The Emerald Isle (18 page)

A familiar voice caught his attention, and he glanced up to see Oswald trying to charm an English merchant’s daughter. He leaned on a table in her booth, his eyes raking her form in a manner that seemed highly indecent. Curious to discover what Oswald found so appealing, Colton glanced at the girl. She was well-rounded and comely, but her mouth was decidedly thin and her eyes a bit narrow, nothing like the wide green eyes Colton had glimpsed among the shadows of the river reeds.

He opened his mouth to rebuke Oswald, then thought better of it. It was a festival, after all, and as long as Oswald was talking and not touching, the girl would remain safe. There were too many strong arms and sharp eyes about for Oswald to get into true trouble.

Turning from the annoying antics of his friend, Colton directed his attention to a boisterous game wreaking havoc along the path separating the merchants’ tents. Someone had offered a boar’s bladder to a group of freckle-faced boys who, having inflated the organ, were now indulging themselves in a vicious game of kick-away. Colton followed the progress of the bladder, grinning as a wave of bittersweet nostalgia tugged at his heart. If he were not thirty years old, a knight, and a Norman, he might actually join in this game.

The bladder sailed in Colton’s direction, and a sandy-haired youngster raced to intercept it. The boy pulled back his foot and kicked, but the wooden sole of his shoe only grazed the organ, leaving it spinning in the sand. While the boys hooted and cheered, the whirling bladder came to rest only inches from Colton’s boot.

A flutter of alarm ran through the observant group. “He won’t give it back!” one boy shouted, but a flood of reproachful shushing drowned the unflattering opinion.

Colton stared down at the bladder, then saw the tips of two small shoes shuffle forward. He looked up and found himself facing a
wide-eyed lad of not more than seven or eight. The boy said nothing, but stared with owl eyes at Colton’s mail, the armor, and the sword. He backed away, too cowed to speak.

Colton swallowed hard, feeling his own cheeks blaze with embarrassment. What rumors had these children heard that they should retreat from him in fear?

“Wait!” He held out his hand, and exhaled in relief when the little boy met his gaze.

Colton stepped forward, about to bend and toss the bladder back to the boys, but an irrational notion overtook him. Meeting the boy’s eye, he flashed a winning smile, then brought his leg forward in a snap kick, launching the bladder in a high arc that would have impressed his own childhood friends.

The boy opened his mouth and gaped, following the sight of the inflated bladder as it flew over the baker’s booth, the spice merchant’s, and the silk importer’s, then fell like a star toward the earth—and struck a young man directly in the face.

Colton cringed as his ears caught the sharp smacking sound. The boys scattered like the wind, and the offended youth stood still, his eyes lowered, one hand floating up toward his face as if he wanted to be certain the flesh remained attached to his head. A young woman standing next to the lad shrieked in horror, and a grizzled Irish warrior reached for his dagger as he fixed Colton in a blue-eyed vise.

Instinctively, Colton’s hand moved toward the hilt of his sword. Though the assaulted youth did not appear to be armed, Colton had seen men come to blows over more trivial insults than this. He hesitated, then advanced with long strides, eager to make amends or defend his honor, whichever would be necessary.

“I do beg and pray you to forgive the accident,” he began, ignoring both the warrior and the trembling maid. He spoke to the cap on the youth’s head, all that was visible from his height. “I only meant to return the game to the boys. They seemed unwilling to play with the bladder in my vicinity.”

“You goatish, beef-witted barnacle!” The warrior growled and took a step in Colton’s direction.

But the youth put out a pale, restraining hand. “Arrogant show-off.”

The whispered words barely reached Colton’s ear, but he could not deny the venom in the voice. He rested his palm on the hilt of his blade, sending an unmistakable message to the bearded behemoth whose eyes glittered with challenge.

“I have asked for your forgiveness,” he said, finding himself inexplicably uncomfortable facing an opponent who would not meet his eye. “If you will not give it, perhaps you would like to defend your honor on the field.” He stopped and took a half-step back, bowing in a courtly gesture. “I am at your disposal, sir.”

The head lifted then, and the Irish eyes beneath the brim of the cap were narrow with fury. “I will defend my honor, but not for this offense. I will readily pardon an accident, but offenses to one’s home and family are not so easily forgiven.”

Colton frowned, confused by the youth’s words and his tone. “Offenses? Forgive my ignorance, but I do not take your meaning. I’ve been in this province only six weeks, hardly long enough to commit any offenses toward your people.”

“You will take my meaning soon enough.” With that, the youth lowered his head, spun on his heel, and stalked away through the merchants’ tents, drawing his odd companions after him.

Cahira kept her eyes down as she hurried away, afraid that at any moment she might shriek or cry or scream. Him! Of all people, she had encountered
him
, and Murchadh had drawn his dagger and nearly skewered him! The knight seemed charming enough at first, rushing up to apologize for nearly knocking her senseless with that foul-smelling pig part, but he also had been quick to suggest that if she didn’t feel forgiving, she should have the feeling carved into her on the field of contest.

Conceited Norman knight! How she would enjoy defeating him! And after she had done so, she would tell him that she spied upon him at the river, that she saw his eyes fill with fear when he thought he heard a noise in the reeds. He was no warrior—he was a man, and a rather silly one at that. Her father would never be caught playing kick-away with a band of boys, and Murchadh would never apologize for accidentally striking a passerby.

Sorcha called out to her, begging her to slow down, but Cahira kept up her quick pace, resentment beating a bitter cadence in her heart as she marched toward the field where the men were setting up targets for the archery competition. Half a dozen Irishmen and as many Norman knights lazed about outside the circle, each group remaining a careful distance from the others and occasionally eyeing the competition with suspicion.
If Philip arranged this tournament to help the two groups get along
, Cahira reasoned,
thus far he has made little progress
.

