The Emerald Isle (44 page)

Her father certainly behaved as if he did not. Though Cahira had spent an entire night after her return begging her father for understanding and mercy, the king of Connacht stared past her in stony silence. In a fit of grief, Cahira dropped to her knees, then fell to the floor and gripped his ankles, crying that she would not release him until he acted on her beloved’s behalf. With an effort, Felim o’ the Connors pulled himself free and proclaimed he had a funeral to arrange. Instead of sending warriors to Athlone, he dispatched runners throughout the province to summon free men and
filid
to mourn the brehon.

Two days later, a band of hired mourners sat outside the gates of Rathcroghan, splitting the air with their keening. Silent and defeated, Cahira watched them through the window of her upstairs chamber and felt as if she were mourning the death of her marriage, her love, and her hope.

Even after the great man had been buried and the guests sent away, Cahira’s father refused to hear her pleas. Bound by brehon law, he could do nothing to void her marriage, for unless she was proved a widow it must last at least a year and a day. As the days melted into weeks and weeks into months, Cahira began to believe her father planned to ignore her until the requisite interval ended. His silence and indifference built a wall between them not even Murchadh’s entreaties could breach.

When her father refused to listen, Cahira turned to her mother, who had retreated from the family discord by delving into religious practice. She spent nearly every free minute in the chapel, her lips
moving soundlessly as she recited the seven offices of the day in an endless liturgy. Limited as she was by her husband’s wishes, she could not offer her daughter comfort. “I have no answers for you, lass,” she whispered one afternoon when Cahira wept before her. “But I’m certain God does. Pray, Daughter, and let the peace of heaven lift this heaviness from your heart.”

Feeling lost and alone, Cahira turned to Sorcha, but her maid seemed as intent on avoiding all mention of Colton as the rest of the family. There remained only Murchadh, and Cahira went often out to the courtyard to seek her uncle’s company. He did not speak of Colton or of the Normans, but he often placed a bow in her hand and wordlessly guided her aim. In the discipline of archery she found a way to occupy her time, and Murchadh seemed to understand that she felt closer to Colton when she worked with the weapons that had brought them together. The sewing room and the great hall were not for her. She would never see herself as a
princess
, but a warrior’s bride.

When she was not practicing with Murchadh, she walked or rode down to the river. Her father had commanded Murchadh and Sorcha to accompany Cahira each time she left the rath, but they were wise enough not to intrude upon her grief. Her two guardians usually rode several paces ahead, leaving Cahira alone with her thoughts as she followed.

Though her heart remained steadfast in hope, she began to wonder if Colton would ever keep his word and meet her at the rock on the riverbank. Day after day she searched for a note slipped beneath a stone or a message scrawled upon the broad face of the rock itself. Her heart sank each day she looked for a sign and found none. Then she would sit and pray and encourage herself with the thought that every day she passed was one fewer she would have to wait. Colton would come for her. It was only a matter of time.

But a shadow lay across her heart today, a deep and dark cloud of grief. This morning a messenger had come to Rathcroghan and
asked for her father, and within moments of his arrival the sounds of shouting and merriment poured from the hall. As the king’s men danced to the sounds of the
bodhrán
, flute, and fiddle, Murchadh found Cahira and pulled her into the deserted stairwell. “There’s news from Philip’s rath at Athlone,” he said, his expression withdrawn and worried. “They’re saying Richard is planning to leave for Castleconnell soon. ’Tis said he’ll be taking all his knights with him.”

Despite the lively music coming from her father’s hall, Cahira choked on air suddenly thick with the heaviness of despair. “Do you think,” she touched Murchadh’s sleeve, “that my father will ask for Colton’s release before they go? If Richard holds him prisoner, my father could ransom him—”

“I’m thinking you’d be more likely to ask for the moon and get it.” Pity and understanding mingled in Murchadh’s eyes. “Your father is set in his ways, and he’s set on marrying you to Rian when your time is up. I’m sorry, imp, but that’s the lay of it.”

