The Emerald Isle (20 page)

Colton stood there, blank, amazed, and shaken as the lad bellowed out his solution to the dilemma. The
boy
would stand in the old man’s stead? Such loyalty was rare even among knights; he had not expected to find it anywhere in Ireland. The lad was probably confident of his and Oswald’s ability; still, this was a contest to the finish. At least one arrow would have to miss the mark in order for a winner to take the prize.

Aye, the lad possessed boldness aplenty. No tact, not much wisdom, but loyalty and impudence enough to equip a king’s garrison.

“Let me propose an alternative.” Colton dropped his bow and arrow in the grass and moved two steps forward, distancing himself from the lad. “Why have two knights competing against one another, when all the land wants to see a contest between the natives and the newcomers? Let me stand as the target, my lord, and let the lad compete against Oswald. Release the old man, and let the target rest upon
my
head.”

Richard stood immobile, shock flickering over his face like heat lightning, but Philip clapped his hands in loud approval. “A lovely idea!” the Irishman shouted, turning to share his glee with the members of his household. “Norman against Gael! And the old man goes free!”

As the crowd thundered its approval, Colton began to walk forward, knowing Richard could not now deny his request. To do so would seem dishonorable, and Richard valued nothing so much as the appearance of honor.

He felt the light touch of a hand on his sleeve and turned to see the Irish lad trotting beside him, his eyes wide. “Why?” the boy asked, his brows drawn together in bewilderment. “The old man means nothing to you.”

“But he means a great deal to you,” Colton answered, stopping.
“And no man loves life like him that’s growing old. So get you back to your bow and remember—I’m growing older myself and am rather fond of living. I place my life in your hands.”

The boy released him, and Colton continued walking toward the post, where a pair of his own comrades waited to bind him. One of Philip’s guards was leading the old man away, and the poor old soul stopped to gibber a few words of gratitude before the guard yanked on his rope.

Some dim recess of Colton’s mind, not occupied with immediate survival, speculated upon the boy’s relationship to the old man. The lad bore little resemblance to the old fool, but Colton could have sworn that the boy’s eyes flashed with recognition, even affection, when he saw the old fellow. If they were related, then, or even if they were friends, Colton had done the right thing.

He walked to the post and leaned back against it, then thrust his hands behind him. The knight standing there snickered as he bound Colton’s wrists. “Is the sun getting to you today, Captain? Or have these Irish bewitched you? Oswald will shoot first, you know, you can take pleasure in that. He’ll not miss, but that little Irish lad doesn’t look like he has strength enough to get the arrow across this field. I’m thinking that his arrow will fall and strike you”—the fellow stopped knotting the rope long enough to step forward and tap Colton squarely in the center of his chest—“right about there.” The knave gave Colton a humorless smile. “Too bad mail armor won’t stop an arrow. You may regret your actions here today, Captain.”

Colton didn’t answer, but lifted his gaze toward the sky.
Thou shall not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day
.

Another man pulled a black hood from his belt.

“What’s that?” Colton asked, uncomfortably suspicious.

“So you won’t flinch,” the knight answered, his fat face melting into a buttery smile. “That would be messy, wouldn’t it? With this over your head, you won’t know what’s coming till it’s all over.”

Colton closed his eyes as the black cloth descended and blocked
out the world. The crowd grumbled and hooted until someone balanced the melon upon his head. He stiffened his spine and held his breath, afraid he’d send the melon toppling and misdirect the archers.

Silence sifted down like a snowfall. In his mind’s eye he could see Oswald picking up his bow and nocking the arrow.

God, if ever you steadied Oswald’s arm, please do so now
.

A tide of goose flesh rippled up each of Cahira’s arms and raced across her shoulders as the arrogant knight lifted his bow and drew back. She closed her eyes as his fingers released the string, not daring to open them until she heard a solid thwack and the crowd’s approving roar. The insolent Norman had succeeded, and now everyone waited for her.

How could she shoot at the man who had just saved her friend?

She couldn’t. But neither could she withdraw from the contest, for doing so would mark her as a coward. Her withdrawal would shame Éireann, disgrace her father, and dishonor the memory of Brian Boru and Rory O’Connor, the kings she had just touted as her ancestors. Leaving the field of contest now would reinforce every supposition and prejudice the Normans had formed about her people.

She picked up her bow. Given only two choices, shooting at a Norman knight was by far the lesser evil. He had proven himself a steady target when Oswald took his shot, so if he didn’t quaver, if the wind didn’t gust, and if her arrow didn’t dislodge a feather, she wouldn’t miss.

The noise of the crowd diminished as she nocked her arrow. Waves of silence began from the men behind her and flowed across the field. The silence did not touch her, though, for her ears rang with the banging of her blood.

The figure of the hood-shrouded man seemed to retreat as she lifted her bow, pointed the tip of the arrow squarely at his head, then nudged it a fraction upward. Inhaling deeply, she drew back, locked the bowstring, and closed her eyes.

Father God, guide my arrow!

Opening her right eye just the barest bit, she released the string…and heard the crowd sigh like a bellows, then break into exuberant applause.

Oswald had already withdrawn another arrow, preparing to shoot again, but Cahira knew she could not continue. By the grace of God, she had proven the O’Connors’ bravery and demonstrated Gaelic skill. She would not allow the gallant knight who had saved Brian to suffer harm.

