The Emerald Isle (43 page)

Colton went first down the ladder, then stood and held it steady for Cahira, resisting the surge of fury that murmured in his ear and banged in his blood. He had never been vanquished in a tournament, had never surrendered a fight. And yet here he stood, as meek as a kitten, and with no choice in the matter! But for Cahira he would bear it…as long as he could.

She eased her way down the ladder, then turned to face the two groups that waited for them, her eyes blazing. Colton reached for her hand, then led her around the silent company of Irishmen. They walked to the riverbank and took their stand on the shore at a point equidistant between Felim O’Connor and Lord Richard.

“Lord Richard,” Colton pitched his voice to reach across the river, addressing his master first. “I must beg your forgiveness, sir, for undertaking this endeavor without your permission. But I am prepared to give a defense of myself in the matter of the brehon. As God is my witness, I did not kill him. My marriage to this lady is sanctioned by God, if not the Church, and is appropriate under Irish law. We have
vowed our love and our lives together, and did so with the purest of motives and unblemished honor.”

“We will discuss this matter later,” Richard answered, his eyes resting upon Colton only for the barest fraction of an instant. His face was as blank as stone, unreadable. “I suggest you unhobble your horse and prepare to ride back with us at once.”

Cahira stepped forward. “Lord Richard.”

Colton watched with acute and loving anxiety as the nobleman leaned forward in his saddle, his eyes flickering with interest. “My lady?”

Cahira looked at him, her face dazzling with strength and determination. “This man is my lawful husband, and son-in-law to the king of Connacht. I will expect you to treat him with the respect and deference his position requires.”

For a moment Colton feared Richard would laugh in her face. His small blue eyes grew somewhat smaller and brighter, then he lifted a brow and shifted his gaze to Colton.

“I will give him all he deserves,” he answered, his lips pursing as if he wanted to spit. “You can be sure of that, my lady.”

Cahira gave his master a curt nod of farewell, then she turned to him and rested her fingertips lightly upon his uplifted hands.

“I thought you didn’t care anything about your positions and titles,” he teased, lowering his head to look into her downcast eyes. “Yet here you are, bragging that your husband is son-in-law to a king.”

“I spoke only of what Richard understands.” She lifted her gaze, and the look in her eyes set the drops of Colton’s blood to chasing each other through his veins. “You are worth far more than a king to me.”

And then, without another word, she lifted her hands from his and walked with stiff dignity not toward her father, but toward the warrior Murchadh.

Colton would have stood and watched as she mounted her horse, but Oswald splashed through the shallows and abruptly caught him
by the elbow. Colton obeyed the summons, taking only a moment to retrieve his horse. He mounted and directed the animal across the river shallows, then stared in surprise when Oswald stepped forward. The knight moved with a newfound assurance, a conviction of importance he wore like an invisible mantle. “You will not be needing a blade now, my friend,” he said. He reached as if to pull Colton’s sword from its scabbard, then frowned when he found nothing. “Your sword?”

“I gave it to my wife,” Colton snapped, gathering his reins. He wheeled his mount so that he faced the opposite riverbank. “And I will not leave until I am certain they will not harm Cahira.”

Oswald lifted a brow, but said nothing. From the height of his horse, Colton watched silently as the glaring Irishmen turned and spurred their mounts. Cahira rode alone, one slender and colorful figure amid a sea of heavily armed warriors. Not one of the Irishmen looked back.

Oswald looked up as the last man disappeared from view. “You are fortunate that the O’Connors arrived first,” he said, pitching his voice so that only Colton could hear it. “Lord Richard was planning to take the girl hostage in order to defeat her father the king.”

Colton gritted his teeth as fury rose within him. “Tell me, Oswald—why was it necessary to kill the brehon? He was an old man who never could have harmed you.”

Colton saw the small twitch of Oswald’s shoulders. “The Irish would have listened to him.” He lowered his gaze. “And Richard wants war. If you hadn’t been so blinded by that Irish wench, you would have understood our master’s wishes.”

Colton gripped his reins as Lord Richard turned his stallion and pulled up within arm’s distance of Colton’s saddle. “I will deal with you when we return to Athlone,” Richard said, bridled anger in his voice as he shifted to hold his spirited mount in check. “But do not expect to see that wench again, Sir Colton. Not in this lifetime.”

With a touch of his spur and an oath, the nobleman charged ahead, leaving Colton behind.

O
swald watched as one of Philip’s servants threw another bough on the fire, its impact sending a volcano of sparks across the floor. The December wind outside had turned wicked and cold, and even now bitter gusts blew through chinks in the log dwelling, numbing Oswald’s fingers as it prickled his skin.

Silently cursing the day Richard had ever decided to ride for Connacht, Oswald reached for another hunk of bread, took a bite, and chewed it thoughtfully as he studied the head table where his master sat. Philip, who grew more taciturn and inhospitable every day, made no secret of his eagerness for Richard’s departure. Though Richard kept talking about his return to Castleconnell, he had made no definite plans for departing to the province of Limerick. His attempts to bully Felim O’Connor into surrender had utterly failed, and the incident with the Irish king’s daughter had only increased the tension and hostility between the two factions.

Most important, none of the other barons had answered Richard’s pleas for support. Though he had sent letters to every other Norman who held feudal power in Ireland—Maurice Fitzgerald, lord of Offaly; Hugh de Lacy, Earl of Ulster; the Berminghams, lords of Athenry; and a host of others—not one had offered to support Richard’s current campaign against Felim o’ the Connors. Richard had lately confided to Oswald that the barons insisted the timing was wrong. Winter was upon them, a bad time for travel and provisioning an army. Perhaps
later, in the summer, they might be persuaded to send a few archers or swordsmen.

