The Emerald Isle (14 page)

Colton had been about to take another bite, but the bread stopped just short of his mouth. “I know,” he said, speaking slowly in order to make certain his meaning penetrated Oswald’s thick intellect, “that our Lord Richard is ambitious. I cannot fault him for it. He is as God created him, and he is an honorable man. But ambition has no place in the heart of a knight. We live to serve God and our masters. We have no higher calling.”

He lifted a brow and stared at Oswald, whose expression had gone blank with astonishment. For a moment silence reigned, then Oswald threw back his head and rocked with laughter.

Colton clenched his mouth tight and plucked a spot of mold out of his bread, then tossed the offending bit over his shoulder. “I don’t know what you find so funny.”

Oswald’s mirth died away—a few last whoops, then he wiped tears from his cheek. “
You
are funny, my friend. You say you are not ambitious, yet you fought to become captain of Richard’s knights.”

“I believe in excellence. I want to be the best because I owe my master no less.”

Oswald looked at Colton with amused wonder. “So be a knight, friend, for as long as you can. Mayhap your ambition will awaken when you find you have no skills and no master. The day is coming, for already your reflexes are slowing. Your aim is off too.”

“Only in your imagination.”

Oswald rolled onto his side and grinned up at Colton with a speculative gaze. “Care to make a wager? I’ll bet I can defeat you in any field of combat—”

“A dangerous wager. You must be more specific.”

“All right then.” Oswald’s smile narrowed. “At the tournament—let us wager about the outcome of…the archery contest.” He picked up an imaginary bow, nocked an invisible arrow, then squinted and sent it winging over the river. “Let’s see if your eye is as clear as it used to be.”

Colton’s heart thumped against his rib cage. He had a true aim, certainly, as well as a steady hand and quick eye. But he had not shot a bow in months. “The wager?”

Oswald’s eyes flicked momentarily toward the horses, and Colton felt his throat tighten. His Percheron gelding was an exceptionally fine animal, deep-chested and broad, fast and yet undemanding. Oswald had often expressed his admiration for the beast.

He looked at Colton again, and leaned forward in a casual, friendly posture. “The wager is this: If I defeat you, your horse becomes mine. If you defeat me, my horse becomes yours.”

“But we are on a cavalcade through Connacht. The loser will have to ride
something.”

Oswald shrugged. “Then the winner will not take possession of the animal until we arrive back at Castleconnell.”

Colton looked away, his gaze roving over the water as he considered
the proposition. It would be a cruel blow to lose his mount. He’d have to find a way to win another unless Lord Richard should feel generous and agree to give his captain another beast. And it would be embarrassing to explain how he, a sworn knight of over fifteen years, had no destrier to ride into battle. But his honor had been challenged. And if he expected to continue to lead his men, he could not back down.

“I agree to your wager and its conditions.” He emphasized his decision with an assertive nod. “No matter who wins the tournament at Athlone, the other shall ride until we return to Castleconnell.”

“Wonderful.” Oswald took a bite of his bread and smacked it in delight. “Now, friend, why don’t we seal our bargain with a drink from your wineskin? And don’t you have cheese as well? All this Irish beauty has awakened my appetite.”

Colton stood and splashed into the shallows where his horse browsed the river grass. He affectionately patted the animal’s neck as he reached for the wineskin hanging from his saddle.

He couldn’t lose the gelding. The beast was only a tool, as necessary as a knight’s sword and armor, but this was a
good
animal, an uncomplaining beast that had carried Colton unscathed through many a tournament and joust.

He slung the wineskin over his shoulder, then pulled the cheese from his bag. Setting it atop the wooden saddle for a moment, he cut two generous hunks with the tip of his dagger.

He was just about to sheathe his dagger when the gelding abruptly jerked his head toward a tall stand of brown reeds. The horse whickered softly, his ears flicking forward in interest. Something in the reeds had piqued his curiosity, possibly even incited his alarm.