She walked toward the opening that led to the archery field, then halted as Murchadh grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. “Wee imp,” his burning eyes holding her still, “I am beginning to think I was wrong. These are not our people you’re shooting against; they are strangers.”

“They are
big,”
Sorcha added, her eyes squeezed closed so tight that her whole face seemed to collapse in on itself.

Murchadh relaxed his grip, but his eyes remained serious. “If it were a contest between our own people, I wouldn’t be minding at all. But these are not our kind, lass, and I don’t know what they will think if you defeat them. You saw the pride in the one we addressed a moment ago—such pride does not handle defeat with good grace.”

Cahira stared at her beloved mentor, then felt her anger and determination drain away in a rush of insecurity. What was she
thinking?
To her left stood the huddle of Gaels, many of whom would recognize her if she stood among them and tried to make conversation. To her right stood the Norman knights, and even at this distance they
seemed inhumanly enormous. They had to wear some sort of padding beneath all that mail, she thought, squinting toward them, or the effort of carrying around so many extra pounds added unnatural layers of muscle. She heard them joking with each other in the strangely nasal language she recognized as French. To her left, the Irishmen laughed and hailed each other in Gaelic.

In the center of the field, poor Philip stood next to a smaller man clothed in a crimson, fur-trimmed tunic. This man, Cahira realized instinctively, had to be Richard de Burgo, her father’s enemy and the master of these knights. If she withdrew from the competition now, not only would she pass up the opportunity to humiliate these egotistical bullies, but she would also miss her chance to thumb her nose at the lord who kept her father pacing the floors at night.

Her mouth tipped in a faint smile. “You’re right, Murchadh. Pride does not accept defeat easily, but I am proud too. And I will do my best today.”

The blare of a trumpet suddenly lanced the confusion, piercing Cahira’s heart with its brittle blast.

Philip stepped forward and lifted his arms to welcome his guests. “Come one, come all.” He spoke in a stilted, inflectionless English. “In honor of my guest, Lord Richard de Burgo, we will now begin the archery contest. Come, my friends and kin, and let us sharpen our skills as we toast each other.”

“Go then,” Murchadh’s broad hand came to rest on Cahira’s shoulder, then gave her a gentle shove. “And prove that these Normans have not yet seen what the free blood of Éireann can do.”

Both groups of contestants had begun to move forward. With Murchadh’s words ringing in her ears, Cahira walked at the edge of the Irishmen and kept her head down. The newly cut hay crunched under her feet, which seemed ridiculously small compared to the huge boots marching around her.

“You’ll be needing a right sharp eye to win with that thing.” The man next to her had spoken, and Cahira was confused until she glanced
up and saw him looking at her bow. He carried a regular hunting bow, a long instrument that required a man’s muscled arm. Her short bow, which Murchadh had carved especially for her, required far less strength.

“My eye is sharp enough,” she muttered, taking pains to pitch her voice low. “’Tis sharper than any of those Normans, truth be told.”

The man cackled in appreciation of her bravado, then the group halted at a plowed line in the earth. As the group dispersed along the line, Cahira saw that Philip’s men had set several upright posts on the far side of the field. Upon each post rested a single, small, unremarkable apple.

She closed her eyes. Hitting an apple would be easy enough, for she had hit smaller targets. But the distance was another matter—the men around her, including the Normans, would use bows with far more power. She could compensate by overpulling, but if she drew the bowstring too far, the stress might cause the bow to wobble, sending the arrow careening over the grass. She had come to win, not to humiliate herself.

“The first round of the competition is simple enough,” Philip explained, glancing down the row of competitors. “Each man to hit an apple will move into the next round, where the stakes and the difficulty will rise. Those who do not hit the apple are dismissed, and may God grant you better luck in the next contest!”

The competitors around Cahira twittered with nervous laughter, then shed cloaks and quivers and sword belts as they prepared to string their bows. Cahira kept her eyes downcast as she stepped between her bow and its string, then expertly pressed the bow’s lower curve against her foot and slid the string to the upper notch.

“Faith, I haven’t shot at an apple in years,” the man next to her said as he adjusted his bowstring. “If they’d run a rabbit across this field,
then
we’d have some sport.”

Cahira made a soft sound of agreement as she picked up her bow and pulled, testing the tension. She had not practiced in more than a week, but the skills involved in archery had always come naturally
to her.
Too
naturally, Murchadh always said. Ladies should be skilled with a needle and thread, not weapons.

“Nock your arrows at your leisure,” Philip called again, clasping his hands at his waist. “But hold until you hear the order to let the arrows fly.”

Cahira ran her fingers over the string, testing its strength, then slipped her quiver from her shoulder and let it fall to the ground. She withdrew an arrow, completely aware that a sudden silence had fallen over the line of contestants as each man nocked his arrow for the one shot that would spell victory or defeat. Holding the bow in a horizontal position, she placed the notched end of her arrow onto the reinforced center of the bowstring, gripped the bow with her left hand, and rested three fingers of her right hand upon the string.

“Ready?” Philip called. “Take your aim!”

Like the others, Cahira turned her bow, extended her left arm, then pointed the tip of the arrow toward the target. In one steady movement, she pulled the bowstring with her three center fingers, then locked her right thumb under the bone at the junction of her jaw and earlobe.

“Release!”

Closing her left eye, Cahira centered on the target, then opened the three fingers of her right hand. The arrows flew out in a whistling cloud, and Cahira held her breath as
her
arrow, flying straight and true, struck the apple and knocked it from the post.

A ferocious cheer erupted from the crowd, and for an instant Cahira felt as though the clamor of approval rose for her alone. The men on her immediate right and left had completely missed their targets, one man’s arrow flying far beyond his post, and the other burying itself in the hay stubble not twenty feet away.