Cahira had gazed at Murchadh in despair, then picked up her cloak and moved slowly through the door. Oh, that she could speak with her love! She had tried to send messages to Athlone, but since Sorcha trembled at the very thought of the king’s disapproval, Cahira gave her letters to Murchadh, who had to send them with unreliable travelers occasionally spotted on the road outside Rathcroghan. Cahira doubted that any of her letters had been delivered to Colton.

Now, as Cahira walked toward the river behind her guards, she felt as though there were invisible hands on her heart, slowly twisting the life from it. Three months ago she had been a happy bride; nothing of that happiness remained now but the raw sores of an aching heart. She knew Colton would not willingly leave Connacht without her, so he must be either in chains or dead.

Ceaseless inward questions badgered her brain as she tried to imagine Colton’s situation. If he were free, he would have come to see her. Neither duty nor fear of his master had stopped him from coming before, so his absence could only mean that Richard had
physically prevented him. And if Richard considered Colton’s disloyalty grounds for imprisonment, what prevented him from ordering Colton’s death? Cahira had already seen how little respect Richard held for life. He saw himself as lord and master of everyone under his authority, and he could have brought about Colton’s death with little more than a nod.

If Colton was dead—Cahira tried to swallow the lump that lingered in her throat. For weeks she had been telling herself that Colton was strong and clever enough to prove his worth to his master. His tongue was quick; he would convince Richard to let him live. His arm was strong; he would fight and be victorious if allowed to duel for his life. His love was deathless; he would come to her as soon as he found a way to escape his master.

But he would not die. God would not let him die, for her baby would need a father.

Cahira’s hand moved automatically to her stomach, where the seed of life fluttered like a wee butterfly against the smooth underskin. She had suspected that she carried a child a few weeks after her return home, and now she was certain. She had not shared her secret with anyone. Upon hearing the news, her mother would only retreat deeper into her prayer life, and Sorcha would go pale and sway on her feet. And her father—her father did not deserve an heir as extraordinary as this child. This child would have Colton’s heart and strength, his sterling good looks and noble qualities. And if by God’s grace he possessed a wee bit of her Irish nature and her father’s leadership, one day he would make a king who might just be gifted enough to establish a true and lasting peace between the Gaels and Normans.

She broke into a smile and lifted her chin at the thought. Though it would pain her father to admit it, the Gaels would benefit from a touch of Norman blood. The outsiders were a ruthless and stiff people, to be sure, but in many things they seemed years ahead of the people of Connacht.

Cahira tilted her head, studying Sorcha and Murchadh. Those
two rode together ahead of her, their horses covering the forest trail with slow, stately steps, their own thoughts probably a thousand miles away. If not for Cahira’s trouble, Murchadh might have found the courage to ask her father for permission to wed the maid, but of late no one had dared risk the king’s dark and dangerous mood to ask for anything.

Cahira felt her spirit stir as she crossed the invisible boundary between her father’s fields and the primeval forest. Murchadh’s gruff voice faded in the stillness, and she lifted her eyes to the tall, straight trunks surrounding her like masts of ships long sunk in the sea. Once, when she was younger, her father had taken her to the coast of Connacht, where the tides roared in at the base of steep rocky cliffs and seagulls pinwheeled overhead. Awed by the power and frightening force of the sea, she had clung to her father’s arm as the wind sprayed her with seawater. In time, when she learned that the crashing turquoise ocean would not hurt her, the scene filled her with a profound sense of understanding. It was as if God carved out this special place just to remind man how great the Creator was.

The forest spoke to her of the same truth. Cahira slowed her pace, allowing Murchadh and Sorcha to move further ahead. A cathedrallike stillness pervaded the woods here, and by closing her eyes she could almost imagine that she had entered the throne room of God himself. If he would only look down and see her, an earnest petitioner ready to make intercession on behalf of another soul.