Were they not alone? Memories of Philip’s tales passed over him, shivering Colton’s skin like the touch of fabled fairy. Irish warriors were foolhardy, Philip said, often flinging themselves into battle with no more armor than a helmet and belt, and no more deadly weapon than a short stabbing sword. And yet they won battles by virtue of unbridled courage—by surprise and stealth they overcame better-prepared enemies.

Were there Irishmen nearby? Hiding behind the reeds, perhaps, or beyond the curtain of trees that edged the riverbank?

Colton wrapped his fingers around the handle of the dagger, then reached for the horse’s bridle. Clucking softly with his tongue, he maneuvered the animal so the gelding’s massive bulk stood between him and the stand of fading reeds. Once he was safely sheltered, he peered over the top of the saddle and studied the water’s edge.

The gelding tossed its great head in agitation, but still Colton saw nothing but tall withered reeds, flies buzzing over the fading stalks, and a duck paddling against the river’s current. Further away, dark against the blue sky, a sparrow hawk circled over the opposite shore, looking for prey. A constellation of water bugs speckled the surface of the water, dimpling its smooth surface…and just beyond, a pair of great green eyes stared at him from the thickest part of the reeds.

His throat went dry as his feeling of uneasiness suddenly turned into a deeper and much more immediate fear. Philip’s myths about monsters and fairies who dwelled in lakes and bogs and mists took on a sinister aspect, and Colton felt his heart leap into the back of his throat. He was a Christian, a God-fearing knight sworn to obey the Lord, but perhaps the fathers of the church had not yet cast all the demons and devils out of Ireland.

Unable to tear his gaze from the riveting sight of those bewitching eyes, he instinctively crossed himself. The dark-lashed orbs blinked and widened slightly, and in that instant Colton realized that the river creature was as frightened to be discovered as Colton was to discover it.

Not a monster then. Not a demon, fairy, or ghost, but human.

“Colton?” Oswald’s voice broke the stillness. “Are you coming with that cheese?”

“In a moment.”

Colton kept his gaze fixed to the eavesdropper, afraid the stranger would submerge himself and vanish if he looked away. Oswald’s mount moved lazily through the shallows, drinking his own reflection from the river, sending a wave of ripples among the reeds. As the tall stalks
swayed in the slight disturbance, he caught a glimpse of a fair forehead and a flash of red hair.

A woman. Colton resisted the urge to slap the side of his head and wilt from embarrassment. A girl had just scared him speechless! A bashful one, too, by the looks of her, a shy creature who had undoubtedly scurried into hiding as they approached.

Struck by the realization that his curiosity had to be making the girl uncomfortable, he abruptly lowered his gaze. Oswald would think it great sport to entice the maiden out of her hiding place, but Oswald also found it sporting to toss kittens into the air to see if they’d land on their feet. This girl had probably heard of their arrival at Athlone, and might be terrified…or wise.

He looked toward the reeds again, afraid she might have moved away, but the emerald eyes waited there still, as wide and round as his own had been a moment before. He nodded in an unspoken promise of discretion, then pulled the hunks of cheese from his saddle. “Eat quickly, will you, Oswald?” he called in English, hoping the girl would understand. “The hour grows late, and I want to reach Athlone in time for a proper dinner.”

He glanced toward the reeds once again as he led his horse out of the water, but the girl with the green eyes had disappeared.

Cahira thought her blood would freeze when the knight’s eyes met hers. Her temper, which had boiled hot at the casual, proprietary way the knights lounged upon her father’s riverbank, chilled in the instant his dark eyes met hers. Her heart skipped a beat as they stared at each other, and the scalp of her head tingled at the thought that momentarily he would be hauling her out of the water.

But his face had tightened with fear, and for a moment she wondered if he had seen some truly terrifying thing behind her—a bear, perhaps? Then one moment moved seamlessly into the next, the fear faded from his face, and still they remained in their places, frozen like statues. An array of emotions flitted over his handsome face—alarm, distress, and curiosity—then he lowered his eyes to his saddle. Cahira
was tempted to catch her breath and duck under the water, but a blush burned his cheekbones.