Slipping her bow over her shoulder, with long strides she walked across the field and called to the masters of the games. “Lord Richard! Philip of Athlone! I have a message for you!”

Richard stood from his chair and scowled at the irregularity. “Why are you not preparing to take your next shot?”

“I am done with shooting, sir.” She turned to Philip and doffed her cap, lowering herself in an extravagant imitation of the bow she’d seen the knights perform. “Philip, I have won for you today on behalf of Rathcroghan and your kinsman, Felim o’ the Connors.”

“Felim?” Philip was on his feet in an instant, his large blue eyes vivid and questioning. “But Felim sent no representative to the games.”

“He sent his daughter.” Cahira straightened herself, then gave the Irish chieftain a cocky grin. “And it is she who addresses you now, pleased to report that her arm is as steady as any Norman knight’s.”

A wry smile gathered up the wrinkles by Philip’s mouth. “
Céad míle fáilte
, Cahira.” The warmth of his smile echoed in his voice. “A hundred thousand welcomes to you. You have honored my house today.”

Behind his hood, Colton heard the roaring crowd and knew something out of the ordinary had occurred. He strained at his bonds and bellowed for release, and a moment later his comrade yanked the hood from his head.

Colton stared in amazement. The Irish spectators had spilled onto the grass, and all semblance of order had vanished from the field. His young opponent was whipping through the crowd in some sort of mad jig, cavorting before Richard and Philip with more than a
dozen of his countrymen. In the twinkling of an eye the field of competition had been transformed from a somber place of testing to a riotous celebration.

“What has happened?” he asked, tugging uselessly on the ropes that still held his wrists. “Has the world gone mad?”

“She’s a girl,” the knight replied, his voice heavy with disbelief, “a bloomin’ Irish princess. Be glad you didn’t compete against her, Captain. What glory lies in victory over a wench?”

A girl?
Colton’s gaze ran over the archer’s tunic, taking in the unstitched hem, the slender legs, the dainty leather shoes. No wonder she had used such a short bow!

He felt the corner of his mouth twist in a half-smile. No wonder she had felt compassion for the old man. Women were naturally more tenderhearted than men; most women would have dissolved into tears at the thought of even picking up a weapon. But this girl was different—and a king’s daughter! He knew little about Irish royalty, but it was clear from this girl’s example that Irish princesses did not lounge around their castles as decorative bric-a-brac.

Joy blossomed on every Irish face. From out of nowhere, someone produced a harp and pipe, and the lively sounds of an Irish jig filled the air.

The knight cut his wrists free, and Colton rubbed the chafed skin as he watched a juggler toss an endless circle of apples into the air. There would be no more contests today. The ale would begin to flow freely, and the knights who weren’t disposed to dance would be so affronted by the frivolity they’d take themselves away. And Oswald, who had only equaled a
girl
, would certainly not object to ending the tournament.

Colton’s smile turned to a chuckle. The girl, the Lord be praised, had just saved him from forfeiting what would have been a costly wager. He’d have to thank her.

His eyes searched for her, but found Oswald instead, standing alone at the edge of the merrymakers. He stood with his hand resting upon his sword belt, his dark eyes intent as he followed the surging
crowd. His mouth twitched in a grim little grin as he nodded to a pair of dancers who slipped from the mob.

Colton swung his arms forward, easing his tense shoulder muscles, and considered his friend’s situation. It was no great shame to be bested by another knight, but to be matched by a
woman.
Such a thing would be inconceivable in Normandy or England. Women in those countries knew their places; they did not dress in rags and compete with men. True, England’s Queen Matilda had once donned armor and led her knights into battle, but she never cast aside the dignity of her position. And yet the Irish stripling who had pleaded for the life of the used-up old man was the daughter of a king!

Colton moved into the crowd, anxious to find the girl. After jostling amid the dancers for what seemed an interminable length of time, he found his little competitor pressed against a rail fence, hemmed in by a broad-shouldered warrior and a nervous-looking maiden in simple garb. He recalled seeing the odd pair earlier, when he had smacked the disguised princess with the pig’s bladder. No wonder the grizzled guardian had been insulted!

“Sure, now, and your father will have me hide,” the bearded man was saying, his face the color of an overripe apple. “Why couldn’t you have told me you were planning to start a riot?”

The girl crossed her arms across her chest. “I didn’t start anything.”

The warrior fixed worried eyes upon the other woman. “Sorcha, what are we to do? News of this will reach Rathcroghan soon, perhaps even before we do.”

“Leave Sorcha alone.” The princess flung herself into the maid’s defense as passionately as she had fought for the old man. “’Tis my doing, and I’ll take responsibility for it. Murchadh, you can say you knew nothing.”

“I’ll not be lying to your father.” The color in the man’s face deepened, and droplets of sweat ran down his jaw. “What sort of devil possessed us to do this thing?”

Stepping forward, Colton thrust his way into the conversation. “I was wondering the same thing myself.”

All three jerked at the sound of his voice. Colton extended his hand in a sweeping and graceful gesture, eager to make peace and the proper introductions. He bowed to the besieged princess, then offered a lesser bow to the man and the maid. When he looked up, he thought he saw a smile play briefly on the princess’s lips.

“Congratulations, Your Highness. You are an excellent archer.”