daughter. I’m thinking we’d be wise to go back to the house.”

“I’m not a king’s daughter.”

Sorcha’s eyes widened for a moment, then she snorted. “Ha! How you jest, lass! Of
course
you’re a king’s daughter. The whole of Connacht knows it.”

“I wasn’t jesting. What I meant to say”—Cahira lifted her chin and met her maid’s wide gaze straight on—“is I wasn’t
born
a king’s daughter. I don’t want to be special.”

Astonishment touched the maid’s round face. “Not want—but how can you say that? We all are what God makes us. There’s no denying where he puts us. He put a crown on your father’s head, and he put me in your charge.” A glow rose in the maid’s face, as though she contained a candle that had just been lit. “Besides, I’m thinking that he created us all special. No one is more special than others in his eyes.”

Cahira gave her maid a black look, then lifted her gaze. The door to the hall had opened, and men were filling the courtyard, some moving toward the stable, others toward the kitchen.

“Hurry, please,” she whispered, rhythmically bending her knees beneath her cloak. “I don’t want to stand here all day.”

“You’ll give them a fright if you keep jumping like a haunt,” Sorcha remarked, lifting a brow. “Stand still, lass, and smile at the gentlemen. One of them is bound to have a son of marriageable age.”

Cahira gritted her teeth as the real reason for her mother’s request became obvious. An unmarried eighteen-year-old daughter was no shame if the girl planned to enter a convent, but Cahira had never even considered a religious vocation. She’d be as out of place in a convent as a milk bucket under a bull.

“Good day to you, sir.” Sorcha smiled prettily as the first pair of men approached on horseback. Aware of the maid’s gaze upon her, Cahira managed a faint, graceless imitation of Sorcha’s expression.

“Good day to you, lovely lass.” One by one, her father’s chieftains and warriors filed through the gate. Cahira smiled until her jaws ached, then turned her gaze toward the rolling hills beyond the trampled Rathcroghan road. Despite autumn’s cooling breath, the pastures of Rathcroghan were green and vibrant, the cleared fields sloping gently toward the river a short distance away. With any luck, she and Sorcha could find a tree or a bit of brush in which to hide while they spied out the invaders.

She drew a deep breath and forbade herself to weaken. “When the last man is gone, we’ll walk to the river,” she announced, lifting her chin. “Rian told my father he saw Normans riding north along the river this morning. If they intend to sleep at Athlone tonight, they’ll be returning soon.”

Sorcha’s blue eyes filled with distress. “Why would you want to see
Normans?
I’d sooner go off to meet the devil himself.”

Cahira shushed her maid with a stern glance, then dipped her head toward two mounted men departing through the gate. They returned her salute with broad smiles, then spurred their horses. Sorcha fell silent as the last of the Connacht men rode away in a proud parade. The silence held as Lorcan, the revered brehon, slowly
approached with a carved staff in his aged hand and his student by his side.

Lorcan paused before Cahira. His eyes, bright beams above skin as dried and dark as tanned leather, focused upon her face. “I dreamed of you last night, my child.” A silken thread of warning lined his voice.

Cahira looked up, her silence inviting him to continue, but he only watched her, his sparkling black eyes sinking into nets of wrinkles as he smiled.

She gave him an uncertain nod. “I hope it was a good dream.”

He looked away then, toward the eastern horizon, and Cahira shivered as the wings of shadowy foreboding brushed her spirit. Had he mentioned this dream to her father? If the dream boded ill, he would have spoken to the king, who placed a great deal of value on the brehon’s opinions. If the dream contained a warning, Cahira’s father might attempt to clip her wings.

She waited, tense and fearful, as the brehon continued to stare at the horizon. Finally he spoke again. “When God made time, he made plenty of it. All will not end in your lifetime, my dear, as it will not end in mine.”

And then, without a backward glance, the brehon picked up his staff and moved away, gliding in that effortless step that always made Cahira wonder if he had wheels beneath the hem of his robe. His silent student followed, leaving Cahira mystified and Sorcha troubled.

“That’s not good, lass. Surely that is not a good sign! Let us go tell your father what Lorcan said. Or perhaps your mother can make sense of it—”

“Sure, and when has Lorcan ever made sense?” Cahira’s gaze followed the tall brehon down the trail, marveling that a man so thin could seem so strong. “But he smiled at us, did you not see? If he had wanted to bring bad tidings, he would not have greeted us so warmly.”

She waited until the brehon and his student disappeared beyond a bend in the rutted boreen, then glanced over her shoulder. Outside the stable, Rian and her father stood beside a pregnant mare, probably
discussing the fate of the unborn foal. “Ask for it, you eejit,” she murmured, studying the young man’s face. “You are his favorite; Father would give you anything you asked for.”