If Connacht was to be won, Richard had decided, it would not be by diplomacy, but by the sword. But though they had a sizable company in Athlone, twenty knights would not be enough to sweep Felim O’Connor from his home. That king had warriors aplenty, and those men were as broad as tree trunks and nearly as thickheaded.

Ignoring the rough voices of the knights around him, Oswald leaned back and studied his master’s face. Anxiety had etched lines of weariness upon Richard’s wide forehead, faint marks that had not been there three months ago when they returned from the tower at the River Shannon. Colton’s supposed defection had injured Richard’s pride. If his own captain’s loyalty could be shaken by the smile of a lovely Irish wench, what would happen to the other men if Richard lingered in this fair land? With crystal clarity, Oswald saw that his master’s overweening self-assurance had at last been shaken. He would be leaving for Limerick and Castleconnell soon unless something or someone convinced him victory could be won.

Oswald picked up his mug, knocked the last drop of ale into his mouth, then dropped it back to the table and wiped his chin. It was now or never. The opportunity would never be more ripe.

He stood, smoothed his surcoat, and approached the master’s table. Dropping to one knee, he waited in silence until Lord Richard’s gaze fell upon him.

In a voice cracking with exhaustion and despair, Richard spoke: “What is it, Sir Oswald?”

Oswald lifted his gaze to his master’s. “If I might beg leave to speak with you for an instant.”

Richard waved his hand in an absent gesture. “Speak, then.
Mais en français, s’il vous plaît.”

Oswald switched immediately to his native tongue. “If I might ask, my lord—what do you intend to do with Sir Colton?”

Richard’s eyes flew up at him like a pair of bluebirds startled out of hiding. “What concern is it of yours?”

“If it please you, sir, the man was a friend. I am concerned about his welfare.”

Richard’s brows lowered. “If you must know, I have decided to kill him. We are accomplishing nothing here, and I’m thinking we should return to Castleconnell within a fortnight. ’Twould be wiser to rid myself of a disloyal knight than risk traveling with him to a province he no longer cares to defend.”

Oswald winced with false remorse. “I beg you to spare him until we leave. I have an idea you might want to consider before sending his soul to heaven.”

A faint line appeared between Richard’s heavy brows. “Go on.”

Oswald rubbed his hand over his face. “It has occurred to me that Colton might yet be of use to us. After all, if the fish nibbled once, perhaps it will strike at the bait again.”

Richard’s mouth spread into a thin-lipped smile. “Speak plainly, Oswald, before I lose my patience. I’ve had my fill of riddlers and poets. This place is altogether lousy with them.”

Giving his master a bland half-smile, Oswald spoke in his most direct tone. “Felim O’Connor’s daughter loves your treacherous knight. If she could be persuaded to meet him, perhaps we could entice her to slip into our hands. A quirk of fate prevented you from taking her as hostage at the tower, but perhaps she might prove a hostage yet. You may still leave in a fortnight, sir, but wouldn’t it be better to leave as the acknowledged lord of Connacht?”

Richard sat in silence, considering the idea, then a blush of pleasure showed on his face, as if the idea had caused younger blood to fill his veins. “The idea has merit, but how will we convince the girl to venture away from her father’s rath? Felim O’Connor is no fool; he is not likely to allow the woman to wander freely about the countryside.”

“Cahira O’Connor is no ordinary young woman, my lord. You cannot have forgotten the spectacle she made of herself at the tournament. She is not afraid to defy her father. With one word in her ear, I am certain she would agree to meet Colton in some secluded
place—where, of course, your lord and his men could take her into custody.”

Offering the curious Philip a distracted nod, Richard drummed on the table and lifted his eyes to the fire shadows dancing on the ceiling. Oswald watched the Irishman, realizing that poor, ambitious Philip, who had probably hoped the Normans would increase his prosperity and standing, had received nothing for his hospitality but trouble and aggravation and the ill use of his serving maids.

“I suppose,” Richard said, still speaking in soft French, “you could draw her out? I’ve discovered you are nothing if not inventive, Oswald.”

“I believe I could, sir.” Oswald smiled. “If you will give me leave, I will don a plain tunic and ride to Rathcroghan without a saddle, in the manner of the Irish. The girl’s maid knows me, and so does the captain of O’Connor’s men. I know I could get a word to her.”

Richard nodded slowly. “So be it. Ride tomorrow and arrange the meeting.”

“There is one more consideration,” Oswald ventured, taking a calculated risk. Richard had neither spoken of nor laid eyes on Colton since they returned to Athlone. After being beaten for his insubordination, the former captain had been locked in a cattle shed, deprived of all but the most meager food and water.

Oswald lifted a brow and met his master’s gaze. “The girl, as I said, is no ordinary young woman. She may want proof that Colton still lives.”

Richard scratched his beard for a moment, then nodded. “Then visit the prisoner and have him write her a message. But make certain he writes nothing of his confinement…or of anything else unpleasant.”

“I will do it, my lord.”

Bowing his head in submission, Oswald stood, crossed the stuffy chamber, and stepped gratefully out into the cool, crisp night.

Cahira walked slowly on leaden legs, her thoughts as heavy as the air that surrounded her. The morning’s gray promise had been fulfilled
with a weeping drizzle that seemed appropriate for a joyless December afternoon. The rain fell in soft spatters that caught in her hair and lashes, blurring her sight like tears. The mown fields to her right and left, heavy now with wild ragwort, trembled in the wind, while somewhere in the distance a hawk screeched and wheeled for cover beneath the trees. She ought to be seeking cover too, but what did it matter if she took a chill and caught a fever? Colton was gone, and not a single word had come from Athlone regarding his welfare. Did he still live?