A rustling sound made Cahira’s heart leap in her chest. A colossal horse with legs like tree trunks stomped through the ferns alongside the trail. Though the man astride the beast wore a common tunic and cloak, Cahira knew instantly that the rider was no Gael.

The stranger sat unsteadily on the animal, his eyes dark beneath his hood as he maneuvered the animal onto the trail. Cahira automatically hooked her thumb in her belt, where a small dagger lay hidden among the folds of her tunic, and her eyes darted toward the place where Sorcha and Murchadh rode, unconcerned and unaware.

“Do not call out, Cahira.”

The low voice seemed familiar, and she frowned as she placed the voice with a name. “Oswald?”

He reached up and slipped the hood from his head, then gave her a dry, one-sided smile. “I thought I’d find you here. The river was your trysting place, was it not?”

Was?
His use of the past tense startled her. A thousand emotions rose in her breast—hope, fear, and anger, for the man before her was a traitor and murderer. And yet he would have news of Colton. He had obviously come from Athlone, and in disguise.

After a long pause, during which she fought for self-control, she demanded an answer: “Why are you here?”

A wry smile flashed in the thicket of his beard as he pulled a parchment from his tunic. “I have a message from your beloved. Colton is well and sends you his greetings.”

Mindless of all else, she rushed forward and sprang for the letter; she would have torn it from his hand had he not relaxed his grip. Breaking the seal, she unfolded the parchment and turned away to read the inked lines. She would not let Oswald study her face while she read her husband’s words. Since they had been so cruelly wrested apart, this was the first private moment she could share with him.

Cahira clutched the letter to her breast as her eyes filled with tears. He was alive and well! He did not say if he was imprisoned or in want, but he seemed in good spirits.

“Is he truly well?” she asked, not turning around. “Has he suffered on my account?”

“No more than you have suffered on his.” Oswald’s voice softened. “Turn, lady, and let me tell you what he did not dare write in a letter.”

Cahira whirled, hope setting her suspicions and fears to flight.

“My friend Colton,” Oswald said, nearly disarming her with his smile, “wishes to see you. He is watched most carefully, of course, but of late his guards have begun to relax. He does not dare leave Athlone in daylight hours, but wants to slip away after dark and meet you at some convenient place.”

Cahira’s heart raced. “We have heard that Richard is leaving soon.”

Oswald tilted his head, acknowledging her statement. “’Tis true. So if you want to claim your husband, you must agree to meet him in a private place. The riverbank is not safe, for it lies too close to your father’s fortress. Carnfree would be better. The landscape on that hilltop is bare, so once the sun rises, any intruders would be visible as they approached.”

Cahira let her eyes drift from the knight’s face as she considered his news. Colton had promised to meet her by the river if he escaped. This perilous plan did not sound like anything Colton would suggest.

She looked at the disguised knight, her joy deteriorating into suspicion. This Oswald had betrayed Colton and murdered Lorcan. Though he came bearing an honest letter from Colton, he had already
shown himself fonder of treachery than of friendship. It was likely that he wanted to snare her in a trap, for Colton himself had warned her that Richard would like nothing better than to have the king’s daughter for a hostage. Carnfree was secluded and convenient to Athlone, so if she went there alone, no one would hear her screams or see her abduction. And any number of men might be hiding in the little huts when she arrived.

She closed her eyes and bit back a scream of frustration. She wanted to go. She would have gone in a heartbeat if Colton had truly asked, but she could not risk herself because doing so meant risking her father and his men! Oh, that her father were not a king!

She returned her gaze to the knight’s face. “When shall I meet Colton at Carnfree?”

“On the morrow, after sunset.” His brows lifted. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you to come alone. Bring your maid if you must, but no guards.”

Cahira folded the parchment and slipped it beneath the sleeveless tunic she wore over her gown, daring to hope that Oswald spoke truly. How Colton would rejoice when she told him her secret! News of the coming child would seal their marriage and signal God’s blessing.