After tossing one glance toward the upstairs window to be certain her mother was not peering out, Cahira pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. “Come, Sorcha.” She stepped onto the beaten path and gestured toward the river trail. “We will not be gone long.”

Sorcha mumbled and complained and groaned, but she followed, albeit a few steps behind.
She is probably as curious as I
, Cahira thought, scanning the trees ahead for any unusual signs of movement.
But she would never admit it
.

Slanted sunlight shimmered off the glowing green foliage that lined the path; the afternoon was as sweet as a September afternoon could be. Despite the cool breath of the wind, the air was warm and burnished with sunlight. After ten minutes of brisk walking, Cahira felt her step grow lighter with the elation that always overcame her the moment she passed from view of the fortress’s lookouts. In her younger days, before her father was king, she had often slipped away from her nursemaids, and neither of her parents had seemed particularly distressed when one of her father’s men brought her home. Since she had grown a woman’s body, however, her father frowned at the thought of Cahira’s gallivants, and her mother went positively pale at the idea of her daughter wandering in the countryside like a common betagh.

But how wonderful it was to wander outside! A wealth of puffy clouds had blown in to decorate the sky, and the thick ragwort on the hills colored her father’s pastures with a golden glow. A herd of cattle lazily lifted their heads as she approached, then went back to grazing with a distracted, diffident air.

Sorcha finally stopped complaining. As the pastures yielded to the thick trees that shadowed the river, the maid quickened her step until she walked by Cahira’s side. Together the girls moved through the trees, and Cahira shivered as the treetops stirred with the whisper of a warning breeze.

“’Twill be cold tonight,” Sorcha murmured, ducking beneath a branch that arched over the path. “I can feel winter’s breath in the wind.”

“The king’s fire will keep you warm enough.” Cahira’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Doesn’t it warm every soul at Rathcroghan?” She lifted her head as she caught sight of molten silver beyond the trees. “Here is the river. I only hope we are in time.”

A tremor touched Sorcha’s full lips. “In time for
what?”

Not answering, Cahira lifted her skirts and ran to the line where the trail to Rathcroghan intersected the grassy riverbank. Half hiding behind a tree, she stared down the hoof-pounded avenue until it blended into a copse of trees near the horizon. Nothing stirred along the riverbank but the tall grasses already crisp with autumn’s approach. She saw no sign of life—no horses, no peasants, and absolutely no Normans.

“Are you content?” Sorcha demanded, panting heavily as she hurried to keep up. “There is nothing here. Shall we turn back now?”

“Not yet.” Leaning against a tree, Cahira positioned herself behind a screen of leaves, then motioned for Sorcha to do the same. “The afternoon is young. Let us wait and see if the Normans will pass by again.”

“They might return to Athlone by another way.” Sorcha thrashed her way into the brush. “You don’t know they will return along the river.”

“They’ll need to water their horses,” Cahira answered, staring off into the distance. “And this clearing is a good place. If they noted it as they passed this morning, they might return here.”

Sorcha snorted in disbelief, then eased back into the forest shadows. With great particularity, she lifted her skirt a few inches, nudged a few twigs out of the way with the dainty toe of her slippers, and then sank to the ground in a billowing cloud of fabric.

Cahira turned and watched the river, determined to wait until sunset if necessary. From this vantage point she could see a good distance toward the north, for the drovers had cleared the riverbank here
in order to water her father’s cattle. A bend in the river itself obstructed the southern view, but the Normans, if Rian had spoken the truth, would most certainly be coming from the north.

Why were they canvassing her father’s kingdom? Richard’s claim to Connacht was old and irrelevant news; he and his kind had been entrenched in Éireann for nearly seventy years. Before their arrival, the seagoing Norsemen had invaded settlements on the coast, and today no one worried one whit about them. The land was rich, fertile, and abundant—why couldn’t these Normans be happy and content in their castles?

Apparently theirs was a bloody and violent heritage. Cahira had heard of Norman armies ousting the rightful Irish kings and using the native Irish to work their fields and herd their cattle. They were an arrogant and haughty lot, Rian once told her, with strange ideas and customs that separated people into groups that did not mix. “The masters,” Rian had said, “live in castles built by the others, and they dress in fine clothes and ride magnificent horses while their people wear rough rags and live in mud huts. At dinner, the masters sit alone or with their wives only, at huge tables laden with more food than they could ever eat. The masters—the aristocracy, they call themselves—make odd gestures with their heads and hats; they bow and nod and wave their hands in strange signals that apparently convey a great deal of meaning. The lesser people must bow to the masters in just the proper way or pay a great price for their ignorance.”