The blush spoke volumes. He knew! He had surmised she was a woman, and he knew why she was hiding. Indeed, what man would not?

But the blush also spoke of shame, which implied decency, which meant that
this
man, surely one among hundreds, would not reveal her hiding place. The next moments confirmed her supposition, for the knight merely led his horse out of the water and told the other—in careful English—to hurry and eat. And before Cahira could have murmured an Our Father, the two Norman knights had mounted and ridden away.

She stared after them as she pulled her heavy garments out of the water and made her way to shore. She hadn’t understood a word of the knights’ conversation in French, but she had caught Richard’s name several times. And the other man’s arrogant, self-assured attitude needed no translation.

Behind her, Sorcha’s teeth were chattering. “Sure, and don’t I know we were about to die? Saints preserve us, but God was good! We could have been dragged up from the water and kidnapped, leaving your poor father with no choice but to go to war to redeem us!”

Cahira slipped in the mud and nearly fell, then regained her footing and slogged up the bank. Once she reached the top, she dropped the heavy hem of her gown and followed the winding trail of the river with her eyes. She could see the two riders, each leaning back in the saddle, the foolish one making wide gestures toward the river on one hand, the trees on the other.

The fool was probably talking about what Richard would do with the land when he owned it. But as long as she lived, Richard would not possess a single corner of Connacht.

“What strange men! I was so frightened!” Sorcha was sobbing in earnest now, her fears pouring out in a flood of tears. “Sure, didn’t I tell you we shouldn’t be wanting to see Normans? And didn’t I say we shouldn’t be leaving the house without a guard? Your father will be
in a desperate bad humor to hear of this. He will rant and rave and storm about—”

“Then don’t tell him.” The figures of the two knights blended into the woods and disappeared. All Cahira could see now was the winding length of the Shannon.

She turned to her maid and fixed her in a steely gaze. “We were splashing in the water, and we got wet. That is the truth, and it’s as much as my father needs to know.”

“But the Normans! They are evil!”

“You don’t know that. You couldn’t understand them any more than I could. And while they might be arrogant and wear buckets on their heads, they committed no evil in our sight.” Her thoughts turned toward the dark-eyed knight who had discovered her.
He
was not evil; she’d stake her life on it.

Sorcha stopped weeping and rubbed her arms.

“They weren’t both arrogant.” Cahira turned toward the woods to look for her cloak. “One was—well, he seemed a lovely man.”

Sorcha squeaked in surprise. “Lovely?”

Cahira turned back to her maid. “He saw me, Sorcha. He could have found us both, but he said nothing.”

Sorcha merely stared, tongue-tied, as Cahira reached out and took her arm. “We’ll walk back slowly, so the sun will dry us a bit,” she whispered, squeezing the girl’s wrist. “And as we walk, we’ll pray that God will bless the Normans’ visit to Connacht with peace and safety. My father will not trouble Richard. So as long as Richard does not trouble my father, all will be well.”

The girls found their cloaks and used them to dry off as best they could, then linked arms and began to walk along the trail to Rathcroghan. Cahira lowered her lids and kept her gaze on the ground, not wanting to talk. Sorcha took the hint and followed quietly, the silence broken only by the sound of her occasional sniffle.

They had just reached the first hedgerows when a hoarse whisper broke the silence. “By all the saints, have you any idea what worry you’ve caused me today, imp?”

Murchadh stepped out from behind a tree, his hands on his hips and his countenance as troubled as a stormy sky. “Your mother has been frantic with worrying for half the day, and your father gone to his knees in the chapel. And I’ve been tearing up the fields looking for you—”

“And now you’ve found me.” Cahira threw her arm around Sorcha’s shoulder and gave Murchadh her sweetest smile. “We went for a walk to the river, that’s all.”