The Emerald Isle (46 page)

“They won’t charge.” Cahira scanned the line ahead for any knight who looked like Colton, but from this distance one armored man looked just like another. Though none wore visors over their faces, mail hoods covered their hair, and nearly every man wore a beard.

“Bring the villain’s body forward,” Felim called, lifting his hand. As the Gaels spread out in another line, Murchadh rode toward the king, leading Oswald’s horse. The knight’s body, bound now in burlap, was draped over the saddle like a sack of gourds.

Cahira turned her head as the malodorous burden passed. The traitor had been dead three days.

Urging his horse forward in a slow walk, her father stiffened and took on a regal air. “Hear me, Richard de Burgo,” he called. “I have arranged this meeting on a mission of peace and to discuss a trade—one man for another. The man I offer you is dead, but since he is one of yours, I am returning the scoundrel’s body instead of exacting vengeance for his assault upon a king’s daughter.”

Richard straightened in the saddle as the horse and its loathsome burden approached. Murchadh stopped just beyond the line of Gaelic warriors, then turned and flicked a whip at the dead man’s mount. The animal jolted forward, then slowed and whinnied in the empty space between the two lines.

Richard jerked his hand toward a pair of knights, who rode forward and caught the beast. While one man held its bridle, the other dismounted and cut the strings around the shroud. He peered for an instant at the dead man, then turned away, his face contorted in a grimace of revulsion.

“My lord,” he called in a strangled voice, “’tis Oswald, and no doubt. His eyeball is pierced, and his throat’s been cut.”

Richard received this news in silence, then gestured for the men to bring the horse forward. When the animal and its dread baggage
had passed behind the line and below the slope of the hillside, the nobleman rested both hands on the broad curve of his saddle.

“How do I know you did not murder this man without cause?” Richard called, his voice courteous but patronizing. “I can think of no reason Oswald would assault your daughter. I have only your word to account for the matter.”

“You have my daughter’s word as well,” Felim answered in a rough voice. Cahira’s heart stirred with pride as she stole a sidelong look at her father. His long face and glaring eyes, which could intimidate most men even from a good distance, filled now with beaten sadness. “I trust my daughter, Richard, above any man in Connacht. She would not lie to me. And she would not put her dagger into a man’s eye without good cause.”

An audible murmur rose from the long line of knights, and Cahira felt grim satisfaction in the sound of it. Did Norman women not know how to defend themselves? She’d strike the same way, and more forcefully, if any conniving traitor ever attacked her again.

From beneath the hillside, tucked out of sight, Colton heard Felim’s defense and the murmur that followed. He wasn’t certain why Richard decided to bring him along for this meeting with the king of Connacht, but he was glad to be free of the miserable hut where he had been confined. And though his arms were still bound, signifying that Richard did not yet fully trust him, his heart rejoiced to know Cahira’s father had finally proved willing to meet with Richard. God had certainly worked in an unexpected way, and the peace he and Cahira had dreamed of might be within reach today. Both leaders had spoken of peace, and both seemed willing to avoid conflict.

Despite these auspicious signs, the voice of uncertainty still nagged at him. He had not heard from Cahira in more than three months, and he suspected Oswald had not delivered his hasty letter of three days before. Most troubling was Felim’s assertion that Cahira had wounded Oswald.

Richard’s thoughts seemed to wander in the same direction. “Before
I can accept the word of an Irishwoman,” the baron was saying now, his voice crisp and clear in the chilly air, “I must know why your daughter struck my man. Was she seized in a fit of temper? Did she toss the blade and accidentally stick Sir Oswald? If this were Normandy or England, we would convene a court to hear this case and come to a clear understanding of the matter.”

“This is Éireann and Connacht,” Felim O’Connor answered, tossing the words across the void like stones. “And my daughter has told the story in my council, where she was completely cleared of any wrong. Your man, as you describe him, lunged for her, assaulted her, and would have abducted her—and this after learning she carries a child!”

The surge of sudden rage took Colton unaware, like a white-hot bolt of lightning through his chest and belly. Oswald had attacked Cahira?
Struck
her? And she was…with child?

His
child. His wife, wherever she was, was carrying his son or daughter.

Biting back an oath, he pulled against the ropes binding his wrists. By heaven, he would stand idly by no longer! He had written the note that convinced her to listen to Oswald, half hoping that Richard would succeed in bringing Cahira to Athlone, for at least they would then be together. With crystal clarity he now saw that those hopes sprang from selfishness and pride; God had been right to deny them. But if God was merciful and just, he would hear Colton’s prayer now and grant him strength.

“I am sorry to hear that Oswald behaved in such an unchivalrous manner,” Richard said, his voice smooth as the wind carried it over the hills. “And of course we will accept his body and take care of the burial. And peace shall continue to overspread this land.”

“Hold, I am not finished with the matter of the dead man,” O’Connor called back. “I must know why this murderous scoundrel was outside Rathcroghan. Did he come purposely to work mischief upon my daughter? Or perhaps he sought to injure our cattle and crops again.”

Richard tilted his head and, watching from the base of the hill, Colton saw the gesture and recognized it. Richard adopted that posture when he was searching for words.

“I know nothing about cattle or crops, though a devil may work mischief wherever he chooses,” Richard finally answered. “But I suspect Oswald was in your vicinity because your daughter enticed him to come. She has done nothing but flaunt herself before my men since we arrived in Connacht.”

Colton gasped at his master’s bald lie. Sputtering with rage and indignation, he lifted one foot over his saddle and slid from his horse, his hands still tied. Until that moment, he had imagined that Richard still possessed some honor, but if he was willing to accuse Cahira of immodesty in order to disguise his own ambitious plot, there was not a speck of genuine honor in him.

Bracing himself, he quickened his pace and panted up the hill, then pushed his way through the line of mounted knights.

“Lord Richard!” he roared, aware of startled expressions all around him. “I beg you, my lord! Hear me!”

A Sabbath stillness reigned on the field, with only a snatch of bird-song to disturb it. Though the warriors on the northern side of the field were an indistinct blur, his worried eyes caught a glimpse of a bright blue garment—a lady’s gown. Cahira was there, after all. Nothing else mattered.

Richard turned slowly, the once handsome and compassionate veneer on his face peeled back to reveal the violence underneath. He regarded Colton with an expression he might have used to consider an especially repulsive insect.

“Get back!” he ordered, his low voice brimming with hate.

“No sir.” With a quick snap of his shoulders, Colton turned to face the Irish, lifting his bound hands into the air. Let them see him and know the truth. He had not deserted Cahira, nor had he sent Oswald to harm her. They might be thinking anything, but he would tell them the truth.

“Lord Richard!” Felim came forward on his horse, close enough
for Colton to see the blue in the king’s eyes. “I mentioned a trade. We have returned the scoundrel’s body to you, and in return we would ask for this knight.” He glanced at Colton for any sign of objection, then returned his gaze to Richard. “I see from the man’s bonds that you no longer have any use for him. If he is dead to you, let him live with us. Under Irish law, he
is
my daughter’s husband.”

Richard scowled, his brows knitting together. “You would exchange a dead man for a living one? Both men are mine, sir. This is no exchange at all. ’Tis robbery and murder, pure and plain.”

Energized by anger, Colton stepped toward his master. “I must beg you, sir, to heed the king of Connacht and relieve me of my vows of fealty. In exchange for my bed and board I once swore my service to you, but the time has come for us to part. ’Tis obvious from your ill treatment of me that you no longer consider me of service.”

“This is how you would repay me?” Richard’s voice dripped with contempt as he stretched his arm toward the huddle of Irishmen. “You would prefer life with a band of barbarians to service in my garrison?”

“I once fought for you,” Colton answered, his determination like a steady rock inside him. “Many times I have picked up my sword and struck men for no other reason than your pleasure. But your pleasure of late has been to keep me chained like a dog, so today I swear I will fight for you no more! Kill me or release me, but I will not return in your company.”

The veins in Richard’s throat stood out like ropes. “You would disavow your allegiance to the king?”

“I bear King Henry no ill will. But if he and his Crown stand for deception, ruthlessness, and ambition, yes, I disavow my promise.”

Silence lay upon the line of knights like a dense and heavy fog. Colton sensed the shock and horror of his comrades, but he dared not tear his gaze from his master’s face. For an instant Richard’s eyes showed white all around, like a panicked horse, then his jaws wobbled and he gestured to Gilbert, the knight who rode at his right hand.

He shifted slightly in his saddle. “Gilbert, bring your sword.”

Colton stared, perplexed, as Gilbert slipped from his horse and unsheathed his blade. The barrel-chested knight advanced slowly and hesitated a few feet from Colton.

“Our friend knight has said we must kill him or release him,” Richard continued, looking at Colton with a smile hidden in his eyes. “And the Irish across the way have given us a corpse to take his place. So I suppose we agree to the exchange.”

“No!” A keening wail rose from the Irish crowd, lifting on the wind like the howling of an animal in pain. Colton closed his eyes at the sound, knowing Cahira had heard enough to guess Richard’s intention. The nobleman’s pride would not allow Colton to walk away; the knightly vow had been made for life. Colton’s life was what Richard would take today.

“Hold there!” A swift shadow of anger swept across the Irish king’s face, and the strength of this voice overpowered even Richard’s. “That man is my son-in-law. Do not take his life, or this peace you speak of will die today as well.”

Richard turned to face Felim, his eyes wide with pretended innocence. “Surely you do not expect me to let him depart with his hands still bound.”

Richard looked down at Gilbert, who stood in front of Colton with a melancholy frown upon his face. “Nor can I,” Richard pitched his voice to reach the two knights, and not a hair beyond, “allow you to join the Irish and lift your sword against us. Free him, Sir Gilbert, but do it by cutting off his right hand.”

Terror lodged in Colton’s throat, making it impossible for him to speak. He saw his master smile as he maneuvered his horse to stand between Colton and the Irish king, effectively blocking Felim’s view.

“You will lose your arm, and quite possibly your life,” Richard said, meeting Colton’s gaze, “unless you beg my forgiveness and forswear this foolish marriage. The choice is yours.”

Colton closed his eyes and thought of Cahira, then offered his arm to Gilbert’s blade.